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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


88515 

THE 


CORNHILL 


MAGAZINE. 


4-5 


VOL.    XYI. 

JULY  TO  DECEMBER,   1867. 


LONDON: 
SMITH,    ELDER    &    CO.,     65,    CORNHILL, 

1867. 


P 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  XVI, 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

PAGE 

Chapter     VI.    Up  in  the  Mountains 1 

„       VII.    At  Luncheon  7 

„      VIII.    The  Arrival  of  a  Great  Man    , 1 1 

„          IX.    Over  the  Fire 15 

X.     The  Droppings  of  a  great  Diplomatist  129 

„          XI.    A  Winter  Day's  Walk 134 

„         XII.     An  Evening  below  and  above  Stairs 140 

„       XHI.    At  the  Cottage 257 

„        XIV.     Official  Confidences 264 

„         XV.    With  his  Lawyer  269 

5>        XVI.    Some  Misunderstandings 272 

„      XVH.    At  Castello    385 

„    XVIII.    A  Dull  Dinner 391 

„        XIX.    A  Departure 402 

„          XX.     A  Morning  of  Perplexities 513 

„        XXI.     George  and  Julia 522 

„       XXII.    In  the  Library  at  Castello 528 

„     XXIII.    The  Curate  Cross-examined 534 

„      XXIV.    Doubts  and  Fears   641 

„       XXV.    Marion's  Ambitions    653 

„     XXVI.    Mr.  Cutbill  arrives  at  Castello  657 

„    XXVII.    The  Villa  Altieri ,. 662 

STONE  EDGE. 

Chapter      IX.    Bessie's  Burying 54 

„             X.    How  is  the  Kent  to  be  made? 57 

„            XI.    The  One-eyed  House   61 

„           XII.    The  Druid's  Stones 64 

„          XHI.    Market-day  at  Youlcliffe    69 

„         XIV.     Watching  on  a  Winter's  Night 239 

„            XV.    What  was  found  under  the  Tor 242 

„          XVI.     A  Midnight  "Flitting" 244 

n        XVII.    A  Funeral  Feast  in  the  Snow 248 

„       XVIH.    The  Last  of  the  Old  House 252 

„          XLX.    'Tis  just  the  Way  o'  the  World  323 

„            XX.    Very  Lonely  326 

„          XXI.    Many  Waters  will  not  Quench  Love  330 

„        XXH.    Hope  in  the  Far  West   M 338 


vi  CONTENTS. 

JACK   THE    GlANT-KlLLER. 

PAGE 

Chapter     I.     On  Monsters,  etc 589 

II.     Cormoran  592 

„       III.     An  Ogress 600 

„       IV.     Jack  goes  to  sleep  in  the  Wood 739 

„         V.     Blunderbore  and  his  two  Heads 746 

„       VI.     The  Parcse  cut  a  Thread  of  Mrs.  Trevithic's  Knitting  755 

Abkhasiau  Insurrection  (The)  of  August  8,  1866 501 

Aerolites,  Shooting-Stars,  Meteors  and    556 

Africa,  By  the  Sea-side  in  South-East 629 

Alps,  The  Love  of  the    24 

Arnold,  Matthew  :  Culture  and  its  Enemies  36 

Ave  Maria 208 

Bavaria  (Upper),  Haberfeld  Treiben  in 667 

Beautiful  Miss  Gunnings  (The)    418 

Breech-Loading  Rifles 177 

Captain  Marryat  at  Langham 149 

Chancery  Funds  200 

Classics  (The)  in  Translations  „ 109 

Collector,  Jottings  from  the  Note-Book  of  an  Undeveloped 295, 485, 570,  677 

"  Colonna  (La)  Infame  "    230 

Coolie  Labour  and  Coolie  Immigration    74 

Country  Life 704 

Culture  and  its  Enemies.    By  Matthew  Arnold 36 

Dumb  Men's  Speech.     A  Belgian  Experiment  693 

Friend's  Study,  For  the  Wall  of  a    500 

Funds,  Chancery 200 

Gossip  (A)  on  our  Rosalinds 474 

Gunnings,  The  Beautiful  Miss  418 

Haberfeld  Treiben  in  Upper  Bavaria  , 667 

"Holidays,  Off  for  the  :"  The  Rationale  of  Recreation   315 

House  (The)  that  Scott  Built 356 

India,  Witch-Murders  in 409 

Insurrection  (The  Abkhasian)  of  August  8,  1866  501 

Joan  of  Arc.    By  G.  A  Simcox  584 

Jottings  from  the  Note-Book  of  an  Undeveloped  Collector 295, 485, 570,  677 

Kamptully,  The  Shootings  of 376 

Knapsack  (The)  in  Spain  162 

(Conclusion) 279 


CONTENTS.  Vi  i 

PAGE 

"  La  Colonna  Infame  "   230 

Langham,  Captain  Marryat  at  149 

Law  (Marriage)  of  the  Three  Kingdoms 432 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood 440 

Lorlotte  and  the  Capitaine 84 

Love  (The)  of  the  Alps 24 

Marriage  Law  (The)  of  the  Three  Kingdoms 432 

Marryat,  Captain,  at  Langham , 149 

Meteors,  Shooting-Stars,  and  Aerolites    556 

Miss  Gunnings,  The  Beautiful  . 418 

Mountaineer,  The  Regrets  of  a 539 

Fete-Book  of  an  Undeveloped  Collector,  Jottings  from  the 295, 485,  570,  677 

"  Off  for  the  Holidays  :"  The  Rationale  of  Recreation „..     315 

Pesth,  The  Pageant  at    212 

Poaching  346 

Rationale  (The)  of  Recreation  :  "  Off  for  the  Holidays  " 315 

Bad  Riding  Hood,  Little 440 

R ^formation,  The  Satirists  of  the , 609 

Bogrets  (The)  of  a  Mountaineer   539 

Rifles,  Breech-Loading  177 

Rosalinds,  A  Gossip  on  our  474 

Saint  and  Sinner 482 

Satirists  (The)  of  the  Reformation 609 

Sea-Side  in  South-East  Africa,  By  the *  629 

Sentiments,  Toasts  and  191 

Si  ncox,  G.  A,  :  Joan  of  Arc   ., 584 

Shooting  Stars,  Meteors  and  Aerolites 556 

Shootings  (The)  of  Kamptully 376 

Spain,  The  Knapsack  in 162 

(Conclusion) 279 

Study,  For  the  Wall  of  a  Friend's 500 

Talk,  Some  chapters  on 719 

Three  Kingdoms,  The  Marriage  Law  of  the   432 

Time - 370 

To  ists  and  Sentiments 191 

Translations  of  the  Classics   109 

Undeveloped  Collector,  Jottings  from  the  Note-book  of  an 295,  485,570,  677 

Wtill  of  a  Friend's  Study,  For  the 500 

Wi  tch-Murders  in  India 409 


LIST    OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TO  FACE  PAGE 

THE  ARRIVAL  or  A  GREAT  MAN 1 

,THE  DRUID'S  STONES  .^ 54 

A  WINTER  DAY'S  WALK 129 

THE  LAST  OP  THE  OLD  HOUSE 239 

AT  THE  COTTAGE  257 

MANY  WATERS  WILL  NOT  QUENCH  LOVE 323 

LOOKING  DOWN  FROM  THE  CLIFF 385 

REMY'S  LEAVE-TAKING 440 

THE  CURATE  CROSS-EXAMINED  513 

JOAN  OF  ARC 584 

THE  VILLA  ALTIERI 641 

THE  FATES .  739 


THB   ARRIVAL  OF  A  GREAT  MAN. 


THE 


COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 


JULY,  1867. 


jof 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Up  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

BOUT  eighteen  miles  from  Bishop's 
Folly,  and  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  Mourne  Mountains,  a  low  spur 
of  land  projects  into  the  sea  by  a 
thin  narrow  promontory,  so  narrow, 
indeed,  that  in  days  of  heavy  sea 
and  strong  wind,  the  waves  .have 
been  seen  to  meet  across  it.  Some 
benevolent  individual  had  once  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  planting  a  small 
lighthouse  here,  as  a  boon  to  the 
fishermen  who  frequent  the  coast. 
The  lighthouse  was  built,  but  never 
occupied,  and  after  standing  some 
3rears  in  a  state  of  half  ruin,  was 
turned  into  a  sort  of  humble  inn 
or  shebeen,  most  probably  a  mere 
'pretext  to  cover  its  real  employment 
as  a  depot  for  smuggled  goods;  for 
in  the  days  of  high  duties  French  silks  and  brandies  found  many  channels 
into  Ireland  beside  the  road  that  lay  through  her  Majesty's  customs. 
Mr.,  or,  as  he  was  more  generally  called,  Tim  Mackessy,  the  proprietor, 
was  a  well-known  man  in  those  parts.  He  followed  what  in  Ireland  for 
some  years  back  has  been  as  much  a  profession  as  law  or  physic,  and 
occasionally  a  more  lucrative  line  than  either — Patriotism.  He  was 

VOL.  XVI. NO.  91.  1. 


2  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

one  of  those  ready,  voluble,  self- asserting  fellows,  who  abound  in  Ireland, 
but  whose  favour  is  not  the  less  with  their  countrymen  from  the  feet 
of  their  frequency.  He  had,  he  said,  a  father,  who  suffered  for  his 
country  in  ninety-eight ;  and  he  had  himself  maintained  the  family  tradi- 
tions by  being  twice  imprisoned  in  Carrickfergus  Gaol,  and  narrowly 
escaping  transportation  for  life.  On  the  credit  of  this  martyrdom,  and 
the  fact  that  Mr.  O'Connell  once  called  him  honest  Tim  Mackessy,  he  had 
lived  in  honour  and  repute  amongst  such  of  his  countrymen  as  "  feel  the 
yoke  and  abhor  the  rule  of  the  Saxon." 

For  the  present,  we  are,  however,  less  occupied  by  Tim  and  his  political 
opinions  than  by  two  guests,  who  had  arrived  a  couple  of  days  before,  and 
were,  at  the  moment  we  are  now  at,  seated  •  at  breakfast  in  that  modest 
apartment  called  the  best  parlour.  Two  men  less  like  in .  appearance 
might  not  readily  be  found.  One,  thin,  fresh- looking,  with  handsome  but 
haughty  features-,  slightly  stooped,  but  'to  all  seeming  as  much  from  habit 
as  from  any  debility,  was  Lord  Culduff ;  his  age  might  be  computed  by 
some  reference  to  the  list  of  his  services,  but  would  have  been  a  puzzling 
calculation  from  a  mere  inspection  of  himself:  In  figure  and  build,  he 
might  be  anything  from  five-and-thirty  to  two  or  three  and  forty  ;  in  face, 
at  a  close  inspection,  he  might  have  been  high  up  in  the  sixties. 

His  companion  was  a  middle-sized,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  head  of 
bushy  curly  black  hair,  a  round  bullet  head,  wide-set  eyes,  and  a  short 
nose,  of  the  leonine  pattern  ;  his  mouth,  large  and  thick-lipped,  had  all 
that  mobility  that  denotes  talker  and  eater ;  for  Mr.  Cutbill,  civil  engineer 
and  architect,  was  both  garrulous  and  gourmand,  and  lived  in 'the  happy 
enjoyment  of  being  thought  excellent  company,  and  a  first-rate  judge  of  a 
dinner.  He  was  musical  too  ;  he  played  the  violoncello  with  some  skill, 
and  was  an  associate  of  various  philharmonics,  who  performed  fantasias 
and  fugues  to  dreary  old  ladies  and  snuffy  old  bachelors,  who  found  the 
amusement  an  economy  that  exacted  nothing  more  costly  than  a  little 
patience.  Amongst  these  Tom  Cutbill  was  a  man  of  wit  and  man  of  the 
world.  His  career  brought  him  from  time  to  time  into  contact  with  persons 
of  high  station  and  rank,  and  these  he  ventilated  amongst  his  set  in  the 
most  easy  manner,  familiarly  talking  of  Beaufort,  and  Argyle,  and  Cleve- 
land, as  though  they  were  household  words. 

It  was  reported  that  he  had  some  cleverness  as  an  actor ;  and  he 
might  have  had,  for  the  man  treated  life  as  a  drama,  and  was  eternally  repre- 
senting something, — some  imaginary  character, — till  any  little  fragment  of 
reality  in  him  had  been  entirely  rubbed  out  by  the  process,  and  he  remained 
the  mere  personation  of  whatever  the  society  he  chanced  to  be  in  wanted 
or  demanded  of  him. 

He  had  been  recommended  to  Lord  Culduff's  notice  by  his  lordship's 
London  agent,  who  had  said, — "  He  knows  the  scientific  part  of  his 
business  as  well  as  the  great  swells  of  his  profession,  and  he  knows  the 
world  a  precious  sight  better  than  they  do.  They  could  tell  you  if  you 
have  coal,  but  he  will  do  that  and  more  ;  lie  will  tell  you  what  to  do  with 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  3 

it.  '  It  was  on  the  advice  thus  given  Lord  CuldufF  had  secured  his 
so: -vices,  and  taken  him  over  to  Ireland.  It  was  a  bitter  pill  to  swallow,  for 
th:  s  old  broken-down  man  of  fashion,  self-indulgent,  fastidious,  and  refined, 
to  travel  in  such  company  ;  but  his  affairs  were  in  a  sad  state,  from  years 
of  extravagance  and  high  living,  and  it  was  only  by  the  supposed  discovery 
of  these  mines  on  this  unprofitable  part  of  his  estate  that  his  creditors 
consented  to  defer  that  settlement  which  might  sweep  away  almost  all 
that  remained  to  him.  Cutbill  was  told,  too, — "  His  lordship  is  rather 
hard-up  just  now,  and  cannot  be  liberal  as  he  could  wish ;  but  he  is  a 
chinning  person  to  know,  and  will  treat  you  like  a  brother."  The  one 
chink  in  this  shrewd  fellow's  armour  was  his  snobbery.  It  was  told  of 
him  once,  in  a  very  dangerous  illness,  when  all  means  of  inducing  per- 
sp  ration  had  failed,  that  some  one  said, — "  Try  him  with  a  lord,  it 
never  failed  with  Tom  yet."  If  an  untitled  squire  had  proposed  to  take 
M:%.  Cutbill  over  special  to  Ireland  for  a  hundred  -  pound  note  and  his 
expenses,  he  would  have  indignantly  refused  the  offer,  and  assisted  the 
proposer  besides  to  some  unpalatable  reflections  on  his  knowledge  of  life  ; 
th)  thought,  however,  of  journeying  as  Lord  Culduff's  intimate  Mend, 
^being  treated  as  his  brother,  thrown,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  country 
th  )y  travelled  in,  into  close  relations,  and  left  free  to  improve  the  acquaint- 
ance  by  all  those  social  wiles  and  accomplishments  on  which  he  felt  he 
could  pride  himself,  was  a  bribe  not  to  be  resisted.  And  thus  was  it 
th  it  these  two  men,  so  unlike  in  every  respect,  found  themselves  fellow - 
tn.vellers  and  companions. 

A  number  of  papers,  plans,  and  drawings  littered  the  breakfast-table 
at   which   they   were    seated,  and  one  of  these,  representing   the   little 
promontory    of   arid   rock,    tastefully   coloured    and    converted    into    a 
handsome    pier,    with    flights   of  steps    descending   to   the    water,    and 
massive   cranes  swinging  bulky  masses  of  merchandise  into  tall-masted 
ships,  was  just  then  beneath  his  lordship's  double  eyeglass. 
"  Where  may  all  this  be,  Cutbill  ?  is  it  Irish  ?  "  asked  he. 
"  It  is  to  be  out  yonder,  my  lord,"  said  he,  pointing  through  the  little 
window  to  the  rugged  line  of  rocks,  over  which  the  sea  was  breaking  in 
m  jasured  rhythm. 

"  You  don't  mean  there  ?  "  said  Lord  Culduff,  half  horrified. 
"  Yes,  my  lord,  there  !  Your  lordship  is  doubtless  not  aware  that  of 
al!  her  Majesty's  faithful  lieges  the  speculative  are  the  least  gifted  with  the 
in  aginative  faculty,  and  to  supply  this  unhappy  want  in  their  natures,  we, 
whose  function  it  is  to  suggest  great  industrial  schemes  or  large  under- 
ta  dngs, — we  '  Promoters,'  as  we  are  called,  are  obliged  to  supply,  not 
m  )rely  by  description,  but  actually  pictorially,  the  results  which  success 
wi  11  in  due  time  arrive  at.  We  have,  as  the  poet  says,  to  annihilate 
1 1  oth  time  and, space,'  and  arrive  at  a  goal  which  no  effort  of  these  worthy 
pe  ople's  minds  could  possibly  attain  to.  What  your  lordship  is  now  looking 
at  is  a  case  in  point,  and  however  little  promising  the  present  aspect  of 
thit  coast -line  may  seem,  time  and  money, — yes,  my  lord,  time  and 

1—2 


4  THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

money — the  two  springs  of  all  success — will  make  even  greater  change 
than  you  see  depicted  here."  Mr.  Cutbill  delivered  these  words  with  a 
somewhat  pompous  tone,  and  in  a  voice  such  as  he  might  have  used  in 
addressing  an  acting  committee  or  a  special  board  of  works ;  for  one  of 
his  fancies  was,  to  believe  himself  an  orator  of  no  mean  power. 

"I  trust,  I  fervently  trust,  Mr.  Cutbill,"  said  his  lordship  nervously, 
"that  the  coal-fields  are  somewhat  nigherthe  stage  of  being  remunerative 
than  that  broken  line  of  rock  is  to  this  fanciful  picture  before  me." 

"  Wealth,  my  lord,  like  heat,  has  its  latent  conditions." 

"  Condescend  to  a  more  commonplace  tone,  sir,  in  consideration  of  my 
ignorance,  and  tell  me  frankly,  is  the  mine  as  far  from  reality,  as  that 
reef  there  ?  " 

Fortunately  for  Mr.  Cutbill  perhaps,  the  door  was  opened  at  this 
critical  juncture,  and  the  landlord  presented  himself  with  a  note,  stating 
that  the  groom  who  brought  it  would  wait  for  the  answer. 

Somewhat  agitated  by  the  turn  of  his  conversation  with  the  engineer, 
Lord  Culduff  tore  open  the  letter,  and  ran  his  eyes  towards  the  end  to 
see  the  signature.  ''Who  is  Bramleigh — Temple  Bramleigh  ?  Oh,  I  re- 
member, an  attache.  What's  all  this  about  Castello  ?  Where's  Castello  ?  " 

"  That's  the  name  they  give  the  Bishop's  Folly,  my  lord,"  said  the 
landlord,  with  a  half  grin. 

"  What  business  have  these  people  to  know  I  am  here  at  all  ?  Why 
must  they  persecute  me  ?  You  told  me,  Cutbill,  that  I  was  not  to  be 
discovered." 

"  So  I  did,  my  lord,  and  I  made  the  Down  Express  call  you  Mr.  Morrice, 
of  Charing  Cross." 

His  lordship  winced  a  little  at  the  thought  of  such  a  liberty,  even  for  a 
disguise,  but  he  was  now  engaged  with  the  note,  and  read  on  without 
speaking.  "Nothing  could  be  more  courteous,  certainly,"  said  he,  folding 
it  up,  and  laying  it  beside  him  on  the  table.  "  They  invite  me  over  to — 
what's  the  name? — Castello,  and  promise  me  perfect  liberty  as  regards  my 
time.  *  To  make  the  place  my  head-quarters,'  as  he  says.  Who  are  these 
Bramleighs  ?  You  know  every  one,  Cutbill ;  who  are  they  ?  " 

"  Bramleigh  and  Underwood  are  bankers,  very  old  -  established  firm. 
Old  Bramleigh  was  a  brewer,  at  Slough  ;  George  the  Third  never  would 
drink  any  other  stout  than  Bramleigh' s.  There  was  a  large  silver  flagon, 
called  the  'King's  Quaigh,'  always  brought  out  when  his  Majesty  rode  by, 
and  very  vain  old  Bramleigh  used  to  be  of  it,  though  I  don't  think  it 
figures  now  on  the  son's  sideboard — they  have  leased  the  brewery." 

"  Oh,  they  have  leased  the  brewer}',  have  they  ?  " 

"  That  they  have  ;  the  present  man  got  himself  made  Colonel  of  militia, 
and  meant  to  be  a  county  member,  and  he  might  too,  if  he  hadn't  been 
in  too  great  a  hurry  about  it ;  but  county  people  won't  stand  being  carried 
by  assault.  Then  they  made  other  mistakes ;  tided  it  on  with  the  Liberals, 
in  a  shire  where  everything  that  called  itself  gentleman  was  Tory ;  in  fact, 
they  plunged  from  one  hole  into  another,  till  they  regularly  swamped  them- 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  5 

wolves  ;  and  as  their  house  held  a  large  mortgage  on  these  estates  in  Ireland, 
•  hey  paid  off  the  other  encumbrances  and  have  come  to  live  here.  I  know 
.he  whole  story,  for  it  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  made  the  plans  for 
:*estoring  the  mansion." 

"  I  suspect  that  the  men  in  your  profession,  Cutbill,  know  as  much  of 
-.he  private  history  of  English  families  as  any  in  the  land  ?  " 

"  More,  my  lord  ;  far  more  even  than  the  solicitors,  for  people  suspect 
•;he  solicitors,  and  they  never  suspect  us.  We  are  detectives  in  plain 
clothes."  The  pleasant  chuckle  with  which  Mr.  Cutbill  finished  his  speech 
vvas  not  responded  to  by  his  lordship,  who  felt  that  the  other  should  have 
iccepted  his  compliment,  without  any  attempt  on  his  own  part  to 
jnhance  it. 

"  How  long  do  you  imagine  I  may  be  detained  here,  Cutbill  ?  "  asked 
JLC  after  a  pause. 

"  Let  us  say  a  week,  my  lord,  or  ten  days  at  furthest.  We  ought 
certainly  to  see  that  new  pit  opened,  before  you  leave." 

"  In  that  case  I  may  as  well  accept  this  invitation.  I  can  bear  a  little 
boredom  if  they  have  only  a  good  cook.  Do  you  suppose  they  have  a 
^ood  cook  ?  " 

"  The  agent,  Jos  Harding,  told  me  they  had  a  Frenchman,  and  that  the 
house  is  splendidly  got  up." 

"  What's  to  be  done  with  you,  Cutbill,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  am  at  your  lordship's  orders,"  said  he,  with  a  very  quiet  composure. 

"You  have  nothing  to  do  over  at  that  place  just  now? — I  mean  at 
che  mine." 

"  No,  my  lord.  Till  Pollard  makes  his  report,  I  have  nothing  to  call 
Jie  over  there." 

"  And  here,  I  take  it,  we  have  seen  everything,"  and  he  gave  a  very 
hopeless  look  through  the  little  window  as  he  spoke. 

"  There  it  is,  my  lord,"  said  Cutbill,  taking  up  the  coloured  picture  of, 
the  pier,  with  its  busy  crowds,  and  its  bustling  porters.  "  There  it  is  ! " 

"  I  should  say,  Cutbill,  there  it  is  not !  "  observed  the  other  bitterly. 
"  Anything  more  unlike  the  reality  is  hard  to  conceive." 

"Few  things  are  as  like  a  cornet  in  the  Life  Guards,  as  a  child  in  a 
perambulator ' ' 

"Very  well,  all  that,"  interrupted  Lord  Culduff  impatiently.  "I 
know  that  sort  of  argument  perfectly.  I  have  been  pestered  with  the  acorn, 
)r  rather,  with  the  unborn  forests  in  the  heart  of  the  acorn,  for  many  a 
;lay.  Let  us  get  a  stride  in  advance  of  these  platitudes.  Is  the  whole 
thing  like  this  ?  "  and  he  threw  the  drawing  across  the  table  contemptuously 
as  he  spoke.  "  Is  it  all  of  this  pattern,  eh  ?  " 

"  In  one  sense  it  is  very  like,"  said  the  other,  with  a  greater  amount 
of  decision  in  his  tone,  than  usual. 

"  In  which  case,  then,  the  sooner  we  abandon  it  the  better,"  said  Lord 
Culduff,  rising,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  head  high,  and 
his  look  intensely  haughty. 


6  THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  dictate  to  your  lordship — I  could  never  presume 
to  do  so — but  certainly  it  is  not  every  one  in  Great  Britain  who  could 
reconcile  himself  to  relinquish  one  of  the  largest  sources  of  wealth  in  the 
kingdom.  Taking  the  lowest  estimate  of  Carrick  Nuish  mine  alone, — and 
when  I  say  the  lowest,  I  mean  throwing  the  whole  thing  into  a  company 
of  shareholders,  and  neither  working  nor  risking  a  shilling  yourself, — you 
may  put  from  twenty  to  five- and- twenty  thousand  pounds  into  your 
pocket  within  a  twelvemonth." 

"  Who  will  guarantee  that,  Cutbill  ?  "  said  Lord  Culduff,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"  I  am  ready  myself  to  do  so,  provided  my  counsels  be  strictly  fol- 
lowed. I  will  do  so,  with  my  whole  professional  reputation." 

"  I  am  charmed  to  hear  you  say  so.  It  is  a  very  gratifying  piece  of 
news  for  me.  You  feel,  therefore,  certain  that  we  have  struck  coal  ?" 

"  My  lord,  when  a  young  man  enters  life  from  one  of  the  universities, 
with  a  high  reputation  for  ability,  he  can  go  a  long  way — if  he  only  be 
prudent — living  on  his  capital.  It  is  the  same  thing  in  a  great  industrial 
enterprise ;  you  must  start  at  speed,  and  with  a  high  pressure — get  way 
on  you,  as  the  sailors  say — and  you  will  skim  along  for  half  a  mile  after 
the  steam  is  off." 

"  I  come  back  to  my  former  question.     Have  we  found  coal  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so.  I  trust  we  have.  Indeed  there  is  every  reason  to  say 
we  have  found  coal.  What  we  need  most  at  this  moment  is  a  man  like 
that  gentleman  whose  note  is  on  the  table — a  large  capitalist,  a  great  City 
name.  Let  him  associate  himself  in  the  project,  and  success  is  as  certain 
as  that  we  stand  here." 

"  But  you  have  just  told  me  he  has  given  up  his  business  life — retired 
from  affairs  altogether." 

"  My  lord,  these  men  never  give  up.  They  buy  estates,  they  go  live 
at  Home  or  Paris,  and  take  a  chateau  at  Cannes,  and  try  to  forget  Mincing 
Lane  and  the  rest  of  it ;  but  if  you  watch  them,  you'll  see  it's  the  money 
article  in  The  Times  they  read  before  the  leader.  They  have  but  one 
barometer  for  everything  that  happens  in  Europe — how  are  the  exchanges  ? 
and  they  are  just  as  greedy  of  a  good  thing  as  on  any  morning  they  hurried 
down  to  the  City  in  a  hansom  to  buy  in  or  sell  out.  See  if  I'm  not  right. 
Just  throw  out  a  hint,  no  more,  that  you'd  like  a  word  of  advice  from 
Colonel  Bramleigh  about  your  project ;  say  it's  a  large  thing — too  large  for 
an  individual  to  cope  with — that  you  are  yourself  the  least  possible  of  a 
business  man,  being  always  engaged  in  very  different  occupations, — and  ask 
what  course  he  would  counsel  you  to  take." 

"  I  might  show  him  these  drawings — these  coloured  plans." 

"  Well,  indeed,  my  lord,"  said  Cutbill,  brushing  his  mouth  with  his 
hand,  to  hide  a  smile  of  malicious  drollery,  "  I'd  say  I'd  not  show  him  the 
plans.  The  pictorial  rarely  appeals  to  men  of  his  stamp.  It's  the  multi- 
plication-table they  like,  and  if  all  the  world  were  like  them  one  would 
never  throw  poetry  into  a  project." 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  7 

"  You'll  have  to  come  with  me,  Cutbill;  I  see  that,"  said  his  lordship, 
ref  ectingly. 

"  My  lord,  I  am  completely  at  your  orders." 

"  Yes  ;  this  is  a  sort  of  negotiation  you  will  conduct  better  than  myself. 
I  f.m  not  conversant  with  this  kind  of  thing,  nor  the  men  who  deal  in 
them.  A  great  treaty,  a  question  of  boundary,  a  royal  marriage, — any  of 
these  would  find  me  ready  and  prepared,  but  with  the  diplomacy  of 
dividends,  I  own  myself  little  acquainted.  You  must  come  with  me." 

Cutbill  bowed  in  acquiescence,  and  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT    LUNCHEON. 

As  the  family  at  the  Great  House  were  gathered  together  at  luncheon  on 
tin  day  after  the  events  we  have  just  recorded,  Lord  Culduff's  answer  to 
T(  mple  Bramleigh's  note  was  fully  and  freely  discussed. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Jack,  "  I  speak  under  correction  ;  but  how  comes 
it  that  your  high  and  mighty  friend  brings  another  man  with  him  ?  Is 
Ci  .tbill  an  attache  ?  Is  he  one  of  what  you  call  '  the  line  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  happy  to  contribute  the  correction  you  ask  for,"  said  Temple 
haughtily.  "  Mr.  Cutbill  is  not  a  member  of  the  diplomatic  body,  and 
th  3Ugh  such  a  name  might  not  impossibly  be  found  in  the  Navy  List,  you'll 
scircely  chance  upon  it  at  F.  0." 

"  My  chief  question  is,  however,  still  to  be  answered.  On  what 
pratext  does  he  bring  him  here  ?  "  said  Jack,  with  unbroken  good-humour. 

"  As  to  that,"  broke  in  Augustus,  "  Lord  Culduffs  note  is  perfectly 
ex  planatory  ;  he  says  his  friend  is  travelling  with  him  ;  they  came  here  on 
a  .natter  of  business,  and,  in  fact,  there  would  be  an  awkwardness  on  his 
p£  rt  in  separating  from  him,  and  on  ours,  if  we  did  not  prevent  such  a 
contingency." 

"  Quite  so,"  chimed  in  Temple.  "  Nothing  could  be  more  guarded  or 
ccurteous  than  Lord  Culduff's  reply.  It  wasn't  in  the  least  like  an 
Admiralty  minute,  Jack,  or  an  order  to  Commander  Spiggins,  of  the  Snarler, 
to  take  in  five  hundred  firkins  of  pork." 

"  I  might  say,  now,  that  you'll  not  find  that  name  in  the  Navy  List, 
Tornple,"  said  the  sailor,  laughing. 

"  Do  they  arrive  to-day  ?  "  asked  Marion,  not  a  little  uncomfortable  at 
this  exchange  of  tart  things. 

"  To  dinner,"  said  Temple. 

"  I  suppose  we  have  seen  the  last  leg  of  mutton  we  are  to  meet  with 
til  he  goes,"  cried  Jack  ;  "that  precious  French  fellow  will  now  give  his 
g(nius  full  play,  and  we'll  have  to  dine  off  '  salmis  '  and  '  supremes,'  or 
mike  our  dinner  off  bread  and  cheese." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  initiate  Bertond  into  the  mystery  of  a  sea-pie, 
Js  ck,"  said  Temple,  with  a  smile. 


8  THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  And  a  precious  mess  the  fellow  would  make  of  it !  He'd  fill  it  with 
cocks'  combs  and  mushrooms,  and  stick  two  skewers  in  it,  with  a  half- 
boiled  truffle  on  each — lucky  if  there  wouldn't  be  a  British  flag  in  spun 
sugar  between  them  ;  and  he'd  call  the  abomination  '  pate  a  la  gun-room,' 
or  some  such  confounded  name." 

A  low,  quiet  laugh  was  now  heard  from  the  end  of  the  table,  and  the 
company  remembered,  apparently  for  the  first  time,  that  Mr.  Harding,  the 
agent,  was  there,  and  very  busily  engaged  with  a  broiled  chicken.  "  Ain't 
I  right,  Mr.  Harding?"  cried  Jack,  as  he  heard  the  low  chuckle  of  the 
small,  meek,  submissive-looking  little  man,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 
''Ain't  I  right?" 

"  I  have  met  with  very  good  French  versions  of  English  cookery 
abroad,  Captain  Temple." 

"Don't  call  me  'Captain,'  or  I'll  suspect  your  accuracy  about  the 
cookery,"  interrupted  Jack.  "  I  fear  I'm  about  as  far  off  that  rank  as 
Bertond  is  from  the  sea-pie." 

"  Do  you  know  Cutbill,  Harding  ? "  said  Augustus,  addressing  the 
agent  in  the  tone  of  an  heir  expectant. 

"  Yes.     We  were  both  examined  in  the  same  case  before  a  committee 
of  the  House,  and  I  made  his  acquaintance  then." 
"  What  sort  of  person  is  he  ?  "  asked  Temple. 

"Is  he  jolly,  Mr.  Harding? — that's  the  question,"  cried  Jack.  "I 
suspect  we  shall  be  overborne  by  greatness,  and  a  jolly  fellow  would  be  a 
boon  from  heaven." 

"  I  believe  he  is  what  might  be  called  jolly,"  said  Harding  cautiously. 
"  Jolly  sounds  like  a  familiar  word  for  vulgar,"  said  Marion.     "  I  hope 
Mr.  Harding  does  not  mean  that." 

"  Mr.  Harding  means  nothing  of  the  kind,  I'll  be  sworn,"  broke 
in  Jack.  "  He  means  an  easy-tempered  fellow,  amusing  and  amusable. 
Well,  Nelly,  if  it's  not  English,  I  can't  help  it — it  ought  to  be  ;  but 
when  one  wants  ammunition,  one  takes  the  first  heavy  thing  at  hand. 
Egad  !  I'd  ram  down  a  minister  plenipotentiary,  rather  than  fire  blank- 
cartridge." 

"Is  Lord  Culduff  also  jolly,  Mr.  Harding?"  asked  Eleanor,  now 
looking  up  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eye. 

"  I  scarcely  know, — I  have  the  least  possible  acquaintance  with  his 
lordship ;  I  doubt,  indeed,  if  he  will  recollect  me,"  said  Harding,  with 
diffidence. 

"What  are  we  to  do  with  this  heavy  swell  when  he  comes,  is  the 
puzzle  to  me,"  said  Augustus,  gravely.  "How  is  he  to  be  entertained, — 
how  amused  ?  Here's  a  county  with  nothing  to  see — nothing  to  interest 
— without  a  neighbourhood.  What  are  we  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  The  more  one  is  a  man  of  the  world,  in  the  best  sense  of  that  phrase, 
the  more  easily  he  finds  how  to  shape  his  life  to  any  and  every  circum- 
stance," said  Temple,  with  a  sententious  tone  and  manner. 

"  WTiich  means,  I  suppose,  that  he'll  make  the  best  of  a  bad  case, 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  9 

and  bear  our  tiresomeness  with  bland  urbanity?  "   said  Jack.     "  Let  us 
only  hope,  for  all  our  sakes,  that  his  trial  may  not  be  a  long  one." 

"Just  to  think  of  such  a  country!"  exclaimed  Marion;  "there  is 
absolutely  no  one  we  could  have  to  meet  him." 

"  What's  the  name  of  that  half-pay  captain  who  called  here  t'other 
morning? — the  fellow  who  sat  from  luncheon  till  nigh  dusk?"  asked 
Jack. 

"  Captain  Craufurd,"  replied  Marion.  "  I  hope  nobody  thinks  of 
inviting  him ;  he  is  insufferably  vulgar,  and  presuming  besides." 

"Wasn't  that  the  man,  Marion,  who  told  you  that  as  my  father  and 
Lady  Augusta  didn't  live  together  the  county  gentry  couldn't  be  expected 
to  call  on  us  ?  "  asked  Augustus,  laughing. 

"  He  did  more  :  he  entered  into  an  explanation  of  the  peculiar  tenets 
of  the  neighbourhood,  and  told  me  if  we  had  had  the  good  luck  to  have 
settled  in  the  south  or  west  of  Ireland  they'd  not  have  minded  it,  '  but 
here,'  he  added,  *  we  are  great  sticklers  for  morality.'  " 

"  And  what  reply  did  you  make  him,  Marion  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  I  was  so  choked  with  passion  that  I  couldn't  speak,  or  if  I  did 
say  anything  I  have  forgotten  it.  At  all  events  he  set  me  off  laughing 
immediately  after,  as  he  said, — *  As  for  myself,  I  don't  care  a  rush.  I'm 
a  bachelor,  and  a  bachelor  can  go  anywhere.'  " 

She  gave  these  words  with  such,  a  close  mimicry  of  his  voice  and 
manner,  that  a  general  burst  of  laughter  followed  them. 

"  There's  the  very  fellow  we  want,"  cried  Jack.  "  That's  the  man 
to  meet  our  distinguished  guest ;  he'll  not  let  him  escape  without  a  whole- 
some hint  or  two." 

"I'd  as  soon  see  a  gentleman  exposed  to  the  assault  of  a  mastiff 
as  to  the  insulting  coarseness  of  such  a  fellow  as  that,"  said  Temple, 
passionately. 

"  The  mischiefs  done  already ;  I  heard  the  governor  say,  as  he  took 
leave,  — '  Captain  Craufurd,  are  you  too  straitlaced  to  dine  out  on 
a  Sunday  ?  if  not,  will  you  honour  us  with  your  company  at  eight 
o'clock  ?  '  And  though  he  repeated  the  words  '  eight  o'clock '  with 
a  groan  like  a  protest,  he  muttered  something  about  being  happy,  a 
phrase  that  evidently  cost  him  dearly,  for  he  went  shuffling  down  the 
avenue  afterwards  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  gesticulating  with  his 
hands  as  if  some  new  immorality  had  suddenly  broke  in  upon  his 
rnind." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  he  is  coming  to  dinner  here  next  Sunday  ?  " 
asked  Temple,  horrified. 

"  A  little  tact  and  good  management  are  always  sufficient  to  keep  these 
sort  of  men  down,"  said  Augustus. 

"I  hope  we  don't  ask  a  man  to  dinner  with  the  intention  to  '  keep  him 
down,'  "  said  Jack,  sturdily. 

"At  all  events,"  cried  Temple,  "he  need  not  be  presented  to  Lord 
Culduff." 


13  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"I  suspect  you  will  see  very  little  of  him  after  dinner,"  observed 
Harding,  in  his  meek  fashion.  "  That  wonderful  '32  port  will  prove  a 
detainer  impossible  to  get  away  from." 

"I'll  keep  him  company  then.  I  rather  like  to  meet  one  of  these 
cross-grained  dogs  occasionally." 

"Not  impossibly  you'll  learn  something  more  of  that  same  'public 
opinion  '  of  our  neighbours  regarding  us,"  said  Marion,  haughtily. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  the  sailor,  gaily  ;  "  they'll  not  ruffle  my 
temper,  even  if  they  won't  flatter  my  vanity." 

"  Have  you  asked  the  L'Estranges,  Marion  ?  "  said  Augustus. 

"  We  always  ask  them  after  church  ;  they  are  sure  to  be  .  disen- 
gaged," said  she.  "  I  wish,  Nelly,  that  you,  who  are  such  a  dear  friend 
of  Julia's,  would  try  and  persuade  her  to  wear  something  else  than  that 
eternal  black  silk.  She  is  so  intently  bent  on  being  an  Andalusian. 
Some  one  unluckily  said  she  looked  so  Spanish,  that  she  has  got  up  the 
dress,  and  the  little  fan  coquetry,  and  the  rest  of  it,  in  the  most  absurd 
fashion." 

"Her  grandmother  was  a  Spaniard,"  broke  in  Nelly,  warmly. 

"  So  they  say,"  said  the  other,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  style  about  her,"  said  Temple,  with 
the  tone  of  one  who  was  criticizing  what  he  understood.  "  She  sings 
prettily."  • 

"  Prettily  ?  "  groaned  Jack.  "  Why  where,  except  amongst  profes- 
sionals, did  you  ever  hear  her  equal  ?  " 

"  She  sings  divinely,"  said  Ellen  ;  "  and  it  is,  after  all,  one  of  her  least 
attractions." 

"  No  heroics,  for  heaven's  sake ;  leave  that  to  your  brothers,  Nelly, 
who  are  fully  equal  to  it.  I  really  meant  my  remark  about  her  gown  for 
good  nature." 

"  She's  a  nice  girl,"  said  Augustus,  "though  she  is  certainly  a  bit  of 
a  coquette." 

"  True  ;  but  it's  very  good  coquetry,"  drawled  out  Temple.  "  It's  not 
that  jerking,  uncertain,  unpurpose-like  style  of  affectation  your  English 
coquette  displays.  It  is  not  the  eternal  demand  for  attention  or  admiration. 
It  is  simply  a  desire  to  please  thrown  into  a  thousand  little  graceful  ways, 
each  too  slight,  and  too  faint,  to  be  singled  out  for  notice,  but  making  up 
a  whole  of  wonderful  captivation." 

"  Well  done,  diplomacy ;  egad,  I  didn't  know  there  was  that  much 
blood  in  the  Foreign  Office,"  cried  Jack,  laughing;  "and  now  I'm  off 
to  look  after  my  night  lines.  I  quite  forgot  all  about  them  till  this 
minute." 

"  Take  me  with  you,  Jack,"  said  Nelly,  and  hastened  after  him,  hat 
in  hand. 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OP  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  11 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  A  GREAT  MAN. 

IT  \-as  within  a  quarter  of  eight  o'clock — forty-five  minutes  after  the  usual 
dinr  er-hour — when  Lord  CuldufFs  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door. 

;<The  roads  are  atrocious  down  here,"  said  Temple,  apologizing  in 
advance  for  an  offence  which  his  father  rarely,  if  ever  forgave.  "  Don't 
you  think  you  ought  to  go  out  to  meet  him,  sir  ?  "  asked  he,  half 
tirni  :Uy. 

'•'  It  would  only  create  more  delay;  he'll  appear,  I  take  it,  when  he  is 
dressed,"  was  the  curt  rejoinder,  but  it  was  scarcely  uttered  when  the  door 
was  thrown  wide  open,  and  Lord  Culduff  and  Mr.  Cutbill  were  announced. 

3een  in  the  subdued  light  of  a  drawing-room  before  dinner,  Lord 
Culduff  did  not  appear  more  than  half  his  real  age,  and  the  jaunty  stride 
and  the  bland  smile  he  wore, — as  he  made  his  round  of  acquaintance, 
migit  have  passed  muster  for  five- and- thirty ;  nor  was  the  round  vulgar 
figure  of  the  engineer,  awkward  and  familiar  alternately,  a  bad  foil  for  the 
yerj  graceful  attractions  of  his  lordship's  manner. 

'  We  should  have  been  here  two  hours  ago,"  said  he,  "  but  my  friend 
here  insisted  on  our  coming  coastwise  to  see  a  wonderful  bay — a  natural 
hart  our  one  might  call  it.  What's  the  name,  Cutbill  ?  " 

•'  Portness,.my  lord." 

•'*  Ah,  to  be  sure,  Portness.     On  your  property,  I  believe  ?  " 

•*  I  am  proud  to  say  it  is.  I  have  seen  nothing  finer  in  the  kingdom," 
said  Bramleigh ;  "  and  if  Ireland  were  anything  but  Ireland,  that  harbour 
wou.d  be  crowded  with  shipping,  and  this  coast  one  of  the  most  prosperous 
and  busy  shores  of  the  island." 

'  Who  knows  if  we  may  not  live  to  see  it  such  ?  Cutbill's  projects  are 
very  grand,  and  I  declare  that  though  I  deemed  them  Arabian  Night  stories 
a  fe-v  weeks  back,  I  anna  convert  now.  Another  advantage  we  gained," 
said  he,  turning  to  Marion  ;  "  we  came  up  through  a  new  shrubbery,  which 
we  vere  told  had  been  all  planned  by  you." 

<  My  sister  designed  it,"  said  she,  as  she  smiled  and  made  a  gesture 
tows  ids  Ellen. 

'  May  I  offer  you  my  most  respectful  compliments  on  your  success  ? 
I  an  an  enthusiast  about  landscape-gardening,  and  though  our  English 
clim  lie  gives  us  many  a  sore  rebuff  in  our  attempts,  the  soil  and  the  varied 
nati:  re  of  the  surface  lend  themselves  happily  to  the  pursuit.  I  think  you 
wen  at  the  Hague  with  me,  Bramleigh  ?  "  asked  he  of  Temple. 

•'  Does  he  know  how  late  it  is  ?  "  whispered  Augustus  to  his  father. 
"Does  he  know  we  are  waiting  dinner  ?  "  • 

"  I'll  tell  him,"  and  Colonel  Bramleigh  walked  forward  from  his  place 
befo-e  the  fire.  "  I'm  afraid,  my  lord,  the  cold  air  of  our  hills  has  not 
give:  i  you  an  appetite  ?  " 

l<  Quite  the  contrary,  I  assure  you.     I  am  very  hungry." 


12  THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

11  By  Jove,  and  so  are  we  ! "  blurted  out  Jack ;  "  and  it's  striking  eight 
this  instant." 

"  What  is  your  dinner-hour  ?  " 

"  It  ought  to  be  seven,"  answered  Jack. 

"  "Why,  Cutty,  you  told  me  nine." 

Cutbill  muttered  something  below  his  breath,  and  turned  away  ;  and 
Lord  Culduff  laughingly  said,  "  I  declare  I  don't  perceive  the  connection. 
Mv  friend,  Colonel  Bramleigh,  opines  that  a  French  cook  always  means 
nine-o'clock  dinner.  I'm  horrified  at  this  delay :  let  us  make  a  hasty 
toilette,  and  repair  our  fault  at  once." 

"  Let  me  show  you  where  you  are  lodged,"  said  Temple,  not  sorry  to 
escape  from  the  drawing-room  at  a  moment  when  his  friend's  character 
and  claims  were  likely  to  be  sharply  criticized. 

"  Cutty's  a  vulgar  dog,"  said  Jack,  as  they  left  the  room.  "  But  I'll 
be  shot  if  he's  not  the  best  of  the  two." 

A  haughty  toss  of  Marion's  head  showed  that  she  was  no  concurring 
party  to  the  sentiment. 

"  I'm  amazed  to  see  so  young  a  man,"  said  Colonel  Bramleigh.  "  In 
look  at  least,  he  isn't  forty." 

"It's  all  make-up,"  cried  Jack. 

"  He  can't  be  a  great  deal  under  seventy,  taking  the  list  of  his  services. 
He  was  at  Vienna  as  a  private  secretary  to  Lord  Borchester —  As 

Augustus  pronounced  the  words  Lord  Culduif  entered  the  room  in  a  fra- 
grance of  perfume  and  a  brilliancy  of  colour  that  was  quite  effective  ;  for  he 
wore  his  red  ribbon,  and  his  blue  coat  was  lined  with  white  silk,  and  his 
cheeks  glowed  with  a  bloom  that  youth  itself  could  not  rival. 

"  Who  talks  of  old  Borchester  ?"  said  he  gaily.  "  My  father  used  to 
tell  me  such  stories  of  him.  They  sent  him  over  to  Hanover  once, 
to  report  on  the  available  princesses,  to  marry  the  Prince :  and,  egad  !  he 
played  his  part  so  well  that  one  of  them — Princess  Helena,  I  think  it  was 
— fell  in  love  with  him  ;  and  if  it  wasn't  that  he  liad  been  married  already, 
— May  I  offer  my  arm  ?  "  And  the  rest  of  the  story  was  probably  told  as 
he  led  Miss  Bramleigh  in  to  dinner. 

Mr.  Cutbill  only  arrived  as  they  took  their  places,  and  slunk  into  a 
seat  beside  Jack,  whom,  of  all  the  company,  he  judged  would  be  the 
person  he  could  feel  most  at  ease  with. 

"  What  a  fop  ! "  whispered  Jack,  with  a  glance  at  the  peer. 

"Isn't  he  an  old  humbug?"  muttered  Cutbill.  "Do  you  know 
how  he  managed  to  appear  in  so  short  a  time  ?  We  stopped  two  hours 
at  a  little  inn  on  the  road  while  he  made  his  toilette  ;  and  the  whole  get- 
up — paint  and  padding  and  all — was  done  then.  That  great  fur  pelisse 
in  which  he  made  his  entrance  into  the  drawing-room  removed,  he  was  in 
full  dinner  dress  underneath.  He's  the  best  actor  living."  ' 

"  Have  you  known  him  long  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  all  of  them,"  said  he,  with  a  little  gesture  of  his 
hand  :  "  that  is,  they  take  devilish  good  care  to  know  me." 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  13 

"  Indeed  ! "  exclaimed  Jack,  in  the  tone  which  seemed  to  ask  for  some 
explanation. 

"  You  see,  here's  how  it  is,"  said  Cutbill,  as  he  bent  over  his  plate 
and  talked  in  a  tone  cautiously  subdued:  "all  those  swells — especially 
that  generation  yonder — are  pretty  nigh  aground.  They  have  been  living 
for  fo:iy  or  fifty  years  at  something  like  five  times  their  income  ;  and  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  sudden  rush  of  prosperity  in  England,  caused  by  rail- 
roads, mines,  quarries,  or  the  like,  these  fellows  would  have  been  swept 
clean  away.  He's  watching  me  now.  I'll  go  on  by-and-by.  Have  you 
any  gDod  hunting  down  here,  Colonel  Bramleigh  ?"  asked  he  of  the  host, 
who  sat  half  hid  by  a  massive  centre-piece. 

"  You'll  have  to  ask  my  sons  what  it's  like,  and  I  take  it  they'll  give 
you  a  mount  too." 

"  With  pleasure,  Mr.  Cutbill,"  cried  Augustus.    "  If  we  have  no  frost, 
w'e'll  ?how  you  some  sport  on  Monday  next." 
"  Delighted, — I  like  hunting  of  all  things." 

"  And  you,  my  lord,  is  it  a  favourite  sport  of  yours  ?  "  asked  Temple. 

"  A  long  life  out  of  England, — which  has  unfortunately  been  my  case, 

— makes  a  man  sadly  out  of  gear  in  all  these  things ;  but  I   ride,   of 

coursa,"  and  he  said  the  last  words  as  though  he  meant  to  imply  "  because 

I  do  everything." 

"I'll  send  over  to  L'Estrange,"  said  Augustus  ;  "he's  sure  to  know 
where;  the  meet  is  for  Monday." 

"  Who  is  L'Estrange  ?  "  asked  his  lordship. 

"  Our  curate  here,"  replied  Colonel  Bramleigh,  smiling.   "  An  excellent 
fellow,  and  a  very  agreeable  neighbour." 
"  Our  only  one,  by  Jove  !  "  cried  Jack. 
"  How  gallant  to  forget  Julia,"  said  Nelly  tartly. 
"  And  the  fair  Julia, — who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Lord  Culduff. 
"  L'Estrange's  sister,"  replied  Augustus. 

"  And  now,  my  lord,"  chimed  in  Jack,  "you  know  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood, if  we  don't  throw  in  a  cross-grained  old  fellow,  a  half-pay  lieu- 
tenant  of  the  Buns." 

"  Small  but  select,"  said  Lord  Culduff  quietly.  "May  I  venture  to 
ask  you,  Colonel  Bramleigh,  what  determined  you  in  your  choice  of  a 
residence  here  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  confess  it  was  mainly  a  money  consideration.  The 
bank  held  some  rather  heavy  mortgages  over  this  property,  which  they 
were  somewhat  disposed  to  consider  as  capable  of  great  improvement,  and 
as  I  was  growing  a  little  wearied  of  City  life,  I  fancied  I'd  come  over  here 

and " 

"  Regenerate  Ireland,  eh  ?  " 

"  Or,  at  least,  live  very  economically,"  added  he,  laughing. 
"I  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  that  part    of  the  experiment,"  said 
Lord  Culduff,  as  his  eyes   ranged   over  the  table  set   forth   in  all   the 
splendour  that  plate  and  glass  could  bestow. 


14  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"I  suspect  papa  means  a  relative  economy,"  said  Marion,  "  something 
very  different  from  our  late  life  in  England." 

"  Yes,  my  last  three  years  have  been  very  costly  ones,"  said  Colonel 
Bramleigh,  sighing.  "I  lost  heavily  by  the  sale  of  Earlshope,  and  my 
unfortunate  election  too  was  an  expensive  business.  It  will  take  some 
retrenchment  to  make  up  for  all  this.  I  tell  the  boys  they'll  have  to  sell 
their  hunters,  or  be  satisfied,  like  the  parson,  to  hunt  one  day  a  week." 
The  self-complacent,  mock  humility  of  this  speech  was  all  too  apparent. 

"I  take  it,"  said  Culduff  authoritatively,  "  that  every  gentleman" 
— and  he  laid  a  marked  emphasis  on  the  "gentleman" — "must  at 
some  period  or  other  of  his  life  have  spent  more  money  than  he  ought, 
more  than  was  subsequently  found  to  be  convenient." 

"I  have  repeatedly  done  so,"  broke  in  Cutbill,  "  and  invariably  been 
sorry  for  it  afterwards,  inasmuch  as  each  time  one  does  it  the  difficulty 
increases." 

"  Harder  to  get  credit,  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Jack,  laughing. 

"  Just  so ;  and  one's  friends  get  tired  of  helping  one.  Just  as  they 
told  me,  there  was  a  fellow  at  Blackwall  used  to  live  by  drowning 
himself.  He  was  regularly  fished  up  once  a  week  and  stomach-pumped 
and  '  cordialled '  and  hot-blanketed,  and  brought  round  by  the  Humane 
Society's  people,  till  at  last  they  came  to  discover  the  dodge,  and  refused 
to  restore  him  any  more ;  and  now  he's  reduced  to  earn  his  bread  as  a 
water  bailiff — cruel  hard  on  a  fellow  of  such  an  ingenious  turn  of  mind." 

While  the  younger  men  laughed  at  Cutbill's  story,  Lord  Culduff  gave 
him  a  reproving  glance  from  the  other  end  of  the  table,  palpably  intended 
to  recall  him  to  a  more  sedate  and  restricted  conviviality. 

"Are  we  not  to  accompany  you  ?  "  said  Lord  Culduff  to  Marion,  as 
she  and  her  sister  arose  to  retire.  "  Is  this  barbarism  of  sitting  after 
dinner  maintained  here  ?  " 

'  Only  till  we  finish  this  decanter  of  claret,  my  lord,"  said  Colonel 
Bramleigh,  who  caught  what  was  not  intended  for  his  ears. 

"  Ask  the  governor  to  give  you  a  cigar,"  whispered  Jack  to  Cutbill  ; 
"he  has  some  rare  Cubans." 

"Now,  this  is  what  I  call  regular  jolly,"  said  Cutbill  as  he  drew  a 
small  spider  table  to  his  side,  and  furnished  himself  with  a  glass  and 
a  decanter  of  Madeira,  "  and,"  added  he  in  a  whisper  to  Jack,  "  let  us  not 
be  in  a  hurry  to  leave  it.  We  only  want  one  thing  to  be  perfect,  Colonel 
Bramleigh." 

"  If  I  can  only  supply  it,  pray  command  me,  Mr.  Cutbill." 

"I  want  this,  then,"  said  Cutbill,  pursing  up  his  mouth  at  one  side, 
while  he  opened  the  other  as  if  to  emit  the  smoke  of  a  cigar. 

"  Do  you  mean  smoking  ?  "  asked  Colonel  Bramleigh,  in  a  half  irri- 
table tone. 

"You  have  it." 

".Are  you  a  smoker,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  the  host,  turning  to  Lord 
Culduff. 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  15 

"A  very  moderate  one.  A  cigarette  after  breakfast,  and  another  at 
bed-time,  are  about  my  excesses  in  that  direction." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  I  must  defraud  you  of  the  full  measure  of  your 
enjoyment,  Mr.  Cutbill ;  we  never  smoke  in  the  dining-room.  Indeed, 
I  myself  have  a  strong  aversion  to  tobacco,  and  though  I  have  consented 
t  >  build  a  smoking-room,  it  is  as  far  off  from  me  as  I  have  been  able  to 
c  jntrive  it." 

"  And  what  about  his  choice  Cubans,  eh  ?  "  whispered  Cutbill  to 
Jack. 

"All  hypocrisy.  You'll  find  a  box  of  them  in  your  dressing-room," 
s;iid  Jack,  in  an  undertone,  "  when  you  go  upstairs." 

Temple  now  led  his  distinguished  friend  into  those  charming  pasturages 
\\here  the  flocks  of  diplomacy  love  to  dwell,  and  where  none  other  save 
themselves  could  find  herbage.  Nor  was  it  amongst  great  political  events, 
oc  peace  or  war,  alliances  or  treaties,  they  wandered — for  perhaps  in  these 
the  outer  world,  taught  as  they  are  by  newspapers,  might  have  taken  some 
interest  and  some  share.  No;  their  talk  was  all  of  personalities,  of 
Lussian  princes  and  grandees  of  Spain,  archduchesses  and  "marchesas," 
\\  hose  crafts  and  subtleties,  and  pomps  and  vanities,  make  up  a  world  like 
no  other  world  and  play  a  drama  of  life — happily,  it  may  be  for  humanity, 
— like  no  other  drama  that  other  men  and  women  ever  figured  in.  Now 
ii  is  a  strange  fact,  and  I  appeal  to  my  readers  if  their  experience  will  not 
corroborate  mine,  that  when  two  men  thoroughly  versed  in  these  themes  will 
ti.lk  together  upon  them,  exchanging  their  stories  and  mingling  their  com- 
ments, the  rest  of  the  company  will  be  struck  with  a  perfect  silence,  unable 
to  join  in  the  subject  discussed,  and  half  appalled  to  introduce  any  ordinary 
n.atter  into  such  high  and  distinguished  society.  And  thus  Lord  Culduff 
a:  id  Temple  went  on  for  full  an  hour  or  more,  pelting  each  other  with 
ILtle  court  scandals  and  small  state  intrigues,  till  Colonel  Bramleigh  fell 
a  deep,  and  Cutbill,  having  finished  his  Madeira,  would  probably  have 
fcllowed  his  host's  example,  when  a  servant  announced  tea,  adding  in 
a  whisper,  that  Mr.  L'E strange  and  his  sister  were  in  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OVER    THE    FIRE. 

I:  a  large  room,  comfortably  furnished,  but  in  which  there  was  a  certain 
bl  anding  of  the  articles  of  the  drawing-room  with  those  of  the  dining-room, 
si  owing  unmistakably  the  bachelor  character  of  the  owner,  sat  two  young 
msn  at  opposite  sides  of  an  ample  fireplace.  One  sat,  or  rather  reclined, 
01  •.  a  small  leather  sofa,  his  bandaged  leg  resting  on  a  pillow,  and  his  pale 
ai  .d  somewhat  shrunken  face  evidencing  the  results  of  pain  and  confine- 
Da  3nt  to  the  house.  His  close-cropt  head  and  square-cut  beard,  and  a 
ct  rtain  mingled  drollery  and  fierceness  in  the  eyes,  proclaimed  him  French, 
aii.d  so  M.  Anatole  Pracontal  was  ;  though  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 


1C  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

declare  as  much  from  his  English,  which  he  spoke  with  singular  purity  and 
the  very  faintest  peculiarity  of  accent. 

Opposite  him  sat  a  tall  well-built  man  of  about  thirty-four  or  five, 
with  regular  and  almost  handsome  features,  marred,  indeed,  in  expression 
by  the  extreme  closeness  of  the  eyes,  and  a  somewhat  long  upper  lip, 
which  latter  defect  an  incipient  moustache  was  already  concealing.  The 
colour  of  his  hair  was  however  that  shade  of  auburn  which  verges  on  red, 
and  is  so  commonly  accompanied  by  a  much  freckled  skin.  This  same 
hair,  and  hands  and  feet  almost  enormous  in  size,  were  the  afflictions 
which  imparted  bitterness  to  a  lot  which  many  regarded  as  very  enviable 
in  life ;  for  Mr.  Philip  Longworth  was  his  own  master,  free  to  go  where  he 
pleased,  and  the  owner  of  a  very  sufficient  fortune.  He  had  been  brought 
up  at  Oscot,  and  imbibed,  with  a  very  fair  share  of  knowledge,  a  large 
stock  of  that  general  mistrust  and  suspicion  which  is  the  fortune  of  those 
entrusted  to  priestly  teaching,  and  which,  though  he  had  travelled  largely 
and  mixed  freely  with  the  world,  still  continued  to  cling  to  his  manner, 
which  might  be  characterized  by  the  one  word — furtive. 

Longworth  had  only  arrived  that  day  for  dinner,  and  the  two  friends 
were  now  exchanging  their  experiences  since  they  had  parted  some  eight 
months  before  at  the  second  cataract  of  the  Nile. 

"  And  so,  Pracontal,  you  never  got  one  of  my  letters  ?  " 
"  Not  one, — on  my  honour.  Indeed,  if  it  were  not  that  I  learned  by 
a  chance  meeting  with  a  party  of  English  tourists  at  Cannes  that  they  had 
met  you  at  Cairo,  I'd  have  begun  to  suspect  you  had  taken  a  plunge  into 
the  Nile,  or  into  Mohammedom,  for  which  latter  you  were  showing  some 
disposition,  you  remember,  when  we  parted." 

"  True  enough ;  and  if  one  was  sure  never  to  turn  westward  again, 
there  are  many  things  in  favour  of  the  turban.  It  is  the  most  sublime 
conception  of  egotism  possible  to  imagine." 

" Egotism  is  a  mistake,  mon  cher,"  said  the  other;  "a  man's  own 
heart,  make  it  as  comfortable  as  he  may,  is  too  small  an  apartment  to  live 
in.  I  do  not  say  this  in  any  grand  benevolent  spirit.  There's  no  humbug 
of  philanthropy  in  the  opinion." 

"  Of  that  I'm  fully  assured,"  said  Longworth,  with  a  gravity  which 
made  the  other  laugh. 

"  No,"  continued  he,  still  laughing.  "I  want  a  larger  field,  a  wider 
hunting-ground  for  my  diversion  than  my  own  nature." 

"  A  disciple,  in  fact,  of  your  great  model,  Louis  Napoleon.  You  incline 
to  annexations.  By  the  way,  how  fares  it  with  your  new  projects  ?  Have 
you  seen  the  lawyer  I  gave  you  the  letter  to  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  stayed  eight  days  in  town  to  confer  with  him.  I  heard  from 
him  this  very  day." 

"Well,  what  says  he?" 

'  His  letter  is  a  very  savage  one.  He  is  angry  with  me  for  having 
come  here  at  all ;  and  particularly  angry  because  I  have  broken  my  leg,  and 
can't  come  away." 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  17 

"  What  does  he  think  of  your  case,  however  ?" 

"  He  thinks  it  manageable.  He  says,  as,  of  course,  I  knew  he  would 
sav,  that  it  demands  most  cautious  treatment  and  great  acuteness.  There 
aro  blanks,  historical  blanks,  to  be  filled  up  ;  links  to  connect,  and  such 
like,  which  will  demand  some  time  and  some  money.  I  have  told  him  I 
have  au  inexhaustible  supply  of  the  one,  but  for  the  other  I  am  occasionally 
slightly  pinched." 

11  It  promises  well,  however  ?  " 

"  Most  hopefully.  And  when  once  I  have  proved  myself — not  always 
so  easy,  as  it  seems — the  son  of  my  father,  I  am  to  go  over  and  see  him 
again  in  consultation." 

1 '  Kelson  is  a  man  of  station  and  character,  and  if  he  undertakes  your 
caise  it  is  in  itself  a  strong  guarantee  of  its  goodness." 

"  Why,  these  men  take  all  that  is  offered  them.  They  no  more  refuse 
a  bad  suit  than  a  doctor  rejects  a  hopeless  patient." 

"  And  so  will  a  doctor,  if  he  happen  to  be  an  honest  man,"  said  Long- 
worth,  half  peevishly.  "  Just  as  he  would  also  refuse  to  treat  one  who 
would  persist  in  following  his  own  caprices  in  defiance  of  all  advice." 

"  Which  touches  me.  Is  not  it  so  ?  "  said  the  other  laughing.  "  Well,  I 
think  I  ought  to  have  stayed  quietly  here,  and  not  shown  myself  in  public. 
All  the  more,  since  it  has  cost  me  this,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  leg  as  he 
spoke.  "  But  I  can't  help  confessing  it,  Philip,  the  sight  of  those  fellows 
in  their  gay  scarlet,  caracolling  over  the  sward,  and  popping  over  the  walls 
ar  d  hedges,  provoked  me.  It  was  exactly  like  a  challenge  ;  so  I  felt  it,  at 
least.  It  was  as  though  they  said,  *  What !  you  come  here  to  pit  your 
cLiims  against  ours,  and  you  are  still  not  gentleman  enough  to  meet  us  in  a 
far  field  and  face  the  same  perils  that  we  do.'  And  this,  be  it  remembered, 
to  one  who  had  served  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  and  made  campaigns  with 
the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and(after  the  second  day  I 
mounted,  and — "  a  motion  of  his  hand  finished  the  sentence. 

"  All  that  sort  of  reasoning  is  so  totally  different  from  an  Englishman's 
that  I  am  unable  even  to  discuss  it.  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  the 
re  lined  sensibility  that  resents  provocations  which  were  never  offered." 

"  I  know  you  don't,  and  I  know  your  countrymen  do  not  either.  You 
ara  such  a  practical  people  that  your  very  policemen  never  interfere  with 
a  criminal  till  he  has  fully  committed  himself." 

"  In  plain  words,  we  do  not  content  ourselves  with  inferences.  But 
tel  me,  did  any  of  these  people  call  to  see  you,  or  ask  after  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  sent  the  day  after  my  disaster,  and  they  also  told  the 
d(  ctor  to  say  how  happy  they  should  be  if  they  could  be  of  service  to  me. 
A- id  a  young  naval  commander, — his  card  is  yonder, — came  I  think  three 
times,  and  would  have  come  up  if  I  had  wished  to  receive  him ;  but  Kelson's 
letter,  so  angry  about  my  great  indiscretion  as  he  called  it,  made  me 
decline  the  visit,  and  confine  my  acknowledgment  to  thanks." 

"  I  wonder  what  my  old  gatekeeper  thought  when  he  saw  them,  or  their 
liveries,  in  this  avenue  ?  "  said  Longworth,  a  peculiar  bitterness  in  his  tone. 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  91.  2 


18  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Why,  what  should  he  think, — was  there  any  feud  between  the 
families  ?  " 

"  How  could  there  be  ?  These  people  have  not  been  many  months  in 
Ireland.  What  I  meant  was  with  reference  to  the  feud  that  is  six  centuries 
old,  the  old  open  ulcer,  that  makes  all  rule  in  this  country  a  struggle,  and 
all  resistance  to  it  a  patriotism.  Don't  you  know,"  asked  he,  almost 
sternly,  "  that  I  am  a  Papist  ?  " 
"  Yes,  you  told  me  so." 

"And  don't  you  know  that  my  religion  is  not  a  mere  barrier  to  my 
advancement  in  many  careers  of  life,  but  is  a  social  disqualification — that 
it  is,  like  the  trace  of  black  blood  in  a  Creole,  a  ban  excluding  him  from 
intercourse  with  his  better-born  neighbours — that  I  belong  to  a  class 
just  as  much  shut  out  from  all  the  relations  of  society,  as  were  the  Jews  in 
the  fifteenth  century  ?  " 

"I  remember  that  you  told  me  so  once,  but  I  own  I  never  fully  compre- 
hended it,  nor  understood  how  the  question  of  a  man's  faith  was  to  decide 
his  standing  in  this  world,  and  that,  being  the  equal  of  those  about  you  in 
birth  and  condition,  your  religion  should  stamp  you  with  inferiority." 

"  But  I  did  not  tell  you  I  was  not  their  equal,"  said  Longworth,  with  a 
slow  and  painful  distinctness.  "  We  are  novi  homines  here ;  a  couple  of 
generations  back  we  were  peasants, — as  poor  as  anything  you  could  see  out 
of  that  window.  By  hard  work  and  some  good  luck — of  course  there  was 
luck  in  it — we  emerged,  and  got  enough  together  to  live  upon,  and  I  was 
sent  to  a  costly  school,  and  then  to  college,  that  I  might  start  in  life  the 
equal  of  my  fellows.  But  what  avails  it  all  ?  To  hold  a  station  in  life,  to 
mix  with  the  world,  to  associate  with  men  educated  and  brought  up  like 
myself,  I  must  quit  my  own  country  and  live  abroad.  I  know,  I  see,  you 
can  make  nothing  of  this.  It  is  out  and  out  incomprehensible.  You 
made  a  clean  sweep  of  these  things  with  your  great  Revolution  of  '93. 
Ours  is  yet  to  come." 

"  Per  Dio  !     I'd  not  stand  it,"  cried  the  other  passionately. 
"  You  couldn't  help  it.     You  must  stand  it ;  at  least,  till  such  time  as 
a  good  many  others,  equally  aggrieved  as  yourself,  resolve  to  risk  some- 
thing to  change  it ;  and  this  is  remote  enough,  for  there  is  nothing  that 
men,  — I  mean   educated   and  cultivated  men, — are  more    averse    to, 
than  any  open   confession  of ,  feeling  a   social  disqualification.       I  may 
tell  it  to  you  here,  as  we  sit  over  the  fire,  but  I'll  not  go  out  and  proclaim 
it,  I  promise  you.      These  are  confessions  one  keeps  for  the  fireside." 
"  And  will  not  these  people  visit  you  ?" 
"  Nothing  less  likely." 
"  Nor  you  call  upon  them  ?  " 
"  Certainly  not." 

'  And  will  you  continue  to  live  within  an  hour's  drive  of  each  other 
without  acquaintance  or  recognition?" 

"  Probably, — at  least  we  may  salute  when  we  meet." 

Then  I  say  the  guillotine  has  done  more  for  civilization  than  the 
schoolmaster,"  cried  the  other.    «  And  all  this  because  you  are  a  Papist  ?  " 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  19 

"  Just  so.  I  belong  to  a  faith  so  deeply  associated  with  a  bygone 
inferiority  that  I  am  not  to  be  permitted  to  emerge  from  it, — there's  the 
secret  of  it  all." 

"  I'd  rebel.    I'd  descend  into  the  streets  !  " 

"  And  you'd  get  hanged  for  your  pains." 

A  shrug  of  the  shoulders  was  all  the  reply,  and  Longworth  went  on : — 

"  Some  one  once  said,  '  It  was  better  economy  in  a  state  to  teach 
people  not  to  steal  than  to  build  gaols  for  the  thieves ; '  and  so  I  would  say 
to  our  rulers :  it  would  be  cheaper  to  give  us  some  of  the  things  we  ask  for 
than  to  enact  all  the  expensive  measures  that  are  taken  to  repress  us. 

"  What  chance  have  I  then  of  justice  in  such  a  country  ?  "  cried  the 
foreigner  passionately. 

"  Better  than  in  any  land  of  Europe.  Indeed  I  will  go  further,  and 
say  it  is  the  one  land  in  Europe  where  corruption  is  impossible  on  the  seat 
of  j  udgment.  If  you  make  out  your  claim,  as  fully  as  you  detailed  it  to 
me  if  evidence  will  sustain  your  allegations,  your  flag  will  as  certainly 
wa-e  over  that  high  tower  yonder  as  that  decanter  stands  there." 

"  Here's  to  la  bonne  chance"  said  the  other,  filling  a  bumper  and 
drii  iking  it  off. 

"  You  will  need  to  be  very  prudent,  very  circumspect ;  two  things 
which  I  suspect  will  cost  you  some  trouble,"  said  Longworth.  "  The  very 
narie  you  will  have  to  go  by  will  be  a  difficulty.  To  call  yourself  Bramleigh 
will  be  an  open  declaration  of  war ;  to  write  yourself  Pracontal  is  an  admis- 
sion that  you  have  no  claim  to  the  other  appellation." 

"  It  was  my  mother's  name.  She  was  of  a  Provencal  family,  and  the 
Praaontals  were  people  of  good  blood." 

"  But  your  father  was  always  called  Bramleigh  ?  " 

"  My  father,  mon  cher,  had  fifty  aliases ;  he  was  Louis  Lagrange  under 
the  Empire,  Victor  Cassagnac  at  the  Restoration,  Carlo  Salvi  when 
sen  ;enced  to  the  galleys  at  Naples,  Ercole  Giustiniani  when  he  shot  the 
A.UI  trian  colonel  at  Capua,  and  I  believe  when  he  was  last  heard  of,  the 
cap  ,ain  of  a  slaver,  he  was  called,  for  shortness'  sake,  *  Brutto,'  for  he  was 
not  personally  attractive." 

"  Then  when  and  where  was  he  known  as  Bramleigh  ?  " 

"  Whenever  he  wrote  to  England.  Whenever  he  asked  for  money, 
whi5h,  on  the  whole,  was  pretty  often,  he  was  Montagu  Bramleigh." 

"  To  whom  were  these  letters  addressed  ?  " 

"  To  his  father,  Montagu  Bramleigh,  Portland  Place,  London.  I  have 
it  a  1  in  my  note-book." 

"  And  these  appeals  were  responded  to  ?  " 

;t  Not  so  satisfactorily  as  one  might  wish.  The  replies  were  flat  refusals 
to  g  ive  money,  and  rather  unpleasant  menaces  as  to  police  measures  if  the 
insi  stance  were  continued." 

•'  You  have  some  of  these  letters  ?." 

•'*  The  lawyer  has,  I  think,  four  of  them.  The  last  contained  a  bank 
ordt  r  for  five  hundred  francs,  payable  to  Giacomo  Land,  or  order." 

:' Who  was  Lami  ?  " 


20  THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Lami  was  the  name  of  my  grandmother ;  her  father  was  Giacomo.  He 
was  the  old  fresco-painter  who  came  over  from  Home  to  paint  the  walls  of 
that  great  house  yonder,  and  it  was  his  daughter  that  Bramleigh  married." 

"  Which  Bramleigh  was  the  father  of  the  present  possessor  of 
Castello  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  Montagu  Bramleigh  married  my  grandmother  here  in 
Ireland,  and  when  the  troubles  broke  out,  either  to  save  her  father  from 
the  laws  or  to  get  rid  of  him,  managed  to  smuggle  him  out  of  the  country 
over  to  Holland, — the  last  supposition,  and  the  more  likely,  is  that  he  sent 
his  wife  off  with  her  father." 

"  What  evidence  is  there  of  this  marriage  ?  " 

"  It  was  registered  in  some  parish  authority ;  at  least  so  old  Giacomo's 
journal  records,  for  we  have  the  journal,  and  without  it  we  might  never  have 
known  of  our  claim ;  but  besides  that,  there  are  two  letters  of  Montagu 
Bramleigh's  to  my  grandmother,  written  when  he  had  occasion  to  leave 
her  about  ten  days  after  their  marriage,  and  they  begin,  *  My  dearest 
wife,'  and  are  signed,  '  Your  affectionate  husband,  M.  Bramleigh.'  The 
lawyer  has  all  these." 

"  How  did  it  come  about  that  a  rich  London  banker,  as  Bramleigh  was, 
should  ally  himself  with  the  daughter  of  a  working  Italian  tradesman  ?  " 

"  Here's  the  story,  as  conveyed  by  old  Giacomo's  notes.  Bramleigh 
came  over  here  to  look  after  the  progress  of  the  works  for  a  great  man, 
a  bishop  and  a  lord  marquis  too,  who  was  the  owner  of  the  place ;  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Lami  and  his  daughters ;  there  were  two  ;  the  younger 
only  a  child,  however.  The  eldest,  Enrichetta,  was  very  beautiful,  so 
beautiful  indeed,  that  Giacomo  was  eternally  introducing  her  head  into  all 
his  frescoes ;  she  was  a  blonde  Italian,  and  made  a  most  lovely  Madonna. 
Old  Giacomo's  journal  mentions  no  less  than  eight  altar-pieces  where  she 
figures,  not  to  say  that  she  takes  her  place  pretty  frequently  in  heathen 
society  also,  and  if  I  be  rightly  informed,  she  is  the  centre  figure  of  a  ceiling 
in  this  very  house  of  Castello,  in  a  small  octagon  tower,  the  whole  of  which 
Lami  painted  with  his  own  hand.  Bramleigh  fell  in  love  with  this  girl 
and  married  her." 

"  But  she  was  a  Catholic." 

"  No.  Lami  was  originally  a  Waldensian,  and  held  some  sort  of* 
faith,  I  don't  exactly  know  what,  that  claimed  affinity  with  the  English 
church;  at  all  events,  the  vicar  here,  a  certain  Eobert  Mathews, — his  name 
is  in  the  precious  journal, — married  them,  and  man  and  wife  they  were." 

"  When  and  how  did  all  these  facts  come  to  your  knowledge  ?  " 

"As  to  the  when  and  the  how,  the  same  answer  will  suffice.  I 
was  serving  as  sous-lieutenant  of  cavalry  in  Africa  when  news 
reached  me  that  the  Astradella,  the  ship  in  which  my  father  sailed,  was 
lost  off  the  Cape  Verde  islands,  with  all  on  board.  I  hastened  off  to 
Naples,  where  a  Mr.  Bolton  lived,  who  was  chief  owner  of  the  vessel, 
to  hear  what  tidings  had  reached  him  of  the  disaster,  and  to  learn  some- 
thing of  my  father's  affairs,  for  he  had  been,  if  I  might  employ  so  fine  a 
word  for  so  small  a  function,  his  banker  for  years.  Indeed,  but  for 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  21 

Bolton's  friendship  and  protection — how  earned  I  never  knew — my  father 
would  have  come  to  grief  years  before,  for  he  was  a  thorough  Italian,  and 
always  up  to  the  neck  in  conspiracies ;  he  had  been  in  that  Bonapartist 
alfair  at  Rome;  was  a  Carbonaro  and  a  Camorrist,  and  Heaven  knows 
what  besides.  And  though  Bolton  was  a  man  very  unlikely  to  sympathize 
with  these  opinions,  I  take  it  my  respected  parent  must  have  been  a 
ben  diable  that  men  who  knew  him  would  not  willingly  see  wrecked 
and  ruined.  Bolton  was  most  kind  to  myself  personally.  He  received  me 
with  many  signs  of  friendship,  and  without  troubling  me  with  any  more 
tU  tails  of  law  than  were  positively  unavoidable,  put  me  in  possession  of 
the  little  my  father  had  left  behind  him,  which  consisted  of  a  few  hundred 
francs  of  savings  and  an  old  chest,  with  some  older  clothes  and  a  mass  of 
papers  and  letters — dangerous  enough,  as  I  discovered,  to  have  compro- 
mised scores  of  people — and  a  strange  old  manuscript  book,  clasped  and 
locked,  called  the  Diary  of  Giacomo  Lami,  with  matter  in  it  for  half-a- 
dc-zen  romances ;  for  Giacomo,  too,  had  the  conspirator's  taste,  had  known 
D  mton  intimately,  and  was  deep  in  the  confidence  of  all  the  Irish  repub- 
lic ans  who  were  affiliated  with  the  French  revolutionary  party.  But  besides 
this  the  book  contained  a  quantity  of  original  letters;  and  when  mention 
w^s  made  in  the  text  of  this  or  that  event,  the  letter  which  related  to 
it,  or  replied  to  some  communication  about  it,  was  appended  in  the 
original.  I  made  this  curious  volume  my  study  for  weeks,  till,  in  fact,  I 
came  to  know  far  more  about  old  Giacomo  and  his  times  than  I  ever 
knew  about  my  father  and  his  epoch.  There  was  not  a  country  in  Europe 
in  which  he  had  not  lived,  nor,  I  believe,  one  in  which  he  had  not  involved 
himself  in  some  trouble.  He  loved  his  art,  but  he  loved  political  plotting 
and  conspiracy  even  more,  and  was  ever  ready  to  resign  his  most  profitable 
engagement  for  a  scheme  that  promised  to  overturn  a  government  or 
unthrone  a  sovereign.  My  first  thought  on  reading  his  curious  remi- 
niscences was  to  make  them  the  basis  of  a  memoir  for  publication.  Of 
coarse  they  were  fearfully  indiscreet,  and  involved  reputations  that  no  one 
had  ever  thought  of  assailing ;  but  they  were  chiefly  of  persons  dead  and 
gone,  and  it  was  only  their  memory  that  could  suffer.  I  spoke  to  Bolton 
about  this.  He  approved  of  the  notion,  principally  as  a  means  of  helping 
m(  s  to  a  little  money,  which  I  stood  much  in  need  of,  and  gave  me  a  letter  to 
a  i'riend  in  Paris,  the  well-known  publisher  Lecoq,  of  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 
"  As  I  was  dealing  with  a  man  of  honour  and  high  character,  I  had  no 
scruple  in  leaving  the  volume  of  old  Giacomo's  memoirs  in  Lecoq's  hands  ; 
an  i  after  about  a  week  I  returned  to  learn  what  he  thought  of  it.  He  was 
frtnk  enough  to  say  that  no  such  diary  had  ever  come  before  him — that  it 
cleared  up  a  vast  number  of  points  hitherto  doubtful  and  obscure,  and 
showed  an  amount  of  knowledge  of  the  private  life  of  the  period  absolutely 
marvellous  ;  'but,'  said  he,  '  it  would  never  do  to  make  it  public.  Most  of 
th<>,se  men  are  now  forgotten,  it  is  true,  but  their  descendants  remain,  and 
live  in  honour  amongst  us.  What  a  terrible  scandal  it  would  be  to  proclaim 
to  the  world  that  of  these  people  many  were  illegitimate,  many  in  the 
enjoyment  of  large  fortunes  to  which  they  had  not  a  shadow  of  a  title ; 


22  THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

in  fact,  said  he,  it  would  be  to  hurl  a  live  shell  in  the  very  midst  of 
society,  leaving  the  havoc  and  destruction  it  might  cause  to  blind 
chance.  But,'  added  he,  '  it  strikes  me  there  is  a  more  profitable  use  the 
volume  might  be  put  to.  Have  you  read  the  narrative  of  your  grand- 
mother's marriage  in  Ireland  with  that  rich  Englishman  ? '  I  owned  I  had 
read  it  carelessly,  and  without  bestowing  much  interest  on  the  theme. 
'  Go  back  and  re-read  it,'  said  he,  '  and  come  and  talk  it  over  with  me 
to-morrow  evening.'  As  I  entered  his  room  the  next  night  he  arose  cere- 
moniously from  his  chair,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  well-assumed  obsequious- 
ness, '  Si  je  ne  me  trompe  pas,  j'ai  1'honneur  de  voir  Monsieur  Bramleigh, 
n'est  ce  pas  ? '  I  laughed,  and  replied,  '  Je  ne  m'y  oppose  pas,  Monsieur ; ' 
and  we  at  once  launched  out  into  the  details  of  the  story,  of  which  each 
of  us  had  formed  precisely  the  same  opinion. 

"  HI  luck  would  have  it,  that  as  I  went  back  to  my  lodgings  on  that 
night  I  should  meet  Bertani,  and  Varese,  and  Manini,  and  be  persuaded 
to  go  and  sup  with  them.  They  were  all  suspected  by  the  police,  from 
their  connection  with  Orsini;  and  on  the  morning  after  I  received  an 
order  from  the  Minister  of  "War  to  join  my  regiment  at  Oran,  and  an 
intimation  that  my  character  being  fully  known,  it  behoved  me  to  take 
care.  I  gave  no  grounds  for  more  stringent  measures  towards  me.  I 
understood  the  '  caution,'  and,  not  wishing  to  compromise  M.  Lecoq,  who 
had  been  so  friendly  in  all  his  relations  with  me,  I  left  France,  without  even 
an  opportunity  of  getting  back  my  precious  volume,  which  I  never  saw 
again  till  I  revisited  Paris  eight  years  after,  having  given  in  my  demission 
from  the  service.  Lecoq  obtained  for  me  that  small  appointment  I  held 
under  M.  Lesseps  in  Egypt,  and  which  I  had  given  up  a  few  weeks  before 
I  met  you  on  the  Nile.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Lecoq,  for  what  reason  I 
can't  tell,  was  not  so  fully  persuaded  that  my  claim  was  as  direct  as  he 
had  at  first  thought  it ;  and  indeed  his  advice  to  me  was  rather  to  address 
myself  seriously  to  some  means  of  livelihood,  or  to  try  and  make  some 
compromise  with  the  Bramleighs,  with  whom  he  deemed  a  mere  penniless 
pretender  would  not  have  the  smallest  chance  of  success.  I  hesitated  a 
good  deal  over  his  counsel.  There  was  much  in  it  that  weighed  with  me, 
perhaps  convinced  me ;  but  I  was  always  more  or  less  of  a  gambler, 
and  more  than  once  have  I  risked  a  stake,  which,  if  I  lost,  would  have 
left  me  penniless ;  and  at  last  I  resolved  to  say,  Ya  Banque,  here  goes ; 
all  or  nothing.  There's  my  story,  mon  cher,  without  any  digressions, 
even  one  of  which,  if  I  had  permitted  myself  to  be  led  into  it,  would 
have  proved  twice  as  long." 

"  The  strength  of  a  chain  is  the  strength  of  its  weakest  link,  the  engineers 
tell  us,"  said  Longworth,  "  and  it  is  the  same  with  evidence.  I'd  like  to 
hear  what  Kelson  says  of  the  case." 

"  That  I  can  scarcely  give  you.  His  last  letter  to  me  is  full  of 
questions  which  I  cannot  answer ;  but  you  shall  read  it  for  yourself.  "Will 
you  send  upstairs  for  my  writing-desk  ?  " 

"  We'll  con  that  over  to-morrow  after  breakfast,  when  our  heads  will  be 
clearer  and  brighter.  Have  you  old  Lami's  journal  with  you  ?  " 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOPS  FOLLY.  23 

"  No.  All  my  papers  are  with  Kelson.  The  only  thing  I  have  here  is 
a  sketch  in  coloured  chalk  of  my  grandmother,  in  her  eighteenth  year,  as 
a  Flora,  and,  from  the  date,  it  must  have  been  done  in  Ireland,  when 
G.  acomo  was  working  at  the  frescoes." 

"  That  my  father,"  said  Pracontal,  after  a  pause,  "  counted  with 
ce  ;tainty  on  this  succession  all  his  own  papers  show,  as  well  as  the  care  he 
bestowed  on  my  early  education,  and  the  importance  he  attached  to  my 
kr  owing  and  speaking  English  perfectly.  But  my  father  cared  far  more 
fo:1  a  conspiracy  than  a  fortune.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  only  seem 
to  live  when  they  are  confronted  by  a  great  danger,  and  I  believe  there 
has  not  been  a  great  plot  in  Europe  these  last  five -and- thirty  years  without 
hi.i  name  being  in  it.  He  was  twice  handed  over  to  the  French  authorities 
bj  the  English  Government,  and  there  is  some  reason  to  believe  that  the 
Bramleighs  were  the  secret  instigators  of  the  extradition.  There  was  no 
easier  way  of  getting  rid  of  his  claims." 

"  These  are  disabilities  which  do  not  attach  to  you." 

"No,  thank  heaven.  I  have  gone  no  farther  with  these  men  than 
more  acquaintance.  I  know  them  all,  and  they  know  me  well  enough  to 
kr  ow  that  I  deem  it  the  greatest  disaster  of  my  life  that  my  father  was 
one  of  them.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  a  small  part  of  the  energy  he 
bestowed  on  schemes  of  peril  and  ruin  would  have  sufficed  to  have  vin- 
dicated his  claim  to  wealth  and  fortune." 

"  You  told  me,  I  think,  that  Kelson  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  some 
compromise, — something  which,  sparing  them  the  penalty  of  publicity, 
wculd  still  secure  to  you  an  ample  fortune." 

"  Yes.  What  he  said  was,  '  Juries  are,  with  all  their  honesty  of  inten- 
tion, capricious  things  to  trust  to  ; '  and  that,  not  being  rich  enough  to 
suTer  repeated  defeats,  an  adverse  verdict  might  be  fatal  to  me.  I  didn't 
lite  the  reasoning  altogether,  but  I  was  so  completely  in  his  hands  that  I 
forbore  to  make  any  objection,  and  so  the  matter  remained." 

"  I  suspect  he  was  right,"  said  Longworth,  thoughtfully.  "  At  the 
sane  time,  the  case  must  be  strong  enough  to  promise  victory,  to  sustain 
th)  proposal  of  a  compromise." 

"  And  if  I  can  show  the  game  in  my  hand  why  should  I  not  claim  the 
stakes?" 

"  Because  the  other  party  may  delay  the  settlement.  They  may 
ch  illenge  the  cards,  accuse  you  of  a  rook,  put  out  the  lights,  anything, 
in  short,  that  shall  break  up  the  game." 

"  I  see,"  said  Pracontal,  gravely;  "  the  lawyer's  notion  may  be  better 
thru  I  thought  it." 

A  long  silence  ensued  between  them,  then  Longworth,  looking  at  his 
watch,  exclaimed,  "  Who'd  believe  it  ?  It  wants  only  a  few  minutes  to  two 
o'clock.  Good-night." 


OF  all  the  joys  in  life,  none  is  greater  than  the  joy  of  arriving  on  the 
outskirts  of  Switzerland  at  the  end  of  a  long  dusty  day's  journey  from 
Paris.  The  true  epicure  in  refined  pleasures  will  never  travel  to  Basle  by 
night.  He  courts  the  heat  of  the  sun  and  the  uninteresting  monotony  of 
French  plains, — their  sluggish  streams  and  never-ending  poplar-trees, — • 
for  the  sake  of  the  evening  coolness  and  the  gradual  approach  to  the  great 
Alps  which  await  him  at  the  close  of  day.  It  is  about  Mulhausen  that 
he  begins  to  feel  a  change  in  the  landscape.  The  fields  broaden  into 
rolling  downs,  watered  by  clear  and  running  streams  ;  the  green  Swiss 
thistle  grows  by  river-side  and  cowshed  ;  pines  begin  to  tuft  the  slopes  of 
gently  rising  hills  ;  and  now  the  sun  has  set,  the  stars  come  out,  first 
Hesper,  then  the  troop  of  lesser  lights  ;  and  he  feels, — yes,  indeed,  there 
is  now  no  mistake, — the  well-known,  well-loved,  magical  fresh  air  that 
never  fails  to  blow  from  snowy  mountains  and  meadows  watered  by 
perennial  streams.  The  last  hour  is  one  of  exquisite  enjoyment,  and  when 
he  reaches  Basle,  he  scarcely  sleeps  all  night  for  hearing  the  swift  Ehine 
beneath  the  balconies,  and  knowing  that  the  moon  is  shining  on  its 
waters,  through  the  town,  beneath  the  bridges,  between  pasture  lands 
and  copses,  up  the  still  mountain-girdled  valleys  to  the  ice-caves  where 
the  water  springs.  There  is  nothing  in  all  experience  of  travelling  like 
this.  We  may  greet  the  Mediterranean  at  Marseilles  with  enthusiasm ; 
on  entering  Eome  by  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  we  may  reflect  with  pride 
that  we  have  reached  the  goal  of  our  pilgrimage,  and  are  at  last  among 
world-shaking  memories.  But  neither  Home  nor  the  Riviera  wins  our 
hearts  like  Switzerland.  We  do  not  lie  awake  in  London  thinking  of 
them ;  we  do  not  long  so  intensely,  as  the  year  comes  round,  to 
revisit  them.  Our  affection  is  less  a  passion  than  that  which  we  cherish 
for  Switzerland. 

Why,  then,  is  this  ?  What,  after  all,  is  the  love  of  the  Alps,  and 
when  and  where  did  it  begin  ?  It  is  easier  to  ask  these  questions  than  to 
answer  them.  The  classic  nations  hated  mountains.  Greek  and  Roman 
poets  talk  of  them  with  disgust  and  dread.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
depressing  to  a  courtier  of  Augustus  than  residence  at  Aosta,  even  though 
he  found  his  theatres  and  triumphal  arches  there.  Wherever  classical 
feeling  has  predominated,  this  has  been  the  case.  Cellini's  Memoirs, 
written  in  the  height  of  pagan  Renaissance,  well  express  the  aversion  which 
a  Florentine  or  Roman  felt  for  the  inhospitable  wildernesses  of  Switzerland. 

Dryden,  in  his  dedication  to  The  Indian  Emperor,  says,  "High  objects, 
it  is  true,  attract  the  sight ;  but  it  looks  up  with  pain  on  craggy  rocks  and 


THE  LOVE   OF  THE  ALPS.  25 

barren  mountains,  and  continues  not  intent  on  any  object  which  is  wanting 
in  shades  and  green  to  entertain  it." 

Addison  and  Gray  had  no  better  epithets  than  "rugged,"  " horrid," 
and  the  like  for  Alpine  landscape.  The  classic  spirit  was  adverse  to 
enthusiasm  for  mere  nature.  Humanity  was  too  prominent,  and  city  life 
absorbed  all  interests, — not  to  speak  of  what  perhaps  is  the  weightiest 
n  ason — that  solitude,  indifferent  accommodation,  and  imperfect  means  of 
travelling,  rendered  mountainous  countries  peculiarly  disagreeable.  It  is 
impossible  to  enjoy  art  or  nature  while  suffering  from  fatigue  and  cold, 
dreading  the  attacks  of  robbers,  and  wondering  whether  you  will  find  food 
ai id  shelter  at  the  end  of  your  day's  journey.  Nor  was  it  different  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  Then  individuals  had  either  no  leisure  from  war  or  strife 
with  the  elements,  or  else  they  devoted  themselves  to  the  salvation  of 
their  souls.  But  when  the  ideas  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  decayed,  when 
iriproved  arts  of  life  had  freed  men  from  servile  subjection  to  daily  needs, 
when  the  bondage  of  religious  tyranny  had  been  thrown  off  and  political 
liberty  allowed  the  full  development  of  tastes  and  instincts,  when  moreover 
the  classical  traditions  had  lost  their  power,  and  courts  and  coteries  became 
too  narrow  for  the  activity  of  man ;  then  suddenly  it  was  discovered  that 
Nature  in  herself  possessed  transcendent  charms.  It  may  seem  absurd 
to  class  them  all  together  ;  yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  French 
E  evolution,  the  criticism  of  the  Bible,  Pantheistic  forms  of  worship, 
landscape-painting,  Alpine  travelling,  and  the  poetry  of  Nature,  are  all 
signs  of  the  same  movement — of  a  new  Kenaissance.  Limitations  of 
every  sort  have  been  shaken  off  during  the  last  century,  all  forms  have 
b  aen  destroyed,  all  questions  asked.  The  classical  spirit  loved  to  arrange, 
niodel,  preserve  traditions,  obey  laws.  We  are  intolerant  of  everything 
that  is  not  simple,  unbiassed  by  prescription,  liberal  as  the  wind,  and 
natural  as  the  mountain  crags.  We  go  to  feed  this  spirit  of  freedom 
among  the  Alps.  What  the  virgin  forests  of  America  are  to  the  Americans 
the  Alps  are  to  us.  What  there  is  in  these  huge  blocks  and  walls  of 
granite  crowned  with  ice  that  fascinates  us  it  is  hard  to  analyze.  "Why, 
soeing  that  we  find  them  so  attractive,  they  should  have  repelled  our 
ancestors  of  the  fourth  generation  and  all  the  world  before  them,  is  another 
mystery.  We  cannot  explain  what  rapport  there  is  between  our  human 
souls  and  these  inequalities  in  the  surface  of  the  earth  which  we  call 
Alps.  Tennyson  speaks  of — • 

Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, — 

s  rid  its  vagueness  eludes  definition.  The  interest  which  physical  science 
las  created  for  natural  objects  has  something  to  do  with  it.  Curiosity  and 
tie  charm  of  novelty  increase  this  interest.  No  towns,  no  cultivated 
t  -acts  of  Europe,  however  beautiful,  form  such  a  contrast  to  our  London 
life  as  Switzerland.  Then  there  is  the  health  and  joy  that  comes  from 
exercise  in  open  air;  the  senses  freshened  by  good  sleep;  the  blood 
quickened  by  a  lighter  and  rarer  atmosphere.  Our  modes  of  life,  the 


26  THE  LOVE  OF  THE  ALPS. 

breaking  down  of  class  privileges,  the  extension  of  education,  which  con- 
tribute to  make  the  individual  greater  and  society  less,  render  the  solitude 
of  mountains  refreshing.  Facilities  of  travelling  and  improved  accom- 
modation leave  us  free  to  enjoy  the  natural  beauty  which  we  seek.  Our 
minds,  too,  are  prepared  to  sympathize  with  the  inanimate  world ;  we 
have  learned  to  look  on  the  universe  as  a  whole,  and  ourselves  as  a  part 
of  it,  related  by  close  ties  of  friendship  to  all  its  other  members.  Shelley's, 
Wordsworth's,  Goethe's  poetry  has  taught  us  this ;  we  are  all  more  or 
less  Pantheists,  worshippers  of  "  God  in  Nature,"  convinced  of  the  omni- 
presence of  the  informing  mind. 

Thus,  when  we  admire  the  Alps  we  are  after  all  but  children  of  the 
century.  We  follow  its  inspiration  blindly ;  and,  while  we  think  ourselves 
spontaneous  in  our  ecstasy,  perform  the  part  for  which  we  have  been 
trained  from  childhood  by  the  atmosphere  in  which  we  live.  It  is  this 
very  unconsciousness  and  universality  of  the  impulse  we  obey  which 
makes  it  hard  to  analyze.  Contemporary  history  is  difficult  to  write  ;  to 
define  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  we  live  is  still  more  difficult ;  to 
account  for  ' '  impressions  which  owe  all  their  force  to  their  identity  with 
themselves  "  is  most  difficult  of  all.  We  must  be  content  to  feel,  and  not 
to  analyze. 

Rousseau  has  the  credit  of  having  invented  the  love  of  Nature. 
Perhaps  he  first  expressed,  in  literature,  the  pleasures  of  open  life  among  the 
mountains,  of  walking  tours,  of  the  "  ecole  buissonniere,"  away  from  courts, 
and  schools,  and  cities,  which  it  is  the  fashion  now  to  love.  His  bourgeois 
birth  and  tastes,  his  peculiar  religious  and  social  views,  his  intense  self- 
engrossment,  all  favoured  the  development  of  Nature-worship.  But 
Rousseau  was  not  alone,  nor  yet  creative  in  this  instance.  He  was  but 
one  of  the  earliest  to  seize  and  express  a  new  idea  of  growing  humanity. 
For  those  who  seem  to  be  the  most  original  in  their  inauguration  of 
periods  are  only  such  as  have  been  favourably  placed  by  birth  and  educa- 
tion to  imbibe  the  floating  creeds  of  the  whole  race.  They  resemble  the 
first  cases  of  an  epidemic  which  become  the  centres  of  infection  and  pro- 
pagate disease.  At  the  time  of  Rousseau's  greatness  the  French  people 
were  initiative.  In  politics,  in  literature,  in  fashions,  and  in  philosophy 
they  had  for  some  time  led  the  taste  of  Europe.  But  the  sentiment  which 
first  received  a  clear  and  powerful  expression  in  the  works  of  Rousseau 
soon. declared  itself  in  the  arts  and  literature  of  other  nations.  Goethe, 
Wordsworth,  and  the  earlier  landscape-painters,  proved  that  Germany 
and  England  were  not  far  behind  the  French.  In  England  this  love 
of  Nature  for  its  own  Bake  is  indigenous,  and  has  at  all  times  been 
peculiarly  characteristic  of  our  genius.  Therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that 
our  life,  and  literature,  and  art  have  been  foremost  in  developing  the  sen- 
timent of  which  we  are  speaking.  Our  poets,  painters,  and  prose  writers 
gave  the  tone  to  European  thought  in  this  respect.  Our  travellers  in 
search  of  the  adventurous  and  picturesque,  our  Alpine  Club,  have  made  of 
Switzerland  an  English  playground. 


THE   LOVE   OF   THE  ALPS.  27 

The  greatest  period  in  our  history  was  but  a  foreshadowing  of  this. 
To  return  to  Nature-worship  was  but  to  reassume  the  habits  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  altered  indeed  by  all  the  changes  of  religion,  politics, 
society,  and  science,  which  the  last  three  centuries  have  wrought,  yet  still 
in  :.ts  original  love  of  free  open  life  among  the  fields  and  woods,  and  on  the 
sea,  the  same.  Now  the  French  national  genius  is  classical.  It  reverts 
to  :he  age  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  Eousseauism  in  their  literature  is  as  true 
an  innovation  and  parenthesis  as  Pope-and-Drydenism  was  in  ours.  As  in 
the  age  of  the  Reformation,  so  in  this,  the  German  element  of  the  modern 
character  predominates.  During  the  two  centuries  from  which  we  have 
em  3rged,  the  Latin  element  had  the  upper  hand.  Our  love  of  the  Alps  is 
a  0  othic,  a  Teutonic,  instinct ;  sympathetic  with  all  that  is  vague,  infinite, 
anc.  unsubordinate  to  rules,  at  war  with  all  that  is  denned  and  systematic 
in  our  genius.  This  we  may  perceive  in  individuals  as  well  as  in  the  broader 
aspects  of  arts  and  literatures.  The  classically-minded  man,  the  reader  of 
La  in  poets,  the  lover  of -brilliant  conversation,  the  frequenter  of  clubs  and 
dra  wing-rooms,  nice  in  his  personal  requirements,  scrupulous  in  his  choice 
of  words,  averse  to  unnecessary  physical  exertion,  preferring  town  to 
corntry  life,  cannot  deeply  feel  the  charm  of  the  Alps.  Such  a  man  will 
dis  ike  German  art,  and,  however  much  he  may  strive  to  be  catholic  in  his 
tas  es,  will  find  as  he  grows  older,  that  his  liking  for  Gothic  architecture 
anc'.  modern  painting  diminish  almost  to  aversion  before  an  increasing 
adiairation  for  Greek  peristyles  and  the  Medicean  Venus.  Kin  respect  of 
speculation  all  men  are  either  Platonists,  or  Aristotelians,  in  respect  of 
tas  ,Q,  all  men  are  either  Greek  or  German. 

At  present  the  German,  the  indefinite,  the  natural,  commands;  the 
Grnek,  the  finite,  the  cultivated,  is  in  abeyance.  We  who  talk  so  much 
abc  ut  the  feeling  of  the  Alps,  are  creatures,  not  creators  of  our  cultus, — a 
stninge  reflection,  proving  how  much  greater  man  is  than  men;  the 
coi  imon  reason  of  the  age  in  which  we  live  than  our  own  reasons,  its 
cor  stituents  and  subjects. 

Perhaps  it  is  our  modern  tendency  to  ''individualism"  which  makes 
the  Alps  so  much  to  us.  Society  is  there  reduced  to  a  vanishing  point, — 
no  claims  are  made  on  human  sympathies, — there  is  no  need  to  toil  in 
yol  :e-service  with  our  fellows.  We  may  be  alone,  dream  our  own  dreams, 
an<  I  sound  the  depths  of  personality  without  the  reproach  of  selfishness, 
wi1  hout  a  restless  wish  to  join  in  action  or  money-making,  or  the  pursuit 
of  'ame.  To  habitual  residents  among  the  Alps  this  absence  of  social 
du  ies  and  advantages  is  of  necessity  barbarizing,  even  brutalizing.  But 
to  nen  wearied  with  too  much  civilization,  and  deafened  by  the  noise  of 
great  cities,  it  is  beyond  measure  refreshing.  Then  again  among  the 
me  untains  history  finds  no  place.  The  Alps  have  no  past  nor  present  nor 
fut  are.  The  human  beings  who  live  upon  their  sides  are  at  odds  with  nature, 
cli:  iging  on  for  bare  existence  to  the  soil,  sheltering  themselves  beneath 
pr<  tecting  rocks  from  avalanches,  damming  up  destructive  streams,  all  but 
an  lihilated  every  spring.  Man  who  is  all  things  in  the  plain  is  nothing 


28  THE  LOVE   OF  THE  ALPS. 

here.  His  arts  and  sciences,  and  dynasties,  and  modes  of  life,  and  mighty 
works,  and  conquests  and  decays,  demand  our  whole  attention  in  Italy  or 
Egypt.  But  here  the  mountains,  immemorially  the  same,  which  were, 
which  are,  and  which  are  to  be,  present  a  theatre  on  which  the  soul  breathes 
freely  and  feels  herself 'alone.  Around  her  on  all  sides  is  God  and  Nature, 
who  is  here  the  face  of  God,  and  not  the  slave  of  man.  The  spirit  of  the 
world  hath  here  not  yet  grown  old.  She  is  as  young  as  on  the  first  day ; 
and  the  Alps  are  a  symbol  of  the  self- creating,  self-sufficing,  self-enjoying 
universe  which  lives  for  its  own  ends.  For  why  do  the  slopes  gleam  with 
flowers,  and  the  hillsides  deck  themselves  with  grass,  and  the  inaccessible 
ledges  of  black  rock  bear  their  tufts  of  crimson  primroses,  and  flaunting 
tiger-lilies  ?  Why,  morning  after  morning,  does  the  red  dawn  flush  the 
pinnacles  of  Monte  Rosa  above  cloud  and  mist  unheeded  ?  Why  does 
the  torrent  shout,  the  avalanche  reply  in  thunder  to  the  music  of  the  sun, 
the  trees  and  rocks  and  meadows  cry  their  "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  ?  "  Surely 
not  for  us.  We  are  an  accident  here,  and  even  the  few  men  whose 
eyes  are  fixed  habitually  upon  these  things  are  dead  to  them — the  peasants 
do  not  even  know  the  names  of  their  own  flowers,  and  sigh  with  envy 
when  you  tell  them  of  the  plains  of  Lincolnshire  or  Bussian  steppes. 

But  indeed  there  is  something  awful  in  the  Alpine  elevation  above 
human  things.  We  do  not  like  Switzerland  merely  because  we  associate 
its  thought  with  recollections  of  holidays  and  health  and  joyfulness. 
Some  of  the  most  solemn  moments  of  life  are  spent  high  up  above 
among  the  mountains,  on  the  barren  tops  of  rocky  passes,  where  the 
soul  has  seemed  to  hear  in  solitude  a  low  controlling  voice.  It  is 
almost  necessary  for  the  development  of  our  deepest  affections  that  some 
sad  and  sombre  moments  should  be  interchanged  with  hours  of  merri- 
ment and  elasticity.  It  is  this  variety  in  the  woof  of  daily  life  which 
endears  our  home  to  us  ;  and,  perhaps,  none  have  fully  loved  the  Alps 
who  have  not  spent  some  days  of  meditation,  or  it  may  be  of  sorrow, 
among  their  solitudes.  Splendid  scenery,  like  music,  has  the  power  to 
make  "  of  grief  itself  a  fiery  chariot  for  mounting  above  the  sources  of 
grief,"  to  ennoble  and  refine  our  passions,  and  to  teach  us  that  our  lives 
are  merely  moments  in  the  years  of  the  eternal  Being.  There  are  many, 
perhaps,  who,  within  sight  of  some  great  scene  among  the  Alps,  upon  the 
height  of  the  Stelvio,  or  the  slopes  of  Miirreu,  or  at  night  in  the  valley  of 
Cormayeur,  have  felt  themselves  raised  above  cares  and  doubts  and  miseries 
by  the  mere  recognition  of  unchangeable  magnificence  ;  have  found  a  deep 
peace  in  the  sense  of  their  own  nothingness.  It  is  not  granted  to  us  every 
day  to  stand  upon  these  pinnacles  of  rest  and  faith  above  the  world.  But 
having  once  stood  there,  how  can  we  forget  the  station  ?  How  can  we 
fail,  amid  the  tumult  of  our  common  life,  to  feel  at  times  the  hush  of  that 
far-off  tranquillity  ?  When  our  life  is  most  commonplace,  when  we  are  ill 
or  weary  in  London  streets,  we  can  remember  the  clouds  upon  the  moun- 
tains we  have  seen,  the  sound  of  innumerable  waterfalls,  and  the  scent  of 
countless  flowers.  A  photograph  of  Bisson's,  the  name  of  some  well- 


THE   LOVE   OF   THE   ALPS.  29 

known  valley,  the  picture  of  some  Alpine  plant,  rouses  the  sacred  hunger 
in  3ur  souls,  and  stirs  again  the  faith  in  beauty  and  in  rest  beyond  our- 
selves which  no  man  can  take  from  us.  We  owe  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude 
to  everything  which  enables  us  to  rise  above  depressing  and  enslaving 
circumstances,  which  brings  us  nearer  in  some  way  or  other  to  what  is 
eternal  in  the  universe,  and  which  makes  us  feel  that,  whether  we  live  or 
die,  suffer  or  enjoy,  life  and  gladness  are  still  strong  in  the  world.  On 
thi,^  account,  the  proper  attitude  of  the  soul  among  the  Alps  is  one  of 
reverential  silence.  It  is  almost  impossible  without  a  kind  of  impiety  to 
frame  in  words  the  feelings  they  inspire.  Yet  there  are  some  sayings, 
hallowed  by  long  usage,  which  throng  the  mind  through  a  whole  summer's 
day,  and  seem  in  harmony  with  its  emotions — some  portions  of  the  Psalms 
or  lines  of  greatest  poets,  inarticulate  hymns  of  Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn, 
wa  fs  and  strays  not  always  apposite,  but  linked  by  strong  and  subtle 
chains  of  feeling  with  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains.  This  reverential 
fee 'ing  for  the  Alps  is  connected  with  the  Pantheistic  form  of  our  religious 
ser  timents  to  which  we  have  before  alluded.  It  is  a  trite  remark,  that 
even  devout  men  of  the  present  generation  prefer  temples  not  made  with 
hands  to  churches,  and  worship  God  in  the  fields  more  contentedly  than 
in  i,heir  pews.  What  Mr.  Ruskin  calls  "  the  instinctive  sense  of  the  divine 
presence  not  formed  into  distinct  belief"  lies  at  the  root  of  our  profound 
veneration  for  the  nobler  aspects  of  mountain  scenery.  This  instinctive  sense 
has  been  very  variously  expressed  by  Goethe  in  Faust's  celebrated  Confes- 
sioa  of  Faith,  by  Shelley  in  the  stanzas  of  Adonais  which  begin,  "  He  is  made 
ono  with  nature,"  and  by  Wordsworth  in  the  lines  on  Tintern  Abbey.  It  is 
more  or  less  strongly  felt  by  all  who  have  recognized  the  indubitable  fact 
that  religious  belief  is  undergoing  a  sure  process  of  change  from  the 
dogmatic  distinctness  of  the  past  to  some  at  present  dimly  descried  creed 
of  the  future.  Such  periods  of  transition  are  of  necessity  full  of  discomfort, 
doubt,  and  anxiety,  vague,  variable,  and  unsatisfying.  The  men  in  whose 
spirits  the  fermentation  of  the  change  is  felt,  who  have  abandoned  their 
old  moorings,  and  have  not  yet  reached  the  haven  for  which  they  are 
steering,  cannot  but  be  indistinct  and  undecided  in  their  faith.  The 
universe  of  which  they  form  a  part  becomes  important  to  them  in  its 
inf.nite  immensity ;  the  principles  of  beaut}T,  goodness,  order,  and  law,  no 
lorger  definitely  connected  in  their  minds  with  certain  articles  of  faith,  find 
symbols  in  the  outer  world;  they  are  glad  to  fly  at  certain  moments  from 
mankind  and  its  oppressive  problems,  for  which  religion  no  longer  provides 
a  s  itisfactory  solution,  to  Nature,  where  they  vaguely  localize  the  spirit  that 
br<  ods  over  us  controlling  all  our  being.  Connected  with  this  transitional 
condition  of  the  modern  mind  is  the  double  tendency  to  science  and  to 
mysticism,  to  progress  in  knowledge  of  the  world  around  us,  and  to 
indistinct  yearnings  after  something  that  has  gone  away  from  us  or  lies 
in  :ront  of  us.  On  the  one  side  we  see  chemists  and  engineers  conquering 
thf  brute  powers  of  Nature,  on  the  other  jaded,  anxious,  irritable  men 
adiift  upon  an  ocean  of  doubt  and  ennui.  With  regard  to  the  former 


30  THE  LOVE  OF  THE  ALPS. 

class  there  is  no  difficulty :  they  swim  with  the  stream  and  are  not 
oppressed  by  any  anxious  yearnings  :  to  them  the  Alps  are  a  playground 
for  refreshment  after  toil — a  field  for  the  pursuit  of  physical  experiment. 
But  the  other  class  complain,  "  Do  what  we  will,  we  suffer ;  it  is  now  too 
late  to  eat  and  drink  and  die  obliviously  ;  the  world  has  worn  itself  to  old 
age ;  a  boundless  hope  has  passed  across  the  earth,  and  we  must  lift  our 
eyes  to  heaven."  The  heaven  to  which  they  have  to  lift  their  eyes  is  very 
shadowy,  far  off,  and  problematical.  The  temple  of  their  worship  is  the 
Alps ;  their  oracles  are  voices  of  the  winds  and  streams  and  avalanches  ; 
their  Urim  and  Thummim  are  the  gleams  of  light  on  ice  or  snow  ;  their 
Shekinah  is  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  of  the  mountains. 

Of  the  two  tendencies  here  broadly  indicated,  the  former  is  represented 
by  physical  research — the  science  of  our  day ;  the  latter  by  music  and  land- 
scape painting — the  art  of  our  day.   There  is  a  profound  sympathy  between 
music  and  fine  scenery :  they  both  affect  us  in  the  same  way,  stirring 
strong  but  undefined  emotions,  which  express  themselves  in  "  idle  tears," 
or  evoking  thoughts  "which  lie,"  as  Wordsworth  says,  "  too  deep  for  tears," 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  words.      How  little  we  know  what  multitudes 
of  mingling  reminiscences,  held  in  solution  by  the  mind,  and  colouring  its 
fancy  with  the  iridescence  of  variable  hues,-  go  to  make  up  the  senti- 
ments which  music  or  which  mountains  stir.     It  is  the  very  vagueness, 
changefulness,  and  dreamlike  indistinctness  of  these  feelings  which  cause 
their  charm  ;  they  harmonize  with  the  haziness  of  our  beliefs  and  seem  to 
make  our  very  doubts  melodious.    For  this  reason  it  is  obvious  that  unre- 
strained indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of  music  or  of  scenery  must  destroy 
habits  of  clear  thinking,  sentimentalize  the  mind,  and  render  it  more  apt 
to  entertain  embryonic  ideas  than  to  bring  thoughts  to  definite  perfection. 
As  illustrating  the  development  of  music  in  modern  times,  and  the  love 
of  Switzerland,  it  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  the  German  style  of  music 
has  asserted  an  unquestionable  ascendancy,  that  the  greatest  lovers  of  this 
art  prefer  Beethoven's  symphonies  to  merely  vocal  music,  and  that  harmony 
is  even  more  regarded  than  melody.     That  is  to  say,  the  vocal  element  of 
music  has  been  comparatively  disregarded  for  the  instrumental ;  and  the  art, 
emancipated  from  its  subordination  to  words,  has  become  the  most  accurate 
interpreter  of  all  the  vague  and  powerful  emotions  of  yearning  and  reflec- 
tive  and   perturbed  humanity.      If  some  hours  of  thoughtfulness   and 
seclusion  are  necessary  to  the  development  of  a  true  love  for  the  Alps, 
it  is  no  less  essential  to  a  right  understanding  of  their  beauty  that  we 
should  pass  some  wet  and  gloomy  days   among  the   mountains.      The 
unclouded  sunsets  and  sunrises  which  often  follow  one  another  in  September 
in  the  Alps  have  something  terrible.     They  produce  a  satiety  of  splendour, 
and  oppress  the  mind  with  the  sense  of  perpetuity.     I  remember  spending 
such  a  season  in  one  of  the  Oberland  valleys,  high  up  above  the  pine-trees, 
in  a  little  chalet.     Morning  after  morning  I  awoke  to  see  the  sunbeams 
glittering  on  the  Eiger  and  the  Jungfrau  ;  noon  after  noon  the  snowfields 
.  blazed  beneath  a  steady  fire ;  evening  after  evening  they  shone  like  beacons 


THE  LOVE   OF   THE  ALPS.  31 

ir  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Then  peak  by  peak  they  lost  the  glow ; 
tl.e  soul  passed  from  them,  and  they  stood  pale  and  garish  against  the 
darkened  sky.  The  stars  came  out,  the  moon  shone,  hut  not  a  cloud 
sriled  over  the  untroubled  heavens.  Thus  day  after  day  for  several  weeks 
tl.ere  was  no  change,  till  I  was  seized  with  an  overpowering  horror  of 
uibroken  calm.  I  left  the  valley  for  a  time  ;  and  when  I  returned  to  it  in 
wind  and  rain  I  found  that  the  partial  veiling  of  the  mountain  heights 
restored  the  charm  which  I  had  lost  and  made  me  feel  once  more  at  home. 
Tie  landscape  takes  a  graver  tone  beneath  the  mist  that  hides  the  higher 
peaks,  and  comes  drifting,  creeping,  feeling,  through  the  pines  upon  their 
slopes — white,  silent,  blinding  vapour  wreaths  around  the  sable  spires. 
Sometimes  the  cloud  descends  and  blots  out  everything.  Again  it  lifts  a 
Hi  tie,  showing  cottages  and  distant  Alps  beneath  its  skirts.  Then  it  sweeps 
over  the  whole  valley  like  a  veil,  just  broken  here  and  there,  above  a  lonely 
cl.alet,  or  a  thread  of  distant  dangling  torrent  foam.  Sounds,  too,  beneath 
tte  mist  are  more  strange.  The  torrent  seems  to  have  a  hoarser  voice  and 
giinds  the  stones  more  passionately  against  its  boulders.  The  cry  of 
slepherds  through  the  fog  suggests  the  loneliness  and  danger  of  the  hills. 
Tie  bleating  of  penned  sheep  or  goats,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  cow-bells,  are 
mysteriously  distant  in  the  dull  dead  air.  Then  again,  how  immeasurably 
hi  gh  above  our  heads  appear  the  domes  and  peaks  of  snow  revealed  through 
clasms  in  the  drifting  cloud;  how  desolate  the  glaciers  and  the  avalanches 
in  gleams  of  light  that  struggle  through  the  mist !  There  is  a  leaden  glare 
pc  culiar  to  clouds,  which  makes  the  snow  and  ice  more  lurid.  Not  far  from 
the  house  where  I  am  writing,  the  avalanche  that  swept  away  the  bridge 
last  winter  is  lying  now,  dripping  away,  dank  and  dirty,  like  a  rotting 
w'.iale.  I  can  see  it  from  my  window,  green  beech-boughs  nodding  over  it, 
fo.'lorn  larches  bending  their  tattered  branches  by  its  side,  splinters  of 
bioken  pine  protruding  from  its  muddy  caves,  the  boulders  on  its  flank,  and 
tb  3  hoarse  hungry  torrent  tossing  up  its  tongues  to  lick  the  ragged  edge  of 
snow.  Close  by  the  meadows,  spangled  with  yellow  flowers,  and  red  and 
blie,  look  even  more  brilliant  than  if  the  sun  were  shining  on  them. 
E  Tery  cup  and  blade  of  grass  is  drinking.  But  the  scene  changes ;  the 
m  st  has  turned  into  rain-clouds,  and  the  steady  ram  drips  down,  incessant, 
bl  >tting  out  the  view. 

Then,  too,  what  a  joy  it  is  if  the  clouds  break  towards  evening  with  a 
nc  rth  wind,  and  a  rainbow  in  the  valley  gives  promise  of  a  bright  to-morrow. 
"Wo  look  up  to  the  cliffs  above  our  heads,  and  see  that  they  have  just  been 
pc  wdered  with  the  snow  that  is  a  sign  of  better  weather.  Such  rainy 
da  ys  ought  to  be  spent  in  places  like  Seelisberg  and  Miirreu,  at  the  edge  of 
pricipices,  in  front  of  mountains,  or  above  a  lake.  The  cloud-masses 
cr  iwl  and  tumble  about  the  valleys  like  a  brood  of  dragons  ;  now  creeping 
aL  >ng  the  ledges  of  the  rock  with  sinuous  self- adjustment  to  its  turns  and 
t\\  ists ;  now  launching  out  into  the  deep,  repelled  by  battling  winds,  or 
dr  ven  onward  in  a  coil  of  twisted  and  contorted  serpent  curls.  In  the 
nxdst  of  summer  these  wet  seasons  often  end  in  a  heavy  fall  of  snow. 


32  -THE   LOYE  OF, THE  ALPS. 

You  wake  some  morning  to  see  the  meadows  which  last  night  were  gay 
with  July  flowers  huddled  up  in  snow  a  foot  in  depth.  But  fair  weather 
does  not  tarry  long  to  reappear.  You  put  on  your  thickest  boots  and 
sally  forth  to  find  the  great  cups  of  the  gentians  full  of  snow,  and  to 
watch  the  rising  of  the  cloud-wreaths  under  the  hot  sun.  Bad  dreams 
or  sickly  thoughts,  dissipated  by  returning  daylight  or  a  friend's  face, 
do  not  fly  away  more  rapidly  and  pleasantly  than  those  swift  glory-coated 
mists  that  lose  themselves  we  know  not  where  in  the  blue  depths  of 
the  sky. 

In  contrast  with  these  rainy  days  nothing  can  be  more  perfect  than 
clear  moonlight  nights.  There  is  a  ten-ace  upon  the  roof  of  the  inn  at 
Cormayeur  where  one  may  spend  hours  in  the  silent  watches  when  all  the 
world  has  gone  to  sleep  beneath.  The  Mont  Chetif  and  the  Mont  de  la 
Saxe  form  a  gigantic  portal  not  unworthy  of  the  pile  that  lies  beyond. 
For  Mont  Blanc  resembles  a  vast  cathedral  ;  its  countless  spires  are 
scattered  over  a  mass  like  that  of  the  Duomo  at  Milan,  rising  into  one 
tower  at  the  end.  By  night  the  glaciers  glitter  in  the  steady  moon  ; 
domes,  pinnacles,  and  buttresses  stand  clear  of  clouds.  Needles  of  every 
height  and  most  fantastic  shapes  rise  from  the  central  ridge,  some  solitary 
like  sharp  arrows  shot  against  the  sky,  some  clustering  into  sheaves.  On 
every  horn  of  snow  and  bank  of  grassy  hill  stars  sparkle,  rising,  setting, 
rolling  round  through  the  long  silent  night.  Moonlight  simplifies  and 
softens  the  landscape.  Colours  become  scarcely  distinguishable,  and  forms, 
deprived  of  half  their  detail,  gain  in  majesty  and  size.  The  mountains 
seem  greater  far  by  night  than  day — higher  heights  and  deeper  depths, 
more  snowy  pyramids,  more  beetling  crags,  softer  meadows,  and  darker 
pines.  The  whole  valley  is  hushed,  but  for  the  torrent  and  the  chirping 
grasshopper  and  the  striking  of  the  village  clocks.  The  black  tower  and 
the  houses  of  Cormayeur  in  the  foreground  gleam  beneath  the  moon  until 
she  reaches  the  edge  of  the  firmament,  and  then  sinks  quietly  away,  once 
more  to  reappear  among  the  pines,  then  finally  to  leave  the  valley  dark 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  mountain's  bulk.  Meanwhile  the  heights  of 
snow  still  glitter  in  the  steady  light :  they,  too,  wiD  soon  be  dark,  until 
the  dawn  breaks,  tingeing  them  with  rose. 

But  it  is  not  fair  to  dwell  exclusively  upon  the  mere  sombre  aspect  of 
Swiss  beauty  when  there  are  so  many  lively  scenes  of  which  to  speak. 
The  sunlight  and  the  freshness  and  the  flowers  of  Alpine  meadows  form 
more  than  half  the  charm  of  Switzerland.  The  other  day  we  walked  to  a 
pasture  called  the  Col  de  Checruit,  high  up  the  valley  of  Cormayeur,  where 
the  spring  was  still  in  its  first  freshness.  Gradually  we  climbed  by  dusty 
roads,  and  through  hot  fields  where  the  grass  had  just  been  mown,  beneath 
the  fierce  light  of  the  morning  sun.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring,  and 
the  heavy  pines  hung  overhead  upon  their  crags,  as  if  to  fence  the  gorge 
from  every  wandering  breeze.  There  is  nothing  more  oppressive  than 
these  scorching  sides  of  narrow  rifts,  shut  in  by  woods  and  precipices. 
But  suddenly  the  valley  broadened,  the  pines  and  larches  disappeared, 


THE   LOVE   OF   THE  ALPS.  33 

and  we  found  ourselves  upon  a  wide  green  semicircle  of  the  softest  meadows. 
Little  rills  of  water  went  rushing  through  them,  rippling  over  pebbles, 
rustling  under  dockleaves,  and  eddying  against  their  wooden  barriers. 
Far  and  wide  "  you  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers,"  while  on  every 
side  the  tinkling  of  cow-bells,  and  the  voices  of  shepherds  calling  to  one 
another  from  the  Alps,  or  singing  at  their  work,  were  borne  across  the 
fields.  As  we  climbed  we  came  into  still  fresher  pastures  where  the  snow 
had  scarcely  melted.  There  the  goats  and  cattle  were  collected,  and  the 
shepherds  sat  among  them,  fondling  the  kids  and  calling  them  by  name. 
When  they  called,  the  creatures  came,  expecting  salt  and  bread.  It  wras 
pretty  to  see  them  lying  near  their  masters,  playing  and  butting  at  them 
with  their  horns,  or  bleating  for  the  sweet  rye-bread.  The  women  knitted 
stockings,  laughing  among  themselves,  and  singing  all  the  while.  As  soon 
as  we  reached  them  they  gathered  round  to  talk.  An  old  herdsman,  who 
was  clearly  the  patriarch  of  this  Arcadia,  asked-  us  many  questions  in  a 
slow  deliberate  voice.  We  told  him  who  we  were,  a-nd  tried  to  interest 
him  in  the  cattle -plague,  which  he  appeared  to  regard  as  an  evil  very 
unreal  and  far  away, — like  the  murrain  upon  Pharaoh's  herds  which  one 
reads  about  in  Exodus.  But  he  was  courteous  and  polite,  doing  the 
honours  of  his  pasture  with  simplicity  and  ease.  He  took  us  to  his  chalet 
and  gave  us  bowls  of  pure  cold  milk.  It  was  a  funny  little  wooden  house, 
clean  and  dark.  The  sky  peeped  through  its  tiles,  and  if  shepherds  were 
not  in  the  habit  of  sleeping  soundly  all  night  long  they  might  count  the 
setting  and  rising  stars  without  lifting  their  heads  from  the  pillow.  He 
told  us  how  far  pleasanter  they  found  the  summer  season  than  the  long 
cold  winter  which  they  have  to  spend  in  gloomy  houses  in  Cormayeur. 
This  indeed  is  the  true  pastoral  life  which  poets  have  described, — a  happy 
summer  life  among  the  flowers,  well  occupied  with  simple  cares,  and 
harassed  by  "no  enemy  but  winter  and  rough  weather." 

Very  much  of  the  charm  of  Switzerland  belongs  to  simple  things,  to 
greetings  from  the  herdsmen,  the  "  Guten  Morgen  "  and  "  G-uten  Abend," 
that  are  invariably  given  and  taken  upon  mountain  paths  ;  to  the  tame 
creatures,  with  their  large  dark  eyes,  who  raise  their  heads  one  moment 
from  the  pasture  while  you  pass ;  and  to  the  plants  that  grow  beneath 
your  feet.  It  is  almost  sacrilegious  to  speak  of  the  great  mountains  in 
this  hasty  way.  Let  us,  before  we  finish,  take  one  glance  at  the  multitude 
of  Alpine  flowers. 

The  latter  end  of  May  is  the  time  when  spring  begins  in  the  high  Alps. 
Wherever  sunlight  smiles  away  a  patch  of  snow  the  brown  turf  soon  becomes 
?reen  velvet,  and  the  velvet  stars  itself  with  red  and  white  and  gold  and 
jlue.  You  almost  see  the  grass  and  lilies  grow.  First  come  pale  crocuses 
ind  lilac  soldanellas.  These  break  the  last  dissolving  clods  of  snow,  and 
•stand  up  on  an  island,  with  the  cold  wall  they  have  thawed  all  round  them. 
Et  is  the  fate  of  these  poor  flowers  to  spring  and  flourish  on  the  very  skirts 
of  retreating  winter  ;  they  soon  wither — the  frilled  chalice  of  the  soldanella 
shrivels  up  and  the  crocus  fades  away  before  the  grass  has  grown ;  the 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  91.  8. 


34  THE   LOVE   OF   THE  ALPS. 


sun,'  which  is  bringing  all  the  other  plants  to  life,  scorches  their  tender 
petals.  Often  when  summer  has  fairly  come,  you  still  may  see  their 
pearly  cups  and  lilac  bells  by  the  side  of  avalanches,  between  the  chill 
snow  and  the  fiery  sun,  blooming  and  fading  hour  by  hour.  They  have, 
as  it  were,  but  a  Pisgah  view  of  the  promised  land,  of  the  spring  which 
they  are  foremost  to  proclaim.  Next  come  the  clumsy  gentians  and  yellow 
anemones,  covered  with  soft  down  like  fledgeling  birds.  These  are  among 
the  earliest  and  hardiest  blossoms  that  embroider  the  high  meadows  with 
a  drift  of  blue  and  gold.  About  the  same  time  primroses  and  auriculas 
begin  to  tuft  the  dripping  rocks,  while  frail  white  fleurs-de-lis,  like  flakes 
of  snow  forgotten  by  the  sun,  and  golden-balled  ranunculuses,  join  with 
forget-me-nots  and  cranesbill  in  a  never-ending  dance  upon  the  grassy 
floor.  Happy,  too,  is  he  who  finds  the  lilies  of  the  valley  clustering 
about  the  chestnut  boles  upon  the  Colma,  or  in  the  beechwood  by  the  stream 
at  Macugnaga,  mixed  with  fragrant  white  narcissus,  which  the  people  of 
the  villages  call  "  Angiolini."  There,  too,  is  Solomon's  seal,  with  waxen 
bells  and  leaves  expanded  like  the  wings  of  hovering  butterflies.  But 
these  lists  of  flowers  are  tiresome  and  cold  ;  it  would  be  better  to  draw 
the  portrait  of  one  which  is  particularly  fascinating.  I  think  that  botanists 
have  called  it  saxifraga  cotyledon ;  yet,  in  spite  of  its  long  name,  it  is  a 
simple  and  poetic  flower.  London  pride  is  the  commonest  of  all  the 
saxifrages  ;  but  the  one  of  which  I  speak  is  as  different  from  London  pride 
as  a  Plantagenet  upon  his  throne  from  that  last  Plantagenet  who  died 
obscure  and  penniless  some  years  ago.  It  is  a  great  majestic  flower,  which 
plumes  the  granite  rocks  of  Monte  Rosa  in  the  spring.  At  other  times  of 
the  year  you  see  a  little  tuft  of  fleshy  leaves,  set  like  a  cushion  on  cold 
ledges  and  dark  places  of  dripping  cliffs.  You  take  it  for  a  stone  crop — 
one  of  those  weeds  doomed  to  obscurity,  and  safe  from  being  picked 
because  they  are  so  uninviting — and  you  pass  it  by  incuriously.  But 
about  June  it  puts  forth  its  power,  and  from  the  cushion  of  pale  leaves 
there  springs  a  strong  pink  stem,  which  rises  upward  for  a  while,  and  then 
comes  down  and  breaks  into  a  shower  of  snow-white  blossoms.  Far  away 
the  splendour  gleams,  hanging,  like  a  plume  of  ostrich-feathers,  from  the 
roof  of  rock,  waving  to  the  wind,  or  stooping  down  to  touch  the  water  of 
the  mountain  stream  that  dashes  it  with  dew.  The  snow  at  evening, 
glaring  with  a  sunset  flush,  is  not  more  rosy  pure  than  this  cascade  of 
pendent  blossoms.  It  loves  to  be  alone — inaccessible  ledges,  chasms 
where  winds  combat,  or  moist  caverns  overarched  near  thundering  falls, 
are  the  places  that  it  seeks.  I  will  not  compare  it  to  a  spirit  of  the 
mountains  or  to  a  proud  lovely  soul,  for  such  comparisons  desecrate  the 
simplicity  of  nature,  and  no  simile  can  add  a  glory  to  the  flower.  It 
Beams  to  have  a  conscious  life  of  its  own,  so  large  and  glorious  it  is,  so 
sensitive  to  every  breath  of  air,  so  nobly  placed  upon  its  bending  stem,  so 
gorgeous  in  its  solitude.  I  first  saw  it  years  ago  on  the  Simplon,  feather- 
ing the  drizzling  crags  above  Isella.  Then  we  found  it  near  Baveno,  in  a 
crack  of  sombre  cliff  beneath  the  mines.  The  other  day  we  cut  an  armful 


THE   LOVE   OF   THE   ALPS.  •  35 

•T 

opposite  Varallo,  by  the  Sesia,  and  then  felt  like  murderers ;  it  was  so  sad 
to  hold  in  our  hands  the  triumph  of  those  many  patient  months,  the  full 
expansive  life  of  the  flower,  the  splendour  visible  from  valleys  and  hillsides, 
the  defenceless  creature  which  had  done  its  best  to  make  the  gloomy  places 
of  the  Alps  most  beautiful. 

After  passing  many  weeks  among  the  high  Alps  it  is  a  great  pleasure 
to  descend  into  the  plains.  The  sunset,  and  sunrise,  and  the  stars  of 
Lombardy,  its  level  horizons  and  vague  misty  distances,  are  a  source  of 
absolute  relief  after  the  narrow  skies  and  embarrassed  prospects  of  a 
mountain  valley.  Nor  are  the  Alps  themselves  ever  more  imposing  than 
when  seen  from  Milan  or  the  terrace  of  Novara,  with  a  foreground  of 
Italian  corn-fields  and  old  city  towers,  and  rice-grounds  golden  green 
beneath  a  Lombard  sun.  Half- veiled  by  clouds  the  mountains  rise  like 
visionary  fortress  walls  of  a  celestial  city — unapproachable,  beyond  the 
range  of  mortal  feet.  But  those  who  know  by  old  experience  what  friendly 
chalets,  and  cool  meadows,  and  clear  streams  are  hidden  in  their  folds  and 
valleys,  send  forth  fond  thoughts  and  messages,  like  carrier-pigeons,  from 
the  marble  parapets  of  Milan,  crying,  "  Before  another  sun  has  set  I  too 
shall  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  their  pines  !  "  It  is  in  truth  not  more 
than  a  day's  journey  from  Milan  to  the  brink  of  snow  at  Macugnaga.  But 
very  sad  it  is  to  leave  the  Alps,  to  stand  upon  the  terraces  of  Berne  and  waft 
our  ineffectual  farewells.  The  unsympathizing  Aar  rushes  beneath  ;  and 
the  snow-peaks,  whom  we  love  like  friends,  abide  untroubled  by  the 
coming  and  the  going  of  the  world.  The  clouds  drift  over  them — the 
sunset  warms  them  with  a  fiery  kiss.  Night  conies,  and  we  are  hurried 
far  away  to  wake  upon  the  shores  of  unfamiliar  Seine,  remembering,  with 
a  pang  of  jealous  passion,  that  the  flowers  on  Alpine  meadows  are  still 
blooming,  and  the  rivulets  still  flowing  with  a  ceaseless  song,  while  Paris 
shops  are  all  we  see,  and  all  we  hear  is  the  dull  clatter  of  a  Paris  crowd. 


8—9 


36 


Culture  tuiir  its  Cnemies.* 


IN  one  of  his  speeches  last  year,  or  the  year  before  last,  that  famous  liberal, 
Mr.  Bright,  took  occasion  to  have  a  fling  at  the  friends  and  preachers  of 
culture.  "  People  who  talk  about  what  they  call  culture!"  said  he,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  by  which  they  mean  a  smattering  of  the  two  dead  languages 
of  Greek  and  Latin."  And  he  went  on  to  remark,  in  a  strain  with  which 
modern  speakers  and  writers  have  made  us  very  familiar,  how  poor  a  thing 
this  culture  is,  how  little  good  it  can  do  to  the  world,  and  how  absurd  it  is 
for  its  possessors  to  set  much  store  by  it.  And  the  other  day  a  younger 
liberal  than  Mr.  Bright,  one  of  a  school  whose  mission  it  is  to  bring  into 
order  and  system  that  body  of  truth  which  the  earlier  liberals  merely 
touched  the  outside  of,  a  member  of  this  university,  and  a  very  clever  writer, 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  developed,  in  the  systematic  and  stringent  manner 
of  his  school,  the  thesis  which  Mr.  Bright  had  propounded  in  only  general 
terms.  "  Perhaps  the  very  silliest  cant  of  the  day,"  said  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison,  "  is  the  cant  about  culture.  Culture  is  a  desirable  quality  in  a 
critic  of  new  books,  and  sits  well  on  a  possessor  of  belles  leltres ;  but  as 
applied  to  politics,  it  means  simply  a  turn  for  small  fault-finding,  love  of 
selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in  action.  The  man  of  culture  is  in  politics 
one  of  the  poorest  mortals  alive.  For  simple  pedantiy  and  want  of  good 
sense  no  man  is  his  equal.  No  assumption  is  too  unreal,  no  end  is  too 
unpractical  for  him.  But  the  active  exercise  of  politics  requires  common- 
sense,  sympathy,  trust,  resolution  and  enthusiasm,  qualities  which  your 
man  of  culture  has  carefully  rooted  up,  lest  the}7  damage  the  delicacy  of 
his  critical  olfactories.  Perhaps  they  are  the  only  class  of  responsible 
beings  in  the  community  who  cannot  with  safety  be  entrusted  with  power." 
Now  for  my  part  I  do  not  wish  to  see  men  of  culture  asking  to  be  entrusted 
with  power  ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  freely  said,  that  in  my  opinion  the  speech 
most  proper,  at  present,  for  a  man  of  culture  to  make  to  a  body  of  his 
fellow- countrymen  who  get  him  into  a  committee-room,  is  Socrates's, 
Know  thyself;  and  that  is  not  a  speech  to  be  made  by  men  wanting  to  be 
entrusted  with  power.  For  this  very  indifference  to  direct  political  action 
I  have  been  taken  to  task  by  the  Daily  Teleyrapli,  coupled,  by  a  strange 
perversity  of  fate,  with  just  that  very  one  of  the  Hebrew  prophets  whoso 
style  I  admire  the  least,  and  called  "  an  elegant  Jeremiah."  It  is  because 
I  say  (to  use  the  words  which  the  Daily  Telegraph  puts  in  my  mouth)  :— 
"  You  mustn't  make  a  fuss  because  you  have  no  vote — that  is  vulgarity ; 
you  mustn't  hold  big  meetings  to  agitate  for  reform  bills  and  to  repeal  corn 

*  What  follows  was  delivered  as  Mr.  Arnold's  last  lecture  in  the  Poetry  Chair 
at  Oxford,  and  took,  in  many  places,  a  special  form  from  the  occasion.  Instead  of 
changing  the  form  to  that  of  an  essay  to  adapt  it  to  this  Magazine,  it  has  heen  thought 
advisable,  under  the  circumstances,  to  print  it  as  it  was  delivered. 


CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES.  87 

laws — that  is  the  very  height  of  vulgarity," — it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am 
called,  sometimes  an  elegant  Jeremiah,  sometimes  a  spurious  Jeremiah,  a 
Jeremiah  about  the  reality  of  whose  mission  the  writer  in  the  Daily  Tele- 
qmph  has  his  doubts.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  I  have  so  taken  my 
line  as  not  to  be  exposed  to  the  whole  brunt  of  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison's 
censure.  Still,  I  have  often  spoken  in  praise  of  culture  ;  I  have  striven  to 
make  my  whole  passage  in  this  chair  serve  the  interests  of  culture  ;  I  take 
culture  to  be  something  a  great  deal  more  than  what  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  and  others  call  it, — "  a  desirable  quality  in  a  critic  of  new 
books."  Nay,  even  though  to  a  certain  extent  I  am  disposed  to  agree  with 
Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  that  men  of  culture  are  just  the  class  of  responsible 
beings  in  this  community  of  ours  who  cannot  properly,  at  present,  be 
entrusted  with  power,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do  not  think  this  the  fault  of 
our  community  rather  than  of  the  men  of  culture.  In  short,  although,  like 
Mr.  Bright  and  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  and  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph, and  a  large  body  of  valued  friends  of  mine,  I  am  a  liberal,  yet  I  am 
a  liberal  tempered  by  experience,  reflection,  and  renouncement,  and  I  am, 
above  all,  a  believer  in  culture.  Therefore,  as  this  is  the  last  time  that  I 
shall  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  from  this  place,  I  propose  to  take  the 
occasion  for  inquiring,  in  the  simple  unsystematic  way  which  best  suits 
both  my  taste  and  my  powers,  what  culture  really  is,  what  good  it  can  do, 
what  is  our  own  special  need  of  it ;  and  I  shall  try  to  find  some  plain 
grounds  on  which  a  faith  in  culture, — both  my  own  faith  in  it  and  the  faith 
of  others, — may  rest  securely. 

The  disparagers  of  culture  make  its  motive  curiosity ;  sometimes, 
indeed,  they  make  its  motive  mere  exclusiveness  and  vanity.  The  culture 
which  is  supposed  to  plume  itself  on  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin  is  a 
culture  which  is  begotten  by  nothing  so  intellectual  as  curiosity ;  it  is 
valued  either  out  of  sheer  vanity  and  ignorance,  or  else  as  an  engine  of 
social  and  class  distinction,  separating  its  holder,  like  a  badge  or  title,  from 
other  people  who  have  not  got  it.  No  serious  man  would  call  this  culture, 
or  attach  any  value  to  it,  as  culture,  at  all.  To  find  the  real  ground  for  the 
very  differing  estimate  which  serious  people  will  set  upon  culture,  we  must 
find  some  motive  for  culture  in  the  terms  of  which  may  lie  a  real  ambiguity ; 
and  such  a  motive  the  word  curiosity  gives  us.  I  have  before  now  pointed 
out  that  in  English  we  do  not,  like  the  foreigners,  use  this  word  in  a  good 
sense  as  well  as  in  a  bad  sense :  with  us  the  word  is  always  used  in  a 
somewhat  disapproving  sense ;  a  liberal  and  intelligent  eagerness  about 
the  things  of  the  mind  may  be  meant  by  a  foreigner  when  he  speaks 
of  curiosity,  but  with  us  the  word  always  conveys  a  certain  notion  of 
frivolous  and  unedifying  activity.  In  the  Quarterly  Review,  some  little 
time  ago,  was  an  estimate  of  the  celebrated  French  critic,  Monsieur  Sainte 
Beuve,  and  a  very  inadequate  estimate  it,  in  my  judgment,  was ;  its 
inadequacy  consisting  chiefly  in  this,  that  in  our  English  way  it  left  out  of 
sight  the  double  sense  really  involved  in  the  word  curiosity,  thinking  enough 
was  said  to  stamp  Monsieur  Sainte  Beuve  with  blame  if  it  was  said  that  ho 


38  CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

was  impelled  in  his  operations  as  a  critic  by  curiosity,  and  omitting  either 
to  perceive  that  Monsieur  Sainte  Beuve  himself,  and  many  other  people 
with  him,  would  consider  that  this  was  praiseworthy  and  not  blameworthy, 
or  to  point  out  why  it  is  really  worthy  of  blame  and  not  of  praise.  For  as 
there  is  a  curiosity  about  intellectual  matters  which  is  futile,  and  merely  a 
disease,  so  there  is  certainly  a  curiosity, — a  desire  for  the  things  of  the 
mind  simply  for  their  own  sakes  and  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them  as 
they  are, — which  is,  in  an  intelligent  being,  natural  and  laudable.  Nay, 
and  the  very  desire  to  see  things  as  they  are  implies  a  balance  and  regula- 
tion of  mind  which  is  not  often  attained  without  fruitful  effort,  and  which 
is  the  very  opposite  of  the  blind  and  diseased  impulse  of  mind  which  is 
what  we  mean  to  blame  when  we  blame  curiosity. 

Montesquieu  says : — "  The  first  motive  which  ought  to  impel  us  to 
study  is  the  desire  to  augment  the  excellence  of  our  nature,  and  to  render 
an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelligent."  This  is  the  true  ground  to 
assign  for  the  genuine  scientific  passion,  however  manifested,  and  for 
culture,  viewed  simply  as  a  fruit  of  this  passion  ;  and  it  is  a  worthy  ground, 
though  we  let  the  term  curiosity  stand  to  describe  it.  But  there  is  of 
culture  another  view,  in  which  not  solely  the  scientific  passion,  the  sheer 
desire  to  see  things  as  they  are,  natural  and  proper  in  an  intelligent  being, 
appears  as  the  ground  of  it ;  a  view  in  which  all  the  love  of  our  neighbour, 
the  impulses  towards  action,  help,  and  beneficence,  the  desire  for  stopping 
human  error,  clearing  human  confusion,  and  diminishing  the  sum  of 
human  misery,  the  noble  aspiration  to  leave  the  world  better  and  happier 
than  we  found  it — motives  eminently  such  as  are  called  social — come  in  as 
part  of  the  grounds  of  culture,  and  the  main  and  primary  part.  Culture 
is  then  properly  described  not  as  having  its  origin  in  curiosity,  but  as 
having  its  origin  in  the  love  of  perfection  ;  it  is  a  study  of  perfection.  It 
moves  by  the  force,  not  merely  or  primarily  of  the  scientific  passion  for 
pure  knowledge,  but  also  of  the  moral  and  social  passion  for  doing  good. 
As,  in  the  first  view  of  it,  we  took  for  its  worthy  motto  Montesquieu's  words  : 
"  To  render  an  intelligent  being  yet  more  intelligent !  "  so,  in  the  second 
view  of  it,  there  is  no  better  motto  which  it  can  take  than  these  words  of 
Bishop  Wilson  :  "  To  make  reason  aad  the  will  of  God  prevail !  "  Only, 
whereas  the  passion  for  doing  good  is  apt  to  be  overhasty  in  determining 
what  reason  and  the  will  of  God  say,  because  its  turn  is  for  acting  rather 
than  thinking,  and  it  wants  to  be  beginning  to  act ;  and  whereas  it  is  apt 
to  take  its  own  conceptions,  proceeding  from  its  own  state  of  development 
and  sharing  in  all  the  imperfections  and  immaturities  of  this,  for  a  basis  of 
action ;  what  distinguishes  culture  is  that  it  is  possessed  by  the  scientific 
passion,  as  well  as  by  the  passion  of  doing  good ;  that  it  has  worthy 
notions  of  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  and  does  not  readily  suffer  its  own 
crude  conceptions  to  substitute  themselves  for  them ;  and  that,  knowing 
that  no  action  or  institution  can  be  salutary  and  stable  which  are  not  based 
on  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  it  is  not  so  bent  on  acting  and  instituting, 
even  with  the  great  aim  of  diniinishing  human  error  and  misery  ever  before 


CULTURE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES.  39 

its  thoughts,  but  that  it  can  remember  that  acting  and  instituting  are  of 
little  use,  unless  we  know  how  and  what  we  ought  to  act  and  to  institute. 

This  culture  is  more  interesting  and  more  far-reaching  than  the 
other,  which  is  founded  solely  on  the  scientific  passion  for  knowing. 
But  it  needs  times  of  faith  and  ardour,  times  when  the  intellectual 
horizon  is  opening  and  widening  all  round  us,  to  nourish  in.  And 
is  not  the  close  and  bounded  intellectual  horizon  within  which  we 
have  long  lived  and  moved  now  lifting  up,  and  are  not  new  lights  finding 
free  passage  to  shine  in  upon  us  ?  For  a  long  time  there  was  no  passage 
for  them  to  make  their  way  in  upon  us,  and  then  it  was  of  no  use  to  think 
of  adapting  the  world's  action  to  them.  Where  was  the  hope  of  making 
reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail  among  people  who  had  a  routine  which 
they  had  christened  reason  and  the  will  of  God,  in  which  they  were 
inextricably  bound,  and  beyond  which  they  had  no  power  of  looking  ?  But 
now  the  iron  force  of  adhesion  to  the  old  routine — social,  political,  reli- 
gious— has  wonderfully  yielded ;  the  iron  force  of  exclusion  of  all  which  is 
new  has  wonderfully  yielded ;  the  danger  now  is,  not  that  people  should 
obstinately  refuse  to  allow  anything  but  their  old  routine  to  pass  for  reason 
ind  the  will  of  God,  but  either  that  they  should  allow  some  novelty  or 
other  to  pass  for  these  too  easily,  or  else  that  they  should  underrate  the 
importance  of  them  altogether,  and  think  it  enough  to  follow  action  for  its 
own  sake,  without  troubling  themselves  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of 
God  prevail  in  it.  Now,  then,  is  the  moment  for  culture  to  be  of  service, 
culture  which  believes  in  making  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  believes 
in  perfection,  is  the  study  and  pursuit  of  perfection,  and  is  no  longer 
debarred,  by  a  rigid  invincible  exclusion  of  whatever  is  new,  from  getting 
acceptance  for  its  ideas,  simply  because  they  are  new. 

The  moment  this  view  of  culture  is  seized,  the  moment  it  is  regarded 
not  solely  as  the  endeavour  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  draw  towards  a 
knowledge  of  the  universal  order  which  seems  to  be  intended  and  aimed  at 
:n  the  world,  and  which  it  is  a  man's  happiness  to  go  along  with  or  his 
misery  to  go  counter  to,  to  learn,  in  short,  the  will  of  God, — the  moment, 
I  say,  culture  is  considered  not  as  the  endeavour  to  merely  see  and  learn 
his,  but  as  the  endeavour,  also,  to  make  it  prevail,  the  moral,  social,  and 
oeneficent  character  of  culture  becomes  manifest.  The  mere  endeavour  to 
see  and  learn  it  for  our  own  personal  satisfaction  is  indeed  a  commence- 
ment for  making  it  prevail,  a  preparing  the  way  for  it,  which  always  serves 
:his,  and  is  wrongly,  therefore,  stamped  with  blame  absolutely  in  itself, 
:ind  not  only  in  its  caricature  and  degeneration;  but  perhaps  it  has  got 
ttamped  with  blame,  and  disparaged  with  the  dubious  title  of  curiosity, 
'because  in  comparison  with  this  wider  endeavour  of  such  great  and  plain 
utility  it  looks  selfish,  petty,  and  unprofitable. 

And  religion,  the  greatest  and  most  important  of  the  efforts  by  which 
ihe  human  race  has  manifested  its  impulse  to  perfect  itself — religion,  that 
•voice  of  the  deepest  human  experience,  does  not  only  enjoin  and  sanction 
ihe  aim  which  is  the  great  aim  of  culture,  the  aim  of  setting  ourselves  to 


40  CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

ascertain  what  perfection  is  and  to  make  it  prevail,  but  also,  in  determining 
generally  in  what  human  perfection  consists,  religion  conies  to  a  conclusion 
identical  with  that  which  culture — seeking  the  determination  of  this  question 
through  all  the  voices  of  human  experience  which  have  been  heard  upon  it, 
art,  science,  poetry,  philosophy,  history,  as  well  as  religion,  in  order  to  give  a 
greater  fulness  and  certainty  to  its  solution — likewise  reaches.     Keligion 
says :    The  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you ;  and  culture,  in  like  manner, 
places  human  perfection  in  an  internal  condition,  in  the  growth  and  pre- 
dominance of  our  humanity  proper,  as  distinguished  from  our  animality, 
in   the   ever-increasing   efficaciousness   and  in   the   general   harmonious 
expansion  of  those  gifts  of  thought  and  feeling  which  make  the  peculiar 
dignity,  wealth,  and  happiness  of  human  nature.     As  I  have  said  on  a 
former  occasion  :  "  It  is  in  making  endless  additions  to  itself,  in  the  endless 
expansion  of  its  powers,  in  endless  growth  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  that  the 
spirit  of  the  human  race  finds  its  ideal.     To  reach  this  ideal  culture  is  an 
indispensable  aid,  and  that  is  the  true  value  of  culture."     Not  a  having 
and  a  resting,  but  a  growing  and  a  becoming,  is  the  character  of  perfection 
as  culture  conceives  it ;  and  here,  too,  it  coincides  with  religion.     And 
because  men  are  all  members  of  one  great  whole,  and  the   sympathy 
which  is  in  human   nature  will  not  allow  one  member  to  be  indifferent 
to  the  rest,  or  to  have  a  perfect  welfare  independent  of  the  rest,  the 
expansion  of  our  humanity,  to  suit  the  idea  of  perfection  which  culture 
forms,  must  be  a  general  expansion.     Perfection,  as  culture  conceives  it, 
is  not  possible  while  the  individual  remains  isolated  :  the  individual  is 
obliged,  under  pain  of  being  stunted  and  enfeebled  in  his  own  development 
if  he  disobeys,  to  carry  others  along  with  him  in  his  march  towards 
perfection,  to  be  continually  doing  all  he  can  to  enlarge  and  increase  the 
volume  of  the  human  stream  sweeping  thitherward ;  and  here,  once  more, 
it  lays  on  us  the  same  obligation  as  religion.     Finally,   perfection — as 
culture,  from  a  thorough  disinterested  study  of  human  nature  and  human 
experience,  learns  to  conceive  it — is  an  harmonious  expansion  of  all  the 
powers  which  make  the  beauty  and  worth  of  human  nature,  and  is  not  con- 
sistent with  the  over- development  of  any  one  power  at  the  expense  of  the 
rest.    Here  it  goes  beyond  religion,  as  religion  is  generally  conceived  by  us. 
If  culture,  then,  is  a  study  of  perfection,  and  of  harmonious  perfection, 
general  perfection,  and  perfection  which  consists  in  becoming  something 
rather  than  in  having  something,  in  an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and 
spirit,  not  in  an  outward  set  of  circumstances, — it  is  clear  that  culture, 
instead  of  being  the  frivolous  and  useless  thing  which  Mr.  Bright,  and 
Mr.    Frederic   Harrison,  and   many  other  liberals  suppose,   has  a  very 
important  function  to  fulfil  for  mankind.     And  this  function  is  particularly 
important  in  our  modern  world,  of  which  the  whole  civilization  is,   to  a 
much  greater  degree  than  the  civilization  of  Greece  and  Rome,  mechanical 
and  external,  and  tends  constantly  to  become  more  so.      But  above  all  in 
our  own  country  has  culture  a  weighty  part  to  perform,  because  here  that 
mechanical  character,  which  civilization  tends  to  take  everywhere,  is  shown 


CULTURE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES.  41 

in  the  most  eminent  degree.  Indeed  nearly  all  the  characters  of  perfection, 
as  culture  teaches  us  to  fix  them,  meet  in  this  country  with  some  powerful 
tendency  which  thwarts  them  and  sets  them  at  defiance.  The  idea  of 
perfection  as  an  inward  condition  of  the  mind  and  spirit  is  at  variance 
with  the  mechanical  and  material  civilization  in  esteem  with  us,  and  no- 
where, as  I  have  said,  so  much  in  esteem  as  with  us.  The  idea  of  perfection 
as  a  general  expansion  of  the  human  family  is  at  variance  with  our  strong 
individualism,  our  hatred  of  all  limits  to  the  unrestrained  swing  of  the 
individual's  personality,  our  maxim  of  "  every  man  for  himself."  The 
idea  of  perfection  as  an  harmonious  expansion  of  human  nature  is  at  variance 
with  our  want  of  flexibility,  with  our  inaptitude  for  seeing  more  than  one 
side  of  a  thing,  with  our  intense  energetic  absorption  in  the  particular  pur- 
suit we  happen  to  be  following.  So  culture  has  a  rough  task  to  do  in  this 
country ;  and  its  preachers  have,  and  are  likely  long  to  have,  a  hard  time 
of  it,  and  they  will  much  oftener  be  regarded,  for  a  great  while  to  come,  as 
elegant  or  spurious  Jeremiahs,  than  as  friends  and  benefactors.  That, 
however,  will  not  prevent  their  doing  in  the  end  good  service  if  they 
persevere  ;  and  meanwhile,  the  mode  of  action  they  have  to  pursue,  and 
the  sort  of  habits  they  must  fight  against,  may  be  made  quite  clear  to  any 
one  who  will  look  at  the  matter  attentively  and  dispassionately. 

Faith  in  machinery  is,  I  said,  our  besetting  danger  ;  often  in  machinery 
most  absurdly  disproportioned  to  the  end  which  this  machinery,  if  it  is  to 
do  any  good  at  all,  is  to  serve ;  but  always  in  machinery,  as  if  it  had  a 
value  in  and  for  itself.  What  is  freedom  but  machinery  ?  what  is  popula- 
tion but  machinery  ?  what  is  coal  but  machinery  ?  what  are  railroads  but 
machinery  ?  what  is  wealth  but  machinery  ?  what  are  religious  organiza- 
tions but  machinery  ?  Now  almost  every  voice  in  England  is  accustomed 
1  o  speak  of  these  things  as  if  they  were  precious  ends  in  themselves,  and 
Ilierefore  had  some  of  the  characters  of  perfection  indisputably  joined  to 
them.  I  have  once  before  noticed  Mr.  Koebuck's  stock  argument  for 
proving  the  greatness  and  happiness  of  England  as  she  is,  and  for  quite 
stopping  the  mouths  of  all  gainsayers.  Mr.  Koebuck  is  never  weary  of 
i  eiterating  this  argument  of  his,  so  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  be  weary  of 
i  oticing  it.  "  May  not  every  man  in  England  say  what  he  likes  ?  "• — Mr. 
lloebuck  perpetually  asks  ;  and  that,  he  thinks,  is  quite  sufficient,  and. 
vhen  every  man  may  say  what  he  likes,  our  aspirations  ought  to  be 
s  itisfied.  But  the  aspirations  of  culture,  which  is  the  study  of  perfection, 
are  not  satisfied,  unless  what  men  say,  when  they  may  say  what  they  like, 
i;i  worth  saying, — has  good  in  it,  and  more  good  than  bad.  In  the  same 
v  ay  The  Times,  replying  to  some  foreign  strictures  on  the  dress,  looks,  and 
behaviour  of  the  English  abroad,  urges  that  the  English  ideal  is  that  everyone 
should  be  free  to  do  and  to  look  just  as  he  likes.  But  culture  indefatigably 
tiles,  not  to  make  what  each  raw  person  may  like  the  rule  by  which  he 
fashions  himself;  but  to  draw  ever  nearer  to  a  sense  of  what  is  indeed 
beautiful,  graceful,  and  becoming,  and  to  get  the  raw  person  to  like  that.  : 

In  the  same  way  with  respect  to  railroads  and  coal.  Every  one  must 

3—5 


42  CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

have  observed  the  strange  language  current  during  the  late  discussions  as 
to  the  possible  failure  of  our  supplies  of  coal.  Our  coal,  thousands  of 
people  were  saying,  is  the  real  basis  of  our  national  greatness ;  if  our  coal 
runs  short,  there  is  an  end  of  the  greatness  of  England.  But  what  is 
greatness  ? — culture  makes  us  ask.  Greatness  is  a  spiritual  condition  worthy 
to  excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration  ;  and  the  outward  proof  of  possess- 
ing greatness  is  that  we  excite  love,  interest,  and  admiration.  If  England 
were  swallowed  up  by  the  sea  to-morrow,  which,  a  hundred  years  hence, 
would  most  excite  the  love,  interest,  and  admiration  of  mankind, — would 
most,  therefore,  shew  the  evidences  of  having  possessed  greatness, — the 
England  of  the  last  twenty  years,  or  the  England  of  Elizabeth,  of  a  tune  of 
splendid  spiritual  effort,  but  when  our  coal,  and  our  industrial  operations 
depending  on  coal,  were  very  little  developed  ?  Well  then,  what  an 
unsound  habit  of  mind  it  must  be  which  makes  us  talk  of  things  like  coal 
or  iron  as  constituting  the  greatness  of  England,  and  how  salutary  a 
friend  is  culture,  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they  are  and  on  fixing  standards 
of  perfection  that  are  real ! 

Wealth,  again,  that  end  to  which  our  prodigious  works  for  material 
advantage  are  directed, — the  commonest  of  commonplaces  tells  us  how 
men  are  always  apt  to  regard  wealth  as  a  precious  end  in  itself ;  and 
certainly  they  have  never  been  so  apt  thus  to  regard  it  as  they  are  in 
England  at  the  present  time.  Never  did  people  believe  anything  more 
firmly  than  nine  Englishmen  out  of  ten  at  the  present  day  believe  that 
our  greatness  and  welfare  are  proved  by  our  being  so  very  rich.  Now, 
the  use  of  culture  is  that  it  helps  us,  by  means  of  its  spiritual  standard  of 
perfection,  to  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery,  and  not  only  to  say  as  a 
matter  of  words  that  we  regard  wealth  as  but  machinery,  but  really  to 
perceive  and  feel  that  it  is  so.  If  it  were  not  for  this  purging  effect 
wrought  upon  our  minds  by  culture,  the  whole  world,  the  future  as  well 
as  the  present,  would  inevitably  belong  to  the  Philistines.  The  people 
who  believe  most  that  our  greatness  and  welfare  are  proved  by  our 
being  very  rich,  and  who  most  give  their  lives  and  thoughts  to  becoming 
rich,  are  just  the  very  people  whom  we  call  the  Philistines.  Culture  says  : 
"  Consider  these  people,  then,  their  way  of  life,  their  habits,  their  manners, 
the  very  tones  of  their  voice ;  look  at  them  attentively ;  observe  the 
literature  they  read,  the  things  which  give  them  pleasure,  the  words 
which  come  forth  out  of  their  mouths,  the  thoughts  which  make  the 
furniture  of  their  minds  ;  would  any  amount  of  wealth  be  worth  having 
with  the  condition  that  one  was  to  become  just  like  these  people  by 
having  it?"  And  thus  culture  begets  a  dissatisfaction  which  is  of  the 
highest  possible  value  in  stemming  the  common  tide  of  men's  thoughts  in 
a  wealthy  and  industrial  community,  and  which  saves  the  future,  as  one 
may  hope,  from  being  vulgarized,  even  if  it  cannot  save  the  present. 

Population,  again,  and  bodily  health  and  vigour,  are  things  which  are 
nowhere  treated  in  such  an  unintelligent,  misleading,  exaggerated  way  as 
in  England.  Both  are  really  machinery  ;  yet  how  many  people  all  around 


CULTUKE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES.  43 

as  do  we  see  rest  in  them  and  fail  to  look  beyond  them !     Why,  I  have 
heard  people,  fresh,  from  reading  certain  articles  of  The  Times  on  the 
Registrar- General's  returns  of  marriages  and  births  in  this  country,  who 
\vould  talk  of  large  families  in  quite  a  solemn  strain,  as  if  they  had  some- 
thing in  itself  beautiful,  elevating,  and  meritorious  in  them ;  as  if  the 
British  Philistine  would  have   only  to  present  himself  before  the  Great 
Judge  with  his  twelve  children,  in  order  to  be  received  among  the  sheep 
:is  a  matter  of  right !     Bodily  health  and  vigour,  it  may  be  said,  are  not 
•;o  be  classed  with  wealth  and  population  as  mere  machinery  ;  they  have  a 
nore  real  and  essential  value.     True  ;  but  only  as  they  are  more  inti- 
mately connected  with  a  perfect  spiritual  condition  than  wealth  or  popula- 
tion   are.      The  moment  we  disjoin  them  from  the  idea  of   a  perfect 
spiritual  condition,  and  pursue  them,  as  we  do  pursue  them,  for  their  own 
^ake  and  as  ends  in  themselves,  our  worship  of  them  becomes  as  mere 
vvorship  of  machinery,  as  our  worship  of  wealth  or  population,  and  as 
unintelligent  and  vulgarizing  a  worship  as  that  is.     Every  one  with  any- 
iiing  like  an  adequate  idea  of  human  perfection  has  distinctly  marked 
;his  subordination  to  higher  and  spiritual  ends  of  the  cultivation  of  bodily 
vigour  and  activity.     "Bodily  exercise  profiteth  little;  but  godliness  is 
profitable  unto  all  things,"  says  the  author  of  the  Epistle  to  Timothy. 
And  the  utilitarian  Franklin  says  just  as  explicitly : — "  Eat  and  drink 
such  an  exact  quantity  as  suits  the  constitution  of  thy  body,  in  reference 
to  the  services  of  the  mind."     But  the  point  of  view  of  culture,  keeping  the 
mark  of  human  perfection  simply  and  broadly  in  view,  and  not  assigning 
to  this  perfection,  as  religion  or  utilitarianism  assign  to  it,  a  special  and 
jimited  character, — this  point  of  view,  I  say,  of  culture,  is  best  given  by 
these  words  of  Epictetus  : — "  It  is  a  sign  of  a>>ia,"  says  he, — that  is,  of  a 
nature  not  finely  tempered, — "to  give  yourselves  up   to  things  which 
relate  to  the  body  ;  to  make,  for  instance,  a  great  fuss  about  exercise,  a 
•  great  fuss  about  eating,  a  great  fuss  about  drinking,  a  great  fuss  about 
valking,  a  great  fuss  about  riding.     All  these  things  ought  to  be  done 
merely  by  the  way :  the  formation  of  the  spirit  and  character  must  be  our 
real  concern."     This  is  admirable;  and,  indeed,  the  Greek  words  d<pvia, 
vtyvia,  a  finely  tempered  nature,  a  coarsely  tempered  nature,  give  exactly 
uhe  notion  of  perfection  as  culture  brings  us  to  conceive  of  it :  a  perfection 
in  which  the  characters  of  beauty  and  intelligence  are  both  present,  which 
mites  "  the  two  noblest  of  things,"  as  Swift  who  of  one  of  the   two 
it  any  rate,  had  himself  all  too  little,  most  happily  calls  them  in  his 
Battle  of  the  Books,—"  the  two  noblest  of  things,  sweetness  and  light." 
The  tv<f>vr)G  is  the  man  who  tends  towards  sweetness  and  light ;  the  d^vfe 
i  s  precisely  our  Philistine.    The  immense  spiritual  significance  of  the  Greeks 
is  due  to  their  having  been  inspired  with  this  central  and  happy  idea  of 
the  essential  character  of  human  perfection  ;  and  Mr.  Bright's  miscon- 
ception of  culture,  as  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  Latin,  comes  itself,  after 
;ill,  from  this  wonderful  significance  of  the  Greeks  having  affected  the  very 
machinery  of  our  education,  and  it  is  in  itself  a  kind  of  homage  to  it. 


44  CULTUEE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

It  is  by  thus  making  sweetness  and  light  to  be  characters  of  perfection, 
that  culture  is  of  like  spirit  with  poetry,  follows  one  law  with  poetry.  I 
have  called  religion  a  more  important  manifestation  of  human  nature  than 
poetry,  because  it  has  worked  on  a  broader  scale  for  perfection,  and  with 
greater  masses  of  men.  But  the  idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature 
perfect  on  all  its  sides,  which  is  the  dominant  idea  of  poetry,  is  a  true  and 
invaluable  idea,  though  it  has  not  yet  had  the  success  that  the  idea  of 
conquering  the  obvious  faults  of  our  aniniality,  and  of  a  human  nature 
perfect  on  the  moral  side,  which  is  the  dominant  idea  of  religion,  has  been 
enabled  to  have  ;  and  it  is  destined,  adding  to  itself  the  religious  idea  of 
a  devout  energy,  to  transform  and  govern  the  other.  The  best  art  and 
poetry  of  the  Greeks,  in  which  religion  and  poetry  are  one,  in  which  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  on  all  sides  adds  to  itself  a 
religious  and  devout  energy,  and  works  in  the  strength  of  that,  is  on  this 
account  of  such  surpassing  interest  and  instructiveness  for  us,  though  it 
•was, — as,  having  regard  to  the  human  race  in  general,  and,  indeed,  having 
regard  to  the  Greeks  themselves,  we  must  own, — a  premature  attempt,  an 
attempt  which  for  success  needed  the  moral  and  religious  fibre  in  humanity 
to  be  more  braced  and  developed  than  it  had  yet  been.  But  Greece  did  not 
err  in  having  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human  perfection 
so  present  and  paramount ;  it  is  impossible  to  have  this  idea  too  present 
and  paramount ;  only  the  moral  fibre  must  be  braced  too.  And  we,  because 
we  have  braced  the  moral  fibre,  are  not  on  that  account  in  the  right  way, 
if  at  the  same  time  the  idea  of  beauty,  harmony,  and  complete  human 
perfection  is  wanting  or  misapprehended  amongst  us,  and  evidently  it  is 
wanting  or  misapprehended  at  present.  And  when  we  rely  as  we  do  on 
our  religious-  organizations,  which  in  themselves  do  not  and  cannot  give  us 
this  idea,  and  think  we  have  done  enough  if  we  make  them  spread  and  pre- 
vail, then,  I  say,  we  fall  into  our  common  fault  of  overvaluing  machinery. 

Nothing  is  more  common  than  for  people  to  confound  the  inward  peace . 
and  satisfaction  which  follows  the  subduing  of  the  most  obvious  faults  of 
our  animality  with  what  I  may  call  absolute  inward  peace  and  satisfaction 
— the  peace  and  satisfaction  which  are  reached  as  we  draw  near  to  complete 
spiritual  perfection,  and  not  merely  to  moral  perfection,  or  rather  to 
relative  moral  perfection.  And  no  people  in  the  world  have  done  more 
and  struggled  more  to  attain  this  relative  moral  perfection  than  our  English 
race  has  ;  for  no  people  in  the  world  has  the  command  to  resist  the  Devil, 
to  overcome  the  Wicked  One,  in  the  nearest  and  most  obvious  sense  of  those 
words,  had  such  a  pressing  force  and  reality.  And  we  have  had  our  reward, 
not  only  in  the  great  worldly  prosperity  which  our  obedience  to  this 
command  has  brought  us,  but  also,  and  far  more,  in  great  inward  peace 
and  satisfaction.  But  to  me  nothing  is  more  pathetic  than  to  see  people, 
on  the  strength  of  the  inward  peace  and  satisfaction  which  their  rudi- 
mentary efforts  towards  perfection  have  brought  them,  use  concerning 
their  incomplete  perfection  and  the  religious  organizations  within  which 
they  have  found  it,  language  which  properly  applies  only  to  complete 


CULTUBE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES.  45 

perfection,  and  is  a  far-off  echo  of  the  human  soul's  prophecy  of  it. 
IMigion  itself  supplies  in  abundance  this  grand  language  which  is  really 
the  severest  criticism  of  such  an  incomplete  perfection  as  alone  we  have 
vet  reached  through  our  religious  organizations. 

The  impulse  of  the  English  race  towards  moral  development 
;ind  self  -  conquest  has  nowhere  so  powerfully  manifested  itself  as  in 
Puritanism  ;  nowhere  has  Puritanis^n  found  so  adequate  an  expression 
as  in  the  religious  organization  of  the  Independents.  The  modern 
Independents  have  a  newspaper,  the  Nonconformist,  written  with  great 
sincerity  and  ability,  which  serves  as  their  organ.  The  motto,  the 
standard,  the  profession  of  faith  which  this  organ  of  theirs  carries  aloft, 
:s:  "  The  dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant 
religion."  There  is  sweetness  and  light,  and  an  ideal  of  complete 
harmonious  human  perfection  !  One  need  not  go  to  culture  and  poetry 
10  find  language  to  judge  it.  Religion,  with  its  instinct  for  perfection, 
supplies  language  to  judge  it :  "  Finally,  be  of  one  mind,  united  in  feeling," 
says  St.  Peter.  There  is  an  ideal  which  judges  the  Puritan  ideal ! — "  The 
dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion." 
And  religious  organizations  like  this  are  what  people  believe  in,  rest  in, 
would  give  their  lives  for !  Such,  I  say,  is  the  wonderful  virtue  of  even 
ihe  beginnings  of  perfection,  of  having  conquered  even  the  first  faults  of 
our  animality,  that  the  religious  organization  which  has  helped  us  to  do  it 
can  seem  to  us  something  precious,  salutary,  and  to  be  propagated,  ever, 
v/hen  it  wears  such  a  brand  of  imperfection  on  its  forehead  as  this.  And 
men  have  got  such  a  habit  of  giving  to  the  language  of  religion  a  special 
replication,  of  making  it  a  mere  jargon,  that  for  the  condemnation  which 
religion  itself  passes  on  the  shortcomings  of  their  religious  organizations 
they  have  no  ear  ;  they  are  sure  to  cheat  themselves  and  to  explain  this 
condemnation  away.  They  can  only  be  reached  by  the  criticism  which 
culture,  like  poetry,  speaking  a  language  not  to  be  sophisticated,  and 
resolutely  testing  these  organizations  by  the  ideal  of  a  human  perfection 
c  omplete  on  all  sides,  applies  to  them. 

But  men  of  culture  and  poetry,  it  will  be  said,  are  again  and  again 
failing,  and  failing  conspicuously,  in  the  necessary  first  stage  to  perfection, 
in  the  subduing  of  the  great  obvious  faults  of  our  animality,  which  it  is  the 
j.lory  of  these  religious  organizations  to  have  helped  us  to  subdue.  True, 
ihey  do  often  so  fail :  they  have  often  had  neither  the  virtues  nor  the 
f  raits  of  the  Puritan ;  it  has  been  one  of  their  dangers  that  they  so  felt 
the  Puritan's  faults  that  they  too  much  neglected  the  practice  of  his  virtues. 
]  will  not,  however,  exculpate  them  at  the  Puritan's  expense ;  they  have 
( ften  failed  in  morality,  and  morality  is  indispensable  ;  they  have  been 
junished  for  their  failure,  as  the  Puritan  has  been  rewarded  for  his 
performance.  They  have  been  punished  wherein  they  erred;  but  their 
i  leal  of  beauty  and  sweetness  and  light,  and  a  human  nature  complete  on 
all  its  sides,  remains  the  true  ideal  of  perfection  still ;  just  as  the  Puritan's 
ileal  of  perfection  remains  narrow  and  inadequate,  although  for  what  he 


46  CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

did  well  he  has  been  abundantly  rewarded.  Notwithstanding  the  mighty 
results  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers'  voyage,  they  and  their  standard  of  per- 
fection are  rightly  judged  when  we  figure  to  ourselves  Shakspeare  or  Virgil— 
souls  in  whom  sweetness  and  light,  and  all  that  in  human  nature  is  most 
humane,  were  eminent — accompanying  them  on  their  voyage,  and  think 
what  intolerable  company  Shakspeare  and  Virgil  would  have  found  them ! 
In  the  same  way  let  us  judge  the  religious  organizations  which  we  see  all 
round  us.  Do  not  let  us  deny  the  good  and  the  happiness  which  they 
have  accomplished  ;  but  do  not  let  us  fail  to  see  clearly  that  their  idea  of 
human  perfection  is  narrow  and  inadequate,  and  that  the  dissidence  of/ 
Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion  will  never  bring 
humanity  to  its  true  goal.  As  I  said  with  regard  to  wealth, — let  us  look  at 
the  life  of  those  who  live  in  and  for  it ; — so  I  say  with  regard  to  the 
religious  organizations.  Look  at  the  life  imaged  in  such  a  newspaper  as 
the  Nonconformist ; — a  life  of  jealousy  of  the  Establishment,  disputes, 
tea-meetings,  openings  of  chapels,  sermons ;  and  then  think  of  it  as  an 
ideal  of  a  human  life  completing  itself  on  all  sides,  and  aspiring  with  all 
its  organs  after  sweetness,  light,  and  perfection  1 

Another  newspaper,  representing,  like  the  Nonconformist,  one  of  the 
religious  organizations  of  this  country,  was,  a  few  days  ago,  giving  an  account 
of  the  crowd  at  Epsom  on  the  Derby  day,  and  of  all  the  vice  and  hideousness 
which  was  to  be  seen  in  that  crowd  ;  and  then  the  writer  turned  suddenly 
round  upon  Professor  Huxley,  and  asked  him  how  he  proposed  to  cure  all 
this  vice  and  hideousness  without  religion.  I  confess  I  felt  disposed  to  ask 
the  asker  this  question  :  And  how  do  you  propose  to  cure  it,  with  such  a 
religion  as  yours  ?  How  is  the  ideal  of  a  life  so  unlovely,  so  unattractive,  so 
naiTOw,  so  far  removed  from  a  true  and  satisfying  ideal  of  human  perfection, 
as  is  the  life  of  your  religious  organization  as  you  yourself  image  it,  to  con- 
quer and  transform  all  this  vice  and  hideousness  ?  Indeed,  the  strongest 
plea  for  the  study  of  perfection  as  pursued  by  culture,  the  clearest  proof  of 
the  actual  inadequacy  of  the  idea  of  perfection  held  by  the  religious  organi- 
zations,— expressing,  as  I  have  said,  the  most  wide-spread  effort  which  the 
human  race  has  yet  made  after  perfection, — is  to  be  found  in  the  state  of 
our  life  and  society  with  these  in  possession  of  it,  and  having  been  in 
possession  of  it  I  know  not  how  many  years.  We  are  all  of  us  enrolled  in 
some  religious  organization  or  other ;  we  all  call  ourselves,  in  the  sublime 
and  aspiring  language  of  religion  which  I  have  before  noticed,  children  of 
God.  Children  of  God — it  is  an  immense  pretension  ! — and  how  are 
we  to  justify  it  ?  By  the  works  which  we  do,  and  the  words  which  we 
speak  ?  And  the  work  which  we  collective  children  of  God  do,  our  grand 
centre  of  life,  our  city,  is  London !  London,  with  its  unutterable  external 
hideousness,  and  its  internal  canker  of  publice  egestas,  privatim  opulentia, — • 
to  use  the  words  which  Sallust  puts  into  Cato's  mouth  about  Rome, — 
unequalled  in  the  world !  The  word  which  we  children  of  God  speak,  the 
voice  which  most  hits  our  collective  thought,  the  newspaper  with  the  largest 
circulation  in  England,  nay,  with  the  largest  circulation  in  the  whole  world,  is 


CULTUKE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES.  47 

the  Daily  Telegraph !  I  say,  that  when  our  religious  organizations, — which  I 
admit  to  express  the  most  considerable  effort  after  perfection  that  our  race 
has  yet  made — land  us  in  no  better  result  than  this,  it  is  high  time  to 
examine  carefully  their  idea  of  perfection,  to  see  whether  it  does  not  leave 
out  of  account  sides  and  forces  of  human  nature  which  we  might  turn  to 
great  use  ;  whether  it  would  not  be  more  operative  if  it  were  more  complete. 
And  I  say  that  the  English  reliance  on  our  religious  organizations  and  on 
their  ideas  of  human  perfection  just  as  they  stand,  is  like  our  reliance  on 
freedom,  on  muscular  Christianity,  on  population,  on  coal,  on  wealth, — 
mere  belief  in  machinery  and  unfruitful ;  and  is  wholesomely  counteracted 
by  culture  bent  on  seeing  things  as  they  are,  and  on  drawing  the  human 
race  onwards  to  a  more  complete  perfection. 

Culture,  however,  shows  its  single-minded  love  of  perfection,  its  desire 
simply  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail,  its  freedom  from 
fanaticism,  by  its  attitude  towards  all  this  machinery,  even  while  it  insists 
that  it  is  machinery.  Fanatics,  seeing  the  mischief  men  do  themselves  by 
their  blind  belief  in  some  machinery  or  other, — whether  it  is  wealth  and 
industrialism,  or  whether  it  is  the  cultivation  of  bodily  strength  and  activity, 
or  whether  it  is  a  political  organization,  or  whether  it  is  a  religious  organi- 
zation,— oppose  with  might  and  main  the  tendency  to  this  or  that  political 
and  religious  organization,  or  to  games  and  athletic  exercises,  or  to  wealth 
and  industrialism,  and  try  violently  to  stop  it.  But  the  flexibility  which 
sweetness  and  light  give,  and  which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  culture 
pursued  in  good  faith,  enables  a  man  to  see  that  a  tendency  may  be 
necessary,  and  as  a  preparation  for  something  in  the  future,  salutary,  and 
yet  that  the  generations  or  individuals  who  obey  this  tendency  are  sacrificed 
to  it,  that  they  fall  short  of  the  hope  of  perfection  by  following  it ;  and  that 
its  mischiefs  are  to  be  criticised,  lest  it  should  take  too  firm  a  hold  and 
last  after  it  has  served  its  purpose.  Mr.  Gladstone  well  pointed  out,  in  a 
speech  at  Paris,  and  others  have  pointed  out  the  same  thing,  how  neces- 
sary is  the  present  great  movement  towards  wealth  and  industrialism,  in 
order  to  lay  broad  foundations  of  material  well-being  for  the  society  of  the 
future.  The  worst  of  these  justifications  is,  that  they  are  generally  addressed 
to  the  very  people  engaged,  body  and  soul,  in  the  movement  in  question ;  at 
all  events,  that  they  are  always  seized  with  the  greatest  avidity  by  these 
people,  and  taken  by  them  as  quite  justifying  their  life,  and  that  thus  they 
tend  to  harden  them  in  their  sins.  Culture  admits  the  necessity  of  the 
movement  towards  fortune-malting  and  exaggerated  industrialism,  readily 
allows  that  the  future  may  derive  benefit  from  it ;  but  insists,  at  the  same 
time,  that  the  passing  generations  of  industrialists — forming,  for  the  most 
part,  the  stout  main  body  of  Philistinism — are  sacrificed  to  it.  In  the  same 
way,  the  result  of  all  the  games  and  sports  which  occupy  tke  passing 
generation  of  boys  and  young  men  may  be  the  establishment  of  a  better 
and  sounder  physical  type  for  the  future  to  work  with.  Culture  does  not 
Eet  itself  against  the  games  and  sports ;  it  congratulates  the  future,  and 
hopes  it  will  make  a  good  use  of  its  improved  physical  basis  ;  but  it  points 


48  CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

out  that  our  passing  generation  of  boys  and  young  men  are  sacrificed. 
Puritanism  was  necessary  to  develop  the  moral  fibre  of  the  English  race, 
Nonconformity  to  break  the  yoke  of  ecclesiastical  domination  over  men's 
minds  and  to  prepare  the  way  for  freedom  of  thought  in  the  distant  future  ; 
still,  culture  points  out  that  the  harmonious  perfection  of  generations  of 
Puritans  and  Nonconformists  have  been  in  consequence  sacrificed.  Freedom 
of  speech  is  necessary  for  the  society  of  the  future,  but  the  young  lions 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph  in  the  meanwhile  are  sacrificed.  A  voice  for  every 
man  in  his  country's  government  is  necessary  for  the  society  of  the  future, 
but  meanwhile  Mr.  Beales  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh  are  sacrificed. 

"VVe  in  Oxford,  brought  up  amidst  beauty  and  sweetness,  have  not  failed 
to  seize  the  truth  that  beauty  and  sweetness  are  essential  characters  of  a 
complete  human  perfection.  When  I  insist  on  this  truth,  I  am  all  in  the 
faith  and  tradition  of  Oxford.  I  say  boldly  that  this  our  sentiment  for 
beauty  and  sweetness,  our  sentiment  against  hideousness  and  rawness,  has 
been  at  the  bottom  of  our  attachment  to  so  many  beaten  causes,  of  our 
opposition  to  so  many  triumphant  movements.  And  the  sentiment  is  true, 
and  has  never  been  wholly  defeated,  and  has  shown  its  power  even  in  its 
defeat.  We  have  not  won  our  political  battles,  we  have  not  carried  our 
main  points,  we  have  not  stopped  our  adversaries'  advance  ;  but  we  have 
told  silently  upon  the  mind  of  the  country,  we  have  prepared  currents  of 
feeling  which  sap  our  adversaries'  position  when  it  seems  gained,  we  have 
kept  up  our  own  communications  with  the  future.  Look  at  the  course  of 
the  great  movement  which  shook  this  place  to  its  centre  some  thirty  years 
ago  !  It  was  directed,  as  any  one  who  reads  Dr.  Newman's  Apology  may 
see,  against  what  in  one  word  may  be  called  "  liberalism."  Liberalism  pre- 
vailed ;  it  was  the  appointed  force  to  do  the  work  of  the  hour ;  it  was 
necessary,  it  was  inevitable  that  it  should  prevail.  The  Oxford  movement 
was  broken,  it  failed  ;  our  wrecks  are  scattered  on  every  shore  : — 

Quoe  regio  in  terris  nostri  non  plena  laboris  ? 

And  what  was  this  liberalism,  as  Dr.  Newman  saw  it,  and  as  it  really  broke 
the  Oxford  movement  ?  It  was  the  great  middle-class  liberalism,  which 
had  for  the  cardinal  points  of  its  belief  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832,  and  local 
self-government,  in  politics ;  in  the  social  sphere,  free-trade,  unrestricted 
competition,  and  the  making  of  large  industrial  fortunes  ;  in  the  religious 
sphere,  the  dissidence  of  Dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protestant 
religion.  I  do  not  say  that  other  and  more  intelligent  forces  than  this 
were  not  opposed  to  the  Oxford  movement :  but  this  was  the  force  which 
really  beat  it ;  this  was  the  force  which  Dr.  Newman  felt  himself  fighting 
with ;  this  was  the  force  which  till  only  the  other  day  seemed  to  be  the 
paramount  force  in  this  country,  and  to  be  in  possession  of -the  future  ;  this 
was  the  force  whose  achievements  fill  Mr.  Lowe  with  such  inexpressible 
admiration,  and  whose  rule  he  is  so  horror-struck  to  see  threatened.  And 
where  is  this  great  force  of  Philistinism  now  ?  It  is  thrust  into  the  second 
rank,  it  is  become  a  power  of  yesterday,  it  has  lost  the  future.  A  new 


CULTURE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES.  49 

power  has  suddenly  appeared,  a  power  which  it  is  impossible  yet  to  judge 
fully,  but  which  is  certainly  a  wholly  different  force  from  middle- class 
1:  beralism  ;  different  in  its  cardinal  points  of  belief,  different  in  its  tenden- 
cies  in  every  sphere.  It  loves  and  admires  neither  the  legislation  of 
rriddle-class  Parliaments,  nor  the  local  self-government  of  middle-class 
vestries,  nor  the  unrestricted  competition  of  middle-class  industrialists,  nor 
tde  dissidence  of  middle-class  dissent  and  the  Protestantism  of  middle-class 
Protestant  religion.  I  am  not  now  praising  this  new  force,  or  saying  that 
its  own  ideals  are  better ;  all  I  say  is,  that  they  are  wholly  different.  And 
yho  will  estimate  how  much  the  currents  of  feeling  created  by  Dr.  Newman's 
movement,  the  keen  desire  for  beauty  and  sweetness  which  it  nourished, 
tiie  deep  aversion  it  manifested  to  the  hardness  and  vulgarity  of  middle- 
class  liberalism,  the  strong  light  it  turned  on  the  hideous  and  grotesque 
illusions  of  middle-class  Protestantism, — who  will  estimate  how  much  all 
taese  contributed  to  swell  the  tide  of  secret  dissatisfaction  which  has  mined 
tie  ground  under  the  self-confident  liberalism  of  the  last  thirty  years,  and 
has  prepared  the  way  for  its  sudden  collapse  and  supersession  ?  It  is  in  this 
manner  that  the  sentiment  of  Oxford  for  beauty  and  sweetness  conquers, 
and  in  this  manner  may  it  long  continue  to  conquer  ! 

In  this  manner  it  works  to  the  same  end  as  culture,  and  there  is  plenty 
of  work  for  it  yet  to  do.  I  have  said  that  the  new  and  more  democratic 
force  which  is  now  superseding  our  old  middle- class  liberalism  cannot  yet 
be  rightly  judged.  It  has  its  main  tendencies  still  to  form:  we  hear 
promises  of  its  giving  us  administrative  reform,  law  reform,  reform  of 
education,  and  I  know  not  what ;  but  those  promises  come  rather  from  its 
advocates,  wishing  to  make  a  good  plea  for  it  and  to  justify  it  for  supersed- 
ing middle-class  liberalism,  than  from  clear  tendencies  which  it  has  itself 
yet  developed.  But  meanwhile  it  has  plenty  of  well-intentioned  friends 
against  whom  culture  may  with  advantage  continue  to  uphold  steadily  its 
ideal  of  human  perfection;  that  it  is  an  inward  spiritual  activity,  having 
for  its  characters  increased  sweetness,  increased  light,  increased  life, 
increased  sympathy.  Mr.  Bright,  who  has  a  foot  in  both  worlds,  the 
\vorld  of  middle-class  liberalism  and  the  world  of  democracy,  but  who 
brings  most  of  his  ideas  from  the  world  of  middle-class  liberalism  in  which 
he  was  bred,  always  inclines  to  inculcate  that  faith  in  machinery  to  which, 
a  ^  we  have  seen,  Englishmen  are  so  prone,  and  which  has  been  the  bane  of 
middle- class  liberalism.  He  complains  with  a  sorrowful  indignation  of 
people  who  "appear  to  have  no  proper  estimate  of  the  value  of  the 
franchise ; "  he  leads  his  disciples  to  believe, — what  the  Englishman  is 
a  I  ways  too  ready  to  believe, — that  the  having  a  vote,  like  the  having  a  large 
family,  or  a  large  business,  or  large  muscles,  has  in  itself  some  edifying  and 
perfecting  effect  upon  human  nature.  Or  else  he  cries  out  to  the  democracy, 
--"  the  men,"  as  he  calls  them,  "  upon  whose  shoulders  the  greatness  of 
I  ngland  rests  " — he  cries  out  to  them  :  "  See  what  you  have  done  !  I  look 
o  ver  this  country  and  see  the  cities  you  have  built,  the  railroads  you  have 
made,  the  manufactures  you  have  produced,  the  cargoes  which  freight  the 


50  CULTURE  AND   ITS  ENEMIES. 

ships  of  the  greatest  mercantile  navy  the  world  has  ever  seen  !  I  see  that 
you  have  converted  by  your  labours  what  was  once  a  wilderness,  these 
islands,  into  a  fruitful  garden;  I  know  that  you  have  created  this  wealth, 
and  are  a  nation  whose  name  is  a  word  of  power  throughout  all  the  world." 
Why,  this  is  just  the  style  of  laudation  with  which  Mr.  Roebuck  or  Mr. 
Lowe  debauch  the  minds  of  the  middle  classes,  and  make  such  Philistines  of 
them.  It  is  the  same  fashion  of  teaching  a  man  to  value  himself  not  on  what 
he  is,  not  on  his  progress  in  sweetness  and  light,  but  on  the  number  of  the 
railroads  he  has  constructed,  or  the  bigness  of  the  tabernacle  he  has  built. 
Only  the  middle  classes  are  told  they  have  done  it  all  with  their  energy, 
self-reliance,  and  capital,  and  the  democracy  are  told  they  have  done  it  all 
with  their  hands  and  sinews.  But  teaching  the  democracy  to  put  its  trust 
in  achievements  of  this  kind  is  merely  training  them  to  be  Philistines  to 
take  the  place  of  the  Philistines  whom  they  are  superseding ;  and  they 
too,  like  the  middle  class,  will  be  encouraged  to  sit  down  at  the  banquet  of 
the  future  without  having  on  a  wedding  garment,  and  nothing  excellent  can 
come  from  them.  Those  who  know  their  besetting  faults,  those  who  have 
watched  them  and  listened  to  them,  or  those  who  will  read  the  excellent 
account  recently  given  of  them  by  one  of  themselves,  the  Journeyman 
Engineer,  will  agree  that  the  idea  which  culture  sets  before  us  of  perfection 
— an  increased  spiritual  activity,  having  for  its  characters  increased  sweet- 
ness, increased  light,  increased  life,  increased  sympathy — is  an  idea  which 
the  new  democracy  needs  far  more  than  the  idea  of  the  blessedness  of  the 
franchise  or  the  wonderfulness  of  their  own  industrial  performances. 

Other  well-meaning  friends  of  this  new  power  are  for  leading  it,  not  in 
the  old  ruts  of  middle -class  Philistinism,  but  in  ways  which  are  naturally 
alluring  to  the  feet  of  democracy,  though  in  this  country  they  are  novel 
and  untried  ways.  I  may  call  them  the  ways  of  Jacobinism.  Violent 
indignation  with  the  past,  abstract  systems  qf  renovation  applied  wholesale, 
a  new  doctrine  drawn  up  in  black  and  white  for  elaborating  down  to  the 
very  smallest  details  a  rational  society  for  the  future, — these  are  the  ways 
of  Jacobinism.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  and  other  disciples  of  Comte — 
one  of  them,  Mr.  Congreve,  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  I  am  glad 
to  have  an  opportunity  of  publicly  expressing  my  respect  for  his  talents 
and  character — are  among  the  friends  of  democracy  who  are  for  leading  it 
in  paths  of  this  kind.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  is  very  hostile  to  culture, 
and  from  a  natural  enough  motive ;  for  culture  is  the  eternal  opponent  of 
the  two  things  which  are  the  signal  marks  of  Jacobinism, — its  fierceness, 
and  its  addiction  to  an  abstract  system.  A  current  in  people's  minds  sets 
towards  new  ideas ;  people  are  dissatisfied  with  their  old  narrow  stock  of 
Philistine  ideas,  Anglo-Saxon  ideas,  or  any  other ;  and  some  man,  some 
Bentham  or  Comte,  who  has  the  real  merit  of-  having  early  and  strongly 
felt  and  helped  the  new  current,  but  who  brings  plenty  of  narrownesses  and 
mistakes  of  his  own  into  his  feeling  and  help  of  it,  is  credited  with  being  the 
author  of  the  whole  current,  the  fit  person  to  be  entrusted  with  its  regula- 
tion and  to  guide  the  human  race.  The  excellent  German  historian  of 


CULTURE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES.  51 

the  mythology  of  Rome,  Preller,  relating  the  introduction  at  Rome  under 
the  Tarquins  of  the  worship  of  Apollo,  the  god  of  light,  healing,  and  recon- 
ciliation, observes  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  Tarquins  who  brought 
to  Rome  the  new  worship  of  Apollo,  as  a  current  in  the  mind  of  the 
Roman  people  which  set  powerfully  at  that  time  towards  a  new  worship  of 
:his  kind,  and  away  from  the  old  run  of  Latin  and  Sabine  religious  ideas. 
In  a  similar  way,  culture  is  always  assigning  to  the  system-maker  and  the 
system  a  smaller  share  in  the  bent  of  human  destiny  than  their  friends  like. 
Culture  feels  even  a  pleasure,  a  sense  of  an  increased  freedom  and  of 
un  ampler  future,  by  so  doing.  I  remember  when  I  was  under  the 
influence  of  a  mind  to  which  I  feel  the  greatest  obligations,  the  mind 
of  a  man  who  was  the  very  incarnation  of  sanity  and  clear  sense,  a  man 
rhe  most  considerable,  it  seems  to  me,  whom  America  has  yet  produced, 
— Benjamin  Franklin — I  remember  the  relief  with  which,  after  long 
feeling  the  sway  of  Franklin's  imperturbable  common-sense,  I  came  upon 
a  project  of  his  for  a  new  version  of  the  Book  of  Job,  to  replace  the  old 
-rersion,  the  style  of  which,  says  Franklin,  has  become  obsolete,  and 
Ihence  less  agreeable.  "I  give,"  he  continues,  "  a  few  verses,  which 
may  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  version  I  would  recommend."  We 
(.11  recollect  the  famous  verse  in  our  translation  :  "Then  Satan  answered 
ihe  Lord  and  said  :  '  Doth  Job  fear  God  for  nought  ?  ' '  Franklin  makes 
this  :  "  Does  Your  Majesty  imagine  that  Job's  good  conduct  is  the  effect 
( f  mere  personal  attachment  and  affection  ?  "  I  well  remember  how  when 
f-rst  I  read  that,  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  and  said  to  myself :  ' '  After 
s  11,  there  is  a  stretch  of  humanity  behind  Franklin's  victorious  good  sense ! " 
So,  after  hearing  Bentham  cried  loudly  up  as  the  renovator  of  modern 
society,  and  Bentham's  mind  and  ideas  proposed  as  the  rulers  of  our  future, 
I  open  the  Deontology.  There  I  read  :  "  While  Xenophon  was  writing  his 
Hstory  and  Euclid  teaching  geometry,  Socrates  and  Plato  were  talking 
i  onsense  under  pretence  of  talking  wisdom  and  morality.  This  morality 
of  theirs  consisted  in  words ;  this  wisdom  of  theirs  was  the  denial  of 
natters  known  to  every  man's  experience."  From  the  moment  of  reading 
t  lat,  I  am  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Bentham  ;  the  fanaticism  of  his 
a  ilherents  can  touch  me  no  longer,  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of  his  mind  and 
i<  leas  for  being  the  rule  of  human  society,  for '  perfection.  Culture  tends 
always  thus  to  deal  with  the  men  of  a  system,  with  disciples,  of  a  school, 
v  ith  men  like  Comte,  or  the  late  Mr.  Buckle,  or  Mr.  Mill.  It  remembers 
tie  text:  "Be  not  ye  called  Rabbi !"  and  it  soon  passes  on  from  any 
I  abbi.  But  Jacobinism  loves  a  Rabbi ;  it  does  not  want  to  pass  on  from 
it  3  Rabbi  in  pursuit  of  a  future,  and  unreached  perfection;  it  wants  its 
I  abbi  and  his  ideas  to  stand  for  perfection  that  they  may  with  the  more 
a  ithority  recast  the  world ;  and  for  Jacobinism,  therefore,  culture — eternally 
p  issing  onwards  and  seeking — is  an  impertinence  and  an  offence.  But 
culture,  just  because  it  resists  this  tendency  of  Jacobinism  to  impose  on  us 
a  man  with  limitations  and  errors  of  his  own  along  with  the  true  ideas  of 
•w  aich  he  is  the  organ,  really  does  the  world  and  Jacobinism  itself  a  service. 


£2  CULTUKE  AND  ITS  ENEMIES. 

So,  too,  Jacobinism,  in  its  fierce  hatred  of  the  past  and  of  those  whom 
it  makes  liable  for  the  sins  of  the  past,  cannot  away  with  culture,  culture 
with  its  inexhaustible  indulgence,  its  consideration  of  circumstances,  its 
severe  judgment  of  actions  joined  to  its  merciful  judgment  of  persons. 
"The  man  of  culture  is  in  politics,"  cries  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  "one 
of  the  poorest  mortals  alive."  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  wants  to  be  doing 
business,  and  he  complains  that  the  man  of  culture  stops  him  with  a  "  turn 
for  small  fault-finding,  love  of  selfish  ease,  and  indecision  in  action."  Of 
what  use  is  culture,  he  asks,  except  for  "  a  critic  of  new  books  or  a  pro- 
fessor of  belles  Icttres  ?  "  Why,  it  is  of  use  because,  in  presence  of  the  fierce 
exasperation  which  breathes,  or  rather,  I  may  say,  hisses,  through  the  whole 
production  in  which  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  asks  that  question,  it  reminds 
us  that  the  perfection  of  human  nature  is  sweetness  and  light.  It  is  of  use 
because,  like  religion, — that  other  effort  after  perfection, — it  testifies  that, 
where  bitter  envying  and  strife  are,  there  is  confusion  and  every  evil  work. 

On  this  the  last  time  that  I  am  to  speak  from  this  place,  I  have  per- 
mitted myself,  in  justifying  culture  and  in  enforcing  the  reasons  for  it, 
to  keep  chiefly  on  ground  where  I  ani  at  one  with  the  central  instinct  and 
sympathy  of  Oxford.  The  pursuit  of  perfection  is  the  pursuit  of  sweet- 
ness and  light.  Oxford  has  worked  with  all  the  bent  of  her  nature  for 
sweetness,  for  beauty ;  and  I  have  allowed  myself  to-day  chiefly  to  insist 
on  sweetness,  on  beauty,  as  necessary  characters  of  perfection.  Light, 
too,  is  a  necessary  character  of  perfection ;  Oxford  must  not  suffer  her- 
self to  forget  that !  At  other  times,  during  my  passage  in  this  chair,  I 
have  not  failed  to  remind  her,  so  far  as  my  feeble  voice  availed,  that  light 
is  a  necessary  character  of  perfection.  I  never  shall  cease,  so  long  as  any- 
where my  voice  finds  any  utterance,  to  insist  on  the  need  of  light  as  well 
as  of  sweetness.  To-day  I  have  spoken  most  of  that  which  Oxford  has 
loved  most.  But  he  who  works  for  sweetness  works  in  the  end  for  light 
also  ;  he  who  works  for  light  works  in  the  end  for  sweetness  also.  He  who 
works  for  sweetness  and  light  works  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God 
prevail.  He  who  works  for  machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works 
only  for  confusion.  Culture  looks  beyond  machinery,  culture  hates  hatred ; 
culture  has  but  one  great  passion,  the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light. 
Yes,  it  has  one  yet  greater — the  passion  for  making  them  prevail.  It  is 
not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect  man  ;  it  knows  that  the  sweetness 
and  light  of  the  few  must  be  imperfect  until  the  raw  and  unkindled  masses 
of  humanity  are  touched  with  sweetness  and  light.  If  I  have  not  shrunk 
from  saying  that  we  must  work  for  sweetness  and  light,  so  neither  have  I 
shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have  sweetness 
and  light  for  as  many  as  possible.  I  have  again  and  again  insisted  how 
those  are  the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those  are  the  marking 
epochs  of  a  people's  life,  how  those  are  the  flowering  times  for  literature 
and  art  and  all  the  creative  power  of  genius,  when  there  is  a  national  glow 
of  life  and  thought,  when  the  whole  of  society  is  in  the  fullest  measure  per- 
meated by  thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  intelligent  and  alive.  Only  it  must 


CULTURE   AND   ITS   ENEMIES.  53 

3e  real  thought  and  real  beauty  ;  real  sweetness  and  real  light.  Plenty  of 
oeople  will  try  to  give  the  masses  an  intellectual  food  prepared  and  adapted 
.in  the  way  they  think  proper  for  the  actual  condition  of  the  masses.  Tho 
Drdinary  popular  literature  is  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the 
masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate  the  masses  with  the  set  of 
ideas  and  judgments  constituting  the  creed  of  their  own  profession  or  party. 
The  religious  organizations  give  an  example  of  this  way  of  working  on  the 
masses.  I  disparage  neither ;  but  culture  works  differently.  It  does  not 
-;ry  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes  ;  it  does  not  try  to  win 
'ihem  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with  ready-made  judgments  and 
watchwords ;  but  it  seeks  to  do  away  with  classes,  to  make  all  live  in  an 
atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  and  use  ideas,  as  it  uJ.=s  them  itself, 
freely, — to  be  nourished  and  not  bound  by  them.  This  is  the  social  idea  ; 
ind  the  men  of  culture  are  the  true  apostles  of  equality.  The  great  men  of 
3ulture  are  those  who  have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  making  prevail, 
for  carrying  from  one  end  of  society  to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge,  the  best 
ideas  of  their  time  ;  who  have  laboured  to  divest  knowledge  of  all  that  was 
larsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract,  professional,  exclusive ;  to  humanize  it, 
to  make  it  efficient  outside  the  clique  of  the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet 
still  remaining  the  best  knowledge  and  thought  of  the  time,  and  a  true 
source,  therefore,  of  sweetness  and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abelard  in  the 
Middle  Ages ;  and  thence  the  boundless  emotion  and  enthusiasm  which 
Abelard  excited.  Such  were  Lessing  and  Herder  in  Germany,  at  the  end  of 
the  last  century  ;  and  their  services  to  Germany  were  inestimably  precious. 
Generations  will  pass,  and  literary  monuments  will  accumulate,  and 
works  far  more  perfect  than  the  works  of  Lessing  and.  Herder  will  be  pro- 
duced in  Germany,  and  yet  their  names  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence 
:md  enthusiasm  such  as  the  names  of  the  most  gifted  masters  will  hardly 
awaken.  Because  they  humanized  knowledge  ;  because  they  broadened  the 
basis  of  life  and  intelligence ;  because  they  worked  powerfully  to  diffuse 
sweetness  and  light,  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  With 
Saint  Augustine  they  said  :  "  Let  us  not  leave  Thee  alone  to  make  in  the 
secret  of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of  the  firmament, 
'he  division  ofjight  from  darkness  ;  let  the  children  of  thy  spirit,  placed 
n  their  firmament,  make  their  light  shine  upon  the  earth,  mark  the  division 
>f  night  and  day,  and  announce  the  revolution  of  the  times ;  for  the  old 
order  is  passed  and  the  new  arises ;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come 
brth ;  and  thou  shalt  crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when  thou  shalt 
>end  forth  labourers  into  thy  harvest  sown  by  other  hands  than  theirs  ; 
,vhen  thou  shalt  send  forth  new  labourers  to  new  seed-times,  whereof  the 
Harvest  shall  be  not  yet." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BESSIE'S    BURYING. 

HK  boy  German  was  the  only 
one  of  his  family  who  attended 
old  Bessie's  funeral.  Ashford 
at  the  last  moment  declared  that 
he  was  obliged  to  obey  a  sum- 
mons from  his  landlord,  who 
lived  at  a  distance  and  only 
visited  his  estate  in  the  hills 
from  time  to  time  on  business, 
and  was  now  at  the  old  manor- 
house  for  a  few  days. 

4 '  Th'  auld  squire  have  a  sent 
for  me  to  see  him  punctial  some 
time  to-day  at  the  '  Knob  house,' 
and  I  canna  go  to  Youlcliffe  ;  ye 
may  tell  'um  a'  down  there.  And 
you  mind  to  be  home  betimes, 
German,  or  you'll  catch  it,"  he 
called  out  as  the  boy  went  off. 

The  friends  and  neighbours 
collected  lor  the  "  beryin'  "  looked  upon  this  message  as  a  mere  excuse, 
and  public  opinion  declared  itself  strongly  against  old  Ashford. 

"  Sure  ill  will  should  ha'  died  wi'  death,"  said  one ;  "  and  hur  a 
leavin'  sich  a  lot  o'  money  to  his  daughter,  too." 

"  'Twill  hurt  nobody  but  hisself ;  his  room's  better  nor's  company 
any  time  is  Ashford's,"  said  another. 

The  world  was  likewise  scandalized  at  Roland's  absence.  "  She  were 
like  a  mother  to  un,"  said  society  ;  "  he  should  a  strove  to  come  home  for 
to  do  her  respect ;  he  know'd  she'd  a  had  a  fit,  Nathan  says." 

The  old  woman  was  buried  under  the  shadow  of  the  spire  which  she 
was  so  proud  of.  "  'Tis  a  cheerful  pleasant  place,  like  hersen,"  said 
Nathan  to  his  nephew  as  they  came  away  together,  "  and  hur  will  be  close 
to  the  pathway  where  her  friends  can  come  nigh  her,  and  alongside  o'  her 
father  for  company  like,  till  I  come  ;  'twon't  be  long  first.  I've  a  ordered 
a  headstone,"  ended  the  old  man,  sadly,  "  and  it  says, — 

All  you  young  men  as  passes  by, 
Throw  a  look  and  cast  an  eye  ; 
As  you  is  now,  so  once  was  I, 
Prepare  to  live,  as  you  must  die. — 


STONE   EDGE.  55 

for  ,o  learn  um  how  they're  here  one  hour  and  shed  the  next,  like  a  poppy- 
head,"  sighed  he,  picking  one  as  he  passed.  Then,  as  German  was  taking 
his  leave,  he  called  him  back.  "  The  money  for  Cassie  is  a  lent  to  Jones, 
and  I  shall  put  in  her  name  immediate  and  mak'  it  all  right.  Anyhow 
'tam't  mine,  and  I  wunna  ha'  thy  feyther  cryin'  out  like  as  if  he  were 
bur  it,  and  going  about  '  callin  '  o'  me  and  saying  as  how  I'd  choused 
Cassie.  But  ye  may  mak'  as  though  I'd  ha'  said  it  shouldna  be  done 
till  such  times  as  he'd  gied  his  consent  to  her  marrying  wi'  Roland.  If 
yer  aunt  hadna  been  tuk  so  sudden  as  there  isn't  a  mossel  o'  paper  about 
it,  I'm  sure  she'd  a  left  it  so.  It's  queer,  too,  about  Roland,"  the  old 
mail  went  on.  "I  canna  think  what  ails  him  to  kip  away  so  long.  I've  got 
it  s  3t  in  my  mind  it's  about  thae  York  lassies,  for  young  uns  is  wonderful 
soo a  took  up  wi'  a  pretty  face, — and  they  fa's  into  love  and  out  again  like 
as  if  it  were  a  pond. — And  'tain't  allus  such  a  clean  one  either,"  moralized 
Nathan  ;  "  a  lot  o'  muck  they  picks  up  whiles.  Therefore  I  dunna  mak' 
sich  a  stand-up  fight  for  Roland  as  I  mid  ha'  done  a  while  back  till  I  sees 
my  ways  more  plain.  Man  is  but  flesh,  and  flesh  is  wonderful  weak  by 
times,"  said  Nathan  the  wise,  skilled  in  human  nature,  "  and  you'd  best 
say  Cassie's  to  have  him  as  she  wishes  to  wed  wi'  an  she's  to  get  her 
aurt's  money." 

German  returned  home  big  with  the  importance  of  his  mission,  am. 
entered  the  house  with  a  sense  of  dignity  as  the  protector  and  arbiter  of 
his  sister's  future.  He  found  to  his  great  relief  that  he  was  beforehand 
with  his  father,  who  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  squire  ;  the  kitchen 
was  empty  and  he  passed  through  to  the  garden  on  the  other  side,  where 
he  found  the  women  busy  hanging  out  the  last  results  of  a  great  wash. 
Tho  ornamental  ground  had  all  been  dug  up  and  planted  with  vegetables, 
but  there  still  remained  a  sort  of  raised  flagged  terrace  "at  the  upper  end, 
sheltered  by  a  great  yew  hedge,  flanked  with  what  had  once  been  pyramids 
and  "  shapes  "  cut  out  in  yew,  which  had  grown  all  awry  and  deformed, 
for  nobody  at  Stone  Edge  had  any  time  for  garden  decorations.  And  here 
German  betook  himself  directly  to  deliver  his  unaccustomed  budget  of 
neirs  and  give  his  opinion  on  family  affairs  of  moment. 

"  Well- a- day  !  "  said  Lydia,  sadly ;  "it  mun  ha'  been  a  sore  sight  to 
Bee  yer  aunt  laid  i'  th'  ground,  and  hur  took  so  sudden ;  but  she  were  a 
well-livin'  'ooman  as  ivir  were,  and  set  her  trust  and  her  heart  steadfast 
i'  tli*  Lord." 

"To  be  sure  she  did,"  replied  the  lad.  And  after  a  pause  he  went 
on,  "  'Twere  a  gran'  dooment  anyhow  "  (he  was  very  fond  of  his  aunt, 
bui  he  could  not  help  enjoying  what,  to  him,  had  been  a  great  entertain- 
ment). "  There  were  a  sight  o'  vittles  and  drink  to  be  sure,  and  heaps 
o'  j'olk  was  there  to  do  her  respect  ;  and  Martha  Savage  (as  uncle  Nathan 
had  in  for  to  help)  a  takin'  on  herself  and  wagging  her  tongue  as  uppish 
as  mid  be!  'And  dunno  ye  sit  there,'  and  'Dunno  ye  bide  so  long 
there,'  says  she,  catching  everybody  up  like  anythink.  I  raly  didna  know 
the  place,  and  aunt  Bessie,  who'd  iver  the  welcome  i'  her  face  and  the 


56  STONE   EDGE. 

welcome  i'  her  hand,  and  now  she  lay  there  so  quiet,  and  couldn't  EO  much 
as  say  a  word  !  " 

"  And  how  did  uncle  Nathan  abide  Martha's  takiu'  on  herself  so  ?" 
said  Cassie,  rather  indignantly. 

"I  dunno  think  he  see'd  or  heerd  owt  as  were  a  goin'  on,  he  were  so 
sore  put  about  to  have  lost  her  as  was  gone.  He  sot  there  i'  his  chair 
quite  lost  like  when  they'd  a'  left  but  me,  and  then  he  telled  me  about 
Cassie' s  money.  He  wouldna  let  me  go,  but  he  says,  '  Bide  wi'  me  a  bit, 
my  lad  ;  ye  was  her  newy,  and  she  held  to  ye  both  at  Stone  Edge  a  very 
deal.'  And  when  Martha  put  in  her  word,  he  just  tuk  his  hat  silent,  and 
come  on  wi'  me  a  bit  o'  the  road  home  out  o'  the  way  o'  her  tongue." 

At  this  point  in  the  discourse  Ashford's  loud  harsh  voice  was  heard ; 
he  had  just  come  home,  and  was  calling  on  his  womankind.  "I'll  go  in 
to  your  feyther,"  said  Lydia ;  "  thee  canst  stop  and  hear  all  about  it." 

German  had  climbed,  parenthetically  as  it  were,  during  the  interval,  on 
to  the  top  of  a  high  wall,  whence  his  long  legs  hung  down  as  a  sort  of 
fringe.  He  went  on :  "  Arter  a  while  uncle  Nathan  talked  wi'  me  a  deal 
about  Roland,  Cassie — what  for  had  no  one  see'd  him  this  ever  such 
a  while  ?  and  that  he'd  a  sent  up  a  purpose  for  to  tell  him  as  aunt  Bessie 
had  a  fit  afore  he  went  away.  And  Dick  the  joiner  and  the  young  man 
from  the  forge  would  ha'  it  Roland  was  agone  courtin'  down  to  York, 
and  her  name  it  were  Mitchell,  and  she'd  such  cows  and  pigs  to  her 
portion  as  niver  were."  (Indeed  rumour,  assisted  by  Joshua,  had  worked 
so  hard  that  it  was  only  wonderful  that  Roland  was  not  married  already, 
in  public  report,  to  "  the  lass  t'other  side  York.") 

Cassie  was  silent,  taking  the  dry  clothes  from  off  the  line.  "  And  Dick 
laughs  and  says,  '  Ah,  Roland's  a  deep  un  ;  he's  just  kippin'  away  till  he 
sees  whether  yer  uncle  gies  Cassie  her  aunt's  money  or  no.' " 

"I  dunna  believe  that,"  said  Cassie,  with  rising  colour.  "It's  no 
more  like  Roland  than  as  a  fish  can  fly." 

"And  then  another  he  says  as  Roland  were  summat  changeable,  and 
that  ye  must  not  trust  to  his  father's  son,"  said  the  lad,  insisting  on  his 
point,  and  quite  unconscious  of  the  sharpness  of  the  thrusts  which  he  was 
driving  into  his  sister's  heart. 

"  I'm  sure  we've  no  reason  for  to  think  him  changeable,"  answered 
the  poor  girl,  turning  away  as  she  clutched  an  armful  of  linen  spasmodically 
to  her  breast. 

"  Ye  dunna  know  nowt  about  it,  Cassie.  How  should  ye  ?  They  says 
as  how  one  time  he  were  all  so  much  for  short-horns  and  sich  like,  and 
now  he's  all  for  them  heifers  from  Durham.  Thee  hastna  seen  him  this 
age ;  how  canst  thee  tell  ?"  said  the  lad,  with  an  air  of  superiority,  from 
the  top  of  the  wall  where  he  had  perched  himself,  and  picking  off  little 
bits  of  stone  and  mortar,  which  he  shied  with  great  justness  of  aim  at  an 
old  sow  in  the  straw-yard  commanded  from  his  lofty  position.  "  I  hit  hur 
that  time  i'  th'  left  ear,"  added  he,  in  an  undertone,  with  a  satisfied  nod  of 
his  head. 


STONE   EDGE.  57 

It  irritated  poor  Cassie's  nerves  to  that  degree  to  have  her  fate,  as  it 

,  and  Roland's  principles  discussed  in  the  intervals  of  the  sow's  com- 
plaints, that  she  could  not  contain  herself  any  longer.  "You've  a  tore 
poor  Roland's  character  to  rags  among  ye  anyhow,"  she  said,  as  an  old 
s  lirt  of  her  brother's  came  to  pieces  in  her  hands,  which  she  had  taken 
oft*  the  line  more  vehemently  than  its  age  and  circumstances  demanded. 
*•  And  I  wunna  stay  for  to  hear  ye  ballaragging  one  as  has  iver  been  kind 
and  true  to  us  all."  And  she  went  hurriedly  back  into  the  house  with  her 
load  of  linen,  her  lips  quivering  and  her  eyes  flashing,  and  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  restraining  a  great  burst  of  tears. 

V  Well,  surely  !  "  said  the  boy,  wonderingly  to  himself,  as  he  came  down 
f  munis  throne.  "  Whativer  have  she  a  took  that  so  queer  for?  I've 
a  said  nowt  she  should  take  amiss  !  On'y  warning  of  her  like,  and  telling 
cf  her  what  they  thinks  at  Youlcliffe,  as  is  my  duty.  How's  she  to  know 
\ -hat's  what  an  her  brother  doesna  look  arter  her  when  feyther's  no  good 
at  all  ?"  soliloquized  German  to  himself  with  much  dignity,  striding  across 
the  cabbages  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  kicking  an  unotfendii  g 
1  ead  of  "  early  sprouts  "  from  him  as  he  spoke. 

Still,  though  Cassie  opposed  outwardly  a  firm  front  to  the  enemy,  she 
Y.-as  cut  to  the  heart  within,  and  her  confident  trust  sank  when  she  found 
herself  alone.  The  strife  seems  so  unequal  when  you  have  only  a  con- 
\  iction  in  your  own  mind  to  oppose  to  facts  and  general  public  opinion ;  it 
is  like  drawing  supplies  out  of  a  single  well,  when  your  foes  have  the 
command  of  a  whole  river.  Her  very  modesty  concerning  herself  made 
her  feel  doubtful  as  to  her  claims  upon  Roland. 


CHAPTER  X. 

How  is  THE  KENT  TO  BE  MADE  ? 

ALTHOUGH  there  was  no  doubt  that  Ashford  might  have  gone  to  his  sister- 
in-law's  funeral  if  he  had  been  so  minded,  his  excuse  had  been  so  far  a 
true  one  that  he  had  really  been  sent  for  to  speak  to  his  landlord. 

The  present  "  squire  "  had  inherited  the  estate  towards  the  end  of  his  life 
from  a  spendthrift  nephew,  who  had  died  after  running  through  everything 
1  ut  the  bare  acres  ;  and  in  his  old  age  he  had  not  cared  to  leave  his 
comfortable  square  stone  house  in  the  capital  city  of  the  county — which  in 
those  days  was  a  sociable  place,  frequented  during  the  winter  months  by 
i  lost  of  the  aristocracy  thereabouts — to  come  and  dwell  among  these 
iihospitable  hills.  He  treated  the  property  as  a  thing  to  get  money  out 
(•f,  and  having  been  very  comfortable,  not  to  say  rich,  upon  his  small 
annuity,  was  now  persuaded  of  his  extreme  poverty  on  coming  into  a 
large  estate.  He  killed  off  the  deer,  cut  down  the  timber,  and  would 
have  let  the  old  house  itself  if  he  could  ;  but  as  no  one  could  be  found  to 
lore  its  somewhat  dreary  halls,  he  had  turned  it  into  an  additional  farm- 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  91.  4. 


58  STONE  EDGE. 

house,  only  reserving  a  couple  of  rooms  for  himself  when  he  came  there 
on  business. 

Not  a  word,  however,  did  Ashford  vouchsafe  to  his  family  concerning 
his  interview  at  the  great  'hall  when  he  returned  that  evening.  Ever  since 
the  rent-day  he  had  been  even  more  moody  and  sullen  than  his  wont, 
snapping  at  his  wife  and  snarling  at  his  children  ;  but  to-night  his  visit  to 
his  landlord  seemed  to  have  brought  things  to  a  crisis.  Everything  that 
was  said  and  done  served  only  to  make  matters  worse,  and  at  last  he 
became  so  insupportable  that  one  by  one  they  all  took  refuge  in  the 
cheese-room  under  some  pretence  or  other.  The  cheese  was  kept  in  the 
"  Bower-room,"  the  apartment  of  ceremony  at  Stone  Edge,  which  in  its 
time  had  evidently  been  beautifully  fitted  up  ;  the  oak  panelling  still 
remained  on  the  walls,  and  a  great  projecting  chimney-piece  with  coats 
of  arms  and  twisted  monograms  supported,  by  griffins,  and  "  Lux  tua  vita 
mea  "  engraved  round  a  rude  emblematic  picture  in  the  centre,  set  round 
with  rays  of  the  sun,  and  a  man  standing  beneath  it  in  point  of  art  much 
like  the  forked  radishes  in  Quarles'  Emblems.  Not  a  particle  of  furniture 
remained  in  the  room.  An  old  pillion  lay  in  one  corner,  on  which  Cassie's 
mother  used  to  ride  behind  her  husband  to  Youlcliffe  in  happier  days 
(Lydia  had  never  reached  such  a  pitch  of  dignity,  or  even  desired  it), 
while  the  floor  was  strewed  with  cheeses  in  different  stages  of  perfection. 

Lydia  stood  close  up  to  the  window,  trying  to  catch  the  last  gleams  of 
the  fading  light  on  the  great  blue  stocking  which  she  was  mending,  while 
Cassie  sat  near  her  on  a  low  cricket  (a  three-legged  stool)  which  she  had 
brought  in  with  her,  and  repeated  sadly  what  German  had  told  her, 
pondering  grievously  over  his  words. 

The  secluded  home  in  which  she  dwelt  gave  her  so  little  clue  to  the 
circumstances  in  which  Roland's  life  was  passed,  that  her  imagination 
almost  refused  to  follow  him  among  the  perils  of  deep  waters  in  which  he 
seemed  to  her  to  be  engulfed.  Right  and  wrong  might  be  quite  different 
in  the  great  world,  as  she  thought  it,  in  which  he  lived,  as  she  put  it 
modestly  to  herself. 

"  Seems  as  if  p'r'aps  they  mid  ha  a  different  pennyworth  nor  ourn 
down  i'th'  town,"  she  explained;  "  like  as  they  has  for  pot-herbs  and 
cotton  thread.  What's  worth  a  deal  to  us  they  think  nowt  on,  and  what 
they'll  pay  money  for  is  like  weeds  up  here." 

A  woman  is  hard  driven  before  she  will  allow  even  to  herself  that  her 
"  friend  "  can  be  in  the  wrong.  She  will  far  rather  accuse  herself  and  her 
own  expectations  as  unreasonable. 

"Nay,  dearie,"  answered  Lydia;  "I  canna  think  that.  Right's 
right,  and  wrong's  wrong  anywheres  and  anyhow,  I  tak'  it.  There's  them 
letters  and  things  upo'  th'  chimbley.  When  the  auld  Squire  Tracey,  as 
yer  feyther  talks  sa  mich  about,  were  here  t'other  year,  he  read  out  and 
'splained  what  they  was.  I  canna  well  mind  the  words,  but  the  meanin' 
was  as  how  God's  light  were  to  shine  on  our  hearts  for  um  to  see  plain, 
like  as  the  sun  on  one's  path  to  walk  right ;  and  'twould  nivir  do  an  the 


STONE   EDGE.  59 

light  shined  crooked  and  telled  one  man  one  way  and  another  different.  It 
mid  be  a'  right  as  Roland  should  wait  for's  father's  leave,  but  if  it's  as  they 
savs  at  Youlcliffe,  I  tak'  it  he  should  mind  and  be  clean  off  wi'  thee,  dearie, 
afore  he's  on  wi'  another  lass.  That's  what  I  should  say  to  German  an 
he  were  so  minded." 

She  smiled  sorrowfully  at  the  boy,  who  followed  them  into  their 
retreat  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  near  them,  with  his  back  against  the 
wall  and  his  arms  round  his  knees.  He  did  not  add  much,  however,  to 
th«;  enlivening  of  the  company,  for  he  fell  asleep  almost  immediately. 
Tl.e  women  went  on  talking  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  how  iver  am  I  to  know  what  he's  thinkin'  of  now  my  aunt's 
de  id  as  could  ha'  axed  me  down  to  Youlcliffe  ?  I've  got  such  an  ache  in 
my  heart  wi'  niver  hearin'  a  word,"  said  the  poor  girl,  leaning  her  head 
ag  tinst  Lydia,  who  put  down  her  stocking  and  stroked  her  shining  hair  in 
sil  mce,  as  she  revolved  all  sorts  of  combinations  for  their  meeting  in  her 
heid. 

"  And  then  it's  so  far  for  him  to  get  here,"  Cassie  went  on.  "It's 
liks  as  if  I  were  the  cock  upo'  th'  top  o'  Youlcliffe  steeple.  I  mid  a'most 
as  well  be  there  or  'i  th'  moon  for  seein'  or  hearin'  owt  about  any  one." 

"  Sure  thy  uncle  will  be  main  glad  to  have  thee,  my  darlin',  afore 
long  ;  and  thy  father  canna  well  refuse  him,  and  them  so  kind  about  thy 
portion.  We'll  send  in  German  happen  in  a  bit  to  see  what's  stirrin'." 

The  lad  woke  up  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  his  name. 

"  I  think  as  I'd  be  a'most  as  well  abed.  I'm  as  weary  wi'  my  out  as 
if  I'd  been  shearing  a'  day.  I  mun  go  back  to  father,  though.  I  havena 
telled  him  yet  what  uncle  Nathan  bid  me.  I'd  mebbe  best  do  it  at  oncst 
now,  though  he's  uncommon  queer  to-night.  I  canna  think  what's  took 
him.  It  mun  be  summat  as  squire  have  a  said." 

The  old  man  sat  alone  in  the  kitchen  in  sullen,  moody  misery.  It  was 
a  Bathetic  sight,  all  the  more  because  his  isolation  in  his  distress  (whatever 
it  might  be)  was  the  doing  of  his  own  temper.  Man  seems  to  think  it 
absolves  him  from  the  burden  of  his  pity  to  his  fellow,  to  say  it  was  his 
own  fault,  as  if  it  did  not  aggravate  the  wretchedness  tenfold. 

German  stood  at  the  door  looking  in  at  the  dismal  picture.  He  was  much 
afr  lid  of  rousing  the  sleeping  lion,  but  it  was  better  to  have  it  over  ;  there 
was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  delay,  and  at  last  he  walked  straight  up  to  his 
fatier,  and  delivered  Nathan's  message  in  the  fewest  possible  words.  To 
his  surprise,  Ashford  made  no  observation  whatever  upon  it.  He  simply 
lift  3d  up  his  bloodshot  eyes  and  great  overhanging  eyebrows  and  fixed  them 
on  his  son.  "  Say  that  again,  lad,"  he  said,  sternly.  German  repeated 
th(  words.  His  father  listened  intently,  and  then  rose  and  went  off  to  bed 
in  silence  without  an  additional  syllable. 

All  night,  however,  his  mutterings  kept  his  poor  wife  awake,  bursting 
oui  sometimes  into  a  rage  of  words.  "  I  wunnot  go,  I  tell  'ee.  I've  more 
rig  at  nor  he  ;  puttin'  my  own  intil  the  land  for  so  many  year  !  " 

The  next  morning  the  trouble  came  out.     "  Cass,"  he  said,  as  she 

4—2 


60  STONE   EDGE. 

looked  in  from  the  dairy,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  ye.  Stop  the  noise  o'  that 
wheel  d'reckly ;  I  tell  ye  it'll  drive  me  cracked,"  he  added,  turning  to  his 
wife,  who  was  spinning.  "  Hear,  both  on  ye.  Th'  auld  squire  "  (with  an 
oath)  "have  a  told  me  I  shanna  keep  the  farm  arter  Lady-day.  I  that 
have  a  been  on  the  land  longer  nor  he,  and  am  a  better  man  nor  he,  ten 
times  over." 

"  But  why,  father  ?  "  said  Cassie,  in  a  low  voice.  "  He  wouldn't  do  it 
not  for  nothing." 

"  I've  a  bin  a  bit  behindhand  i'th'  rent  now  this  many  year.  I've 
never  got  over  that  time  wi'  bad  harvest  as  Joshuay  choused  me,  and  we've 
a  had  two  bad  year  sin',  ye  know.  And  now  we  mun  go,  bag  and  baggage, 
out  i'  th'  wide  world,  unless  you  give  me  that  sixty- eight  pound,  Cass.  By 
right  it  were  yer  mother's,  and  I  ought  to  ha'  had  it  afore.  I'll  pay  ye  the 
interest  all  right,  and  I'll  gie  my  consent  for  yer  marrin'  o'  that  fool,  the 
son  o'  th'  knave,  and  yer  uncle  Nathan  says  he  wunna  let  yer  hae  the  money 
without,  an  ye  choose  it.  If  so  be  he'll  take  ye  wi'  nothing,"  he  added 
with  a  fierce  grin  ;  "  for  it's  my  opinion  he's  only  lookin'  arter  yer  brass." 

"He  know'd  nought  about  it  when  he  ast  her,"  said  Lyddy  stoutly, 
treading  the  wheel  of  her  spinning  mechanically  as  she  spoke. 

"Nay,  but  he  know'd  Sally  Broom's  niece  weren't  likely  not  to  come 
in  for  summat  good  out  o'  th'  pot.  It  ought  to  ha'  been  her  mother's, 
and  it's  mine  by  rights,"  he  went  on  repeating  violently,  as  if  to  mask  his 
own  deed  to  himself. 

"But  it's  Cassie's  now,  and  she  ought  to  hae  it  for  her  housekeeping 
when  she  marries,"  said  Lydia,  boldly. 

Old  Ashford  glared  on  her  angrily. 

"Ye  shall  hae  the  money,  father,  whether  or  no,"  put  in  Cassie, 
gently.  "  I'll  risk  Koland  takin'  o'  me." 

To  accept  a  favour  gratefully  and  gracefully  is  a  more  difficult  thing 
than  people  fancy  (I  mean  to  teach  it  in  my  new  and  perfect  system  of 
education).  To  receive  an  obligation  heartily  requires  humility  and  gene- 
rosity both.  Old  Ashford  was  neither  grateful  nor  graceful,  neither 
humble  nor  generous,  and  a  grunt  was  his  only  reception  of  his  daughter's 
gift,  though  he  knew  and  she  knew,  and  he  knew  that  she  knew,  that 
she  would  never  see  the  money  again. 

"  Ye  mun  go  over,  German,  and  see  what's  come  o'  Roland.  Surely 
he'll  be  back  by  now,  and  yer  father  canna  fault  ye  after  what  he's 
said  but  now,"  said  Lydia,  as  they  left  the  room,  moved  by  the  trembling 
of  Cassie's  lips,  though  no  sound  came  from  them.  "  'Twould  be  poor 
work  for  thee  to  wed  wi'  one  as  had  his  eyes  on  thy  pocket  instead  of  upon 
thee,  dearie ;'  but  when  all's  said,  'tis  nowt  but  folks'  talk  as  we've  a  heerd 
till  now  about  un.  We  dunna  know  a  "bit  what  he'd  say  for  hissen, 
poor  lad." 

"  Anyhow,  no  one  can't  say  he's  lookin'  after  this  world's  goods  an  he 
comes  up  to  me  now,"  said  Cassie,  determinedly,  though  her  lips  were 
very  white. 


STONE   EDGE.  Gl 

German  was  sometimes  now  sent  by  his  father,  as  his  bones  grew 
suffer,  to  do  his  business,  and  he  made  his  way  over  to  Youlcliffe 
a;  soon  as  he  could,  with  the  best  desire  to  do  his  sister's  pleasure. 
I-Ie  rode  boldly  up  to  Joshua's  house  in  the  market-place,  and  hammered 
for  some  time  at  the  closed  door,  but  he  had  been  late  in  starting,  and 
a  though  he  heard  that  Roland  had  returned  from  his  journey  to  York  he 
somehow  could  not  hit  upon  him.  In  answer  to  his  inquiries  Roland  was 
always  "  on'y  just  gone  past,"  or  "  he's  mebbe  turned  the  corner,  he  were 
h-31'e  a  minit  back."  Old  Nathan  was  also  absent,  and  there  was  no  one 
with  whom  he  dared  leave  a  message.  Altogether  his  mission  was  a 
failure.  He  had  done  his  best,  however,  so  that  it  was  mortifying  to  see 
Cassie  shrugging  her  shoulders  and  twisting  her  hands  together,  though 
she  did  not  say  a  word,  and  even  the  implied  blame  of  Lydia's  reiterated 
questions  was  trying.  "  What,  ye  couldn't  find  'im  anywhere  i'  th'  town  ? 
nor  yer  uncle  neither, — and  ye  couldn't  hear  on  um  ?  " 

"  Thae  women  allus  think  they  could  ha'  done  it  handier  themselves," 
ho  muttered  to  himself,  "  and  it's  very  aggravating,  it  is,  to  a  chap  !  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  ONE-EYED  HOUSE. 

A  DAY  or  two  after  old  Bessie's  funeral  Roland  returned  to  Youlcliffe.  He 
had  been  working  his  heart  out  trying  to  sound  and  set  right  that  bottom- 
less pit  (to  an  honest  man)  his  father's  affairs  ;  and  he  found  on  his  return, 
after  little  more  than  three  weeks,  that  his  dear  old  friend  was  gone,  and 
he  had  not  even  been  present  to  pay  her  the  last  respect.  He  now  felt 
sure  that  his  father  had  purposely  sent  him  on  a  fool's  errand,  and  he 
re  rented  doubly  the  being  treated  as  a  child,  kept  from  home  under  false 
pratences,  taught  to  believe  that  he  was  doing  his  father  a  service  when  he 
•svrs  only  helping  to  break  his  own  heart.  He  was  more  angry  and  hurt 
th:in  Joshua  could  have  conceived  possible,  and  the  annoyance  did  not  go 
ofl'.  What  might  not  Cassie  think  of  his  absence,  of  his  having  allowed 
himself  to  be  kept  away  at  such  a  time  ? 

He  went  down  to  make  his  peace  with  old  Nathan,  whom  he  found 
sitting  dismally  by  the  fire,  as  he  looked  ruefully  at  the  vacant  chair  on 
tho  other  side — he  seemed  ten  years  older. 

"Nobody  can't  tell  how  bare  and  lonesome  it  is,"  said  he,  "now  she 
be  gone.  I've  got  a  sorrow  down  my  back-bone  wi'  thinkin'  o'  her."  Then 
after  a  long  pause  :  "I  want  Bessie,  I  want  my  wife  !  "  said  he  with  a 
lov.d  and  bitter  cry.  What  iver  will  I  do  wi'out  her !  " 

"  You'll  mebbe  get  o'er  it,  Master  Nathan,  after  a  bit.  She  were  a  well- 
IrvLn'  'ooman,  yer  know,  and  for  sure  she's  gone  to  glory,  and  all  happy  and 
comfortable  by  now,"  observed  Roland,  with  the  best  intentions  towards 
coi  isolation. 

"  Ah,  lad,  you  see  it  ain't  you  as  have  a  lost  her,  it's  easy  talkin', — the 


62  STONE   EDGE. 

heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,  and  it's  him  as  wears  the  shoe  as  is 
hurted  by  it.  It's  all  day  long  and  every  day  as  I  misses  her ;  and  then 
ye  comes  and  tells  me  as  she's  gone  to  glory  and  all  happy  and  comfortable 
up  there  i'  th'  clouds  !  I'm  sure  she  ain't,"  said  the  old  man  with  great 
energy.  "  I'm  sure  as  how  she's  a  thinkin'  *  What's  my  old  man  a  doin' 
wi'out  me  ?  and  how's  he  a  gettin'  on  all  his  lone  ?  '  and  that'll  fret  her 
and  worrit  her;  and  'tain't reasonable  to  tell  me  she've  a  forgotten  a'  about 
me,  as  she  were  alms  fettlin'  for  and  bustlin'  about  and  humouring,  any 
more  than  I  has  about  her.  That's  what  I  think,"  ended  Nathan,  passing 
the  back  of  his  hard  horny  hand  over  his  old  wrinkled  face,  as  a  solitary 
tear,  more  pathetic  than  a  whole  bucketful  from  younger  eyes,  rolled  slowly 
down  his  cheek. 

Roland  was  silent ;  and  there  are  cases  when  silence  is  the  best  speech 
and  the  truest  consolation, — there  are  deeper  and  more  eloquent  expres- 
sions of  feeling  than  any  that  words  can  give.  Nathan  was  soon  placated 
by  it. 

"  Why  wast  thou  not  at  the  burying,  lad  ?"  he  said  kindly,  after  a  bit. 
"  My  Bessie  thowt  a  deal  about  thee.  Thee  should'st  ha'  made  a  shift  to 
get  back  for't." 

"  Tweren't  by  my  own  will,  Master  Nathan.  My  feyther  'd  a  sent  me 
after  no  end  o'  cattle  and  debts  and  coils  and  things  t'other  side  York  ; 
and  he  somehow  kep'  it  from  me  as  he'd  heerd  she  were  ill  that  day  afore 
I  went  away.  I  niver  know'd  nowt  till  I  come  home." 

"  'Twere  just  Joshuay  all  over,"  answered  the  old  man.  "It's  a 
kittle  thing  for  to  deal  wi'  such  as  he.  I'd  a  took  it  into  my  head  it  were 
along  o'  some  sweetheart  as  thou'st  a  found  i'  those  parts,  thou  wast  biding 
such  a  time  away  ;  thy  father  went  on  telling  sa  mich  about  Mitchell's 
daughter.  I  wish  I'd  a  know'd  thou  wast  a'  right,  I'd  a  made  more  o'  a 
struggle  for  thee  along  o'  Cassie's  portion.  I've  a  set  it  down  now  in  her 
name.  But  I'd  no  power  for  to  bind  Ashford  ;  and  'twill  hardly  help  thee 
wi'  him,  he'll  be  so  cockey  now,  whativer  it  may  do  wi'  thy  feyther. 
You've  got  your  handful  with  them  two,  Eoland.  I  were  in  too  great  a 
hurry  mebbe  to  pay  the  money ;  but  I  couldn't  abide  as  any  one  should 
say  I  kep'  what  weren't  mine.  My  Bessie  used  alms  for  to  say  I  took  too 
much  account  o'  what  man  could  say  o'  me.  Hur  were  a  very  wise  'ooman 
were  my  Bessie,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head  sadly  ;  "  much  wiser 
nor  me  as  sets  up  for  it  sa  mich." 

Roland  went  moodily  home  to  his  father's  house,  which  stood  back  in 
a  corner  of  the  irregular,  uneven  old  market-place.  The  dwelling  part 
was  over  a  sort  of  low  stable  opening  on  to  the  cattle-sheds,  which  had 
another  entrance  from  the  close  behind  :  a  deep,  dark  stone  archway 
led  into  them,  by  which  he  could  bring  out  his  beasts  to  market  when  he 
wished.  The  three  rooms  which  the  father  and  son  inhabited  were  only 
approached  by  an  outside  stone  stair,  making  the  house  into  a  sort  of 
fortalice,  which  no  one  could  enter  without  notice ;  and  this  suited  Joshua. 
There  was  an  unused  garret  lighted  by  a  large  round  unglazed  lucarne  in 


STONE   EDGE.  68 

the  tall  gable,  which  looked  like  a  great  hollow  eye.  Two  of  the  windows 
below  had  been  walled  up  to  save  window-tax,  as  the  rooms  had  a  look-out 
behind  ;  and  .altogether  the  place  had  a  grim  closed-up  look,  and  went  by 
the  name  of  the  "  one-eyed  house." 

Joshua  was  standing  upon  his  steps  as  his  son  came  up. 

"  Well,  Nathan  have  a  kep'  the  money  for  's  life  now,  haven't  he?  " 
said  he,  eagerly,  hardly  leaving  room  for  Roland  to  pass. 

"  He  set  it  in  Cassie's  name  at  Jones's  yesterday,"  answered  his  son, 
shortly,  as  he  turned  into  the  house,  scarcely  looking  round. 

Joshua  started  with  a  long  whistle :  it  was  so  unlike  what  he  would 
have  done  himself  that  he  could  hardly  believe  it  even  now,  and  went 
hastily  away.  He  began  to  think  that  he  had  outwitted  himself.  In  his 
extreme  dislike  to  the  marriage  he  had  determined  in  his  own  mind  that 
Nathan  would  never  allow  the  money  to  go  away  during  his  lifetime. 
His  own  affairs  had  reached  such  a  pass  that  he  would  willingly  have 
obtained  such  a  sum  as  Cassie's  dower  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  ill- 
will  and  temper,  and  now  he  had  himself  put  his  son  out  of  the  way  of 
securing  it !  Moreover,  he  disliked  the  sort  of  armed  peace  of  their  inter- 
course :  it  deranged  his  selfishness,  if  not  his  heart,  it  made  the  house 
gloomy  and  uncomfortable,  and  he  did  not  like  being  uncomfortable. 

Having  smoked  the  pipe  of  reflection  in  the  little  public  he  returned 
into  the  kitchen  about  an  hour  afterwards.  Roland  had  fetched  in  water 
and  coals,  and  done  the  various  little  household  ''jobs"  as  usual;  for 
since  his  wife's  death  his  father  had  resisted  the  entrance  of  any  other 
woman  inside  his  doors.  "  We  do  a  deal  better  by  ourselves,"  he  always 
said  whenever  the  subject  came  up  ;  "I  dunno  want  any  woman  to  come 
potterin'  and  dawdlin'  and  gossipin'  about.  Roland's  very  handy."  And 
he  did  not  spare  his  son. 

He  had  soon  finished  his  work  out  of  doors  ;  there  were  but  few  cattle 
now  in  the  sheds  to  look  after.  Some  rude  sort  of  cookery  for  his  father's 
supper  was  going  on,  and  he  sat  moodily  over  a  pretence  of  fire,  considering 
his  woes.  Even  if  Joshua  gave  his  consent,  Ashford,  now  that  his  daughter 
was  an  heiress,  was  less  likely  to  allow  the  marriage  than  before  in  her 
poverty.  Chewing  the  cud  of  his  bitter  thoughts,  and  ingeniously  torment- 
ing himself  with  all  the  possible  chances  against  his  love,  he  sat  with  his 
head  in  his  hand,  thinking  sadly  of  his  mother,  of  whom  he  had  been 
extremely  fond.  "  She  wouldn't  ha'  let  feyther  serve  me  so,"  he  said  to 
himself.  The  poor  woman  had  led  a  sad  time  of  it  with  her  husband  ;  she 
was  a  "  strivin'  pious  'ooman,"  and  a  most  tender  mother  to  her  only  child, 
and  as  long  as  her  life  lasted  Joshua  had  been  kept  somewhat  more  straight, 
but  she  had  been  dead  three  years,  and  Roland  knew  that  the  downward 
course  was  becoming  faster.  His  father's  affairs  began  to  weigh  very  heavily 
on  his  mind.  Until  the  journey  to  York  he  had  been  kept  almost  entirely 
in  the  dark  concerning  them,  but  he  could  tell  now  how  serious  they  were 
becoming.  There  was  particularly  a  tangled  skein  concerning  Jackman  the 
horsedealer,  which  he  could  not  unravel.  Debts,  bargains,  "  set-offs,"  and 


G4  STONE  EDGE. 

loans  were  all  mixed  together  in  Joshua's  version  of  the  affair  in  inextricable 
confusion.  He  had  vainly  tried  to  come  to  some  arrangement  with  the 
fellow,  and  remembered  particularly  the  unpleasant  look  on  his  face  as  he 
saici^ — "You  may  tell  your  father  as  I  shall  come  over  soon  for  a 
settlement." 

"  See  thee,  lad,"  said  his  father,  coming  up  behind  him  suddenly  and 
taking  him  gently  by  the  shoulder.  *  Fair  play's  a  jewel, — sin'  thy  mind  is 
so  set  upo'  this  lass,  if  you  choose  to  go  in  for  her  and  ma'  her  lend  me 
this  money  her  aunt  left  her  gin  yer  married,  I'm  game — tho'  it's  a  poor 
creatur's  daughter  to  wed  wi'.  Sammy  Eliot's  been  here  again  outrageous 
for's  brass,  and  I  dunna  know  where  to  turn  for  some." 

"  What,  refuse  Cassie  when  she'd  nought,  and  offer  for  her  fleece  like 
as  if  she  were  a  sheep  ! "  said  Roland,  fiercely,  in  a  tone  which  he  had  never 
used  to  his  father  before.  "  I'm  none  so  base  !  " 

"  Well,  ye  may  please  yersen,  it's  your  matter  more  nor  mine. 
The  business  and  a'  will  fall  through  an  this  goes  on  ;  but  I'm  getting  an 
old  man,  so  p'r'aps  it  dunno  sinnify.  Why,  I'd  wed  wi'  the  Devil's  daughter 
if  so  be  she'd  money,  and  bide  wi'  the  old  folk  an  I  were  you,  Roland,  and 
wanted  brass  as  we  do  now!"  said  his  father,  with  a  grin.  And  then  a 
little  sorry  to  have  shown  his  cards  so  plainly,  he  went  on,  ' '  And  ye  was 
so  sore  set  upo'  the  lass  a  while  back,  and  thought  no  end  o'  her  for  a' 
the  fine  things  under  the  sun  when  I  were  t'  other  way,  and  now  when 
I'm  come  over,  ye're  so  contrairy,  like  a  woman  as  doesna  know  her 
own  mind !  " 

He  went  out  of  the  room  as  he  spoke,  and  let  the  temptation  work.  It 
is  a  very  good  plan  to  treat  conscientious  scruples  as  if  they  were  mere 
marks  of  weakness  and  indecision  ;  few  can  help  being  influenced  more  or 
less  bythe  look  which  their  deeds  bear  in  the  eyes  of  others. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  DRUID'S  STONES. 

FOR  a  few  days  Roland  was  firm  against  the  idea ;  at  the  end  of  that  time, 
however,  he  heard  that  German  had  been  inquiring  for  him.  He  dared  not 
go  up  to  Stone  Edge  with  his  bad  conscience  about  him,  poor  fellow.  "  She's 
a  rich  'ooman  now,"  he  muttered ;  but  he  thought  there  would  -be  no 
harm  in  lighting  a  fire  on  the  rock.  "  Who  knows  whether  she  mightn't 
look  out  ?  "  The  first  time  nothing  came  of  it,  no  one  had  seen  his  sign ; 
the  next  night  the  wind  blew  out  his  fire  ;  but  the  third  time  German,  as 
he  drove  the  cows  home,  saw  the  little  pale  blue  column  rising  in  the  still 
evening  air,  and  went  and  fetched  his  sister  and  lit  the  return  fire.  The 
original  signal  was  suddenly  trampled  out,  and  German,  as  he  watched  it, 
pointed  this  out,  and  said,  with  some  compunction  for  his  doubts  as  to 
Roland's  good  faith,  "  He  sees  ourn,  lass  ;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'll  be 
here  afore  long." 


STONE   EDGE.  65 

Eestless  and  uneasy,  she  hurried  down  to  the  house  again  to  tell 
L}  dia. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  dear  child.  Even  if  he  be  coming,  he  canna  be  up  at 
tho  Stones  for  this  hour  welly  an  he  had  wings." 

"  Dunna  stop  me,  dear,  I  canna  bide  still;  let  me  go  up  there  and 
wait  a  bit ;  'twill  do  me  good  even  he  dunna  come.  I  feel  as  if  the  room 
were  stiflin'  o'  me."  Lydia  said  no  more,  but  followed  her  up  to  the 
BUI  limit. 

It  was  not  often  that  the  winds  were  still  on  that  exposed  point,  but 
this  evening  there  was  hardly  a  breath  stirring,  as  the  shadows  gradually 
sank  over  the  magnificent  view  at  their  feet.  Folds  of  hill,  deep  clefts  in 
the  rock,  open  dales  with  the  blue  river  tracing  out  its  own  course,  and 
caiching  golden  reflections  on  its  windings  here  and  there ;  beyond  all,  the 
purple  moors,  which  stretched  without  a  break,  it  was  said,  right  on  over 
th(  border. 

At  the  foot  of  the  great  dark  stones  which  had  seen  such  strange 
sights  in  their  youth,  grim,  grey,  and  terrible  in  themselves  and  their 
recollections,  sat  the  two  women,  in  perfect  silence.  Cassie  had  clasped 
he]-  arms  round  her  knees  and  laid  her  head  upon  them,  till  Lydia,  in  the 
dumb  pain  of  seeing  such  self-concentration,  lifted  it  up  without  speaking, 
and  laid  her  own  head  there.  The  movement  broke  the  spell  of  silent 
griof,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Suppose  it  should  be  as  father  and  they  all  says  ?  "  she  sobbed. 
"  One  'ud  think  if  he'd  cared  he  might  ha'  come  back  frae  York  or  sent  a' 
that  time  I  were  wi'  aunt  Bessie  ;  he  mun  ha'  knowed  I  should  be  there." 

Lydia  soothed  and  petted  her.  "  I'm  hoping  as  he'll  soon  be  here, 
my  darlin',  and  once  ye  can  see  intil  each  other's  eyes  mebbe  all  will  be 
plain."  And  then  in  terror  lest  old  Ashford  should  miss  them  from  their 
work  and  come  out  after  them,  she  whispered,  "  I'll  send  German  to  thee," 
and  went  off  in  haste. 

The  shadows  fell  darker  and  darker  as  the  afterglow  departed,  but  a 
gre.it  bank  of  magnificent  fleecy  clouds,  heaped  in  masses  many  thousand 
feel  high,  and  tinged  with  gorgeous  sunset  hues,  moved  in  stately  proces- 
sion across  the  valley.  The  sun  set,  the  earth  grew  dim,  but  their  lofty 
emnences  caught  the  rays  long  after  the  world  was  in  shadow,  till  at  last 
the  r  splendid  tints  died  away  into  a  hectic  paleness  like  that  of  Mont 
Blanc  himself  when  left  by  the  sun's  light. 

It  was  so  striking  that  Cassandra's  attention  was  diverted,  and  she 
wai  ched  the.  death-like  change  as  a  sort  of  omen  with  a  deep  sigh,  when 
behind  her  she  heard  a  motion  and  turned  suddenly',  for  "  the  Stones  " 
had  a  bad  name  as  an  eerie  place,  though  she  was  fearless  of  such  things 
at  that  moment.  It  was  only  Roland,  out  of  breath  with  his  rush  up 
the  hill. 

She  sprang  up  and  he  seized  both  her  hands,  but  somehow  the 
tho  ight  of  the  mean  bargain  he  was  sent  there  to  drive,  threw  a  constraint 
ovc:  his  manner  which  Cassandra  saw  immediately  and  felt  keenly. 

4—5 


66  STONE   EDGE. 

"I  wanted  to  see  yer — to  tell  yer"' — she  began,  constrainedly  too. 
"  Have  yer  heard,  Roland,"  she  added,  more  naturally,  "  that  my  uncle 
have  a  paid  me  the  sixty- eight  pounds  ?  and  I  wanted  to  say  that  th'  ould 
squire  will  ha'  his  back  rents,  and  so  feyther  mun  take  it  to  pay  him  wi'. 
You  know  it  were  my  mother's  by  right,  and  so  he  ought  to  ha'  had  it 
before,"  she  repeated  mechanically.  "  But  he'll  gie  his  consent,  happen 
you'll  take  me  without  it,"  said  the  poor  girl  with  a  tearful  smile. 

"  Oh,  Cassie!  and  my  father's  sent  me  up  to  say  I  may  marry  thee  an 
thou'lt  lend  him  the  money !  "  groaned  Roland,  leaving  hold  of  her  hands. 

The  poison  of  mistrust  had  entered  into  poor  Cassie's  soul,  and  she 
shivered  within  herself:  "I  niun  let  my  own  father  hae  what  I  hae 
got,"  she  said  aloud  gravely. 

Nature  had  endowed  Cassandra  with  a  most  imperial  presence  not  at 
all  matching  the  tender  heart  within,  and  as  she  turned  away  with  her 
majestic  manner,  repeating,  "  There's  no  one  else  has  a  right  to't,"  poor 
Roland's  soul  sank  within  him.  He  had  no  courage  to  explain  that  he  knew 
he  could  not  and  ought  not  to  leave  his  father.  It  was  not  so  much  that 
it  was  quite  impossible  for  Joshua  to  get  on  at  all  without  some  one  he 
could  rely  on  to  look  after  his  affairs,  and  attend  to  the  cattle  and  horses 
as  they  were  bought  and  sold,  but  that  deep  in  his  heart  was  the  con- 
viction that  the  love  of  his  son  was  the  only  tender  point  in  the  unscrupu- 
lous Joshua's  character,  and  that  it  kept  him  from  some  evil  things.  Yet 
such  a  house  could  only  be  bearable  to  Cassie  if  she  came  with  his  father's 
full  consent ;  he  could  not  even  think  otherwise  of  asking  her  to  live  with 
them.  All  this  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  found  no  expression  ;  it  sounded 
to  him  too  bald  and  cold  to  put  into  words,  to  sacrifice  her  thus,  as  it 
were,  to  one  so  little  worthy ;  and  poor  Cassie,  after  waiting  a  moment 
for  him  to  say  more,  for  the  word  which  she  had  predetermined  must 
vindicate  him  from  her  father's  taunt,  turned  away  with  the  outward  self- 
control  which  her  life  of  trial  had  taught  her. 

"  Ye'r  not  goin'  to  leave  me  so,"  said  poor  Roland  passionately.  She 
turned  irresolutely  for  a  moment,  and  he  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  hands,  her  shoulders,  eveiything  but  her  lips,  fervently;  but  she  drew 
herself  away,  when  still  he  said  no  more,  and  moved  quietly  towards 
German,  who  was  standing  waiting  for  her  by  the  rude  stone -wall  which 
fenced  in  the  wild  bit  of  moor-land  where  stood  the  Druid's  temple, 
and  went  off  silently  into  the  grey  evening. 

"  She  haven't  even  looked  round,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  flinging  his 
arms  over  his  head  and  turning  headlong  down  the  steep  hill-side. 

Cassandra  went  straight  into  the  house  with  a  fixed  expression  in  her 
face  which  frightened  Lydia's  anxious  heart ;  but  words  there  were  none, 
and  she  seemed  glad  to  occupy  herself  by  obeying  her  father's  impatient 
demands  for  bread-and-cheese  and  beer.  Only  once,  as  she  and  Lyddy 
met  in  the  dark  passage  that  led  to  the  kitchen,  she  whispered  in  answer 
to  a  loving  pressure  of  her  hand, — 

"  His  father  sent  him  to  chaffer  for  the  money  hissen." 


STONE  EDGE.  67 

"  Not  for  hissen  1 " 

Lydia's  incredulous  tone  was  balm  to  the  poor  girl's  heart.  Later, 
when  each  had  retired  to  rest  and  all  the  house  was  still,  Lydia  crept 
quietly  to  the  upper  chamber  where  Cassie  abode.  She  had  thrown 
herself,  half  kneeling  half  sitting,  on  a  low  box  at  the  foot  of  her  little  bed, 
her  face  hidden  on  her  outstretched  arms.  Lydia  knelt  down  by  her  in 
silence  and  put  her  arms  round  her  waist. 

"And  that  he  should  ha'  cared  for  me  only  so  long  as  he  hoped 
I'd  brass  to  gie  him,"  she  said  with  a  quivering  sob. 

"  I  dunnot  b'lieve  it,"  said  Lyddy. 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  say  he'd  marr'  me,  pounds  or  no  pounds  ?  "  said 
poor  Cassie,  anxious  to  be  contradicted. 

''Dear  heart,  I  weren't  there,  I  canna  speak  to  it.  Mebbe  he  canna 
manage  other  wi'  that  old  rogue  his  father.  But  he'd  surely  not  ha'  come 
nigh  thee  now  an  it  werena  false  about  the  Mitchell  lass — and  we  wunna 
give  up  one  as  has  a  been  good  and  true  till  now  an  we  ha'  more 
knowledge  nor  this.  And  now  get  to  bed,  my  darlin'.  I  munna  ha' 
thee  sick."  And  before  she  left  her  she  had  seen  her  laid  in  her  little 
white  nest. 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  Lydia  rose  gently  and  went  to  see  how 
her  child  fared.  Her  tall  white  figure  looked  so  spirit-like,  in  the  light 
which  the  late  moon  poured  through  the  low  window,  that  Cassie  gave 
a  little  cry  as  she  entered. 

"  Oh,  Lyddy  dear,  I'd  a  been  prayin'  so  hard  that  God  A'mighty 
would  make  all  straight  and  bring  us  thegether  agin,  that  I'm  sure  it'll 
come  to  pass ;  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  I'd  wrestled  and  won,  and  then 
I  thought  thee  wast  the  angel  happen  come  to  tell  me  so.  Dost  thou  not 
think  we  get  what  we  pray  for  with  all  our  hearts  ?  " 

Lydia's  mild  eyes  were  clouded,  and  as  Cassie  urged  her  again,  she 
answered.  "  Yes,  I  believe  that  God  gives  his  blessing  on  all  earnest 
prayer.  Sleep,  dearie — take  thy  rest  now." 

The  next  day  Cassandra  was  apparently  cheerful  and  relieved;  she 
went  about  in  the  triumph  of  her  belief:  but  the  day  after  her  spirit 
nagged  again,  and  a  restless  depression  came  over  her  which  struck  deep 
into  Lydia's  heart.  In  the  afternoon,  as  she  sat  before  the  never-ending 
heap  of  mending  which  she  generally  took  on  herself — as  Cassie  "  never 
could  abide"  sitting  still — the  poor  girl  went  in  and  out  in  a  sort  of  aimless 
tidying  of  what  was  already  spotless  neatness,  as  if  she  could  only  keep  her 
mind  quiet  by  perpetual  motion  of  her  limbs.  At  last  she  came  and  leant 
over  the  back  of  Lydia's  chair,  so  that  she  might  not  see  the  working  of 
her  face. 

"  Lyddy,  you  b'lieve  in  prayer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dearie,  or  I  should  lay  me  down  and  die." 

"  Nay,  I  dunna  mean  that.  I  mean  as  how  if  we  pray  fervently  we  git 
vvhat  we  ask,"  she  repeated  anxiously. 

"  Dear  lass  t'  other  night  when  thee  spoke  on't,  my  thoughts  was  like 


G8  STONE  EDGE. 

this  skein — tangled,  and  I  couldna  speak  what  was  in  niy  heart.  I  think 
it's  o'  this  wise,  but  we're  poor  creeturs  to  understan'  Him  as  the  heavens 
cannot  contain.  Mebbe  thou  didst  na  heed  last  Sabbath,  i'  th'  churchyard, 
Farmer  Jones,  as  is  new  churchwarden,  said  as  how  he'd  put  up  parson 
to  hae  a  prayer  for  fine  weather — for,  says  he,  '  My  sister  throwed  it  at  me 
as  they  was  a  prayin'  for  it  at  Hassop,  and  I  don't  see  but  how  we've 
as  good  a  right  as  they  has  to  a  prayer.'  And  young  Eliott  he  ups  and 
says,  '  Oh,  they're  prayin'  at  Hassop  for  fine  weather,  be  they  ?  that's 
because  their  hay's  down.  I  was  wi'  my  uncle  at  Toad-i'-th'-Hole  last 
Sabbath — 'tain't  a  mile  off  t'other  side  the  road — and  they  was  a  prayin' 
for  rain,  cos  theirn's  up,  and  they're  such  farmers  for  turmits.  How's 
God  A'mighty  to  serve  'ein  both,  I  wonder :  rain  one  side  road,  shine 
t'  other  ?  '  And  I  thought  to  myself  that  even  He'd  be  rare  put  about 
to  do  this  and  not  do  it  i'  th'  same  place  as  'twere.  And  that  it  were 
more  like  as  how  He'd  just  gie  um  what  was  right  for  um,  wi'out  mindin' 
what  they  axed  ;  that  what  they  had  to  pray  for  was  to  be  content  either 
way.  Seems  to  me  wi'  my  own  baby  I'd  ha'  gi'en  him  what  was  right 
wi'out  waiting  to  be  axed,  and  if  he  prayed  and  cried  ever  so  I  wouldn't 
gie  him  what  were  wrong  for  him,  and  that  he  ought  to  trust  me  to  do 
right  by  him.  Dear  heart,  don't  He  know  much  better  nor  we  what  we 
want  ?  *  His  will,  not  mine,'  said  even  the  greatest.  Suppose  He  gied  thee 
what  thee  wanted  because  thee  axed,  thou'st  be  'sponsible  as  it  were,  not 
He.  Would  thou  dare  to  take  thy  will  so  ?  " 

Cassie  was  silent. 

"  I've  tried  it,  my  dearie,  and  found  what  stubble  before  the  wind  'twere. 
I  prayed  God  for  another  child — oh,  Cassie,  how  I  prayed,  and  the  more 
I  prayed  the  more  miserable  I  grew ;  and  one  morning  before  light  as  I 
sat.  up  in  bed  and  wrestled  like  Jacob,  I  saw  the  words,  '  My  grace  is 
sufficient  for  thee,'  writ  up  as  in  fire  i'  th'  air  (they'd  been  i'  th'  chapter 
I'd  read  last  thing  at  night,  but  I  didna  mark  them),  and  I  knew  my  prayer 
were  answered  ;  but  'twere  by  the  resting  of  my  longing  heart,  the  bendin' 
o'  my  will  to  His,  not  His  to  mine." 

Cassandra  looked  down  on  the  pale  upturned  face  and  knew  that 
these  were  no  words,  but  the  experience  of  one  purified  by  fire  of  affliction ; 
the  face  was  rapt  like  a  saint's.  "  But  then  I'm  so  much  older  than 
thee,"  she  added,  with  a  sad  smile. 

And  Cassie  seized  her  in  one  of  her  impulsive  passionate  embraces  and 
went  off  without  a  word.  It  was  difficult  indeed  to  believe  that  there 
was  only  three  years'  difference  between  the  two  :  the  one  with  all  the 
overflowing  life,  the  impulse,  and  rich  hopes  and  imaginations-  of  youth ; 
the  other  with  every  wish  and  thought  chastened  by  sorrow  and  under  strict 
control.  But  the  greatest  contrasts  often  make  the  strictest  friendships, 
so  long  as  one  is  as  it  were  the  complement  of  the  other. 

Cassie  was  quieter  and  better  next  day,  and  went  about  her  cheese- 
making — no  doubt  cheese  is  a  great  help  when  one  is  crossed  in  love. 
It  is  much  more  so,  for  instance,  than  lounging  in  an  armchair  with  somo 


STONE  EDGE.  69 

ugly  worsted- work,  and  then  taking  "  an  airing  "in  a  carriage  ;  but  still, 
tiough  this  was  a  consolation  in  which  old  Ashford  was  not  likely  to 
stint  her,  the  breaking  of  her  love  fell  heavy  on  poor  Cassie's  bright  and 
sunny  nature.  In  youth  one  thinks  that  no  such  misfortune  has  ever 
happened  to  any  other  human  being  before,  and  it  therefore  seems  strange 
to  be  marked  out  for  peculiar  suffering.  Later  in  life  one  realizes  the 
woes  of  others  in  a  wider  range  of  sympathy,  and  the  personal  grief,  though 
no  less  painful,  seems  less  bitter  as  a  drop  in  the  vast  ocean  of  man's 
suffering.  She  wandered  often  up  to  the  great  grave  old  stones,  as  if  she 
could  collect  there  the  lost  pieces  of  her  broken  happiness.  The  wind 
v  as  sharp  and  the  cold  nipping,  as  the  winter  drew  on,  but  she  seemed  to 
find  a  sort  of  comfort  there. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MARKET-DAY  AT  YOULCLIFFE. 

OLD  Nathan  was  so  indignant  when  he  heard  what  Cassie  had  done  that 
he  sent  her  word  by  Nanny  that  he  would  not  let  her  come  near  his  house. 
'  She  shouldna  ha'  had  the  money  to  waste  un  so,  an  I  could  stop  it," 
s;iid  he.  "  What's  the  use  o'  thrift  I'd  like  to  know  ?  And  to  ha'  a' 
them  good  pounds  as  me  and  Bessie  have  a  spared  these  long  years  just 
flung  away  like  as  if  they  was  dirt,  along  o'  Ashford' s  muddlin'  ways,  it's 
e  aough  to  make  one  mad.  They  might  all  one  hae  been  throwed  into  the 
bury-hole  for  a'  the  good  they'll  do  him  too.  A  fool  and  his  money's 
soon  parted." 

Indeed  the  universal  disapprobation  was  so  great,  that  it  seemed  as  if 
tl  ie  poor  girl  had  committed  some  great  fault  in  giving  up  every  halfpenny 
she  had  in  the  world  and  her  hopes  of  happiness  with  it ;  and  Ashford  was 
more  intolerably  cross  even  than  usual,  when  she  came  down  with  him  to 
s:"gn  the  paper  necessary  for  her  father  to  get  the  money.  But  gratitude  is 
a  capricious  product,  which  must  not  be  overladen,  or,  like  the  camel,  it 
•«  ill  refuse  to  move  at  all.  If  you  give  up  your  life  or  your  fortune,  ten 
to  one  the  burden  is  too  heavy,  and  its  reply  is  poor  and  grudging,  while 
a  handful  of  flowers  or  a  bunch  of  grapes  will  produce  an  extravagant 
a  nount  of  thankfulness.  Wordsworth  indeed  declares  that  "the  gratitude 
o:'  man  has  oftener  left  him  mourning"  than  its  reverse.  But  people  are 
g:ateful  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  they  receive  ;  not  according  to  the 
value  of  the  gift  or  the  sacrifice  to  the  giver.  It  is  as  in  the  great  scheme 
of  the  world:  mistake,  failure  are  punished  quite  irrespective  of  "  good 
intentions."  The  universe  has  no  time  for  good  intentions. 

So  though  poor  Cassie  was  giving  up  her  all,  old  Ashford  knew  that 
ii  was  pouring  water  into  a  sieve,  and  did  not  feel  in  the  least  grateful. 
Only  in  her  case  she  did  it  with  her  eyes  open,  quite  simply,  as  the  only 
liing  possible,  and  expected  neither  gratitude  for  herself  nor  much  good 
f«  T  him. 


70  STONE  EDGE. 

Her  father  had  taken  her  down  to  Youlcliffe  on  a  pillion  behind  him. 
"  That's  how  yer  mother  used  to  go  afore  ye,"  said  the  old  man.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  himself,  however,  whether  this  mode  of  progression  was  in 
order  to  do  her  honour,  or  to  ensure  her  safe  return  with  any  dangerous 
meetings.  Let  him  have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  The  old  mare  objected, 
however,  so  much  to  the  double  burden,  and  went  so  slowly,  that  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  beginning  of  the  lone  moor  it  fell  dark.  "  Ye  mun 
walk,  Cass,  while  I  lead  the  mare,"  said  Ashford.  As  she  stumbled 
along  the  deep  ruts  of  the  track  across  the  dark  and  desolate  moor,  she 
saw  the  little  glimmer,  like  a  glowworm,  of  the  candle  which  Lydia 
had  set  high  up  in  the  front  window  of  the  old  hall  to  help  to  guide 
them  on  their  road  home.  It  shone  steadily,  though  faintly,  on  their 
dreary  way. 

"  There  ain't  as  much  hope  in  my  love  as  'ud  make  the  light  of  yon 
candle,"  said  the  poor  girl  to  herself;  "but  it  ain't  quite  dead  either. 
How  far  it  do  shine,  for  sure,"  she  added  gratefully  for  the  omen. 

There  was  no  communication  whatever  with  Youlclifie  possible  for 
either  Cassie  or  German  during  the  next  two  or  three  months.  Ashford's 
rheumatism  was  better,  and  he  insisted  on  going  himself  whenever  there 
was  anything  necessary  to  be  done  there. 

The  time  for  paying  his  rent  came  on  only  too  quickly  for  the  old 
farmer.  It  always  took  place  just  after  market-day,  for  the  convenience  of 
many  of  the  squire's  tenants,  and  German  drove  down  some  sheep  and 
a  calf  to  Youlclifie  early  in  the  morning,  the  sale  of  which  was  to  make  up 
the  rent  along  with  poor  Cassie's  money. 

It  was  a  stormy  black  day,  with  gusts  of  sleet  and  drizzle  at  intervals 
which  promised  to  become  worse — cold,  dark,  and  disagreeable  as  was 
Ashford's  temper  that  morning.  He  rode  down  himself,  and  sent  his  son 
home  as  soon  as  the  cattle  were  safe  in  the  market. 

Everything  seemed  to  go  wrong  with  him  :  when  he  went  up  to  receive 
the  money  belonging  to  Cassie,  the  lawyer  through  whose  hands  it  passed 
greeted  him  with,  "  So  you're  taking  your  daughter's  portion,  I  hear?" 
As  he  came  out  of  the  door,  thrusting  the  notes  into  his  pocket  and 
swearing  terribly,  he  almost  ran  against  the  hated  Joshua — who,  however, 
turned  quickly  up  an  alley,  as  if  to  get  out  of  his  way ;  and  Ashford  went 
back  to  the  narrow  irregular  old  grey  market-place,  where  at  that  moment 
a  great  brown  mass  of  cattle,  sheep,  and  pigs  were  swaying  and  surging 
hither  and  thither,  lowing  and  bleating  and  screeching  in  every  variety  of 
sound  of  fright  and  distress,  to  which  no  one  paid  the  smallest  heed. 

In  the  midst  rose  a  tall  mutilated  stone  cross,  set  on  a  high  square 
flight  of  steps.  The  unobjectionable  shaft  was  all  that  was  left :  the  arms 
had  been  broken  off  by  pious  Puritans,  apparently  that  their  protest  against 
all  the  cruelty  and  suffering  that  was  going  on  below  might  not  be  seen. 
The  gospel  of  mercy  to  beasts  has  hardly  yet  been  preached.  The  Church  of 
Home  did  her  best  for  them,  most  unsuccessfully,  by  giving  them  a  saint  all 
to  themselves  to  look  after  them,  and  appointing  a  day  for  their  blessing  af? 


STONE  EDGE.  71 

Bome, — with  what  effect  the  Catholic  cruelties  of  Spain  and  Naples  show. 
In  England  the  Puritans  almost  took  the  other  tack :  the  infliction  of  pain 
was  never  wrong  in  their  eyes ;  and,  as  Lord  Macaulay  says,  they  objected 
to  bull-baiting,  not  because  it  gave  pain  to  the  beasts,  but  because  it  gave 
pleasure  to  the  men.  We  have  been  no  better  than  our  neighbours,  and 
it  is  curious  how  entirely  we  have  forgotten  that  cock-fighting  and  bull- 
baiting  lasted  well  into  this  century.  But  however  this  may  be,  market- 
day  at  Youlcliffe  was  not  a  pleasant  sight.  A  great  drove  had  come  in  from 
Scotland,  which  added  to  the  confusion  and  press.  From  time  immemorial 
they  had  always  been  driven  across  the  moors,  camping  out  every  night 
without  paying  anything :  but  the  cultivated  land  had  gradually  encroached 
on  the  waste ;  and  the  drover,  in  a  loud,  harsh,  Scotch  accent,  was  declaim- 
ing on  his  wrongs, — how,  where  last  year  was  open  heather,  he  had  found 
stone-walls  enclosing  fields,  and,  horror  of  horrors,  had  had  to  pay  a  pike  ! 
He  evidently  thought  the  ruin  of  a  country  which  enclosed  its  moors  must 
be  near  at  hand. 

'Jit's  a  real  shame,"  he  shouted,  "a  spoilin'  o'  puir  honest  bodies 
ganging  o'  their  lawfu'  traffic." 

"  I  dunno  see  why  we  should  spend  our  brass  a  makin'  rowads  for  you 
to  mar  un,  and  kip  youm  in  your  pockets,"  said  a  shrewd  local.  There 
was  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides  in  such  a  cause. 

The  bystanders  were  listening  to  the  dispute.  There  was  a  greater 
abundance  than  usual  of  stock  of  all  kinds,  and  Ashford  did  not  get  the 
attention  he  thought  he  ought  or  the  price  he  expected  for  his  sheep. 

"Why,  Joshua  Stracey  have  a  sold  two  in  the  last  hour,  and  got 
more  nor  that"  said  an  ill-looking  fellow,  a  sort  of  horsedealer,  who 
stood  by. 

"  He  cheated  me,  and  he's  like  to  ha'  cheated  you,"  shouted  the 
old  man. 

"  That  mayna  be  althegether  the  same  thing,"  said  the  fellow,  taunt- 
ingly. "  Ye  may  hoodwink  the  craw,  but  hardly  the  kestrel ;  but  it  werena 
me  that  bought  un." 

Ashford  threw  him  an  angry  answer,  and  went  on. 

But  the  negotiations  for  the  calf  were  quite  as  stormy  with  the  next 
purchaser.  They  were  only  haggling  over  a  few  shillings,  but  the  stranger 
stood  by,  and  managed  to  throw  in  a  dash  of  bitterness  which  delayed 
them  when  they  were  nearly  agreed,  and  the  quarrel  grew  more  and 
more  furious., 

"  Well,  come  in,  and  let's  ha'  a  glass  of  yale,  and  ha'  done  wi'  it,"  said 
the  buyer,  at  last  wearied  out.  "  It's  getting  quite  late  ;  it's  nigh  on  four 
o'clock." 

The  public,  with  its  sanded  floor  and  great  old  open  fire-place,  looked 
very  tempting,  though  a  wet  circle  of  rain  stood  round  every  new-comer. 
The  fire-light  shone  on  the  pewter  pots  and  gleamed  on  the  rows  of  plates 
on  the  dresser,  and  there  was  a  fiddle  going  at  intervals  :  an  unorthodox 
innovation,  over  which  Nathan,  who  had  formerly  been  the  owner,  shook 


72  STONE  EDGE. 

his  head  severely  whenever  he  heard  it  mentioned.  "  It  warn' t  nivir  so 
in  my  day,  and  comes  to  no  good,"  said  he. 

Within  this  charmed  circle  the  company  sat,  "  o'er  all  the  ills  of  life 
victorious  ;  "  and  the  dark  night  and  cold  gusts  of  rain  without  seemed 
to  grow  less  and  less  pleasant  to  face  as  the  time  went  on.  Moreover, 
the  dear  delights  of  quarrelling,  for  those  who  enjoy  that  exercise  like  old 
Ashford,  are  not  easily  foregone. 

Even  the  mollifying  effects  of  ale  and  the  money  for  the  calf  did  not 
put  an  end  to  it.  The  horsedealer  would  not  let  Ashford  alone,  and 
the  old  farmer  went  on  doggedly  drinking  glass  for  glass  and  answering 
taunt  by  taunt. 

"  I'll  bet  ye  anything  ye  please  you'll  not  sell  that  lot  o'  heifers  for 
nothing  like  what  ye  giv'  for  'um." 

"And  what  business  is  that  o'  yourn,  I'd  like  to  know?  they're  as 
good  beasts  as  iver  was  bred,  and  '11  fetch  their  money  anywhere." 

"  Arena  ye  coming,  Ashford?  ye  rnun  make  haste  ;  it's  coming  on  to 
blow,  and  'twill  be  a  dark  night,"  said  Buxton,  who  belonged  to  the  farm 
nearest  Stone  Edge,  and  had  arranged  to  ride  back  with  him  and  a  third 
farmer.  "  Three's  better  nor  one  along  that  lonesome  road  ;  you'd  best 
come  home  wi'  me  and  Antony." 

"  I'm  old  enough  to  know  what's  best  mysen,"  said  Ashford,  on  whom 
the  ale  began  to  tell. 

The  horsedealer  went  on  baiting  him.  "  And  how  much  did  ye  get  for 
the  dun  cow  ?  Twenty  pund  ?  No,  nor  the  half  on  it ;  them  cows  here  is 
of  a  very  poor  breed." 

"I  canna  wait  any  longer,  Ashford,"  said  the  farmer;  "we  mun  be 
going." 

"  I'm  comin'  arter  ye  ;  get  along,"  said  he  angrily,  and  by  this 
time  half- tipsy.  "  I  know  well  enough  what  I'm  about.  Ye  won't 
catch  old  Ashford  tripping,"  he  added,  with  drunken  pride.  "I'll  catch 
ye  up  afore  ye're  at  the  Windy  Gap,"  and  he  returned  to  his  quarrel 
and  his  beer. 

At  this  moment  Joshua  looked  in  at  the  door  and  asked  for  a  glass  of 
gin — then,  pointing  with  his  thumb  at  Ashford,  who  sat  with  his  back  to 
the  door,  made  signs  that  he  would  return.  "  There's  been  rowing  enough 
to-night,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  a  body  canna  speak  wi'  him  i'  th' 
road.  I'll  come  back  for  't  when  he's  flitted." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  horsedealer  got  up  and  went  out  to  fetch  his 
horse,  saying,  "  The  cob  will  ha'  hard  work  to  get  to  Hawkesley ;  'twill  be 
an  awful  night  for  man  and  beast." 

And  old  Ashford  suddenly  seemed  to  bethink  himself  how  the  short 
twilight  was  closing  in,  that  he  had  a  large  sum  of  money  about  him,  and 
six  miles  of  lonely  road  before  him.  It  seemed  to  sober  him  at  once. 
Buxton  had  not  been  gone  above  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  he  rose  and 
hurried  to  the  stable  for  his  horse.  He  was  a  long  time  fumbling  over  it, 
however.  The  bridle  was  mislaid :  he  swore  at  the  ostler,  but  it  was 


STONE  EDGE.  73 

several  minutes  before  it  could  be  found,  and  nearly  dark  before  he 
smarted ;  and  then  he  waited  a  few  minutes  more  for  a  man  who  was  going 
part  of  the  same  way :  the  road,  however,  forked  off  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
town — his  companion  took  the  other  turn,  and  he  rode  on  alone, 

"  I  were  the  biggest  fool  i'  th'  market,"  muttered  Ashford  to  himself, 
as  he  felt  for  the  roll  of  notes  in  one  breast-pocket  and  the  bag  of  sove- 
reigns in  the  other,  and  rode  on  in  the  increasing  darkness.  The  sleet  was 
driving  in  his  face  and  the  wind  rising — the  old  mare  going  slower  as  the 
weather  grew  worse  and  he  urged  her  more. 

'"'I  shanna  catch  them  up  nohow;  how  could  I  be  such  an  ass?" 
thought  he.  He  was  still  a  strong  man,  and  his  cudgel  was  heavy,  but 
his  bones  were  growing  stiff,  as  he  knew.  The  old  mare  went  sliding  on 
through  the  thick  mud  and  the  streams  which  poured  down  the  road,  and 
at  one  place  came  to  a  dead  halt.  He  listened,  and  thought  he  heard 
horses'  steps  ahead,  and  pressed  on,  hoping  it  might  be  Buxton,  but  his 
progress  was  slow. 

He  had  reached  a  dark  part  of  the  road,  where  the  trees,  leafless 
though  they  were,  shut  out  even  the  little  that  remained  of  the  dim 
e/ening  light.  The  mare  stumbled  over  a  big  stone,  which  must  have  been 
placed  there  on  purpose,  in  the  bed  of  a  watercourse  which  crossed  the 
road,  and  over  which  the  torrent  was  rising.  Before  he  recovered  himself 
he  had  received  a  violent  blow  from  behind  on  the  back  of  his  head.  He 
turned  stoutly  to  defend  himself,  but  his  foot  had  been  jolted  out  of  the 
siirrup  with  the  stumble ;  a  second  blow  'disabled  his  arm,  and  in  another 
minute  he  was  dragged  off  his  horse,  while  the  cudgel  was  descending  a 
third  time. 


74 


C00Iie  labour  miir  (foalie 


THE  pressing  and  increasing  cry  for  field- labour  in  our  intertropical 
colonies  and  dependencies,  and  in  other  countries  lying  within  or  adjacent 
to  the  tropics,  has  turned  the  attention  of  cultivators  and  of  governments 
to  that  available  supply  which,  under  the  comprehensive  name  of  Coolies, 
embraces  the  yellow- skinned  men  of  China  and  the  darker  races  of  India. 
The  production  of  sugar,  cotton,  coffee,  rice,  and  tobacco  is  so  dependent 
for  the  future  on  Oriental  labourers,  who  must  take  the  place  of,  or  at 
least  supplement,  the  African  negro,  diminished  in  numbers  and  no  longer 
economical  in  husbandry,  that  Europeans  have  ceased  to  regard  the 
subject  of  coolie  labour  with  apathy,  and  feel  the  sincere  interest  which 
arises  when  the  supply  of  accustomed  comforts  is  endangered. 

In  presenting  the  following  particulars  and  statistics  relating  to  coolie 
labour  and  immigration,  we  have  availed  ourselves  largely  of  the  enlight- 
ened reports  furnished  to  the  Hawaiian  Government  by  Dr.  Hillebrand, 
the  commissioner  despatched  by  that  government  to  travel  in  China,  India, 
and  through  other  regions  whence  a  supply  of  labour  might  be  expected. 
We  commence  with  the  Chinese  emigrants. 

The  principal  ports  from  which  coolies  are  drawn  are  Hong  Kong, 
Macao,  Canton,  Amoy,  and  Swatow.  Emigration  from  the  North  of 
China  has  been  attempted,  but  without  success.  The  Northern  Chinese 
are  greatly  attached  to  their  homes,  poor  and  miserable  as  these  are,  and 
they  look  with  suspicion  upon  any  proposal  which  would  remove  them 
from,  their  accustomed  haunts.  The  French  Government  endeavoured  to 
induce  the  peasantry  to  emigrate  by  issuing  advertisements,  with  detailed 
conditions,  in  some  of  the  principal  Northern  cities ;  but  their  invitations 
produced  no  effect  on  the  population.  Bonded  coolies  are  demanded  by 
and  deported  to  the  following  places,  which  are  arranged  in  the  order  of 
their  importance  and  urgency  of  demand  : — To  Peru,  to  Cuba,  to  the 
British  West  Indies  (principally  Demerara  and  Trinidad),  to  Dutch  Guiana, 
to  Tahiti,  to  India,  and  to  Java.  The  coolie  trade  to  Peru  and  to  Cuba 
is  entirely  in  the  hands  of  private  contractors — Peruvians,  Spaniards, 
Portuguese,  and  French.  It  is  carried  on  entirely  from  Macao,  with  the 
exception  of  one  establishment  at  Canton,  that  of  a  Frenchman,  who  ships 
to  Havana. 

There  are  at  Macao  six  or  eight  depots,  from  which  about  30,000  to 
40,000  coolies  are  shipped  every  year  to  Peru  and  Cuba.  The  coolies 
are  furnished  to  the  depots  by  recruiting-agents,  Chinese  or  Portuguese, 
many  of  them  men  of  very  disreputable  character,  and  not  a  few  more 


COOLIE  LABOUR  AND  COOLIE   IMMIGRATION.  75 

than. suspected  of  being  connected  with  piracy.  It  is  almost  needless  to 
remark  that  they  resort  to  most  unscrupulous  means  for  obtaining  recruits. 
The  firms  in  Macao  which  they  supply  are  very  well  aware  of  their 
character ;  but  the  demand  for  coolies  is  too  active  to  allow  them  to 
inquire  particularly  into  the  means  employed  to  obtain  them.  The  laws 
regulating  the  trade  enacted  by  the  government  at  Macao  are  fair  and 
humane,  but  they  are  habitually  disregarded  or  evaded.  One  salutary 
regulation  exists,  that  all  intending  emigrants  shall  have  free  ingress  and 
egress  at  the  depots  till  two  days  previous  to  their  sailing  ;  but  it  is  well 
understood  in  Macao  that  no  Chinaman  once  entering  the  depot  will  leave 
it  again  before  his  departure.  Recruiting  under  these  circumstances  is 
very  unpopular,  difficult,  and  dangerous.  It  is  also,  as  a  consequence, 
expensive.  Coolies  delivered  at  a  Macao  depot  cost  the  trader  from  35  to 
70  dollars  each,  head-money.  The  number  of  ships  at  the  disposal  of  the 
Macao  traders  is  limited,  English  and  American  ships  being  forbidden  to 
carry  Macao  coolies,  and  it  being  seldom  that  German  vessels  can  be 
iiduced  to  engage  in  this  service.  Freights  are  therefore  high.  The 
ships  employed  are  under  military  equipment  and  discipline,  somewhat 
resembling  English  convict-ships  ;  the  coolies  on  board  them  are  only 
allowed  an  airing  on  deck  by  squads  of  twenty  to  forty  together,  and  the 
vhole  proceeding  resembles  the  middle-passage  in  its  general  features  ; 
lut  the  coolies  being  far  less  submissive  than  negroes,  revolts  and 
mutinies  frequently  occur. 

Suicides  are  common,  and  the  mortality  is  very  great,  averaging  as 

1  igh  as  25  per  cent.     A  frightful  disaster  happened  in  April,  1866,  when 

£50  Chinamen  were  burned  to  death  on  board  the  ship  Napoleon  Canavero, 

ia  a  conflagration  purposely  kindled  by  some  mutineers.     During  the  eight 

Months,  from  August,  1865,  to  April,  1866,  no  less  than  sixteen  cases  of 

mutiny — many  of  them  having  very  serious  results — were  reported  in  Hong 

Kong  papers  ;  all  but  two  of  them  having  occurred  on  board  ships  sailing 

ii'oin  Macao.     These  circumstances  tend  to  raise  the  price  of  a  Macao 

coolie.     At  Callao  they  are  "  sold  "  at  an  average  price  of  300  dollars, 

j^nd  at  Cuba  they  often  "  fetch  "  500   dollars/1'     The  contracts  run  for 

•  dght  years.      The  Macao  coolies   are  all  males,  no  women  being  ever 

;  ;hipped  there  ;  the  men  are  selected  entirely  for  physical  qualities.     It  is 

piite  a  relief  to  turn  from  this  account  to  the  ameliorated  system  pursued 

inder  the  agency  of  the  British  West  India  colonies  in  Canton.     A  depot 

s  there  established  large  enough  for  the  reception  of  several  hundred 

3migrants    at  a   time.     The    present   agent   receives   a    standing  salary. 

S"o  head-money  is  permitted,   and  no  contractors  are  dealt  with.     The 

ostablishment   is   conducted    according  to   the   laws    and   regulations   of 

ohe  British  Government,  and  is  placed  under  the  supervision  of  the  regular 

*  We  leave  these  naive  expressions,  which  may  have  escaped  unperceived  from 
Dr.  Hillebrand's  pen,  without  other  comment  than  inverted  commas.  They  are 
sufficiently  suggestive  of  some  unexpressed  truths  lying  behind  the  details  of  "  free 
ooolie  labour." 


7G  COOLIE  LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION. 

consular  authorities.  The  doors  of  the  depot  remain  open,  and  the 
emigrants  are  free  to  go  in  or  out  till  the  day  before  their  sailing.  Ships 
are  despatched  only  during  the  north-east  monsoon.  Single-decked  vessels 
are  alone  employed,  and  not  more  than  500  coolies  are  sent  in  a  ship  of1 
1,300  tons.  The  average  length  of  the  voyage  is  from  86  to  120  days; 
and  the  mortality  ranges  from  !£  to  2£  per  cent.  The  entire  cost  of  the 
coolies,  when  landed  in  Trinidad  or  Demerara,  is  from  23Z.  to  26J.  for  each 
individual.  30  per  cent,  of  women  are  sent  from  Canton.  These  receive 
a  bonus  of  20  dollars,  and  are  not  bound  by  any  contract  to  work.  The 
planter  who  takes  the  husband  takes  the  wife  with  him,  pays  her  cost,  and 
maintains  her.  The  colonial  governments  which  conduct  the  immigration 
business  defray  one-third  of  the  expense  from  the  public  treasury,  and  the 
planters  pay  an  even  rate  for  men  and  women.  In  the  colonies  mentioned, 
both  Chinese  and  Indian  labourers  are  employed.  The  colonists  seem 
hitherto  to  have  been  well  satisfied  with  the  mixed  emigrants  ;  but  of  late 
the  question  has  been  under  discussion  whether  it  would  not  be  desirable 
for  the  future  to  draw  the  whole  supply  from  China,  a  rise  being  anticipated 
in  the  cost  of  labourers  from  India. 

Surinam  and  the  whole  of  Dutch  Guiana  stand  next  in  precedence  in 
the  demand  for  coolies  from  China.  These  colonies  established  an  agency 
in  1863  or  1864,  and  have  drawn  probably  up  to  the  end  of  1865  from 
1,500  to  2,000  coolies.  A  return  passage  is  secured  to  these  emigrants, 
also  the  right  of  changing  their  masters.  The  rate  of  mortality  during 
their  transport  does  not  usually  exceed  2£  per  cent ;  and  women  and 
children  accompany  the  men.  Letters  from  Surinam  express  entire  satis- 
faction with  these  emigrants. 

Tahiti  drew,  in  1865-66,  500,  and  was  continuing  to  import  them. 
Very  satisfactory  accounts  of  them  have  reached  Hong  Kong  from  Tahiti, 
and  from  London,  where  the  chief  office  of  the  company  is  established 
which  has  entered  exclusively  on  the  cultivation  of  cotton  and  sugar  in 
Tahiti.  This  emigration  is  carried  on  by  the  same  agency  that  acts  for 
Surinam,  but  no  women  are  sent  to  the  South  Pacific. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  India  should  have  entered  the  Chinese 
labour-market.  In  1863,  3,000  Chinese  coolies  were  sent  from  Hong 
Kong  to  Bombay  to  be  employed  on  railroads.  They  were  supplied  through 
the  agency  of  an  English  mercantile  house  in  Hong  Kong ;  they  proved, 
however,  so  turbulent  that  they  were  returned  before  their  term  of  contract 
expired.  Nevertheless,  the  directors  of  a  company  formed  for  draining 
extensive  marshes  in  the  Sunderbunds  contemplate  introducing  some  6,000 
labourers  from  China  for  that  work.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  with 
regard  to  India,  that  Calcutta  and  Bombay  are  themselves  the  principal 
marts  of  the  labour-export  from  India  to  other  countries. 

Java  again,  although  it  has  a  population  of  thirteen  millions,  has  sent 
to  China  for  labourers  to  complete  the  first  railroad  in  the  island.  During 
Dr.  Hillebrand's  visit  to  Hong  Kong  in  April,  1865,  the  Dutch  Government 
employed  a  commercial  firm  there  to  secure  at  least  5,000  men.  Besides 


COOLIE  LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION.  77 

these  contract- exported  coolies,  there  has  been  a  steady  voluntary  emigra- 
tion for  many  years  from  China  to  the  Straits  Settlements  and  all  the 
islands  of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  in  most  of  which  the  Chinese  monopolize 
the  petty  trade,  and  also  perform  a  large  proportion  of  the  agricultural 
labour.  There  is  also  a  steady  influx  of  Chinese  to  Australia  and 
California,  and  in  California  the  railroad  work  is  being  monopolized  by 
them,  in  spite  of  a  violent  prejudice  against  their  race.  Dr.  Hillebrand 
thinks  it  also  probable  that  the  Chinese  labourer  will  very  shortly  have 
made  his  entrance  into  the  cotton  and  cane  fields  of  the  Southern  States 
of  the  American  Union. 

The  foregoing  facts  show  the  great  importance  of  the  Chinese  labourer, 
Irunble  as  is  his  position  or  his  individuality.  He  supplants  the  Malay  or 
tie  negro  :  outdoes  the  Javanese  and  the  Hindoo  in  their  own  countries, 
where  wages  do  not  average  above  5  rupees  per  month  ;  and  he  even  begins 
tc  rival  the  white  man  in  his  own  .domain.  There  must  be  some  potent 
reason  for  this  preference,  which  overbalances  the  great  moral  defects 
inherent  in  the  Chinese  coolie.  One  point  seems  established,  that  their 
labour  is  more  profitable  than  that  of  other  races,  except  the  negroes  in 
si  ivery,  and  even  that  exception  is  not  universal.  It  is  of  course  unavoid- 
able that  any  country  importing  coolies  to  a  large  extent  will  have  a  certain 
pi  oportion  of  bad  characters ;  especially  as  China  is  disorganized  and 
demoralized  by  many  years  of  civil  war.  The  Chinese  are,  on  the  whole, 
peaceable  and  orderly,  but  their  natural  character  is  very  different  from  the 
negro  or  Polynesian.  They  are  tenacious  of  their  rights,  quick  in  temper 
ard  ready  to  fight,  and  accustomed  to  see  death  and  suffering  with  indiffer- 
erce.  In  Hawaii,  coolies  are  anxiously  desired  for  the  sake  of  their  labour  ; 
though,  owing  to  some  atrocious  crimes  having  been  perpetrated  by  them 
there,  there  is  among  the  non- employers  of  labour  a  considerable  prejudice 
against  them.  Dr.  Hillebrand  is  strongly  persuaded  of  the  extreme  im- 
portance to  other  countries  of  coolie  labour,  and  enters  minutely  into  the 
pi  ins  for  procuring  it,  securing  a  good  quality  of  labourers,  testing  their 
capacity,  avoiding  fraud,  regulating  the  expense,  &c.  He  strongly  urges 
the  desirableness  of  importing  women  as  well  as  men,  considering  that 
upon  the  association  of  the  sexes  greatly  depends  the  difference  between 
th  )ir  condition  and  that  of  slaves.  At  the  same  time  he  perceives  that  this 
introduces  a  special  difficulty  in  the  choice  of  the  men,  healthy  married 
W(  'men  being  preferable  to  others  ;  but  he  mentions  as  disappointing  to 
planters  the  ugliness  and  low  stature  of  Chinese  women  of  the  labouring 
clj.'sses,  accustomed  to  domestic  drudgery  and  to  field-work  from  their 
eadiest  childhood. 

Passing  now  to  the  other  great  emporium  of  labour,  coolies  are  imported 
from  India  to  Ceylon,  Bourbon,  Mauritius,  Demerara,  Trinidad,  St.  Kitts, 
Santa  Lucia,  Jamaica,  the  Danish  colony  of  St.  Croix,  and  the  French 
West  India  islands.  Emigration  to  all  these  places  is  conducted  by  agents 
of  the  respective  countries,  except  to  Ceylon,  to  which  island  the  flow  is 
spontaneous. 


78  COOLIE  LABOUK  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION. 

Labourers  can  be  drawn  from  India  only  under  special  treaty  engage- 
ments by  the  several  governments  of  the  importing  countries,  Great  Britain 
being  exceedingly  watchful  over  the  rights  of  its  Indian  subjects,  securing 
for  them  every  possible  guarantee  for  good  treatment  and  fair  dealing,  and 
insisting  on  a  free  return  passage  for  them  or  a  commutation  thereof  in 
money.  Dr.  Hillebrand  accords  great  praise  to  the  Indian  Government  for 
the  care  and  attention  which  is  bestowed  on  this  subject,  and  he  was  struck 
by  the  minuteness  of  the  regulations  issued  by  the  Secretary  for  India  and 
all  the  details  bearing  on  the  condition  of  the  coolie. 

The  number  of  railroads  to  be  constructed  in  India,  the  many  fresh 
agricultural  enterprises  undertaken  there,  and  the  increasing  tea  and  cotton 
cultivation,  promise,  however,  so  great  and  increasing  a  demand  for  labour, 
that  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  wages  obtainable  elsewhere  compared 
with  the  low  payment  in  India,  a  feeling  is  rising  there  against  the 
emigration  of  coolies,  and  there  is  an  apparent  probability  of  a  rise  in 
prices  of  exported  labour.  Labourers  for  the  tea  districts  of  Assam  and 
Cachar  are  recruited  from  the  low  countries  on  both  sides  of  the  Ganges — 
from  the  hilly  country  south  of  Behar,  and  in  less  numbers  from  Nepaul. 
These  coolies  are  shipped  at  the  rate  of  from  1,500  to  2,000  a  month. 
Their  engagement  is  for  three  years,  and  they  are  paid  5  rupees  a  month, 
nine  hours  being  reckoned  the  working  day.  A  daily  task  is,  however, 
generally  assigned  to  them  such  as  an  ordinary  labourer  could  accomplish 
in  nine  hours,  and  for  what  they  do  above  that  they  receive  extra  payment. 
They  are  carried  by  railroad  to  Kooshtee,  and  thence  in  boats  up  the  river, 
the  voyage  occupying  from  two  to  three  weeks.  The  labourers  drawn  from 
the  countries  along  the  Ganges  are  low-caste  Hindoos,  not  particularly 
strong  or  muscular,  but  hardy  and  accustomed  to  labour,  and  they  bear 
the  voyage  well.  The  best  of  these  are  from  the  district  of  Shahabad. 
Those  from  the  hill  country,  comprising  the  districts  of  Chotanagpore, 
Palamow,  Ramgurh,  Singbhoom,  Dalbhoom,  and  Manbhoom,  belong  to 
various  tribes  of  Koles,  Sontals,  and  Dnuggurs.  They  are  very  dark  and 
rather  small,  with  a  strongly  developed  thorax.  They  have  lower  fore- 
heads, broader  faces,  and  flatter  noses  than  the  Hindoos,  and  somewhat 
coarse  hair.  They  are  dirty  in  habit  and  very  low  in  civilization,  have  no 
particular  religion,  and  though  docile  and  willing  to  work,  they  bear  the 
voyage  very  badly.  The  mortality  amongst  them  on  journeys  to  the  tea 
districts  has  been  20  to  25  per  cent.,  and  has  even  risen  as  high  as  80  per 
cent,  on  a  voyage  to  the  Mauritius,  on  which  account  the  planters  there 
now  refuse  to  take  them,  although  they  would  otherwise  choose  them, 
especially  as  these  coolies  preferred  remaining  on  the  island  at  the  expira- 
tion of  their  term  of  service  to  returning  to  India. 

The  coolies  from  Nepaul  are  considered  too  fiery  and  independent  for 
use  in  agriculture,  and  they  resent  corporal  punishment.  They  are  of  the 
Thibetan  branch  of  the  Mongolian  race,  and  very  similar  to  the  Chinese. 
For  recruiting  labourers  native  officers  are  employed,  and  on  being  brought 
to  Calcutta,  the  coolies  are  maintained  at  the  depot  till  the  required 


COOLIE  LABOUE  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION.  79 

number  is  made  up.  They  are  then  provided  with  everything  necessary — 
clothing,  provisions,  bunks,  medical  attendance,  &c.  The  expense  up  to 
the  time  of  shipment,  and  apart  from  clothing,  is  from  21  to  25  rupees  for 
each  person.  Freight  to  Mauritius,  including  all  extras,  has  averaged  from 
48  to  52  rupees  a  head.  This  information  was  obtained  from  Messrs. 
Bernerly  and  Co.,  Emigration  Agents,  and  was  confirmed  by  Captain 
Bmbank,  Protector  of  Emigrants.  The  latter  estimated  the  average  mor- 
talii  y  on  a  voyage  to  the  tea  districts  at  3  per  cent.  only.  Mauritius  draws 
coo'ies  chiefly  from  Patna,  Behar,  Monghyr,  Shahabad,  Ghazeepore, 
Azingurh,  and  Goruckpore.  The  West  India  colonies  receive  them  from 
Benares,  Cawnpore,  Allahabad,  and  other  districts  farther  up  the  river. 
Th(  charges  for  recruiting  vary  according  as  the  countries  for  which 
emigrants  are  sought  are  favourably  known  or  otherwise.  Mauritius  is 
in  £ ;reat  favour  ;  whilst  the  tea  districts  have  to  pay  the  most,  the  people 
disliking  to  go  to  the  highlands  and  wet  forest  districts,  where  the  breaking 
up  fresh  ground  for  new  plantations  causes  fevers  and  other  diseases.  The 
recruiting  charges  for  Mauritius  are  6  rupees  ;  for  the  West  India  colonies, 
from  10  to  12  rupees  ;  for  the  tea  districts,  16  to  18  rupees.  These 
charges  are  exclusive  of  the  Calcutta  agent's  commission,  and  of  the 
expsnses  of  maintenance  and  at  the  depot.  Freight  to  Mauritius  averages 
55  rupees  ;  to  the  West  Indies,  12Z.  sterling.  The  agent  for  the  West 
India  colonies  was  allowed  to  draw  for  the  expenses  of  each  coolie  till  he 
is  :-eady  for  shipment  81.  sterling,  but  latterly  the  amount  has  been 
increased  to  3/.  5s.  Mauritius  allows  one-third  less.  Captain  Eales, 
age  at  for  Mauritius,  complains  of  the  increasing  difficulties  thrown  in  the 
way  of  recruitiDg  by  planters,  manufacturers,  and  all  Europeans  settled 
in  Jie  country.  Lately  it  had  been  somewhat  easier,  on  account  of  the 
fanine  caused  by  the  failure  of  the  rice-crop.  During  the  year  1865 
Demerara  received  2,500  statute  adults ;  Trinidad,  1,200 ;  St.  Croix  and 
Gr<  nada,  400.  Coolies  for  Mauritius  are  engaged  for  five  years.  They 
rec  3ive  for  the  first  year  5  rupees  per  month,  and  are  found  in  everything. 
Thoir  wages  increase  regularly,  up  to  14  rupees  a  month  in  the  fifth 
year.  A  back  passage  is  not  granted.  In  the  West  Indies  a  male  adult 
car  earn  from  10  to  12  annas  a  day  wages,  equal  to  fifteenpence  to 
eig  iteenpence  a  day,  pay  being  given  for  work  above  the  regular  task. 
A  l>ack  passage  is  guaranteed,  after  ten  years  service  in  the  colonies. 

The  great  mortality  amongst  the  Hill  coolies  alluded  to  is  caused  by 
ch<  lera,  and  is  ascribed  chiefly  to  sudden  change  of  diet.  These  poor 
pe<  pie  are  accustomed,  in  their  own  country,  to  an  insufficient  supply  of 
the  worst  and  poorest  food.  As  soon  as  they  are  on  board  ship,  where 
they  are  able  to  eat  well  and  abundantly,  the  effect  on  their  digestive 
powers  appears  to  be  most  disastrous.  But  for  this  mortality  in  transport, 
th(  y  would  be  very  useful  and  desirable  labourers. 

During  nine  months  of  the  year  1865  the  number  of  emigrants  from 
th<  three  Presidencies  of  India  amounted  to  13,774  men,  women,  and 
ch  Idren ;  and  3,500  more  at  sea — on  their  passage  thence — made  a  total 


80  COOLIE  LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION. 

of  17,274  persons.  Deducting  2,274  for  young  children,  and  4,000 
women,  there  remain  11,000  males,  a  number  evincing  the  willingness  of 
East  Indians  to  emigrate  to  Mauritius,  while  the  comparatively  small 
number  returning  speaks  well  for  their  satisfaction  with  the  treatment  they 
receive  there.  Dr.  Hillebrand,  comparing  the  relative  merits  of  Indian 
and  Chinese  coolies,  writes  as  follows  : — ' '  While  the  Indian  coolie  is  easily 
managed  and  submissive — thanks  to  the  low  servile  condition  in  which  the 
low-caste  Hindoos  are  born  and  brought  up  in  their  own  land — the  China- 
man is  independent  and  fiery  in  his  disposition,  and  violent  in  action.  The 
former  has  hardly  a  conception  of  rights,  while  the  latter  will  stick  or  fight  for 
what  he  considers  his  rights  and  privileges.  Supposed  wrongs  and  insults 
he  will  at  once  oppose  by  force,  while  the  Indian  accepts  them  with  apparent 
submission,  quietly  biding  his  time ;  with  him  poison  takes  the  place  of 
the  knife.  Their  relations  to  the  white  race  are  alike  unsatisfactory,  but 
altogether  different.  The  Chinese,  in  the  vain  conceit  of  the  superiority 
of  his  race  and  civilization,  looks  on  the  white  race  as  inferior — at  least  in 
this  country.  The  Hindoo,  under  the  external  garb  of  submissiveness, 
bears  and  nourishes  towards  his  white  master  an  intense  hatred.  The 
Indian  accommodates  himself  to  circumstances,  works  himself  readily  into 
new  conditions  of  life,  change  of  food,  dress,  &c. ;  while  the  Chinaman 
will  cling  pertinaciously  to  the  staple  of  his  country — rice,  and  the  final 
scope  of  his  life  and  labour  is  always  to  return  to  the  flowery  kingdom, 
that  his  bones  may  find  there  a  suitable  burial-place — a  notion  with  which 
the  low- caste  Hindoo  is  not  tainted  to  any  extent.  He  will  be  ready  to 
emigrate  with  his  wife  and  children,  in  the  hope  of  bettering  their  circum- 
stances, a  resolution  to  which  a  true  Chinaman  can  only  be  moved  with 
difficulty.  As  to  capacity  for  labour,  the  difference  is  very  great :  in 
general,  the  Chinaman  is  more  muscular  and  bony,  though  small  of 
stature ;  he  has  been  accustomed  to  hard  labour  from  childhood,  is  quick 
and  energetic  in  his  actions,  and  enduring  in  his  labour — qualities  which 
contrast  strongly  with  the  slow  and  lazy  movements  of  the  Indian.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Indian  is  less  exclusive,  and  more  likely  to  amalgamate 
and  fix  his  permanent  abode  among  other  races." 

The  nineteenth  century  has  witnessed  the  commencement  of  an  exodus 
of  labour,  in  several  directions,  from  an  empire  which  contains  in  itself 
one -third  of  the  human  race.  It  is  as  the  first  overflowings  of  some  vast 
reservoir,  or  of  a  long-pent-up  mountain  lake.  Our  age  has  also  seen  the 
breaking  down  of  national  prejudices  and  the  influx  of  European  ideas  in 
China.  Whereas,  formerly,  death  was  the  penalty  on  returning  for  those 
subjects  who  forsook  her  shores,  no  restriction  now  prevents  the  celestials 
visiting  other  countries.  Twenty  years  ago  an  Englishman  could  only 
leave  one  of  the  five  treaty  ports  for  a  few  hours  ;  at  the  present  day  the 
emissaries  of  Christianity  may  penetrate  every  part  of  the  empire  in  free- 
dom and  in  safety.  The  Chinese  have  already  settled  themselves  in 
Australia,  in  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  in  Mauritius,  and  elsewhere  ;  and 
it  seems  likely  that  they  will  extend  their  march  to  other  kindreds,  nations, 


COOLIB  LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION.  81 

and  languages.  Like  all  great  emigrations,  their  arrival  brings  good  and 
ill  to  the  peoples  among  whom  they  carry  their  labour,  or  allow  it  to  bo 
curried.  "  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them."  The  Chinese  are 
already  sowing  the  seeds,  in  the  countries  which  invite  them,  of  some 
unknown  vices  and  some  new  diseases.  The  former  must  be  controlled 
and  repressed  by  police  regulations  ;  the  latter  require  the  utmost  vigilance 
to  prevent  their  spread,  and  their  becoming  endemic  in  new  abodes. 

The  most  dreaded  disease  of  China  is  leprosy,  called  there  Ma  Fuiiq, 
wliich  is  apparently  identical  with  the  lepros}r  seen  in  Arabia  and  Hindostan, 
where  it  is  named  Juzam  or  Judham,  from  a  root  signifying  amputation, 
because  of  the  erosion  or  truncation  of  the  fingers  and  toes  which  takes 
place  in  the  last  stage  of  the  disease.  This  scourge  is  intertropical,  and 
is  clearly  distinguishable  in  its  symptoms  and  diagnosis  from  the  Euro- 
pean leprosy.  It  is  hereditary,  but  is  commonly  believed  in  China  to 
disappear  in  the  fourth  generation.  It  is  uncongenial  to  cold  climates,  and 
apparently  finds  cleanliness  as  uncongenial.  Persons  afflicted  with  the 
disease  are  said  to  have  lost  it  during  a  residence  in  Pekin,  but  were 
attacked  by  it  again  on  their  returning  to  the  South.  Heat,  dirt,  the 
unwholesome  diet  of  the  poorer  classes  of  the  Chinese,  swamps  and  stag- 
nant water,  are  conditions  favourable  to  the  propagation  and  development 
of  the  disease,  if  they  do  not  by  themselves  originally  induce  it.  Doctor 
Lockhart  mentions  leprosy  being  very  prevalent  in  a  low-lying  and  much- 
flooded  valley  called  Yen-tung.  Goitre  and  cretinism  in  Switzerland 
abound  under  analogous  circumstances.  In  a  paper  read  before  the  Royal 
Asiatic  Society  in  1852,  Dr.  Benjamin  Hobson,  whose  long  residence  as 
a  physician  in  Canton  had  given  him  ample  opportunities  of  studying 
the  disease,  collected  in  one  view  all  that  was  up  to  that  time  known, 
believed,  and  surmised  about  leprosy.  We  may,  therefore,  spare  ourselves 
many  of  its  painful  details.  Among  its  first  symptoms  are  a  redness 
and  numbness  of  parts  of  the  body,  hoarseness  of  voice,  thinness  of  the 
hair,  and  often  baldness,  whitlows  under  the  nails,  &c.  The  Canton 
Leper  House,  at  the  time  Dr.  Hobson  wrote,  contained  seven  hundred 
patients  of  both  sexes.  The  afflicted  people  themselves  believed  the  disease 
to  be  incurable.  Other  information  was  furnished  to  Dr.  Hobson  by 
D  .\  Mouat,  Professor  of  Medicine  in  the  Medical  College  of  Calcutta ; 
Di\  E.  Stuart,  in  charge  of  the  Calcutta  Leper  Asylum;  and  by  Dr.  W. 
L  )ckhart  at  Shanghai.  The  question  of  the  malady  being  contagious  is 
st  -ongly  debated.  It  would  appear  from  the  evidence  to  be  so,  but  not 
upon  slight  contact.  The  Hindoos  regard  leprosy  as  highly  contagious. 
Dr.  Stuart  entertains  great  doubts  on  this  head,  and  says  that  he  had  only 
sesn  one  case  which  appeared  to  have  been  the  result  of  contagion,  and 
that  case  was  cured.  There  is,  unhappily,  a  more  universal  consent  as 
to  the  difficulty  and  rarity  of  cures,  and  the  inefficiency  of  remedies  for 
itB  relief. 

It  seems  possible,  then,  that  this  miserable  endemic,  which  affects  the 
m.nds  as  well  as  the  bodies  of  its  victims,  does  not  propagate  itself  by  mere 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  91.  5. 


82  COOLIE   LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION. 

contact,  even  in  its  true  habitat :  and  In  China  there  is  no  record  of  a  time 
when  leprosy  did  not  exist  among  the  people.  It  is  probable  that  change 
of  place  and  external  circumstances  may  render  Chinese  emigrants  more 
free  from  its  approach  themselves,  and  incapable  of  infecting  with  this 
disease  the  strangers  among  whom  they  sojourn.  It  was  the  appearance 
of  a  disease  of  this  nature  in  the  Hawaiian  islands,  called  in  the  native 
tongue  Mai  Pake,  which  induced  the  government  there  not  only  to 
make  arrangements  for  segregating  and  curing  the  patients  attacked,  by 
erecting  a  leper  hospital  near  the  capital,  and  forming  a  settlement  on 
the  neighbouring  island  of  Molokoi,  but  to  commission  Dr.  Hillebrand  in 
China  to  visit  the  leper  establishments  there,  and  investigate  the  disease 
closely  in  that  and  other  countries  where  it  prevails.  In  pursuance  of  his 
instructions,  Dr.  Hillebrand  studied  the  disease,  and  wrote  the  reports  we 
have  previously  spoken  of.  He  examined  a  considerable  number  of  cases, 
and  on  a  portion  of  these  he  made  annotations,  which  he  sent  home  to  his 
government.  The  following  is  his  description  of  one  of  the  leper  villages  : — 
"  At  my  request,  Dr.  Kerr  accompanied  me  to  the  largest  leper  village 
near  Canton.  It  is  situated  about  two  miles  and  a  half  from  the  suburbs 
of  Canton,  on  a  slight  eminence,  in  the  midst  of  cultivated  fields,  and 
accommodates  between  four  and  five  hundred  lepers,  with  their  children 
born  in  the  asylum.  All  persons  recognized  or  declared  by  the  authorities 
to  be  lepers  are  sent  to  these  asylums,  of  which  there  are  three  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Canton.  Neither  husband,  wife,  nor  children  are 
allowed  to  accompany  the  leper  to  the  asylum ;  but  they  are  allowed  to 
choose  themselves  new  conjugal  mates  from  the  inmates  of  the  same. 
The  children  born  from  these  unions  remain  in  the  village.  I  saw  of  them 
a  great  number,  varying  from  the  age  of  infancy  to  twenty-five  years,  and, 
in  fact,  judging  from  the  great  number  of  found  people  in  the  establish- 
ment, the  offspring  would  seem  to  be  as  numerous  as  the  legitimate  occu- 
pants of  the  place.  Only  one  leper  admitted  that  he  was  the  son  of 
another  leper  then  in  the  place.  As  a  rule,  they  try  to  conceal  their 
descent  from  diseased  parents.  The  village  itself  forms  a  rectangle, 
suiTounded  by  a  brick  wall  twelve  feet  high,  with  a  gate  which  is  closed 
every  night.  The  following  description  may  give  you  an  idea  of  its  inner 
arrangement.  A  street  about  fourteen  feet  wide  (wider  than  any  street  in 
Canton)  leads  from  the  gate  straight  up  to  the  temple  or  joss-house. 
From  this  street  branch  out  at  right  angles  on  each  side  about  fourteen 
narrow  lanes,  three  feet  and  a  half  wide,  each  two  separated  by  one  single 
low  building,  partitioned  again  by  a  wall  along  its  whole  length,  and 
crossways  by  twelve  to  fourteen  cross-walls,  so  as  to  form  twenty-four 
narrow  apartments.  In  these  small  holes  that  whole  mass  of  population 
is  stowed  away  every  night.  Of  course,  I  cannot  speak  with  praise  of  its 
state  of  cleanliness — quite  the  reverse.  During  the  day  the  gates  are 
open,  and  the  lepers  roam  about  at  liberty,  to  beg  through  the  streets  of 
Canton.  They  receive,  besides,  a  small  daily  allowance  from  the  Govern- 
ment, and  the  monopoly  of  the  trade  of  coir-rope  making,  by  which  they 


COOLIE   LABOUR  AND   COOLIE   IMMIGRATION.  83 

eiii'ii  something  in  addition.  The  lepers  leave  the  village  in  the  day-time 
ai  pleasure,  and  their  friends  enter  as  freely  to  visit  them,  circumstances 
•which  go  far  to  demonstrate  the  popular  opinion  that  the  contagion  is  not 
volatile  or  diffusible,  or  that  it  requires  prolonged  actual  contact  to  com- 
BC  unicate  itself  from  one  person  to  another.  We  had  taken  the  precau- 
tionary measure  to  send  a  message  to  the  village  on  the  day  previous  that 
•we  were  coming  to  distribute  alms  among  them.  In  consequence  of  this, 
the  greater  portion  of  the  lepers  remained  at  home  that  day,  and  I  had  an 
opportunity  of  examining  a  great  number."  As  a  result  of  his  investiga- 
ti?n  of  cases,  Dr.  Hillebrand  satisfied  himself  that  there  exist  in  Chinese 
leprosy  three  distinct  varieties, — the  tubercular  form,  the  erysipelatous, 
and  the  simply  paretic  or  paralytic.  The  latter  form  is  often  accompanied 
•with  inveterate  psoriasis  ;  and  he  had  frequently  seen  this  type  of  disease 
ir  the  Hawaiian  islands,  but  had  not  previously  recognized  it  as  leprous. 

To  the  Mongol,  the  Hindoo,  and  the  remnant  of  earlier  races  that  in 
India  hover,  like  ghosts,  about  their  ancient  haunts,  the  world  must  look 
fc  r  its  supply  of  tropical  labour.  For  a  time,  at  least,  they  will  bring  the 
energies  of  bone  and  muscle  of  peoples  whose  hereditary  lot  has  been  labour, 
b  it  whose  intellectual  powers  and  whose  education,  low  though  it  be,  are 
h'gher  than  the  African's  ;  and  they  will  give  them  in  return  for  rice,  for 
k  dging,  and  some  dollars.  Whilst  the  emancipated  Negro  throws  away  his 
hoe,  and  dreams  of  political  privileges,  the  Eastern  immigration  will  be 
xraking  a  silent  change  in  the  countries  where  its  labour  is  prized.  These 
ir  iported  workers  will  not  be  easily  dismissed  when  they  have  taken  root,  and 
a  "  miscegenation  "  not  dreamed  of  by  planters  and  governments  will  follow 
an  a  consequence.  For  good  and  for  ill  they  will  come  into  our  colonies 
a: id  dependencies,  into  that  America  which  we  are  so  often  told  is  "  for 
Americans,"  into  the  gold-fields  of  Australia,  and  into  the  scattered  islands 
o:'the  Pacific.  Many  of  the  Chinese  will  acquire  property  by  their  frugal 
aid  abstemious  habits  ;  but  crimes  of  violence  have  already  distinguished 
their  settlements  ;  and  as  they  place  little  value  on  their  own  life,  they  do 
n  )t  respect  the  life  of  others,  nor  will  the  fear  of  death  deter  them,  from 
breaking  into  the  "  bloody  house,"  when  instigated  by  anger,  jealousy,  or 
tl.e  sense  of  wrong  and  injustice.  Centuries  perhaps  will,  however,  have 
t(-  elapse  before  the  effect  of  the  breaking  forth  of  the  old  Mongol  race 
a  nong  the  nations  of  the  earth  is  seen  in  its  entirety. 


84 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEE  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY— MAD AME  DUPONT'S  BENEVOLENT  INSTITUTIONS— 
THE  CAPITAINE  AGREES  TO  THE  SUMMONING  OF  LORLOTTE. 

THE  Duponts  rented  a  great  perfumery  shop  in  the  Rue  des  Magasins, 
Paris,  and  lived  in  the  entresol,  with  the  whole  air  so  penetrated  and 
saturated  with  the  sweet  fumes  of  lavender,  orange,  and  millefleurs,  that 
the  city  home  recalled  vividly  to  one  sense  the  barren  cliffs,  aromatic 
pastures,  and  sea-views  of  Provence.  Madame  Dupont's  orange-tubs  and 
violet-pots  in  her  window  were  supernumeraries  and  purely  aesthetical  in 
their  end. 

Madame  was  the  presiding  genius  of  the  whole  place — entresol  and 
shop — a  born  tradeswoman  and  manager,  ugly,  vivacious,  lynx-eyed,  but 
not  wasting  her  powers  on  unnecessary  irritability  and  acts  of  oppression 
to  the  bargain  as  it  were,  but  calculating  their  value  closely,  and  putting 
them  out  to  interest  as  carefully  as  the  rest  of  her  stock.  She  regarded 
M.  Dupont  as  a  desirable  adjunct  to  her  business  and  family,  was  faithful 
to  him  in  both  lights,  and  even  sharply  indulgent  to  him ;  but  she  never 
dreamt  of  regarding  him  as  anything  but  an  adjunct  and  her  inferior. 
M.  Dupont,  on  his  part,  was  quite  content  with  his  position.  It  saved  him 
an  infinite  deal  of  trouble ;  it  suited  his  debonnaire  pleasure -loving  disposi- 
tion. M.  Dupont  was  a  dapper  little  man,  with  white  teeth,  a  very  pretty 
figure,  and  a  very  small  foot,  all  which  personal  advantages  rnadame  had 
taken  into  consideration,  and  valued  rather  above  than  below  their  value  in 
making  her  alliance  with  monsieur,  qualified  and  skilled  as  she  was  in 
business  transactions.  But  the  strongest  fortress  has  a  weak  point  in 
its  battlements,  and  the  wisest  woman's  heart  has  the  flaw  of  a  folly. 

For  the  rest,  monsieur  was  idiotically  vain,  exceedingly  good-natured, 
kind-hearted,  and  a  good  deal  addicted  to  lying.  Not  the  lie  malicious  and 
spiteful,  but  the  purely  gasconading  lie,  to  glorify  himself  and  all  belonging 
to  him.  Madame  and  monsieur  got  on  together  admirably  :  he  did  the 
ornamental  and  madame  the  useful  in  their  married  life,  and  the  only  fault 
to  be  found  with  the  performance  was,  that  the  traditional  cast  of  characters 
in  the  play  suffered  a  reversal. 

The  couple  had  no  children,  but  one  of  madame's  distinctive  traits 
was  that  she  was  a  great  family  woman,  and  acknowledged,  brought 
forward,  marshalled,  and  marched  off  the  carpet,  so  far  as  settling  them  in 
life  was  concerned,  the  kinsmen  and  kinswomen  of  herself  and  monsieur  to 
the  remotest  degree  of  consanguinity,  with  the  greatest  impartiality.  She 
could  afford  herself  the  luxury,  for  the  Duponts  were  of  the  substantial 


LOKLOTTE   AND   THE    CAPITAINE.  85 

acd  affluent  order  of  tradespeople,  and  she  took  the  best  plan  to  be 
successful  in  such  operations  by  carrying  them  on  summarily,  and  without 
he  sitation. 

Madame  had  come  upstairs  from  keeping  shop  on  a  fine  afternoon  in 
M  ly,  after  the  best  hours  for  sales  and  for  fashionable  customers  were  over. 
Sl.e  was  in  her  invariable  black  gown  and  jacket,  and  black  head  dress  ; 
th  3  last  brightened  by  a  yellow  rose,  which  summer  and  winter,  in  spite  of 
decades  of  different  makes,  never  faded  or  died  out  of  madame's  head. 
"When  she  replaced  the  lace  of  the  coiffure  with  fresh  lace,  she  took  out  the 
in*  mortal  rose,  pinched  and  shook  it,  and  restored  it  in  all  its  original 
crispness  and  yellowness  to  its  niche  over  her  right  temple. 

By  way  of  rest,  madame  was  sewing  steadily  and  with  astonishing 
raoidity, — mending,  patching,  turning  upside  down,  and  inside  out,  some 
nr-sterious  portion  of  her  wardrobe,  while  monsieur,  who  had  done  nothing 
all  day  save  saunter  from  the  entresol  to  the  shop  and  back  again,  smoke 
cigarettes,  read  Galiynani  and  the  play-bills,  lay  in  a  chintz  dressing- 
go  >vn  and  a  Greek  cap,  on  a  leopard-skin  couch,  amidst  the  white  paint, 
marble,  plate-glass,  and  gilding,  with  which  madame  had  not  failed  to 
furnish  and  garnish,  as  the  French  have  it  properly,  her  little  salon,  in 
wl  ich  she  never  sat,  except  for  an  hour,  as  a  ceremony  required  of  her  by 
etiquette,  every  afternoon,  or  when  she  was  receiving  company.  Monsieur 
lay  with  his  eyes  shut,  except  at  intervals,  when  he  opened  those  orbs,  round, 
blf  ck,  and  twinkling,  to  their  full  extent,  enlarging  them,  indeed,  as  far  as 
he  was  able,  to  contemplate  with  intense  interest  and  satisfaction  in  the 
miiTor  opposite  him,  the  curl  of  his  sleek  moustache,  or  to  regard  with 
pafect  approbation  the  general  symmetry  of  his  tiny  foot,  which  he 
exorted  himself  to  kick  up  at  a  right  angle,  in  order  to  afford  him  a  finer 
op  )ortunity  of  inspection. 

"  Louis,"  exclaimed  madame,  brusquely — (she  had  none  of  the  cat- 
liks  ways  of  some  of  her  countrywomen,— -no  slyness,  no  stealthy  approach 
to  her  aim,  and  feint  of  retreat  when  she  was  about  to  attack ;  though 
ha  I  she  been  an  English  woman,  she  would  have  been  called  blunt ;  being 
Flinch,  she  was  now  and  then  stigmatised  as  brutal) — "I  shall  have 
yo  u*  cousin  Loiiotte  up  from  her  English  school  at  Boulogne  next  week, 
sir  ce  she  is  idle,  with  the  scarlet  fever  among  the  children." 

"  My  dear  Paulette,  you  are  an  angel  as  usual,  but  you  startle  me  a 
lit'  le,  to  the  jarring  of  my  teeth,"  replied  monsieur,  with  a  delicate  suggestion 
thut  madame's  abruptness  was  too  much  for  him.  "  Why  should  you 
ha  vre  Loiiotte  for  the  present  ?  Her  great  vacations  are  not  till  June, 
wl  en  she  must  come  here  or  board  herself,  and  the  little  one  has  no 
sa~  ary  to  spare  after  she  has  gowned,  hatted,  gloved,  and  shod  herself.  I 
be  ieve  she  has  inherited  a  slight  weakness  in  the  last  respect.  Never 
mi  ad,  in  the  meantime  the  school  is  obliged  to  keep  her,  and  she  has  had 
tlii  i  scarlet  fever  already.  Pardon  me  for  my  dullness,  my  friend,  but  I 
do  not  comprehend  your  invitation,"  observed  monsieur,  innocently. 

The  fact  was,  that  as  good  a  family  woman  as  madame  was,  she  was  by 


85  LOELOTTE   AND    THE    CAPITAINE. 

no  means  in  the  habit  of  treating  her  relations  to  bed  and  board  a  la  dis- 
cretion at  all  seasons. 

"Bah!  "  ejaculated  madame,  coolly,  "  you  never  see  beyond  the  end 
of  your  nose,  and  you  have  no  end  of  the  nose  to  speak  of  to  turn  the 
corner."  She  intermitted  her  stitching  for  a  second  to  tap,  by  way  of 
emphatic  contrast,  her  own  prominent,  self- asserting,  broadly-rooted  nose, 
of  which  monsieur's  smart  pug  was  but  a  small  edition. 

"  Then  help  my  short  sight,  rnadarne ;  you  owe  it  to  me,"  pleaded 
monsieur,  not  at  all  offended. 

"My  cousin  the  capitaine  is  with  his  regiment  on  duty  at  Fontaine- 
bleau ;  next  month  he  will  be  gone  to  Cherbourg,  or  he  may  be  ordered 
to  Algerie.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Monsieur  leapt  up  so  as  to  sit  upright  and  stamp  his  foot  on  the  par- 
quetted  floor.  "  Voila !  this  is  the  scarlet  fever  at  Paris,  which  is  to  super- 
sede that  at  Boulogne." 

Madame  did  not  acknowledge  the  witticism,  but  she  did  not  affect  a 
tfliade  of  concealment :  she  nodded  the  yellow  rose,  and  looked  monsieur 
somewhat  stolidly  in  the  face  with  her  green  gray  eyes.  "  I  have  fixed  that 
Lorlotte  is  the  partie  for  the  capitaine,  and  the  capitaine  for  Lorlotte. 
They  meet  here  next  week,  are  introduced,  affianced,  and  she  gets  her 
trousseau  without  trouble,  and  they  are  married  without  delay.  She  does 
not  return  to  her  tasks  as  an  instructress  ;  he  does  not  need  to  waste  any 
more  money  as  a  bachelor,  or  to  go  to  Algerie.  Her  dot,  which  has  been 
out  at  nurse,  will  suffice  for  the  requirements  of  the  service  ;  his  pay  will 
match  the  interest  of  her  dot.  It  would  have  been  otherwise  had  it  been 
Lorlotte's  cousin  Agathe  and  her  dot.  Agathe  must  look  higher.  But 
this  marriage  is  good,  excellent  for  both  our  cousins ;  therefore,  my  child, 
the  affair  is  fixed  unalterably  in  my  mind  ;  it  is  all  but  a  fact  accomplished, 
and  we  have  only  the  details  to  attend  to." 

Her  "child,"  who  served  her  as  well  as  a  child  and  a  great  deal 
better  than  a  parrot  or  a  dog,  great  or  small,  credited  her  statement 
implicitly ;  still  he  had  his  doubts  and  objections,  and  adjunct  as  monsieur 
was,  he  was  in  as  full  possession  of  the  liberty  of  speech  as  any  free-born 
Briton. 

"  But  the  capitaine  has  fifty  years,  and  Lorlotte  only  twenty-two." 

"Ah,  well,  so  much  the  richer  the  capitaine!  "  madame  distanced 
the  objector  with  grim,  disdainful  humour. 

"  The  capitaine  is  not  a  beau  gallon.  He  is  grey-headed.  He  looks 
as  if  he  had  swallowed  his  own  sword  without  breaking  it,  and  was  not 
able  to  bend  throughout  its  length.  But  Lorlotte  is  gentille,  as  gay  as  a 
chaffinch,  and  her  English  mistresses  and  pupils  have  rendered  her  wild." 

"  The  capitaine  is  a  very  good  example  of  a  militaire :  I  should  be 
proud  of  so  warlike  a  husband,"  declared  madame,  in  sudden  parenthesis, 
with  a  strange  suspicion  of  a  spice  of  coquetry,  like  the  most  daring  and 
presuming  of  fairies,  lurking  within  the  folds  of  the  black  jacket,  and  under- 
neath the  petals  of  the  ellow  rose.  "And  if  Lorlolu*  i;  .  ,>'•!  t 


LOKLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  87 

tbe  more  reason  that  she  should  bo  removed  from  these  romantic,  reckless 
Eiglish  she  is  with.  It  is  not  possible  that  the  child  can  have  lost  her 
morals  in  a  year  and  a  half  s  treat.  She  got  a  dispensation  from  her  cure 
I  know  for  her  Catholic  religion,  but  she  got  no  dispensation  that  I  heard 
of  from  her  morals  ;  I  would  not  have  permitted  such  a  thing." 

"  Have  you  never  heard,  my  dear,  that  the  capitaine  is  a  lion  when  he  is 
roused  ;  that  he  falls  into  the  rage  like  an  Englishman  when  he  is  provoked  ?  " 

"  Chansons !  we  can  have  care  of  all  that.  The  lion  is  the  most 
generous  of  animals  ;  does  not  La  Fontaine  say  so  ?  And  you  know  she 
is  used  to  those  English — one  of  whom  hanged  himself  because  they  had 
se:ved  him  tea  without  sugar." 

"  The  capitaine  could  never  keep  a  sous  of  his  pay  since  I  had  the 
hcnour  of  his  acquaintance.  He  is  not  at  all  a  mauvais  sujet,  agreed, 
inudame.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  a  father  to  the  boys  of  his  regiment 
since  he  entered  it  a  simple  soldier  ;  but  he  spends  on  beer  and  pipes  and 
He  wers  and  children,  on  relieving  his  comrades  from  the  Mont  de  Piete, 
and  on  charity  to  the  poor,  like  a  mauvais  sujet" 

"  Ten  thousand  reasons  why  the  poor  man  should  marry  and  give  his 
purse  to  another.  Once  Lorlotte  is  mistress  of  his  menage  all  that  is 
chmged." 

Monsieur  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively,  as  if  with  a  lively  realiza- 
tiou  of  that  obligation.  "Ah  I  Well,  also,  Paulette,  you  are  a  charming 
intriguante,  a  Princess  de  Benvenuto;  my  wife,  I  felicitate  you  upon  it.  It 
is  necessary  that  it  is  quite  equal  to  me,  to  Lorlotte,  and  to  the  capitaine, 
sir.ce  you  wish  it." 

"Without  doubt,"  acquiesced  madame,  coolly,  and  with  entire  con- 
viction, "  and  I  have  need  that  you  bring  the  capitaine  to  me  to-morrow 
in  order  that  he  may  be  made  ait  fait  to  my  views." 

"  Certainly,  madame;  I  shall  seek  him  out  at  his  cafe  or  his  cremerie, 
if  he  is  not  in  funds.  We  will  take  a  little  turn  on  the  Boulevards  :  our 
slj  les  suit :  there  are  never  so  many  dames  look  aside  at  me,  flash  a 
glf  nee  of  approval  at — my  boot,  shall  I  say,  Paulette  ?  as  when  I  walk 
wi'  h  a  moustache  grise,  putting  forth  the  paw  of  a  polar  bear.  Ah !  there 
was  such  a  grand  dame  descending  from  her  carriage  in  La  Rue  Lepelletier 
yet  terday,  who  gave  me  a  smile  ;  but  that  I  am  your  devoted  servant,  that 
MI:  lie  would  have  drawn  down  an  angel  on  his  knees.  But  you  are  not 
icalous,  ma  belle ;  the  foot  is  yours  to  run  your  errands,  and  I  shall  sound 
th<  capitaine  as  we  take  our  turn  on  the  Boulevards." 

"By  no  means,"  negatived  madame  decidedly  and  imperatively,  but 
wi  hout  impatience  or  ill-humour,  nay,  she  was  specially  gracious.  "  Make 
yo  ir  foot  as  pretty  as  you  please,  Louis  ;  that  is  your  forte.  I  am  not  so 
lei  ?  as  to  quarrel  with  it.  More  than  that  I  know  it  is  my  member,  and, 
of  course,  other  women  envy  me  the  possession  of  it.  What  did  I  marry 
for  ?  But  don't  meddle  in  my  matter  of  proposing  his  marriage  to  the 
capitaine.  Mind  your  own  affairs,  my  son.  Hark!  There  is  my  bell." 
Ar  d  madame  gathered  up  her  work  and  descended  like  a  bee  to  hum  over 


88  LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

the  decanting  of  whole  jars  of  heliotrope  and  attar  of  roses,  the  filling  of 
little  flacons,  the  mere  waftings  of  perfume  on  handkerchiefs  and  gloves, 
doing  all  with  conscious,  consummate  address,  the  exercise  of  which  was  in 
itself  happiness  ;  while  monsieur,  like  a  butterfly,  caught  up  his  embroidered 
cap,  exchanged  his  dressing  gown  for  his  dress  coat,  and  sauntered  out  to 
flutter  and  flaunt  and  show  off  his  pretty  face  and  figure,  which  were  part 
of  madame's  investments,  and  served  her  after  their  kind,  by  appearing  in 
any  public  garden,  or  at  any  spectacle  or  bourgeois  ball  which  might  be 
worthy  of  their  presence. 

At  the  same  hour  next  afternoon  the  capitaine  reported  himself  duly 
in  the  boudoir  at  the  entresol  in  obedience  to  the  summons  of  the  cousin, 
for  whom  he  had  much  respect  and  some  fear. 

The  capitaine  was  just  such  a  military  man  as  M.  Dupont  had  described, 
about  the  antipodes  of  the  popular  English  idea  of  a  Frenchman  :  unmis- 
takeably  elderly,  heavy,  yet  gaunt,  so  accustomed  to  face  dangers  and  dis- 
agreeables in  a  long  life  of  discipline,  that  he  did  eveiything,  good  and  bad, 
with  almost  the  same  imperturbability  of  mien,  stiff  and  stark  in  his  dark 
blue  uniform  and  high  collar  as  the  effigy  of  a  man,  unless  when  he  blazed 
out  in  a  Gallic  childishness  of  passion,  during  which  he  was  as  dangerous 
to  himself  as  to  his  neighbours. 

Madame  was  the  capitaine's  junior  by  five  years,  as  one  counts  the 
years  of  a  man's  life,  but  she  was  his  senior  by  a  century  in  worldly 
wisdom.  She  knew  him  well,  took  a  family  pride  in  his  rank,  his  red 
riband,  his  distinctions,  his  courage  and  simplicity ;  as  in  her  catholicity  of 
nature  she  took  a  pride  in  the  good  looks  and  bonhomie  of  her  butterfly 
husband.  She  had  helped  the  capitaine,  Denis  le  Froy,  before  now,  got 
him  out  of  his  spendthrift  scrapes,  and  made  a  clear  way  for  his  soldier's 
tramp  through  the  thicket  of  difficulties  which  hedge  in  a  man  whose  very 
sous  burn  his  pocket,  until  she  had  a  right  to  counsel  and  direct  him,  and 
the  capitaine,  honest  and  honourable,  admitted  the  right. 

Madame,  without  persiflage  and  in  strong  terms,  made  out  her  case  and 
her  point.  She  did  not  spare  the  capitaine,  while  she  did  not  omit  the 
capabilities  and  good  qualities  of  Lorlotte. 

She  convicted  the  poor  capitaine,  standing  at  attention  on  her  own  par- 
quetted  floor,  disconcerted,  troubled,  all  but  shamed, — he  was  too  pure  a  man 
to  be  out  and  out  ashamed  before  her, — of  mature  age,  of  want  of  provision 
for  the  future.  For  example,  he  would  need  a  nurse  some  day,  perhaps 
soon,  for  he  had  suffered  from  yellow  fever  at  Guadaloupe,  cholera  at 
Berbice,  frost-bite  in  the  Crimea,  and  ague  near  Solferino,  and  not  without 
leaving  their  traces  behind  them ;  and  unless  he  went  permanently  into 
the  hospital,  or  depended  on  one  of  the  blessed  sisters,  who  was  to  look 
after  him  ?  His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  his  sisters 
were  long  married,  and  not  having  had  the  benefit  of  madame's  advice  in 
marriaga,  had  wedded  a  couple  of  roturiers,  needy  and  disreputable,  and 
cared  little  for  him,  save  to  accept  his  gifts  and  strip  him  of  as  much  of 
his  pension  as  he  was  foolish  enough  to  give  them. 


LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  89 

Would  the  capitaine  not  like  to  have  two  little  apartments  which  he 
co  ild  call  his  own  after,  all  his  wanderings,  where  he  could  retire  when  he 
we  s  not  in  spirits  for  the  barrack  company,  where  he  could  rear  his  flowers 
on  trellises  in  boxes  in  the  windows  or  on  his  stove — a  stove  of  his  own,  by 
wl  ich  he  might  smoke  and  study  his  treatises  on  fortification  and  military 
memoirs  without  molestation  ?  Would  he  not  like  a  boy  and  girl  of  his 
o^n  to  bear  his  name,  to  enter  the  regiment  as  he  had  done,  and  rise  to 
bo  a  general,  and  to  be  dutiful  to  him,  fond  of  him,  and  to  mend  his 
co'lars  and  sew  on  his  buttons,  and  play  ecarte  with  him,  and  smooth  the 
way  to  his  seeing  the  priest,  when  her  mother's  eyes  grew  dim  and  her 
mi  mory  failed  ?  In  the  meantime  Lorlotte  would  be  as  gay  as  a  bird, 
fluttering  under  his  wing ;  and  in  the  summer,  when  madame  took  her 
holiday,  her  one  holiday  in  the  year,  they  would  all  go  together,  monsieur 
and  she,  the  capitaine  and  Lorlotte,  to  spend  the  day  at  Versailles  or 
St  Cloud,  to  see  the  gardens  or  the  manufactory  of  porcelain,  and  djue 
in  the  forest  or  the  meadows. 

The  capitaine  heard  his  life  in  its  landmarks  pulled  up  and  laid  down 
afresh  without  resistance  ;  he  even  assented  submissively,  "  Oui,  oui,  that 
is  true  ;"  and  warmed  into  a  sudden  ruddy  glow  which  seemed  out  of 
proportion  to  the  occasion,  at  the  cunning  mention  of  the  flowers  and  the 
children.  Still  he  said  candidly,  "  But,  madame,  will  Mademoiselle  Lorlotte 
pu:  up  with  the  pipe,  and  the  comrades,  and  certain  rough  phrases  we've 
grown  into  the  use  of?  I  could  not  give  them  up  at  once  ;  there  are  some 
of  them  I  might  not  give  up — ever." 

"My  dear  cousin,  Lorlotte  is  an  obedient,  affectionate  child,  more 
Iib3i*al  than  most  girls,  though  she  is  also  confirmed,  and  believes  and 
worships  as  a  good  Catholic."  Madame  assured  him,  "  It  is  understood 
thr.t  all  bachelors  reform  and  become  family  men  and  Christians  when 
th(  y  marry  ;  but  you  have  so  little  to  reform  by  comparison,  that  the 
reformation  may  be  by  degrees." 

"But,  madame  my  cousin,  will  Lorlotte  bear  with  me  when  I  am  a 
mr  dman  ?  You  know  I  do  not  mean  it,  and  I  do  not  think  I  would  harm 
'he:.1;  but  I  might  frighten  the  poor  child  beside  herself,  notwithstanding." 
And  the  big,  grey  fellow  fumbled  with  his  belt,  moved  to  being  stonily 
abashed  and  distressed. 

Madame  smiled  her  superior  smile,  and  waved  her  hand,  dismissing 
the  Quixotic  scruple.  "  Lorlotte  has  been  accustomed  to  the  English 
me  ods  like  the  English  fogs  ;  do  you  think  she  will  mind  your  thunder- 
storms, my  old  boy  ?  And  although  it  were  so,  she  is  out  in  the  world 
ale  ae,  earning  her  bread.  Say,  do  you  not  think  there  is  more  in  the 
wo  id,  you  who  have  seen  its  vices  and  crimes  from  east  to  west,  to  hurt 
an  unprotected  orphan  girl,  body  and  soul,  than  the  idle  blast,  soon  spent, 
of  a  few  furious  words  and  acts  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it,  I  believe  it,  my  good  madame,  and  I  thank  you  with  all 
m}  heart."  The  capitaine  took  the  propitiation  gratefully,  and  with 
manifest  relief.  "  You  trust  me  ;  I  hope  that  I  may  never  abuse  your  trust, 


90  LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

and  I  think  that  I  might  make  it  up  to  her.  But  again,  will  not  made- 
moiselle expect  more  than  I  can  give  her  ?  You  know  that  I  am  as  poor 
as  a  rat,  that  I  have  not  made  hoards.  Sacre!  I  can  barely  afford  her 
food  and  clothes.  Where  all  the  fine  cachmeres  and  silks,  mirrors,  and 
consoles  like  those  around  me,  are  to  come  from,  for  my  life  I  cannot  tell. 
We  can  have  no  better  menage  than  a  student's  den. 

".To  begin  with,  my  capitaine,"  madarne  premised  her  anxious  kins- 
man, "Lorlotte  will  mend  all  that  in  the  cracking  of  the  joint  of  a  fore- 
finger. She  is  as  sensible  as  a  grandmother,  that  cricket  of  a  girl.  I 
should  not  wonder  though  you  were  to  end  the  rich  man  of  the  family, 
and  to  leave  behind  you  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  endow  a  military 
college  when  you  are  done  with  your  fortune,  and  have  provided  for  your 
children." 

The  capitaine  laughed  at  that  climax  a  hoarse  laugh,  and  the  interview 
terminated  in  madame's  having  her  will,  and  getting  carte  blanche  from  the 
capitaine  to  bring  Lorlotte  to  Paris  to  marry  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 

TUB  INGRATITUDE  OF  THE  WORLD  AND  THE  CONTUMACY  OF  LORLOTTE — MON- 
SIEUR HYACINTH  STEPS  UPON  THE  SCENE  AND  AMAZES  MADAME  AND  HER 
WORLD. 

LORLOTTE  was  come.  And  without  so  much  as  a  private  conversation 
with  madame,  Lorlotte  knew  she  was  brought  to  Paris  for  a  purpose ;  the 
first  time  the  capitaine's  name  was  mentioned  she  guessed  the  purpose, 
and  alas  !  for  madame's  pet  scheme  and  the  capitaine's  matrimonial  pros- 
pects, she  made  up  her  mind  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  him  ;  so  far  had 
English  communication  corrupted  French  good  manners.  But  Lorlotte 
was  too  wise,  and,  poor  child,  she  was  too  dependent,  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
the  great  woman,  Madame  Dupont.  Lorlotte  would  keep  her  own  council 
and  enjoy  the  season,  the  sweetest  of  the  four,  well  expressed  by  the 
"  grown  green  again  "  of  its  French  description,  reverderies — and  reverderies 
in  Paris.  Without  committing  herself,  Lorlotte  was  not  quite  ingenuous, 
disinterested,  regardless  of  consequences  ;  but  what  will  you  have,  though 
she  had  lived  eighteen  months  in  an  English  school  ? 

Lorlotte  was  happy  in  having  a  face  and  figure  which  in  a  degree 
interpreted  the  spirit  within.  She  was  a  dark,  bright,  espiegle  child,  with 
a  child's  naivete,  contending  with  a  woman's  consciousness.  Her  figure 
was  small,  light,  exquisitely  dainty,  even  elegant  in  her  spring  muslins, 
and  hats  and  bonnets  trimmed  and  manufactured  by  her  own  lissome 
fingers,  anticipating  the  season  in  their  adornment  of  a  single  wild  rose, 
a  spray  of  hawthorn,  a  little  plume  of  lilac.  Her  face  was  small  too, 
and  fine -featured  in  its  youthful  roundness,  with  delicate,  slightly  con- 
tracted, very  expressive  brown  brows  over  violet  eyes,  a  tinge  of  poppy 
red  in  the  clear  brown  of  her  cheeks,  a  dimpled  cleft  cherry  for  a  mouth, 
with  its  stone  cleft  for  teeth. 


LOELOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  91 

You  may  observe  that  Madame  Dupont  had  said  not  a  word  of 
I  orlotte's  personal  attractions  to  the  capitaine.  In  the  first  place,  they 
hid  nothing  to  do  with  the  advantages  of  the  match  in  rnadame's  eyes  ;  in 
the  second,  if  they  weighed  at  all  in  a  man's  foolish  fancy,  they  would 
weigh  with  double  weight  coming  upon  him  unexpectedly. 

The  effect  which  Lorlotte's  attractions  really  had  on  the  capitaine 
\v'.ien  the/  were  formally  presented  to  each  other,  and  Lorlotte  had 
executed  her  school-girl  bow  in  return  to  the  capitaine's  salute,  was  not 

0  ily  that  the  capitaine  was  enslaved,  but  struck  dumb  in  his  slavery ; 
while  Lorlotte,  the  heedless,  hard-hearted  girl, — for  young  girls  have  at  once 
the  kindest  and  the  most  cruel  of  hearts  in  their  inexperience  and  igno- 
rance, laughed  at  him,  turned  up  her  fine  little  nose  at  him,  set  herself 
coolly  to  mock  and  make  a  cat's-paw  of  him,  and  as  if  that  were  not  bad 
e:  lough,  privately  to  tease  and  vex  him.     Not  only  was  there  nothing  in 
the  capitaine  to  catch  a  girl's  eye  at  first  sight;    there  was  not  even  any- 
tiling  to  make  him.  respectable  to  the  sharp  eyes  of  her  cupidity.     "  The 
man  is  as  poor  as  a  Franciscan,"  Lorlotte  exclaimed  to  herself  in  derision. 
"  I  heard  him  borrow  a  five-franc  piece  from  madanie  the  other  day,  and 
s"ie  told  him  to  see  that  he  made  a  note  of  it  and  paid  her.     I  should  have 
to  work  for  him  and  cook  for  him.     Perhaps  I  should  have  to  take  pupils 
a  vain,  when  he  went  on  half-pay  or  lost  his  month's  income  at  a  lottery. 

1  suppose  I  am  intended  to  serve  as  his  bread-winner  in  his  old  age  and 
infirmities,"  meditated  Lorlotte  saucily.      "No,  thank  you,  madame,  I 
w  ould  rather  not.     I  should  prefer  at  least  the  hope  of  a  strong  arm  to 
work  for  me  and  to  lean  upon,  if  not  a  heavy  purse  for  me  to  empty,  or 
the  sympathies  of  a  grand  passion  like  what  the  English  are  not  ashamed 
to  speak  of  as  coming  even  before  marriage  and  lasting  all  the  life  after- 
wards." 

But  Lorlotte  was  not  rebellious  in  the  preliminaries  before  the  capi- 
ta ine's  shyness  had  yielded  to  more  energetic  impulses,  and  caused  him  to 
e:  npower  madame  to  cross  the  rubicon  and  make  his  proposal,  which  was 
qoite  an  understood  thing,  in  form  for  him.  Such  behaviour  on  Lorlotte's 
pirt  would  have  been  regarded  as  an  outrage  on  a  young  girl's  sense 
o'  propriety,  almost  of  decency,  and  would  have  been  sufficient  provo« 
c  ition  to  make  her  be  packed  oft'  in  dire  disgrace  back  to  her  verbs  and 
har  scales  at  Boulogne.  And  Lorlotte  dearly  loved  a  holiday,  above  all  a 
1]  Dliday  in  Paris  in  May ;  had  a  natural  distaste  to  the  comparative 
isolation,  self-restraint,  and  drudgery  of  her  school-room  (though 
s.iewas  a  favourite  both  with  principals  and  pupils),  and  shrank  from 
d  sgrace.  So  Lorlotte  finessed,  laughed,  sparkled  all  over,  protested, 
--and  permitted  the  capitaine  daily  to  stand  sentry  at  her  elbow,  ac- 
c  ;pted  his  daily  bouquets  in  neatly  cut  paper  bouquetiers,  inscribed 
ii.  a  stiff  handwriting  with  fine  flourishes,  "the  sweetest  to  the  most 
s -\reet,"  and  walked  abroad  with  him  and  madame  to  church  and  market. 

But  madame  was  a  shrewd  woman,  and  far-sighted.  As  she  had  said, 
&  le  saw  through  Lorlotte's  pretended  demureness  and  real  evasions.  She 


92  LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAIXE. 

did  not  altogether  like  the  look  of  matters.  The  capitaine  in  his  humility 
and  blindness  might  be  satisfied ;  madanae  was  not  content,  and  she  had 
made  known  her  wishes  and  so  far  staked  her  credit  on  the  event.  Madame 
delivered  many  a  stinging  stricture  on  the  contumacy  of  girls,  and  the 
ingratitude  of  the  world,  in  the  ear  of  M.  Dupont,  who  tried  to  reassure 
her  in  his  light  confident  line  that  Lorlotte  must  do  her  duty.  When  was 
there  ever  heard  such  an  enormity,  absurdity,  indelicacy  as  that  of  a 
young  girl's  having  a  mind  of  her  own,  and  resisting  the  intentions  of  her 
best  friends  in  her  disposal  in  marriage  ? 

At  the  same  time  madame  acted  warily ;  she  was  not  double,  but  she 
was  not  rash.  She  did  not  want  to  come  to  close  quarters  with  Lorlotte 
too  soon,  to  push  the  perverted  girl  into  the  heinousness  of  defiance  and 
righteous  authority ;  and  madame  was  a  merciful  woman,  particularly  when 
it  would  serve  no  purpose  but  the  worst  to  be  harsh.  She  would  prefer  to 
draw  the  lines  of  her  strong  tenacious  will  and  Lorlotte's  youthful  frivolity 
and  helplessness  more  and  more  tightly  round  the  girl,  till  she  was  caught 
beyond  escape,  let  her  flutter  ever  so  wildly.  Madame's  displeasure  and 
indignation  were  reserved  in  the  background,  not  altogether  concealed, 
but  not  pouncing  on  their  victim.  For  the  present  madame  kept  the 
peace  with  Lorlotte  because  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Within  three 
weeks  the  capitaine's  regiment  would  have  quitted  Fontainebleau,  and 
madame  had  fixed  unalterably  that  within  that  brief  space  the  capitaine 
should  have  taken  to  himself  a  wife,  retired  from  active  service,  and 
pitched  his  tent — that  is,  rented  and  filled  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  con- 
venient quarter — which  should  be  home  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

A  coup-de-main  was  called  for.  Madame,  in  her  philanthropy  and 
family  devotion,  antedated  her  annual  holiday.  Every  summer  madamo 
was  in  the  habit  of  laying  aside  her  black  jacket,  cap,  and  rose  jaune,  and 
arraying  herself  in  an  imposing — what  monsieur  called  a  sublime — black  silk 
gown,  with  innumerable  flounces,  which  passed  the  most  of  its  existence  in 
silver  paper,  a  lace  shawl,  and  a  wonderful  white  capote,  with  a  compli- 
ment of  grand  asters  and  nodding  wheat  ears — in  a  single  stroke,  airy  and 
magnificent — and  going,  attended  by  her  joli  gargon,  the  most  amiable  of 
coxcombs,  and  provided  with  a  huge  hamper  of  simple  dainty  eatables  by 
way  of  luggage,  along  with  other  pleasure-seekers,  by  an  excursion  tram  to 
the  country  to  pay  her  respects  to  nature  for  the  season. 

Everybody  knows  that  the  most  fossiliferous  of  lovers  will  burst 
into  life  and  greenness  under  the  influence  of  a  holiday  in  the  country. 
Madame  afforded  the  capitaine  the  opportunity  of  liming  a  twig  for 
Lorlotte. 

There  was  madame,  in  the  sublimely  flounced  silk  gown  and  capote, 
seated  with  dignity,  yet  with  more  fervour  in  her  very  pursuit  of  an 
excursion  than  lingers  in  a  middle-aged  tradeswoman  out  of  Paris,  or  an 
open-air  beauty  at  the  station,  making  the  most  of  her  ticket  and  her 
day  abroad. 

There  was  Lorlotte,  in  her  simplest  and  most  bewitching  toilette — a 


LOELOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  93 

buff  nankin  cotton  skirt,  and  jacket  which  would  not  crash,  braided  like  a 
child's  dress,  and  a  garden  hat  with  a  dark  green  riband  and  a  little  knot 
of  violets  which  could  be  thrown  down  with  impunity  among  the  long 
grass,  and  heaped  up  with  the  most  poetically  named  of  daisies, — the 
marguerites  of  May. 

There  was  the  capitaine,  in  his  horribly  unbecoming  tight  uniform, 
high  collar,  short  grizzled  hair  in  the  regimental  cut,  covered  by  a  small 
c  jinical  casquette,  with  a  leather  strap  over  his  white  bearded  chin,  moving 
bis  legs — right,  left,  right,  left — in  strides  exactly  as  a  child  can  draw  out 
the  legs  of  a  whole  platoon  of  toy  wooden  soldiers,  guarding  the  women. 

The  three  formed  a  suggestive  group,  among  noisy  ouvriers,  long- 
haired students  and  clerks,  picturesque  farmers'  wives  and  peasant- women 
of  the  country,  smart  grisettes  of  the  city,  their  fellow  pleasure-seekers. 
But  monsieur  should  have  formed  the  fourth,  and  he  did  not  find  his  way  to 
tie  platform  till  the  last  moment.  Punctuality  is  not  the  virtue  of  petits 
maitres,  and  neither  is  discretion.  "When  monsieur  did  turn  up  in  his  outre 
dandy  costume — hunting  boots  (when  monsieur  had  never  so  much  as  seen 
a  hunt  in  his  days),  vest  striped  a  la  jockey,  pin  in  the  mould  of  a  genuine 
English  fox's  head — he  nearly  exhausted  the  toleration  which  madame  was 
\vont  to  show  to  his  shortcomings.  He  was  not  alone  ;  he  had  a  Mend  on 
his  arm  ;  a  bachelor,  a  student  from  a  neighbouring  quarter.  He  introduced 
him  volubly  all  round,  he  proposed  him  easily  as  a  volunteer  addition  to 
the  party. 

Madame  was  one  of  the  most  catholic-minded  of  bees.  It  has  been 
s^en  that  she  did  not  quarrel  with  butterflies,  and  she  did  not  quarrel  in 
tie  abstract  with  dragonflies.  But  the  contretemps  was  cruel.  She  had 
arranged  a,  partie  carree,  which  could  easily  fall  into  two  couples,  and  here 
v  as  five,  an  utterly  unmanageable  number,  and  the  fifth,  to  say  the  least, 
more  than  a  foil  to  the  capitaine.  M.  Hyacinth  Mussit  was  a  handsome 
dashing  young  man  of  four-and- twenty — one  year  older  than  Lorlotte. 
bhe  had  heard  of  him  already  as  the  beau  gar  con ;  not  only  so — as  the  witty 
and  wild  misguiding  star,  chief  lure  of  all  the  bachelors  of  his  quarter, 
T  ho  wrote  the  cleverest  feuilletons  in  the  most  reckless  journals,  and 
danced  the  hardest  and  the  longest  the  most  furious  galop  at  the  fastest 
cancing  hall.  Possibly,  if  you  were  very  near  him,  you  might  get  a  coarse 
\hiff  of  the  strong  smoke  with  which  he  and  all  his  belongings  were 
impregnated  ;  you  might  detect  that  his  linen  had  been  frayed,  rent,  and 
earned  several  times — that  his  jaunty  hat  was  napless.  In  the  same  way 
a  subtle  mind  might  discover  that  there  were  windy  fumes  in  his  eloquence, 
boles  repaired  as  best  might  be  in  his  philosophy,  a  baldness  and  hollow- 
ress  in  his  assumption  of  universal  learning  and  accomplishments  and 
knowledge  of  the  world.  But  a  subtle  mind  was  needed  for  the  discovery, 
.''o  an  inexperienced  little  girl,  conceited  on  her  own  account,  M.  Hyacinth 
\  as  the  pride  and  flower  of  the  manliness,  genius,  and  good  looks  of 
}oung  France.  And  there  was  M.  Hyacinth,  bowing  to  Lorlotte  with 
marked  deferential  gallantry,  and  staring  at  her  admiringly  with  his  great 


0-4  LOKLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAIXE. 

black  eyes  till  her  violet  eyes  sank  before  his  in  pretty  confusion,  the  poor 
capitaine  keeping  guard  in  vain.  M.  Dupont's  betise  was  so  monstrous, 
and  he  was  so  unconscious  of  it,  that  it  was  piquante ;  but  madame  could 
not  enjoy  it  as  she  enjoyed  many  of  his  betises.  The  Duponts  and  their 
friends  were  going  with  the  rest  of  the  holiday  world  to  Montmorenci, 
where  there  was  a  fete ;  but  though  they  took  advantage  of  the  cheap 
trains  there  for  the  day,  they  considered  themselves  above  disporting 
themselves  with  the  multitude  about  the  stalls,  shows,  and  open-air 
lotteries.  Madame  Dupont  and  her  cousin  the  capitaine  were  too  erect 
and  serious,  because  of  their  responsibilities  and  obligations.  M.  Dupont 
was  too  refined,  notwithstanding  he  was  dying  to  show  off  his  airs  and 
graces,  his  boots,  and  the  silk  lining  of  his  paletot,  his  rings  and  charms, 
—with  which  madame  supplied  him  liberally — to  the  gaping  throng. 
M.  Hyacinth  and  Mademoiselle  Lorlotte  were  too  intellectual  when  they 
happened  to  be  in  rarely  congenial  company  ;  out  of  it,  Lorlotte  could 
head  a  village  dance  joyously,  and  Hyacinth  prove  the  veriest  mountebank 
of  a  fair. 

The  Dupont  party  strolled  away  from  the  hubbub  of  the  shooting  at  a 
mark  and  the  merry-go-rounds,  to  the  natural  attractions  of  Montmorenci 
on  a  May-day  ;  sought  out  a  little  path  past  the  lake,  through  vineyards, 
through  a  fragrant  vista  of  walnut  trees  and  feathery  acacias,  to  a  natural 
orchard,  enamelled  with  jonquills  below  and  apple-blossoms  above,  enough' 
to  make  any  cockney  of  London  or  Paris  cry  out  to  be  allowed  to  "  pick  " 
on  all  sides,  where  they  took  possession  of  the  enchanting  dining-room, 
seated  themselves  on  the  turf,  like  a  bourgeois  version  of  a  group  by 
Watteau  or  Wouvermann,  minus  the  horses  and  dogs,  and  were  not  so 
sentimental  as  to  despise  madame 's  provision  basket,  with  its  pates  and 
spiced  bread,  its  humble  eau  de  groseille,  and  more  pretentious  sparkling 
Burgundy,  which  two  gamins  from  the  railway  station  carried  in  triumph 
behind  them. 

But  there  was  a  disadvantage  in  going  a-Maying  even  when  the 
weather  was  unexceptionable,  with  an  end  in  view,  when  you  were  not 
sure  of  all  your  company.  However  the  Duponts  kept  themselves 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  lower  orders,  they  could  not  altogether 
escape  the  freedom  of  tone  implied  in  the  association.  Just  when 
madame  wanted  to  be  most  stringent  in  the  enforcement  of  her  lour- 
yeoise  etiquette,  the  student,  M.  Hyacinth,  set  her  at  nought  and  defied 
her,  as  he  could  not  have  done  in  her  own  house  or  in  that  of  an  acquaint- 
ance, attaching  himself  to  Lorlotte,  devoting  himself  to  her,  constituting 
himself  her  partner  in  place  of  the  capitaine,  unwarrantably  and  uncere- 
moniously jostling  aside  the  antique  awkward  warrior,  as  if  Lorlotte  was  not 
a  young  bourgeoise  under  a  married  friend's  wing,  who  ought  not  to  have  a 
word  to  say  unless  to  "her  fiance  till  she  was  married  out  of  hand  at  least ; 
— as  if  Lorlotte  was  no  better  than  a  workgirl,  and  he  one  of  •the.  workmen 
who  had  come  to  have  a  day's  jollity  and  desperate  flirtation  with  her,  un- 
mindful of  the  consequences,  like  so  many  of  the  visitors  at  Montmorenci, 


LOIiLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  95 

Tlie  truth  was,  both  Hyacinth  and  Lorlotte  forgot  themselves  in  an 
abandonment  of  youthful  sentiment  and  gaiety ;  harangued  and  prattled, 
moralised  and  laughed,  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  all  their  lives, 
and  had  been  brother's  or  sister's  children  at  least.  French  men  and 
women — the  most  artificial  race  on  earth — are  more  enraptured  and  intoxi- 
cated with  their  glimpses  of  nature,  perhaps  by  reason  of  its  freshness 
?md  novelty  to  them,  than  English,  Germans,  or  Italians.  Positively 
M.  Hyacinth  became  eloquent  on  his  rhodoniontades  on  primitive  arcadia, 
truth,  tenderness,  and  by  a  youthful  analogy,  death.  His  pale,  large- 
eyed  face,  with  its  cloud  of  long  hair  and  its  traces  of  excess  in  all  things, 
rather  than  diy  addiction  to  law  and  physic,  was  lit  up,  not  with  passion, 
but  with  spirituality.  On  her  side,  Lorlotte's  vivacity  was  softened  and 
melted,  and  acquired  a  new  grace  without  losing  its  spontaneous  naivete. 

It  was  not  all  to  nature,  either,  in  the  fields  of  Montmorenci  or  of 
young  humanity,  that  these  bewitching  effects  were  due.  If  Lorlotte  had 
known  it,  there  was  a  foolish  fond  little  face  which  had  once  bloomed 
as  fair  as  Lorlotte's — a  weak,  unlawful  tie,  and  sinful  as  it  was,  not 
the  less  influential,  perplexing,  distracting — the  remembrance  of  which, 
unsought  by  M.  Hyacinth,  unacknowledged  even  to  himself,  blended  with 
his  May-day  pleasure,  and  lent  a  wild  pathos  to  his  random  talk  and  the 
expression  of  his  great  eyes  as  they  dwelt  on  Lorlotte.  Strange  mortal 
that  Frenchman  who  can  extract  a  pungent  sweetness  from  his  own  errors 
and  their  individual  punishment,  and  indulge  a  Bohemian  generosity  in 
the  fidelity  which  in  a  small  measure  redeems  his  vice  and  shields  his 
victim  !  If  M.  Hyacinth  had  known  it,  Lorlotte  was  swelling  and  puffing 
out  and  pluming  itself  as  a  little  bird  plumes  itself  for  a  grand  flight.  "  I 
am  no  longer  behind  the  English  girls,"  she  was  saying  to  herself.  "I 
have  got  a  disinterested  devoter,  and  oh !  such  a  splendid  young  lover  of 
my  own,  far  before  Miss  Emma  Herbert's  sous-lieutenant,  and  Miss  Clara 
Brown's  curate.  I  have  scorned  my  ancient  admirer  as  they  scorned  the 
old  general  and  the  great  merchant  who  lived  to  buy  them  with  their  rank 
and  their  bags  of  gold.  My  capitaine  has  only  a  little  rank  and  no  mone^P 
but  I  am  a  poor  girl  myself,  and  this  is  France — not  England." 

Madame  saw  it  all,  still  did  not  interfere  much ;  too  wise  a  woman  to 
waste  her  artillery  or  bring  it  into  disrepute  by  failure.  She  did  not  so 
much  as  rebuke  Louis.  "  He  does  not  comprehend,"  she  decided  mag- 
nanimously, "  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying  to  make  him,  for  it  is  not  in 
the  boy."  With  large  even-handed  justice  she  dealt  the  blame  to  herself 
principally.  "  I  ought  to  have  apprehended  all  the  chances  of  a  fete  and 
not  have  risked  them.  M.  Hyacinth  is  a  gay  young  bachelor,  a  vaurien, 
and  Lorlotte, — ouf!  all  girls  are  babies  or  hypocrites.  They  have  been 
exposed  to  each  other,  they  shall  be  exposed  no  more  until  after  the 
marriage,  and  then  the  capitaine  can  see  to  it.  For  the  rest,  my  poor 
dear  capitaine,  who  has  been  nonplussed  and  made  a  fool  of,  is  long- 
suffering  and  modest  "when  he  does  not  happen  to  have  his  rages.  I  must 
not  let  him  get  into  one  of  the  rages  and  he  will  make  allowance  for  a 


96  LORLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

couple  of  silly  young  people  in  the  woods,  where,  it  is  true,  a  silly  old 
woman  took  them.  It  is  an  age  since  I  read  St.  Pierre's  Paul  et  Virginie, 
but  bah  !  I  believe  there  is  something  immoral  in  trees  and  water." 

Having  mentally  originated  this  atrocious  sentiment,  madame  set 
herself  to  pay  so  much  flattering  attention  to  the  capitaine  that  she  should 
dissipate  the  glumness  and  the  spasmodic  restlessness  which  were  becom- 
ing ominously  visible  in  the  worthy  officer ;  at  the  same  time  she  kept 
a  sharp  eye  on  her  two  troublesome  young  people,  and  did  not  permit 
them  to  stray  a  couple  of  yards  from  her  till  she  had  them  again  safe  in 
the  oblivion  of  the  crowd  at  the.  station. 

But  madame,  sagacious  and  not  to  be  surprised  and  put  out  as  she  was, 
did  open  her  grey  green  eyes  when  M.  Hyacinth,  in  the  course  of  their  little 
journey  to  Paris,  with  deliberate  assurance  and  desperate  earnestness  asked 
permission  to  visit  at  the  entresol  above  the  shop  in  the  Kue  des  Magasin,  and 
accompanied  his  request  by  so  pointed  a  reference  to  Mdlle.  Lorlotte's  then 
favouring  it  with  her  presence,  and  to  his  vehement  desire  for  the  honour 
and  delight  of  a  prosecution  of  their  acquaintance  so  auspiciously  begun, 
with  the  countenance  of  her  friends,  that,  however  hasty  and  ill-timed,  it 
was  from  a  Frenchman  little  short  of  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  Lorlotte  ; 
who,  whether  from  being  so  much  in  request,  whether  from  supposing  her 
rash  little  heart  to  be  won  in  a  flash  to  hang  on  madame' s  answer,  blushed 
and  trembled  in  her  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  waited  breathlessly  for  the 
sovereign  decree  of  open  or  closed  doors. 

It  was  quite  on  the  cards  that  madame  might  have  civilly  or  haughtily 
declined  M.  Hyacinth's  overture.  She  might  have  said  plainly,  or  hinted 
with  high-flown  but  comprehensible  ambiguity,  that  the  ground  was  already 
walked  over,  and  that,  besides,  M.  Hyacinth  was  too  fast  in  his  approach  ; 
that  he  ought  to  be  provided  with  credentials  from  his  relations  expressing 
their  approval,  and  informing  her  what  they  intended  to  do  for  their  son, 
or  nephew,  or  even  their  favourite  protege,  with  statements  of  his  present 
funds  and  future  prospects,  with  sure  pledges  that  he  was  ready  to  relinquish 
•fts  bachelor  habits,  reform,  and  fee  a  steady  family  man,  before  he  crossed 
her  doorstep  with  an  eye  to  her  kinswoman — the  ci-devant  teacher  Lorlotte. 

Ah  !  but  madame  was  wise,  and  she  was  only  baffled,  not  beaten,  as 
the  last  step  would  have  confessed  her  to  be.  She  said  to  herself,  "  If 
M.  Hyacinth  has  fallen  so  madly  in  love  with  Lorlotte,  like  Abelard  and 
Heloise,  in  one  day,  as  to  shoot  himself,  or  propose  for  her  hand  on  the 
spot,  no  prohibition  of  mine  would  restrain  a  clever,  imprudent,  extra- 
vagant young  fellow,  and  the  child,  with  her  loose  English  notions,  might 
be  decoyed  and  dragged  to  ruin.  I  consent  and  I  receive  him,  and  have 
the  two  players  under  my  forefinger,  and  see  their  cards,  as  I  like  to  do 
when  I  mean  to  win  the  game.  And  I  explain  everything  and  keep  the 
peace  with  nay  capitaine  ;  he  is  not  English,  but  he  is  a  modern  Bayard, 
'  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.'  I  tell  him  so,  and  that  it  is  neither  honest 
nor  honourable  not  to  give  the  girl  a  choice ;  that  he,  a  brave  soldier, 
cannot  object  to  an  antagonist.  It  would  be  no  compliment  to  Lorlotte 


LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  97 

if  there  was  none,  when  I  shall  take  care  that  there  is  a  fair  field  for  both. 
But  I  cannot  divine  it.  I  have  always  heard  M.  Hyacinth  was  poor ;  I 
have  always  understood  that  he  had  brains.  If  Lorlotte  had  been  her 
cousin  Agathe,  with  thousands  in  place  of  hundreds  of  francs  for  her  dowry, 
to  sweep  away  his  debts  and  pay  a  premium  for  a  business  or  a  journal  to 
him,  the  whole  affair  would  have  been  clear ;  but  as  it  is,  I  declare  I  shall 
have  to  borrow  spectacles  to  see  to  the  end  of  the  affair." 

It  is  sufficient  to  write  that  rnadame  did  as  she  said,  and  within 
three  days  the  whole  quarter  of  the  Duponts — all  the  houses  and  their 
occupants,  from  the  comparative  aristocrats  on  the  ground  floors  to  the 
Mechanics  and  workwomen  in  the  garrets — were  ready  to  explode  with  the 
ttrange  story  of  the  mad  romantic  attachment  of  M.  Hyacinth  Mussit, 
in  contention  with  the  persevering  ardour  and  noble  neutrality  of  the 
capitaine.  M.  Hyacinth's  folly  excited  the  greatest  sensation.  True,  he 
was  to  a  certain  extent  a  stranger  among  them,  having  come  up,  like  other 
students,  from  the  provinces,  an  utter  stranger,  to  his  lodging  in  the 
quarter  two  years  before ;  and  he  might,  for  all  the  little  world  knew,  be  a 
prince  in  disguise,  who  could  afford  to  make  a  love  marriage  with  a 
Cinderella  of  a  pretty  all  but  penniless  young  teacher  from  Boulogne.  But 
disinterested  love  matrimonial,  even  felt  by  princes  in  disguise,  was  a 
marvel  in  that  surging,  sparkling,  calculating,  base,  kindly  Parisian  life. 


CHAPTER  III. 
Fi  !    Fi!    DONC  ! 

LOELOTTE  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  :  she  adored  her  young  handsome 
literary  Bohemian  lover — adored  him  with  the  silly,  ignorant  hankering 
r.fter  forbidden  fruit  all  the  more  for  what  she  could  fancy  of  what  had 
been  his  Bohemianism ;  adored  him  most  of  all  for  the  sacrifice  she  was 
persuaded  he  was  willing  to  make  for  her  sake.  It  was  a  girl's  first  love 
in  all  its  hare-brained  enthusiasm  and  fanaticism.  Lorlotte  viewed 
y[.  Hyacinth's  somewhat  haggard  and  sallow  young  face  as  the  face, 
not  only  of  an  Adonis  and  an  Apollo,  but  as  that  of  a  hero — a  saint  to  be, 

•  >ne  day,  in  spite  of  his  license  and  hardly  veiled  infidelity.     She  prized 
his  languors,  his  distrait  fits, — even  his  slight  but  not  uncandid  revelations 

•  >f  perversity,  cynicism,  tyranny,  which  madame  was  careful  to  point  out  to 
her  before  another  lover's  unbounded  loyalty,  unreserved  homage,  normal 
gentleness,  generous  concessions,  lavish  silent  compliments. 

Lorlotte  was  so  entranced,  so  bigotted,  so  beside  herself,  that  it  was  a 
'-.vender  she  did  not  suspect  she  was  in  a  raging  fever,  a  delirious  dream, 
i  ,nd  dread  the  awakening ; — that  she  could  credit  such  bliss  could  last  in  a 
-yorld  of  care.  In  the  meantime,  M.  Hyacinth  did  what  he  could  to 
:namtain  the  delusion  by  his  unmistakable  suit,  his  handsome  face  and 
1  ongne  winning  in  its  very  caprice  and  tragic  airs. 


r;8  LORLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

And,  alas !  the  poor  capitaine  did  what  he  could  to  enable  the  enemy 
to  scale  the  fortress,  not  only  by  being  unable  in  his  old-fashioned  tactics 
to  do  more  than  bristle  up  beside  his  lady-love,  grin  like  a  ghastly  opposing 
bastion  in  her  face,  bombard  her  like  a  performer  at  the  carnival  with  a 
shower  of  flowers,  so  costly  and  exotic  in  their  specimens  as  to  dip  him 
deep  in  his  next  instalment  of  pay,  the  incessant  fall  of  which  grew 
monotonous  and  wearisome  even  to  a  girl  who  loved  flowers  about  twenty 
time  less  than  the  moustache  grise  loved  them  ;  by  allowing  M.  Hyacinth, 
— more  in  mischief  than  malice, — to  put  him  into  one  of  his  towering 
•passions  by  villifying  the  Zouaves  or  impugning  the  tactics  of  Bonaparte, 
and  provoke  the  capitaine  to  splutter  and  sacre,  stamp  up  and  down 
in  his  boots,  rattle  his  sword,  wax  purple '  in  the  face.  So  great  was 
the  uproar  that  madame  stood  up,  large,  raw-boned  and  threatening, 
and  looked  as  if  she  would  have  seized  the  poker  had  her  stove  furnished 
her  with  such  a  weapon ;  M.  Dupont  sprung  nimbly  behind  a  cupboard- 
door,  M.  Hyacinth  desisted  from  drawing  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
and  looked  not  gay,  or  melancholy,  or  defiant,  as  he  was  apt  to  do, 
bat  astounded.  As  for  Lorlotte,  she  uttered  a  gasping  cry  of  terror 
lest  the  capitaine  should  draw  cold  steel  on  Hyacinth,  before  he  fell 
down,  convulsed  and  foaming,  in  a  fit  at  her  feet.  But  the  capitaine  only 
stormed  out  of  the  company,  and  returned  next  day,  self-condemned, 
shamed,  with  the  ashes  of  penitence  not  the  less  thick  on  his  grizzled  head 
that  he  held  it  bolt  upright  in  its  military  collar. 

Madame  was  not  conquered.  She  was  not  come  to  the  last  of  her 
resources.  She  acquainted  herself  with  certain  particulars  in  M.  Hyacinth's 
student  life,  taking  advantage  of  her  afternoon's  snatch  of  womanly  retire- 
ment and  needlework  in  her  salon  tete-a-tete  with  Lorlotte,  conveyed  the 
gossip  with  deadly  minuteness  and  accuracy  of  detail  to  the  indignant  un- 
receptive  girl,  notwithstanding  that  the  unwritten  pages  of  French  girls' 
minds  are  even  less  frequently  lumbered  and  soiled  with  the  heavy  know- 
ledge of  such  sins  and  wrongs,  than  similar  pages  of  girls'  minds  across 
the  Channel. 

Lorlotte  was  so  far  engrained  with  English  earnestness  that  she  did 
not  receive  the  communication  with  the  incomprehension  of  the  giddi- 
ness or  the  stolidity  of  a  child ;  and  her  incredulity,  her  mingled  affront 
and  scorn  for  madame's  unflinching  determination  and  imperturbability, 
would  have  made  a  picture. 

"  You  slander  him  to  me,  madame,  who  will  believe  in  him!  What 
clo  such  words  signify  ?  "  exclaimed  Lorlotte,  in  a  grand,  vague  triumph  of 
faith. 

"  To  see  is  to  believe  with  the  greatest  infidel ;  is  it  not  so,  Lorlotte  ? 
I  work  no  miracle,  but  I  can  convince  you.  He  has  not  parted  from  the 
girl  to  this  day ;  he  has  put  her  out  of  his  lodging,  but  he  cannot  tear 
himself  from  the  poor  miserable  altogether.  That  young  man  has  a  heart 
somewhere,"  declared  madame, — forced  to  do  so  by  clear,  impartial 
instinct, — "though  not  for  you.  No.  I  cannot  tell  what  he  moans  by 


LQULOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

p  lying  his  addresses  to  you  ;  I  ani  lost  there,"  continued  madame,  frankly, 
s  aring  with  her  small  grey  eyes  into  vacancy,  and  shaking  her  yellow  rose 
in  a  state  of  prostration  at  heing  puzzled.  "  All  the  same  he  goes  to  see 
the  grisette  in  her  lodging  near  St.  Denis.  He  takes  her  out  for  a  turn 

0  i  the  nearest  boulevard,  when  he  is  gone  from  us,  or  before  he  comes 
i;;  us,  when  he  is  certain  we  are  out  of  the  way.    He  will  be  there  to-night, 
Y.ithin  this  hour,  since  Notre  Dame  has  struck  five.     If  you  like,  I'll  give 
v,p  the  shop  to  the  shopmen  and  women,  and  I'll  stay  at  home  to  receive 
;nd  entertain  the  capitaine.     Ah,  there  is  a  valiant  and  true  heart  for 
yju,  naughty  girl ;  without  a  thought  for  so  much  as  a  vivandiere,  save  as 
a   sister,  since  he  quitted  his  mother's  side.     But  are  you  brave  and 
honest,  Lorlotte?     You  doubt  my  information  ;  will  you  come  with  rne, 
a  ad  see  and  believe  ?" 

"  I  will  come  to  prove  that  the  words  you  have  repeated  are  false, 
nadanie.  You  ought  to  be  undeceived;  you  are  too  true  a  woman,  you 
Lave  been  too  good  to  me," — with  a  quick,  quivering,  girlish  sob  in 
tie  middle  of  her  fiery  heroics, — "to  act  as  a  spy  and  a  scandal- 

1  longer." 

Madame  did  not  stay  even  to  shrug  her  shoulders,  but  went  promptly 
t)  procure  shawls  and  bonnets, — plain  shrouding  shawls  and  bonnets, 
s  ich  as  were  worn  in  general  by  poorer  tradeswomen  out  on  errands, — 
P  ud  a  thick  veil  for  Lorlotte,  and  took  the  girl  on  her  arm,  but  neither 
creeping  nor  clutching  her  support,  to  the  boulevard. 

There,  at  the  gayest  hour  of  gay  spring  Paris, — when  the  world  is  out 
c  n  evening  airings  and  diversions, — when  the  air  is  balmy,  not  with  cigars 
clone,  but  full  of  the  bitter  sweetness,  the  lusciousness,  the  languor  of  the 
scent  of  sheaves  of  late  wallflower,  hyacinths,  narcissuses,  contesting  the 
f  eld  of  the  air  with  the  more  delicate,  fresher  and  more  honeyed  fragrance 
( f  early  blushing  roses  on  budding  rose-trees,  and  blossoming  over  boxes  of 
1'ght  green  feathery  mignonette, — at  the  season  when  the  brilliant  boule- 
A  ards  form  the  most  brilliant  mosaic  of  gorgeous  shops  and  tender  green 
haves,  among  the  well-pleased  loungers  and  animated  domino  players, 
i  ladarne  and  Lorlotte  passed.  With  a  great  start,  as  if  her  heart  had 
jiven  a  mighty  throb,  from  Lorlotte, — and  even  a  little  thrill  from 
the  calm,  philanthropic  heart  of  madame, — the  two  watchers  descried  the 
( ouple  they  sought  a  few  yards  before  them  on  the  quieter  side  of  the  way, 
1  leside  the  railings — strolling  apart,  and  engrossed  as  if  they  were  the  only 
]  '.air  in  the  thronged  world ;  the  tall  figure  of  the  man  bending  down  to 
Ihe  woman,  whose  little  band-box  he  carried  openly,  well  nigh  ostenta- 
1  iously,  and  occasionally  touching  her  shoulder  with  his  disengaged  hand 
i  imiiiarly  and  caressingly ;  the  woman  creeping  close  to  him  for  protection 
i  L*om  the  carriages  which  drove  close  by  and  from  other  assailants,  reaching 
up  to  him  to  hear  and  answer  his  continued  speech  ;  but  a  broken-down, 
i  ather  than  a  pert  figure.  There  was  no  mistaking  M.  Hyacinth's  step, 
j  ir,  profile ;  and  the  woman  with  him  was  in  a  grisetto's  working  dress, 
vith  her  cap,  neckerchief,  and  apron,  clean,  but  not  smart;  and  a  face 


100  LOELOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

which  might  have  been  pretty  when  it  was  round  and  dimpled,  but  now 
had  no  more  attraction  than  the  pitiful  interest  of  the  contrast  between  its 
youthfulness  and  thinness.  It  was  no  older  a  face  yet  than  Lorlotte's ; 
and  its  eyes  still  retained  the  arch  habit  of  continually  lifting  up  and 
letting  fall  their  glances,  though  it  was  no  more  now  than  a  mechanical 
trick  of  the  eyelids,  red  and  swollen. 

After  the  first  terrible  throb  of  Lorlotte's  heart,  which  madame  both 
saw  and  felt,  and  which  frightened  her  a  little,  lest  the  girl  should  become 
ill,  have  to  be  carried  into  a  shop,  cause  an  esclandre,  Lorlotte  turned  of 
her  own  accord  and  walked  home  so  fast  that  madame  had  difficulty  in 
keeping  up  with  her.  When  they  reached  the  shop  in  the  Rue  des  Magasins 
Lorlotte  took  no  notice  of  M.  Dupont,  who  was  in  the  confidence  of 
madame,  and  had  prepared  an  extravagant  pantomime  of  sympathy,  made 
no  inquiry  after  the  capitaine,  but  proceeded  straight  to  her  little  bedroom, 
locked  herself  in,  and  remained  deaf  and  dumb  to  all  invitations  to  join  the 
family  at  supper,  all  requests  to  see  whether  she  was  ailing,  or  what 
comfort  of  chocolate  or  coffee  with  milk  she  could  receive  under  the 
circumstances. 

It  was  childish  behaviour,  and  madame  left  the  offending  child  to 
herself,  notwithstanding  monsieur's  horrified  insinuations  that  Lorlotte 
might  have  a  chafing  dish  and  charcoal  in  her  private  possession,  or  that 
she  might  steal  out  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  before  the  doors  were 
locked,  and  have  recourse  to  the  Seine.  Think  of  the  little  man's  utter 
discomfiture  and  strange  misery  if  he  should  be  called  upon  to  go  to 
the  Morgue  and  identify  the  drowned  draggled  body  of  the  wayward 
little  cousin,  instead  of  filling  the  office  of  young  father  in  giving  away 
the  little  cousin  to  a  husband  old  enough  to  be  her  father — the  trusty 
capitaine.  But  for  that  matter,  all  who  liked  to  go  with  "  the  steps  of  a 
fox,"  and  listen  outside  Lorlotte's  chamber-door,  could  assure  themselves 
quietly  of  the  baselessness  of  the  charcoal  and  the  Seine  visions  by  the 
muffled  sounds  of  the  impulsive  sobs  and  simple  wails  with  which  the 
Gallic  nature  of  the  girl  asserted  itself. 

Madame  considered  that  she  had  administered  to  Lorlotte  bitter 
medicine,  which  could  not  be  swallowed  without  a  grimace,  but  which 
would  begin  very  soon — next  morning,  perhaps — to  work  its  cure.  Madame 
was  once  more  mistaken.  In  the  marrying  of  Lorlotte  she  had  to  endure 
not  one  alone,  but  a  series  of  surprises  and  checks. 

Lorlotte  came  down  to  the  second  breakfast  with  shining  eyes  and  flaming 
cheeks,  and  announced  to  madame,  as  soon  as  monsieur  had  strutted  out 
on  his  daily  round  of  enjoyments,  that  M.  Hyacinth  was  the  victim  of  a 
conspiracy — that  she,  Lorlotte,  was  sure  of  it.  He  was  the  prey  of  a 
designing  depraved  woman,  a  monster  of  iniquity,  seeking  to  lure  him  to 
his  destruction.  Of  course  she,  Lorlotte,  would  no  more  give  him  tip 
than  she  would  surrender  without  a  thought  of  saving  him,  a  friend  who 
was  slipping  within  the  bars  of  a  cage  to  encounter  the  claws  and  the 
teeth  of  the  fiercest  tigress  in  the  Jardins  des  Plantes,  or  crossing  a 


LORLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE.  101 

threshold  to  meet  the  scorching  air  and  crushing  bea-nis  of  a  house 
on  fire. 

Madame  had  a  little  qualm  that  Lorlotte's  flights  were  getting  beyond 
parallel,  except  in  the  cells  in  Bicetre ;  but  she  bethought  herself  of  the 
unlucky  English  association  and  mania,  and  condescended  to  remonstrate. 
'•  M.  Hyacinth  is  not  a  little  boy ;  he  is  five-and-twenty,  and  has  seen  the 
\\orld."  ."  Some  men  are  never  spoilt  by  worldly  wisdom,  are  always 
gaileless  enough  to  be  deceived,  especially  by  a  woman.  Madame  has 
heard  his  beautiful  sentiments."  Madame  slightly  raised  her  straight, 
thick  eyebrows,  and  sniffed  with  her  powerful  nose.  "  Yes,  heard  and 
forgotten.  I  do  not  give  a  sniff  of  eau- de-cologne  for  beautiful  sentiments ; 
they  are  like  the  essence  of  the  flowers,  here  this  moment,  gone  the  next — 
eccept  musk,  and  it  is  not  made  of  flowers,  but  of  rats'  tails  and  the  debris 
o :  great  fishes ;  and  it  is  vulgar,  bourgeoise,  I  suppose,  like  plain  virtues 
a  id  menages.  But,  Lorlotte,  one  ought  not  to  be  unjust,  cruel,  even  to  a 
hated  rival,  a  poor  fallen  girl.  M.  Hyacinth's  grisette,  Minie,  has  not 
b  :>rne  a  bad  name,  except  in  keeping  house  for  him,  and  thus  yielding  to  a 
g-eat  temptation,  which  only  one  in  a  thousand,  like  my  capitaine,  tramples 
uader  foot,  as  St.  George  trampled  the  dragon,"  protested  madame,  rising 
from  her  dire  prosaicness,  in  the  excitement  of  the  emergency,  to  a  poetical 
image.  "  Minie  is  younger  than  M.  Hyacinth,  ma  foi !  as  young  as  you. 
li  is  she  who  has  been  the  seduced,  by  the  bold,  clever,  scoffing,  sentiment- 
alizing young  man,  according  to  all  the  laws  of  nature  and  reason.  Besides, 
it  is  certain,  and  you  are  a  fool  if  you  cannot  see  it,  that  he  would  have 
no  difficulty  in  parting  from  her  if  she  had  not  been  altogether  faithful  to 
him ;  he  would  not  be  torn  in  two  and  tortured  as  you  see  he  is,  no, 
nor  so  grossly  imprudent,  if  they  had  not  loved  each  other,  if  he  had 
found  any  hole,  however  small,  in  her  conduct,  out  of  which  he  could 
have  cast  in  a  heap  his  old  regard,  kindness,  constancy." 

"It  is  not  true,"  persisted  Lorlotte,  half  sullenly,  half  passionately. 
"  Why  does  he  come  to  me  if  it  is  so  ?  He  can  make  no  horrible  sordid 
manage  de  eonvenance  with  me,  as  you  would  have  me  make  with  your 
siupid  raging  old  man, — your  kinsman,  the  capitaine.  M.  Hyacinth  loves 
me, — poor,  obscure,  ignorant,  silly  girl  as  I  am  ;  and  he  is  mine,  a  moi,  my 
beautiful,  gifted,  noble  young  lover.  Ordinary  minds  cannot  understand 
him,  but  I  can  understand  him.  I  stand  by  him,  he  has  not  trusted  me 
in  vain." 

"  Truly,  mademoiselle,  you  had  better  be  sure  whom  you  trust," 
commented  madame,  with  a  sneer.  "I  pass  over  that  you  are  dis- 
ol  >edient,  insolent,  ungrateful — I  say  nothing  of  it ;  but  I  warn  you,  though 
M.  Hyacinth  has  asked  permission  to  visit  here  while  you  are  with  us, 
ho  does  not  advance  in  his  suit.  Ma  foi,  there  may  be  double  treachery." 

The  warning  only  drove  Lorlotte  wild. 

"  You  insult  me,  madame ;  you  insult  both  him  and  me.  I  believe 
y<  u  are  in  a  conspiracy  against  us,  but  I  shall  not  give  him  up  for  any- 
tling  you  have  told  me,  nor  for  what  I  have  seen.  He  would  not  do  it  if 


102  LORLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

I  were  with  him,  if  lie  knew  Low  I  adore  Lini.  I  sLall  save  Liin  if  I  can. 
At  least  I  sLall  be  Lis  ;  I  shall  Lave  ventured  all  for  Lira,  I  shall  perish 
with  Lim." 

"  Lorlotte,  you  are  a  mad,  wicked  girl,"  madame  continued,  her  eyes 
looming  large  and  grim  as  she  pronounced  the  sentence.  "  You  are  not 
worthy  of  my  cousin  the  capitaine,  and,!  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  you  to  get  disgraced  by  you.  If  you  do  not  repent  and  submit  to 
your  superiors  like  a  modest  girl,  I  send  you  back  in  eight  little  days,  my 
outrageous  mademoiselle,  to  Boulogne,  to  your  school  dormitories  and 
livres  de  version.  I  refuse  on  principle  ever  to  see  your  kitten's  face 
again." 

"  Very  well,  madame  ;  I  go  back  to  Boulogne  in  a  moment,  and  you 
find  I  bid  each  other  an  eternal  adieu,"  assented  Lorlotte  as  proud  as  a 
countess,  as  if  she  had  a  chateau  and  a  provincial  court  to  go  to.  And  had 
she  not  Hyacinth  her  student,  and  his  garret-lodging  and  Spartan  fare  to 
share  ?  and  was  not  that  better  than  all  the  chateaux,  in  and  out  of  Spain, 
and  courts  in  the  holy  Roman  Empire  ? 

So  a  matrimonial  scheme  of  madame's  was  for  the  first  time  in  her 
experience  to  fall  ignominiously  to  the  ground,  its  wreck  damaging  in  place 
of  benefiting  its  subject.  But  madame  had  a  week  to  come  and  go 
upon,  and  there  was  still  the  chapter  of  accidents.  She  found  herself 
compelled  however  to  break  to  the  capitaine  what  remained  to  be  broken 
to  him  of  the  fact  that  the  peaceful  home  and  the  blessed  family  life  which 
Lad  been  in  store  for  Lim,  were  fading  and  crumbling  away,  .matched 
against  tLe  levity  and  obstinacy  cf  a  girl,  an  orphan  teacher  in  a 
school. 

The  intimation  did  not  put  the  capitaine  in  one  of  his  rages,  it  was 
trifling  contradictions  which  overcame  him  in  that  disagreeable  manner. 
He  bore  great  misfortunes  like  a  man,  like  a  good  man,  meekly  as  well  as 
mournfully.  The  capitaine  even  interposed  and  interceded  for  the 
incorrigible  culprit  Lorlotte.  He  alleged  that  since  he  had  consented'  to 
an  open  field  and  to  do  battle  with  anotLer  combatant,  for  Lis  br'jcle.  Le 
tLe  vanquisLed  man  must  conform  to  tLe  rules  of  civilized  warfare,  sur- 
render and  withdraw  his  claim,  without  complaint  or  molestation  either  of 
the  \ictor  or  the  prize  he  Lad  won.  During  the  days  that  Lorlotte  stood  at 
bay  after  the  glaring  impropriety  of  her  resistance  to  fate  and  madame,  the 
capitaine  not  only  did  not  reproach  her  and  urge  her,  but  was  so  studiously, 
wistfully  polite  to  her  that  the  rigidity  of  his  bearing  took  a  special  tender 
inclination  towards  her ;  which  though  she  wilfully  misnamed  it  hypocritical 
assumption,  of  a  piece  with  the  stratagem  which  was  to  have  married  her 
off-hand  to  the  elderly,  thriftless,  turbulent-tempered  soldier,  unconsciously 
soothed  her  wounded  spirit  and  tempted  the  troubled  aggrieved  girl  to  fly 
for  refuge  to  the  honour  and  humanity  of  her  natural  enemy.  Madame's 
hawk's  eyes  detected  and  darted  on  the  single  favourable  symptoms. 

"  I  do  not  give  it  up  yet.  I  do  not  forbid  the  patterns  of  the  trousseau. 
My  capitaine  has  not  departed  from  Fontainebleau.  My  cat  of  a  mademoiselle 


LOKLOTTE   AND   THE   CAPITAIXlu.  103 

is  not  packed  off  to  Boulogne  again.  Perhaps,  who  knows?  I  may  shrug 
ny  shoulders  at  the  whole  set  when  Denis  does  not  go  to  Algerie 
after  all." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LORLOTTE  MAD,  THE  CAPITAINE  HER  KEEPER. 

T  [IEEE  was  a  crisis  at  the  door  more  imminent  and  conclusive  than  madame 
could  have  hoped  for.  In  that  merry  month  of  May,  so  fertile  in  revolu- 
tions at  Paris,  M.  Hyacinth  suddenly  vanished  from  the  entresol  in  the 
Hue  des  Magasihs  to  the  last  hair  of  his  beard,  and  made  no  sign  at  the 
vory  moment  when  Lorlotte  was  in  tribulation  because  of  him,  when  as  a 
p'eux  chevalier  he  should  have  stood  by  her  to  death  and  marriage. 

For  three  whole  days  M.  Hyacinth  did  not  show  himself  at  the  Duponts, 
dd  not  send  explanation  or  apology.  He  was  no  longer  visible  in  the 
s'veets  or  the  gardens  ;  was  no  longer  to  be  heard  of  as  seen  or  spoken  to 
iii  any  company.  It  looked  as  if  he  had  dissolved  in  thin  air,  and  become 
impalpable  as  any  ghost,  ancient  or  modern. 

Madame  vouchsafed  no  remark  on  the  secession  from  her  society  ;  but 
there  was  a  repressed  glance  in  her  grey-green  eyes  which  told  its  tale. 
jLonsieur  chattered  his  wonder,  called  himself  back,  and  swallowed  his 
words  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

Lorlotte  was  staggered,  stunned,  scared;  but  here  she  would  not  be 
as  Fronted.  She  stared  at  madame  as  if  she  would  look  her  through  and 
through.  Had  she  done  this  thing  ?  But  no ;  madame  was  honest  in  her 
b'  untness,  downrightness,  imperiousness,  and  madame's  face  was  that  of 
0:1  innocent  ignorant  woman. 

Lorlotte  was  looking  out  of  one  of  the  windows  of  inadame's  salon  which 
d  )rninated  over  a  back  view,  somewhat  of  a  Savoyard's  view  of  roofs  and 
chimneys  ;  but  it  also  commanded  an  ancient  grand  house  in  a  court,  long 
abandoned  by  the  quality,  and  used  as  a  warehouse.  Desolation  reignel 
ii  the  old  court  and  garden ;  bent,  withered,  moss-grown  trees,  which  no 
summer  would  make  young  again,  plants  clinging  to  the  walls,  tiger-cats 
watching  Jean  Jaques'  sparrows,  were  all  the?  life  there.  The  profound 
f(  rlornness  and  decay  of  the  hotel  contrasted  with  the  bourgeoise  glitter 
aid  lacquer  of  madame's  salon,  and  something  in  the  contrast  made 
1  oiiotte  clench  her  small  hands  and  whisper  to  the  capitaine  to  speak  with 
h  >r  in  the  window. 

"  Will  you  see  what  has  come  to  him  ?  There  is  only  you  who  has 
si  ill  any  regard  for  me,  so  that  I  can  ask  you  to  serve  me  ;  if  you  refuse  I 
ir  ust  find  some  other  messenger." 

He  did  not  refuse ;  the  brick-red  colour  rose  to  the  roots  of  his  close - 
cl  ipped  grizzled  hair,  but  he  saluted  her  with  his  hand  to  his  livid  forehead 
and  accepted  her  commission  in  half  military  phrase, — "  Yes,  my 
mademoiselle,  without  fail," — and  went  awav  on  the  instant. 


104  LORLOTTE  AND   THE   CAPITAINE. 

He  came  back  in  the  evening  much  hotter  than  could  be  accounted  for 
from  his  march  in  double  quick  time  to  and  from  M.  Hyacinth's  lodgings. 
He  was  perturbed,  distressed.  He  knew  he  was  going  to  hurt,  shame, 
break  the  heart  of  the  little  girl  who  had  been  proposed  to  him  as  his  wife. 
it  would  be  saying  little  to  assert  that  the  capitaine  would  rather  have 
marched  up  to  the  cannon's  mouth,  for  he  had  seen  smoke  with  the  stern 
joy  of  a  brave  man,  a  born  soldier  ;  he  would  sooner  have  retreated,  with 
borne  down  colours  and  trailing  pikes,  before  the  foe.  But  mademoiselle 
had  elected  him  to  the  duty  of  relieving  her  devouring  anxiety,  and  he 
would  relieve  it,  though  she  would  hate  him  for  ever  afterwards ;  and  there 
was  every  facility  afforded  for  tete-a-tete  between  the  capitaine  and  Lorlotte. 

"  Where  is  M.  Hyacinth?"  demanded  Lorlotte,  laying  aside  all  her 
coyness  in  her  bewilderment  and  apprehension.  * '  Why  is  he  not  here  ? 
Has  he  been  interdicted,  insulted?"  pressed  Lorlotte,  her  questions 
following  each  other  like  successive  flashes  of  lightning,  her  bright  cheeks 
stained  and  dyed  like  poppies,  no  longer  like  June  roses,  but  flushed  and 
heavy  with  passion,  her  violet  eyes  distended,  her  nostrils  quivering. 

"M.  Hyacinth  is  particularly  engaged,  mademoiselle,"  growled  the 
capitaine,  low  and  slow,  and  hanging  his  head  in  spite  of  the  stiffness  of 
his  collar. 

"  But  how  ?  I  will  know,"  cried  Lorlotte,  beating  her  hands  together, 
and  stamping  her  foot.  "  Mon  Dieu  !  he  is  ill,  he  is  dead." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  mademoiselle;  anything  but  that,"  exclaimed  the 
capitaine,  blowing  his  nose  sonorously. 

"  Bid  he  not  bid  you  tell  me  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wait  for  his  bidding.  I  am  afraid  he  was  too  much  occu- 
pied to  think  of  it,  but  I  said  I  should  inform  you  that — that  M.  Hyacinth 
Mussit  was  married  at  noon  this  day  at  the  bureau  of  the  district  mayor, 
and  immediately  afterwards  at  the  nearest  church — for  Mademoiselle 
Minie  is  a  good  Catholic — to  Mademoiselle  Minie  Yirien,  late  sewing-girl 
at  an  outfit  shop  in  some  quarter  or  other — tete  bleu !  I  forget  the  name," 
blustered  the  capitaine,  in  a  clumsy  effort  to  conceal  his  consciousness. 

"You  are  like  the  rest,"  cried  the  poor  girl,  turning  upon  him  with 
blind,  random  blows,  in  her  agony  resisting  and  fighting  to  the  last.  "  You 
are  hired  to  deceive  and  betray  me." 

"  My  mademoiselle,  hear  me,"  he  pleaded.  He  did  not  heed  her  ingra- 
titude and  recklessness,  he  could  no  more  have  been  incensed  by  her 
words  than  he  could  have  been  enraged  by  a  poor  dog  which  had  licked 
his  hand  an  hour  before,  snapping  at  him  as  he  strove  to  pluck  a  knife 
from  its  side.  He  was  only  eager  to  disabuse  her,  to  open  her  eyes, 
though  she  might  be  shocked,  driven  to  despair.  "M.  Hyacinth  was 
arrested  for  debt  in  bed  on  the  morning  of  the  17th,  three  days  ago.  He 
has  been  in  prison  ever  since  till  this  morning.  He  knew  what  was 
coming,  and,  pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  wanted  to  save  himself  with  your 
fortune.  He  thought  it  was  thousands,  not  hundreds.  M.  Dupont  made 
a  mistake  in  stating  the  number  the  day  he  brought  him  to  the  railway 


LORLOTTE  AND  THE   CAPITAINE.  105 

station,  when  lie  proposed  to  accompany  you  to  Montniorenci,  and 
M.  Hyacinth  had  heard  a  rumour  of  Mademoiselle  Agathe's  dot,  and 
stranger  as  he  was,  confused  the  relations." 

Lorlotte  was  subdued  now ;  she  was  shrinking  down  and  hiding  her 
face  with  her  hands.  "All  base,"  she  muttered  bitterly,  "from  first  to 
last." 

But  the  capitaine,  though  his  heart  bled  for  her,  did  not  know  what  it 
was  to  leave  a  tale  unfinished,  or  to  kick  a  man  with  his  back  at  the  wall, 
and  trample  on  the  fallen. 

"  M.  Hyacinth  was  a  desperate  man,"  he  continued,  "  and  M.  Hyacinth 
is  arrested — the  17th,  as  I  said — and  is  taken  away  without  any 
noise.  He  goes  without  saying  that  he  desires  to  keep  the  mystery  as 
quiet  as  possible,  and  to  pass  off  the  officers  in  plain  clothes  as  friends 
from  the  country,  as  we  all  do,  mademoiselle  ;  but  the  quieter  he  keeps  it, 
the  longer  he  is  likely  to  be  of  getting  his  release.  Now,  what  does  that 
brave  girl  Minie  do?"  went  on  the  capitaine,  warming  with  his  subject, 
and  forgetting  for  a  moment  the  interest  of  his  auditor.  "  She  is 
acquainted  with  the  accident ;  she  gives  up  work,  food,  rest,  everything, 
for  the  next  three  days  and  nights.  The  faithful  girl  flies  about— doing  it 
by  stealth,  keeping  his  secret  all  the  time — you  comprehend  ? — to  all  the 
journal  offices  who  owe  money  to  M.  Hyacinth,  and  all  the  friends  who 
have  borrowed  of  him,  and  must  pay  him  before  his  day  of  reckoning. 
She  adds  her  little  store  to  it ;  she  has  a  sale  of  the  small  effects  in  her 
garret,  and  adds  that  also,  till  she  makes  up  the  requisite  sum,  and  has 
out  her  friend,  a  free  man  again,  in  triumph  this  morning ;  only  there  is 
nothing  but  bare  walls  to  go  to,  for  his  creditors  have  taken  away 
his  bed,  his  chairs.  It  is  to  her  equal,  more  than  equal ;  she  has  not 
even  bare  walls  to  go  to,  and  she  may  beg  in  the  streets,  because  she  has 
been  dismissed  by  her  employers  for  him." 

"Stop  there,  monsieur  the  capitaine,"  commanded  Lorlotte,  putting 
down  her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  speaker  with  a  white,  contracted  face. 
"  She  has  done  all  for  him.  He  would  have  been  a  brute  if  he  had  not 
done  what  he  could  for  her  in  return.  Ah  !  she  has  the  best  right  to  him  ; 
and  she  may  take  him,"  added  Lorlotte,  with  a  hysterical  laugh,  passing 
swift  as  an  arrow-flight  to  the  painful  process  called  trying  to  "  pluck  up  a 
spirit."  "  Much  good  may  he  do  her." 

The  capitaine  did  not  admire  and  applaud  the  process ;  he  rebuked  it 
in  the  simple  gravity  and  persistence  with  which  he  pursued  his  narrative 
and  gave  its  sequel.  "  They  are  sitting  hand  in  hand  within  the  bare  walls, 
Ae  is  fainting  on  his  breast  with  hunger  and  with  the  bliss  of  being  his  wife. 
He  is  feeding  her  with  the  only  crust  and  drop  of  wine  he  can  procure,  and 
crying  over  her,  and  vowing  to  cherish  her  and  live  for  her.  He  begs  you  to 
forgive  and  forget  him  utterly ;  and  you  forgive  the  poor  young  miserables, 
and  bless,  not  curse,  them,  mon  enfant,"  implored  the  capitaine. 

But  Lorlotte  broke  away  from  him  with  a  wild  "  Moi !  I  have  nothing 
:o  forgive  and  forget.  But  there  is  one  person  to  whom  I  owe  something. 

VOL,  xvi. — NO.  91.  6. 


106  LOELOTTE  A.ND   THE   CAPITAIME. 

I  shall  not  forget  you,  my  capitaine.  I  love  you."  A  perverse,  regardless, 
unblushing  speech,  but  one  which  caused  the  capitaine's  brain  to  reel  as  if 
a  mine  had  sprung  beneath  it. 

Lorlotte  did  not  fall  ill  on  the  demolition  of  he*r  romance,  she  was 
of  too  healthy  a  nature.  Neither  did  she  run  away  back  to  Boulogne  to 
escape  lectures,  blame,  condolence,  fresh  schemes  for  her  establishment. 
She  was  too  matter- of- fact,  in  spite  of  her  spice  of  romance  and  her 
rebellious  adventure,  and  too  dependent.  She  accepted  the  situation,  and 
lived  on  in  the  Rue  des  Magasins,  but  listless  and  heartsick  to  begin  with, 
not  caring  what  became  of  her,  who  talked  of  and  to  her,  and  that  the 
capitaine  had  not  suspended  his  visits  to  the  entresol,  when  he  was  off 
duty,  for  a  single  day,  or  intermitted  a  single  bouquet ;  and  rnadame  was 
n,s  pointed  as  ever  in  presenting  Lorlotte  with  the  largest  and  the  choicest 
of  the  flowers. 

What  will  the  world  think  if  it  is  informed  that  in  about  seven 
days  Lorlotte  began  to  recover  a  little  from  her  mortal  malady  of  a  broken 
heart  ?  Before  condemning  Lorlotte  for  fickleness  and  levity,  reflect  that 
she  had  only  known  M.  Hyacinth  for  a  wonderful  fortnight ;  now  the 
girl's  heart  which  is  broken  by  the  startling,  sad,  mortifying  end  of  even 
the  rapture  of  a  fortnight,  must  be  fragile  indeed. 

Lorlotte 's  heart  was  made  of  stouter  stuff.  She  had  only  come  to  that 
trying  stage  of  her  girl's  history  when  she  must  be  taught  that  life  and 
happiness  is  not  hers  to  have  and  to  hold  ;  when,  on  the  contrary,  she 
must  awake  some  fine  morning  and  rise  and  go  up  with  her  fond  dreams, 
eager  ambitions,  heart  desires,  and  bind  them,  lay  them  there  on  the  altar 
of  burnt  offerings,  slay,  and  kindle  the  pile,  and  leave  them  there  in  ashes. 
Well  for  her  if  the  will  is  taken  for  the  deed,  and  the  ram  caught  in  the 
thicket  substituted  for  the  son,  the  only  son  Isaac  ; — if  it  is  but  the  light 
traceries  of  fancy,  vanity,  and  passion  of  the  young  girl,  and  not  the 
tender  affections,  the  cherished  memories  and  hopes,  all  the  delicate  cling- 
ing fibres  of  the  woman's  heart. 

In  seven  more  days  of  judicious  neglect  from  raadame,  inconsequent 
mercurialism  from  monsieur,  old-world  loyalty  of  homage  from  the 
capitaine,  of  May  and  of  Paris,  Lorlotte  arrived  at  looking  up  and  looking 
about  her  again,  at  shaking  out  her  flowing  muslin  skirts,  and  twirling  her 
waves  of  glossy  hair,  at  lingering  over  the  arrangement  of  the  capitaiue's 
great  stars  of  Cape  jessamine,  coral  fuchsias,  moss  rosebuds,  even  at  being 
guilty  of  something  like  delight  when  the  capitaine  brought  the  ladies  of 
the  family  tickets  for  a  popular  vaudeville.  Lorlotte  was  but  a  bigger 
child  ;  she  had  rejected  monsieur's  sugar  almonds,  but  she  grasped  at  the 
vaudeville,  though  she  recollected  herself  in  time  to  relapse  the  next 
moment  into  the  gloom  befitting  the  blighted  heroine  of  a  tragedy. 

The  wounds  of  the  young  heal  fast ;  but  the  month  of  May  was 
ending  as  fast  as  Lorlotte's  mourning  for  her  short-lived  dream  ;  and 
80  was  the  term  of  the  capitaine's  regiment's  sojourn  at  Fontainebleau. 
Before  Lorlotte  had  Ume  to  think  of  it,  the  capitaine,  looking  graver  and 


L011LOTTE   ASD   THE   CAPITALS*].  107 

gaunter  than  usual,  approaclied  her  where  she  sat  among  madame's 
flowers  in  the  background  of  the  salon,  while  niadame  played  propriety, 
stitched,  and  went  through  the  part  of  consulting  M.  Dupont  on  domestic 
affairs  in  the  foreground,  and  addressed  her, — 

"  I  have  come  to  take  my  leave,  my  good  mademoiselle.  We  have  the 
route  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  I  shall  be  very  busy  in  the  interval." 

Loiiotte  looked  up,  taken  by  surprise,  and  forced  to  stand  aghast  and 
feel  forlorn,  seeing  not  the  capitaine  gone  alone,  but  her  holidays  over, 
herself  back  at  Boulogne,  presiding  over  the  milk-soup  in  the  refectory, 
setting  copies  in  the  schoolroom,  teased  by  the  little  girls,  snubbed  by 
some  of  the  big  ones,  without  the  old  light  heart  to  keep  her  own  among 
them,  and  the  realization  supplied  her  with  becoming  sympathy  for  the 
capitaine's  position.  Tears  gathered  quickly,  and  dimmed  the  brightness 
of  the  violet  eyes,  the  corners  of  the  mouth  drooped  disconsolately.  "  I 
am  very  sorry,  M.  le  Capitaine,  I  am  going  to  lose  one  who  has  been  my 
friend."  She  said  it  with  breaks,  and  oh,  such  a  long,  deep,  fluttering 
sigh  from  the  bottom  of  her  girlish  heart. 

"  Mademoiselle  has  many  friends,"  suggested  the  capitaine,  pulling  his 
wiry,  straight  moustache  a  VEmpereur. 

"I  do  not  know  that,"  replied  Loiiotte,  briskly  and  naively.  " I  have 
offended  madame  beyond  redemption,  and  I  daresay  I  shall  offend  my 
Boulogne  friends  too.  These  strong,  self-restrained  English,  when  they 
find  I  have  grown  cross  and  wretched,  subject  to  migraine  (I  know  I  shall 
slap  and  shake  the  little  ones,  and  have  hysteria)  will  preach  to  me,  and 
doctor  me  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  when  they  find  it  does  not  answev 
I  shall  perhaps  be  turned  off  like  that  girl  Minie.  Oh,  it  will  be  trisie, 
horrible,"  ended  Lorlotte,  letting  her  head  fall  as  low  as  her  arms,  for  she 
had  not  intended  to  say  so  much,  and  she  would  fain  stay  before  they 
were  seen  those  tears  which  had  broken  all  bounds,  and  were  dropping  in 
a  heavy  shower  in  her  lap. 

"  Mademoiselle  Loiiotte,  promise  to  tell  me,  to  send  me  word  directly," 
stammered  the  capitaine. 

She  shook  her  head  smiling  faintly  like  the  sun  through  a  shower. 

"  I  wish  I  had  no  more  than  M.  Hyacinth's  years,  or  had  not  been  a 
foolish  old  spendthrift,  but  had  saved  my  pay,  and  that  I  were  anything 
save  a  brawling  dog  whose  bark  is  worse  than  his  bite  maybe,  but  who 
disturbs  the  quarter  with  his  howling,  all  the  same,"  regretted  the  capitaine 
idly. 

Lorlotte  stopped  crying  on  the  instant,  and  looked  up  with  tears  like 
dewdrops  hanging  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips  like  the  cleft  cherry  parted 
in  breathless  expectation,  so  that  he  could  not  choose  but  finish  his  speech. 
"  For  then  I  might  have  been  able  to  protect  and  pet  my  little  darling." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  my  capitaine  ?  "  cried  Loiiotte  with  a  quaver  in  the 
clear  treble  of  her  voice. 

"  Without  doubt,  mademoiselle."  The  old  soldier  confirmed  his 
words,  struck  by  his  own  boldness. 

6—2 


108  LORLOTTE  AND  THE   CAPITAINE. 

1  'Ah!  Iain  so  glad  and  grateful  I  would  say,"  explained  Lorlotte, 
nodding  and  flushing  violently  at  the  indiscreet  slip  of  her  nimble  tongue. 
"  I  was  not  so  ungrateful  as  people  thought,  when  you  were  so  noble  even 
to  sinners,  and  bore  with  me  and  pitied  me  in  the  punishment  of  my 
naughtiness.  I  am  tired  of  the  young  people,  and  the  communion  of  souls  ; 
I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  them.  I  want  only  a  brave,  kind  man, 
whom  I  can  reverence  and  be  fond  of,  to  take  good  care  of  me,  and  I 
shall  take  good  care  of  him  and  his  menage,  if  he  will  let  me.  As  for  his 
rages,  I  have  no  fear  of  them  when  I  know  that  though  he  would  think 
nothing  of  shooting  a  Russian  or  stabbing  an  Austrian  when  it  was 
necessary,  he  would  not  willingly  harm  a  fly  ;  and  as  for  unwillingly,  if  he 
is  to  go  mad  and  hurt  anybody  when  he  does  not  intend  it,"  concluded 
Lorlotte  with  the  utmost  gravity,  * '  say,  is  it  not  fitter  that  he  should  hurt 
his  own  wife,  who  will  understand  it  and  take  it  in  good  part,  than  a 
stranger,  who  might  say  he  did  it  on  purpose  ?  " 

So  madame  mounted  the  breach  at  last  a  conqueror,  and  the  capitaine 
did  not  march  to  Algerie.  Lorlotte  was  as  good  as  her  word ;  stored  the 
capitaine's  stray  francs  of  pay,  marketed  and  bargained  for  him,  kept  his 
rooms  clean  and  bright,  and  his  models  of  fortification  and  his  military 
memoirs  in  beautiful  order ;  and  was  not  only  not  frightened  at  the  poor 
fellow  in  his  constitutional  frenzies,  but  would  keep  her  hand  on  his  arm 
till  he  calmed  down,  mollified,  mesmerised.  Nay,  Lorlotte  blossomed  so 
sweetly  and  cheerily,  and  remained  so  child-like  by  the  capitaine's  stove 
and  his  window-frame,  on  his  promenades  and  in  the  dances  at  the  rural 
fetes  which  the  capitaine  and  Madame  Le  Froy  shared,  according  to  pro- 
vision, with  Madame  and  M.  Dupont,  that  Lorlotte  well  nigh  made  the 
capitaine  be  faithless  to  his  old  French  soldier's  deepest  love  of  flowers 
and  children,  being  herself  always  the  freshest  of  his  flowers,  the  youngest- 
hearted  of  his  children. 


109 


m 


WE  seem  to  be  arriving  at  a  general  agreement  on  the  question  of  the  part 
which  the  ancient  literature  ought  to  play  in  a  liberal  education.  Some 
thirty-five  years  ago,  when  all  such  subjects  were  discussed  with  great 
energy,  it  seemed  possible  that  the  reaction  against  Latin  and  Greek  might 
be  pushed  to  an  extent  very  dangerous  to  the  culture  of  the  country.  But 
what  strikes  one  in  watching  the  discussion  in  our  own  time  is,  that  the 
old  tongues  receive  support  from  quarters  where  their  partisans  feel  hardly 
entitled  to  look  for  it.  Let  a  general  reader,  for  instance,  turn  over  the 
highly  interesting  blue-books  containing  the  Report  of  the  Commission  on 
Public  Schools.  He  will  think  it  quite  natural  that  the  orthodox  doctrine 
on  the  subject  of  classical  education  should  be  maintained, — as  it  is  with 
great  elegance  and  ingenuity, — by  a  man  like  Dr.  Temple,  of  Eugby.  But 
he  will  scarcely  be  prepared  for  the  friendly  tone  towards  it  of  Professor 
Owen,  who  represents  a  class  of  subjects  with  which  it  is  supposed  to 
interfere  unjustly ;  or  of  Dr.  Max  Miiller,  who,  as  a  Professor  of  Modern 
Languages,  might  be  imagined  to  hold  his  office  aggrieved  by  its  predomi- 
nance. Even  these  cases,  however,  will  startle  him  less  than  the  discourse 
of  Mr.  Mill,  as  Rector  of  St.  Andrews,  where  a  philosopher  of  the  most 
advanced  type  is  found  defending  the  ancient  system  with  a  decision  as 
remarkable  as  his  ability.  There  are  still  differences  of  opinion  on  details, 
— such  as  the  degree  of  prominence  which  ought  to  be  given  to  Latin  and 
Greek  composition,  and  so  forth.  But  there  is  substantial  agreement 
among  men  of  the  greatest  weight  in  all  positions,  as  to  the  main  fact  that 
the  classics  ought  to  continue  to  be  the  basis  of  the  higher  education. 
Other  studies  are  properly  receiving  more  attention  than  they  used  to  do. 
But  the  corner-stone  of  the  edifice  will  still  be  taken  from  the  Greek 
temple  and  the  Roman  bridge ;  from  the  race  which  taught  Europe  to 
think  and  feel,  and  the  race  which  taught  Europe  to  organize  and 
govern. 

People  are  apt,  however,  to  forget  the  essentially  twofold  and  peculiar 
position  of  the  classical  writers,  arising  from  the  fact  that  their  books  are 
not  only  works  of  literature  but  school-books.  Tennyson  is  a  poet ;  but 
Horace  is  a  poet  and  a  schoolmaster  at  the  same  time  ;  and  the  natural 
result  is  that  many  who  have  read  him  in  boyhood,  lay  him  by  afterwards 
as  something  belonging  to  their  boyish  years.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  less 
true  of  Horace  than  of  nearly  any  other  ancient ;  but  it  is  true  of  them  all, 
and  his  name  will  do  to  point  our  illustration.  Every  man  of  the  world 
must  be  surprised  at  the  rarity  even  among  highly  educated  men,  of  men 
who  continue  to  read  the  classical  literature  as  a  literature ;  who  turn  from 


HO  THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

Bj-ron  and  De  Musset  to  Catullus  or  the  Greek  Anthology ;  and  from 
Chatham  and  Erskine  to  Demosthenes  and  Cicero ;  with  the  feeling  that 
they  are  comparing  brothers  who  differ  in  language  and  period,  but  are 
akin  in  genius  and  aspiration.  Many  lose  the  power  of  the  familiar  perusal 
of  these  masters  by  continuous  neglect  of  the  language  ;  and  some  indeed 
have,  with  every  advantage,  failed  to  attain  it.  Of  many  more  it  may  be 
said  that  "  the  world  is  too  much  with  them," — with  all  its  struggles 
and  temptations, — for  that  kind  of  thing ;  while  the  immense  extent  of 
modern  literature  offers  to  others  a  more  intellectual  excuse.  But  outside 
the  comparatively  small  circle  of  the  most  highly  educated  class,  lies  a 
vast  body  of  intelligent  men,  eager  for  knowledge,  fond  of  reading,  but  to 
whom,  from  their  want  of  early  training  in  the  subject,  the  Greek  and 
Latin  authors  must  for  ever  remain, — as  regards  the  originals, — a  fountain 
sealed  up.  Now,  are  either  of  the  types  of  which  we  have  been  speaking, 
— those  who  have  forgotten  their  classics,  and  those  who  never  knew  them, 
— quite  aware  of  all  the  extent  of  the  material  at  their  disposal,  with  which 
to  make  up  for  the  deficiency  ?  Have  they  any  conception  of  the  amount, 
or  the  excellence,  of  those  translations  of  the  classics,  which  from  the  great 
age  of  Elizabeth  downwards  have  formed  such  an  important  part  of  the 
literature  of  England  ?  We  think  not.  We  think  that  the  translators  are 
unreasonably  neglected  ;  and  we  propose  to  illustrate  our  statement,  partly 
by  showing  the  utility  of  such  versions  ;  and  partly  by  noticing  the  best 
specimens  of  them,  on  such  a  humble  scale  as  the  limits  of  a  Magazine 
permit. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  easy  to  exaggerate  the  degree  to  which 
translation  has  been  useful  in  the  modern  world.  The  Greek  writers,  to 
begin  with,  were  invariably  published  long  after  the  revival  of  letters  with 
Latin  versions  ;  and  some  Latin  versions,  like  the  celebrated  Plato  of 
Marsilius  Ficinus,  from  an  MS.  of  the  Medici  family,  supplied  the  Platonic 
doctrines  to  whole  generations  of  scholars.  It  is  probable  that  Bacon 
read  the  Greek  philosophers  in  Latin,  which  has  always,  indeed,  been  the 
more  literary  language  in  modern  Europe,  of  the  two  ;  and  what  may 
confidently  be  assumed  of  Bacon,  may  be  fairly  conjectured  of  other  great 
men.  But  vernacular  translation  has  even  a  more  illustrious  history. 
The  Virgil  of  Phaer,  the  Homer  of  Chapman,  the  Seneca  and  Pliny  of 
Holland  were,  as  Warton  says,  "  the  classics  of  Shakspeare ;  "  while  Sir 
Thomas  North's  Plutarch's  Lives,  rendered  from  the  French  of  Arnyot, 
Bishop  of  Auxerre,  furnished  him  with  the  materials  from  which  he  con- 
structed Coriolanus,  Julius  Cccsar,  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  North's 
Plutarch  was,  beyond  doubt,  the  Plutarch  of  Clarendon  and  Sidney,  as 
the  Drydenian  and  Langhornian  versions  were  of  later  generations.  It 
was  in  a  French  translation  that  Kousseau  read  Plutarch,  and  Napoleon, 
too,  who  loved  him  so  well.  Frederick  the  Great  perused  the  classics  in 
French.  A  translation  of  Caesar's  Commentaries  was  one  of  three  books 
which  always  lay  within  reach  by  the  bedside  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ; 
and  it  is  in  translations,  we  believe,  that  the  present  Emperor  of  the 


THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS.  Ill 

French  studies  the  history  of  the  great  Eoman.  With  so  much  high 
association  in  its  favour,  translation  can  hardly  be  accused  of  want  of 
dignity.  There  is  no  doubt  an  impression  that  all  translation  must  be  a 
faint  image  of  the  original,  which  indisposes  many  people  to  meddle  with 
it.  And  this  impression  is  not  wholly  unreasonable.  Without  going  so 
f:.r  as  Lamartine  did,  when  he  said  that  nobody  could  be  translated, 
we  may  admit  that  very  excellent  rendering  is  rare — as  rare,  as  very 
excellent  original  writing.  But  we  must  not  make  the  case  worse  than  it 
is  ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  is  much  more  first-rate  translation  than 
is  commonly  believed  ;  and,  in  the  next  place,  it  is  by  no  means  of  equal 
importance  how  well  each  author  is  dealt  with.  The  poets  lose  most ;  and 
those  historians,  like  Tacitus,  who  have  a  very  striking  and  peculiar  and 
distinctive  manner,  and  stand  alone  in  their  art,  with  Rembrandt  in  paint- 
ing, or  Rabelais  in  comic  fiction.  But  sometimes  even  these  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  man  of  genius ;  while  authors  in  whom  style  is  less  important 
or  remarkable  may  be  less  skilfully  handled,  with  little  comparative  mis- 
chief. Plutarch  is  quite  as  enjoyable  in  English  as  in  Greek ;  and  all  a 
sensible  reader  would  care  for  in  an  English  Pliny  the  Elder,  or  Quintilian, 
or  Atbenaeus,  would  be  some  reasonable  guarantee  for  its  accuracy.  In 
short,  by  reading  the  cream  of  the  translations  of  the  poets,  and  contenting 
himself  with  good  business-like  ones  of  the  other  books  of  antiquity,  an 
English  reader  may  acquire  not  only  a  mass  of  positive  knowledge  about 
the  ancient  world,  but  a  very  fair  notion  of  the  type  and  character  of  the 
genius  of  the  most  wonderful  of  its  writers.  He  will  do  well,  of  course,  to 
acquaint  himself  with  the  old  geography,  from  a  good  classical  map,  and 
•with  the  antiquities,  from  some  lucid  solid  book,  like  the  Eoman  Antiquities 
of  Professor  Ramsay, — a  worthy  Greek  companion  of  which  is  much  wanted. 
We  assume,  too,  that  he  is  not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  the  best  works  in 
his  own  language  on  the  history  of  the  classical  nations,  such  as  those  of 
Dr.  Arnold  and  Mr.  Grote  ;  or  that,  at  least,  he  has, learned  the  general 
facts  of  their  history  from  the  narratives  of  good  school-books  of  the  stamp 
of  those  of  Keightley  and  Dr.  Schmitz.  For,  without  collateral  knowledge 
of  these  different  kinds,  much  in  the  mere  text  of  the  ancients  would  be 
unintelligible,  or  half-intelligible ;  and  the  whole  literature  would  have  a 
vague  unreal  air  essentially  disappointing. 

Translations  of  the  Homeric  poems — especially  of  the  Iliad — have 
been  so  numerous  lately  that  the  subject  threatens  to  become  wearisome. 
And  yet  we  are  still  without  any  work  which  adequately  represents  all  the 
qualities  of  the  Iliad.  We  are  still  obliged  to  select  from  the  mass  of 
versions  (forming  a  literature  in  themselves)  those  which  best  express — 
each  in  its  own  way — some  characteristic  of  the  incomparable  original. 
Homer's  is  the  only  poetry  existing  which  combines  the  true  fresh  homeli- 
ness, simplicity,  and  nature  of  the  primaeval  world  with  a  grandeur  of 
thought  and  felicity  of  expression  which  the  most  civilized  ages  can  never 
sufficiently  admire.  Here  lies  the  difficulty  of  reproducing  him  in  a  modern 
language  ;  and  WG  must  be  content  to  gather  something  of  the  different 


112  THE  CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

elements  of  his  charm  from  translators  separated  by  whole  generations. 
Chapman,  Pope,  and  Lord  Derby  may  be  drawn  out  from  the  multitude, 
and  may  stand  for  representatives  of  various  kinds  of  merit,  and  of  the 
qualities  of  three  queenly  ages,  each  of  which  has  produced  a  characteristic 
type  of  thought  and  taste.  Chapman  is  the  most  essentially  poetical  of 
the  group.  His  old-fashioned  poem,  in  fourteen- syllable  metre,  with  the 
ballad  lilt  in  its  simple  music,  lies,  by  its  very  oddity,  nearer  the  antique 
world  than  the  conventional  brilliance  of  Pope,  or  the  somewhat  severe  and 
stately  elegance — the  conscious  and  cultivated  simplicity — of  Lord  Derby. 
Chapman  catches,  with  peculiar  success,  the  "  infantine,  familiar  clasp  of 
things  divine,"  which  Mrs.  Browning  so  happily  attributes  to  our  own 
Homeric  Chaucer.  How  delicious  his  name  for  'Ho,c,  Aurora— "  the  Lady 
of  the  Light !  "  How  tenderly  he  describes  Athene,  the  "  blue-eyed  maid  " 
of  other  translators, — 

Then,  taking  breakfast,  a  big  bowl  filled  with  the  purest  wine, 
They  offered  to  the  Maiden  Queen  that  hath  the  azure  eyne. 

How  homely,  and  yet  beautiful,  his  rendering  of  fiou-n-ig — "  she  with  the 
cow's  fair  eyes  ;"  and  with  what  a  rough  vigour  he  brings  out  all  the  force 
of  a  famous  simile  in  the  following  passage  : — 

As  when  the  harmful  king  of  beasts  (sore  threatened  to  be  slain 
By  all  the  country  up  in  arms)  at  first  makes  coy  disdain 
Prepare  resistance,  but  at  last  when  any  one  hath  led 
Bold  charge  upon  him  with  his  dart,  he  then  turns  yawning  head, 
Fell  anger  lathers  in  his  jaws,  his  great  heart  swells,  his  stern 
Lasheth  his  strength  up,  sides  and  thighs  waddled  with  stripes  to  learn 
Their  own  powers,  his  eyes  glow,  he  roars,  and  in  he  leaps  to  kill, 
Secure  of  killing, 

It  was  this  wild  strength  of  Chapman's,  this  clinging  to  all  the  primitive 
raciness  of  the  original,  which  made  Keats  sit  up  over  him  at  their  first 
acquaintance  till  the  Lady  of  the  Light  herself  showed  her  saffron  robe  in 
the  east.  And  yet  the  "unconquerable  quaintness  "  of  Chapman,  noted 
by  Lamb,  as  when  he  makes  Achilles  say, — 

I  will  not  use  my  sword 
On  thee,  or  any,  for  a  wench, — 

prevents  one  from  accepting  him  as  a  sole  and  all-sufficient  translator  of 
Homer.  For,  though  he  gives,  with  a  wonderful  happiness  belonging  to 
the  early  period  in  which  he  lived,  what  may  be  called  the  ballad  side  of 
Homer,  there  is  a  side  to  those  poems  which  only  a  more  cultivated  age 
than  Chapman's  can  do  justice  to.  There  is  a  side  by  which  they  appeal 
to  the  nicety  and  subtlety  of  taste  of  Augustan  eras,  in  which  power  of 
Chapman's  sort  appears  somewhat  rude  and  unfamiliar.  Now,  that  Pope's 
Homer  is  founded  on  essential  misconception  we  readily  admit ;  nor  do  we 
believe  that  it  will  ever  again  hold  in  the  eyes  of  men  of  letters  the  rank 
which  it  held  in  those  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  his  school.  The  characteristic 
Homeric  naturalness  appears  nowhere  in  Pope.  We  need  not  expose  orice 


THE   CLASSICS  IN   TKANSLATIONS.  113 

more  the  famous  night-piece,  the  moonlight  scene  at  the  end  of  the  eighth 
book  of  the  Iliad,  which  Wordsworth  selected  as  a  typical  specimen  of  the 
J'alse  in  poetic  art.  For  the  same  kind  of  fault  meets  one  everywhere  in 
Jiis  translations  ;  all  is  conventional ;  we  have, — 

So  spoke  the  fair,  nor  knew  her  brothers'  doom, 
Wrapt  in  the  cold  embraces  of  the  tomb, — 

when  the  original  so  affectingly  tells  us  only,  that  "the  life -nourishing 
earth  held  ' Helen's  brothers  '  in  their  loved  fatherland."  Pope  is  best  in 
moral  as  distinct  from  tender  or  descriptive  passages ;  for  instance,  in 
Mich  scenes  as  the  meeting  at  which  Thersites  is  chastised  by  Ulysses,  in 
ihe  second  book  of  the  Iliad  : — 

But  if  a  clam'rous  vile  plebeian  rose, 

Him  with  reproof  he  check'd,  or  tam'd  with  blows  ; 

Be  still,  thou  slave,  and  to  thy  betters  yield, 

Unknown  alike  in  council  and  in  field  ! 

Ye  gods,  what  dastards  would  our  host  command  ! 

Swept  to  the  war,  the  lumber  of  a  land. 

Be  silent,  wretch,  and  think  not  here  allow' d, 

That  worst  of  tyrants,  an  usurping  crowd. 

To  one  sole  monarch  Jove  commits  the  sway, 

His  are  the  laws,  and  him  let  all  obey. 

And  even  where  a  different  tone  is  required,  as  hi  the  memorable  interview 
between  Hector  and  Andromache  in  book  sixth,  Pope  executes  the  work 
mth  a  high  vivacious  spirit  and  rhetorical  swing,  under  the  charm  of 
x^hich  we  are  apt  to  forget  that  Popian  qualities  and  Homeric  qualities  are 
1  wo  different  things  : — 

There,  while  you  groan  beneath  the  load  of  life, 
They  cry,  Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife  ! 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  lives  thy  tears  to  see, 
Embitters  all  thy  woes  by  naming  me. 
The  thoughts  of  glory  past,  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs  shall  waken  at  the  name  ! 
May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day 
Press'd  with  a  load  of  monumental  clay  ! 
Thy  Hector,  wrapt  in  everlasting  sleep, 
Shall  neither  hear  thee  sigh,  nor  see  thee  weep. 

Pope  was  in  fact  so  great  a  writer,  and  so  full  of  the  brilliant  spirit  of 
:he  age  of  Marlborough  and  Bolingbroke,  that  by  sheer  ability  and  skill 
le  imposed  a  Popian  Homer  as  a  Homeric  Homer  upon  the  English 
people  for  a  hundred  years.  There  were  grumblers  all  along  from 
Sentley  onwards,  but  the  tide  of  popularity  was  too  strong.  One  good 
effect  was  produced  so  far,  that  all  England  learned  the  stories  of  the 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  and  formed  some  conceptions  of  their  grand  and 
shadowy  heroes,  from  the  figures,  clad  in  the  silk  of  Queen  Anne's  age, 
vhich  stalked  loftily  through  the  pages  of  the  wonderful  little  bard.  But 
Chapman  was  forgotten  till  Coleridge  and  Lamb's  time,  when,  as  usual, 

6—5 


114  THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

there  was  a  reaction,  during  which  Pope's  Homer  was  treated  with  gross 
injustice,  and  reviled  for  want  of  likeness  to  the  original  by  men  who  had 
no  personal  knowledge  as  to  what  the  original  was  like.  The  ballad 
theoiy  was  pushed  to  an  extent  which  threatened  us  with  a  Homer  from 
the  establishment  of  Mr.  Catnach  in  Seven  Dials.  But  we  have  now 
arrived  at  an  age  of  reconciliation  and  compromise  ;  and  Lord  Derby's 
Iliad  is  the  worthy  exponent  of  this  condition  of  things.  It  is  at  once 
more  natural  than  Pope's  and  more  cultivated  than  Chapman's,  and 
though  probably  inferior  in  power  to  both,  is,  from  its  harmony  with  that 
indefinable  agency,  the  spirit  of  the  age,  likely  to  be  much  more  read  for 
years  to  come  than  either.  Lord  Derby's  style  is  chaste,  elegant,  modern, 
without  the  conventional  falsetto  of  Pope.  His  blank  verse  suits  admirably 
the  Homeric  dignity,  without  being  fatal  to  the  Homeric  freshness  ;  and 
while  free  from  that  elaborate  Miltonism  which  makes  the  blank  verse  of 
Cowper,  in  spite  of  all  his  ability,  so  tedious  by  its  constant  suggestion  of 
incongruous  associations.  Any  reader  who  compares  the  Earl's  version 
of  the  celebrated  suppliant  visit  by  Priam  to  Achilles,  in  the  twenty -fourth 
book,  with  Pope's,  will  readily,  observe  the  good  effect  produced  by  the 
Wordsworthian  revival.  We  transcribe  the  most  important  portion  of  it 
containing  the  old  Trojan  monarch's  speech  :— 

Think,  great  Achilles,  rival  of  the  Gods, 

Upon  thy  father,  ev'n  as  I  myself 

Upon  the  threshold  of  un joyous  age  : 

And  haply  he,  from  them  that  dwell  around, 

May  suffer  wrong,  with  no  protector  near 

To  give  him  aid  ;  yet  he  rejoicing,  knows 

That  thou  still  livest  ;  and  day  by  day  may  hops 

To  see  his  son  returning  safe  from  Troy  ; 

While  I,  all  hapless,  that  have  many  sons, 

The  best  and  bravest  through  the  breadth  of  Troy 

Begotten,  deem  that  none  are  left  me  now. 

Fifty  there  were,  when  came  the  sons  of  Greece  ; 

Nineteen  the  offspring  of  a  single  womb  ; 

The  rest  the  women  of  my  household  bore. 

Of  these  have  many  by  relentless  Mars 

Been  laid  in  dust ;  but  he  my  only  one, 

The  city's  and  his  brethren's  sole  defence, 

He,  bravely  fighting  in  his  country's  cause, 

Hector,  but  lately  by  thy  hand  hath  fall'n  : 

On  his  behalf  I  venture  to  approach 

The  Grecian  ships  ;  for  his  release  to  thee 

To  make  my  pray'r,  and  priceless  ransom  pay. 

Then  thou,  Achilles,  reverence  the  Gods  ; 

And,  for  thy  father's  sake,  look  pitying  down 

On  me,  more  needing  pity  ;  since  I  bear 

Such  grief  as  never  man  on  earth  hath  borne, 

Who  stoop  to  kiss  the  hand  that  slew  my  son. 

Thus  as  he  spoke,  within  Achilles'  breast 

Fond  memory  of  his  father  rose  ;  he  touch'd 

The  old  man's  hand  and  gently  put  him  by  ; 

Then  wept  they  both  by  various  mem'ries  stirred. 


THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS.  115 

Or.e  prostrate  at  Achilles'  feet  bewailed 

His  warrior  son  ;  Achilles  for  his  sire, 

And  for  Patroclus  wept,  His  comrade  dear  ; 

And  through  the  house  their  weeping  loud  was  heard.. 

rrhere  is  a  grave  quiet  melancholy  about  all  this,  which  is  very  impressive. 
Pope  blazes  away  in  his  own  great  manner  : — 

Ah,  think,  thou  favour'd  of  the  pow'rs  divine, 
Think  of  thy  father's  age,  and  pity  mine  ! 
In  me  that  father's  rcv'rcnd  image  trace, 
Those  silver  hairs,  that  venerable  face,  &c. 

It  is  magnificent,  we  exclaim  for  the  hundredth  time  with  the  French 
general ;  it  is  magnificent,  but  it  is  not  Homer.  Nevertheless,  Pope  must 
be  read  for  that  marvellous  power ;  and  he  who  to  Pope  ,and  Chapman 
i  dds  Lord  Derby,  and  the  delightful  Odyssey  of  the  late  Mr.  Worsley,  will 
have  done  his  duty  as  an  Englishman  to  Homer  in  English.  Were  this  a 
1  taper  on  translations  of  Homer  only,  we  should  rejoice  to  extract  largely 
irom  the  Odyssey  of  Mr.  Worsley.  The  flow  of  his  sweet  Spenserian  stanza 
t  eems  the  echo  of  the  waves  which  beat  on  the  coast  of  the  country  of  the 
btus-eaters ;  and  the  pleasant  illusion  of  a  Mediterranean  atmosphere 
1  angs  about  his  whole  book. 

We  must  proceed,  however,  to  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  regard  to 
whom  we  are  glad  to  observe  that  good  translation  from  them  is  on  the 
iacrease.  The  venerable  uEschylus,  with  his  lofty  grandeur  and  deep  piety 
( f  thought,  may  be  studied  to  advantage  in  the  prose  version ^gf  his  excellent 
( ditor  Mr.  Paley ;  and  his  two  masterpieces  have  been  translated  in  our 
lime,  by  two  masters, — the  Prometheus  by  Mrs.  Browning,  and  the 
Agamemnon  by  Dean  Milman.  Let  us  take,  from  the  latter,  Clytemnestra's 
lenowned  description  of  the  signalling  by  beacon-fires  from  Troy  to  Argos, 
^vhich  told  the  great  wicked  queen  that  the  enemy's  city  had  fallen  before 
her  husband's  army  : — 

CHORUS. 
How  long  is't  since  the  ruined  city  fell  f 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
TbiB  day,  I  aay,  born  of  this  very  night. 

CHORUS. 
What  messenger  hath  hither  flown  so  swiftly  ? 

CL  YTESCf  E  STR  A. 

The  Fire-God,  kindling  his  bright  light  on  Ida  1 
Beacon  to  beacon  fast  and  forward  flashed 
An  cstaffete  of  fire,  on  to  the  rocks 
Of  Hermes-hallowed  Lemnos  ;  from  that  isle 
Caught,  thirdly,  Jove-crowned  Athos,  the  red  light 
That  broader,  skimming  o'er  the  shimmering  sea, 
Went  travelling  in  its  strength.     For  our  delight 
The  pine-torch,  golden  glittering  like  the  sail, 


116  THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

Spoke  to  the  watchman  on  Macistus  height. 

Nor  he  delaying,  nor  by  careless  sleep 

Subdued,  sent  on  the  fiery  messenger  : 

Ifar  o'er  Euripus'  tide  the  beacon-blaze 

Signalled  to  the  Messapian  sentinels. 

Light  answering  light,  they  sent  the  tidings  on, 

Kindling  into  a  blaze  the  old  dry  heath  ; 

And  mightier, still,  and  waning  not  a  whit, 

The  light  leaped  o'er  Asopus'  plain,  most  like 

The  crescent  moon,  on  to  Cithasron's  peak, 

And  woke  again  another  missive  fire. 

Nor  did  the  guard  disdain  the  far-seen  light, 

But  kindled  up  at  once  a  mightier  flame. 

O'er  the  Gorgopian  lake  it  flashed  like  lightning 

On  the  sea-beaten  cliffs  of  Megaris  ; 

"Woke  up  the  watchman  not  to  spare  his  fire, 

And,  gathering  in  its  unexhausted  strength, 

The  long-waving  bearded  flame  from  off  the  cliffs 

That  overlook  the  deep  Saronian  gulf, 

As  from  a  mirror  streamed.     On  flashed  it ;  reached 

Arachne,  our  close  neighbouring  height,  and  there 

Not  un-begotten  of  that  bright  fire  on  Ida, 

On  sprang  it  to  Atrides'  palace-roof. 

Here  we  have  the  true  classical  concentration,  the  pithy  grace,  which 
wastes  no  word  or  epithet ;  and  it  is  useful  to  contrast  the  Dean's  piece 
of  work  with  the  loose  clever  rhyming  paraphrases  of  the  same  passage  in 
Lord  Lytton's  Athens,  its  Eise  and  Fall.  Would  that  the  Dean  had  tried 
his  hand  on  the  noble  description  of  the  battle  of  Salamis  in  the  Persce ! 
But  the  volume  from  which  we  have  just  quoted  contains  a  most  interest- 
ing rendering  of  the  Baccha  of  Euripides,  a  poet  to  whom  English  trans- 
lators have  paid  little  attention.  Sophocles,  meanwhile,  has  recently 
found  a  loyal  and  skilful  interpreter  of  all  his  tragedies  in  Mr.  E.  H. 
Plumptre,  whose  book  is  an  addition  of  solid  value  to  the  branch  of 
English  literature  under  review.  When  one  of  Plutarch's  heroes  was 
asked  to  come  and  listen  to  a  man  who  imitated  the  nightingale,  he  said 
that  he  had  heard  the  nightingale  herself.  But  one  may  have  heard  the 
nightingale  of  Colonos  herself,  and  still  enjoy  her  in  Mr.  Plumptre's 
(Edipus  at  Colonos  in  the  chorus  that  all  scholars  love  : — 

STROPH.  1. 

Chor.  Of  all  the  land  that  counts  the  horse  its  pride 
Thou  com'st,  O  stranger,  to  the  noblest  spot, 
Colonus,  glistening  bright, 
Where  evermore,  in  thickets  freshly  green, 
The  clear-voiced  nightingale 
Still  loves  to  haunt,  and  pour  her  plaintive  song, 
By  purpling  ivy  hid, 
Or  the  thick  leafage  sacred  to  the  Gods, 
By  mortal's  foot  untouched, 
By  sun  and  winds  unscathed. 
There  wanders  Dionysos  wild  and  free, 


THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS.  117 

Still  following  with  the  train  of  goddess-nymphs 
Protectors  of  his  youth. 

ANTISTROPII.  1. 

And  there,  beneath  the  gentle  dews  of  heaven, 

The  fair  narcissus  with  its  clustered  bells 

Blooms  ever,  day  by  day, 

Time-honoured  wreath  of  mighty  goddesses  ; 

And  the  bright  crocus  with  its  leaf  of  gold. 

And  still  unslumbering  flow 

Kephisus'  wandering  streams  ; 

They  fail  not  from  their  spring, 

But  ever,  swiftly  rushing  into  birth, 

Over  the  plain  they  sweep, 

Over  the  fertile  earth, 

With  clear  and  crystal  wave  : 

Nor  do  the  muses  in  their  minstrel  choir, 

Hold  it  in  slight  esteem, 

Nor  Aphrodite  with  her  golden  reins. 

"We  are  obliged  to  limit  our  quotations  from  the  extent  of  the  subject, 
or  we  should  have  been  glad  to  reprint  the  whole  of  this  chorus,  Mr. 
Plumtre's  handling  of  which  seems  to  strengthen  the  case  of  those  who 
think  rhyme  unnecessary  in  rendering  even  the  choral  parts  of  the  ancient 
tragedies.  Nor  can  we  do  more  than  mention  his  Antigone ;  besides 
recommending  the  curious  reader  to  compare  his  Ajax  with  the  Ajax 
published  by  Professor  D'Arcy  Thompson  in  his  pleasant  volume  of 
classical  miscellanies,  Ancient  Leaves.  It  may  be  observed  generally,  of 
this  particular  branch  of  translation,  that  it  is  gaining  now  in  conciseness, 
and  above  all  in  simplicity  and  freedom  from  paraphrastical  licence. 
Whether  the  ancients  painted  their  statues  or  not,  is  a  question  that  has 
been  much  controverted.  But  one  thing  is  certain :  we  have  no  right  to 
paint  over  with  modem  colour  what  has  come  down  to  us  in  the  marble- 
whiteness  of  their  diction ;  and  it  is  an  excellent  sign  that  our  scholars  are 
far  more  scrupulous  than  they  used  to  be  about  expanding,  diluting,  or 
decorating  the  beauty  of  their  originals.  Pope  would  have  hung  an 
epigrammatic  earring  without  scruple  in  the  ear  of  the  Venus  de'  Medici, 
and  the  earring  would  have  been  the  finest  gold  of  wit. 

Precisely,  however,  because  Pope  did  so  admirably  what  he  ought  never 
to  have  done  at  all,  his  example  corrupted  translations  from  his  time 
onwards  :  writers  went  on  gilding  the  Greek  gold  and  painting  the  Italian 
lily  ;  a  process  all  the  more  absurd  since  the  ancient  grace  is  a  severe 
*race  disdaining  rash  embellishment ;  and  since  modern  ornament  can  add 
nothing,  for  example,  to  the  peculiar  mixture  of  gravity  and  suavity  which 
makes  the  beauty  of  a  style  like  that  of  Sophocles. 

An  element  of  luck  enters  into  the  history  of  translation  as  into  every- 
thing human.  It  is  difficult  to  say  why  more  justice  should  have  been 
done  to  Aristophanes  than  to  any  of  the  tragedians ;  and  yet  the  great 
:omic  writer  has  been  more  fortunate  than  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  or 


118  THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

Euripides.  There  is  a  very  able  translation  of  him  by  his  editor  Mitchell, 
a  schoolfellow  of  Leigh  Hunt ;  there  are  others  highly  esteemed  ;  and  four 
of  the  best  of  his  eleven  plays  have  been  executed  by  Mr.  Hookham  Frere 
with  a  skill,  sympathy,  elegance,  and  point  as  Aristophanic  as  Aristophanes 
himself.  This  was  the  Frere  who  was  Canning's  comrade  at  Eton,  the 
author  of  Whistlccraft :  a  wit,  a  scholar,  a  poet,  a  Tory,  of  the  great  Greek 
satirist's  own  stamp.  He  was  Minister  at  Madrid  ;  but  spent  his  last  years 
in  Malta,  where,  surrounded  by  a  sea  every  wind  on  which  brought  classical 
associations  along  with  it,  he  amused  his  leisure  with  a  loving  and  careful 
study  of  the  old  writers.  Unfortunately,  his  Aristophanes  having  been 
privately  printed  at  the  Government  Press  of  Malta,  is  a  v#ry  scarce  book, 
copies  of  which  have  sold  for  five  pounds,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  some 
day  his  family  will  issue  an  edition  of  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large. 
Let  us,  in  the  meantime,  enrich  our  paper  with  a  passage  or  two  from  the 
copy  before  us,  which  bears  the  old  man's  autograph,  and  once  belonged 
to  a  distinguished  Italian  poet. 

The  prime  characteristic,  we  need  scarcely  say,  of  Aristophanes,  is  that 
he  is  the  great  poetic  satirist  of  the  world.  To  all  the  ferocity  of  Swift's 
most  serious  vein,  and  the  invention  of  his  Tale  of  a  Tub,  or  Gulliver,  he 
adds  a  frolicsomeness  as  genuine  as  that  of  Lamb,,  and  a  lyrical  vein  as 
tender  as  that  of  Hood.  He  gives  you  the  nettle  and  the  nettle-flower ; 
cuts  an  enemy  deep  with  sarcasm,  and  playfully  rubs  Attic  salt  into  the 
wound.  To  translate  such  a  man  requires  many  qualities,  and  brief  speci- 
mens from  plays  created  to  be  seen  and  read  as  wholes,  do  neither  trans- 
lator nor  author  much  justice.  Here  is  a  specimen, — from  the  Kniyhts, — 
of  the  freedom  with  which  the  Old  Comedy  lashed  a  demagogue  : — 

CHORUS. 

Dark  and  unsearchably  profound  abyss, 

Gulf  of  unfathomable 

Baseness  and  iniquity  J 

Miracle  of  immense 

Intense  impudence  ! 

Every  court,  every  hall, 

Juries  and  assemblies,  all 

Are  stun'd  to  death,  deafen'd  all 

Whilst  you  bawl. 

The  bench  and  bar  ring  and  jar, 

Each  decree  smells  of  thee, 

Land  and  sea  stink  of  thee, 
•  Whilst  we 

Scorn  and  hate,  execrate,  abominate 

Thee,  the  brawler  and  embroilcr  of  the  nation  and  the  state. 

You,  thtit  on  the  rocky  seat  of  our  assembly  raise  a  din, 

Deafening  all  our  cars  with  uproar,  as  you  rave,  and  howl,  and  grin. 

Watching  all  the  while  the  vessels  with  revenue  sailing  in. 

Like  the  tunny-fishers  perched  aloft,  to  look  about  and  bawl, 

When  the  shoals  arc  seen  arriving,  ready  to  secure  a  haul. 


THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS.  119 

The  occasional  hits  are  most  neatly  turned  off  by  Mr.  Frere.  Thus, 
when  Dicasopolis,  in  the  Acharnians,  asks  the  Megarian  what  they  are 
loing  at  Megara,  he  answers, — 

What  we're  doing  ? 

I  left  our  governing  people  all  contriving 
To  ruin  us  utterly  without  loss  of  time. 

'~>ut  Frere  is  equally  at  home  in  the  poetic  parts.     How  musical  these 
'.-mes  in  the  Birds,  when  Peisthetairus  hears  the  nightingale's  call  :— 

Oh,  Jupiter  !  the  dear  delicious  bird  ! 
With  what  a  lovely  tone  she  swells  and  falls, 
Sweetening  the  wilderness  with  delicate  air. 

And  at  the  close  of  the  Knights,  when  Demus  is  revealed  sitting  in  his 
rejuvenescent  state — 

On  the  citadel's  brow, 
In  the  lofty  old  town  of  immortal  renown, 
With  the  noble  Ionian  violet  crown. 

A  fuller  revelation  of  this  aspect  of  the  poet's  and  the  translator's 
genius  may  be  cited  from  the  Acharnians  : — 

Wherefore  are  ye  gone  away, 
Whither  arc  ye  gone  astray, 

Lovely  Peace, 

Vanishing,  eloping,  and  abandoning  unhappy  Greece  ? 
— Love  is  as  a  painter  ever,  doting  on  a  fair  design. 
Zeuxis  has  illustrated  a  vision  and  a  wish  of  mine. 

Cupid  is  pourtray'd 

Naked,  unarray'd, 

With  an  amaranthine  braid 

Waving  in  his  hand  ; 

With  a  lover  and  a  maid 

Bounden  in  a  band. 

Cupid  is  uniting  both, 

Nothing  loth. 

Think,  then,  if  I  saw  ye  with  a  cupid  in  a  tether,  d«ar, 
Binding  and  uniting  us  eternally  together  here. 
Think  of  the  delight  of  it ;  in  harmony  to  live  at  last, 
Making  it  a  principle  to  cancel  all  offences  past. 
Really  I  propose  it,  and  I  promise  ye  to  do  my  best 
(Old  as  you  may  fancy  me)  to  sacrifice  my  peace  and  rest ; 
Working  in  my  calling  as  a  father  of  a  family, 
Labouring  and  occupied  in  articles  of  husbandry. 
You  shall  have  an  orchard,  with  the  fig-trees  in  a  border  round, 
Planted  all  in  order,  and  a  vineyard  and  an  olive  ground, 
When  the  month  is  ended,  we'll  repose  from  toil, 
With  a  ball  and  banquet,  wine,  and  anointing  oil. 

There  is  surely  great  power  of  expression  and  versification  in  these 


120  THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

extracts.     It  is  with  reluctance  that  we  forbear  to  transfer  to  our  pages 
the  Parabasis  of  the  Birds, — 

Ye  children  of  man  !  \vhose  life  is  a  span,  &c. 

— which  the  late  Mr.  Thackeray  could  repeat  by  heart — but  we  have  no 
choice. 

For  the  scanty  fragments  of  the  Greek  lyrists,  and  some  gems  of  the 
minor  Greek  poets,  we  may  refer  to  the  Last  Poems  of  Mrs.  Browning ; 
the  volume  of  Dean  Milrnan's  which  has  already  been  laid  under  con- 
tribution ;  and  the  appendix  to  Mr.  C.  D.  Yonge's  Athenaus.  With 
regard  to  Pindar,  we  have  nothing  better  to  suggest  than  the  prose  version 
in  Bonn's  Classical  Library,  for  to  translate  Pindar  is  about  as  Icarian 
a  task  as  Horace  tells  us  it  is  to  rival  him.  On  the  whole,  indeed,  the 
reader  must  understand  that  all  translation  of  the  poets  is  an  approxima- 
tion only  ;  that  he  is  listening  to  the  music  of  the  sea  in  a  shell.  In  the 
case  of  the  prose  writers,  he  is  better  off,  though  some  of  the  highest 
of  these  still  wait  a  truly  characteristic  translator, — a  born  translator  like 
Hookham  Frere.  This  is  true  of  Herodotus,  who  holds  the  same  place 
in  prose  that  Homer  holds  in  poetry ;  and  to  reproduce  whose  antique 
simplicity,  piety,  and  artless,  easy  yet  wise  reflective  garrulity  of  narration, 
would  be  a  task  as  difficult  as  that  of  Chapman  or  Lord  Derby.  There 
are  many  translations  of  Herodotus.  The  standard  one  used  to  be  Beloe's, 
to  which  Macaulay  gives  a  pungent  side-hit  somewhere,  by  saying  of 
another  book  that  it  is  "  as  flat  as  champagne  in  decanters,  or  Herodotus 
in  Beloe's  translation."  Nevertheless,  we  are  much  mistaken  if  it  was  not 
in  Beloe  that  Major  Kennell,  author  of  the  Geography  of  Herodotus,  read 
him,  while  preparing  for  a  work  which  is  a  signal  instance  of  the  use  to 
which  translations  may  be  put.  The  late  Isaac  Taylor  published  an 
Herodotus  with  a  curious  introduction,  comparing  the  state  of  the  modern 
with  that  of  the  ancient  world.  But  all  such  versions  must,  we  believe, 
be  considered  to  have  been  superseded  by  the  Herodotus  of  the  Rawlinsons 
published  by  Mr.  Murray  in  four  volumes,  where  a  great  deal  of  most 
valuable  Oriental  information  illustrative  of  the  text  is  accumulated.  It 
fell  in  our  way  a  few  years  back,  apart  from  our  present  purpose,  to 
compare  three  books  of  the  Greek  with  Mr.  George  Rawlinson's  translation, 
— a  fair  enough  test  of  its  accuracy;  while  as  for  the  style,  we  may  say 
that  if  it  falls  short  of  the  true  Herodotean  local  colour,  it  is  sufficiently 
readable,  and  sometimes  felicitously  simple.  A  brief  sample  will  not  be 
unwelcome,  the  rather  that  it  contains  a  story  which  has  become  familiar 
to  all  the  literatures  of  Europe  : — 

"  .  .  .  Now  it  is  seven  furlongs  across  from  Abydos  to  the  opposite 
coast.  When,  therefore,  the  Channel  had  been  bridged  successfully,  it 
happened  that  a  great  storm  arising  broke  the  whole  work  to  pieces,  and 
destroyed  all  that  had  been  done.  So  when  Xerxes  heard  of  it  he  was 


THE   CLASSICS  IN  TRANSLATIONS.  121 

full  of  wrath,  and  straightway  gave  orders  that  the  Hellespont  should 
receive  three  hundred  lashes,  and  that  a  pair  of  fetters  should  be  cast  into 
it.  Nay,  I  have  even  heard  it  said,  that  he  bade  the  branders  take  their 
irons  and  therewith  brand  the  Hellespont.  It  is  certain  that  he  com- 
manded those  who  scourged  the  waters  to  utter,  as  they  lashed  them, 
these  barbarian  and  wicked  words  :  *  Thou  bitter  water,  thy  lord  lays 
on  thee  this  punishment  because  thou  hast  wronged  him  without  a  cause, 
huving  suffered  no  evil  at  his  hand.  Verily  King  Xerxes  will  cross  thee 
whether  thou  wilt  or  no.  Well  dost  thou  deserve  that  no  man  should 
honour  thee  with  sacrifice ;  for  thou  art  of  a  brute,  a  treacherous  and 
unsavoury  river.'  While  the  sea  was  thus  punished  by  his  orders,  he 
likewise  commanded  that  the  overseers  of  the  work  should  lose  their 
hoads." — Book  Seventh,  cc.  34,  35. 

The  other  most  famous  historian  of  Greece,  Thucydides,  was  translated 
ir  the  seventeenth  century  by  the  philosopher  Hobbes.  But  it  may  be 
decided  that  old  translations,  even  when  of  the  first  excellence,  like 
Chapman's  Homer  and  North's  Plutarch's  Lives,  fail  to  retain  their  hold 
0:1  the  world  at  large  in  later  generations,  when  the  whole  way  of  thinking 
a;id  tone  of  writing  has  changed.  It  is  useless  to  complain  of  this,  because 
it  is  impossible  to  alter  it.  The  modern  reader,  however,  is  well  off  in  the 
case  of  Thucydides,  for  the  translation  of  the  Reverend  Henry  Dale  holds 
a  highly  respectable  rank.  As  Quintilian  said  long  ago,  in  that  delightful 
si  immary  of  the  two  literatures  in  his  tenth  book,  which  has  always  seemed 
to  us  to  be  an  epitome  of  all  the  best  previous  criticism  of  antiquity, 
Thucydides  is  "  dense  and  brief,"  while  Herodotus  is  "  sweet,  and  candid, 
and  expansive  ;  "  one  excels  in  strength,  the  other  in  delightfulness.  We 
shall  try  to  select  from  Mr.  Dale  a  passage  marked  by  the  historian's 
most  distinctive  qualities  : — 

"  For  afterwards,  even  the  whole  of  Greece,  so  to  say,  was  convulsed, 
struggles  being  everywhere  made  by  the  popular  leaders  to  call  in  the 
Athenians,  by  the  oligarchical  party  the  Lacedemonians.  Now,  they  would 
have  had  no  pretext  for  calling  them  in,  nor  have  been  prepared  to  do  so, 
in  time  of  peace.  But  when  pressed  by  war,  and  when  an  alliance  also 
v  as  maintained  by  both  parties  for  the  injury  of  their  opponents  and  for 
their  own  gain  therefrom,  occasions  of  inviting  them  were  easily  supplied 
to  such  as  wished  to  effect  any  revolution.  And  many  dreadful  things 
befell  the  cities  through  this  sedition,  which  occur,  and  will  always  do 
so,  as  long  as  human  nature  is  the  same,  but  in  a  more  violent  or 
milder  form,  and  varying  in  their  phenomena,  as  the  several  variations 
of  circumstances  may  in  each  case  present  themselves.  For  in  peace 
a. id  prosperity  both  communities  and  individuals  have  better  feelings, 
through  not  falling  into  urgent  needs  ;  whereas  war,  by  taking  away 
tie  free  supply  of  daily  wants,  is  a  violent  master,  and  assimilates  most 


122  THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

men's  tampers  to  their  present  condition.  The  states  then  were  thus 
torn  by  sedition,  and  the  later  instances  of  it  in  any  part,  from  having 
heard  what  had  been  done  before,  exhibited  largely  an  expressive  refine- 
ment of  ideas,  both  in  the  eminent  cunning  of  their  plans  and  the 
monstrous  cruelty  of  their  vengeance.  The  ordinary  meaning  of  words 
was  changed  by  them  as  they  thought  proper.  For  reckless  daring  was 
regarded  as  courage  that  was  true  to  its  friend  ;  prudent  delay  as  specious 
cowardice  ;  moderation  as  a  cloak  for  unmanliness ;  being  intelligent  in 
everything  as  being  useful  for  nothing.  Frantic  violence  was  assigned  to  the 
manly  character ;  cautious  plotting  was  considered  a  specious  excuse  for 
declining  the  contest.  The  advocate  for  cruel  measures  was  always  trusted  ; 
while  his  opponent  was  suspected.  He  that  plotted  against  another,  if 
successful,  was  reckoned  clever ;  he  that  suspected  a  plot,  still  cleverer ; 
but  he  that  forecasted  for  escaping  the  necessity  of  all  such  things,  was 
regarded  as  one  who  broke  up  his  party,  and  was  afraid  of  his  adversaries. 
In  a  word,  the  man  was  commended  who  anticipated  our  going  to  do  an 
evil  deed,  or  persuaded  to  it  one  who  had  no  thought  of  it.  ...  The 
neutrals  amongst  the  citizens  were  destroyed  by  both  parties ;  either 
because  they  did  not  join  them  in  their  quarrel,  or  for  envy  that  they  should 
so  escape.  Thus,  every  kind  of  villany  arose  in  Greece  from  these  sedi- 
tions. Simplicity,  which  is  a  very  large  ingredient  in  a  noble  nature,  was 
laughed  down  and  disappeared  ;  and  mutual  opposition  of  feeling,  with  a 
want  of  confidence,  prevailed  to  a  great  extent.  And  the  men  of  more 
homely  wit,  generally  speaking,  had  the  advantage ;  for  through  fearing 
their  own  deficiency  and  the  cleverness  of  their  opponents,  lest  they  might 
be  worsted  in  words,  and  be  first  plotted  against  by  means  of  the  versatility 
of  their  enemy's  genius,  they  proceeded  boldly  to  deeds." — Book  Third, 
oc.  82,  83. 

Probably  every  observation  in  this  masterly  sketch  has  been  once  more 
verified  in  Europe  since  the  era  of  revolutions  began  in  '89  ;  and  surely 
a  man  must  be  very  foolish  who  with  such  treasures  of  ancient  experience 
open  to  him  in  his  own  language,  neglects  to  put  his  hand  into  the  bag. 
Whatever  the  value  of  Thucydides  compared  with  The  Times,  he  is  certainly 
an  excellent  companion  to  that  journal ;  and,  indeed,  the  whole  ancient 
literature  is  acquiring  a  new  value  in  proportion  as  our  civilization  begins 
to  repeat  the  features,  and  to  be  puzzled  with  the  problems,  of  the  civiliza- 
tion under  which  that  literature  was  produced. 

What  we  have  observed  of  translations  of  the  poets  and  historians  is 
pretty  well  true  of  those  of  the  philosophers  and  orators  of  Greece.  There 
are  a  few  works  of  art ;  there  is  a  larger  number  of  good  solid  trustworthy 
versions,  retaining  the  usefulness,  if  they  have  missed  the  beauty,  of  their 
originals.  Among  the  first  must  be  reckoned  the  Banquet  of  Plato  by 
Shelley,  and  his  llepubliv  by  Messrs.  Davies  and  Vaughan  :  two  of  the 
rare  books  of  the  kind  giving  any  glimpse  of  the  graceful  flow  of  the 


THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS.  123 

Pkionic  diction.  Plato  may  no  doubt  be  read  with  substantial  results  as 
far  as  the  subject-matter  is  concerned  in  Burges,  Gary,  and  others  ;  but 
we  question  whether  justice  is  done  to  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  the  narrative 
in  such  dialogues  as  the  Phado  and  Phadrus.  The  question  of  style  is  of 
less  significance  in  the  case  of  Aristotle,  whose  Ethics  have  been  translated 
by  Professor  Browne,  and  whose  other  works  are  easily  accessible  in  our 
lai  guage.  The  Politics  ought  to  engage  the  special  attention  of  the 
Ei  glish  reader,  who  will  be  startled  by  the  immense  amount  of  political 
experience  recorded  in  them  from  the  histories  of  the  swarm  of  common- 
wealths on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  every  one  of  which  was  as 
familiar  to  Aristotle  the  politician,  as  the  fish  of  the  /Egean  and 
sponges  of  Crete  were  to  Aristotle  the  naturalist.  How  closely  many 
of  Aristotle's  dicta  apply  to  the  events  passing  every  day  before  our 
eyas  is  only  known  to  those  who  have  thoughtfully  gone  through 
hi:>  invaluable  treatise,  which  holds  the  same  place  in  the  history  of  the 
plilosophy  of  politics  that  his  Poetics  do  in  the  history  of  criticism. 
"With  regard  to  the  Greek  orators,  the  curiosity  of  the  student  for  whom 
th  s  essay  is  intended,  will  probably  be  chiefly  directed  to  Demosthenes. 
H  3  is  far  less  amusing  and  brilliant  than  Cicero  ;  but  his  massive  lucid 
re  isoning  is  a  chain  of  silver;  and  where  he  bursts  into  deliberate  eloquence, 
th3  effect  is  overwhelming.  Demosthenes  may  be  read  in  the  versions  of 
L(  land,  Lord  Brougham  (for  the  Oration  on  the  Crown],  and  Mr.  Rann 
Kennedy.  Plutarch's  Demosthenes,  though  perhaps  inferior  to  his  Antony 
ard  his  Pericles,  is  one  of  his  most  charming  biographies.  And  this 
lesids  us  to  suggest  that  the  best  Plutarch's  Lives  now  accessible  to 
tha  general  world  is  the  Drydenian  version  edited  and  revised  by  the 
la  nented  Arthur  Hugh  Clough.  It  is  far  superior  to  that  of  the  Lang- 
he  rnes,  not  only  in  accuracy  but  in  style  ;  for  the  Langhornian  version  is 
deeply  tainted  with  the  artificial  mannerism  which  belongs  to  so  many 
b(  oks  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  Greek  literature  naturally  carries  away  the  lion's  share  of  a  paper 
of  this  kind,  not  only  because  of  its  superior  importance,  but  because 
p<- ople  who  have  some  knowledge  of  Latin  are  infinitely  more  numerous 
ttan  those  who  have  any  knowledge  of  Greek.  Nevertheless,  we  must 
indicate  the  principal  English  translations  of  Roman  writers,  following  the 
srnie  order  that  we  have  taken  hitherto  in  the  other  case.  The  standard 
V'rgil  is,  of  course,  Dryden's  ;  for  the  JEneid  of  good  old  Bishop  Douglas 
h;  s  been  long  the  exclusive  property  of  the  antiquaries,  who  find  it  a 
p<  rfect  mine  of  the  soundest  broad  Scotch  of  the  antique  world.  All  that 
D  ryden  did  he  executed  with  an  easy  rapid  vigour,  which  is  one  of  his 
cl  ief  distinctions  ;  and  we  may  still  take  Gray's  advice,  "  to  read  Dryden, 
and  be  blind  to  all  his  faults."  Of  his  many  successors  in  the  task,  the 
irost  interesting  at  this  juncture  is  Professor  Conington,  whose  JEneid,  in 
a  different,  and  at  first  sight,  far  less  suitable  metre,  has  been  praised  by 
V(  ry  competent  judges  ;  and  proves,  even  on  a  cursory  examination,  to 


121  THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

contain  passages  of  great  spirit  and  liveliness.  But  great  as  has  been  the 
attention  bestowed  by  our  translators  on  Virgil,  it  is  exceeded  by  that 
which  they  have  devoted  to  Horace.  Horace  has  no  such  rivals  to  contend 
with  as  Homer  and  Theocritus  ;  while  in  his  Satires  and  Epistles  he  is  all 
but  the  sole  master  of  a  species  of  composition  peculiar  to  Italy.  It  was 
Dr.  Johnson's  opinion  that  "  the  lyrical  part  of  Horace  can  never  be 
properly  translated;"  and  this  is  certainly  much  confirmed  by  the  fact 
that  we  have  no  one  English  version  of  the  Odes  entirely  pleasing  and 
faithful.  Scattered  over  our  literature  there  are  some  delightful  successes  ; 
the  Pijrrha  of  Milton,  the  Quern  tu  Melpomene  of  Bishop  Atterbury,  the 
Beatus  ille  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  so  forth.  But  though  a  score  of  hands 
have  laboured  at  the  Venusian  in  all  forms,  from  the  useful  Smart  in  prose 
(that  blessing  to  the  modem  "literary  man")  upward,  no  Horace  stands 
out  supreme  even  as  Pope's  Homer,  whatever  its  faults,  must  be  allowed 
to  do.  Milton's  Pyrrha  is  the  flower  of  his  odes  in  English.  Francis  is 
justly  becoming  obsolete,  by  reason  of  his  looseness,  wordiness,  and 
general  want  of  fidelity  to  the  truth  of  classic  art,  with  its  "quiet  finish  and 
serene  severity  of  beauty.  Among  the  Horatians  of  this  age,  Father  Prout 
excels  in  the  familiar,  and  Professor  Conington  in  the.  more  rigid  manner. 
But,  on  the  whole,  the  Imitations  of  Horace  by  Pope  and  Swift  give  a  far 
livelier  conception  of  his  comic  than  any  other  pieces  do  of  his  lyrical  vein. 
His  great  rival  in  satire,  Juvenal,  has  been  more  lucky.  His  moral  spirit 
has  been  excellently  seized  by  Johnson  in  the  London  and  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes;  and  the  direct  translations  of  him  by  Dryden  and 
Gifford  are  among  the  most  successful  translations  in  the  language. 
There  was  a  glorious  stream  of  humour  running  through  Dry  den's 
fine  genius  ;  and  when  employed  on  Juvenal — five  of  whose  best  satires 
he  executed — he  gave  full  vent  to  it.  The  broad  comedy  of  his  sketch 
of  the  garret  of  poor  Codrus,  a  hero  of  the  Grub  Street  of  Rome,  has  often 
amused  us  : — 

Codrus  had  but  one  bed,  so  short  to  boot 

That  his  short  wife's  short  legs  hung  dangling  out ; 

His  cupboard's  head  six  earthern  pitchers  graced, 

Beneath  them  was  his  trusty  tankard  placed  ; 

And  to  support  their  noble  plate  there  lay 

A  bending  chiron  cast  in  honest  clay. 

His  few  Greek  books  a  rotten  chest  contained 

Whose  covers  much  of  mouldiness  complained  ; 

Where  mice  and  rats  devoured  poetic  bread, 

And  on  heroic  verse  luxuriantly  were  fed.      t 

A*e  dare  not  quote  Dry  den's  incomparable  rendering  of  the  famous 
passage  on  Messalina  in  the  sixth  satire  ;  but  we  confidently  recommend  it  to 
all  who  relish  the  old  English  comic  vein.  Gifford' s  whole  Juvenal,  too, 
is  well  worth  reading  ; — good,  sturdy,  faithful  stuff,  giving  a  just  notion  of 
the  sense,  though  not  always  equally  of  the  humour,  of  the  Latin. 
Juvenal's  is  one  of  the  cases,  like  that  of  Frere's  Aristophanes,  in  which 


THE   CLASSICS   IN   TRANSLATIONS.  125 

tho  ancient  fell  into  the  hands  of  precisely  the  kind  of  moderns  who 
sympathized  with  him  at  all  points,  and  resembled  him  in  essential 
characteristics  of  feeling  and  taste.  There  are  other  instances  in  the  history 
of  Roman  translation.  The  Terence  of  the  elder  Colinan  is  one  of  them  ; 
an  i  the  Pliny 's  Letters  of  Melmoth.  But  it  sometimes  happens  that,  by 
a  strange  perversity,  a  man  just  gets  hold  of  the  very  author  with  whom  he 
has  nothing  in  common.  Elphinstone,  who  produced  a  Martial  in  the  last 
ce;itury,  was  one  of  these  men  ;  and  his  book  enjoys  the  ignoble  distinction 
of  being  the  very  worst  version  of  a  classical  author  in  the  literature  of 
England.  Let  us  hope  that  we  are  now  beginning  to  learn  that  to  translate 
a  humourist,  requires  humour  ;  and  to  translate  a  poet,  poetry  ;  and  that 
the  mere  power  of  giving  the  literal  meaning,  by  itself,  can  create  nothing 
but  that  lowest  of  all  kind  of  translation  which  is  called  a  "  crib."  The 
best-turned  Martial's  epigrams  we  ever  saw  appeared  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine  some  years  back.  As  a  satirical  epigrammatist,  he  has  no  equal 
for  point ;  and  there  are  casual  intimations  in  him  of  far  higher  powers 
than  he  ever  did  justice  to.  His  chief  rival  in  the  Latin  epigram  was  that 
most  delicious  of  all  Latin  poets,  Catullus — who  is,  and  ever  will  be, 
pe  culiarly  untranslateable  ;  his  spirit  being  so  rare,  and  his  form  so  perfect. 
Translation  has  sometimes  been  compared  to  decanting  wine  ;  but  what  if 
you  have  to  transfer  the  glass  as  well  as  the  liquor  ?  The  greatest  of  the 
poets  of  Rome  according  to  modern  ideas, — Lucretius, — was  long  read  in 
the  pages  of  the  eccentric  and  forgotten  Creech  ;  but  may  be  most  profit- 
ably studied  now  in  the  verse  of  Dr.  Mason  Goode,  or  the  prose  of  his 
celebrated  editor,  Mr.  Munro. 

The  two  great  Roman  historians  are,  on  the  whole,  at  a  disadvantage 
ID  our  literature,  as  compared  with  the  two  great  Greek  historians.  We 
are  unable  to  name  a  Livy  from  which  anything  higher  than  an  honest 
r(  production  of  the  meaning  can  be  expected  ;  but  Livy's  style  is  remark- 
able for  combining  remarkable  natural  beauty,  especially  in  narrative, 
with  a  dignity  which  has  all  the  effect  of  stateliness  and  elaboration.  As 
for  Tacitus,  it  is  not  fair  to  ask  for  a  thorough-going  translation  of  him. 
He  stands  apart  from  the  established  models  of  classical  diction,  pretty  much 
a -i  Mr.  Carlyle  does  in  our  own  times.  He  may  be  familiarly  described 
a  5  a'  cross  between  a  great  tragic  poet  and  Rochefoucauld  :  his  touches  of 
description  light  upon  a  scene  like  shafts  of  sunlight  breaking  through 
clouds  in  a  storm ;  he  delivers  oracles  in  epigrams,  and  his  satire  is  prussic 
aoid; — his  whole  books  giving  you  an  impression  which  lasts  for  life,  of 
a  great  soul  steeped  in  speculation,  sorrow,  and  scorn, — and  sustained  on 
the  human  side  of  it  by  an  indomitable  spirit  of  aristocracy  which  is 
Iloman  to  the  spinal  marrow.  Such  a  man,  delivering  himself  in  brief, 
torse,  elliptical  sentences,  reading  like  a  kind  of  spiritual  short-hand, 
tisks  the  strength  of  a  translator  to  the  uttermost.  The  "  standard  " 
translation  of  Tacitus,  that  by  Murphy,  is  painfully  long-winded  ;  and  as 
fir  as  the  History  is  concerned,  must  be  looked  on  as  thrust  out  of  the 


126  THE  CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

field  by  the  History  of  Mr.  Church  and  Mr.  Brodribb,  issued  by 
Macmillan  and  Co.,  in  1864.  From  this  very  clever  volume,  we  select 
a  couple  of  passages.  Our  first  is  the  account  of  the  death  of  Vitellius 
when  the  Flavian  troops  obtained  possession  of  Rome  in  A.  D.  70  : — 

"  When  Rome  had  fallen,  Vitellius  caused  himself  to  be  carried  in  a 
litter  through  the  back  of  the  palace  to  the  Aventine,  to  his  wife's  dwelling, 
intending,  if  by  any  concealment  he  could  escape  for  that  day,  to  make  his 
way  to  his  brother's  cohorts  at  Tarracina.  Then,  with  characteristic  weak- 
ness, and  following  the  instincts  of  fear,  which,  dreading  everything,  shrinks 
most  from  what  is  immediately  before  it,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
desolate  and  forsaken  palace,  whence  even  the  meanest  slaves  had  fled,  or 
where  they  avoided  his  presence.  The  solitude  and  silence  of  the  place 
scared  him ;  he  tried  the  closed  doors,  he  shuddered  in  the  empty 
chambers,  till,  wearied  out  with  his  miserable  wanderings,  he  concealed 
himself  in  an  unseemly  hiding-place,  from  which  he  was  dragged  out  by 
the  tribune  Julius  Placidus.  His  hands  were  bound  behind  his  back,  and 
he  was  led  along  with  tattered  robes,  a  revolting  spectacle,  amidst  the 
invectives  of  many,  the  tears  of  none.  The  degradation  of  his  end  had 
extinguished  all  pity.  One  of  the  German  soldiers  met  the  party,  and 
aimed  a  deadly  blow  at  Vitellius,  perhaps  in  anger,  perhaps  wishing  to 
i-elease  him  the  sooner  from  insult.  Possibly  the  blow  was  meant 
for  the  tribune.  He  struck  off  that  officer's  ear,  and  was  immediately 
despatched. 

"  Vitellius,  compelled  by  threatening  swords,  first  to  raise  his  face  and 
offer  it  to  insulting  blows,  then  to  behold  his  own  statues  falling  round  him, 
and  more  than  once  to  look  at  the  Rostra  and  the  spot  where  Galba  was 
slain,  was  then  driven  along  till  they  reached  the  Gemoniae,  the  place  where 
the  corpse  of  Flavius  Sabinus  had  lain.  One  speech  was  heard  from  him 
indicating  a  soul  not  utterly  degraded,  when  to  the  insults  of  a  tribune  he 
answered,  *  Yet  I  was  your  Emperor.'  Then  he  fell  under  a  shower  of 
blows,  and  the  mob  reviled  him  when  he  was  dead  with  the  same  heartless- 
ness  with  which  they  had  flattered  him  when  he  was  alive." 

The  above  has  been  chosen  to  illustrate  the  historian's  power  of 
description.  What  follows  will  do  the  same  office  for  his  faculty  of 
analysing  character, — one  of  the  greatest  of  his  great  gifts : — 

"  The  body  of  Galba  lay  for  a  long  time  neglected,  and  subjected, 
through  the  licence  which  the  darkness  permitted,  to  a  thousand  indig- 
nities, till  Argius  his  steward,  who  had  been  one  of  his  slaves,  gave  it  a 
humble  burial  in  his  master's  private  gardens.  His  head,  which  the 
Butlers  and  camp-followers  had  fixed  on  a  pole  and  mangled,  was  found 
only  the  next  day  in  front  of  the  tomb  of  Patrobius,  a  freedman  of  Nero's, 
whom  Galba  had  executed.  It  was  put  with  the  body,  which  had  by  that 


THE   CLASSICS  IN    TRANSLATIONS.  127 

tin.e  been  reduced  to  ashes.  Such  was  the  end  of  Servius  Galba,  who,  in 
his  seventy-three  years,  had  lived  prosperously  through  the  reigns  of  five 
emperors,  and  had  been  more  fortunate  under  the  rule  of  others  than  he 
wa  =  in  his  own.  His  family  could  boast  an  ancient  nobility,  his  wealth 
was  great.  His  character  was  of  an  average  kind,  rather  free  from  vices 
thru  distinguished  by  virtues.  He  was  not  regardless  of  fame,  nor  yet 
vainly  fond  of  it.  Other  men's  money  he  did  not  covet,  with  his  own  he 
was  parsimonious,  with  that  of  the  state  avaricious.  To  his  freedmen  and 
friends  he  showed  a  forbearance  which,  when  he  had  fallen  into  worthy 
ha:  ids,  could  not  be  blamed  ;  when,  however,  these  persons  were  worthless, 
he  was  even  culpably  blind.  The  nobility  of  his  birth  and  the  perils  of 
the  times  made  what  was  really  indolence  pass  for  wisdom.  While  in  the 
vigour  of  life,  he  enjoyed  a  high  military  reputation  in  Germany ;  as  pro- 
consul he  ruled  Africa  with  moderation,  and  when  advanced  in  years 
showed  the  same  integrity  in  Eastern  Spain.  He  seemed  greater  than 
a  subject  while  he  was  yet  in  a  subject's  rank,  and  by  common  consent 
wo  aid  have  been  pronounced  equal  to  Empire,  had  he  never  been 
Enperor." 

We  shall  speak  of  only  one  more  Roman  writer, — the  most  various, 
veisatile,  and  accomplished  of  them  all;  the  flower  of  their  culture  ;  the 
type  of  their  eloquence  ;  the  great,  the  genial,  the  humane  Cicero.  Of 
hin,  it  may  be  said,  as  Byron  said  of  Pope,  and  with  even  more  justice, 
tht.t  he  is  a  "  literature  in  himself."  Hardly  any  writer  of  antiquity 
instructs  us  so  much  about  so  many  different  sides  of  its  life  ;  or  has 
attained  excellence  in  so  many  branches  of  knowledge.  His  oratory  has 
evioy  merit:  high  eloquence  ;  ingenious  and  plausible  reasoning;  genuine 
hu  nour ;  picturesque  description.  His  familiar  letters  are  among  the 
me  st  agreeable  ever  written.  His  moral  dialogues,  like  the  Friendship  and 
Old  Aye,  anticipate  the  kindly  wisdom  ami  polite  pleasant  shrewdness  of 
ou  •  Addisons  and  Goldsmiths.  His  philosophical  dialogues  at  least  add 
a  3harm  to  the  Greek  doctrines  by  strengthening  and  enlivening  them 
with  a  swarm  of  apposite  anecdotes  and  illustrative  sketches.  His 
lot  s  mots  are  as  good  as  those  of  Talleyrand  or  Sheridan  ;  and 
he  would  have  laughed  his  great  living  enemy  Mommsen  out  of  any 
public  assembly  in  Europe.  Of  such  a  man,  every  sensible  English- 
man ought  to  know  something ;  and  if  no  translation  does  him 
justice,  any  translation,  whether  the  older  one  of  Duncan,  or  the  more 
rec  ent  one  of  Yonge,  supplies  ample  opportunity  of  learning  from  the  vast 
xnr  ss  of  knowledge  accumulated  in  his  books.  If  a  selection  had  to  be  made, 
we  should  recommend,  first,  among  the  speeches,  those  in  defence  of 
Ar  ;hias,  Milo,  and  Murena,  as  well  as  all  the  Catilinarians,  and  the  second 
Philippic;  secondly,  as  many  of  the  letters  as  possible,  the  preference 
be:ng  given  to  those  to  Atticus  ;  thirdly,  among  the  dialogues,  the  Friend- 
sJii'),  the  Old  Age,  and  the  Tusculan  Questions.  Some  of  his  elegance  and 


128  THE   CLASSICS  IN   TRANSLATIONS. 

stateliness  of  style  must  appear  in  any  translation  ;  his  sense  in  any  case 
is  sure  to  assert  itself ;  and  above  all,  he  is  thoroughly  human  and  sympa- 
thetic. Few  kinder  men  have  ever  lived ;  and  it  is  this  element  of  uncon- 
querable geniality,  this  thread  of  a  tenderness  almost  Christian,  which  has 
made  his  name  dear  to  so  many  men  who  well  know  all  that  can  be  urged 
against  his  weaknesses,  and  the  errors  of  his  public  conduct.  In  any  case, 
however,  the  mere  study  of  such  controversies  is  elevating ;  and  teaches 
the  modern  reader  to  enlarge  his  views  by  comparing  the  public  men  of  his 
own  age  with  those  mighty  ones  of  old  whose  ashes  have  long  been  resolved 
into  the  dust  of  their  native  land.  Contact  with  a  distant  past  gives  poetry 
to  a  man's  daily  experience,  and  colours  the  everyday  existence  around 
him  with  a  certain  grave  sentiment  which  refines  and  hallows  it. 

At  this  point,  we  may  bring  our  imperfect  sketch  of  a  great  subject  to 
a  close.  The  intelligent  reader  sees  what  we  want :  we  desire  to  con- 
centrate into  a  focus  the  scattered  interest  of  a  valuable  class  of  books, 
the  existence  of  which  is  half  useless,  just  because  they  are  seldom  thought 
of  in  connection  with  each  other,  and  remain  unknown  by  reason  of  their 
isolation.  Let  a  library  of  them  be  formed  anywhere,  giving  the  preference 
to  the  best,  and  their  importance  would  be  instantly  seen.  If  every  public 
library,  such  as  those  of  the  Mechanics'  Institutes  and  Literary  Institutions 
of  the  country,  contained  every  book  that  we  have  mentioned  in  this 
paper,  and  they  were  only  in  moderate  demand  there,  we  should  look 
forward  without  despondency  to  the  growth  of  the  thought  and  taste  of  the 
rising  generation. 


A  WINTER  DAY'S  WALK. 


THE 


COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 


AUGUST,  1867. 


r01js  0f  gblj0jj's  Jfolln, 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE  DROPPINGS  OF  A  GREAT  DIPLOMATIST. 

HEN  a  man's  manner  and  address 
are  very  successful  with  the  world 
— when  he  possesses  that  power  of 
captivation  which  extends  to  people 
of  totally  different  tastes  and  habits, 
and  is  equally  at  home,  equally  at 
his  ease,  with  young  and  old,  with 
men  of  grave  pursuits  and  men  of 
pleasure  —  it  is  somewhat  hard  to 
believe  that  there  must  not  be  some 
strong  sterling  quality  in  his  nature ; 
for  we  know  that  the  base  metals 
never  bear  gilding,  and  that  it  is 
only  a  waste  of  gold  to  cover  them 
with  it. 

It  would  be,  therefore,  very  plea- 
sant to  think  that  if  people  should 
not  be  altogether  as  admirable  as 
they  were  agreeable,  yet  that  the 
qualities  which  made  the  companionship  so  delightful  should  be  indications 
of  deeper  and  more  solid  gifts  beneath.  Yet  I  am  afraid  the  theory  will 
not  hold.  I  suspect  that  there  are  a  considerable  number  of  people  in 
this  world  who  go  through  life  trading  on  credit,  and  who  renew  their  bills 
with  humanity  so  gracefully  and  so  cleverly,  they  are  never  found  out  to 
be  bankrupts  till  they  die. 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  92.  7. 


J30  THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

A  very  accomplished  specimen  of  this  order  was  Lord  Culduff.  He 
•was  a  man  of  very  ordinary  abilities,  commonplace  in  every  way,  and  who 
had  yet  contrived  to  impress  the  world  with  the  notion  of  his  capacity. 
He  did  a  little  of  almost  everything.  He  sang  a  little,  played  a  little  on 
two  or  three  instruments,  talked  a  little  of  several  languages,  and  had 
smatterings  of  all  games  and  field-sports,  so  that  to  every  seeming,  nothing 
came  amiss  to  him.  Nature  had  been  gracious  to  him  personally,  and  he 
had  a  voice  very  soft  and  low  and  insinuating. 

He  was  not  an  impostor,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  believed  in 
himself.  He  actually  had  negotiated  his  false  coinage  so  long  that  he  got 
to  regard  it  as  bullion,  and  imagined  himself  to  be  one  of  the  first  men  of 
his  age. 

The  bad  bank-note,  which  has  been  circulating  freely  from  hand  to 
hand,  no  sooner  comes  under  the  scrutiny  of  a  sharp-eyed  functionary  of 
the  bank  than  it  is  denounced  and  branded ;  and  so  Culduff  would  speedily 
have  been  treated  by  any  one  of  those  keen  men  who,  as  Ministers,  grow 
to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  thorough  as  of  the  actual  events 
of  the  time. 

The  world  at  large,  however,  had  not  this  estimate  of  him.  They  read 
of  him  as  a  special  envoy  here,  an  extraordinary  minister  there,  now 
negotiating  a  secret  treaty,  now  investing  a  Pasha  of  Egypt  with  the  Bath ; 
and  they  deemed  him  not  only  a  trusty  servant  of  the  Crown,  but  a  skilled 
negotiator,  a  deep  and  accomplished  diplomatist. 

He  was  a  little  short-sighted,  and  it  enabled  him  to  pass  objectionable 
people  without  causing  offence.  He  was  slightly  deaf,  and  it  gave  him  an 
air  of  deference  in  conversation  which  many  were  charmed  with;  for 
whenever  he  failed  to  catch  what  was  said,  his  smile  was  perfectly  capti- 
vating. It  was  assent,  but  dashed  with  a  sort  of  sly  flattery,  as  though  it 
was  to  the  speaker's  ingenuity  he  yielded,  as  much  as  to  the  force  of  the 
conviction. 

He  was  a  great  favourite  with  women.  Old  ladies  regarded  him  as  a 
model  of  good  ton ;  younger  ones  discovered  other  qualities  in  him  that 
amused  them  as  much.  His  life  had  been  anything  but  blameless,  but  he 
had  contrived  to  make  the  world  believe  he  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning,  and  that  every  mischance  that  befel  him  came  of  that  unsus- 
pecting nature  and  easy  disposition  of  which  even  all  his  experience  of  life 
could  not  rob  him. 

Cutbill  read  him  thoroughly;  but  though  Lord  Culduff  saw  this,  it 
did  not  prevent  him  trying  all  his  little  pretty  devices  of  pleasing  on  the 
man  of  culverts  and  cuttings.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  though  he 
could  not  bring  down  the  bird,  it  was  better  not  to  spoil  his  gun  by  a 
change  of  cartridge,  and  so  he  fired  away  his  usual  little  pleasantries,  well 
aware  that  none  of  them  were  successful. 

He  had  now  been  three  days  with  the  Bramleighs,  and  certainly  had 
won  the  suffrages,  though  in  different  degrees,  of  them  all.  He  had  put 
himself  so  frankly  and  unreservedly  in  Colonel  Bramleigh's  hands  about  the 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  131 

coal-mine,  candidly  confessing  the  whole  thing  was  new  to  him,  he  was  a 
child  in  money  matters,  that  the  banker  was  positively  delighted  with  him. 

With  Augustus  he  had  talked  politics  confidentially, — not  questions  of 
policy  nor  statecraft,  not  matters  of  legislation  or  government,  but  the 
i lore  subtle  and  ingenious  points  as  to  what  party  a  young  man  entering 
lie  ought  to  join,  what  set  he  should  attach  himself  to,  and  what  line  he 
should  take  to  insure  future  distinction  and  office.  He  was  well  up  in  the 
£  ossip  of  the  House,  and  knew  who  was  disgusted  with  such  an  one,  and 
vhy  so  and  so  "  wouldn't  stand  it "  any  longer. 

To  Temple  Bramleigh  he  was  charming.  Of  the  "  line,"  as  they  love  to 
call  it,  he  knew  positively  everything.  Nor  was  it  merely  how  this  or  that 
bgation  was  conducted,  how  this  man  got  on  with  his  chief,  or  why  that 
c  ther  had  asked  to  be  transferred  ;  but  he  knew  all  the  mysterious  goings- 
c-n  of  that  wonderful  old  repository  they  call  "  the  Office."  "  That's  what 
you  must  look  to,  Bramleigh,"  he  would  say,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder. 
"  The  men  who  make  plenipos  and  envoys  are  not  in  the  Cabinet, 
nor  do  they  dine  at  Osborne  ;  they  are  fellows  in  seedy  black,  with  brown 
umbrellas,  who  cross  the  Green  Park  every  morning  about  eleven  o'clock, 
i  nd  come  back  over  the  self- same  track  by  six  of  an  evening.  Staid  old 
c.ogs,  with  crape  on  their  hats,  and  hard  lines  round  their  mouths,  fond  of 
fresh  caviare  from  Eussia,  and  much  given  to  cursing  the  messengers." 

He  was,  in  a  word,  the  incarnation  of  a  very  well-bred  selfishness,  that 
Lad  learned  how  much  it  redounds  to  a  man's  personal  comfort  that  he  is 
I  opular,  and  that  even  a  weak  swimmer  who  goes  with  the  tide,  makes  a 
I  etter  figure  than  the  strongest  and  bravest  who  attempts  to  stem  the 
current.  He  was,  in  his  way,  a  keen  observer,  and  a  certain  haughty 
tone,  a  kind  of  self-assertion  in  Marion's  manner,  so  distinguished  her  from 
1  er  sister,  that  he  set  Cutbill  to  ascertain  if  it  had  any  other  foundation 
than  mere  temperament ;  and  the  wily  agent  was  not  long  in  learning  that 
£  legacy  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  her  own"  absolute  right  from  her 
i  aether's  side  accounted  for  these  pretensions. 

"I  tell  you,  Cutty,  it's  only  an  old  diplomatist,  like  myself,  would 
1  .ave  detected  the  share  that  bank  debentures  had  in  that  girl's  demeanour. 
Confess,  sir,  it  was  a  clever  hit." 

"  It  was  certainly  neat,  my  lord." 

"  It  was  more,  Cutty  ;  it  was  deep — downright  deep.  I  saw  where 
ihe  idiosyncrasy  stopped,  and  where  the  dividends  came  in." 

Cutbill  smiled  an  approving  smile,  and  his  lordship  turned  to  the  glass 
(>ver  the  chimney-piece  and  looked  admiringly  at  himself.  "Was  it 
1  wenty  thousand  you  said  ?  "  asked  he,  indolently. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  twenty.  Her  father  will  probably  give  her  as  much 
nore.  Harding  told  me  yesterday  that  all  the  younger  children  are  to 
have  share  and  share  alike — no  distinction  made  between  sons  and 
(.aughters." 

"  So  that  she'll  have  what  a  Frenchman  would  call  "  un  million 
( e  dot." 

7—2 


132  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Just  about  what  we  want,  my  lord,  to  start  our  enterprise." 

"  Ah,  yes.  I  suppose  that  would  do ;  but  we  shall  do  this  by  a 
company,  Cutty.  Have  you  said  anything  to  Bramleigh  yet  on  the 
subject?" 

"  Nothing  further  than  what  I  told  you  yesterday.  I  gave  him 
the  papers  with  the  surveys  and  the  specifications,  and  he  said  he'd  look 
over  them  this  morning,  and  that  I  might  drop  in  upon  him  to-night 
in  the  library  after  ten.  It  is  the  time  he  likes  best  for  a  little  quiet 
chat." 

"  He  seems  a  very  cautious,  I'd  almost  say,  a  timid  man." 

"  The  City  men  are  all  like  that,  my  lord.  They're  always  cold 
enough  in  entering  on  a  project,  though  they'll  go  rashly  on  after  they've 
put  their  money  in  it." 

"  What's  the  eldest  son  ?  " 

"  A  fool— just  a  fool.  He  urged  his  father  to  contest  a  county,  to 
lay  a  claim  for  a  peerage.  They  lost  the  election  and  lost  their  money  ; 
but  Augustus  Bramleigh  persists  in  thinking  that  the  party  are  still  their 
debtors." 

"  Very  hard  to  make  Ministers  believe  that,"  said  Culduff,  with  a 
grin.  "  A  vote  in  the  House  is  like  a  bird  in  the  hand.  The  second  fellow, 
Temple,  is  a  poor  creature." 

"  Ain't  he  ?     Not  that  he  thinks  so." 

•"No;  they  never  do,"  said  Culduff,  caressing  his  whiskers,  and 
looking  pleasantly  at  himself  in  the  glass.  "  They  see  one  or  two  men  of 
mark  in  their  career,  and  they  fancy — heaven  knows  why — that  they  must 
be  like  them  ;  that  identity  of  pursuit  implies  equality  of  intellect ;  and  so 
these  creatures  spread  out  their  little  sails,  and  imagine  they  are  going  to 
make  a  grand  voyage." 

"  But  Miss  Bramleigh  told  me  yesterday  you  had  a  high  opinion  of  her 
brother  Temple." 

"  I  believe  I  said  so,"  said  he,  with  a  soft  smile.  "  One  says  these  sort 
of  things  every  day,  irresponsibly,  Cutty,  irresponsibly,  just  as  one  gives 
his  autograph,  but  would  think  twice  before  signing  his  name  on  a  stamped 
paper." 

Mr.  Cutbill  laughed  at  this  sally,  and  seemed  by  the  motion  of  his  lips 
as  though  he  were  repeating  it  to  himself  for  future  retail ;  but  in  what 
spirit,  it  would  not  be  safe  perhaps  to  inquire. 

Though  Lord  Culduff  did  not  present  himself  at  the  family  breakfast- 
table,  and  but  rarely  appeared  at  luncheon,  pretexting  that  his  mornings 
were  always  given  up  to  business  and  letter- writing,  he  usually  came  down 
in  the  afternoon  in  some  toilet  admirably  suited  to  the  occasion,  whatever 
it  might  be,  of  riding,  driving,  or  walking.  In  fact,  a  mere  glance  at  his 
lordship's  costume  would  have  unmistakably  shown  whether  a  canter,  the 
croquet  lawn,  or  a  brisk  walk  through  the  shrubberies  were  in  the  order  of 
the  day. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Cutty,"  said  he  suddenly,  "  what  was  my  engage- 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  133 

jnent  for  this  morning  ?  I  promised  somebody  to  go  somewhere  and  do 
something ;  and  I'll  be  shot  if  I  can  recollect." 

"I  am  totally  unable  to  assist  your  lordship,"  said  the  other  with  a 
smile.  "  The  young  men,  I  know,  are  out  shooting,  and  Miss  Eleanor 
.' jramleigh  is  profiting  by  the  snow  to  have  a  day's  sledging.  She  proposed 
i.o  me  to  join  her,  but  I  didn't  see  it." 

"Ah!  I  have  it  now,  Cutty.  I  was  to  walk  over  to  Portshandon,  to 
return  the  curate's  call.  Miss  Bramleigh  was  to  come  with  me." 

"  It  was  scarcely  gallant,  my  lord,  to  forget  so  charming  a  project," 
said  the  other  slyly. 

"  Gallantry  went  out,  Cutty,  with  slashed  doublets.  The  height  and 
.he  boast  of.  our  modern  civilization  is  to  make  women  our  perfect  equals, 
md  to  play  the  game  of  life  with  them  on  an  absolutely  equal  footing." 

"Is  that  quite  fair?" 

"I  protest  I  think  it  is,  except  in  a  few  rare  instances,  where  the  men 
unite  to  the  hardier  qualities  of  the  masculine  intelligence,  the  nicer,  finer, 
most  susceptible  instincts  of  the  other  sex — the  organization  that  more 
than  any  other  touches  on  excellence ; — except,  I  say,  in  these  cases,  the 
women  have  the  best  of  it.  Now  what  chance,  I  ask  you,  would  you  have, 
pitted  against  such  a  girl  as  the  elder  Bramleigh  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  a  very  poor  one,"  said  Cutbill,  with  a  look  of  deep 
humility. 

"  Just  so,  Cutty,  a  very  poor  one.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  I 
have  learned  more  diplomacy  beside  the  drawing-room  fire  than  I  ever 
acquired  in  the  pages  of  the  blue-books.  You  see  it's  a  quite  different 
school  of  fence  they  practise  ;  the  thrusts  are  different  and  the  guards  are 
different.  A  day  for  furs  essentially,  a  day  for  furs,"  broke  he  in,  as  he 
drew  on  a  coat  lined  with  sable,  and  profusely  braided  and  ornamented. 
"  What  was  I  saying  ?  where  were  we  ?" 

"  You  were  talking  of  women,  my  lord." 

"  The  faintest  tint  of  scarlet  in  the  under  vest — it  was  a  device  of  the 
Regent's  in  his  really  great  day — is  always  effective  in  cold,  bright,  frosty 
weather.  The  tint  is  carried  on  to  the  cheek,  and  adds  brilliancy  to  the 
eye.  In  duller  weather  a  coral  pin  in  the  cravat  will  suffice ;  but,  as 
David  Wilkie  used  to  say,  *  Nature  must  have  her  bit  of  red.' " 

"I  wish  you  would  finish  what  you  were  saying  about  women,  my 
lord.  Your  remarks  were  full  of  originality." 

"Finish!  finish,  Cutty!  It  would  take  as  many  volumes  as  the 
'Abridgment  of  the  Statutes '  to  contain  one-half  of  what  I  could  say  about 
them ;  and,  after  all,  it  would  be  Sanscrit  to  you."  His  lordship  now 
placed  his  hat  on  his  head,  slightly  on  one  side.  It  was  the  "tigerism" 
of  a  past  period,  and  which  he  could  no  more  abandon  than  he  could  give 
up  the  jaunty  swagger  of  his  walk,  or  the  bland  smile  which  he  kept  ready 
for  recognition. 

"I  have  not,  I  rejoice  to  say,  arrived  at  that  time  of  life  when  I  can 
affect  to  praise  bygones  ;  but  I  own,  Cutty,  they  did  everything  much 


134  THE   BRAMLEIGHS  OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

better  five-and-twenty  years  ago  than  now.  They  dined  better,  they  dressed 
better,  they  drove  better,  they  turned  out  better  in  the  field  and  in  the 
park,  and  they  talked  better." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  this,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Simply  in  this  way,  Gutty.  We  have  lowered  our  standard  in  taste 
just  as  we  have  lowered  our  standard  for  the  army.  We  take  fellows  five 
feet  seven  into  grenadier  companies  now ;  that  is,  we  admit  into  society 
men  of  mere  wealth — the  banker,  the  brewer,  the  railway  director,  and  the 
rest  of  them ;  and  with  these  people  we  admit  their  ways,  their  tastes, 
their  very  expressions.  I  know  it  is  said  that  we  gain  in  breadth :  yet, 
as  I  told  Lord  Cocklethorpe,  (the  mot  had  its  success,)  what  we  gain  in 
breadth,  said  I,  we  lose  in  height.  Neat,  Cutty,  wasn't  it  ?  As  neat 
as  a  mot  well  can  be  in  our  clumsy  language."  And  with  this,  and  a 
familiar  bye  bye,  he  strolled  away,  leaving  Cutbill  to  practise  before  the 
glass  such  an  imitation  of  him  as  might  serve,  at  some  future  time,  to 
convulse  with  laughter  a  select  and  admiring  audience. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  WINTER  DAY'S  WALK 

LOKD  CULDUFF  and  Marion  set  out  for  their  walk.  It  was  a  sharp  frosty 
morning,  with  a  blue  sky  above  and  crisp  snow  beneath.  We  have  already 
seen  that  his  lordship  had  not  been  inattentive  to  the  charms  of  costume. 
Marion  was  no  less  so  ;  her  dark  silk  dress,  looped  over  a  scarlet  petticoat, 
and  a  tasteful  hat  of  black  astracan,  well  suited  the  character  of  looks 
where  the  striking  and  brilliant  were  as  conspicuous  as  dark  eyes,  long 
lashes,  and  a  bright  complexion  could  make  them. 

"  I'll  take  you  by  the  shrubberies,  my  lord,  which  is  somewhat  longer, 
but  pleasanter  walking,  and  if  you  like  it,  we'll  come  back  by  the  hill  path, 
which  is  much  shorter." 

"  The  longer  the  road  the  more  of  your  company,  Miss  Bramleigh. 
Therein  lies  my  chief  interest,"  said  he,  bowing. 

They  talked  away  pleasantly  as  they  went  along,  of  the  country  and 
the  scenery,  of  which  new  glimpses  continually  presented  themselves,  and 
of  the  country  people  and  their  ways,  so  new  to  each  of  them.  They 
agreed  wonderfully  on  almost  everything,  but  especially  as  to  the  character 
of  the  Irish — so  simple,  so  confiding,  so  trustful,  so  grateful  for  benefits, 
and  so  eager  to  be  well  governed.  They  knew  it  all,  the  whole  complex 
web  of  Irish  difficulty  and  English  misrule  was  clear  and  plain  before  them  ; 
and  then,  as  they  talked,  they  gained  a  height  from  which  the  blue  broad 
sea  was  visible,  and  thence  descried  a  solitary  sail  afar  off,  that  set  them 
speculating  on  what  the  island  might  become  when  commerce  and  trade 
should  visit  her,  and  rich  cargoes  should  cumber  her  quays,  and  crowd  her 
harbours.  Marion  was  strong  in  her  knowledge  of  industrial  resources ; 
but  as  an  accomplished  aide-de-camp  always  rides  a  little  behind  his  chief, 


THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  135 

;}o  did  she  restrain  her  acquaintance  with  these  topics,  and  keep  them  slightly 
o  the  rear  of  all  his  lordship  advanced.  And  then  he  grew  confidential, 
ind  talked  of  coal,  which  ultimately  led  him  to  himself,  the  theme  of  all  he 
'iked  the  best.  And  how  differently  did  he  talk  now !  What  vigour  and 
mimation,  what  spirit  did  he  not  throw  into  his  sketch  !  It  was  the  story 
>f  a  great-  man  unjustly,  hardly,  dealt  with,  persecuted  by  an  ungenerous 
•ivalry,  the  victim  of  envy.  For  half,  ay,  for  the  tithe  of  what  he  had 
lone,  others  had  got  their  advancement  in  the  peerage — their  blue  ribbons 
ind  the  rest  of  it ;  but  Canning  had  been  jealous  of  him,  and  the  Duke 
vvas  jealous  of  him,  and  Palmerston  never  liked  him.  "  Of  course,"  he 
saidj  "  these  are  things  a  man  buries  in  his  own  breast.  Of  all  the  sorrows 
one  encounters  in  life,  the  slights  are  those  he  last  confesses ;  how  I  came 
to  speak  of  them  now  I  can't  imagine — can  you  ?  "  and  he  turned 
fully  towards  her,  and  saw  that  she  blushed  and  cast  down  her  eyes  at  the 
question. 

"  But,  my  lord,"  said  she,  evading  the  reply,  "you  give  me  the  idea 
of  one  who  would  not  readily  succumb  to  an  injustice.  Am  I  right  in  my 
reading  of  you?" 

"  I  trust  and  hope  you  are,"  said  he  haughtily ;  "  and  it  is  my  pride  to 
think  I  have  inspired  that  impression  on  so  brief  an  acquaintance." 

"  It  is  my  own  temper  too,"  she  added.  "You  may  convince  ;  you 
cannot  coerce  me." 

"  I  wish  I  might  try  the  former,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  much  meaning.1 

"  We  agree  in  so  many  things,  my  lord,"  said  she  laughingly,  "that 
there  is  little  occasion  for  your  persuasive  power.  There,  do  you  see  that 
smoke-wreath  yonder  ?  that's  from  the  cottage  where  we're  going." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  where  we  were  going,"  said  he  with  a  sigh  of  wonderful 
tenderness. 

"  To  Roseneath,  my  lord.     I  told  you  the  L'Estranges  lived  there." 

"Yes  :  but  it  was  not  that  I  meant,"  added  he  feelingly. 

"  And  a  pretty  spot  it  is,"  continued  she,  purposely  misunderstanding 
him  ;  "  so  sheltered  and  secluded.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
curate's  sister  ?  She  is  very  beautiful,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  say  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  are." 

"  I  mean,  may  I  speak  as  though  we  knew  each  other  very  well,  and 
could  talk  in  confidence  together  ?  ' ' 

"  That  is  what  I  mean." 

"And  wish?"  added  he. 

"  Well,  and  wish,  if  you  will  supply  the  word." 

"If  I  am  to  be  frank,  then,  I  don't  admire  her." 

"  Not  think  her  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  some  beauty — a  good  deal  of  beauty,  if  you  like  ;  but 
somehow  it  is  not  allied  with  that  brightness  that  seems  to  accentuate 
beauty.  She  is  tame  and  cold." 

"  I  think  men  generally  accuse  her  of  coquetry." 


136  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"And  there  is  coquetry  too;  but  of  that  character  the  French  call 
minaude-rie,  the  weapon  of  a  very  small  enchantress,  I  assure  you." 

"  You  are,  then,  for  the  captivations  that  give  no  quarter  ?  "  said  she, 
smiling. 

"  It  is  a  glory  to  be  so  vanquished,"  said  he,  heroically. 

"  My  sister  declared  the  other  night,  after  Julia  had  sung  that  barcarole, 
that  you  were  fatally  smitten." 

"And  did  you  concur  in  the  judgment  ?  "  asked  he  tenderly. 

"  At  first,  perhaps  I  did,  but  when  I  came  to  know  you  a  little 
better " 

"  After  our  talk  on  the  terrace  ?  " 

"  And  even  before  that.  When  Julia  was  singing  for  you, — clearly 
for  you,  there  was  no  disguise  in  the  matter,  and  I  whispered  you,  'What 
courage  you  have  ! '  you  said,  '  I  have  been  so  often  under  fire,' — from 
that  instant  I  knew  you." 

"  Knew  me, — how  far  ?  " 

"Enough  to  know  that  it  was  not  to  such  captivations  you  would 
yield, — that  you  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  have  I  not !  " 

"  Perhaps  not  always  unscathed,"  said  she,  with  a  sly  glance. 

"  I  will  scarcely  go  that  far,"  replied  he,  with  the  air  of  a  man  on  the 
best  possible  terms  with  himself.  "  They  say  he  is  the  best  rider  who  has 
had  the  most  falls.  At  least,  it  may  be  said  that  he  who  has  met  no 
disasters  has  encountered  few  perils." 

"  Now,  my  lord,  you  can  see  the  cottage  completely.  Is  it  not  very 
pretty,  and  very  picturesque,  and  is  there  not  something  very  interesting, — 
touching  almost,  in  the  thought  of  beauty  and  captivation, — dwelling  hi  this 
untravelled  wilderness  ?  " 

He  almost  gave  a  little  shudder,  as  his  eye  followed  the  line  of  the 
rugged  mountain,  till  it  blended  with  the  bleak  and  shingly  shore  on  which 
the  waves  were  now  washing  in  measured  plash; — the  one  sound  in  the 
universal  silence  around. 

"Nothing  but  being  desperately  in  love  could  make  this  solitude 
endurable,"  said  he  at  last. 

"  Why  not  try  that  resource,  my  lord  ?  I  could  almost  promise  you 
that  the  young  lady  who  lives  yonder  is  quite  ready  to  be  adored  and 
worshipped,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  and  it  would  be  such  a  boon  on 
the  frosty  days,  when  the  ground  is  too  hard  for  hunting,  to  have  this 
little  bit  of  romance  awaiting  you." 

"  Coquetry  and  French  cookery  pall  upon  a  man  who  has  lived  all 
his  life  abroad,  and  he  actually  longs  for  a  little  plain  diet,  in- manners  as 
well  as  meals." 

"And  then  you  have  seen  all  the  pretty  acts  of  our  very  pretty 
neighbour  so  much  better  done." 

"  Done  by  real  artists,"  added  he. 

"  Just  so.     Amateurship  is  always  a  poor  thing.     This  is  the  way,  my 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  137 

krd.  If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  be  your  guide  here;  the  path  is  very 
slippery,  and  you  must  take  care  how  you  go." 

"  When  I  fall,  it  shall  be  at  your  feet,"  said  he,  with  his  hand  on  his 
hoart. 

As  they  gained  the  bottom  of  the  little  ravine  down  which  the  foot- 
pi  ith  lay,  they  found  Julia,  hoe  in  hand,  at  work  in  the  garden  before  the 
door.  Her  dark  woollen  dress  and  her  straw  hat  were  only  relieved  in  colour 
by  a  blue  ribbon  round  her  throat,  but  she  was  slightly  flushed  by  exercise, 
a] id  a  little  flurried  perhaps  by  the  surprise  of  seeing  them,  and  her  beauty, 
tl.is  time,  certainly  lacked  nothing  of  that  brilliancy  which  Lord  Culduff 
had  pronounced  it  deficient  in. 

•'*  My  brother  will  be  so  sorry  to  have  missed  you,  my  lord,"  said  she, 
leading  the  way  into  the  little  drawing-room,  where,  amidst  many  signs  of 
nsirrow  fortune,  there  were  two  or  three  of  those  indications  which  vouch 
for  cultivated  tastes  and  pleasures. 

"I  had  told  Lord  Culduff  so  much  about  your  cottage,  Julia,"  said 
Marion,  "  that  he  insisted  on  coming  to  see  it,  without  even  apprising  you 
ol'  his  intention." 

"  It  is  just  as  well,"  said  she  artlessly.  "  A  little  more  or  less  sun 
gives  the  only  change  in  its  appearance.  Lord  Culduff  sees  it  now  as  it 
Icoks  nearly  every  day." 

"And  very  charming  that  is,"  said  he,  walking  to  the  window  and 
looking  out ;  and  then  he  asked  the  name  of  a  headland,  and  how  a  small 
rocky  island  was  called,  and  on  which  side  lay  the  village  of  Portshandon, 
a]  id  at  what  distance  was  the  church,  the  replies  to  which  seemed  to  afford 
him  unmixed  satisfaction,  for  as  he  resumed  his  seat  he  muttered  several 
times  to  himself,  "  Very  delightful  indeed  ;  very  pleasing  in  every  way."  ,,j 

"Lord  Culduff  was  asking  me,  as  he  came  along,"  said  Marion, 
"  whether  I  thought  the  solitude — I  think  he  called  it  the  savagery  of  this 
spot — was  likely  to  be  better  borne  by  one  native  to  such  wildness,  or  by 
one  so  graced  and  gifted  as  yourself,  and  I  protest  he  puzzled  me." 

"  I  used  to  think  it  very  lonely,  when  I  came  here  first,  but  I  believe  I 
bLould  be  sorry  to  leave  it  now,"  said  Julia  calmly. 

"  There,  my  lord,"  said  Marion,  "  you  are  to  pick  your  answer  out  of 
tiat." 

"As  to  those  resources,  which  you  are  so  flattering  as  to  call  my  gifts 
a;  id  graces,"  said  Julia,  laughing,  "  such  of  them  at  least  as  lighten  the 
B<  litude  were  all  learned  here.  I  never  took  to  gardening  before  ;  I 
nover  fed  poultry." 

"  Oh,  Julia  !  have  mercy  on  our  illusions." 

"You  must  tell  me  what  they  are,  before  I  can  spare  them.  The 
curate's  sister  has  no  claim  to  be  thought  an  enchanted  princess." 

"It  is  all  enchantment!"  said  Lord  Culduff,  who  had  only  very 
ir.iperfectly  caught  what  she  said. 

"Then  I  suppose,  my  lord,"  said  Marion,  haughtily,  "I  ought  to 
rescue  you  before  the  spell  is  complete,  as  I  came  here  in  quality  of  guide." 


138  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF   BISHOP'S   FOLLY. 

And  she  rose  as  she  spoke.  "  The  piano  has  not  been  opened  to-day, 
Julia.  I  take  it  you  seldom  sing  of  a  morning." 

"  Very  seldom  indeed." 

"  So  I  told  Lord  Culduff ;  but  I  promised  him  his  recompence  in  the 
evening.  You  are  coming  to  us  to-morrow,  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not.  I  think  George  made  our  excuses.  We  are  to  have 
Mr.  Longworth  and  a  French  friend  of  his  here  with  us." 

"  You  see,  my  lord,  what  a  gay  neighbourhood  we  have;  here  is  a  rival 
dinner-party,"  said  Marion. 

"  There's  no  question  of  a  dinner,  they  come  to  tea,  I  assure  you," 
said  Julia,  laughing. 

"  No,  my  lord,  it's  useless,  quite  hopeless.  I  assure  you  she'll  not 
sing  for  you  of  a  morning."  This  speech  was  addressed  to  Lord  Culduff, 
as  he  was  turning  over  some  music-books  on  the  piano.  : 

"  Have  I  your  permission  to  look  at  these  ?  "  said  he  to  Julia,  as  he 
opened  a  book  of  drawings  in  water-colours. 

"  Of  course,  my  lord.  They  are  mere  sketches  taken  in  the  neighbour- 
hood here,  and  as  you  will  see,  very  hurriedly  done." 

"  And  have  you  such  coast  scenery  as  this  ?  "  asked  he,  in  some 
astonishment,  while  he  held  up  a  rocky  headland  of  several  hundred  feet, 
out  of  the  caves  at  whose  base  a  tumultuous  sea  was  tumbling. 

"  I  could  show  you  finer  and  bolder  bits  than  even  that." 

"  Do  you  hear,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Marion,  in  a'low  tone,  only  audible  to 
himself.  "  The  fair  Julia  is  offering  to  be  your  guide.  I'm  afraid  it  is 
growing  late.  One  does  forget  time  at  this  cottage.  It  was  only  the  last 
day  I  came  here  I  got  scolded  for  being  late  at  dinner." 

And  now  ensued  one  of  those  little  bustling  scenes  of  shawling  and 
embracing  with  which  young  ladies  separate.  They  talked  together,  and 
laughed,  and  kissed,  and  answered  half-uttered  sentences,  and  even  seemed 
after  parting  to  have  something  more  to  say ;  they  were  by  turns  sad, 
and  playful,  and  saucy — all  of  these  moods  being  duly  accompanied  by 
graceful  action,  and  a  chance  display  of  a  hand  or  foot,  as  it  might  be,  and 
then  they  parted. 

"  Well,  my  lord,"  said  Marion,  as  they  ascended  the  steep  path  that 
led  homewards,  "  what  do  you  say  now  ?  Is  Julia  as  cold  and  impassive 
as  you  pronounced  her,  or  are  you  ungrateful  enough  to  ignore  fascinations 
all  displayed  and  developed  for  your  own  especial  captivation?  " 

"  It  was  very  pretty  coquetry,  all  of  it,"  said  He,  smiling.  "  Her  eye- 
lashes are  even  longer  than  I  thought  them." 

"  I  saw  that  you  remarked  them,  and  she  was  gracious  enough  to 
remain  looking  at  the  drawing  sufficiently  long  to  allow  you  full  time  for 
the  enjoyment." 

The  steep  and  rugged  paths  were  quite  as  much  as  Lord  Culduff  could 
manage  without  talking,  and  he  toiled  along  after  her  in  silence,  till  they 
gained  the  beach. 

"  At  last  a  bit  of  even  ground,"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  sigh. 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  109 

"  You'll  think  nothing  of  the  hill,  my  lord,  when  you've  come  it  three 
or  four  times,"  said  she,  with  a  malicious  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

"  Which  is  precisely  what  I  have  no  intention  of  doing." 

"  What !  not  cultivate  the  acquaintance  so  auspiciously  opened  ?  " 

"  Not  at  this  price,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  splashed  boots. 

"  And  that  excursion,  that  ramble,  or  whatever  be  the  name  for  it,  you 
wsre  to  take  together  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  bliss,  I  am  afraid,  I  must  deny  myself." 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  lord ;  very  wrong.  My  brothers  at  least  assure 
no  that  Julia  is  charming  en  tete-a-tete.  Indeed,  Augustus  says  one  does 
not  know  her  at  all  till  you  have  passed  an  hour  or  two  in  such  confidential 
ir.timacy.  He  says  'she  comes  out' — whatever  that  may  be — wonderfully. 

"  Oh,  she  comes  out,  does  she  ?  "  said  he,  caressing  his  whiskers. 

"  That  was  his  phrase  for  it.  I  take  it  to  mean  that  she  ventures  to 
folk  with  a  freedom  more  common  on  the  Continent  than  in  these  islands. 
Is  that  coming  out,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  half  suspect  it  is,"  said  he,  smiling  faintly. 

"  And  I  suppose  men  like  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,  my  dear  Miss  Bramleigh,"  said  he,  with  a  mock  air  of 
daploring  ;  "  I'm  afraid  that  in  these  degenerate  days  men  are  very  prone 
to  like  whatever  gives  them  least  trouble  in  everything,  and  if  a  woman  will 
condescend  to  talk  to  us  on  our  own  topics,  and  treat  them  pretty  much 
in  our  own  way,  we  like  it,  simply  because  it  diminishes  the  distance 
between  us,  and  saves  us  that  uphill  clamber  we  are  obliged  to  take  when 
you  insist  upon  our  scrambling  up  to  the  high  level  you  live  in." 

"  It  is  somewhat  of  an  ignoble  confession  you  have  made  there,"  said 
sae,  haughtily. 

"  I  know  it — I  feel  it — I  deplore  it,"  said  he,  affectedly. 

"  If  men  will,  out  of  mere  indolence — no  matter,"  said  she,  biting  her 
l:p.  "  I'll  not  say  what  I  was  going  to  -say." 

"  Pray  do.     I  beseech  you  finish  what  you  have  so  well  begun." 

"  Were  I  to  do  so,  my  lord,"  said  she,  gravely,  "  it  might  finish  more 
tian  that.  It  might  at  least  go  some  way  towards  finishing  our  acquaint- 
anceship. I'm  sorely  afraid  you'd  not  have  forgiven  me  had  you  heard 
ne  out." 

"  I'd  never  have  forgiven  myself,  if  I  were  the  cause  of  it." 

For  some  time  they  walked  along  in  silence,  and  now  the  great  house 
( ame  into  view — its  windows  all  glowing  and  glittering  in  the  blaze  of  a 
E  etting  sun,  while  a  faint  breeze  lazily  moved  the  heavy  folds  of  the  enor- 
i  lous  flag  that  floated  over  the  high  tower. 

"  I  call  that  a  very  princely  place,"  said  he,  stopping  to  admire  it. 

"  What  a  caprice  to  have  built  it  in  such  a  spot,"  said  she.  "  The 
(Ountry  people  were  not  far  wrong  when  they  called  it  Bishop's  Folly." 

"  They  gave  it  that  name,  did  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  It  is  one  of  the  ways  in  which  humble  folk  reconcile 
ihemselves  to  lowly  fortune  ;  they  ridicule  their  betters."  And  now  she 


140  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

gave  a  little  low  laugh  to  herself,  as  if  some  unuttered  notion  had  just 
amused  her. 

"  What  made  you  smile  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  A  very  absurd  fancy  struck  me." 

"  Let  me  hear  it.     Why  not  let  me  share  in  its  oddity  ?  " 

"  It  might  not  amuse  you  as  much  as  it  amused  me." 

"  I  am  the  only  one  who  can  decide  that  point." 

"  Then  I'm  not  so  certain  it  might  not  annoy  you." 

11 1  can  assure  you  on  that  head,"  said  he  gallantly. 

"  Well,  then,  you  shall  hear  it.  The  caprice  of  a  great  divine  has,  so 
to  say,  registered  itself  yonder,  and  will  live,  so  long  as  stone  and  mortar 
endure,  as  Bishop's  Folly  ;  and  I  was  thinking  how  strange  it  would  be  if 
another  caprice  just  as  unaccountable  were  to  give  a  name  to  a  less  pre: 
tent-ions  edifice,  and  a  certain  charming  cottage  be  known  to  posterity  as 
the  Viscount's  Folly.  You're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'd  be  very  angry  indeed  with  you,  with  myself,  and  with  the  whole 
world,  if  I  thought  such  a  casualty  a  possibility." 

"I  assure  you,  when  I  said  it  I  didn't  believe  it,  my  lord,"  said  she, 
looking  at  him  with  much  graciousness ;  "  and,  indeed,  I  would  never 
have  uttered  the  impertinence  if  you  had  not  forced  me.  There,  there 
goes  the  first  bell;  we  shall  have  short  time  to  dress," — and  with  a  very 
meaning  smile  and  a  familiar  gesture  of  her  hand,  she  tripped  up  the  steps 
and  disappeared. 

"  I  think  I'm  all  right  in  that  quarter,"  was  his  lordship's  reflection  as 
he  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN  EVENING  BELOW  AND  ABOVE  STAIRS. 

IT  was  not  very  willingly  that  Mr.  Cutbill  left  the  drawing-room,  where 
he  had  been  performing  a  violoncello  accompaniment  to  one  of  the  young 
ladies  in  the  execution  of  something  very  Mendelssohnian  and  profoundly 
puzzling  to  the  uninitiated  in  harmonics.  After  the  peerage,  he  loved 
counter-point ;  and  it  was  really  hard  to  tear  himself  away  from  passages 
of  almost  piercing  shrillness,  or  those  more  still  suggestive  moanings 
of  a  double  bass,  to  talk  stock  and  share  list  with  Colonel  Bramleigh  in 
the  library.  Resisting  all  the  assurances  that  "papa  wouldn't  mind  rfc; 
that  any  other  time  would  do  quite  as  well,"  and  such  like,  he  went  up  to 
his  room  for  his  books  and  papers,  and  then  repaired  to  his  rendezvous. 

"I'm  sorry  to  take  you  away  from  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  Cutbill," 
said  Bramleigh,  as  he  entered,  "but  I  am  half  expecting  a  summons  to 
town,  and  could  not  exactly  be  sure  of  an  opportunity  to  talk  over  this 
matter  on  which  Lord  Culduff  is  very  urgent  to  have  my  opinion." 

"It  is  not  easy,  I  confess,  to  tear  oneself  away  from  such  society. 
Your  daughters  are  charming  musicians,  colonel.  Miss  Bramleigh' s  style 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  141 

is  as  brilliant  as  Meyer's  ;  aiid  Miss  Eleanor  has  a  delicacy  of  touch  I  have 
naver  heard  surpassed." 

"  This  is  very  flattering,  coming  from  so  consummate  a  judge  as 
yourself." 

"  All  the  teaching  in  the  world  will  not  impart  that  sensitive  organiza- 
tion which  sends  some  tones  into  the  heart  like  the  drip,  drip  of  water  on 
a  heated  brow.  Oh,  dear  !  music  is  too  much  for  me ;  it  totally  subverts 
all  my  sentiments.  I'm  not  fit  for  business  after  it,  Colonel  Bramleigh, 
tlat's  the  fact." 

"  Take  a  glass  of  that  *  Bra  Mouton.'  You  will  find  it  good.  It  has 
leen  eight-and- thirty  years  in  my  cellar,  and  I  never  think  of  bringing  it 
cut  except  for  a  connoisseur  in  wine." 

"  Nectar,  positively  nectar,"  said  he,  smacking  his  lips.  "  You  are 
c  uite  right  not  to  give  this  to  the  public.  They  would  drink  it  like  a  mere 
lull-bodied  Bordeaux.  That  velvety  softness, — that  subdued  strength, 
faintly  recalling  Burgundy,  and  that  delicious  bouquet,  would  all  be  clean 
ihrown  away  on  most  people.  I  declare,  I  believe  a  refined  palate  is  just 
us  rare  as  a  correct  ear  ;  don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  the  wine.  Don't  spare  it.  The  cellar  is  not  far 
off.  Now  then,  let  us  see.  These  papers  contain  Mr.  Stebbing's  report. 
I  have  only  glanced  my  eye  over  it,  but  it  seems  like  every  other  report. 
They  have,  I  think,  a  stereotyped  formula  for  these  things.  They  all 
net  out  with  their  bit  of  geological  learning ;  but  you  know,  Mr.  Cutbill, 
far  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  you  know  sandstone  doesn't  always  mean 
coal?" 

"If  it  doesn't,  it  ought  to,"  said  Cutbill,  with  a  laugh,  for  the  wine 
made  him  jolly,  and  familiar  besides. 

"  There  are  many  things  in  this  world  which  ought  to  be,  but  which, 
anhappily,  are  not,"  said  Bramleigh,  in  a  tone  evidently  meant- to  be  half- 
reproachful.  "  And  as  I  have  already  observed  to  you,  mere  geological 
formation  is  not  sufficient.  We  want  the  mineral,  sir  ;  we  want  the  fact." 

"  There  you  have  it ;  there  it  is  for  you,"  said  Cutbill,  pointing  to  a 
somewhat  bulky  parcel  in  brown  paper  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  ^ 

"  This  is  not  real  coal,  Mr.  Cutbill,"  said  Bramleigh,  as  he  tore  open 
the  covering,  and  exposed  a  black  mis-shapen  lump.  "  You  would  not 
call  this  real  coal  ?" 

"I'd  not  call  it  Swansea  nor  Cardiff,  colonel,  any  more  than  I'd  say 
the  claret  we  had  after  dinner  to-day  was  «  Mouton ; '  but  still  I'd  call  each 
of  them  very  good  in  their  way." 

"  I  return  you  my  thanks,  sir,  in  name  of  my  wine-merchant.  But 
to  come  to  the  coal  question, — what  could  you  do  with  this  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  do  with  it  ?  Scores  of  things, — if  I  had  only  enough 
of  it.  Burn  it  in  grates — cook  with  it — smelt  metals  with  it — burn  lime 
with  it — drive  engines,  not  locomotives  but  stationaries,  with  it.  I  tell 
you  what,  Colonel  Bramleigh,"  said  he,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
asserting  what  he  would  not  suffer  to  be  gainsayed.  "  It's  coal,  quite 


142  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

enough  to  start  a  company  on ;  coal  within  the  meaning  of  the  Act,  as  the 
lawyers  would  say." 

"  You  appear  to  have  rather  loose  notions  of  joint-stock  enterprises, 
Mr.  Cutbill,"  said  Bramleigh,  haughtily. 

"  I  must  say,  colonel,  they  do  not  invariably  inspire  me  with  senti- 
ments of  absolute  veneration."  .... . 

11 1  hope,  however,  you  feel,  sir,  that  in  any  enterprise — in  any  under- 
taking—where my  name  is  to  stand  forth,  either  as  promoter  or  abettor, 
that  the  world  is  to  see  in  such  a  guarantee,  the  assurance  of  solvency 
and  stability." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  made  me  think  of  you  :  precisely  what  led 
me  to  say  to  Culduff,  *  Bramleigh  is  the  man  to  carry  the  scheme  out.'  " 

Now  the  familiarity  that  spoke  of  Culduff  thus  unceremoniously  in 
great  part  reconciled  Bramleigh  to  hear  his  own  name  treated  in  like 
fashion,  all  the  more  that  it  was  in  a  quotation  ;  but  still  he  winced  under 
the  cool  impertinence  of  the  man,  and  grieved  to  think  how  far  his  own 
priceless  wine  had  contributed  towards  it.  The  colonel  therefore  merely 
bowed  his  acknowledgment  and  was  silent. 

"  I'll  be  frank  with  you,"  said  Cutbill,  emptying  the  last  of  the 
decanter  into  his  glass  as  he  spoke.  "  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  We've  got 
coal ;  whether  it  be  much  or  little,  there  it  is.  As  to  quality,  as  I  said 
before,  it  isn't  Cardiff.  It  won't  set  the  Thames  on  fire,  any  more  than 
the  noble  lord  that  owns  it ;  but  coal  it  is,  and  it  will  burn  as  coal — and 
yield  gas  as  coal — and  make  coke  as  coal,  and  who  wants  more  ?  As  to 
working  it  himself,  Culduff  might  just  as  soon  pretend  he'd  pay  the 
National  Debt.  He  is  over  head  and  ears  already ; — he  has  been  in 
bondage  with  the  children  of  Israel  this  many  a  day,  and  if  he  wasn't 
a  peer  he  could  not  show ; — but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  To  set 
the  concern  a-going,  we  must  either  have  a  loan  or  a  company.  I'm  for 
a  company." 

"  You  are  for  a  company,"  reiterated  Bramleigh,  slowly,  as  he  fixed 
his  eyes  calmly  but  steadily  on  him. 

"  Yes,  I'm  for  a  company.  With  a  company,  Bramleigh,"  said  h^  as 
he  tossed  off  the  last  glass  of  wine,  "  there's  always  more  of  P.  E." 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  P.  E. — Preliminary  Expenses !  There  s  a  commission  to  inquire 
into  this,  and  a  deputation  to  investigate  that.  No  men  on  earth  dine 
like  deputations.  I  never  knew  what  dining  was  till  I  was  named  on  a 
deputation.  It  was  on  sewerage.  And  didn't  the  champagne  flow !  There 
was  a  viaduct  to  be  constructed  to  lead  into  the  Thames,  and  I  never 
think  of  that  viaduct  without  the  taste  of  turtle  in  my  mouth,  and  a 
genial  feeling  of  milk-punch  all  over  me.  The  assurance  offices  say  that 
there  was  scarcely  such  a  thing  known  as  a  gout  premium  in  the  City  till 
the  joint-stock  companies  came  in  ;  now  they  have  them  every  day." 

"  Bevenons  a  nos  moutons,  as  the  French  say,  Mr.  Cutbill,"  said 
Bramleigh,  gravely. 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  143 

"  If  it's  a  pun  you  mean,  and  that  we're  to  have  another  bottle  of  the 
same,  I  second  the  motion." 

Bramleigh  gave  a  sickly  smile  as  he  rang  the  bell ;  but  neither  the  jest 
nor  the  jester  much  pleased  him. 

"  Bring  another  bottle  of  '  Mouton,'  Drayton,  and  fresh  glasses,"  said 
ho,  as  the  butler  appeared. 

"I'll  keep  mine,  it  is  warm  and  mellow,"  said  Cutbill.  "  The  only 
fault  with  that  last  bottle  was  the  slight  chill  on  it." 

"  You  have  been  frank  with  me,  Mr.  Cutbill,"  .said  Bramleigh,  as  soon 
a;;  the  servant  withdrew,  "  and  I  will  be  no  less  so  with  you.  I  have  retired 
from  the  world  of  business, — I  have  quitted  the  active  sphere  where  I 
h  we  passed  some  thirty  odd  years,  and  have  surrendered  ambition,  either 
o :.'  money-making,  or  place,  or  rank,  and  come  over  here  with  one  single 
dasire,  one  single  wish, — I  want  to  see  what's  to  be  done  for  Ireland." 

Cutbill  lifted  his  glass  to  his  lips,  but  scarcely  in  time  to  hide  the 
snile  of  incredulous  drollery  which  curled  them,  and  which  the  other's 
quick  glance  detected. 

"There  is  nothing  to  sneer  at,  sir,  in  what  I  said,  and  I  will  repeat  my 
v  ords.  I  want  to  see  what's  to  be  done  for  Ireland." 

"It's  very  laudable  in  you,  there  can  be  no  doubt,"  said  Cutbill, 
gravely. 

"I  am  well  aware  of  the  peril  incurred  by  addressing  to  men  like 
yourself,  Mr.  Cutbill,  any  opinions — any  sentiments — which  savour  of 
disinterestedness  or — or " 

"  Poetry,"  suggested  Cutbill. 

"  No,  sir ;  patriotism  was  the  word  I  sought  for.  And  it  is  not  by 
fny  means  necessary  that  a  man  should  be  an  Irishman  to  care  for 
Ireland.  I  think,  sir,  there  is  nothing  in  that  sentiment  at  least,  which 
will  move"~your  ridicule." 

"Quite  the  reverse.  I  have  drunk  'Prosperity  to  Ireland'  at  public 
dinners  for  twenty  years ;  and  in  very  good  liquor  too,  occasionally." 

"I  am  happy  to  address  a  gentleman  so  graciously  disposed  to  listen 
10  me,"  said  Bramleigh,  whose  face  was  now  crimson  with  anger.  "  There 
:s  only  one  thing  more  to  be  \\ished  for,-^-that  he  would  join  some  amount 
<>f  trustfulness  to  his  politeness  ;  with  that  he  would  be  perfect." 

"Here  goes  then  for  perfection,"  cried  Cutbill,  gaily.  "I'm  ready 
rom'this  time  to  believe  anything  you  tell  me." 

"  Sir,  I  will  not  draw  largely  on  the  fund  you  so  generously  place  at 
ny  disposal.  I  will  simply  ask  you  to  believe  me  a  man  of  honour." 

"  Only  that  ?     No  more  than  that  ?  " 

"No  more,  I  pledge  you  my  word." 

"  My  dear  Bramleigh,  your  return  for  the  income-tax  is  enough  to  prove 
bhat.  Nothing  short  of  high  integrity  ever  possessed  as  good  a.  fortune  as 
yours." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  my  fortune,  Mr.  Cutbill,  not  my  character." 

"  Ain't  they  the  same  ?     Ain't  they  one  and  the  same  ?     Show  me 


144  THE  BRA2ILEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

your  dividends,  and  I  will  show  you  your  disposition — that's  as  true  as 
the  Bible." 

"  I  will  not  follow  you  into  this  nice  inquiry.  I  will  simply  return  to 
where  I  started  from,  and  repeat,  I  want  to  do  something  for  Ireland." 

"  Do  it,  in  God's  name  ;  and  I  hope  you'll  like  it  when  it's  done.  I 
have  known  some  half-dozen  men  in  my  time  who  had  the  same  sort  of 
ambition.  One  of  them  tried  a  cotton-mill  on  the  Liffey,  and  they  burned 
him  down.  Another  went  in  for  patent  fuel,  and  they  shot  his  steward. 
A  third  tried  Galway  marble,  and  they  shot  himself.  But  after  all  there's 
more  honour  where  there's  more  danger.  What,  may  I  ask,  is  your 
little  game  for  Ireland  ?  " 

"  I  begin  to  suspect  that  a  better  time  for  business,  Mr.  Cutbill, 
might  be  an  hour  after  breakfast.  Shall  we  adjourn  till  to-morrow 
morning  ?  " 

"  I  am  completely  at  your  orders.  For  my  own  part,  I  never  felt 
clearer  in  my  life  than  I  do  this  minute.  I'm  ready  to  go  into  coal  with 
you,  from  the  time  of  sinking  the  shaft  to  riddling  the  slack,  my  little 
calculations  are  all  made.  I  could  address  a  board  of  managing  directors 
here  as  I  sit ;  and  say,  what  for  dividend,  what  for  repairs,  what  for  a 
reserved  fund,  and  what  for  the  small  robberies." 

The  unparalleled  coolness  of  the  man  had  now  pushed  Bramleigh's 
patience  to  its  last  limit ;  but  a  latent  fear  of  what  such  a  fellow  might 
be  in  his  enmity,  restrained  him  and  compelled  him  to  be  cautious. 

"  What  sum  do  you  think  the  project  will  require,  Mr.  Cutbill  ?  " 

"  I  think  about  eighty  thousand  ;  but  I'd  say  one  hundred  and  fifty — 
it's  always  more  respectable.  Small  investments  are  seldom  liked;  and 
then  the  margin — the  margin  is  broader." 

"  Yes,  certainly  ;  the  margin  is  much  broader." 

"  Fifty-pound  shares,  with  a  call  of  five  every  three  months,  will  start 
us.  The  chief  thing  is  to  begin  with  a  large  hand."  Here  he  made  a 
wide  sweep  of  his  arm. 

"  For  coal  like  that  yonder,"  said  Brarnleigh,  pointing  to  the  specimen, 
"  you'd  not  get  ten  shillings  the  ton." 

"  Fifteen — fifteen.  I'd  make  it  the  test  of  a  man's  patriotism  to  use 
it.  I'd  get  the  Viceroy  to  burn  it,  and  the  Chief  Secretary,  and  the  Arch- 
bishop, and  Father  Cullen.  I'd  heat  St.  Patrick's  with  it,  and  the  National 
Schools.  There  could  be  no  disguise  about  it ;  like  the  native  whisky,  it 
would  be  known  by  the  smell  of  the  smoke." 

"  You  have  drawn  up  some  sort  of  prospectus  ?  " 

"  Some  sort  of  prospectus !  I  think  I  have.  There's  a  document 
there  on  the  table  might  go  before  the  House  of  Commons  this  .minute  ; 
and  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  Bramleigh  " — here  he  crossed  his  arms 
on  the  table,  and  dropped  his  voice  to  a  tone  of  great  confidence — "  it  is  a 
good  thing — a  right  good  thing.  There's  coal  there,  of  one  kind  or  other, 
for  five-and-twenty  years,  perhaps  more.  The  real,  I  may  say,  the  only 
difficulty  of  the  whole  scheme  will  be  to  keep  old  Culduff  from  running 


TEE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  145 

off  with  ail  the  profits.  As  soon  as  the  money  comes  rolling  in,  he'll  set 
off  shelling  it  out ;  he's  just  as  wasteful  as  he  was  thirty  years  ago." 

"  That  will  be  impossible  when  a  company  is  once  regularly  formed." 

"  I  know  that.  I  know  that ;  but  men  of  his  stamp  say,  «  We  know 
nothing  about  trade.  "We  haven't  been  bred  up  to  office- stools  and  big 
Jedgers  ;  and  when  we  want  money,  we  get  it  how  we  can." 

"  We  can't  prevent  him  selling  out  or  mortgaging  his  shares.  You 
mean,  in  short,  that  he  should  not  be  on  the  direction  ?  "  added  he. 

"  That's  it ;  that's  exactly  it,"  said  Cutbill,  joyously. 

"  Will  he  like  that  ?     Will  he  submit  to  it  ?  " 

"  He'll  like  whatever  promises  to  put  him  most  speedily  into  funds  ; 
he'll  submit  to  whatever  threatens  to  stop  the  supplies.  Don't  you  know 
these  men  better  than  ,1  do,  who  pass  i lives  of  absenteeism  from  this 
( ountry  ;  how  little  they  care  how  or  whence  money  comes,  provided  they 
$;et  it.  They  neither  know,  nor  want  to  know,  about  good  or  bad  seasons, 
whether  harvests  are  fine,  or  trade  profitable  ;  their  one  question  is,  '  Can 
you  answer  my  draft  at  thirty-one  days  ?  '  ' 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  there  is  too  much,  far  too  much,  of  what  you  say  in  the 
Aroiid,"  said  Bramleigh,  sighing. 

"  These  are  not  the  men  who  want  to  do  something  for  Ireland,"  said 
the  other,  quizzically. 

"  Sir,  it  may  save  us  both  some  time  and  temper  if  I  tell  you  I  have 
r  ever  been  '  chaffed.'  " 

"  That  sounds  to  me  like  a  man  saying,  I  have  never  been  out  in  the 
ain  ;  but  as  it  is  so,  there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

"  Nothing,  sir.     Positively  nothing  on  that  head.* 

"  Nor  indeed  on  any  other.  Men  in  my  line  of  life  couldn't  get  on 
v  ithout  it.  Chaff  lubricates  business  just  the  way  grease  oils  machinery. 
There  would  be  too  much  friction  in  life  without  chaff,  Bramleigh." 

"  I  look  upon  it  as  directly  the  opposite.  I  regard  it  as  I  would  a 
pebble  getting  amongst  the  wheels,  and  causing  jar  and  disturbance,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Cutbill,  emptying  the  last  drop  into  his  glass,  "  I 
tike  it  I  need  not  go  over  all  the  details  you  will  find  in  those  papers. 
There  are  plans,  and  specifications,  and  estimates,  and  computations, 
s  lowing  what  we  mean  to  do,  and  how  ;  and  as  I  really  could  add  nothing 
to  the  report,  I  suppose  I  may  wish  you  a  good  night." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Cutbill,  if  my  inability  to  be  jocular  should 
cl  aprive  me  of  the  pleasure  of  your  society,  but  there  are  still  many  points 
o  i  which  I  desire  to  be  informed." 

"  It's  all  there.  If  you  were  to  bray  me  in  a  mortar  you  couldn't  get 
n  ore  out  of  me  than  you'll  find  in  those  papers ;  and  whether  it's  the  heat 
o:'the  room,  or  the  wine,  or  the  subject,  but  I  am  awfully  sleepy,"  and  he 
backed  this  assurance  with  a  hearty  yawn. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  must  submit  to  your  dictation.  I  will  try  and  master 
tl  .ese  details  before  I  go  to  bed,  and  we'll  take  some  favourable  moment 
tc -morrow  to  talk  them  over." 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  92.  8. 


146  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  That's  said  like  a  sensible  man,"  said  Cutbill,  clapping  him  familiarly 
on  the  shoulder,  and  steadying  himself  the  while  ;  for  as  he  stood  up  to 
go,  he  found  that  the  wine  had  been  stronger  than  he  suspected.  "  When 
we  see  a  little  more  of  each  other,"  said  he,  in  the  oracular  tone  of  a  man 
who  had  drunk  too  much  ;  "  when  we  see  a  little  more  of  each  other,  we'll 
get  on  famously.  You  know  the  world,  and  I  know  the  world.  You  have 
had  your  dealings  with  men,  and  I  have  had  my  dealings  with  men,  and 
we  know  what's  what.  Ain't  I  right,  Bramleigh  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  there  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say." 

"  Truth,  truth,  it's  true  as  gospel.  There's  only  one  thing,  however, 
to  be  settled  between  us.  Each  must  make  his  little  concession  with 
reci-procity — reci-procity,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Quite  so ;  but  I  don't  see  your  meaning." 

"  Here  it  is  then,  Bramleigh ;  here's  what  I  mean.  If  we're  M  march 
together  we  must  start  fair.  No  man  is  to  have  more  baggage  than  his 
neighbour.  If  I'm  to  give  up  chaff,  do  you  see,  you  must  give  up  humbug  ? 
If  I'm  not  to  have  my  bit  of  fun,  old  boy,  you're  not  to  come  over  me 
about  doing  something  for  Ireland,  that's  all,"  and  with  this  he  lounged 
out,  banging  the  door  after  him  as  he  went. 

Mr.  Cutbill,  as  he  went  to  his  room,  had  a  certain  vague  suspicion 
that  he  had  drunk  more  wine  than  was  strictly  necessary,  and  that  the 
liquor  was  not  impossibly  stronger  than  he  had  suspected.  He  felt,  too,  in 
the  same  vague  way,  that  there  had  been  a  passage  of  arms  between  his 
host  and  himself,  but  as  to  what  it  was  about,  and  who  was  the  victor,  he 
had  not  the  shadow  of  a  conception. 

Neither  did  his  ordinary  remedy  of  pouring  the  contents  of  his  water- 
jug  over  his  head  aid  him  on  this  occasion.  "I'm  not  a  bit  sleepy; 
nonsense,"  muttered  he,  "  so  I'll  go  and  see  what  they  are  doing  in  the 
smoking-room."  Here  he  found  the  three  young  men  of  the  house  in  that 
semi-thoughtful  dreariness  which  is  supposed  to  be  the  captivation  of 
tobacco  ;  as  if  the  mass  of  young  Englishmen  needed  anything  to  deepen 
the  habitual  gloom  of  their  natures,  or  thicken  the  sluggish  apathy  that 
follows  them  into  all  inactivity. 

"  How  jolly,"  cried  Cutbill,  as  he  entered.  "  I'll  be  shot  if  I  believed 
as  I  came  up  the  stairs  that  there  was  any  one  here.  You  haven't  even 
got  brandy  and  seltzer." 

"  If  you  touch  that  bell,  they'll  bring  it,"  said  Augustus,  languidly. 

"  Some  Moselle  for  me"  said  Temple,  as  the  servant  entered. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Cutty,"  cried  Jack  ;  "  as  old  Kemp  used  to 
say,  anything  is  better  than  a  dead  calm,  even  a  mutiny." 

"  What  an  infernal  old  hurdy-gurdy.*  Why  haven't  you  a  decent  piano 
nere,  if  you  have  one  at  all  ?  "  said  Cutbill,  as  he  ran  his  hands  over  the 
keys  of  a  discordant  old  instrument  that  actually  shook  on  its  legs  as  he 
struck  the  chords. 

"  I  suspect  it  was  mere  accident  brought  it  here,"  said  Augustus.  "  It 
was  invalided  out  of  the  girls'  schoolroom,  and  sent  up  here  to  be  got  rid  of." 


THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  147 

"Sing  us  something,  Cutty,"  said  Jack;  "it  will  be  a  real  boon  at 
..his  moment." 

"I'll  sing  like  a  grove  of  nightingales  for  you,  when  I  have  wet  my 
lips  ;  but  I  am  parched  in  the  mouth,  like  a  Cape  parrot.  I've  had  two 
liours  of  your  governor  below  stairs.  Very  dry  work,  I  promise  you." 

"  Did  he  offer  you  nothing  to  drink  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  Yes,  we  had  two  bottles  of  very  tidy  claret.   He  called  it  '  Mouton.1  " 

"By  Jove!"  said  Augustus,  "you  must  have  been  high  in  the 
governor's  favour  to  be  treated  to  his  *  Bra  Mouton.'" 

"We  had  a  round  with  the  gloves,  nevertheless,"  said  Cutbill,  "  and 
exchanged  some  ugly  blows.  I  don't  exactly  know  about  what  or  how  it 
I  egun,  or  even  how  it  ended ;  but  I  know  there  was  a  black  eye  somewhere. 
He's  passionate  rather." 

"  He  has  the  spirit  that  should  animate  every  gentleman,"  said  Temple. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  have.  I'll  stand  anything,  I  don't  care  what, 
is'  it  be  fun.  Say  it's  a  *  joke,'  and  you'll  never  see  me  show  bad  temper ; 
but  if  any  fellow  tries  it  on  with  me  because  he  fancies  himself  a  swell,  or 
has  a  handle  to  his  name,  he'll  soon  discover  his  mistake.  Old  Culduff 
bsgan  that  way.  You'd  laugh  if  you  saw  how  he  floundered  out  of  the 
S'vamp  afterwards." 

"  Tell  us  about  it,  Cutty,"  said  Jack  encouragingly. 

"  I  beg  to  say  I  should  prefer  not  hearing  anything  which  might,  even 
bv  inference,  reflect  on  a  person  holding  Lord  Culduff' s  position  in  my 
profession,"  said  Temple  haughtily. 

"  Is  that  the  quarter  the  wind's  in  ?"  asked  Cutbill,  with  a  not  very 
scber  expression  in  his  face. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,  Cutty.  It  will  be  better  than  all  this  sparring," 
said  Jack. 

"What  shall  it  be  ?"  said  Cutbill,  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  and 
running  over  the  keys  with  no  small  skill.  "  Shall  I  describe  my  journey 
to  Ireland?" 

"  By  all  means  let's  hear  it,"  said  Augustus. 

"  I  forget  how  it  goes.  Indeed,  some  verses  I  was  making  on  the 
curate's  sister  have  driven  the  others  out  of  my  head."  Jack  drew  nigh, 
an  1  leaning  over  his  shoulder,  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

"What!"  cried  Cutbill,  starting  up;  "he  says  he'll  pitch  me  neck 
anl  crop  out  of  the  window." 

"  Not  unless  you  deserve  it — add  that,"  said  Jack  sternly. 

"  I  must  have  an  apology  for  those  words,  sir.  I  shall  insist  on  your 
recalling  them,  and  expressing  your  sincere  regret  for  having  ever  used 
them." 

"  So  you  shall,  Cutty.  I  completely  forgot  that  this  tower  was  ninety 
fee;  high  ;  but  I'll  pitch  you  downstairs,  which  will  do  as  well."  , 

There  was  a  terrible  gleam  of  earnestness  in  Jack's  eye  as  he  spoke 
thi !  laughingly,  which  appalled  Cutbill  far  more  than  any  bluster,  and  he 
staiiimered  out,  "Let  us* have  no  practical  jokes;  they're  bad  taste. 

8—2 


148  THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

You'd  be  a  great  fool,  admiral" — this  was  a  familiarity  he  occasionally  used 
with  Jack — "  you'd  be  a  great  fool  to  quarrel  with  me.  I  can  do  more  with 
the  fellows  at  Somerset  House  than  most  men  going ;  and  when  the  day 
comes  that  they'll  give  you  a  command,  and  you'll  want  twelve  or  fifteen 
hundred  to  set  you  afloat,  Tom  Cutbill  is  not  the  worst  man  to  know  in 
the  City.  Not  to  say,  that  if  things  go  right  down  here,  I  could  help  you 
to  something  very  snug  in  our  mine.  Won't  we  come  out  strong  then, 
eh?"  Here  he  rattled  over  the  keys  once  more;  and  after  humming  to 
himself  for  a  second  or  two,  burst  out  with  a  rattling,  merry  air,  to  which 
he  sung, — 

With  crests  on  our  harness  and  brcechin, 

In  a  carriage  and  four  we  shall  roll, 
With  a  splendid  French  cook  in  the  kitchen, 
If  we  only  succeed  to  find  coal, 

Coal! 
If  we  only  are  sure  to  find  coal. 

"  A  barcarole,  I  declare,"  said  Lord  Culduff,  entering.  "  It  was  a  good 
inspiration  led  me  up  here." 

A  jolly  roar  of  laughter  at  his  mistake  welcomed  him  ;  and  Cutty,  with 
an  aside,  cried  out,  "He's  deaf  as  a  post,"  and  continued, — 

If  we  marry,  we'll  marry  a  beauty, 

If  single,  we'll  try  and  control 
Our  tastes  within  limits  of  duty, 
*  And  make  our  ourselves  jolly  with  coal, 

Coal! 

And  make  ourselves  jolly  with  coal. 

They  may  talk  of  the  mines  of  Golconda-r, 

Or  the  shafts  of  Puebla  del  Sol  ; 
But  to  fill  a  man's  pocket,  I  wonder, 

If  there's  anything  equal  to  coal, 

Coal ! 

If  there's  anything  equal  to  coal. 

At  Naples  we'll  live  on  Chiaja, 
With  our  schooner-yacht  close  to  the  Mole, 

And  make  daily  picknickings  to  Baja, 
If  we  only  come  down  upon  coal, 

Coal! 
If  we  only  come  down  upon  coal. 

"  One  of  the  fishermen's  songs,"  said  Lord  Culduff,  as  he  beat  time  on 
the  table.  "  I've  passed  many  a  night  on  the  Bay  of  Naples  listening 
to  them." 

And  a  wild  tumultuous  laugh  now  convulsed  the  company,  and  Cutbill, 
himself  overwhelmed  by  the  absurdity,  rushed  to  the  door,  and  made  his 
escape  without  waiting  for  more. 


149 


IT  is  now  many  years  since  Frederick  Marryat  died,  and  it  may  seem 
strange  to  some  that  whereas  others,  his  contemporaries,  of  like  note, 
and  more  recently  gone  from  the  stage  of  life,  are  represented  upon 
our  library-shelves  biographically,  there  is  still  a  gap  whero  the  life  of 
the  author  cf  Peter  Single  ought  to  be;  but  it  was  his  own  expressed 
desire  that  no  memoir  of  him  should  be  published  after  his  death. 
But  for  this  prohibition,  his  life,  however  inefficiently,  would  before 
now  have  been  written;  but  with  the  remembrance  of  it,  those  who 
knew  him  best,  and  therefore  could  best  perform  the  task,  must  look 
upon  that  wish  of  his  as  a  command. 

Yet  for  some  time  past  a  notice  of  Captain  Marryat  has  been  called  for ; 
and  I  think  I  shall  not  be  in  any  degree  infringing  on  his  prohibition,  by 
recalling  my  own  personal  recollection  of  him  in  his  later  years. 

But  first,  as  a  contrast,  I  must  speak  of  the  days  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  when  he  published  his  first  works.  Living  at  Sussex  House,  Ham- 
mersmith, which  he  had  purchased  of  the  Duke  of  Sussex,  to  whom  he 
was  equerry  at  the  time,  he  had  kept  up  a  round  of  incessant  gaiety  and 
a  course  of  almost  splendid  extravagance.  He  had  always  displayed  a 
remarkable  facility  in  getting  rid  of  money.  Indeed,  he  used  himself 
to  say  that  he  had  "contrived  to  spend  three  fortunes;"  for  he  had 
inherited  not  only  his  share — no  small  one — of  his  father's  property,  but 
also  that  of  one  of  his  brothers,  who  had  died  early,  and  left  to  him  his 
portion,  together  with  a  pretty  little  number  of  thousands  which  he  had 
acquired  as  heir  to  his  uncle,  Samuel  Marryat,  Q.C. 

At  Sussex  House  were  held  those  amusing  conjuring  soirees  which 
Captain  Marryat  used  to  have  in  conjunction  with  his  great  friend,  Captain 
Chamier,  when  they  would  display  the  various  tricks  of  sleight-of-hand 
,vhich  they  together  had  purchased  and  learnt  of  the  wizards  of  that  day ; 
and  when  Theodore  Hook  was  wont  to  bewilder  the  company  with  his 
ventriloquisms,  and  make  them  laugh  with  his  funny  stories  and  imitations. 
There  half  the  men  to  be  met  were  such  as  the  world  had  talked  of,  and 
-vhose  Ion  mots  were  worth  remembering.  Marryat  lived  then  in  the 
itmosphere  of  a  court  as  well  as  in  the  odour  of  literature.  The  former 
;dr  might  easily  be  dispensed  with  without  any  loss  of  happiness,  but  one 
•vould  have  thought  that  intellectual  society  had  become  necessary  to  his 
existence.  I  remember  him  on  the  Continent  some  years  later  than 
Jhis,  at  all  sorts  of  places, — at  Brussels,  at  Antwerp,  at  Paris,  at  Spa, 
•—always  living  en  prince,  and  always  the  same  wherever  he  went, — 


150  CAPTAIN  MAREYAT  AT  LANGHAM. 

throwing  away  Ms  money  with  both  hands,— the  merriest,  wittiest,  most 
good-natured  fellow  in  the  world.  As  soon  as  he  was  known  society  was 
ready  to  applaud.  Once,  at  a  German  table-d'hote,-  where  I  also  was 
present, — for  I  begin  now  to  speak  from  personal  recollection, — he,  in 
order  to  amuse  his  next  neighbour,  suddenly  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork  and  looked  to  the  other  end  of  the  table.  The  other  knives  and 
forks  went  down.  He  coughed,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence.  "  I'll 
trouble  you  for  the  salt,"  said  he,  or  something  equally  commonplace, 
whereupon  there  was  a  general  roar  of  laughter.  "  There's  nothing  like 
being  considered  a  wit,"  he  whispered. 

Later,  I  remember  Captain  Marryat  living  in  Spanish  Place,  London. 
His  establishment  was  not  so  superb  as  it  had  been  at  Sussex  House,  but 
his  manner  of  living  was  as  gay.  It  was  an  incessant  round  of  dining 
out  and  giving  dinners.  At  his  table  you  met  all  the  celebrities  of  the 
day.  His  intimate  friends  were  men  and  Tvomen  who  had  made  their  names 
of  value.  In  Spanish  Place  it  was  I  had  last  seen  him  in  association 
with  Bulwer  Lytton,  Dickens,  Ainsworth,  and  John  Poole,  or  with  the 
beautiful  Lady  Blessington  and  D'Orsay;  and  now,  after  an  absence  of: 
years,  I  travelled  into  Norfolk,  to  find  him  in  a  most  out-of-the-way  place. 

I  arrived  one  evening  at  the  "  Feathers  Inn  "  at  Holt,  and  discovered 
that  I  had  yet  four  or  five  miles  to  go  before  I  could  reach  Langham.  So 
hiring  one  of  those  miserable  old  flies  of  former  days,  I  got  into  it,  and 
was  jolted  away,  in  a  temper  which  might  have  borne  improvement. 

"What  has  come  to  him,"  argued  I,  "that  he  should,  in  the  very 
vigour  of  life,  retire  from  the  world  and  live  the  life  of  a  hermit  ?  Well, 
perhaps  after  all,  he  may  continue  much  the  same  sort  of  existence  as 
he  led  of  old.  No  doubt  he  has  surrounded  himself  with  every  pleasure 
that  society  can  give  him.  But  he  might  have  chosen  a  place  a  little 
nearer  to  civilization,  instead  of  obliging  me  to  drive  four  miles  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  in  an  old  shanderydan  like  this." 

I  could  not  look  at  the  country,  for  it  was  too  dark ;  but  I  knew  that 
it  was  nothing  but  a  straight  bare  country-road  along  which  we  were  going, 
so  I  had  no  solace  but  a  grumble.  Half-an-hour  later,  and  grumbling  was 
at  an  end.  We  paused  a  moment,  the  driver  of  the  trap  descended  and 
opened  a  gate,  and  as  he  remounted  and  urged  his  horse  to  a  final  effort, 
I  could  see  through  the  darkness  that  we  were  rounding  a  gravelled  path. 

Sounds  are  heard  easily  in  the  country :  before  the  fly  drew  near 
the  house  lights  were  seen  flashing  in  the  hall,  and  we  had  not  drawn  up 
before  the  entrance  when  the  door  was  flung  open  and  several  figures  stood 
in  the  porch. 

"Hullo!  "  said  a  voice. 

"  Why,  is  it  you  ?  Why  didn't  you  give  me  notice,  that  I  might  have 
sent  for  you  ?  "  It  was  the  same  voice  as  of  old — deep-chested,  cordial, 
and  cheery. 

I  easily  made  the  excuse  that  I  had  fancied  Holt  was  close  by,  and 
immediately  afterwards  I  was  in  the  porch.  The  early  moon  was  out,  and 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT  AT  LANGHAM.  151 

sliming  upon  the  house,  and  I  stepped  back  upon  the  gravelled  path  to 
]ook  at  it.  It  was  an  Elizabethan  cottage — gabled,  with  heavy  stacks  of 
chimneys,  and  an  overhanging  thatch — built  upon  the  exact  model  of  that 
of  G-eorge  the  Fourth  at  Virginia  Water.  It  was  built  by  Copland,  the 
architect,  who  was  a  personal  friend  of  Captain  Marryat's,  and  with  whom' 
lio  exchanged  Sussex  House  for  this  cottage.  The  vagary  had 'been  that 
the  two  houses  should  be  exchanged  exactly  as  they  stood ;  but  the  idea 
cf  "  all  standing  "  having  different  meanings  in  the  two  different  minds,  he 
T  'ho  got  Sussex  House  as  his  portion  came  off  very  much  the  better  of  the 
ttvo.  But  it  had  been  through  life  the  same  with  the  present  owner  of 
Langham.  If  there  was  a  quality  for  which  there  was  in  his  mind  no 
jlace,  it  was  regard  for  his  own  interest. 

As  I  re-entered  the  porch,  I  perceived  several  cocks  and  hens  crouched 
down  close  to  the  threshold,  and  a  brace  of  tame  partridges  moved  away 
s.owly  to  a  little  distance. 

We  went  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  pretty  room,  walled  with 
v  ater-colour  sketches  by  Stansfield ;  and  at  the  further  "end  by  cases  of 
books.  There  was  an  air  of  thorough  comfort  pervading  the  whole.  I 
h  id  not  been  expected ;  but  nobody  would  have  guessed  the  fact  by  the 
e  itables  which  were  almost  immediately  upon  the  table. 

"  Well !  "  said  I,  when  the  inward  craving  was  appeased  and  silenced, 
aid  when  consequently  my  good  humour  had  returned,  "  this  is  all  very 
n.ce  ;  but  what  makes  you  live  down  here  ?  I  mean  to  carry  you  back  to 
t(  wn  with  me.  Everybody  says  that  it  is  a  shame  that  you  should  be 
0'it  of  the  world  like  this." 

He  was  standing  upon  the  hearthrug,  with  his  back  to  the  fire — 
koking  down  at  me  as  I  sat  at  the  table.  He  was  not  a  tall  man — five 
feet  ten — but  I  think  intended  by  nature  to  be  six  feet,  only  having  gone 
tc  sea  when  still  almost  a  child,  at  a  time  when  the  between-decks  were 
v<  ry  low-pitched,  he  had,  he  himself  declared,  had  his  growth  unnaturally 
st  apped.  His  immensely  powerful  build,  and  massive  chest,  which  measured 
cc  nsiderably  over  forty  inches  round,  would  incline  one  to  this  belief.  He 
hi  ,d  never  been  handsome,  as  far  as  features  went,  but  the  irregularity  of 
LH  features  might  easily  be  forgotten  by  those  who  looked  at  the  intellect 
si  own  in  his  magnificent  forehead.  His  forehead  and  his  hands  were  his 
tv  o  strong  points.  The  latter  were  models  of  symmetry.  Indeed,  while 
resident  at  Rome,  at  an  earlier  period  of  his  life,  he  had  been  requested 
b^  a  sculptor  to  allow  his  hand  to  be  modelled. 

At  the  time  I  now  speak  of  him  he  was  fifty- two  years  of  age ;  but 
lo  >king  considerably  younger.  His  face  was  clean  shaved ;  and  his  hair 
so  long  that  it  reached  almost  to  his  shoulders,  curling  in  light  loose  locks 
like  those  of  a  woman.  It  was  slightly  grey.  He  was  dressed  in  anything 
bt  t  evening  costume  on  the  present  occasion,  having  on  a  short  velveteen 
sh  noting- jacket  and  coloured  trousers.  I  could  not  help  smiling  as  I 
gli  need  at  his  dress — recalling  to  my  mind  what  a  dandy  he  had  been  as 
a  ;  roung  man. 


152  CAPTAIN  MARBYAT  AT  LANGHAM. 

"  What  can  make  you  live  down  here  ?  "  repeated  I. 

"I  have  had  enough  of  the  world,"  he  answered.  "I  like  this  sort 
of  life  :  besides,  look  at  all  my  girls  and  boys.  I  want  to  retrench." 

"  But  do  you  believe  you  save  money  by  farming  your  own  land  ?  " 
I  asked. 

In  perfect  good  faith  he  assured  me  that  he  did.  It  was  the  delusion 
of  his  present  life  that  scientific  farming  was  an  economical  plan  of  living ; 
although  to  the  ordinary  run  of  mortals  it  appeared  uncommonly  like 
throwing  money  away.  Marryat,  I  think,  rather  prided  himself  upon  his 
common  sense.  He  said  once,  "  People  say  that  geniuses  very  seldom 
have  common  sense  :  now  I  have  been  called  a  gsnius  ;  but  I  am  sure  I 
have  plenty  of  common  sense."  He  had  not  a  bit  of  it. 

But  I  have  left  him  standing  on  the  hearthrug  all  this  while,  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  and  we  get  on  but  slowly  with  our  conversation. 

"  What  time  do  you  get  up  in  the  morning  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  About  five  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"  About — about  what  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  get  up 
at  that  hour?" 

"By  no  means:  get  up  at  any  hour  you  like;  but  I  am  my 
own  bailiff." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  your  servants  are  up  and  about  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"They  are  by  the  time  I  return  home  and  want  them.  I  do  not 
trouble  them  before.  I  open  my  bed-room  window  and  jump  out  when  I 
am  dressed,  which  saves  all' the  trouble  of  unbarring  doors.  We  breakfast 
at  eight." 

Although  eight  was  an  improvement  upon  five,  yet  it  required  some 
moments  to  recover  from  the  shock.  When  I  did  so,  I  said  humbly  that 
I  would  go  to  bed. 

I  suppose  there  is  something  in  country  air  conducive  to  early  rising ; 
for,  contrary  to  my  usual  custom,  I  woke  betimes  the  following  morning. 
I  went  to  my  bedroom  window  and  looked  out.  The  room  was  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  overlooked  a  large  lawn,  divided  from  a  field  by  an 
invisible  fence.  The  practically  useful  had  evidently  here  swamped  the 
ornamental.  The  field  was  green  with  young  barley,  which  for  the  time 
looked  almost  as  pretty  as  if  the  whole  had  been  grass.  Wherever 
I  looked,  my  eye  invariably  fell  upon  some  animal  or  other.  There  were  a 
dozen  or  more  young  calves  feeding  about  the  lawn ;  two  or  three  ponies 
and  a  donkey  under  a  clump  of  larches  in  one  direction,  a  long-legged 
colt  and  its  mamma  standing  jealously  apart  from  them  in  another.  Coops 
with  young  fowls  of  various  kinds  stood  upon  the  gravel  walk  in  front  of1 
the  dining-room  doorstep. 

As  I  was  looking,  I  heard  the  premonitory  signal  of  some  one's 
approach, — a  laugh  ;  and  along  the  garden  walk  I  saw  Captain  Marryat 
coming  with  several  of  his  family.  Two  or  three  dogs  capered  around 
and  about ;  a  jackdaw  sat  on  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  girls ;  and  as  they 


CAPTAIN  MARBYAT  AT  LANGHAM.  153 

noared  the  lawn,  they  were  joined  by  a  flock  of  pigeons,  which  wheeled 
round  and  round  their  heads,  settling  for  a  moment,  sometimes  on  tho 
shoulder  of  one,  sometimes  on  the  hat  of  another,  or  coming  six  in  a  row 
u  jon  any  arm  that  was  held  out  to  them.  Then  the  little  calves  found 
out  what  was  the  matter,  and  whisking  their  tails  over  their  backs,  ran  head- 
Icng  at  their  master,  catching  at  his  coat-tails,  sucking  his  fingers  when 
tt  ey  could  get  hold  of  them,  and  so  besetting  his  path  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  could  move  on. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  instead  of  entering  the  house — having 
ascertained  by  a  glance  through  the  open  glass  doors  of  the  dining-room 
th  at  his  lazy  guest  was  not  yet  down — Captain  Marryat  seated  himself  on 
the  edge  of  the  lawn,  closely  cropped  by  his  little  friends  the  calves. 
Hereupon  the  ponies  advanced  and  sniffed  at  his  hands  and  face,  and  one 
of  them  knocked  his  hat  over  his  eyes.  He  was  evidently  a  spoilt  little 
biute,  for  shortly  afterwards,  upon  having  his  long  tail  pulled,  he  ran 
avay  a  few  paces,  and  looking  carefully  back  so  as  to  measure  his  distance, 
threw  up  his  heels  within  a  few  inches  of  his  tormentor's  face,  a  practical 
jo  lie  which  both  parties  seemed  equally  to  appreciate. 

I  turned  from  the  window,  feeling  that  at  this  rate  I  should  never  be 
drassed. 

After  breakfast  there  was  plenty  to  do  in  the  way  of  feeding  innumer- 
able animals.  I  never  saw  sb  many  animals  together  out  of  a  menagerie. 
There  was  an  aviary  six  or  eight  feet  square,  full  of  birds  of  every  descrip- 
tion: There  were  rabbits,  pheasants,  partridges,  cats,  dogs,  and  donkeys. 
In  the  walled  garden  we  were  followed  by  a  tame  seagull  and  a  tame 
heron.  The  horses,  in  and  out  of  the  stables,  were  more  like  dogs  than 
horses,  and  the  dogs  were  more  like  children  than  dogs. 

Naturally  we  commenced  talking  of  animals  and  their  instincts  and 
trsits  of  sagacity ;  and  to  my  surprise,  Marryat  did  not  appear  to  go  so 
far  as  have  some  in  his  estimate  of  them.  I  repeated  some  anecdote  of  a 
do  i  which  I  admitted  I  had  only  on  hearsay,  and  asked  if  he  thought  it 
probable. 

"  It  may  be  true,"  he  answered.  "I  had  once  a  very  clever  Newfound- 
lar  d  dog  myself.  But  it  is  the  fashion  of  the  present  day  to  exalt  animals 
int  o  reasoning  beings ;  which  serves  to  lower  rather  than  to  exalt  their 
instinct." 

Here  one  of  the  little  girls  asked  what  this  particular  dog  he  alluded 
to  was  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  he  did  what  any  other  intelligent  dog  would  have 
do:ie.  On  one  occasion  when  I  was  called  suddenly  to  join  my  ship,  and 
had  left  a  quantity  of  dirty  duds  at  home,  the  dog  Captain  picked  out 
eve  ry  individual  article  that  belonged  to  me  from  the  general  mass,  and 
piL'ng  them  in  a  heap,  he  sat  upon  them  and  would  not  allow  them  to  be 
torched  by  any  one.  Now  this  is  a  regular  dog's  trick,  instigated  by 
att;  ichment.  Captain  knew  by  his  scent  which  clothes  were  mine ;  he  did 
not  carefully  examine  the  marks  to  find  my  initials.  When  I  read  of  a 


154  CAPTAIN  MARRYAT  AT  LANGHAM. 

dog  comparing  the  sizes  of  two  liats,  and  then,  after  a  little  consideration, 
clapping  the  smaller  one  inside  the  larger,  so  as  to  take  them  both  in  his 
mouth  at  once" — he  stopped,  looked  me  in  the  face  with  twinkling  eyes, 
and  then  gave  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"But,"  said  I,  "is  not  this  anecdote  told  somewhere  in  a  book  on 
natural  history  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  answered  Marryat,  "  and  many  more  of  a  like  kind, 
which  have  gone  down  with  the  public.  Why,  Theodore  Hook  and  I  used  to 
split  our  sides  over  inventing  wonderful  instances  of  sagacity,  which  we 
would  send  to  a  certain  popular  naturalist,  and  afterwards  see  vouched  for 
in  print.  But  I  really  should  have  thought  the  story  of  the  hats  a  little 
too  bad." 

After  this  I  went  round  the  farm  with  him.  I  suppose  that  ploughed- 
fields  and  manure-heaps  and  agricultural  machines  are  interesting  when 
one  farms  one's  own  land ;  but  to  my  vitiated  tastes,  it  seemed  dull  work. 
Marryat  stood  about  directing  and  ordering ;  sometimes  listening  to  a  long 
Norfolk  speech,  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  an  unknown  tongue :  then 
walking  off  to  a  stack-yard,  where  a  grand  battue  of  rats  was  going  on, 
and  eagerly  calling  out  "loo-loo-loo  "  to  the  dogs  with  the  rest.  Then, 
as  a  climax,  he  marched  me  off  to  the  decoy  lake,  where  a  new  pipe  was 
being  made  and  a  new  trench  dug.  This  was  an  interesting  sight,  even 
to  the  uninitiated.  The  decoy  man,  a  great  rough-looking  fellow  in  a 
fur  cap,  was  a  reclaimed  poacher,  and  he  looked  entirely  his  original 
character.  Marryat  always  held  that  reformed  blackguards  made  the 
most  honest  servants.  He  had  a  very  unmagistrate-like  leniency  for 
poaching,  and  having  convicted  this  man,  Barnes,  of  the  offence,  he  had 
placed  him  as  his  gamekeeper  and  decoy  man  ;  and  I  know  that  he  never 
had  reason  to  repent  his  trust  in  him.  When,  years  later,  Marryat' s  son 
Frank  went  to  California,  Barnes  declared  his  resolution  of  going  with 
him,  the  which  he  did,  and  remained  with  him  the  whole  time  of  his 
sojourn  there. 

The  afternoon  was  now  getting  on ;  and  finding  that  although  we  had 
breakfasted  at  eight  we  should  not  dine  until  the  same  hour  in  the 
evening,  I  proposed  returning  to  the  house.  Although  Marryat  himself 
never  took  anything  between  those  two  meals,  he  did  not  expect  others  to 
have  the  same  powers  of  endurance,  and  I  went  in  search  of  luncheon, 
leaving  him  still  indefatigably  looking  after  the  farm. 

I  can  think  I  see  him  now,  as  I  look  back  to  that  time,  sitting  about 
on  his  dun- coloured  Hanoverian  pony,  called  Dumpling, — a  name  he  very 
well  deserved, — dressed  in  that  velveteen  shooting-jacket  I  have  spoken  of, 
which  he  used  to  boast  of  as  having  cost  only  twelve  and  sixpence ;  with 
a  hole  in  the  rim  of  his  hat,  through  which,  when  required,  he  could 
thrust  his  eye-glass.  He  had  manufactured  one  for  himself,  of  a  plain 
round  piece  of  glass,  surrounded  by  whalebone,  the  two  ends  of  which 
were  bound  together  into  a  long  stem  with  a  piece  of  twine  :  this  long 
stem  fitted  into  the  hole  in  his  hat-brim,  so  as  to  come  just  in  front  of  his 


CAPTAIN  MARRYAT  AT  LANGHAM.  155 

right  eye,  in  order  to  save  the  trouble,  when  out  shooting,  of  raising  his 
glaf.s  each  time  he  fired.  Dumpling  was  a  character  in  himself.  He  was 
a  spiteful  old  pony  to  every  one  but  to  his  master,  of  whom  he  appeared  to 
staisd  in  awe. 

I  am  not  going  to  keep  to  times  and  seasons  in  speaking  of  my  remem- 
brance of  Langhani.  My  knowledge  of  it  and  of  its  owner  extended  over 
a  sj  ace  of  many  years ;  and  things  in  connection  with  them  crowd  over 
my  memory  in  thinking  of  that  time,  which  may  appear  somewhat  discon- 
nected to  my  reader. 

To  return  to  Dumpling.  On  one  occasion,  he  tried  to  assert  his  inde- 
pendence even  over  his  master ;  and  when  on  the  high-road  to  Cockthorpe 
and  close  to  a  pond,  he  adroitly  kicked  Captain  Marryat  over  his  head 
and  right  into  the  water.  After  this  feat,  however,  he  was  so  alarmed 
at  what  he  had  done  to  the  author  of  Peter  Simple,  that  he  stood  still 
trerrbling,  and  allowed  his  master  to  remount,  himself  returning  home 
very  humble  and  dejected,'  and  never  attempting  to  be  refractory  with 
him  again.  But  with  others,  Dumpling  never  omitted  an  opportunity  of 
sho^  ing  his  spiteful  temper.  Marryat  once  put  two  of  his  children  upon 
the  ;)ony,  when  he  himself  was  occupied  about  some  farming  operations, 
and  sent  them  across  the  meadow.  So  long  as  he  was  in  sight,  Dumpling 
trott  3d  steadily  along ;  but  no  sooner  did  he  find  himself  unobserved, 
than  up  flew  his  heels,  and  both  the  little  girls  went  over  his  head. 
Bad  they  came  running  to  their  father  to  complain  of  "Dumpy." 
"  Come  here,  sir!"  shouted  Marryat  to  the  conscience- stricken  pony. 
Dumpling  saw  a  whip  in  his  master's  hand;  he  glanced  first  one  side 
and  then  the  other,  while  Marryat  waited  for  him  to  come.  He  might 
have  turned  tail  and  raced  all  over  the  meadow :  but  after  a  moment's 
refle(  tion,  he  hung  his  head  penitently,  and  running  to  his  master,  thrust 
his  nose  under  Marryat's  arm.  The  moral  of  it  was,  of  course,  that 
Dumpling  did  not  get  a  whipping. 

"\  /"hen  first  I  had  looked  round  the  walls  of  Langham  cottage,  and  had 
seen  what  capital  pictures  were  there,  what  first-rate  bronzes  and  marbles, 
and  vv*hat  a  splendid  library,  I  thought  I  began  to  understand  how  he 
could  make  himself  happy  in  this  seclusion.  "  He  lives  amongst  his 
books,  and  his  writings  and  papers,"  thought  I.  "I  can  see  that  a 
man  of  literary  tastes  and  pursuits  -may  make  a  world  of  his  own." 
But  '.ie  did  not  make  a  world  in  his  literary  pursuits.  He  was,  at  the 
time  of  which  I  am  now  writing,  engaged  upon  some  book  :  one  of  his 
later  3hildren's  stories,  I  think  ;  but  his  literary  work  was  never  obtruded 
on  hi ;  family.  There  was  no  time  of  the  day  apparently  when  he  was  to 
be  lei ;  undisturbed.  The  other  members  of  the  household  went  in  and 
out  o.  the  room  where  he  sat,  and  never  found  him  abstracted  or  disin- 
clined to  take  an  interest  in  the  outer  world.  He  threw  himself  like  a 
child  nto  his  children's  pleasures  :  one  morning  helping  to  make  a  kite,  the 
next  listening  to  doggerel  verses,  or  in  the  evening  joining  with  them  in 
acting  charades.  He  would  leave  off  in  the  middle  of  writing  his  book  to 


'156  CAPTAIN  MAEEYAT  AT  LANGHAM. 

carry  out  a  handful  of  salt  to  his  favo-urite  calves  upon  the  lawn  ;  and 
enter  into  the  fanciful  papering  of  a  boudoir  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  girl.  It  always  struck  me  that  Marry  at  was  like  an  elder  brother 
rather  than  a  father  to  his  own  children,  although  I  am  fully  sure  he  lost 
nothing  in  their  filial  respect  and  honour  by  the  intimacy  and  freedom  of 
their  love  ;  and  I  know  now,  after  he  has  been  dead  eighteen  years,  that  the 
hearts  of  his  children  cling  to  his  memory  as  fondly  as  they  did  to  himself 
in  the  days  I  speak  of.  It  must  be  something  to  be  capable  of  inspiring 
love  which  will  outlast  time  and  absence  without  diminution. 

The  children  came  to  him  in  all  their  difficulties  and  scrapes.  I 
remember  a  little  creature  of  nine  or  ten,  with  a  very  blank  face,  showing 
a  great  rent  in  the  front  of  her  frock  with  "  Oh,  my  father,  what  am  I  to 

do  ?   Miss "  (the  "  governess  ")  "  will  be  so  angry  ;  she  will  give  me 

such  lesson  to  learn,"  and  Marryat's  taking  hold  of  the  frock  and  tearing 
the  hole  six  times  as  large  as  at  first,  and  laughingly  answering,  "  There, 
say  I  did  it." 

All  his  children  invariably  addressed  him  as  "  My  father."  It  was  a 
fancy  of  his  own.  He  had  a  special  dislike  to  the  popular  name  "  Papa," 
which  he  said  meant  just  nothing. 

He  vras  so  very  fond  of  the  society  of  young  people.  Without  in  any 
degree  accommodating  himself  to  them,  his  feelings  seemed  more  in  unison 
with  the  young  than  with  those  of  his  own  age.  On  one  occasion,  while 
I  was  staying  with  them,  they  were  all  invited  to  an  evening-party,  to  be 
preceded  by  a  dinner  to  which  he  alone  was  asked.  He  came  into  the 
room  with  an  aggrieved  look,  and  the  tone  of  an  injured  man.  "  Here," 
said  he,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  to  dinner ;  they  only  ask  me,  I  know,  to 
amuse  their  guests,  and  I  am  not  going  to  '  talk  clever '  at  the  dinner- 
table  :  I  shall  go  in  the  evening  with  you."  He  went  and  played  games 
— his  inventive  genius  always  came  out  very  happily  at  forfeits — and 
danced  the  polka  with  the  children. 

I  never  knew  him  at  home  "  talk  clever,"  although  he  used  to  say 
funnier  things  sometimes  than  any  man  I  know.  And  he  had  a  very  keen 
appreciation  of  wit  in  others,  especially  from  one  of  his  own,  whom  in 
his  parental  pride  he  very  much  over-estimated.  He  used  to  laugh  till 
the  tears  were  in  his  eyes.  I  never  hardly  knew  a  man  laugh  with  greater 
abandonment.  It  would  begin  with  a  chuckle,  and  continue  until  his 
face  was  so  twisted  and  convulsed  that  he  would  have  to  put  his  hands 
before  it. 

At  dinner  one  day,  there  appeared  at  second  course  a  small  dish  of 
something  which  looked  like  pastry,  but  scarcely  deserved  the  name  of 
tarts.  They  were  not  above  an  inch  square,  pinched  up  at  the  corners, 
and  each  containing  a  single  cherry. 

I  saw  the  girls  look  suspiciously  at  these  delicacies,  while  their  father 
was  evidently  waiting  for  them  to  be  noticed.  Presently  he  said,  "There's 
one  apiece  for  you."  Then,  turning  to  me,  he  added,  "  I  came  through 
the  kitchen  as  the  pastry  was  being  made.  I  made  those." 


CAPTAIN  MAREYAT  AT  LANGHAM.  157 

Then  one  of  his  children  asked,  "  I  say,  my  father,  did  you  wash  your 
hai:ds  first  ?" 

"  Lor'  bless  you,  my  dear,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  fingers,  "  I  declare 
I  forgot  all  about  it.". 

"  Then  you  shall  eat  them  all  yourself,"  she  answered,  jumping  up, 
anc"  catching  him  round  the  throat.  "  You  have  never  washed  your  hands 
since  you  pulled  about  those  dead  rats  this  morning;  you  know  you 
haven't." 

Marryat  looked  convicted  and  guilty.  He  had  not  a  word  to  say  for 
hhi  self,  excepting  to  entreat  to  be  let  off  from  eating  the  tarts  ;  and  when 
he  -iad  ceased  laughing,  he  said, — "  That  reminds  me  of  my  poor  little  boy 
Willie,  who  died.  I  had  him  on  board  with  me  in  the  Lame.  Once  he 
got  the  ship's  cook  to  give  him  some  flour  and  plums  to  make  a  pudding ; 
and  after  making  it  in  the  galley,  and  having  it  boiled,  I  saw  him  bring 
it  0:1  deck.  '  Here,  Jack ! '  called  he  to  one  of  the  ship's  boys.  '  You  may 
hava  this.'  I  was  surprised  at  his  giving  away  his  pudding  which  he  had 
tho  ight  so  much  of;  and  I  asked  him  why  he  did  not  eat  it  himself.  '  No, 
thaiik  you,  father,'  said  he ;  *  I  made  it.'  He  had  been  short  of  water,  I 
afterwards  found  out,"  added  Marryat,  "  and  had  mixed  the  pudding  by 
rept  atedly  spitting  into  it." 

"  Which  son  was  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"He  was  our  second  boy;  he  died  under  seven  years  old.  He  is  the 
original  '  Willie  '  of  the  King's  Own.  All  the  anecdotes  of  that  child's 
life  on  board  ship  are  true." 

I  think  Marryat  was  most  judicious  in  his  treatment  of  the  young  ; 
never  admitting  incapacity  as  an  excuse  for  want  of  endeavour.  If  any 
one  with  him  pleaded — "  It  is  of  no  use  my  attempting  ;  I  am  not  clever 
enough  !  "  he  was  met  with  the  answer, — "  You  not  clever  enough  ? 
Dor't  tell  me  such  nonsense ;  you  are  no  fool,  you  can  do  it  if  you 
choose,  and  I  expect  you  to  do  it."  And  in  most  cases  the  expected 
things  were  done. 

I  used  to  be  amused  at  the  original  modes  he  had  of  punishing  his 
children  when  they  were  naughty.  On  one  occasion  two  culprits  of  eight 
and  ten  were  brought  to  him  with  a  complaint  from  their  maid  that  they 
had  persisted  in  playing  upon  their  father's  violin  when  the  dressmaker  was 
vanry  striving  to  try  on  some  new  frocks.  Marryat  lifted  the  two  children, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  top  of  his  bureau ;  and  there  he  kept  them  sitting 
for  r  time  like  two  little  images,  until  he  took  them  down  to  undergo 
extrr  petting  for  the  rest  of  the  day ;  for,  if  a  child  required  to  be 
punished,  as  soon  as  the  punishment  was  over,  it  seemed  as  if  no  amount 
of  indulgence  was  thought  too  much  for  compensation;  like  the  jam  to 
take  the  taste  of  the  physic  out  of  its  mouth. 

1  nother  time  the  same  two  children  came  to  him  as  the  dentist  of  the 
family,  and  the  elder,  leading  the  little  one  by  the  hand,  exclaimed  with 
great  glee, —  ' 

''  C has  a  tooth  to  come  out.'r 


158  CAPTAIN  MABBYAT  AT  LANGHAM. 

He  looked  into  the  child's  mouth,  and  twisted  out  the  loose  little  peg ; 
then  turning  to  the  elder  child,  he  quickly  pulled  out  one  of  hers  also, 
saying— 

"  There  ;  I  shall  take  out  one  of  yours  too  ;  that's  for  coming  to  tell 
about  it." 

Whatever  the  size  of  the  culprit,  it  was  always  during  the  time  of  dis- 
grace addressed  with  great  formality.  "  Good  morning,  Miss  Marryat," 
or  "  Good  evening,  Miss  Marryat,"  when  Miss  Marryat  might  happen  to 
be  six  years  of  age.  He  was  generally  said  to  spoil  his  children,  but  I 
hold  my  own  views  on  what  constitutes  spoiling. 

I  often  wondered  where  and  when  Marryat  had  found  the  time  to  cul- 
tivate his  own  mind,  for  he  had  had  but  few  advantages  of  actual  educa- 
tion. I  suppose  it  was  from  the  great  power  and  habit  of  observation 
which  he  possessed  that  he  learnt  intuitively.  There  was  hardly  a  scien- 
tific subject  upon  which  he  was  not  well  informed,  besides  being,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  a  practically  scientific  man.  I  have  heard  him  regret 
that  he  was  not  born  a  century  later  than  his  time ;  as  he  considered  the 
world  in  a  scientific  point  of  view  as  comparatively  in  its  infancy.  He 
used  to  prophecy  of  the  great  discoveries  yet  to  be  made  in  steam  and  in 
electricity.  He  took  a  great  interest  in  magnetism  and  in  phrenology,  in 
both  of  which  he  was,  I  am  sure,  a  firm  believer.  He  had  been  told  by 
Townsend  that  he  was  himself  a  powerful  mesmerist ;  but  I  do  not  think 
he  ever  tested  his  power. 

There  was  hardly  a  modern  language  of  which  he  had  not  some 
knowledge ;  grammatical  knowledge,  I  mean.  So  far  as  speaking  them 
went,  although  he  would  rattle  off  unhesitatingly  French  or  German,  or 
Italian,  or  whatever  was  called  for  at  the  moment,  his  thoroughly  British 
tongue  imbued  them  all  with  so  much  of  the  same  accent,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  know  what  the  language  was  meant  for  :  indeed,  he  used  to  tell 
a  story  of  how  an  Italian,  after  listening  to  one  of  his  long  speeches  in 
his  purest  Tuscan,  apologized  to  him  and  said  he  did  not  understand 
English. 

.  Marryat  ran  away  to  sea  at  twelve  years  of  age,  so  that  at  best  his 
education  must  have  been  very  limited.  I  remember  this  story  which  he 
himself  told  me  of  his  early  school-days  : — 

"  The  first  school  I  ever  went  to  was  one  kept  by  an  old  dame.  There 
was  a  number  of  other  boys  there  who  were  all  very  good  boys,  but 
Charlie  Babbage  and  I  were  always  the  scamps  of  the  school.  He  and  I 
were  for  ever  in  scrapes,  and  the  old  woman  used  to  place  us  side  by  side 
standing  on  stools  in  the  middle  of  the  school-room  and  point  to  us  as  a 
warning  to  the  others  and  say,  '  Look  at  those  two  boys !  .  They  are  bad 
boys  and  they  will  never  get  on  in  the  world.  Those  two  boys  will 
come  to  a  bad  end.'  It  is  rather  funny,"  he  concluded,  "  but  Babbage 
and  I  are  the  only  two  in  all  the  school  who  have  ever  been  heard  of 
since.  We  got  round  the  old  dame  though  in  the  end.  The  boys  used  to 
curry  favour  with  her  by  being  the  first  to  bring  in  the  daily  eggs  laid  by 


CAPTAIN  MARBYAT  AT  LANGHAM.  159 

tv  o  or  three  hens  she  kept  in  the  garden.  If  a  boy  brought  in  one  egg  he 
was  approved  of,  but  if  he  brought  two,  he  was  patted  on  the  back  and 
called  '  good  boy.'  So  Charlie  and  I  agreed  to  get  up  very  early  in  the 
morning,  before  the  other  boys,  and  abstract  the  eggs  from  the  hens' 
nests ;  and  then  we  hid  them  away  in  a  hole  in  the  hedge.  The  old  dame 
wr -s  in  a  great  state  of  mind  at  having  no  eggs  day  after  day ;  and  when 
her  vexation  had  culminated,  and  all  the  good  boys  were  very  low  down  in 
her  books,  Charlie  Babbage  and  I  made  a  discovery.  '  Oh,  mam.'!  here's 
evor  so  many  eggs  in  the  hedge ! '  Thenceforth  we  were  the  prime 
favourites ;  and  whenever  our  credit  waned  a  fresh  hoard  of  eggs  was 
found,  and  set  things  straight." 

"  "What  made  you  take  to  the  sea  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  always  had  a  fancy  for  it,"  he  answered.  "  I  ran  away  from  school 
tw:  ce,  but  was  pursued  by  my  father,  discovered,  captured,  and  brought 
back  again.  I  was  bent  upon  going  to  sea ;  but  that  was  not  the  imme- 
difte  caugo  of  my  running  away." 

He  looked  up  laughingly,  and  I  asked,  "  Why  ?  " 

11  Because  I  didn't  like  having  to  wear  my  brother  J 's  breeches. 

Yoa  see,  I  came  just  below  him,  and,  for  the  sake  of  economy,  my  mother 
use  d  to  give  me  his  outgrown  clothes.  I  could  stand  anything  else,  but 
I  CDuld  not  stand  the  breeches." 

Like  all  writers  of  fiction,  I  presume,  Marryat  was  fond  of  reading 
novels.  He  spent  his  evenings  mostly  in  doing  so.  He  read  rapidly,  and 
would  as  soon  read  one  of  his  own  books  as  those  of  his  friends;  and  I 
'ha^e  seen  him  chuckle  and  heard  him  laugh  out  loud  at  one  of  his  own 
jokes,  written  many  years  before.  If  the  chuckle  or  laugh  were  noticed 
he  vould  turn  the  book  over,  saying, — "  What  is  this  ?  James's  ?  Bless 
my  soul !  if  it  isn't  one  of  my  own.  Well,  it  is  uncommonly  amusing, 
wh(  ever  wrote  it." 

Yet,  perhaps — for  almost  all  his  incidents  and  characters  were  from  life 
— tie  pages  took  him  back  to  the  early  days  of  his  service,  when  the  events 
themselves  had  happened. 

I  asked  him  once  which  of  his  novels  he  considered  the  best,  and  he 
answered — "I  always  was  fondest  of  Jacob  Faithful.  I  know  Peter 
Sim  vie  has  been  most  popular,  and  is  considered  the  cleverest." 

Speaking  of  the  reviewers,  he  said,  "  I  used  to  get  most  awfully  cut 
up  s  ometimes ;  but  I  delight  in  a  thoroughly  bad  review.  I  believe  it 
does  a  man  more  good  than  any  amount  of  favourable  ones.  But  anything 
is  butter  than  being  unnoticed." 

'  But,"  remarked  I,  "  excuse  rne,  do  not  you  think  that  you  sometimes 
carii  ature  nature  ?  I  have  always  thought  that  Captain  Kearney  in  Peter 
Simple  is  an  almost  impossible  character.  He  is  too  big  a  liar  to  be 
belkved  in." 

'-Captain  Kearney,"  answered  Marryat,  "is  a  real  character;  he  is 
from  life.     I  knew  the  man  myself." 

I  larryat  was  fond  of  speaking  of  the  friends  of  his  former  years,  but 


160  CAPTAIN  HAREYAT  AT  LANGHAH. 

I  have  noticed  that  whereas  he  mentioned  most  of  them  by  their  surnames, 
as  "  Bulwer,"  "Ainsworth,"  or  "  Stansfield,"  he  would  speak  of  Dickens  as 
"  Charlie  Dickens."  I  do  not  know  if  he  had  a  more  than  ordinary  affec- 
tion for  him ;  but  the  circumstance  would  seein  to  imply  so. 

After  having  told  some  of  his  best  stories  a  good  many  times  over 
he  began  to  identify  himself  with  them,  and  would  relate  them  as  if  they 
had  happened  to  himself.  I  fancy  this  is  a  trick  with  many  people  of 
vivid  imagination ;  and  may  be  done  in  perfect  good  faith ;  for,  after 
all,  it  is  difficult  to  decide  where  imagination  ends  and  falsehood  begins 
Perhaps  even  Captain  Kearney  may  not  have  been  altogether  an  inten- 
tional liar. 

But  I  have  no  desire  to  swell  this  paper  be}7ond  due  limits.  I  have 
said  that  in  thinking  of  Langham  and  those  last  years  of  Marryat's  life,  I 
can  hardly  recognize,  in  his  pleasures  and  his  pursuits,  the  man  in  his 
youth  and  the  man  in  his  mature  age.  I  can  picture  him  to  myself  in 
the  former  time  accustoming  himself  to  every  luxury  of  the  table — an 
epicure  of  the  first  degree — and  I  can  remember,  in  the  latter  period,  his 
entering  the  room  where  I  was  seated,  with  the  exclamation, — "I  say,  we 
have  nothing  in  the  world  for  dinner ;  you  go  down  to  the  lake,  and  soe 
if  you  can  get  anything,  and  I  will  take  my  gun." 

We  went  each  our  own  way  ;  and  a  couple  of  hours  later  met  again, 
he  with  a  rabbit  he  had  shot,  and  I  with  a  huge  eel  from  the  lake.  That 
was  literally  all  we  had  for  dinner.  It  was  a  Robinson  Crusoe  sort  of  life, 
but  looking  back  upon  it,  it  was  very  pleasant. 

In  all  my  recollections  of  this  time  one  person  is  so  mixed  up,  that  I 
cannot  avoid  mentioning  him,  apart  from  my  own  warm  regard  for  his 
memory.  I  am  sure  there  seldom  passed  twp  days  without  Lieutenant 
George  Thomas,  of  the  Coast-guard  station,  Marston,  being  with  us. 
Together,  Marryat  and  he  would  talk  over  the  sendee  as  it  had  been  in 
their  day,  and  the  degeneracy  of  the  service  as  it  was  then  ;  and  his 
daughter  Annie,  then  a  little  child,  the  present  novelist,  was  like  one  of 
the  children  of  the  house. 

I  can  again  picture  Marryat  to  myself  in  one  of  his  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion in  his  study,  lying  half-reclined  upon  a  sofa,  over  which  was  spread 
an  enormous  lion-skin ;  with  his  deep-set  eyes  fixed  straight  forward, 
and  his  mind  evidently  at  work;  until  he  darted  into  an  almost  erect 
attitude,  and  extending  his  arm  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Silence ! " 
and  upon  his  companion  looking  up  inquiringly,  turning  it  off  with  a 

laugh,  "  I  thought  B was  in  the  room.     I  was  talking  to  him.     I 

forgot  myself." 

I  can  think  of  many  evenings  when  the  dining-room  table  was  pushed 
on  one  side  and  we  all  played  blindrnan's  buff,  and  he  laughed  and 
shouted  as  gleefully  as  any  of  the  younger  ones,  holding  one  of  the  chil- 
dren in  front  of  him :  she  delighted  to  be,  as  she  thought,  in  such  a  safe 
position,  and  then  suddenly  awaked  to  a  sense  of  danger  by  the  practical 
joke  of  being  jumped  forward  into  the  very  arms  of  the  blindman,  while 


CAPTAIN  MAKKYAT  AT  LAXGHAM.  161 

her  treacherous  parent  escaped :  or  dancing  impromptu  fancy  dances  with 
ODG  or  other  of  the  juveniles.  Or,  later,  I  can  think  of  him,  in  his  great 
unselfishness,  concealing  the  fact  of  his  being  ill,  lest  those  about  him 
should  be  distressed  on  his  account;  so  that  only  by  accident  was  it 
discovered  by  his  son  that  that  painful  organic  disease  which  in  the  end 
killed  him,  had  commenced. 

I  can  fancy  I  see  him  again  in  so  many  different  ways ;  but  what 
is  the  use  now  when  nothing  is  left  to  me  but  fancy  ?  These  things 
aro  passed  away ;  but  I  have  spoken  of  that  which  I  know ;  and  whether 
I  call  myself  Jones,  Brown,  or  Robinson,  it  matters  very  little.  This 
is  no  made-up  paper,  for  these  memories  are  amongst  the  records  of 
my  life. 

Once  more,  before  I  close.  In  these  latter  days  I  once  asked 
Mitiryat  what  he  had  been  doing,  when  he  had  been  a  long  while 
absent  from  home.  "Oh,  nothing  in  particular,1  ho  answered;  "but 
yo  i  see  this  is  such  a  lovely  time  of  year ;  it  is  sufficient  amusement  for 
me  to  walk  along  the  lanes  and  watch  the  green  buds  coming  out  in  the 
quickset  hedges." 

I  could  not  recover  this  for  some  time.  And  this  was  what  the 
popular  novelist  and  wit  had  come  down  to  !  This  was  the  interest  of  the 
spoilt  man  of  the  world  when  hardly  past  middle  age.  For  this  he  had 
abandoned  society  prematurely ;  he  had  put  aside  fame  before  it  had  had 
time  to  pall.  He  had  not  outlived  his  popularity,  for  his  name  has  not 
done  so  even  now;  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  it.  "  The  buds  in  the 
quickset  hedges !  " 

Yet  now,  since  he  has  been  dead,  it  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  as 
a  question  whether  it  was  a  "  coming  down"  after  all,  or  a  return  to  the 
childlike  simplicity  of  all  true  genius ;  or  perhaps  the  beginning  of  an 
awakening  to  that  better  child-likeness  of  which  we  have  all  been  told,  and 
which  Marryat  fully  experienced  before  he  died. 


VOL,  XVI. NO.  92,  ?)• 


162 


Cjxe  |£nap8ack  w 


THE  supreme  authority  on  all  tilings  Spanish  is  very  distinct  upon  the 
subject  of  pedestrian  travelling  in  Spain.  "  A  pedestrian  tour  for 
pleasure,"  says  The  Handbook,  "is  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment." 
"No  one  should  ever  dream  of  making  a  pedestrian  tour  in  Spain,"  say 
the  Gathering*.  Deference  to  the  ipse-dixit  of  Ford  will  be  paid  by  no 
one  so  willingly  as  by  one  who  has  made  those  delightful  volumes  the 
companions  of  his  wanderings  in  the  land  they  illustrate,  and  proved  their 
truth  while  drawing  upon  their  rich  stores  of  learning  and  observation. 
Ford,  however,  it  is  pretty  clear,  never  made  the  experiment  of  a  pedes- 
trian tour,  and  theory,  even  his  theory,  on  a  question  of  Spanish  travel, 
must  yield  to  experience.  No  doubt  there  is  a  large  portion  of  the 
Peninsula  to  which  his  dictum  applies.  The  traveller  who  would  deliber- 
ately set  out  on  a  walking  expedition  through  the  dreary  plains  of 
Estremadura  or  the  Castiles,  if  not  actually  a  lunatic,  would  doubtless 
soon  qualify  for  lunacy  by  the  way  of  sun-stroke  and  brain-fever.  Never- 
theless there  is  no  lack  of  good  walking  ground  in  the  north,  north-west, 
and  south  of  Spain,  entirely  free  from  this  risk,  quite  practicable,  and 
eminently  enjoyable ;  at  least  to  any  one  who  does  not  mind  such  an 
amount  of  "  roughing  it  "  as,  with  the  aid  of  moderate  endurance,  good 
digestion,  and  a  packet  of  Keating's  insect-destroyer,  will  serve  as  a  sauce 
pi^iianie  to  his  pleasure.  There  is  no  need  here  to  dilate  upon  the 
advantages  of  this  over  every  other  mode  of  travelling  for  those  who  can 
adopt  it.  No  doubt  a  riding  tour  as  sketched  by  Ford  is  very  delightful, 
but  black  care  sits  behind  jthe  horseman,  even  mounted  though  he  be,  like 
the  author  of  the  Handbook,  on  his  haca  Cordobesa.  He  has  always  a 
second  set  of  wants  besides  his  own  to  provide  for,  a  mouth  to  feed  that 
cannot  make  complaint  of  short  commons,  feet  that  are  apt  to  come 
unshod  at  awkward  times,  a  back  that  must  not  be  allowed  to  become 
sore.  And  then,  with  all  his  independence  as  compared  with  the  -traveller 
on  wheels,  he  is  not  a  free  man.  He  is  tied  to  the  bridle-road  ;  all  that 
lies  beyond  it  has  no  existence  for  him,  and  in  Ford's  own  country — if 
any  one  part  of  Spain  more  than  another  can  be  said  to  be  Ford's  country 
— in  Andalusia,  there  is  scenery  as  grand  as  any  in  the  Alps  or  Pyrenees 
which  is  a  sealed  book  to  him  and  to  all  except  the  pedestrian.  Ford's 
chief  objection  applies  to  walking  in  general.  It  seldom  answers,  he  says, 
anywhere,  as  the  walker  arrives  at  the  object  of  his  promenade  tired  and 
hungry  just  at  the  moment  when  he  ought  to  be  freshest  and  most  up  to 
intellectual  pleasures."  But  why  should  he?  Can  he  not  arrange 
matters  so  as  not  to  arrive  tired  and  hungry  ?  •  If  he  finds  himself 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  163 

in> capable  of  enjoyment  after  thirty  miles  let  him  be  content  with  twenty 
or  fifteen ;  and  as  to  hunger,  that  is  an  affection  to  which  travellers  .of  all 
BO: is  are  equally  liable,  and  which  is  to  be  obviated  by  the  same  means 
in  all  cases.  In  the  matter  of  accommodation,  inns,  food,  and  so  forth, 
he  is  no  worse  off  than  any  other  tourist.  Indeed,  in  one  respect,  he  is 
be*  ter  off :  healthy  active  exercise  materially  improves  his  chance  of  an 
un'oroken  night's  rest.  The  .fleas  don't  bite  a  sound  sleeper,  so  the 
Sp  miards  say,  and  the  immunity  is  worth  something  in  a  posada.  Any 
ott  er  inconiniodities  he  only  shares  in  common  with  all  comers,  and  any 
-argument  founded  on  them  is  an  argument  not  against  walking  but  against 
travelling  in  Spain  at  all. 

On  llhis  head,  it  may  be  observed,  there  has  been  a  great  deal  of 
exaggeration.  To  believe  the  majority  of-  writers  about  Spain,  the 
passage  of  the  Pyrenees  is  a  plunge  into  utter  barbarism,  whereas  in 
sobsr  truth  the  traveller,  as  long  at  least  as  he  keeps  to  the  beaten 
tra<ks,  finds  Spain,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned,  remarkably  like  the 
rest  of  civilized  Europe.  Even  the  diligence  is  now  almost  obsolete. 
Ex(ept  Granada,  there  is  no  place  of  any  importance  which  is  not  to 
be  reached  by  rail;  and  at  Madrid,  Barcelona,  Seville,  Granada,  Malaga, 
Corlova,  Cadiz — in  fact  at  every  town  which  has  a  place  in  the  regular 
Spaaish  tour — he  will  find  hotels  quite  as  civilized  as  those  of  France, 
Italy,  or  Germany,  and  in  which  he  runs  just  about  as  much  risk  of  being 
poisoned  with  the  garlic  and  rancid  oil  we  are  told  of  as  at  the  Trois 
Freres.  It  is  true,  if  he  penetrates  into  regions  more  remote  he  must 
content  himself  with  much  rougher  quarters,  for  the  difference  between  the 
fonca  and  the  posada  of  Spain  is  far  wider  than  between  the  hotel 
and  the  inn  of  any  other  country.  It  must  be  admitted  too  that  all  that 
forn  of  life  to  which  Mark  Tapley  applied  the  generic  "  wampires  "  is 
rath  3r  more  abundant  than  is  consistent  with  entire  comfort.  But  even 
the  josada  is  not  much  worse  than  the  mountain  quarters  with  which  the 
pedestrian  has  frequently  to  put  up  in  other  countries;  and  if  fowls,  eggs, 
ham,  and  the  best  bread  in  the  world,  have  any  virtues  in  the  way  of 
supporting  nature,  there  is  no  danger  of  starvation. 

'.'he  one  discomfort  which  affects  the  pedestrian  more  than  any  other 
travt  Her  in  Spain,  is  the  heat  of  the  climate  ;  but  even  this  is  not  so  great 
an  e  il  as  it  seems.  In  the  Sierras,  among  which  his  rambling  ground  will 
lie,  i  low  latitude  is  neutralized  to  a  great  extent  by  elevation  and 
mou:  itain  breeze,  and  by  a  judicious  use  of  the  cool  morning  hours  it  is 
quite  possible  to  cheat  even  the  fierce  sun  of  Andalusia.  It  is  a  good 
trave  lling  rule  anywhere,  but  especially  sound  in  Spain,  to  make  a  point 
of  se'  dng  the  sun  rise  every  morning.  One  hour  in  the  morning  is  worth 
three  in  the  afternoon,  either  for  getting  over  ground  or  for  enjoying 
scene  ry,  and  nowhere  is  the  morning  more  delightful  than  in  the  Spanish 
mour  tains.  All  nature  seems  to  rise,  restored  to  life  by  the  bracing  air  of 
night  and  looks  crisp  and  cool,  green  and  moist,  like  a  fresh-cut  salad. 
A  fev  hours  later  all  this  is  changed.  Where  the  dew  hung  the  dust  lies 

9—2 


164  THE  KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

thick ;  the  soft  streaks  of  mist  that  rested  like  scarfs  of  gauze  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  mountains  have  given  place  to  a  hot  quivering  haze,  the 
tender  blues  and  greens  have  become  browns  and  yellows,  and  the  broad 
purple  shadows  have  changed  into  hard  black  lines.  The  landscape  has 
put  on  a  dry,  parched,  gritty  look,  as  if  it  were  moulded  in  terra-cotta, 
and  life  seems  to  have  been  baked  out  of  everything  except  the  lizards  and 
grasshoppers.  Therefore  for  enjoyment  as  well  as  for  comfort,  it  is 
desirable  to  make  an  early  start,  and  from  this  point  of  view  it  is,  perhaps, 
a  happy  arrangement  of  circumstances  that  there  are  seldom  strong 
inducements  to  lie  a-bed  of  a  morning  in  a  Spanish  inn  :  if  the  voice  of 
the  sluggard  was  ever  heard  to  complain  in  a  posada,  the  complaint  was 
probably  based  on  very  different  grounds  from  those  stated  by  the  poet. 
Getting  under  weigh  is  half  the  journey ;  "  el  salir  de  la  posada  es  la  mayor 
Jornada,"  as  the  national  proverb  puts  it;  and  the  prudent  viator  will  leave 
nothing  to  be  done  in  the  morning  but  to  discharge  the  reckoning  and 
swallow  a  cup  of  that  marvellous  chocolate  which  Spain  alone  has  the  gift 
of  producing,  and  the  poorest  posada  will  furnish  as  well  as  the  best  hotel. 
With  this,  itself  almost  as  much  a  solid  as  the  bizcochos  which  accompany 
it,  he  breaks  his  fast.  Breakfast  as  we  understand  it,  the  first  regular 
meal  of  the  day,  is  altogether  too  important  and  pleasurable  an  affair  to 
be  trifled  with  in  this  way.  It  would  be  a  wanton  waste  of  the  means  of 
enjoyment  to  take  it  within  walls  at  all,  not  to  speak  of  the  walls  of  a 
frowsy  hostelry.  It  is  eminently  a  pleasure  to  be  looked  forward  to.  The 
materials,  cold  fowl,  ham,  hard  eggs,  bread,  oranges,  grapes,  according  to 
the  local  commissariat,  are  stowed  away  in  the  knapsack,  to  be  produced 
at  the  proper  time  and  place — when  the  right  to  enjoy  has  been  fairly 
earned,  and  a  spot  has  been  reached  which  combines  the  attraction  of 
shade,  water,  and  a  view.  Then  and  there  he  will  unsling  his  pack,  and 
as  he  makes  his  "  honest,  wholesome,  hungry  breakfast,"  he  will  say  with 
Father  Izaak,  "  Does  not  this  meat  taste  well,  and  was  not  this  place  well 
chosen  to  eat  it  ?  "  The  meat,  however,  is  not  the  only  thing  to  be 
considered.  In  thirsty  Spain  the  traveller  carries  his  bota  as  regularly  as 
the  playgoer  carries  his  opera-glass,  or  the  Londoner  his  umbrella,  and 
nowhere  will  he  more  fervently  join  in  the  refrain  of  the  quaint  old  song 
which  prays, 

That  in  heaven  his  soul  may  dwell, 

Who  first  found  out  the  leather  bottel. 

On  a  journey  of  any  sort  it  is  a  desirable,  on  a  pedestrian  journey  it  is  an 
indispensable,  companion  ;  and,  therefore,  any  one  contemplating  a  tramp 
should  first  betake  himself  to  the  shop  of  some  well-recommended  botero  ; 
and  that  without  delay,  for  the  education  of  the  bota  is  a  matter  which 
requires  some  little  time.  Some  authorities  advise  a  course  of  aguardiente 
by  way  of  seasoning,  which  is  apt  to  have  the  effect  of  replacing  the 
honest  taste  of  leather  by  the  sickly  flavour  of  aniseed ;  but  a  thorough 
soaking  in  many  waters,  followed  by  a  discipline  of  rough  wine,  will 
generally  suffice  to  correct  the  peculiar  bouquet  of  old  boots  which  hangs 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN  SPAIN.  165 

about  a  bota  fresh  from  the  shop.  There  are  two  sorts  of  bota.  That 
used  in  Catalonia,  Arragon,  and  the  Pyrenees  generally,  has  a  horn  nozzle 
fitting  on  with  a  screw ;  but  the  southern  bota — a  simpler,  ruder,  and 
altogether  more  oriental-looking  affair — is  much  more  convenient  in  form. 
Tie  neck  is  furnished  with  a  wooden  cup-shaped  mouth,  fitted  with  a 
perforated  plug,  through  which  the  parched  wayfarer  squirts  a  thin  stream 
of  wine  down  his  throat,  if  his  "tenement  of  clay"  merely  requires  a 
slight  moistening.  If  thorough  saturation  be  desired,  he  has  only  to 
remove  the  plug  and  keep  the  cup  full  by  a  loving  pressure  of  the  yielding 
leather ;  and  no  sound  could  be  more  sympathetic  to  a  thirsty  soul  than 
the  jovial  chuckling  gurgle  of  the  wine  as  it  rises  through  the  narrow 
neck,  and  the  long-drawn  sigh  that  follows  when  the  hand  is  removed  and 
the  empty  air  rushes  in  to  fill  the  place  of  the  generous  liquor.  Simple, 
however,  as  these  operations  may  seem,  the  art  of  drinking  from  the  bota 
is  not  to  be  acquired  in  a  moment.  The  tyro  who  rashly  attempts  the 
feat  in  public  for  the  first  time  will  probably  cover  his  waistcoat  with  wine 
and  himself  with  confusion ;  therefore,  a  little  private  practice  with  water 
is  advisable*  and  for  obvious  reasons  the  period  of  the  morning  bath  will 
be  found  a  favourable  time  for  study.  In  the  two  most  important  respects 
the  bota  is  vastly  superior  to  any  of  the  modern  contrivances  in  macintosh 
or  vulcanized  india-rubber  for  carrying  wine  on  a  journey.  It  keeps  its 
contents  far  cooler,  and  once  seasoned  communicates  no  disagreeable  taste. 
Indeed,  a  veteran  bota,  like  a  pipe  that  is  properly  culottee,  will  help  to  make 
an  -inferior  article  endurable  ;  and  for  this  reason  its  swarthy  complexion 
and  "purple -stained  mouth"  are  to  be  regarded  with  the  same  sort  of 
affectionate  solicitude  as  attends  the  colouring  of  a  valued  meerschaum. 

In  any  enumeration  of  travelling  difficulties  in  Spain,  robbers  have 
a  prescriptive  right  to  a  place ;  but  in  these  degenerate  days  that  place 
must  be  among  the  ideal  difficulties.  The  romantically  inclined  tourist 
who  counts  upon  at  least  one  affair  with  brigands  before  returning  home, 
who  says  at  starting,  "  The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek," 
will  assuredly  be  wofully  disappointed.  Others,  indeed,  he  will  find,  but 
not  that  one.  There  is  now  hardly  as  much  chance  of  meeting  a  specimen 
of  the  ladron — the  regular  professional,  picturesque  brigand — in  Spain,  as 
of  encountering  a  wolf  in  Wales.  Even  landlords,  horse  proprietors,  and 
others  interested  in  making  the  most  of  the  dangers  of  the  road,  never 
attempt  such  a  flight  of  imagination  as  to  hint  at  "  ladrones  :  "  they  never 
get  beyond  "  mala  gente."  This  state  of  things,  satisfactory  or  not  according 
to  taste,  is  mainly  due  to  that  admirable,  and  recently  much-abused  body, 
the  piardias  civiles.  Their  ubiquity  has  made  every  road  in  Spain  at  least 
as  sa  fe  as  the  New  Road  in  London,  and  at  the  same  time  tends  to  convey 
an  idea  of  insecurity.  On  most  of  the  roads  in  Andalusia  a  pair  of  these 
succc  ssors  of  the  Santa  Herrnandad  accompany  the  diligences  for  a  part 
of  the  way,  and  their  appearance  is  by  some  held  to  be  conclusive  of  the 
abundance  of  robbers,  which  is,  in  fact,  scarcely  more  logical  than  inferring 
the  unhealthiness  of  a  city  from  its  elaborate  drainage  arrangements. 


166  THE  KNAPSACK  IN  SPAIN. 

In  the  mountains,  too,  the  pedestrian  will  often  perceive  on  the  path- 
side,  far  down  below  him,  a  couple  of  cocked-hatted,  blue-coated,  yellow- 
belted  figures,  who,  when  he  conies  up  with  them,  will  most  likely  ask  after 
his  "  documentos."  For  this  reason,  in  spite  of  what  guide-books  say  about 
no  passport  being  needed  in  Spain,  it  is  necessary  to  have,  at  any  rate, 
something  which  looks  like  one,  and  if  it  has  a  scrap  of  Spanish,  couched 
in  official  language,  written  on  it  anywhere,  so  much  the  better,  for  some  of 
these  guardias  can  read.  Their  behaviour  is  always  in  accordance  with 
their  title ;  still  it  will  never  be  amiss  to  administer  a  puro  or  two,  in  return 
for  which  the  traveller  may  get  some  useful  hints  about  the  neighbourhood, 
or,  in  case  there  is  a  choice,  a  direction  to  a  posada  where  se  bebe  buen 
vino  y  no  pican  mucho  los  chinches.  The  mala  gente,  the  gentry  who, 
though  not  robbers  by  profession,  are  yet  so  weak  in  principle  as  not  to  be 
always  able  to  withstand  the  temptation  to  rob,  may  perhaps  constitute  a 
danger  more  real.  If  the  evidence  of  hotel-keepers  and  the  like  is  to  be 
taken  literally,  they  really  do  exist,  but  the  curious  fact  about  them  is  that 
they  seem  always  to  keep  ahead  of  the  traveller.  Thus  at  Granada  he 
will  be  told  he  must  keep  a  sharp  look  out  at  Alhama ;  at  Alhama  he  is 
assured  the  neighbourhood  is  and  always  has  been  remarkable  for  honesty, 
but  he  will  do  well  to  be  on  his  guard  about  Antequera.  Antequera  pro- 
tests its  innocence,  since  the  time  of  King  Wamba,  of  all  offences  against 
person  or  property,  but  raises  a  warning  voice  against  the  neighbourhood 
of  Ronda ;  and  Honda,  in  turn,  professes  itself  to  be  an  Arcadia,  and 
denounces  San  Roque.  The  risk  is  always  "  mas  lejos ; "  the  traveller  never 
is,  but  always  to  be  robbed.  Still,  as  it  is  just  possible  that  a  smart  walker 
may,  by  accident,  overtake  some  of  these  retreating  rogues,  there  can  be 
no  harm  in  carrying  a  light  revolver.  It  is  always  a  comfortable  sort  of 
companion,  and  it  will  be  sufficient  in  the  very  improbable  event  of  an 
encounter,  as  a  member  of  the  mala  gente  family  is  not  likely  to  carry 
fire-arms. 

There  is  something,  but  not  much,  after  all,  in  Ford's  final  argument 
that  walking  is  unusual  in  Spain.  It  is  true  that  the  pedestrian  does  not 
hold  the  same  honoured  and  dignified  position  as  in  Switzerland.  In  a 
country  where  "  caballero  "  is  the  equivalent  for  "  gentleman,"  he  cannot 
expect  to  have  his  claim  to  that  title  immediately  recognized  everywhere 
when  he  makes  his  appearance  on  foot.  But  he  certainly  will  not  be 
either  "  ill-received  "  or  "  become  an  object  of  universal  suspicion."  Sur- 
prise, and  a  trifle  of  curiosity,  he  will  very  probably  excite,  but  fortunately 
even  in  the  remotest  nooks  of  the  Peninsula  it  is  now  pretty  well  under- 
stood that  the  English  are  an  eccentric  people,  having  peculiar  ideas  on 
the  subject  of  pleasure ;  and  at  the  worst,  when  his  nationality  is  known, 
he  will  be  set  down  as  a  "  loco  "  from  that  distant  Thule  where  "  the  men 
are  as  mad  as  he."  But  against  this,  it  may  be  set  off  that  this  form  of 
insanity  is  calculated  to  touch  the  Spaniard  on  his  weakest  point.  There 
is  no  surer  road  to  his  good  graces  than  admiration  of  his  country  and 
everything  it  contains  ;  and  to  the  Spanish  mind,  the  admiration  of  the 


THE  KNAPSACK  IN  SPAIN.  167 

pedestrian  will  be  above  all  suspicion.  If  he  did  not  approve  of  the 
cc  untry  and  people  he  would  not  be  at  such  pains  to  see  them ;  and  there- 
fore as  soon  as  it  is  ascertained  that  he  is  not  after  mines  or  railways — 
things  always  regarded  with  jealousy — -but  simply  scenery  and  enjoyment, 
he  will  rise  in  estimation  as  a  person  of  taste,  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
him  as  an  entirely  rational  being.  Indeed,  it  is  by  no  means  a  bad  rule 
foL-  travellers  of  every  condition  to  praise  as  they  go,  right  and  left,  every- 
thing of  or  belonging  to  Spain.  If  they  are  too  conscientious  for  this,  or 
to  3  much  impressed  with  the  responsibility  entailed  on  them  by  a  higher 
cr/ilization,  let  them  praise  what  they  can,  and  endeavour,  at  least,  to 
appear  contented  with  the  rest.  It  is  difficult  to  avoid  the  suspicion  that 
neglect  of  this  simple  precaution  has  something  to  do  with  the 
ur  favourable  impressions  of  Spanish  manners  we  sometimes  find 
recorded  by  English  travellers.  It  would  be  impossible  for  the 
grimbling,  discontented,  or  critical  traveller  to  make  a  worse  selection 
from  the  map  of  the  world  on  Mercator's  projection  than  Spain  for  a  vaca- 
tic  n  tour.  Nothing  puts  up  the  Spaniard's  back,  so  to  speak,  more  readily 
th  in  to  have  it  dinned  into  his  ears  or  hinted  to  him  by  signs  quite  as 
eloquent  as  words  that  they  order  this  or  that  matter  better  in  France  or  in 
England  as  the  ease  may  be.  If  he  is  of  the  better  educated  sort,  very  likely 
he  is  well  aware  that  it  is  so,  and  for  that  reason  is  all  the  sorer  ;  if  not, 
it  ;;eems  to  his.espanolismo  flat  blasphemy.  To  take  a  veiy  extreme  case, 
the  subject  of  the  bull-fight  is,  as  Mrs.  Lirriper  would  say,  "  fruitful  hot 
water"  at  every  table-d'hote  from  Barcelona  to  Cadiz  at  which  there  is 
much  mixture  of  Spaniards  and  foreigners.  No  doubt  the  traveller  is  quite 
rig  at  in  holding  it  to  be  a  cruel,  barbarous,  and  bloodthirsty  sport  (he 
takes  very  good  care  not  to  miss  it  all  the  same) ;  but,  to  adopt  a  phrase 
fro.n  the  ethics  of  the  nursery,  "  it  is  not  pretty  to  say  so  "  in  a  country 
whsre  it  is  the  national  pastime  and  a  cherished  institution.  And,  au  fait, 
what  is  the  use  ?  As  a  protest  it  is  unseasonable  and  as  a  preachment  it 
is  unavailing.  The  fine  old  British  practice  of  grumbling,  too,  is  quite  out 
of  place  in  Spain.  Spaniards  themselves  never  .grumble,  they  are  a  long- 
Bul  bring  race.  Now  and  again,  but  rarely,  they  will  fly  out  into  a  prodigious 
passion,  but  like  a  thunderstorm,  if  it  is  noisy,  is  very  soon  over,  and  as 
Ch  tries  Mathews's  song  has  it,  the  world  jogs  on  just  exactly  as  before,  and 
the  grievance,  whatever  it  is,  remains  unabated.  But  they  have  no  idea 
whatever  of  that  steady  persistent  form'  of  attack  which  comes  so  natural 
to  •  he  Northern  temperament,  and  are  very  apt  to  put  the  most  unfavourable 
cor  struction  on  it.  Besides,  there  is  no  countiy  where  it  is  of  so  little  use. 
In  t  ome  of  the  larger  hotels,  which,  being  in  the  hands  of  Italians  or  French- 
me  i,  are  conducted  on  continental  as  distinguished  from  Spanish 
prii  iciples,  swagger,  bluster,  and  fault-finding  may  perhaps  effect  something. 
Bui  the  traveller  who  fancies  he  will  better  himself  in  anyway  by  "  calling 
stoi.tly  about  him"  in  an  ordinary  Spanish  parador  or  posada,  is  very  much 
mis  aken.  If  he  does  entertain  any  such  notion  he  will  be  undeceived  at 
one  j  by  the  bearing  of  his  host.  The  demeanour  of  the  Spanish  amo  is 


109 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 


framed  on  a  model  altogether  different  from  that  of  the  landlord  of  any 
other  country.  Far  be  it  from  him  to  welcome  the  coming  guest  with 
smiles  and  bows,  and  rubbing  of  hands.  He  is  not  the  man  to  show  you 
to  your  room  and  suggest  with  feeling  a  little  bit  of  fish  and  broiled  fowl 
and  mushrooms  for  your  dinner.  His  rob  is  of  another  sort.  Come  as 
you  may,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  or  in  a  coach  and  six,  you  must  approach 
him  as  a  suppliant,  not  as  a  customer.  You  do  not  put  up  at  his  house  : 
he  permits  you  to  enter  and  repose  there.  He  receives  you  seated, 
cigarette  in  mouth,  in  the  doorway,  and  acknowledges  your  salutation  with 
a  lofty  condescension  that  at  once  explains  away  the  incongruity  of  Don 
Quixote  always  mistaking  gentlemen  in  his  line  for  governors  of  castles. 
After  a  while  he  will  unbend  a  little  as  you  are  a  stranger,  but  you  must 
be  careful  not  to  impute  to  him  any  knowledge  of  household  matters  by 
incautious  questions  or  remarks  touching  bed  or  board.  They  belong  to 
the  women's  province  :  /tis  function  is  deportment. 

The  mountain  district  lying  to  the  south  of  Granada  may  be  taken  as 
a  sample  of  the  fields  open  to  the  enterprise  of  the  pedestrian.  As  the 
wanderer  takes  his  way  "  through  Granada's  royal  town  " — whether  from 
Elvira's  gates  to  those  of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes,  or  through  the  street  of 
Zacatin  to  the  Alhambra  spurring  in, — through  the  elms  on  the  Alameda, 
through  horse-shoe  arches  in  the  Alhambra,  between  the  cypresses  in  the 
gardens  of  the  Generalife,  at  the  ends  of  streets,  over  the  tops  of  houses, 
again  and  again  does  the  distant  Sierra  Nevada  force  itself  upon  his  notice, 
make  the  background  of  his  picture,  and  tantalize  him  with  its  snows.* 


In  time,  if  the  mountain  instinct  be  strong  within  him,  he  will  begin  to  lust 
after  a  nearer  acquaintance,  to  speculate  upon  what  sort  of  scenery  is  hiding 

*  The  sketch  given  above  is  taken  from  the  bridge  over  the  Genii,  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  Alameda.  The  sharp  peak  is  the  Veleta,  the  knob  on  the  left  the  summit 
of  Mulabacen.'- 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  169 

ariong  those  crags,  what  manner  of  region  it  is  that  lies  beyond,  and  possibly 
the  recollection  that  the  range  of  mountains  before  him  is  the  next  highest 
in  Europe  to  the  Alps  may  help  to  stimulate  his  curiosity.  If  he  makes 
inquiry  at  Granada  about  the  means  of  gratifying  it,  he  will  be  probably 
advised  to  go  up  the  Picacho  de  la  Veleta,  the  sharp  peak  which  appears 
to  be  the  culminating  point  of  the  chain — an  undertaking  which  is  there 
looked  upon  with  as  much  respect  as  the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  used  to 
be  fifteen  years  ago  at  Chamouni,  albeit  three-fourths  of  the  journey  may 
be  done  on  horseback.  The  advice,  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  not  bad,  for  from 
the  top  of  the  Veleta  he  will  command  a  panorama  as  grand,  and  infinitely 
more  varied,  than  any  the  Alps  in  all  their  glory  can  show.  But  if  he 
contents  himself  with  this,  he  leaves  unseen  a  tract  which,  in  a  small  space, 
contains  some  of  the  richest  and  boldest  scenery  in  Europe — that  medley 
of  mountains  lying  at  his  feet  as  he  looks  out  over  the  Mediterranean,  the 
Alpujarras,  where  there  are  glens  to  drive  a  water-colour  painter  distracted, 
an  1  rocks  more  savage  than  ever  Salvator  Rosa  conceived.*  Here,  how- 
evor,  he  must  trust  to  his  feet.  He  can,  indeed,  just  skirt  the  Alpujarras 
country  on  horseback,  but  if  he  wishes  to  explore  its  inmost  nooks,  to 
follow  up  its  wild  valleys  to  the  crest  from  which  they  spring,  there  is 
no;  hing  for  it  but  to  leave  his  portmanteau  and  his  respectabilities  and 
cares  in  charge  of  the  landlord  at  Granada,  for  a  week  or  two,  and  take  to 
the  mountain  in  the  condition  of  a  tramp.  It  is  better,  however,  not  to 
coi!imence  actual  tramping  at  the  hotel  door.  The  paths  are  not  easy  to 
find,  the  ravines  are  intricate ;  a  guide  of  some  sort  is  necessary,  and 
guides  who  will  walk  are  not  to  be  met  with  easily  at  Granada.  There 
are  primitive  little  diligences  plying  between  Granada  and  Motril  or 
Lanjaron,  one  of  which  will  deposit  him  at  a  more  convenient  starting- 
plat^e.  If  so  minded,  he  may  get  down  at  the  Ultimo  Suspiro  del  Moro — 
the  "  Hill  of  the  Tears,"  as  it  is  sometimes  called — the  famous  spot  from 
which  Boabdil  looked  for  the  last  time  on  the  fair  city  he  had  lost. 
Thonce  he  may  follow  the  diligence  route — a  fine,  broad,  well-engineered 
road — through  Durcal,  past  the  gorge  of  Talara  and  the  bridge  of  Tablate, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  left,  take  the  rough  byroad  that  zigzags  up-hill 
to  Lanjaron.  After  a  few  miles  Lanjaron  comes  in  sight — a  long  white 
village,  gleaming  out  of  a  mass  of  the  deepest  green,  and  protected  by  a 
toothless  old  castle  on  an  almost  isolated  pinnacle  of  rock.  The  Anda- 
lusians  call  LanjaroiT"  El  paraiso  de  las  Alpujarras,"  and  well  they  may, 
for  a  lovelier  spot  no  traveller  can  have  photographed  upon  his  memory. 

*  Ford  says,  "The  name  Alpujarras  is  a  corruption  of  Al  Busherat,  'grass,'" 
whil-3  Washington  Irving  traces  it  to  Albuxara,  one  of  Taric's  captains,  who  was  the 
first  to  subdue  its  Christian  population.  Fernan  Cuballero  quotes  a  legend  which 
explains  the  title  of  the  Picacho  del  a  Yelcta.  In  the  tiempo  de  los  Moros  there 
stood  on  its  summit  a  weathercock  (veleta),  watched  by  an  angel.  While  the  weather- 
cock pointed  north  the  Christians  were  victorious  ;  but  whenever  the  angel  slept,  the 
evil  one  came  and  turned  it  southward,  and  straightway  the  Moorish  arms  prevailed. 
Mulahacen  is  simply  a  corruption  of  the  name  of  Mula — or  Muley — Hassan,  the  father 
ofBoabdiL 

9—5 


170  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

It  is  perched  on  the  southern  end  of  a  spur  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  which 
rises  steeply  behind  the  village,  clothed  with  chestnut  and  evergreen  oak. 
Below  is  a  deep  gorge,  through  which  a  little  stream  makes  its  way  to  the 
Mediterranean,  in  front  a  mighty  wall  of  rock,  and  all  round  a  girdle  of 
noble  mountains — among  which  towers  high  the  grey  head  of  the  Sierra 
Lujar.  The  village  itself,  far  more  Oriental  than  European  in  appearance, 
like  all  the  Alpujarras  villages,  is  a  long  street  of  white  flat-roofed  houses, 
with  a  tiny  alameda  in  the  centre,  and  the  shelving  platform  on  which  it 
stands,  throughout  its  length  and  breadth,  is  a  tangled  wilderness  of  pome- 
granate, fig,  apricot,  and  orange  trees.  Lanjaron  is  famous  in  these  parts 
for  its  fruit,  more  especially  for  its  oranges,  which  are  magnificent  and 
abundant.  On  every  side  they  gleam  through  the  glossy  foliage  "  like 
golden  lamps  in  a  green  night."  They  hang  temptingly  over  every  path, 
and  perfume  every  mountain  breeze  that  sweeps  down  this  happy  valley. 
And  such  oranges  !  of  noble  size,  with  a  rough  crisp  rind,  and  a  flavour — 
it  might  be  too  much  to  assert  that  he  who  has  not  tasted  a  Lanjaron 
orange  does  not  know  what  oranges  are  capable  of,  but  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  notions  of  that  fruit  founded  on  the  orange  of  commerce  are  as 
near  the  truth  as  an  estimate  of  the  virtues  of  champagne  based  on  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  taste  of  ginger-beer.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
add  that  at  Lanjaron  there  are  mineral  waters,  strongly  recommended  by 
the  faculty.  A  spot  combining  BO  many  attractions,  with  such  scenery, 
such  a  climate,  such  natural  luxuries,  and  generally  so  admirably 
adapted  for  idleness,  must,  by  the  inevitable  law  of  nature,  have  some- 
where in  its  vicinity  springs  possessed  of  restorative  properties.  Accord- 
ingly science  has  discovered,  and  society  at  Granada  and  Malaga  has 
endorsed  the  fact,  that  the  waters  at  Lanjaron  are  good  for  I  know  not 
what  class  of  disorders.  Whatever  their  ailments  may  be,  the  sufferers 
have  that  look  of  placid  contentment  which  is  observable  in  all  mineral- 
water  patients,  and  breakfast  and  dine  with  the  healthy  appetite  which 
seems  to  be  incidental  to  debility.  In  the  morning  they  turn  out  and  go 
through  the  ceremony  of  drinking  the  waters  with  amazing  gravity,  and  in 
the  evening  they  stroll  on  the  Granada  road,  or  lounge  under  the  orange- 
trees,  and  watch  the  sunset  with  that  tranquil  enjoyment  of  life  which 
belongs  to  a  disorganized  system  and  an  entire  immunity  from  all  worldly 
cares.  Lanjaron,  in-  a  word,  is  the  simplest,  cosiest,  and  most  unso- 
phisticated of  little  watering-places  ;  and,  as  the  decline  and  fall  of  such 
retreats  is  in  most  cases  traceable  to  the  ill-judged  praise  of  some  blun- 
dering admirer,  I  would  fain  withdraw  what  I  have  said  in  its  favour,  and 
entreat  the  reader  not  to  believe  a  word  of  the  foregoing  description,  but 
rather  to  conceive  of  Lanjaron  as  of  a  place  afflicted  with  a  miserable 
climate  and  monotonous  scenery,  where  it  rains  nearly  all  day,  where  the 
country  is  flat  and  rather  marshy,  where  there  is  only  one  tree,  and  that 
a  blasted  poplar,  and  no  oranges  at  all,  except  a  few  on  a  stall  at  a  corner 
of  the  plaza,  kept  by  an  old  lady  from  Clonakilty,  who  is  always  polishing 
them  with  her  apron.  . 


THE  KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  171 

The  topography  of  the  Alpujarras  seems  somewhat  intricate  at  first 
sight,  but  is  in  reality  simple.  The  ridge  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  runs  east 
a] id  west,  nearly  parallel  with  the  shore  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  about 
thirty  miles  distant  from  it.  Half-way  between  the  two  there  is  a  long 
li'ie  of  valley  running  in  the  same  direction,  and  separated  from  the  sea 
by  a  chain  of  sierras,  of  which  the  Sierra  Lujar  above  mentioned  is  the 
principal.  Into  this  valley  four  or  five  minor  valleys  descend  at  right 
angles  from  the  crest  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and  it  is  in  these  that  the 
Jriest  scenery  of  the  Alpujarras  is  to  be  found.  Lanjaron  stands  a  little 
above  the  mouth  of  the  most  westerly  of  these  minor  valleys,  and  from  its 
situation  and  creature  comforts  is  admirably  suited  for  head- quarters. 
Its  own  valley  is  by  no  means  the  least  beautiful  of  the  group.  For 
miles  above  the  village  it  is  a  steep,  deep,  narrow  ravine,  shaded  by  noble 
chestnuts,  and  altogether  of  very  much  the  same  character  as  the  valleys 
on  the  Piedmontese  side  of  the  Alps ;  but  its  head  is  a  wild  mountain 
busin,  with  snow-streaked  sides,  enclosing  a  lonely  tarn,  the  Laguna  del 
0  iballo,  above  which  rise  the  summits  of  the  Caballo  and  the  Machos, 
tvo  of  those  peaks  which  cut  so  sharply  against  the  sky  in  the  mountain 
visw  from  Granada. 

But  by  far  the  finest  and  grandest  scenery  in  the  Sierra  Nevada  lies 
at  the  head  of  the  Poqueira  valley,  to  the  east  of  that  of  Lanjaron. 


Aj  preaching  by  the  way  of  Orgiba,  a  legua  larga,"  or  a  trifle  under  two 
lef  gues,  from  Lanjaron,  a  rugged  mountain-path,  fringed  with  aloes  and 
prickly  pears,  leads  to  the  Barranco  de  Poqueira,  where  one  of  the  love- 
He  >t  bits  of  landscape  in  the  whole  district  suddenly  bursts  on  the  view. 
Ax  impetuous  stream  tumbles  in  a  series  of  cascades  down  a  dark  gorge, 
ov<  irfmng  with  trees,  among  which  nestles  a  picturesque  old  mill.  Beyond, 
the  green  slopes  rise  one  above  the  other,  dotted  with  white  villages,  and 
high  up,  springing  from  a  wild  chaos  of  precipices,  the  Picacho  de  la 
Ye! eta  towers  above  all  with  its  black  crags  and  dazzling  snows,  Mula- 
ha<  en,  the  loftiest  of  all  the  Sierra  Nevada  peaks,  is  not  yet  in  sight,  and 
it  is  a  tramp  of  some  hours  more  up  the  valley  before  his  burly  form 


172  THE  KNAPSACK  IN.  SPAIN. 

comes  into  view ;  but  the  ascent,  as  well  as  that  of  the  Yeleta,  may  be 
easily  made  from  Capilleria,  the  highest  village  in  the  valley..  But  the 
reader  need  not  fear  that  I  am  about  to  inflict  upon  him  the  oft  told  tale 
of  a  mountain  ascent.  There  is,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  certain  sameness 
about  narratives  of  that  sort,  and  the  incidents  described  are  generally  of 
a  kind  more  interesting  to  the  actor  than  to  the  reader.  Not,  indeed, 
that  mountaineering  in  the  Sierra  Nevada  affords  many  openings  for 
thrilling  incidents.  It  would  require  considerable  ingenuity  to  encounter 
any  of  the  avalanche  or  ice  perils  of  the  Alps.  There  is  not  a  summit 
in  the  range  which  may  not  be  reached,  in  August  or  September  at  least, 
without  once  setting  foot  on  snow,  and  there  is  but  one  glacier,  and  that 
the  most  harmless  and  unobtrusive  of  glaciers,  lying  in  nobody's  way 
and  endangering  nobody's  life  with  its  crevasses,  which,  as  Boissier  has 
observed,  are  to  be  measured  by  inches,  not  by  feet.  In  fact,  in  spite  of 
its  height,  more  than  five  hundred  feet  above  that  of  the  highest  of  the 
Pyrenees,  and  its  rank  as  a  mountain  of  the  first  order,  according  to 
Lavallee's  classification  of  mountains,*  the  ascent  of  Mulahacen  is  an 
undertaking  not  much  more  arduous  than  the  ascent  of  Snowdon ;  and 
the  Veleta,  though  steeper,  is  even  easier.  But  the  hardest  morning's  work 
in  the  scrambling  way  would  be  well  repaid  by  the  view  which  either  of 
these  summits  commands.  In  the  first  place  there  is  the  Corral  de  la 
Veleta,  as  the  chasm  is  called  which  seems  almost  to  open  under  the 
climber's  feet  as  he  tops  the  highest  crags.  The  first  impression  conveyed 
is  perhaps  that  of  the  crater  of  an  extinct  volcano,  or  of  one  of  the  cirques 
of  the  Pyrenees,  with  its  natural  grimness  intensified  a  hundredfold.  But 
such  similitudes  are  far  too  mundane  to  be  entirely  satisfactory.  The 
spot  is  altogether  too  weird  and  mysterious  to  be  connected  with  any 
commonplace  convulsion  of  nature.  It  seems  rather  to  be  the  socket  out 
of  which  some  frantic  Titan  has  torn  up  a  mighty  peak  by  the  roots.  It  is 
a  place  where  Dante  might  have  made  studies  for  the  scenery  of  the  Inferno, 
where  Faust  and  Mephistopheles  might  have  held  revelry  with  witches,  or 

*  Professor  Lavallee,  in  his  Geographic  Physique,  draws  the  line  which  divides 
the  first  order  of  mountains  from  the  second  at  3,500  metres,  and  Mulahacen  is  the 
only  mountain  in  Europe,  except  Alpine  summits,  that  distinctly  exceeds  that  height. 
The  Veleta,  however,  approaches  it  closely,  and  hy  some  measurements,  passes  it. 
A  good  deal  of  confusion  exists  about  the  height  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  chain.  State- 
ments are  to  he  found  ranging  from  10,800  to  13,000  feet.  Those  of  the  Spanish 
naturalist  Rojas  Clemente,  who  is  to  the  Sierra  Nevada  very  much  what  De  Saussure 
is  to  the  Alps,  and  Ramon d  to  the  Pyrenees  ;  and  of  Edinond  Boissier,  of  Geneva, 
are  the  most  trustworthy.  According  to  the  latter,  the  height  of  Mulahacen  is  11,701, 
and  of  the  Veleta,  11,432,  English  feet.  Clcmente's  measurements  are  a  trifle  higher, 
but  perhaps  in  a  matter  of  this  sort,  some  extra  weight  is  to  be  attached  to  the 
authority  of  a  Swiss  and  an  experienced  Alpine  explorer.  As  the  limit  of  perpetual 
snow  in  latitude  37  degrees  is  somewhere  about  11,000  feet  above  the  sea,  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  snow-fields  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  cannot  be  very  extensive.  Indeed  in 
the  dog-day  heats,  the  snow  disappears  entirely  from  the  more  exposed  points  of  the 
chain,  remaining  only  in  detached  masses  on  the  sides,  as  shown  in  the  preceding 
sketches. 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  173 

Frankenstein's  monster  sought  a  retreat.  It  is  a  vast  pit  more  than  two 
thousand  feet  deep,  and  two  or  three  miles  across,  sunk  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  chain  and  walled  in  by  the  precipices  of  its  three  highest  peaks, 
Mulahacen  on  the  south  and  the  Alcazaba  and  Veleta  on  the  east  and  west. 
In  form  it  is  nearly  circular,  and  its  walls  are  sheer  precipice  all  the  way 
round,  with  but  one  break,  where,  on  the  north,  the  little  glaciers  already 
mentioned,  fed  by  the  snow  which  lies  thick  on  the  floor  of  the  Corral,  forces 
its  way  down  a  narrow  cleft  and  forms  the  source  of  the  famous  river 
Gonil,  a  savage  birthplace  for  those  gentle  waters  which  ripple  past 
Granada  and  gladden  the  orange  -groves  of  the  Vega.  Following  the 
course  of  the  deep  gorge  by  which  the  stream  descends,  the  eye  rests 
at  length  upon  the  terraced  gardens  of  the  Generalife,  nine  thousand 
feet  below,  beyond  which,  over  the  ravine  of  the  Darro,  rise  the  massive 
form  and  pyramid  roof  of  the  great  tower  of  Comares,  the  belfry  of  the 
Torre  de  la  Vela  and  the  red  wails  of  the  Alhambra,  against  a  background 
of  dark  green  elms.  Underneath  lies  the  city  of  Granada,  dwindled  to  a 
span  by  the  distance  of  twenty  miles,  but,  in  the  clear  Andalusian  atmo- 
sphere, showing  like  some  capital  in  Fairyland ;  and  beyond  and  around 
tho  broad  plain  of  the  Vega  spreads  itself  out  like  a  carpet  of  green  and 
gold,  with  a  fringe  of  soft  purple  haze  where  it  stretches  up  to  the  feet  of 
the  distant  Jaen  mountains.  To  the  west  the  rugged  sierras  that  form 
the  continuation  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  on  to  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  and  the 
shores  of  the  Atlantic  rise  one  above  the  other  in  wild  confusion,  like  a  sea 
of  mountains  sorely  troubled  ;  some  of  them  almost  nameless,  some  famed 
in  song  and  story.  Alhama  of  the  ballads  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  sharp 
blue  cone  in  the  middle  distance,  and  under  that  jagged  crest  far  away  is 
the  Rio  Verde,  Percy's  "  Gentle  River,"  where  Alonzo  de  Aguilar*  fell  by 
the  hand  of  the  Moor  El  Feri.  Beneath,  on  the  other  side,  is  the  Alpu- 
jarras,  from  mountain  top  to  sea  a  labyrinth  of  ridges  and  ravines,  and 
beyond  it  the  blue  expanse  of  the  Mediterranean  from  the  Straits  to  the 
Cabo  de  Gata :  vast  but  still  not  boundless,  for  on  its  upper  rim,  in  the 
clear  morning,  there  seems  to  rest  a  faint  light  cloud  of  unchanging  form, 
and  the  eye  travels  through  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  of  space  across  to 
the  mountains  of  Morocco. 

Such  are  the  main  features  of  the  prospect  from  either  Mulahacen  or 
the  Veleta.  That  from  the  Veleta  is  perhaps  rather  the  finer  of  the  two, 
for  the  vast  precipices  of  Mulahacen  overhanging  the  Corral  and  the  massive 
form  of  the  mountain  itself  make  it  one  of  the  most  striking  objects  in  the 
view  from  the  other  peak.  In  the  matter  of  accommodation  for  a  large 
party  there  is  not  much  choice  between  the  rival  summits.  Each  is  a 
sharp  pinnacle  of  mica  schist,  and  the  little  space  that  nature  has  left  for 

*  There  is,  to  be  sure,  some  question  as  to  the  precise  site  of  the  battle  in  which 
Alon/,o  was  killed.  One  of  the  ballads  on  the  subject  in  the  Guerras  Civiles  de 
Granada,  places  it  distinctly  in  the  Sierra  Nevada  proper,  and  furthermore  states  that 
his  body  was  carried  to  "  Oxicar  la  Nombrada,"  —  which,  by  the  way,  Lockhart 
translates  "  woody  Oxicar."  Oxicar  is,  of  course,  the  old  spelling  for  Ujijar,  a  village 
in  the  Alpujarras,  six  or  seven  leagues  east  of  Orgiba, 


174 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 


lounging  on  is  in  each  case  diminished  by  an  impertinent  structure,  built, 
I  believe,  by  certain  engineers,  who  might  have  been  better  employed  than 
in  putting  finishing  touches  to  these  grand  old  mountains.  The 
accompanying  sketch  shows  the  top  of  Mulahacen  and  the  two  men  highest 
in  position  in  Spain  at  the  moment.  The  deep  valley  of  Trevelez  to  the 
east  of  Mulahacen,  though  not  so  grand  or  beautiful  as  that  of  Poqueira,  is 
worth  a  glance,  and  by  it  the  traveller  may  descend  and  decide  on  the  spot 
the  vexed  question  touching  the  superiority  of  its  hams  over  those  of 
Capilleria,  its  rival  in  the  art  of  bacon-making — a  much  disputed  point  here. 


- 


Among  the  manufactures  of  Spain  her  bacon  will  always  take  a  high  rank 
in  the  estimation  of  persons  of  taste,  and  among  Spanish  bacons  that  of 
the  Alpujarras  holds  a  proud  position.  More  especially  the  hams.  They 
yield  to  none  in  the  Peninsula,  not  even  to  the  famous  hams  of  Montanches, 
for  juiciness,  softness,  and  flavour,  and  served  any  way, — boiled,  broiled, 
with  tomato  sauce  after  the  fashion  of  the  country,  or  even  raw, — there  is  a 
subtlety  about  them  that  would  sap  the  faith  of  a  Eabbi.  The  social 
position  of  the  pig  in  these  mountain  villages  has  perhaps  something 
to  do  with  the  quality  of  his  remains  when  they  become  an  article  of 
food.  In  the  hamlets  of  the  Alpujarras  he  takes  a  place  in  society  which 
is  not  conceded  to  him  anywhere  else,  not  even  in  Ireland.  In  early 
youth  he  is  the  playmate  of  the  children  and  is  treated  with  that  affection 
which  elsewhere  is  lavished  on  the  kitten  and  the  puppy,  and  grown  up  he 
seems  to  live  free,  independent,  and  generally  respected.  There  is  no 
vulgarity  attached  to  the  idea  of  pig  in  these  valleys.  Even  the  process 
of  converting  bim  into  bacon  has  a  touch  of  elegance  and  refinement 
about  it :  snow,  sugar,  and  the  smoke  of  aromatic  shrubs,  being  the  chief 


THE  KNAPSACK  IN  SPAIN.  175 

preservatives  employed.  And  then  what  poetry  there  is  in  the  titles 
bestowed  upon  the  product : — "  los  janiones  dulces  de  las  Alpujarras,"  or, 
as  they  are  sometimes  called,  "  the  sweet  hams  of  Trevelez."  Moore 
might  have  sung  them  without  any  debasement  of  his  muse,  for,  indeed, 
there's  not  in  this  wide  world  a  bacon  so  sweet  as  they  make  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada  pig's  meat,  and  the  last  sense  of  taste  from  the  palate  is  gone, 
when  it  ceases  to  relish  that  juicy  jamon.  Here,  however,  they  are 
rather  to  be  mentioned  as  a  valuable  element  in  the  commissariat  of 
the  pedestrian.  With  a  wedge  of  sweet  ham,  a  few  hard  eggs,  half-a-dozen 
Lanjaron  oranges,  and  a  bota  of  Val-de-pefias,  he  may  consider  himself 
free  of  the  country,  and  wander  where  he  pleases,  independent  of  the 
posadas,  which  partake  largely  of  the  primitiveness  that  pervades  all  things 
in  this  district.  Not  that  the  Alpujarras  when  it  chooses  cannot  shake  off 
its  rustic  simplicity.  I  reached  one  of  these  little  mountain  villages  on  the 
evening  of  a  fete,  and  as  there  was  to  be  a  "  gran  baile  "  in  the  plaza,  I 
made  sure  of  seeing  in  such  a  spot,  if  anywhere,  the  national  dances  and 
costumes  in  full-  perfection.  What  I  did  see  was  a  party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  in  muslin  and  tail  coats  polking  and  waltzing  to  the  genteelest 
tunes.  Once,  it  is  true,  there  was  a  fandango,  but  it  was  evidently  looked 
upon  by  the  majority  as  vulgar  and  behind  the  age.  I  remarked  it,  perhaps, 
the  more,  as  at  the  time  I  was  travelling  laden  with  some  pounds  weight 
of  copper  coin,  because  in  the  whole  town  of  Orgiba,  the  capital  of  the 
Alpujarras,  there  was  not  enough  silver  to  make  up  the  change  of  an 
Isabelino  (the  Spanish  sovereign) ;  and  but  for  the  lucky  discovery  that 
there  was  a  dollar  to  be  seen  at  the  cigar-shop  round  the  corner,  I  should 
have  had  a  still  heavier  load  to  carry.  From  the  eagerness  with  which  the 
offer  to  take  the  dollar  off  his  hands,  at  par,  was  accepted  by  the  proprietor, 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  had  been  on  view  for  some  time  as  a 
curiosity,  and  that  the  novelty  had  at  last  worn  off. 

Still,  primitive  and  rude  as  the  Alpujarras  posadas  are,  they  are  not, 

after  all,  as  I  have  already  said,  so  very  much  rougher  than  the  quarters 

pedestrians  have  often  to  be  content  with  elsewhere,  and  are  for  the  most 

jart  -cleaner.     The*  Spaniards,  those  of  the  south  at  any  rate,  are  in  the 

main  a  cleanly  people,  with  an  oriental  affection  for  whitewash  and  fair 

men ;  and  if  insect  life  runs  riot  in  their  houses  it  is  not  so  much  a  fault 

of  theirs  as  of  the  climate  they  live  in.    If,  however,  the  traveller  objects  to 

posada  lodging  on  these  and  other  grounds,  the  remedy  is  in  his  own 

1  lands.     Under  these  glorious  skies  camping  out  on  the  mountain  side  is 

i    luxury,  and  sounder  sleep  may  be  had  on  a  bed  of  brushwood  than 

1  etween  the   sheets  of  civilization.     The  brigand  bugbear  he  may  treat 

\ery  lightly;  and  in  fact  what  should  robbers  do  on  mountains  where  no 

living  thing  is  to  be  seen,  except  vultures  and  an  occasional  manzanilla- 

gxtherer,    or  shepherd  with   his  dogs   and  flock?      The   wolves   I   am 

inclined  to  believe  in,  because  of  the  size  of  the  dogs  and  the  spiked 

c  >llars  they  wear,  but  the  evidence  in  favour  of  the  existence  of  human 

r<  'bbers  is  not  satisfactory. 


170  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

From  the  bottom  of  the  Trevelez  valley  he  may,  if  so  inclined,  reach 
Granada  by  the  way  of  Ujijar,  and  the  mountain  track  across  to  Guadix ; 
but  the  eastern  side  of  the  Alpujarras  is  comparatively  bare  and  unin- 
teresting. The  cream  of  the  district,  in  fact,  lies  between  Durcal  and 
the  Trevelez  valley.  A  far  finer  path  by  which  to  take  leave  of  the 
'Alpujarras  is  that  over  the  Col  de  la  Veleta,  the  depression  in  the  ridge 
on  the  west  of  the  Picacho,  which  may  be  reached  from  either  Lanjaron  or 
Capilleria.  There,  from  the  top  of  the  pass  almost  until  he  reaches  it,  he 
has  Granada  full  in  view  as  he  descends  the  mountain.  On  this  walk,  for 
the  first  and  only  time,  I  found  the  inconvenience  of  carrying  a  knapsack 
in  Spain.  It  would  not  have  mattered  in  Switzerland  or  the  Pyrenees, 
where  people  are  used  to  it — nay,  rather  like  it;  but  to  appear  in 
mountain  trim  on  the  Alameda  of  Granada,  up  which  my  road  inevitably 
lay,  just  at  that  period  of  the  evening  when  the  full  flood-tide  of  fashion 
swept  to  and  fro  in  all  its  pride  beneath  the  branching  elms,  seemed  to  be, 
in  a  land  that  knows  not  knapsacks,  a  measure  somewhat  too  strong. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  was  weak.  At  any  rate  I  sat  down  to  wait  till 
it  was  dusk,  and  waiting  till  it  was  dusk,  slept  till  it  was  dark,  and 
resumed  the  march  on  Granada  with  no  clearer  notion  of  the  way  than 
that,  as  Granada  lay  low,  stumbling  downhill  was  more  likely  to  be  right 
than  stumbling  up.  I  came  upon  a  house  at  last,  but  it  was  a  house  with 
a  dog.  When  Byron  says, — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest 
bark,"  it  is  to  be  presumed  he  means  a  watch-dog  secured  by  a  stout 
chain  and  collar.  Because,  if  the  night  is  dark  and  the  dog  is  loose,  and 
his  honest  bark  may  at  any  moment  be  followed  by  his,  no  doubt,  equally 
honest  bite,  the  sound  the  poet  speaks  of  is  not  a  sweet  one.  So  I  felt, 
at  least  until  the  owner  of  the  dog,  somewhere  out  of  the  darkness,  called 
him  to  order,  and  then  informed  me  that  Granada  was  only  a  legua  y 
media  further  on.  I  had  been  hugging  the  belief  that  it  was  only  half 
a  league.  I  got  into  Granada  at  last,  just  as  the  town  was  shutting  up  for 
the  night ;  but  the  example  is  worth  something  as  showing  as  forcibly  as 
The  Universal  Spelling-Book  could,  the  evils  of  loitering,  and  especially 
what  a  mistake  it  is  to  loiter  in  Spain,  where  distances,  no  matter  how 
measured,  are  always  deceptive. 

The  tourist  who  has  been  through  the  Alpujarras,  and  up  and  down 
the  Sierra,  need  not,  however,  consign  his  knapsack  to  his  portmanteau  on 
his  return  to  Granada,  for  further  west  there  are  fresh  fields  and  pastures 
new  for  the  pedestrian. 


177 


DURING  the  year  which  has  elapsed  since  we  noticed  the  position  of  affairs 
with  regard  to  the  introduction  of  breech-loading  rifles  for  military  service,* 
considerable  progress  has  been  made  by  England,  as  by  most  other 
nations  ;  and  the  subject  has  reached  a  stage  at  which  it  will  be  inte- 
resting again  to  review  what  has  been  done,  and  to  note  the  development 
which  the  subject  has  now  attained. 

It  will  be  within  the  recollection  of  readers  of  this  Magazine  that  as 
far  back  as  1864,  a  committee  of  officers  'appointed  by  the  War  Office, 
oi'  which  General  Russell  was  president,  reported  that  it  would  be  desirable 
to  arm  the  whole  of  the  British  infantry  with  breech-loading  rifles.  The 
inquiry  to  which  this  recommendation  gave  rise  branched  off  into  two 
distinct  and  perfectly  independent  parts.  One,  the  conversion  of  the 
existing  arms  ;  the  other,  the  determination  of  the  best  pattern  of  breech- 
loader for  future  manufacture.  With  the  history  and  the  issue  of  the  first 
branch  of  the  inquiry  people  are  now  pretty  well  familiar.  It  resulted 
in  the  adoption  in  the  spring  of  1866  of  the  Snider  system  of  conver- 
sion, with  a  coiled  brass  cartridge  designed  by  Colonel  Boxer. 

We  should  not  care  to  recall  the  ignorant  and  unjust  clamour  which 
was  raised  on  the  introduction  of  this  arm  and  ammunition,  the  alarming 
prophecies  of  failure,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  slightest  and  most 
UL  important  difficulties  were  magnified  into  grave  defects,  condemnatory 
of  the  system, — were  it  not  that  it  would  be  impossible  otherwise  to  do 
justice  to  one  of  the  most  satisfactory  features  of  the  year's  progress,  viz. 
tho  complete  success  which  has  attended  the  introduction  of  the  Snider 
sy stem ;  and  the  confidence  with  which  the  arm  and  ammunition  are  now 
regarded  by  the  whole  army. 

It  reflects  the  greatest  credit  upon  all  concerned  that,  in  spite  of  a 
tolerably  vigorous  opposition,  the  conversion  of  the  Enfield  rifles  has  been 
persevered  with  at  a  rate  which  has  given  us  at  least  200.000  of  the  arms 
and  nearly  30,000,000  rounds  of  the  ammunition  in  less  man  a  year  from 
th(  date  of  commencing  manufacture  ; — that  notwithstanding  the  enormous 
pressure  requisite  to  produce  these  results  ;  notwithstanding  the  novelty 
and  intricacy  of  many  of  the  processes  of  manufacture ;  notwithstanding 
the  slight  causes  upon  which  failures  or  accidents  depend ;  notwithstanding 
the  issue  of  the  arms  in  many  instances  (as  in  Canada  and  Ireland)  to 
men  entirely  uninstructed  in  their  use, — no  failure  whatever  has  taken 

*  Cornhitt  Magazine,  September,  1866. 


178 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 


place,  and  not  a  single  "accident  of  any  consequence  has  had  to  lie 
recorded.* 

Of  the  slight  changes  which  experience  has  recommended  in  the  arm 
and  ammunition,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  first,  that  except  in  the  case 
of  about  two  million  rounds  of  the  first  pattern  of  cartridge,  the  base  of 
which  proved  too  weak,  the  introduction  of  the  different  changes  has  not 
involved  the  surpersession  of  preceding  patterns ;  and,  second,  that  these 
changes,  in  addition  to  the  increase  of  efficiency  which  they  have 
respectively  effected,  have  almost  invariably  tended  also  to  decrease 
the  cost  of  production.  Thus,  iron  has  been  substituted  for  brass  for 
the  base  of  the  cartridge ;  the  quantity  of  brass  in  the  cartridge-case  has 
been  diminished ;  the  weight  of  the  bullet  has  been  reduced ;  the  con- 
struction of  the  anvil  has  been  improved. 

The  following  sketch  of  the  latest  approved  construction  of  cartridges, 
will  form  a  companion  to  that  whicji  we  gave  last  year  of  the  £rst  pattern 
of  ammunition : — 

BOXER  AMMUNITION  FOR  SNIDER  RITLE. 


Blank  Cartridge.— Pattern  II. 


a  Iron  Disc. 

b  Papier  Mache  Wad. 

c  Brass  Cup. 

d  Brass  Coiled  Case  (1$  turn),  not  covered 
by  paper,  but  lined  with  a  paper  bag 
containing  the  charge  of  powder. 

e  Pellet  of  Compressed  Powder. 
/  Wool. 

g  Brass-shouldered  Anvil. 
h  Percussion  Cap. 


Ball  Cartridge.— Pattern  V. 


a  Iron  Disc. 

b  Papier  Mache  Wad. 

c  Brass  Cup. 

c'  Percussion  Cap. 

d  Inner  Brass  Cup. 

e  Braes  Coil  (1£  turn),  with  covering  of 

Brown  Paper. 

/  Bullet,  Pure  Lead,  Weight  480  grains. 
g  Baked  Clay  Plug. 
h  Wood  Plug. 
i  CottonWool. 
1c  Brass-shouldered  Anvil. 


The  changes  in  the  arm  have  consisted  mainly  in  an  alteration  of  the 
depth  of  the  recess  for  Lhe  'cartridge-bore,  in  a  slight  alteration  in  the 
form  of  extractor,  with  a  view  to  facilitating  extraction,  and  in  the  recess- 


*  The  first  pattern  of  cartridge,  with  the  Potet  base,  was  found  to  be  unreliable, 
and  one  or  two  breech  blocks  were  blown  open  in  Canada,  to  which  station  the  bulk 
of  the  ammunition  of  this  pattern  had  been  sent.  But  the  defect  had  been  noticed 
and  corrected  before  these  mishaps  occurred,  although  too  late  to  admit  of  strengthened 
cartridges  being  supplied  to  Canada,  on  account  of  the  communications  having  become 
closed  by  the  ice.  In  the  spring  of  this  year  the  unsafe  ammunition  was  recalled  ; 
and  it  is  improbable  that  a  single  round  of  it  exists,  except  in  the  form  of  blank 
cartridges,  into  which  it  was  converted  on  its  return  to  this  country. 


BEEECH-LOADING  RIFLES.  179 

ing  of  the  face  of  the  hammer,  so  as  to  render  the  blowing  open  of  the 
breech-block,  in  the  event  of  the  accidental  employment  of  a  defective 
cartridge,  more  unlikely. 

The  endurance  of  these  rifles  has  been  exhibited  in  an  extraordinary 
degree  during  the  past  year.  There  are  in  existence  arms  which  have 
fired  as  many  as  80,000  rounds,  and  which  to  all  appearance  are  as  good 
as  the  day  when  they  were  first  issued.  The  rate  of  fire,  thanks  to  the 
facilities  of  loading  and  extraction  which  the  present  pattern  of  cartridge 
affords,  has  proved  even  higher  than  was  anticipated,  and  as  many  ag 
eighteen,  nineteen,  and  even  twenty  rounds  have  been  fired  from  a  Snider 
:ifle  in  a  minute  ;  and  with  very  little  practice,  a  good  marksman  can 
:mstain  for  several  minutes  a  rate  of  fire  of  from  ten  to  twelve  shots  per 
:ninute,  getting  at  least  90  per  cent,  of  the  shots  "  on  "  the  target.  The 
performances  of  the  Snider  at  Wimbledon  this  year,  where  it  has  obtained 
first  or  second  place  in  nearly  every  one  of  the  breech-loading  competi- 
lions,  have  gone  far  to  establish  its  character  in  the  eyes  of  the  public. 

These  results  have  not  escaped  the  notice  of  our  neighbours,  and  the 
i  rms,  or  close  imitations  of  them,  and  the  ammunition,  have  been  adopted 
ia  several  foreign  countries. 

Here  we  may  be  well  content  to  leave  the  question  of  conversion  ;  and 
i  i  might  seem  also  as  though  any  necessity  for  further  search  after  an 
efficient  breech-loader  were  unnecessary,  with  so  satisfactory  a  system 
r3ady  to  our  hands.  But  with  all  their  endurance,  the  Snider  rifles  will 
not  last  for  ever,  and,  meanwhile,  owing  to  the  suspension  of  manufacture 
of  new  arms  for  the  past  two  or  three  years,  we  are  practically  without 
a  ay  reserve  store  of  rifles.  It  is  important,  therefore,  that  the  resumption 
o  f  manufacture  should  be  no  longer  delayed ;  and  with  this  view  the 
second  branch  of  the  inquiry,  the  determination  of  the  best  pattern  of  arm 
for  future  manufacture,  has  been  entered  upon  during  the  past  year. 

This  inquiry  need  not  necessarily  result  in  the  supersession  of  the 
S aider  rifle.  It  merely  amounts  to  this,  that  before  recommencing  manu- 
ii  cture,  we  wish  to  know  whether  the  Snider  system  is  the  best,  or  whether 
wa  can  improve  upon  it.  If  a  better  system  can  be  found,  we  shall- adopt 
it ;  but  not  otherwise.  And  although  the  probability  of  course  is  that 
sc  me  better  arm  will  be  found,  we  are  satisfied  that  competitors  have  a 
hi  xder  task  before  them  than  they  may  be  inclined  to  imagine. 

On  the  22nd  October,  1866,  an  advertisement  was  issued  from  the 
Ti'ar  Office,  "  to  gunmakers  and  others,"  inviting  proposals  "  for  breech- 
loiding  rifles,  either  repeating  or  not  repeating,  which  may  replace  the 
piesent  service  rifles  in  future  manufacture."  Certain  conditions  with 
re  ^ard  to  the  maximum  weight  and  length,  and  the  minimum  rate  of  fire, 
accuracy,  penetration,  &c.,  were  laid  down  as  requisite  for  a  military  arm, 
th  3  Snider  naval  rifle  (which  is  rather  a  better  shooting  arm  than  the  long 
Enfield),  measured  by  its  average,  or  rather  below  its  average  perform - 
acses,  being  taken  as  a  standard.  But  the  calibre,  twist,  form  of  groove, 
&c .  were,  very  wisely  as  we  think,  left  optional.  Generally,  the  aim  was 


180  BKEECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 

required  to  be  "  as  little  liable  to  injury  by  long- continued  firing,  rough 
usage,  and  exposure,  as  the  naval  rifles  converted  on  the  Snider  system. 
To  be  as  capable  also  of  being  used  without  accident  by  imperfectly- 
trained  men,  and  of  being  manufactured  in  quantities  and  of  uniform 
quality."  The  ammunition  was  also  required  to  fulfil  certain  general 
conditions  :  to  be  "  as  little  liable  to  injury  by  rough  usage,  damp,  and 
exposure  in  all  climates  as  the  Boxer  cartridge  for  Snider's  converted 
Enfield  rifle ;  also  as  little  liable  to  accidental  explosion  as  the  same 
cartridge,  and  as  capable  of  being  manufactured  in  large  quantities  and  of 
uniform  quality." 

For  the  arm  which,  on  consideration  of  all  the  qualities,  is  considered 
to  be  the  best  submitted,  the  Secretary  of  State  offered  a  reward  of  1,OOOZ., 
and  a  second  prize  of  600£.  for  the  arm  which,  while  attaining  a  satisfac- 
tory degree  of  excellence  in  other  particulars,  is  selected  for  merit  in 
respect  to  breech  mechanism. 

For  the  best  cartridge,  looking  less  to  the  shooting  qualities  (which 
depend  largely  upon  the  rifling  of  the  arm,  and  indeed  more  altogether 
upon  the  bullet  than  upon  the  cartridge)  than  to  economy  of  manufacture, 
power  of  sustaining  rough  usage,  freedom  from  deterioration  in  various 
climates,  and  general  serviceability,  a  prize  of  400/.  was  offered.  For  the 
best  magazine  or  repeating  arm  a  prize  of  30(K.  was  offered. 

The  allotment  of  these  prizes,  however,  by  no  means  necessitates  the 
adoption  for  the  service  of  the  prize  arm  or  cartridge.  The  rewards  will 
be  given  to  the  best  arms  and  cartridge,  whether  adopted  or  not,  for 
obviously  the  best  of  the  lot  submitted  might  be  inferior  to  the  present 
sendee  breech-loaders  and  cartridge,  and  in  this  case,  of  course,  their 
adoption  could  not  be  entertained.  On  the  other  hand,  the  rewards  are 
irrespective  of  any  reward  which  may  be  given  to  the  inventor  of  the  arm 
finally  adopted,  if  any  one  of  the  arms  submitted  should  be  deemed  worthy 
of  this  distinction. 

Finally,  and  as  a  sort  of  additional  stimulus,  if  the  rifle  which  wins  the 
first  prize  be  also  adopted  into  the  service,  the  name  of  the  inventor  will 
be  officially  associated  with  it. 

All  the  arms  and  ammunition  were  required  to  be  submitted  on  or 
before  the  80th  March,  1867. 

To  consider  the  competing  arms,  a  special  committee  was  appointed, 
consisting  of  Lieutenant- Colonel  Fletcher,  Scots  Fusilier  Guards ;  Earl 
Spencer  (President  of  the  National  Rifle  Association) ;  Captain  Rawlins, 
48th  Regiment ;  Captain  Mackinnon,  87th  Depot ;  and  Mr.  Edward  Ross, 
the  well-known  rifle  shot. 

To  the  constitution  of  this  committee  the  only  exception  which  can 
be  taken  is  that  it  includes  no  naval  member ;  and  as  the  choice  of  a 
naval  as  well  as  of  a  military  arm  will  devolve  upon  the  committee,  it 
would  perhaps  have  been  well  to  have  appointed  a  naval  officer  to  assist 
in  the  selection. 

But  from  every  other  point  of  view  the  committee  was  well  chosen. 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES.  181 

The  predominance  of  military  members  ensures  the  special  character  of  the 
service  for  which  the  new  arm  is  required  not  being  overlooked,  while  the 
names  of  Lord  Spencer  and  "Ned  "  Ross  will  carry  considerable  weight 
with  volunteers  ;  and  it  will  be  difficult  for  the  most  acrimonious  of  inventors 
to  persuade  the  public  that  the  committee  is  otherwise  than  perfectly  inde- 
pendent and  unbiassed. 

The  committee  commenced  their  labours  in  the  first  week  in  April, 
when  112  arms  (including  some  late  admissions)  were  submitted  for  their 
consideration. 

We  shall  be  doing  no  injustice  to  individual  competitors  if  we  express 
an  opinion  that  the  majority  of  these  arms  were  quite  unworthy  of  the 
occasion.  An  inspection  of  some  of  the  weapons  will  explain,  perhaps,  in 
some  degree,  how  the  Snider  rifle  came  to  be  so  much  abused.  Men  who  are 
capable  of  designing  and  of  gravely  submitting  some  of  the  systems  which 
came  before  Colonel  Fletcher's  committee  must  clearly  have  such  entirely 
erroneous  notions  respecting  the  requirements  of  the  military  service,  or 
indeed  of  any  service  whatever,  that  it  is  scarcely  surprising  if  they  do  not 
know  a  good  system  when  they  see  it.  It  might  be  deemed,  for  example, 
a  fundamental  requirement  of  any  fire-arm  that  it  should  be  capable  of 
being  fired ;  but  we  believe  that  more  than  one  of  the  inventors  declined 
point-blank  to  have  anything  to  do  with  this  part  of  the  competition.  One 
gentleman  is  said  to  have  been  willing  to  undertake  the  risk  of  firing  one 
shot — but  one  only — from  his  own  arm ;  and  another  inventor  was  actually 
"  hoist  with  his  own  petard,"  a  serious  breech  explosion  having  occurred, 
to  the  injury  of  his  face,  while  he  was  firing  his  gun.  Another  arm  which 
failed  at  500  yards  in  the  hands  of  a  certificated  "  marksman  "  to  strike  a 
target  twenty-four  foot  square  once  in  eight  shots,  can  hardly  be  con- 
sidered a  hopeful  specimen. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  not  a  single  repeating  or  magazine  arm  was 
Hubmitted,  but  we  trust  that  before  the  trial  is  concluded  some  rifles  of  this 
class — a  class  which  as  yet  has  received  very  much  less  attention  than  it 
merits — may  come  before  the  committee.  For  the  present,  however,  the 
competition  is  limited  to  simple  breech-loaders. 

The  report  of  the  committee  has  not  been  made  public,  and  as  we  do  not 
pretend  to  any  special  cognizance  of  their  proceedings  we  can  only  give  the 
results  of  the  inquiry  thus  far,  in  veiy  general  terms.  A  distinct  stage  of 
the  inquiry  has  now  been  reached,  and  by  the  rejection  of  such  arms  as  did 
i  ot  comply  with  the  conditions,  in  the  first  place,  and  the  further  rejection 
( f  those  arms  which,  although  eligible  to  compete  for  the  prize  appeared 
to  the  committee  unsatisfactory  in  their  working  or  construction,  the  prize 
competition  has  been  narrowed  into  sufficient  defined  limits,  on  which  it 
may  be  of  interest  for  the  moment  to  concentrate  our  attention. 

The  first  duty  of  the  committee  was  of  course  to  separate  the  arms 
•which  strictly  fulfilled  the  conditions  of  the  advertisement  from  those  which 
fidled  to  fulfil  those  conditions.  The  number  of  disqualified  arms  was  no 
loss  than  74  out  of  the  112.  Some  of  the  arms  thus  thrown  out  of  the 


182  BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 

prize  competition  were  too  long,  some  were  too  short,  others  were  submitted 
too  late. 

Two  classes  of  arms  were  thus  established,  which  we  may  distinguish 
as  follows  :  Class  A,  arms  eligible  for  the  prize  competition  ;  Class  B,  arms 
ineligible  for  the  prize  competition,  but  qualified  for  consideration  on  their 
merits  for  adoption  into  the  service . 

The  whole  of  the  arms  except  such  as  were  obviously  worthless,  unsafe, 
or  which  bore  no  proof-mark,  were  fired,  twenty  rounds  from  each.  In 
this  way  the  committee  were  able  to  form  a  better  opinion  as  to  the 
probable  practical  value  of  the  amis  than  they  could  have  derived  from  a 
mere  inspection  of  them  ;  and  in  this  way  they  were  able  to  make  a  further 
subdivision  of  the  classes,  skimming  the  cream  off  each  class,  as  it  were, 
by  separating  those  arms  which  they  deemed  worthy  of  further  considera- 
tion from  those  which  they  deemed  unworthy  of  further  consideration. 
There  thus  remain  two  classes  of  arms  for  further  trial,  the  original 
classes  A  and  B,  that  is  to  say,  considerably  attenuated,  and  including  each 
only  those  arms  which  appear  to  possess  features  of  merit.  The  next  step 
is  to  select  the  prize  arms,  i.  e.  the  best  of  the  arms  remaining  in  Class  A ; 
and  pending  this  portion  of  the  inquiry  all  further  trial  of  Class  B  will  be 
suspended.  Indeed,  if  there  should  appear  to  be  good  stuff  in  the  prize 
arms,  it  may  be  unnecessary  to  proceed  any  further  with  Class  B.  On  the 
other  hand,  Class  A  may  prove  to  be  far  below  the  standard  required ;  in 
which  case  it  will  be  necessary,  to  fall  back  on  Class  B,  which  may  contain 
the  better  arm.  But  on  this  point  nothing  definite  is  laid  down  ;  and  we 
doubt  if  the  committee  themselves  could  say  before  they  have  selected  the 
prize  arm  what  course  they  will  hereafter  adopt. 

It  is  sufficient  for  our  present  purpose  that  certain  breech-loaders 
have  by  the  labours  of  the  committee  been  brought  to  the  surface  of  the 
competition,  viz.  those  of  the  expurgated  Class  A;  and  that  considerable 
interest  attaches  to  this  batch  of  arms  from  the  fact  that  it  contains 
inevitably  the  prize  winner,  and  possibly  the  future  breech-loader  of  the 
British  soldier. 

1  The  selected  arms  are  nine  in  number,  viz.  Albini  and  Braendlin, 
Burton  (two  systems),  Fosbery,  Henry,  Joslyn,  Peabody,  Martini  and 
Remington.  The  competition  is  now  suspended  for  four  months  to  enable 
each  of  the  accepted  competitors  to  furnish  six  of  his  rifles  and  6,000 
rounds  of  ammunition  for  further  and  exhaustive  trial. 

The  Albini  and  Braendlin  is  a  small-bore  (-462")  rifle,  on  the  breech- 
block system.  The  block  is  hinged  upon  the  rear  end  of  the  barrel,  and 
opens  forward  over  the  barrel  by  means  of  a  handle,  which  is  fixed  on'  to 
the  right  side  of  the  block.  The  cartridge  is  then  introduced  and  the 
breech-block  closed.  The  block  is  secured  in  the  act  of  firing  by  a  bolt 
worked  by  the  hammer,  which,  as  the  hammer  descends,  passes  forward 
into  the  breech-block,  completely  locking  it.  This  bolt  performs  also 
another  function.  Through  it  the  blow  is  transmitted  to  a  piston,  which 
passes  down  the  axis  of  the  breech-block  to  the  base  of  the  central-fire 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES- 


183 


cartridge,  which  is  thus  exploded.  The  extractor  operates  on  both 
siles  of  the  barrel  by  the  action  of  opening  the  breech.  The  cartridge 
m;ed  by  Messrs.  Albini  and  Braendlin  were  Boxer  (small-bore)  cartridges. 


ALBINI  AND  BRAEXDLIN  RIFLE. 


In  the  course  of  the  trials  the  rifle  gave  a  fair  degree  of  accuracy,  and 
twelve  shots  were  fired  for  rapidity  in  one  minute  one  second.  The  Albini 
system,  with  the  Boxer  cartridge,  has  been  adopted  by  the  Belgian 
Government  for  their  conversions. 


N  RIFLE,  No.  1. 


The  Burton  Eifle,  No.  1,  is  a  large- bore  (-577  ),  on  the  breech-block 
systc  m.  The  block  is  hinged  forward,  and  works  downwards  by  means  of 
a  levar  in  front  of  the  trigger-guard.  A  central-fire  piston  passes  through 
the  1  reech-block,  but  its  return  is  independent  of  a  spring,  being  effected 
by  tl  e  action  of  opening  the  breech;  the  same  action  also  operating  to 
extra  3tthe  cartridge-case.  The  ammunition  used  was  Boxer  (service  pattern). 
The  accuracy  was  fairly  good,  and  twelve  rounds  were  fired  in  fifty- seven 
secords. 


184 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES, 
BURTON  RIFLE,  No.  2. 


The  Burton  Rifle,  No.  2,  is  a  large-bore  (-577"),  on  the  plunger 
system,  i.e.  similar  in  the  general  arrangement  of  closing  the  breech  to  the 
Prussian  needle-gun.  The  locking  of  the  plunger  is  effected  by  means  of 
a  small  projecting  boss  on  its  upper  side,  which,  on  the  plunger  being 
pushed  forward  by  means  of  a  lever-handle  provided  for  the  purpose, 
passes  through  a  slot  in  the  back  part  of  the  shoe,  and  is  then  turned  to 
the  right,  preventing  the  plunger  from  being  withdrawn  until  the  boss  is 
once  more  brought  opposite  to  the  slot. 

There  is  this  material  difference  between  the  Burton  rifle  and  the 
needle-gun,  that  the  former  is  adapted  for  an  altogether  different  kind  of 
cartridge,  and  in  this  respect  embodies  an  altogether  different  principle. 
While  the  needle-gun  is  adapted  to  fire  a  "  self- consuming  "  thin  paper 
cartridge,  the  gas  escape  being  taken  by  the  arm,  Mr.  Burton  uses  a  Boxer 
cartridge,  which  has  to  be  withdrawn  after  firing,  the  cartridge-c&se  taking 
the  escape.  The  case  is  withdrawn  by  the  withdrawal  of  the  plunger,  the 
end  of  which  is  furnished  with  an  extractor.  The  accuracy  was  very 
fair ;  and  for  rapidity  Mr.  Burton  fires  twelve  shots  in  one  minute  two 
seconds. 

FOSBEET  RIFLE. 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 


185 


The  Fosbery  Eifle  is  a  large-bore  ('568"),  on  the  breech-block  system. 
The  block  is  hinged  forward,  and  turns  over  the  barrel.  It  is  not  opened, 
however,  as  in  the  Albini  rifle,  by  raising  a  handle,  but  by  drawing  back  a 
handle  fixed  to  a  slide  on  the  right  side  of  the  arm  below  the  breech-block. 
The  movement  of  this  handle  and  slide  is  parallel  to  the  axis  of  the  barrel, 
aid  takes  effect  simultaneously  at  two  points  :  an  incline,  or  wedge  at 
the  end  of  the  slide  starts  the  block  from  its  position,  and  the  handle 
acting  on  a  curved  lever  attached  to  the  block  completes  the  motion, 
tin-owing  it  rapidly  open,  and  setting  the  extractor  in  action  at  the  same 
time.  The  breech-block  is  locked  on  its  return,  as  in  the  Albini  gun,  by 
a  bolt,  the  bolt  being  acted  upon,  however,  by  the  tumbler  itself,  and  not 
by  the  hammer,  which  is,  indeed,  not  a  striker  at  all,  but  a  means  merely 
of  cocking  the  arm.  The  blow  is  transmitted  from  the  locking-bolt  to  the 
cartridge  by  means  of  a  piston  passing  through  the  axis  of  the  breech- 
block. The  ammunition  used  was  the  Boxer  (service  pattern) ;  accuracy, 
satisfactory ;  rapidity  twelve  shots  in  fifty  seconds. 

HENRY  KIFLE. 


The  Henry  Rifle  is  a  small-bore  ('455"),  very  similar  in  its  principle  of 
breech-action  to  the  well-known  Sharp's  carbine.  The  breech  is  closed  by 
a  sliding  vertical  breech-block,  which  is  depressed  for  the  admission  of  the 
cartridge  by  a  lever  underneath  the  trigger-guard.  The  piston  passes 
diagonally  downwards  through  the  breech-block  and  is  struck  by  the 
hammer.  The  extractor  is  worked  by  the  withdrawal  of  the  breech-block. 
This  rifle  won  the  100L  prize  of  the  National  Rifle  Association  in  1865  ; 
but  our  experience  of  breech-loaders  and  their  capabilities  and  requirements 
has  largely  increased  since  that  time,  and  this  fact  is  perhaps  scarcely  worth 
montioning. 

The  Boxer  (small-bore)  cartridge  was  used,  giving  good  accuracy,  and 
a  rapidity  of  fire  of  twelve  shots  in  fifty-seven  seconds. 

The  barrel  of  the  Jostyn  Rifle  is  closed  at  the  breech  end  by  a  small 
cover,  which  is  hinged  upon  the  left  side  of  the  barrel,  and  closes  over  it, 
being  secured  by  a  side-spring.  The  extractor  is  independent  of  any 
spring,  being  worked  by  a  cam  thread.  The  calibre  is  '5",  and  the  rifle  is 
adapted  for  a  central-fire  copper  cartridge,  with  which  a  fair  degree  of 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  92.  10 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 
JOSLYN  RIFLE. 


accuracy  and   a   rapidity  of  twelve   shots   in  forty- seven  seconds  were 
attained.     The  rifle  has  performed  satisfactorily  this  year  at  Wimbledon. 

PEABODY  RIFLE. 


The  Pealody  Rifle  is  a  small-bore  ('5").  The  stock,  as  in  most  American 
breech-loaders,  is  divided,  a  breech-frame  connecting  the  barrel  and  the 
stock.  The  trigger-guard  forms  a  lever,  by  the  operation  of  which  the  fore- 
part of  the  breech-block,  which  is  hinged  behind,  is  depressed  to  an  extent 
sufficient  to  open  the  back  end  of  the  barrel  and  to  admit  of  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  cartridge.  In  order  to  avoid  depressing  this  block  more  than 
is  absolutely  necessary,  and  to  facilitate  the  introduction  of  the  cartridge, 
the  upper  surface  of  the  block  is  grooved,  and  down  this  groove  the  cartridge 
travels.  The  extractor  consists  of  a  lever  worked  by  the  action  of  the 
breech-block,  and  the  cartridge-case  is  jerked  out  clear  on  opening  the  arm. 
A  copper  rim-fire  cartridge  was  used  with  no  very  great  degree  of  accuracy, 
and  with  a  rapidity  of  twelve  rounds  in  one  minute  and  three  seconds 
(including  three  miss-fires). 

The  Martini  Rifle  is  a  small-bore  ('433"),  and  resembles  the  Peabody, 
except  in  the  substitution  of  a  spiral  spring  and  piston  for  the  ordinary  lock. 
Also,  the  lever  is  independent  of  and  behind  the  trigger- guard.  The  action 
of  opening  the  block  cocks  the  rifle,  in  addition  to  throwing  out  the  empty 


BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 
MAKTINI  RIFLE. 


187 


ca:*tridge-case.  A  copper  rim-fire  cartridge  was  fired  from  the  arm ;  but 
thd  bullet  or  the  rifling  were  evidently  ill-adjusted,  for  the  accuracy  was 
extremely  bad ;  the  rapidity  (including  two  cartridges  which  struck  slightly) 
was  twelve  rounds  in  forty-eight  seconds. 

REMINGTON  RIFLE. 


The  Remington  rifle  is  a  small-bore  ('5"),  having  the  breech  end  of  the 
ban  el  closed  by  a  back  door  or  shutter  which  works  on  a  transverse  pivot 
behind  and  below  the  barrel.  The  shutter  is  secured  by  the  action  of  the 
lock.  The  stock  is  on  the  American  system.  The  arm  was  fired  with 
Box ->r  (small-bore)  cartridge,  and  gave  a  moderate  degree  of  accuracy  with 
a  ra  )idity  of  twelve  rounds  in  fifty  seconds.  This  arm  has  been  largely 
tried  in  America,  France,  and  Austria. 

'.  "he  rapidity  of  fire  of  all  these  arms  was,  comparatively  speaking,  low, 
havi  ig  in  no  instance  attained  a  rate  above  12  rounds  in  forty-seven 
seconds  (Joslyn),  or  between  fifteen  and  sixteen  rounds  a  minute,  whsreas 
the  Snider  rifle,  as  we  have  mentioned,  has  fired  as  many  as  from  eighteen 
to  twenty  rounds  per  minute.  But  the  rates  of  fire  attained  by  these 
trials  afford  in  reality  but  little  test  of  the  capabilities  of  the  arms, 

10—2 


188  BREECH-LOADING  RIFLES. 

which  were  fired  generally  by  the  inventors,  who  were  nervous,  or  by 
men  unpractised  in  their  use.  Some  of  them  no  doubt  would  be 
capable  under  more  favourable  circumstances  of  attaining  a  rate  of 
twenty-two  or  twenty-three  rounds  or  even  more  rounds  per  minute. 
On  the  trials  for  accuracy  even  less  reliance  is  to  be  placed ;  and  the 
question  of  the  precision  of  an  arm  being  altogether  independent  of  its 
breech-loading  qualities,  there  is  no  reason  why  in  this  respect  the  whole 
of  the  arms  should  not  be  placed  on  an  equality,  and  be  made,  by  the 
adoption  of  the  most  favourable  combination  of  calibre,  twist,  number  of 
grooves,  weight  and  dimension  of  bullet,  to  shoot  as  accurately  as  may  be 
desired.  What  we  are  more  concerned  with  is  the  breech  action, — its 
safety,  rapidity,  simplicity,  and  non-liability  to  get  out  of  order  from  damp, 
rough  usage,  or  long-continued  use.  In  these  respects,  if  we  may  venture 
to  express  an  opinion  without  an  exhaustive  trial  of  the  arms,  we  must 
award  the  palm  to  the  Martini  and  Peabody  guns,  with  a  preference  for 
the  former  on  account  of  the  suppression  of  the  lock.  These  guns  are  rim- 
fire  guns,  it  is  true,  and  we  should  prefer  the  employment  of  a  coiled  brass 
to  a  solid  copper  cartridge  for  reasons  which  we  shall  presently  explain. 
The  relations  of  charge,  calibre,  weight  and  size  of  bullets  too,  are  far 
from  what  is  desired ;  but  these  features  being  all  separable  from  the 
principle  of  the  breech-action,  admit  of  reformation  ;  and  the  principle  of 
the  breech-action  of  the  arms  appears  to  us  as  sound,  simple,  and  good  as 
any  which  has  yet  come  under  our  notice. 

In  connection  with  breech-loaders  generally,  much  useful  information 
has  been  acquired  in  the  course  of  the  consideration  which  the  subject  has 
received  during  the  past  year.  Ideas  have  during  this  period  shaken 
down,  and  become  consolidated.  We  have  now  a  far  more  just  apprehen- 
sion of  the  salient  and  necessary  features  of  the  subject  than  we  had  a  year 
ago,  and  are  better  able  to  distinguish  its  good  from  its  evil.  We  have 
learnt  to  abandon  many  of  the  old  fallacies,  and  we  are  more  prompt  to 
receive  new  truths.  Among  other  things,  for  example,  we  have  learnt  not 
to  shrink  from  the  development  of  a  high  rate  of  fire,  because  of  any  foolish 
fancies  about  an  excessive  expenditure  of  ammunition.  We  have  accepted 
the  not  very  marvellous  fact  that  one  shot  with  a  breech-loader  is  equal  to 
one  shot  with  a  muzzle-loader,  and  that,  with  breech  as  with  muzzle 
loaders,  the  expenditure  of  ammunition  is  a  question  merely  of  the  circum- 
stances of  its  delivery — a  question,  after  all,  that  is  to  say,  merely  of  the 
soldier's  training  and  coolness ;  and  these  qualifications,  for  various 
reasons,  ought  to  be  found  in  a  greater  degree  among  troops  armed  with 
breech-loaders  than  among  those  armed  with  muzzle-loaders. 

And  when  we  have  got  thus  far  we  have  learnt  the  alphabet  of  the 
subject,  and  can,  without  much  difficulty,  spell  out  its  simpler  lessons. 
Then  we  are  in  a  position  to  appreciate  fully  the  advantages  of  breech- 
loading,  what  it  does  for  us  in  respect  of  enabling  us  to  produce  equal 
effects  in  a  less  time,  or  in  the  same  time  with  fewer  men — and  from  both 
points  of  view,  with  less  exposure.  And  when  we  are  striving  after  great 


BKEECH-LOADING  RIFLES.  189 

rapidity  of  fire,  we  may  be  sure  we  are  on  the  right  track.  It  is  in  that 
direction  that  the  pith  and  full  merit  of  breech-loading  lie.  The  quick 
breech-loader  is,  cceteris  paribus,  superior  to  the  slow  breech-loader,  as  the 
nt  edle-gun  was  superior  to  the  Austrian  musket ;  and  when  we  grasp  this  fact 
wo  know  better  what  to  look  for.  In  this  way  we  make,  too,  havoc  of  the 
great  bugbear  of  precision.  A  breech-loader  is  not  a  contrivance  specially 
for  giving  accurate  shooting,  but  for  giving  rapid  shooting.  We  may  get, 
arid  we  ought  to  get,  out  of  our  breech-loader  such  precision  as  may 
be  deemed  requisite  for  military  service,  and  there  is,  priina  facie,  no 
reason  why  that  should  not  be  as  great  as  is  attainable  even  with  a  good 
match-rifle.  But  what  we  do  hope  people  are  beginning  to  realize  by 
this  time  is,  that  the  success  or  failure  of  a  breech-loader,  as  a  breech- 
louder,  is  not  to  be  measured  by  its  accuracy,  but,  speaking  broadly,  by  its 
rapidity  of  fire.  What  we  are  now  in  search  of  is  a  safe,  simple,  rapid 
breech-action.  We  may  assume  that  we  have  the  requisite  accuracy  in  an 
Enfield,  or,  if  you  will,  in  a  Whitworth  rifle,  and  it  is  no  difficult  task  to 
tack  this  accuracy  on  to  the  best  breech-action. 

Then,  we  think  we  can  perceive  indications  of  sounder  notions 
respecting  the  intimate  relations  which  exist  between  the  cartridge  and 
tlii)  gun.  As  much  indeed  depends,  so  far  as  the  loading  at  the  breech 
is  concerned,  upon  the  one  as  upon  the  other.  There  are  two  great  sub- 
divisions of  breech-loading  systems  : — That  which  we  may  call  the  needle- 
gun  system,  in  which  the  gas  check,  or  obturation,  is  effected  by  the  gun, 
and  that  in  which  it  is  effected  by  the  cartridge.  The  former  system  is 
now  generally  admitted  to  be  inferior  to  the  latter,  not  only  because  the 
principle  of  requiring  a  reliable  and  endurable  mechanical  fit  at  the  breech 
is  less  sound  and  less  reliable  in  practice  than  the  principle  of  employing, 
so  to  express  it,  a  fresh  breech  at  each  discharge ;  but  because,  as 
has  been  amply  demonstrated  in  the  course  of  the  present  competition, 
th(se  needle-guns  uniformly  exhibit  a  liability  to  leave  behind  in  the 
chu-mber  after  firing  some  portion  of  the  cartridge,  causing  delay,  if  not 
danger,  in  reloading,  and  this  defect  we  believe  to  be  inherent  to  the 
system.  It  is  noticeable  in  connection  with  this  subject  that  of  the  arms 
selected  by  the  committee  to  compete  for  the  prize,  not  one  is  on  the 
seK-consummg  cartridge  system.  This  clears  the  ground  considerably, 
and  simplifies  the  conditions  of  the  inquiry  to  a  great  extent.  The  con- 
trh  ances  for  closing  the  breech  are  infinite  and  must  always  remain  so, 
and  the  superiority  of  one  system  to  another,  as  far  as  the  breech-action 
is  concerned,  will  be  influenced  mainly  by  mechanical  considerations ; 
but  the  possible  'varieties  of  cartridge,  on  which  so  much  depends,  are  not 
so  numerous.  The  contest  in  reality  lies  between  papier-mache  cartridges 
on  the  one  hand  and  metallic  cartridges  on  the  other.  The  former  we 
hold,  on  grounds  of  general  serviceability,  to  be  largely  inferior  to  the 
latter  for  military  use,  if  not  absolutely  inadmissible ;  and  this  opinion 
wil-l  now,  we  believe,  be  generally  accepted  as  correct.  By  this  process 
of  elimination  we  narrow  the  cartridge  question  still  further.  If  we 


190  BJREECH-LOADING-  RIFLES. 

assume  a  metallic  cartridge  to  be  indispensable  for  military  service,  the 
problem  remains  of  the  selection  of  the  strongest,  lightest,  most  endurable 
and  cheapest  metal,  and  its  disposition  in  the  manner  which  presents  at 
once  the  maximum  strength  and  the  minimum  difficulty  in  manufacture. 
Thin  sheet  brass  disposed  in  a  coil  appears  to  us  to  fulfil  these  conditions 
better  than  any  other  known  application  of  metal.  By  coiling  the  metal  the 
requisite  elasticity  is  obtained,  without  the  disadvantages  which  generally 
belong  to  a  highly  elastic  material.  The  stretch  is  effected  by  the 
uncoiling  instead  of  by  the  stretching  of  the  metal,  and  a  given  thickness, 
or  we  should  say  thinness,  of  metal  can  in  this  way  be  made  to  effect 
more  than  if  it  be  applied  in  any  other  way.  What  we  want  is,  not  a 
cartridge  strong  enough  to  take  the  whole  strain,  but  one  which,  while 
easy  to  load  and  extract,  adapts  itself  on  the  explosion  to  the  sides  of  the 
chamber,  invoking  their  assistance,  and  effectually  closing  all  escape  by 
immediately  lining  the  chamber  tightly — as  tightly  as  molten  metal  poured 
into  a  mould.  If  these  considerations  and  the  others  which  apply  to  the 
requirements  of  a  military  cartridge,  especially  the  important  considera- 
tions of  expense  and  weight,  be  borne  in  mind,  we  think  that  of  the  two 
great  rivals,  solid  copper  and  coiled  sheet  brass,  the  coiled  brass  will 
be  generally  admitted  to  be  superior. 

With  regard  to  rim-fire  as  opposed  to  central-fire  cartridges,  it  can 
hardly  now  be  doubted  that  the  balance  of  advantages  inclines  largely 
to  the  side  of  the  latter.  Not  only  does  the  rim-fire  system  deprive  the 
base  of  the  cartridge  of  the  internal  support  and  defence  of  the  paper  wad, 
but  it  throws  upon  the  part  thus  weakened  and  already  weak  a  great 
additional  strain  by  the  explosion  within  it  of  a  quantity  of  fulminate. 
Central  fire  is  no  doubt  more  expensive,  but  the  details  of  the  system 
admit,  we  believe,  of  considerable  simplification. 

Finally,  .in  the  course  of  the  present  inquiry  it  has  been  clearly 
established  that  small-bores,  on  account  of  the  length  of  the  cartridges, 
admit  of  a  less  rapid  rate  of  fire  than  large-bores.  But  if  it  should  be 
thought  desirable  for  purposes  of  accuracy  to  adopt  a  small-bore,  there 
seems  no  reason  why  the  diameter  of  the  chamber  of  the  gun  and  of  the 
cartridge  should  not  be  enlarged,  permitting  of  a  corresponding  reduction 
in  the  length  of  the  latter.  In  connection  with  the  subject  of  small-bores 
it  should  not  be  lost  sight  of,  that  with  equal  charges  the  initial  strain  is 
in  these  arms  necessarily  more  intense  than  in  those  of  larger  calibre,  and 
this  necessity  entails  the  employment '  of  a  stronger  cartridge  and  breech- 
action,  and  renders  the  problem  of  the  production  of  a  good  breech- 
loading  system  somewhat  less  easy  of  attainment. 

These  points  will  no  doubt  all  be  fully  weighed  by  Colonel  Fletcher's 
committee ;  but  it  is  well  that  the  public  should  understand  upon  what 
considerations  the  selection  of  an  efficient  military  breech-loader  mainly 
hinges. 


191 


there  are  "  toast  and  sentiment  manuals"  for  the  present  gene- 
r  ition,  an  old  custom  which  has  passed  out  of  the  regions  of  common 
life  must  be  presumed  to  have  life  in  it  yet,  and  go  much  further 
than  the  personal  "  healths  "  which  give  rise  to  such  eloquent  assaults  on 
varacity  at  public  and  private  banquets.  In  origin,  the  custom  was 
porely  religious,  just  as  the  stage  was.  Both  were  of  the  province  of 
the  priest ;  and  neither  was  at  all  found  fault  with  till  the  management  of 
e;ich  fell  into  secular  hands.  Then  "  healths  "  became  profane,  and  the 
si  age  worldly. 

Observers  of  popular  customs  cannot  have  failed  to  remark  a  little 
cc  remony  which  often  occurs  when  members  of  the  lower  orders  are  about 
to  quaff  from  the  foaming  pewter.  He  who  holds  the  full  tankard  pours 
a  slight  portion  of  it  on  to  the  ground  before  he  drinks.  He  knows  not 
v;  ly  and  cares  not  wherefore ;  but  he  is  really  doing  what  his  pagan 
arcestors  did  at  a  very  remote  period — offering  a  libation  to  Mother 
Eirth;  selecting  her  by  way  of  honour;  drinking,  as  it  were,  "to  her 
health." 

It  is  curious  to  see  how  this  custom  spread  away  out  of  Paganism  into 
countries  of  other  faiths.  Thus,  the  Mingrelian  Christians,  as  late  at 
least  as  the  beginning  of  this  century — and  perhaps  they  do  so  even  now 
—  observed  this  custom  of  libation.  With  them  it  formed  at  once  a  grace 
and  a  "  health."  Before  sitting  down  to  table,  they  took  up  the  first  cup 
of  wine  poured  out  for  them,  called  on  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and  drink- 
ing to  each  other's  health,  sprinkled  part  of  the  liquor  upon  the  floor,  as 
th->  Romans  used  to  sprinkle  their  liquor  jn  the  earliest  days.  Originally, 
this  custom  at  banquets  was  in  honour  of  the  Lares  or  household  gods. 
Tie  wine  was  sprinkled  on  the  floor  or  table  before  the  entrance  of  the 
fin  ;t  course,  failing  which  observance  the  guests  could  not  expect  digestion 
to  wait  on  appetite,  or  health  to  accompany  either. 

"  Health,"  or  salutation  to  the  gods,  was  performed  in  another  fashion, 
at  sacrifice.  The  officiating  priest,  before  the  victim  was  slain,  poured  a 
cu]  >ful  of  wine  between  its  horns  ;  but  previous  to  doing  this  he  saluted 
the  deity,  put  the  patera  reverently  to  his  lips,  barely  tasted  the  contents, 
an<.  then  handed  the  cup  to  his  fellows,  who  went  through  a  similar 
ceremony.  In  this  way  " healths"  were  of  a  severely  religious  origin; 
anc  till  within  these  few  years,  at  the  harvest  suppers  of  Norfolk  and 
ESJ  ex,  there  was,  in  the  health  or  ale  songs  there  sung  a  serious,  thanks- 


192  TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS. 

giving  aspect.  The  master's  health  was  given  in  chorus,  with  a  chanted 
prayer — 

God  bless  his  endeavours, 

And  give  him  increase. 

Within  the  remembrance  of  many  living  persons  the  old  religious 
spirit — "  superstition  "  if  you  will — was  not  extinguished  in  Devonshire, 
in  connection  with  this  subject.  On  the  eve  of  the  Epiphany  the  farmer 
was  accompanied  by  his  men,  bearing  a  pitcher  of  cider,  and  these,  sur- 
rounding the  most  fruitful  apple-trees,  drank  thrice  to  their  budding,  their 
bearing,  and  their  blowing ;  and  the  ceremony  generally  ended  with  the 
old  libation  offered  to  the  most  prolific  apple-trees,  a  portion  of  the  cider 
being  cast  at  the  trees,  amid  the  shouts  of  the  joyous  persons  present. 

The  mixture  of  ale,  roasted  apples,  and  sugar,  sometimes  used  on 
these  occasions,  and  called  "  lamb's-wool,"  was  certainly  handed  down 
from  very  remote  times.  Thus  the  pagan  Irish  had  a  very  great  reverence 
for  the  angel  who  was  supposed  to  preside  over  fruit-trees  generally, 
and  the  reverence  for  that  graceful  guardian  was  not  diminished  when 
Christian  times  succeeded,  and  the  festival  of  All  Saints  took  place  of  that 
in  honour  of  the  protector  of  fruits  and  seeds.  The  first  of  November  was 
called  La  Mas  Ubhal — "  the  day  of  the  apple;"  and  the  composition 
which  was  drunk  on  that  day  received,  in  a  corrupted  form,  the  name 
of  the  day  itself,  and  "  La  Mas  Ubhal "  became,  in  England,  that  lamb's- 
wool  of  which  Devonshire  rustics  partook  in  honour  of  the  best  of  their 
bearing-trees. 

"  Healths  "  in  honour  of  mortals  came  to  us  from  abroad.  The  first 
given  in  Britain  was  given  by  a  lady.  It  was  the  "  Health  of  the  King  ; " 
and  mischief  came  of  it.  The  lady  was  Rowena,  daughter  of  Hengist. 
That  Saxon  ally  of  the  British  King  Vortigern  entertained  at  a  banquet  the 
monarch  whom  he  intended  first  to  make  his  son-in-law  and  then  to  destroy. 
After  dinner  the  ladies  were  admitted — a  custom  which  has  not  yet  died  out 
on  occasions  of  public  festivity — and  Rowena  was  at  the  head  of  them.  She 
carried  aloft  a  capacious  goblet  of  wine,  and  approaching  the  dazzled  and 
delighted  king,  she  said,  with  a  courteous  reverence,  "Lord  King,  I  drink 
your  health."  This  was  said  in  Saxon,  and  Vortigern  shook  his  head,  to 
imply  that  he  had  not  been  taught  Saxon,  and  was  very  sorry  for  it.  He 
looked  inquiringly  at  his  interpreter,  and  that  official  translated  the  lady's 
words.  But  this  rendered  Vortigern  little  the  wiser,  as  Rowena  stood  silently 
gazing  at  him,  cup  in  hand,  and  he  found  himself  in  utterly  new  circum- 
stances, and  in  dreadful  want  of  a  master  of  the  ceremonies.  "  What 
ought  I  to  do  ?"  he  asked  of  the  interpreter;  and  the  latter  replied,  "  As 
the  lady  has  offered  to  drink  your  health,  saying,  'Wacht  heil ! '  you 
should  bid  her  quaff  the  wine,  saying,  '  Drinc  heil  ! ' '  And  Vortigern 
shaped  his  British  mouth  to  the  utterance  of  the  foreign  idiom,  and 
Rowena  smiled  so  exquisitely  at  his  uncouth  accent,  before  she  kissed 
the  brim  of  the  cup,  that  the  king  lost  head  and  heart,  and  speedily 
became  double  drunk,  with  love  and  wine.  Thus  »was  a  drinking  of 


TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS.  193 

healths  brought  into  Britain,  and  under  such  distinguished  patronage 
ttat  it  became  a  universal  fashion.  And  it  had  a  pretty  circum- 
stance attached  to  it,  which  in  later  degenerate  days  went  out 
with  the  fashion  itself.  The  gallant  Vortigern,  when  he  returned  the 
Saxon  lady's  compliment,  and  took  the  cup  to  drink,  not  only  quaffed  it 
to  her  health,  but,  before  he  did  so,  kissed  her  rose-tinted  lips  with  such 
fefvour  that  the  custom  of  giving  health  was  at  once  firmly  established, 
at  d  when  a  lady  drank  to  a  gentleman  he  not  only  pledged  her  with  the 
formulary  of  "  Drinc  heil,"  but.  saluted  her  lips  ! 

The  wickedness  of  man  brought  about  an  unwelcome  change  in  the 
custom.  We  all  remember  the  unpleasant  story,  how  the  young  King 
Edward  the  Martyr  drank  from  a  bowl  of  wine  as  he  sat  on  his  horse  at 
the  gate  of  Corfe  Castle,  and  how,  while  he  was  drinking,  he  was  stabbed 
in  the  back  by  a  murderer  hired  by  the  young  King's  stepmother  Elfrida. 
From  that  time  pledging  involved  drinking  again,  but  it  no  longer  implied 
kissing,  even  when  the  health  was  given  by  a  lady.  When  a  man  then 
drank,  his  neighbour  pledged  him  ;  that  is,  undertook  neither  to  stab  him 
himself  nor  to  allow  such  an  act  to  be  committed  by  another. 

The  old  forms  of  "  pledging,"  however,  did  not  die  out  readily,  nor  are 
thoy  yet  altogether  extinct.  It  was  long  the  custom  at  Queen's  College, 
Oxford,  when  a  Fellow  drank,  for  the  scholar  who  waited  on  him  to  place 
his  two  thumbs  on  the  table.  This  was  also  an  ancient  German  custom. 
As  long  as  the  drinker  saw  the  two  thumbs  on  the  table  he  was  quite  sure 
that  the  hands  they  belonged  to  could  not  be  lifted  against  his  own  life. 
The  fashions  of  drinking  survived  the  names  of  the  authors  of  them.  If 
Rich,  in  his  English  Hue  and  Cry  (A.D.  1617),  had  remembered  the 
incident  of  Rowena,  he  would  not  have  said: — "It  is  pity  the  first 
founder  "  (of  giving  healths)  "  was  not  hanged  that  we  might  have  found 
out  his  name  in  the  ancient  record  of  the  Hangman's  Register."  Rich  was 
not  only  ignorant  of  the  "  founder's  "  name,  but  he  was  guilty  of  pious 
mendacity  as  to  what  became  of  that  individual,  for  Rich  says  :  "  He  that 
first  invented  that  use  of  drinking  healths  had  his  brains  beat  out  with  a 
pottle-pot ;  a  most  just  end  for  inventors  of  such  notorious  abuses." 

The  ancient  fashion  stood  its  ground  in  spite  of  its  moralists  ;  and  it  is 
still  in  force  in  Guildhall  and  the  Mansion  House,  though  in  less  vigour 
now  than  in  the  last  century.  The  City  toastmaster,  who  proclaims  with 
such  a  roaring  eloquence  at  a  Lord  Mayor's  feast,  that  the  Metropolitan 
magistrate  is  about  to  pledge  his  guests  in  a  loving-cup,  probably  is  little 
aware  of  what  used  to  take  place  on  former  occasions  of  a  similar  nature. 
At  the  old  Plough-Monday  banquet,  for  instance,  the  yeoman  of  the  cellar 
use  1  to  stand  behind  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  at  the  close  of  dinner  he  pro- 
duced two  silver  cups  full  of  negus.  He  presented  one  to  the  Mayor,  the 
othur  to  his  lady,  or  her  representative  if  there  was  one,  and  then  the  form 
of  proclamation  was  to  this  effect: — "Mr.  Swordbearer,  Squires  and 
Gentlemen  all !  My  Lord  Mayor  and  my  Lady  Mayoress  drink  to  you  in  a 
loving-cup,  and  bid  you  all  heartily  welcome  !  "  The  cups  were  handed 

10—5 


194  TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS. 

in  succession  to  all  the  company,  who  drank  to  the  health  of  my  lord  and 
lady.  "When  the  time  came  for  the  latter  and  other  ladies  to  retire,  the 
chaplain  passed  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  table  and  led  her  ladyship  right 
solemnly  away.  The  male  guests  did  not  necessarily  leave  the  table  when 
his  lordship  withdrew.  For  then  a  mighty  bowl  of  punch  used  to  be  intro- 
duced, and  with  it  all  the  servants  of  the  household,  from  the  highest  to 
the  lowest,  housekeeper  and  housemaids,  groom  of  the  chambers  and 
grooms  from  the  stables.  They  passed  in  procession,  and  drank  of  the 
punch  to  the  health  of  the  guests,  who  then  made  a  collection  for  them  in 
the  silver  punch-bowl.  According  as  the  maids  were  fair,  merry,  and  not 
unkind  to  the  gallantry  of  the  guests,  the  collection  reached  a  greater 
or  less  sum.  The  old  salutatio  and  the  libalio,  the  "  saluting  "  and  the 
1  'tasting,"  were  never  more  favourably  manifested  than  at  these  Lord 
Mayor's  feasts  of  the  olden  yet  not  very  remote  period  :  a  period  when,  as 
the  "  loving-cup  "  went  round,  it  was  the  custom  for  the  two  guests  on  the 
right  and  left  of  the  drinker  to  hold  the  large  cover  of  the  cup  over  his 
head  while  he  leisurely  quaffed. 

Mr.  Adams,  at  a  late  dinner  of  the  "  Geographical, "  asked  if  healths 
and  speaking  to  them  were  older  than  the  Anglo-Saxon  ?  Doubtless. 
In  the  pictorial  illustrations  of  Egyptian  life  it  is  seen  that  the  guests  rose 
to  challenge  each  other  to  drink,  proposed  healths,  and  inflicted  speeches  on 
the  ears  of  vexed  listeners.  In  short,  all  things  come  directly  or  indirectly 
from  the  East,  always  excepting  the  term  Toast  itself,  and  also  the 
shibboleth  of  "  Hip,  hip,  hip  !  "  by  which  toasts  are  honoured,  as  "  healths  " 
were,  long  before  them.  The  cry  is  said  to  have  been  taken  to  and  not 
brought  from  the  East.  To  ordinary  non-observant  and  non-inquiring 
persons,  the  triple  cry  is  only  a  sort  of  respiratory  preparation  for  the 
thundering  " Hurrah  1"  which  follows;  but  archaeologists  gravely  assert 
that  we  get  hip,  hip,  hip,  from  the  Crusades — with  a  modification.  The 
letter.s  H.  E.  P.,  we  are  told,  were  on  the  sacred  banners  of  the  invaders, 
carrying  with  them  the  meaning  "  Hierosolyma  est  perdita  "  (JciiLsalem 
w  lost),  a  sort  of  kitchen-Lathi  which  would  make  the  stern  utterer  of  the 
famous  "Delenda  est  Carthago"  uneasy  in  his  grave.  When  Jerusalem 
first  presented  the  view  of  its  towers  to  the  exulting  eyes  of  the  soldiery, 
they  pointed  with  their  swords  and  lances  to  their  banners,  and  frantically 
screamed  "  Hep!  hep!  hep!  "  capping  the  cry  with  a  savage  "  Hurrah  1 " 
Such  is  the  tradition,  but  it  is  far  from  satisfactory ;  and  even  if  it  be 
not  true,  it  is  hardly  of  the  happy  humour  of  tiite- seeming  stories. 

After  Rufus,  there  were  no  such  drinking  bouts  as  his  till  James's 
time.  The  greatest  men  of  that  court  and  time  drank  healths  with  much 
solemnity.  The  quaffer,  as  he  rose  with  the  cup  in  his  hand,  doffed  his 
cap,  and  on  naming  the  personage  in  wrhose  honour  he  was  about  to 
drink,  he  looked  at  his  neighbour,  who  pledged  himself  to  drink  next, 
and  who  did  so  by  also  doffing  his  cap,  kissing  his  hand,  and  bowing. 
Then  he  who  had  the  cup  drained  it  to  the  last  drop,  and  made  it  ring  to 
show  that  it  was  empty.  The  pledger  had  to  go  through  the  same 


TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS.  195 

ceremony,  which  extended  to  the  whole  company  and  then  re-commenced. 
P^pys  notices  a  modification  of  this  style  of  health-giving  in  his  time,  as 
a  novel  importation  from  France.  Between  the  two  periods,  indeed,  there 
hrd  been  an  onslaught  against  health-givings.  Prynne,  in  1628,  published 
a  pamphlet  to  prove  "the  drinking  and  pledging  of  healths  to  be  sinful 
ard  utterly  unlawful  unto  Christians."  The  gentle  Herbert,  too,  a  little 
la'  er,  urgently  counselled  the  drinkers  of  healths  to  stay  at  the  third  cup, 
thit  is,  not  to  drink  it,  the  which  doing  is  to  be  "  a  beast  in  courtesy." 
Cliief  Justice  Hale,  however,  would  not  sanction  his  grandsons  going  even 
so  far  as  a  couple  of  healths.  "  I  will  not  have  you  begin  or  pledge  any 
heilth,"  he  says,  adding,  after  much  more  to  the  same  purpose,  that  if 
thoy  follow  the  advice  they  will  bless  their  grandfather's-memory  as  for  an  ' 
inheritance.  What  the  cavaliers  did  in  their  prosperity,  they  did,  with 
bitterness  and  a  breaking  of  the  third  commandment,  in  adversity.  In 
tho  Protector's  time  they  dropped  a  crumb  into  their  mouths,  and,  raising 
tho  glass  to  their  lips,  said,  "  May  the  Lord  send  this  crumb  well  down  1 " 
W.iitelock  tells  of  four  or  five  Berkshire  royalists  who,  in  their  cups,  cut 
small  collops  from  their  own  flesh,  and  drank  Charles's  health  in  the  blood 
thr  t  flowed  from  the  mutilated  parts.  The  Puritan,  Winthrop,  when  he 
founded  Boston,  in  America,  prohibited  "  healths  "  as  a  criminal  offence. 

When  Charles  II.  got. his  own  again,  loyal  men  drank  the  king's 
health  on  their  knees — a  form  known  to  King  James's  days,  and 
cal  ed  in  the  slang  of  the  period  "knighting."  Of  this  loyal  drinking 
there  ensued  much  quarrelling,  and  some  spilling  of  blood.  The  matter 
became  so  serious  that  Charles  endeavoured  to  remedy  it  by  royal  pro- 
clamation, in  which  the  king  expressed — "our  dislike  of  those  who, 
unc  er  pretence  of  affection  to  us  and  our  service,  assume  to  themselves 
a  liberty  of  reviling,  threatening,  and  reproaching  others.  There  are 
likewise  another  sort  of  men  of  whom,"  says  Charles,  "we  have  heard 
mu;h,  and  are  sufficiently  ashamed,  who  spend  their  time  in  taverns, 
tip}  ling-houses,  and  debauches,  giving  no  other  evidence  of  their  affection 
to  i.s  but  in  drinking  our  health."  Drinking  healths,  nevertheless,  was 
enc  >uraged  even  by  the  philosophers.  Ashmole  the  antiquary  presented 
the  corporation  of  his  native  city,  Lichfield,  in  1666,  with  a  massive 
eml  ossed  silver  cup,  which  held  about  a  gallon.  It  was  received,  on  its 
arri  ^al  at  the  George  for  England  Inn,  with  much  grateful  ceremony. 
"We  filled  your  poculum  charitatis,"  says  the  writer  of  the  letter  of 
tha:iks  addressed  to  Ashmole,  "with  Catholic  wine,  and  devoted  it  a 
sob<  r  health  to  our  most  gracious  king,  which  (being  of  so  large  a  continent) 
pas  the  hands  of  thirty  to  pledge  ;  nor  did  we  forget  yourself,  in  the  next 
placa,  being  our  great  Mecaenas."  This  cup  is  still  used  at  corporation 
ban  [uets,  and  the  second  toast  on  these  occasions,  following  "  The 
Quern,"  [is  "  We  ale  and  Worship,"  implying  "good  luck  to  ourselves 
and  much  respect  for  our  fortunes." 

Chere  is  a  pretty  story  of  a  political  toast  in  the  *eign  of  William  HI. 
whii  h  runs  thus.     The  French,  German,  and  English  Ambassadors  were 


190  TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS. 

dining  together  somewhere,  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV.  The  first  availed 
himself  of  an  after-dinner  opportunity  to  propose  "The  Rising  Sun,"  in 
honour  of  his  master,  who  bore  such  device,  with  "nee  pluribus  impar" 
for  his  modest  motto.  Thereupon  the  German  envoy  gave  "  The  Moon," 
in  compliment  to  his  mistress  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa.  This  being 
done,  the  English  representative  solemnly  proposed  "  Joshua,  the  son  of 
Nun,  who -made  both  sun  and  moon  to  stand  still !  "  Now,  an  ambassador 
proposing  the  health  of  the  person  he  represents  would  be  as  courteous  as 
if  he  had  proposed  "  my  noble  self."  Then,  a  German  could  not  have 
complimented  his  Imperial  mistress  by  calling  her  the  moon,  for  "  moon," 
in  German,  is  masculine.  Lastly,  an  English  ambassador  would  never 
have  been  guilty  of  such  an  insult  to  two  friendly  Powers,  as  his  "  senti- 
ment "  would  have  implied,  and,  to  conclude,  the  parties  as  represented 
above  could  never  have  met  under  the  circumstances,  as  the  limits  of  their 
reigns  will  show,  without  further  comment.  William  III.  1689-1702 : 
Louis  XV.  1715-1774  :  Maria  Theresa,  1740-1765. 

While  in  William's  reign  it  was  declared  to  be  treasonable  to  drink 
such  toasts  as  "  Confusion  to  the  king,"  or  the  one  to  James,  under  the 
circumlocutory  form  of  "  The  old  man  over  the  water,"  the  Scottish  lords, 
when  such  matters  were  brought  under  their  notice,  were  reluctant  to 
convict.  Some  sensation  was  caused  in  1697  by  a  charge  that  both 
those  toasts  had  been  drunk,  at  an  April  evening's  bout,  in  the  Stay-the- 
Voyage,  at  Dumfries,  by  the  Master  of  Kenmure,  Craik  of  Stewarton,  and 
Captain  Dalziel  of  Glencoe.  The  last  two  were  carried  prisoners  before  the 
Privy  Council ;  but  the  witnesses  deposed  upon  hearsay,  the  prisoners 
maintained  a  discreet  silence,  and  the  Privy  Council,  finding  no  proof, 
gladly  discharged  them.  Master,  Laird,  and  Captain,  when  they  next  for- 
gathered at  the  Stay-the-Voyar/e,  were  doubtless  discreet  enough  in  their 
cups  to  drink  "  the  old  toast,"  without  rendering  themselves  amenable  to 
charges  of  treason  against  the  "  Prince  of  Orange." 

The  political  wits  turned  William's  death  to  account,  when  circulating 
the  bottle.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  king  was  riding  his  horse 
Sorrel  in  the  park  near  Hampton  Court,  when  the  steed  stumbled  over  a 
molehill,  and  William  suffered  injuries  of  which  he  subsequently  died. 
Accordingly  the  Jacobite  tipplers,  throughout  Ann's  reign,  manifested 
their  loyalty  to  a  disinherited  lord  by  solemnly  drinking  the  health  of  "  the 
little  gentleman  in  black  Velvet,"  meaning  thereby  the  mole  which  had 
thrown  up  the  little  hillock  over  which  Sorrel  had  stumbled,  and  had 
caused  the  accident  which  led  to  William's  death.  Long  subsequent  to 
that  death,  the  Irish  admirers  of  King  William  expressed  the  intensity  of 
their  admiration  in  the  famous  Orange  Toast,  of  which  nothing  now  is 
given  except  the  opening  sentiment.  What  it  was  in  its  original  form 
could  not  now  be  reprinted  ;  but  as  much  of  it  as  may  is  here  given  for  the 
sake  of  the  social  illustration  connected  therewith.  "  The  glorious,  pious, 
and  immortal  memory  of  the  great  and  good  King  William, — not  forgetting 
Oliver  Cromwell  who  assisted  in  redeeming  us  from  Popery,  slavery,  arbi- 


TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS.  197 

trary  power,  brass  money,  and  wooden  shoes.  May  we  never  want  a 
Williamite  to  kick — a  Jacobite  !  .  .  .  and  he  that  won't  drink  this, 
\vhether  he  be  bishop,  priest,  deacon,  bellows-blower,  grave-digger,  or  any 
other  of  the  fraternity  of  the  clergy,  may  a  north  wind  blow  him  to  the 
south,  a  west  wind  blow  him  to  the  east ;  may  he  have  a  dark  night,  a  lee 
shore,  a  rank  storm,  and  a  leaky  vessel  to  carry  him  over  the  river  Styx." 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  the  ladies  were  honoured  long 
bafore  the  period  of  "  toasts  "  proper  arrived.  The  amorous  young  gentle- 
Uien  of  Elizabeth's  days,  as  each  sped  the  cup  with  the  name  of  his 
mistress  to  further  it,  pricked  their  arm  with  a  dagger,  and  wrote  their 
mistresses'  names,  in  their  own  blood,  on  the  table  !  When  the  wit  was 
out,  they  fell  to  honouring  more  ignoble  names.  Lady  Littleicorth  and 
Mistress  Ligldheels  came  in  for  their  share  of  homage,  and  if  any  of  the 
sisterhood  was  present,  the  least  modest  would  not  scruple  to  call  for  a 
health  to  some  Sir  Rayleiyli  D'Isgustin! 

In  course  of  time  came  the  "reigning  toasts,"  and  noble  ladies  felt 
fluttered  at  knowing  they  were  the  "  toasts  of  the  town."  Clubs  engraved 
their  names  on  the  club  glasses,  and  the  first  poets  of  the  day  added  a 
tribute  of  laudatory  verse.  Then  came  fashion  of  a  grosser  sort,  when 
each  gallant,  toasting  the  lady  next  to  him,  swore  he  would  drink  no  wine 
but  what  was  strained  through  her  petticoat !  We  may  fancy  with  what 
boisterous  politeness  the  edge  of  the  petticoat  was  seized,  with  what 
hilarious  coyness  it  was  defended,  how  some  of  the  damsels  looked  over, 
under,  or  from  the  sides  of  their  fans,  while  others  affected  to  close  the 
eyes  which  they  kept  open,  to  look  through  the  interstices  of  the  con- 
venient screen.  Then,  the  hems  of  the  garments  were  placed  over  the 
glasses,  the  wine  was  poured  through,  and  the  Quixotic  fellows  quaffed  the 
draught  in  honour  of  the  fair  ones  !  There  came  a  time,  however,  when 
men  had  more  refinement,  and  would  not  give  up  to  the  tipsy  salutations 
of  "health- drinkers"  the  names  of  the  true  and  modest  mistresses  of 
thoir  hearts.  The  lover  who  was  a  gentleman,  and  yet  who  was  also 
a  "  good  fellow,"  always  kept  his  gentility  before  him,  and  his  mistress's 
name  to  himself.  An  illustration  of  this  is  afforded  us  through  Mr. 
John  Bruce  having  luckily  inserted  in  his  admirable  edition  of  Cowper, 
that  writer's  "  Early  Poems."  In  one  of  these,  "  The  Symptoms  of  Love," 
written  to  "Delia,"  but  really  addressed  to  the  author's  early  and  only 
lovo,  his  cousin  Theodora,  are  the  following  lines  : — 

And  lastly,  when  summoned  to  drink  to  my  flame, 
Let  her  guess  why  I  never  once  mention  her  name, 
Though  herself  and  the  woman  I  love  are  the  same. 

Connected  with  this  subject  of  toasting  the  ladies,  ill-fortune  has  some- 
times come  of  it  when  it  might  have  been  least  expected.  For  example, 
"  Honest  men  and  bonnie  lassies  !  "  is  a  toast  which  one  would  think 
coo  Id  never  bring  offence  with  it;  but  while  the  rule  holds,  the  exception 
presents  itself.  A  young  minister  in  Scotland  was  about  to  preach  a  pro- 


198  TOASTS  AND   SENTIMENTS. 

bationary  sermon  in  a  church  for  the  ministry  of  which  he  was  a  candi- 
date. Being  a  stranger,  he  was  housed  and  entertained  by  a  parishioner, 
who  invited  many  of  his  fellows  to  sup  with  the  candidate  on  the  Saturday 
night.  The  elders  had  quietly  saturated  themselves  with  toddy  and 
\  smoke,  when  the  unlucky  probationer,  in  his  innocence,  proposed,  before 
they  parted,  ''Honest  men  and  bonnie  lassies !"  The  unco  righteous 
looked  through  the  smoke  and  over  their  glasses  with  orthodox  horror, 
and  the  most  solemn  tippler  present  arose  and  said,  that  no  minister  would 
have  their  sympathy  who  could  not  stick  quietly  to  his  liquor,  but  whose 
thoughts  were  running  on  the  lassies  so  near  the  Sabbath !  The  company 
assented,  and  the  candidate  had  to  forego  the  honour  he  coveted. 

There  was  fine  and  generous  delicacy  and  great  readiness  of  wit  in 
George  II.  when,  during  one  of  his  absences  abroad,  on  being  asked  if  he 
would  object  to  a  toast  which  wished  health  to  the  Pretender,  he  replied 
that  he  would  readily  drink  to  the  health  of  all  unfortunate  princes.  This 
expressed  readiness,  however,  did  not  encourage  the  Jacobites  in  openly 
drinking  to  the  only  king  they  acknowledged.  They  continued,  as  they 
and  their  fathers  before  them  had  done,  'to  have  a  bowl  of  water  on  the 
table,  and  holding  their  glasses  over  it,  to  drink  to  "  the  king,"  implying, 
of  course,  the  king  over  the  water. 

If  it  be  true  that  Pitt,  at  Kidderminster,  gave  a  toast  in  compliment  to 
the  carpet-manufacturers,  it  cannot  be  said  that  there  was  much  outlay  of 
brains  in  the  making  of  it.  "May  the  trade  of  Kidderminster,"  said 
Pitt,  "  be  trampled  under  foot  by  all  the  world !  "  If  this  may  be  simply 
called  "  neat,"  in  that  term  lies  as  much  praise  as  the  occasion  warrants. 
It  is  weak,  compared  with  the  more  audacious  toast,  freighted  with  double 
meaning,  and  which  has  been  variously  attributed  to  Smeaton,  to  Erskine, 
and  some  others.  This  after-dinner  trade  sentiment  was  delivered  in  this 
form  : — "Dam  the  canals,  sink  the  coal-pits,  blast  the  minerals,  consume 
the  manufactures,  disperse  the  commerce  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  !  " 

In  May,  1798,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  gave  a  toast  at  a  dinner  of  the 
Whig  Club,  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  which  caused  some  sensation. 
This  was  the  duke  who,  when  Earl  of  Surrey >  renounced  the  Church  of 
Borne.  He  wore  short  hair  when  queues  were  in  fashion,  and  was  the 
most  slovenly- dressed  man  of  his  day.  At  the  Whig  Club  dinner  he  called 
on  the  "two  thousand  guests"  present  to  drink  the  toast  of  "Our 
Sovereign — the  People ! "  This  was  considered  such  grave  offence  in 
days  when  men  were  ostentatiously  seditious,  that  the  duke  was  dismissed 
from  the  Lord-Lieutenancy  of  the  West  Biding  of  Yorkshire,  and  was 
deprived  of  the  command  of  his  regiment  of  militia.  Fox  resented  the 
application  of  this  penalty  for  asserting  a  sentiment  which,  when  put  into 
action,  had  deposed  James  II.,  and  ultimately  carried  the  family  of 
Brunswick  to  the  throne.  He  went  down  to  a  subsequent  meeting  of  the 
Whig  Club,  and  there  proposed  "The  Sovereign  People,"  a  proposition 
which  was  speedily  followed  by  an  outcry  on  the  part  of  the  supporters  of  the 
Ministry  that  Fox  should  be  prosecuted  for  sedition. .  Pitt,  however,  wisely 


TOASTS  AND  SENTIMENTS.  199 

declined  a  course  so  perilous,  and  contented  himself  with  erasing  Fox's 
name  from  the  list  of  Privy  Councillors. 

A  Duke  of  Norfolk  of  a  later  period, — he  in  fact  who  died  in  1856, — 
designed  to  celebrate  the  completion  of  his  restoration  of  Arundel  Castle, 
by  inviting  as  his  guests  all  the  living  descendants  of  his  ancestor,  Jockey 
of  Norfolk,  who  fell  at  Bosworth.  The  assembled  cousins  were  to  drink 
continued  good  fortune  to  the  House  of  Howard  ;  but  when  the  duke  dis- 
covered that  to  carry  his  project  out,  he  should  have  to  invite  six  thousand 
persons,  he  relinquished  his  intention,  and  the  toast  was  not  given. 

Some  toasts,  and  those  special  and  "  proper  for  the  occasion,"  speedily 
dis  out  of  memory.  Fourscore  years  ago,  Baddeley,  the  actor,  left  funds 
w.ierewith  to  procure  cake,  wine,  and  punch,  on  Twelfth  Night,  for  the  Drury 
Lane  players,  in  green-room  assembled,  "for  ever"  An  old  formal  toast 
used  to  be  given  on  those  occasions — "  The  memory  of  Baddeley's  skull !  " 
—  in  honour  of  the  brain  in  that  skull  which  had  conceived  the  thoughtful 
kiidness.  It  is  long  since  this  toast  has  been  given,  but  on  the  last 
"  cutting  of  Baddeley's  cake,"  one  of  the  guests  proposed  that  it  should 
be  revived ;  and  the  veteran  actor,  Mr.  W.  Bennett,  the  trustee  of  the 
fund,"  gazed  with  an  air  of  quaint  reproof  at  this  audacious  guest,  and  then 
so  emnly  gave  "  The  memory  of  David  Garrick!  "  All  knowledge  of  the 
original  toast  had  perished;  but  that  obtrusive  guest  ceased  to  wonder 
wlen  an  actor,  who  was  drinking  Baddeley's  wine  or  punch,  and  eating 
hit  cake,  asked,  "  Who  was  Baddeley,  and  wliy  did  he  do  this  ?  "  Poor 
Baddeley!  The  visitor,  as  he  withdrew  by  the  dark  back  of  the  stage, 
saw,  "  in  his  mind's  eye,  Horatio,"  the  figure  of  the  benevolent  old  player, 
as  he  used  to  come  to  rehearsal,  in  scarlet  and  gold — the  uniform  of  the 
gentlemen  of  the  household,  who  were  "  their  Majesties'  servants,"  playing 
un>ler  royal  patent  at  Drury  Lane.  Baddeley  was  the  last  actor  who  wore 
that  uniform. 


200 


Jambs, 


COMPOSED  of  Government  stocks,  of  various  other  securities,  and  of  cash 
uninvested,  the  funds  belonging  to  the  Suitors  of  the  Court  of  Chancery 
amount  in  the  aggregate  to  nearly  60,000,OOOL  Acting  on  behalf  of  the 
court,  the  Masters  had,  prior  to  1726,  committed  to  their  care  the  moneys 
and  effects  in  the  suits  referred  to  them,  while  the  Usher  of  the  court  took 
charge  of  any  property  involved  in  causes  which  required  no  reference  to 
the  Masters.  In  a  manner  somewhat  analogous  to  the  system  of  modem 
banking,  these  functionaries  employed  for  their  own  benefit  the  moneys 
placed  in  their  hands,  reserving  of  course  such  balances  as  were  deemed 
sufficient  to  meet  the  recurring  claims  of  the  suitors.  Investments  in  the 
stock  of  the  South  Sea  Company  had  been  made  by  several  of  the 
Masters  on  their  own  account ;  and  on  the  failure  of  that  scheme  it  wa  3 
found  that  defaults  on  their  part  amounted  to  over  100,OOOZ.  This  sum 
was  ultimately  made  good  out  of  the  public  revenue  ;  but  precautions 
were  taken  to  prevent  the  recurrence  of  so  great  an  abuse. 

The  Lord  Chancellor,  by  an  order  of  17th  December,  1724,  directed 
each  Master  "  to  procure  and  send  to  the  Bank  of  England  a  chest  with 
one  lock  and  hasps  for  two  padlocks."  The  key  of  the  lock  of  each  chest 
was  to  be  kept  by  the  Master,  and  the  key  of  one  of  the  padlocks  by  one 
or  other  of  two  of  the  six  clerks  in  Chancery,  and  the  key  of  the  other 
padlock  by  the  Governor,  Deputy- Governor,  or  Cashier  of  the  Bank.  Each 
Master  was-  ordered  to  deposit  in  his  chest  all  moneys  and  securities  in  his 
hands  belonging  to  the  suitors  ;  the  chests  were  then  to  be  locked  and  left 
in  charge  of  the  Bank.  But  as  the  vault  where  the  chests  were  kept  could 
not  be  opened  unless  two  of  the  Directors  of  the  Bank  were  present,  it  of 
course  happened,  on  every  occasion  when  access  was  wanted  to  them  in 
order  to  comply  with  the  mandates  of  the  court,  that  the  attendance  of  all 
these  high  officials  was  necessary.  The  inconvenience  and  trouble  so 
caused  became  at  length  too  great  for  endurance,  and  led  to  a  change. 
On  the  26th  of  May,  1725,  a  general  order  was  made  by  the  Lords 
Commissioners  holding  the  Great  Seal,  which  directed  the  money  and 
effects  of  the  suitors  to  be  taken  from  the  Masters'  chests,  and  given 
into  the  direct  custody  of  the  Bank.  A  subsequent'  order  extended  the 
plan  to  the  moneys  in  the  hands  of  the  Usher.  These  orders  still  remain 
in  force  ;  the  Bank  of  England  from  that  time  until  the  present  has  acted, 
and  now  acts,  as  the  custodier  of  the  Chancery  funds. 

In  1726,  an  officer  under  the  designation  of  the  Accountant- General 
was  appointed,  pursuant  to  Act  of  Parliament,  to  keep  the  Chancery 
accounts,  and  to  carry  out  the  orders  of  the  court  respecting  the  receipt 


CHANCERY  FUNDS.  201 

and  disposal  of  the  funds.  This  officer,  by  the  Act  creating  his  office,  is 
not  allowed  to  meddle  with  the  actual  money  either  in  receipt  or  payment. 
All  dealings  with  funds  are  to  be  accomplished  under  his  direction,  and 
with  his  privity ;  but  he  himself  is  debarred  from  touching  a  single  coin  ; 
yet  his  office  is  not  the  less  one  of  great  responsibility.  At  the  period  of 
tha  appointment  of  the  first  Accountant- General,  upwards  of  140  years 
since,  the  cash  and  securities  made  together  a  total  of  741,9502.,  and  the 
number  of  accounts  was  415.  The  amount,  as  we  have  already  stated, 
now  verges  upon  60,000,000/.,  and  the  number  of  accounts  have  increased 
to  well  nigh  30,000.  Almost  without  exception  the  volume  of  the  funds 
dn  court  has  year  by  year  shown  a  steady  increase.  Of  late  that  increase 
has  been  at  the  rate  of  about  half  a  million  annually.  This  is  only  what 
might  be  expected  from  the  growth  of  the  population  and  the  ever- 
augmenting  national  wealth.  Litigation  is,  of  course,  one  of  the  main 
feeders  of  the  Chancery  reservoir.  Upon  the  application  of  a  party  to  a 
suit,  the  court  orders  the  property  under  dispute  to  be  placed  in  its  hands, 
where  it  is  retained  until  the  question  of  right  is  settled,  or  until  such 
time  as  the  interests  of  those  entitled  are  most  fully  secured.  It  is  then, 
upon  petition,  transferred  out  of  court.  Legacies  bequeathed  to  minors 
are  not  unfrequently  paid  into  court  by  executors.  The  sums  of  cash  so 
paid  are  in  every  case  invested  in  consols  without  expense,  and  the  interest 
also  from  time  to  time  as  it  accumulates ;  so  that  the  amount  of  the 
legacy  with  compound  interest  is,  in  the  form  of  stock,  when  application  is 
made,  transferred  to  the  person  entitled,  on  the  attainment  of  majority.  A 
kindred  source  of  supply  is  furnished  by  trust  moneys.  Trustees  or  executors 
who  may  have  doubts  of  the  legality  of  their  proceedings  in  carrying 
out  the  provisions  of  a  trust,  or  who  may  be  at  a  loss  as  to  the  rights 
of  parties  claiming  under  a  will,  and  desiring  to  free  themselves  from 
responsibility,  may,  under  what  is  known  as  the  Trustee  Relief  Act, 
transfer  or  pay  the  trust  funds  into  court.  Such  funds,  if  not  already  in 
the  form  of  stock,  are,  as  a  matter  of  course,  invested  by  the  Accountant- 
General,  and  the  accruing  dividends  are  also  invested  solely  for  the  benefit 
of  ihe  parties  entitled,  who  may  at  any  time  apply  to  have  the  funds  paid 
to  them. 

For  the  enfranchisement  of  land  under  the  Copyhold  Acts,  and  in 
connection  with  railway  undertakings,  very  many  payments  of  cash  are 
made  to  the  Accountant- General.  These  latter  are  usually  for  the  pur- 
chase of  land  and  houses.  "Where  parties  labour  under  a  disability  to 
convey,  or  where  an  agreement  cannot  be  come  to,  the  railway  company, 
on  an  award  being  made  by  two  surveyors,  pays  the  sum  into  court,  and  at 
once  takes  compulsory  possession.  The  promoters  of  new  undertakings, 
whether  railways,  docks,  or  waterworks,  and  such  like,  for  which  the 
sanction  of  the  legislature  is  necessary,  are  required  to  deposit  with  the 
Court  of  Chancery  a  sum  amounting  to  one-eighth  of  the  estimated  cost 
of  the  undertaking,  as  preliminary  to  the  application  to  Parliament. 
Such  deposits  in  the  aggregate  usually  reach  a  large  annual  amount. 


202  CHANCERY  FUNDS. 

The  present  year,  however,  owing  to  the  collapse  of  railway  enterprise, 
has  proved  a  signal  exception  :  very  few  new  schemes  indeed  have  been 
launched,  and  consequently  hut  a  trifling  accession  made  from  this 
source  to  the  Chancery  funds.  These  deposits  are  made  in  the  month  of 
January,  and  being  for  large  sums,  are  reclaimed  as  early  as  possible, 
generally  before  the  end  of  the  parliamentary  session,  thus  remaining  in 
court  for  only  about  six  months.  The  'proceeds  of  estates  sold  under  the 
direction  of  the  court  are  paid  in,  as  likewise  money  realized  under  Private 
Estate  Acts.  The  property  of  lunatics  and  persons  of  unsound  mind  is 
also  placed  in  the  custody  of  the  court,  and  administered  under  its  sanction. 
Many  other  minor  rills,  such  as  appeal  deposits  and  payments  under  the 
Burial  Board  Act,  serve  to  swell  the  stream  of  money  ever  flowing  to  its 
destined  receptacle  in  Chancery. 

It  thus  appears  that  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  the  funds  in 
court  are  quite  unconnected  with  litigious  proceedings.  Indeed  but  com- 
paratively few  of  the  vast  number  of  sums  appearing  in  the  Accountant- 
General's  books  are  so.  Litigation  doubtless  in  many  cases  originally 
brought  the  money  into  court ;  but,  the  contentious  stage  passed,  as  it 
does  in  time  pass,  the  funds  are  not  seldom  retained  purely  for  purposes 
of  administration.  Where,  for  instance,  persons  have  a  life-interest  in 
funds,  the  dividends  are  paid  to  them  during  their  lives  (the  principal 
being  in  the  meantime  kept  securely),  and  not  until  their  death  is  a  distri- 
bution effected.  The  court  thus  acts  as  a  trustee,  taking  safe  custody  of 
property  and  administrating  the  funds,  and  when  the  proper  time  arrives 
it  deals  out  to  claimants  their  just  and  respective  shares.  In  the  case  of 
property  belonging  to  rectories,  corporations,  or  other  public  bodies,  it  is 
of  signal  advantage  that  the  security  should  be  undoubted,  and  the  divi- 
dends duly  paid.  A  double  service  of  trustee  and  banker  is  thus  dis- 
charged by  the  Accountant- General,  and  that  too  without  fee,  percentage, 
or  commission  charged  for  the  management  of  such  accounts. 

There  are  not  a  few  accounts  which  may  be  termed  dormant ;  that  is, 
accounts  from  which  no  payments  have  been  made  for  many  years.  These 
are  of  two  kinds — such  as  consist,  first,  of  sums  of  stock  with  the  accumulated 
dividends.;-and,  secondly,  of  sums  of  cash  only.  From  time  to  time  inves- 
tigation is  made  into  the  former ;  and  when  it  is  found  that  no  payment 
of  dividends  has  been  made  for  fifteen  years  preceding,  the  titles  of  the 
accounts  are  extracted,  and  arranged  alphabetically ;  and  the  list  printed, 
and  copies  exhibited  on  the  walls  of  the  different  offices  of  the  court  for 
the  information  of  attorneys  and  all  persons  concerned.  The  first  inves- 
tigation was  made  in  1854,  when  it  appeared  that  the  entire  number  of 
accounts,  the  dividends  on  which  had  not  been  dealt  during  the  time 
specified,  was  566,  and  the  total  amount  of  stock  and  dividends  on  such 
accounts  256,176Z.  2s.  Sd.  The  result  was,  that  many  persons  came 
forward  and  preferred  claims,  and  about  one  half  of  the  above  total 
amount  was  transferred  out  to  the  successful  claimants.  A  second  list 
with  new  accounts  added  was  published  in  1860,  and  recently  a  third  list 


CHANCEBY  FUNDS.  203 

Las  appeared.  When  the  first  list  was  published  in  1854,  certain  solicitors 
specially  devoted  themselves  to  the  work  of  tracing  out  claims.  Guided  so 
fur  in  the  first  instance  by  the  lists — which,  however,  contained  only  the  bare 
titles  of  the  accounts,  and  in  no  case  the  amount  of  the  funds — these  gentle- 
men burrowed  among  the  old  orders  and  other  musty  documents  to  which 
they  had  access  in  the  Record  Office,  until  such  knowledge  was  gained  as 
enabled  them  to  communicate  with  the  persons  whom  they  had  discovered 
to  be  entitled  to  the  funds.  It  was  as  if  treasure  had  been  found. 

The  happy  attorney  who  had  successfully  struck  upon  the  right  clue 
a~  id  followed  it  out  to  certainty,  offered  to  make  over  the  spoil  to  the 
rightful  owner  or  owners,  who  in  most  cases  were  entirely  ignorant  of  its 
existence,  on  condition  that  no  slight  share  of  the  same  should  be  retained 
by  himself.  We  have  known  as  much  as  fifty  per  cent,  asked  ;  but  what- 
ever were  the  amounts  of  the  shares  parted  with  by  those  fortunate  per- 
scns  who  thus  "  heard  of  something  to  their  advantage,"  and  actually 
received  that  something,  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  veiy  considerable 
sims  of  money  were  pocketed  by  some  of  these  persevering  and  suc- 
cf  ssful  Chancery  excavators. 

As  a  security  against  dishonest  dealing  with  these  accounts,  the 
Accountant-General,  when  asked  for  information  of  the  precise  amount  of 
the  fund,  in  every  case  requires  evidence  that  the  solicitor  is  acting  for  a 
bond  fide  interested  person.  And  every  petition  to  the  court  regarding  the 
di  sposal  of  any  such  fund  must  state  on  the  face  of  it  that  the  fund  in 
question  belongs  to  the  fifteen-years'  published  list. 

A  return  made  in  1850  of  the  dormant  cash  accounts  showed  that  for 
te  i  years  previously,  there  were  in  that  state  1,220 ;  for  twenty-five  years, 
1,056,  and  for  fifty  years,  975.  No  list  of  these  accounts  upon  which 
ur  claimed  cash  only  is  standing,  has  up  to  the  present  time  been  pub- 
lished. There  are  nearly  1,200  accounts  upon  which  the  stock  and  cash 
re  naming  would  not  cover  the  cost  of  an  application  for  the  payment  of 
tin  fund  ;  and  351  accounts  showing  sums  under  1L,  while  on  831  more 
tin  sums  range  between  II.  and  57. 

It  may  be  well  to  give  some  notion  of  the  nature  of  the  transactions 
pe. formed  by  the  Accountant- General  and  his  staff  of  clerks.  In  tho 
va  ious  modes  we  have  indicated  cash  is  paid  and  stock  is  transferred  into 
CO1  irt.  These  sums  remain  for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  period,  and  usually 
become  subject  to  various  operations,  always,  however,  under  the  direction 
of  the  court.  Dividends  are  received  on  stocks,  and  when  received  are 
eit  icr  paid  out  to  persons  or  invested  or  suffered  to  accumulate  without 
im  estment.  As  the  interests  of  the  persons  entitled  may  require,  the  fund 
on  any  particular  account,  consisting  of  stock,  or  cash,  or  both,  may  be 
carried  to  new  accounts  and  retained  in  Chancery,  or  at  once  paid  or  trans- 
fer -ed  out.  And  just  as  the  Accountant- General  is  required  to  invest  sums 
paid  into  court,  and  dividends  as  they  accumulate,  so  he  is,  when  the 
oc(  asion  arises,  ordered  to  sell  stocks.  The  cash  so  raised  may  be  needed 
for  very  various  purposes.  It  may  be  required  to  pay  legacies,  to  clear 


204  CHANCERY  FUNDS. 

off  mortgages,  or  in  the  case  of  creditors'  suits,  to  discharge  debts,  or 
what  is  very  much  more  frequent,  to  pay  costs.  Sales  of  stock  are  being 
constantly  made  for  this  last  purpose — the  total  amount  sold  each  year  is 
very  large  indeed. 

Costs  are  paid  to  solicitors,  who  among  the  various  claimants  on  a 
fund  have  always  a  priority  accorded  to  them.  In  the  applications  made 
to  court  for  orders  or  for  other  objects,  and  in  the  conduct  of  suits,  as 
well  as  in  the  general  management  of  Chancery  proceedings,  many  and 
various  expenses  are  incurred.  Solicitors  have  to  fee  counsel,  to  advance 
money  for  stamps,  and  to  make  sundry  outlays  on  behalf  of  their  clients. 
Their  own  labours  have  besides  to  be  remunerated.  There  is  a  scale  of 
charges  published  in  the  general  orders  of  the  court,  which  fix  the  rate 
according  to  which  attendances  and  other  sendees  are  'paid  for,  so  far  as 
these  relate  to  necessary  proceedings  in  the  management  of  the  business 
of  suits  and  matters  under  the  cognizance  of  the  court.  The  bill  of  costs 
of  every  attorney  is  besides  taxed  by  the  proper  taxing-master,  so  that 
there  is  no  room  for  undue  charges ;  or,  if  such  charges  are  made,  they  are 
not  allowed  by  that  official,  and  consequently  not  paid  for  out  of  the  funds 
in  court  standing  to  the  particular  cause  or  matter. 

In  carrying  out  the  orders  of  the  court  respecting  funds  already  in,  or  to 
be  brought  into  its  custody,  the  main  duties  of  the  Accountant- General  are, 
as  we  have  stated,  to  receive  cash  and  stocks,  and  to  invest  cash  in  stocks. 
In  the  same  way  he  sells  stocks  for  cash,  pays  cash,  and  transfers  stocks 
out  of  court ;  he  carries  over  cash  and  stock  from  one  account  to  another, 
and  receives  and  pays  dividends.  He  also,  by  his  clerks,  furnishes  to  the 
court,  through  solicitors,  certificates  of  the  actual  amount  of  the  funds  on 
any  of  the  accounts  which  appear  in  his  ledgers,  when  requested  by  them 
to  do  so,  as  well  as  affords  to  these  members  of  the  legal  profession  verbal 
information  of  the  state  of  the  funds  and  of  all  particulars  regarding  the 
same,  so  far  as  his  cognizance  extends.  In  cases  when  persons  to  whom 
cash  is  payable  cannot  personally  attend  at  the  ofiice  in  Chancery  Lane, 
he  grants  powers  of  attorney  to  enable  them  to  do  so  by  deputy.  Tran- 
scripts of  his  ledger  accounts  he  also  makes  out  for  the  more  precise  infor- 
mation of  the  court,  of  solicitors  or  their  clients,  by  which  every  individual 
transaction  or  dealing  with  any  particular  fund  can  be  clearly  seen. 

Of  the  vast  aggregate  of  Chancery  funds,  between  three  and  four 
millions  consist  of  cash.  This  amount  of  cash  is  composed  of  individual 
sums,  either  in  the  meantime  waiting  investment,  or  which  are  not  required 
to  be  invested,  also  of  accumulated  dividends  and  of  the  dormant  cash 
balances  to  which  we  have  referred.  The  total  sum  of  cash  paid  into 
court  varies,  of  course,  from  year  to  year.  It  may  be  taken  at  about  ten 
millions  annually,  and  the  repayments,  including  sums  invested,  as  some- 
what under  that  amount.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  balance  of  general 
cash  remaining  uninvested  gradually  increases.  The  Bank  of  England,  as 
banker  to  the  Court  of  Chancery,  would  have  the  exclusive  use  of  these 
three  or  four  millions  of  cash  balances,  were  they  not  otherwise  dealt  with. 


CHANCERY  FUNDS.  205 

The  court,  however,  steps  in,  and  while  it  leaves  with  the  Bank  a  balance 
(300,000?.  more  or  less)  sufficiently  adequate  to  recompense  it  for  its 
trouble  as  banker,  it  invests  the  remainder  in  Government  securities.  The 
funds  created  by  these  investments  are  known  by  the  general  designation 
of  suitors'  funds,  and  these  we  shall  now  briefly  describe.  The  first 
investment  out  of  the  general  or  common  cash  in  the  custody  of  the  court 
look  place  on  the  2nd  of  July,  1739,  when,  pursuant  to  Act  of  Parliament, 
o5,000/.  were  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of  Exchequer  tallies,  which  in  1752 
were  exchanged  for  an  equal  amount  of  consols.  This  investment  was  the 
foundation  and  commencement  of  that  portion  of  the  suitors'  funds  now 
known  as  "Fund  A."  Repeated  investments,  made  from  time  to  time 
from  the  same  source  for  upwards  of  a  century,  have  swollen  that  fund 
until  it  now  amounts  to  more  than  two  and  a  half  millions  of  stock.  This 
stock  is  of  course  the  representative  of  so  much  of  tha  suitors'  general 
cash  as  has  been  taken  to  purchase  it,  and  is  therefore  liable  to  be  re- 
converted into  cash  at  any  time,  should  the  claims  of  the  suitors  necessitate 
such  an  operation. 

The  interest  arising  from  the  first  investment  made  in  1739,  to  which 
we  have  alluded,  was  used  to  pay  the  salaries  of  the  Accountant- General 
and  his  clerks.  As  subsequent  investments  were  made,  the  salaries  of  the 
Masters  and  other  officers  of  the  court  were  met  out  of  the  dividends 
arising  on  the  stocks  purchased.  It,  however,  happened  that  the  interest 
produced  by  these  various  investments  was  more  than  sufficient  to  pay  the 
salaries  charged  thereon,  and  accordingly  in  1768,  an  Act  (9th  Geo.  III.) 
directed  that  such  surplus  interest  should  be  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of 
Government  securities,  and  placed  to  a  new  account.  The  interest  yielded 
by  these  last  securities  was  also  directed  to  be  invested  and  accumulated 
on  the  same  account.  These  investments  and  accumulations  constitute 
"  Fund  B."  It  is  to  be  observed  that  as  Fund  B  has  arisen  from  surplus 
interest  on  Fund  A,  it  is  therefore  equivalent  to  the  profit  account  of  a 
banker.  Its  amount  represents  the  clear  gain  made  by  the  court,  in  its 
capacity  of  banker,  so  to  speak,  after  paying  its  expenses,  and  upon  which 
no  individual  suitor  as  such  has  any  manner  of  claim,  just  as  the  customer 
of  a  banker  has  no  claim  on  the  profit  made  by  the  use  of  banking  funds. 
The  interest  of  Fund  B,  however,  instead  of  being  allowed  constantly  to 
accumulate,  has  been  occasionally  diverted  for  such  purposes  as  purchasing 
ground  and  building  offices  ;  after  which  temporary  diversions,  the  accu- 
mulations of  interest  were  continued  to  be  made  as  before,  and  the  fund 
gradually  in  consequence  increased  in  amount.  This  was  owing  to  the 
circumstance  that  for  very  many  years  the  income  of  Fund  A  alone  was 
more  than  sufficient  to  answer  all  the  charges  made  upon  it,  so  that 
Fund  B  was  regularly  swelled  by  the  surpluses  of  Fund  A  as  well  as  by 
the  stated  investments  of  its  own  produce.  In  1826  it  had  reached  to 
537,8002.  stock;  in  1848  the  sum  had  increased  to  1,094,604/.  105.  1(R, 
"while  in  1852  the  total  of  investments  amounted  to  not  less  than 
1,291, 629J.  10s.  5d.  In  that  year  its  further  increase  was  arrested  by 


206  CHANCERY  FUNDS. 

Act  of  Parliament,  which  made  a  new  disposition  of  the  fund,  and  directed 
the  interest  as  it  accrued  to  be  earned  over  to  an  account  already  existing, 
termed  the  Suitors'  Fee  Fund  Account  (Fund  C). 

This  last-named  fund  was  created  in  1833  by  an  Act  generally  known 
as  "  Lord  Brougham's  Chancery  Regulation  Act."  This  Act  required  the 
Masters,  the  Registrars,  the  Examiners,  with  their  respective  staffs  of  clerks, 
and  also  several  other  officers  of  the  court,  to  collect  the  fees  formerly 
received  and  retained  by  them  by  way  of  salaries,  and  to  pay  the  same 
into  the  bank,  to  the  Suitors'  Fee  Fund  Account.  Out  of  the  funds  on 
this  account,  in  lieu  of  such  fees,  they  were  to  be  remunerated  by  fixed 
salaries.  All  fees  imposed  on  proceedings  in  the  court  are  also  paid  to 
this  fee  account,  entitled  Fund  C.  The  surpluses  of  cash  on  this  fund, 
after  meeting  all  the  charges  on  it,  the  Lord  Chancellor  was  empowered 
to  direct  to  be  invested  also  in  Government  securities,  and  thus  was 
created  a  fourth,  or  Surplus  Fee  Account,  named  Fund  D.  The  stock  on 
this  account,  in  1852,  amounted  to  201,0287.  2s.  3d.  consols.  It  was 
also  provided  that  in  the  event  of  there  being  at  any  time  a  deficiency 
in  Fund  C  for  the  payment  of  salaries  and  other  expenses  of  the  court, 
such  deficiency  was  to  be  made  good  by  resorting  to  the  interest  and 
dividends  arising  on  Fund  D,  or,  in  case  of  need,  by  a  sale  of  a  portion  of 
its  capital. 

A  pretty  considerable  amount  is  paid  every  year  to  the  Fee  Fund  C, 
arising  from  brokerage  levied  by  the  Chancery  broker  on  all  sums  of  cash 
invested  and  stocks  sold.  The  charge  is  the  ordinary  one  of  one-eighth  per 
cent.  Formerly  the  Accountant- General  received  a  share  of  the  brokerage 
as  part  of  his  official  income  ;  but  since  1852,  he  has  been  paid  entirely 
by  fixed  salary.  More  recently  the  broker  has  also  been  recompensed 
by  salary ;  so  that  now  the  entire  proceeds  of  brokerage  pass  direct  from 
the  broker's  hands  to  Fund  C.  By  this  arrangement  a  saving  has  been 
effected ;  all  the  more,  as  year  by  year,  owing  to  the  increasing  number 
of  Stock  Exchange  transactions,  the  amount  of  brokerage  shows  a  gradual 
increase. 

All  the  fees  levied  on  proceedings  in  the  Court  of  Chancery  since  the 
passing  of  the  Suitors'  Relief  Act  in  1852,  with  slight  exceptions,  are 
raised  by  means  of  stamps,  under  the  direction  of  the  Commissioners  of 
Inland  Revenue,  who  keep  separate  accounts  of  the  same,  and  each  month 
pay  the  amount  received  to  the  credit  of  the  Fee  Fund  C.  ,By  this  Act, 
also,  fixed  salaries  were  substituted  for  fees  throughout  all  the  offices  of 
the  court.  We  have  already  stated  that  by  the  Act  of  1852  the  interest 
on  Fun<J  B  was  no  longer  allowed  to  accumulate  on  that  account,  but  was 
directed  to  be  carried  as  it  accrued  to  the  same  Fee  Fund  C.  So  likewise 
with  the  surplus  interest  on  Fund  A.  The  Suitors'  Further  Relief  Act 
of  1853  enacted  that  the  dividends  which  would  arise  from  the  sum 
of  201,028Z.  2s.  3cL  consols  on  Fund  D  should  also  in  future  be  carried 
over  to  Fund  C.  Since  the  passing  of  these  Acts  no  addition  has  conse- 
quently been  made  to  either  of  the  Funds  B  or  D.  The  whole  amounts 


CHANCERY  FUNDS.  207 

of  the  interest  and  surplus  interest  on  all  the  Funds,  A,  B,  and  D,  are 
new  regularly  placed  to  Fund  C,  which  is  entirely  an  income  account, 
swelled  and  maintained  by  these  amounts  of  interest  and  by  the  produce 
of  fees  levied,  while  it  is  charged  with  the  salaries  of  a  whole  host  of 
Chancery  officials,  with  pensions,  and  with  the  various  expenses  of  all  the 
offices  of  the  court. 

The  amounts  of  stock  accumulated  on  Funds  B  and  D  are  respectively, 
as  already  mentioned,  1,291, 629Z.  10s.  5d.  and  201,028Z.  2s.  3d.,  making 
together  about  one  million  and  a  half.  It  is  this  sum  which  Parliament  has' 
appropriated  for  the  erection  of  the  new  Courts  of  Justice ;  nor  can  it  be 
said  that  in  such  an  appropriation  are  the  profits  and  careful  accumula- 
tions of  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  upwards  of  a  hundred  years  likely  to 
be  injudiciously  expended. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  brief  account  of  the  Chancery  funds  without 
adverting  to  the  efficiency  of  the  establishment  entrusted  with  their  ma- 
nagement. No  one  can  have  read  the  report  of  the  Chancery  Commission 
iss  led  some  two  or  three  years  since,  without  being  struck  with  the  ability 
and  thorough  knowledge  of  the  business  of  the  department  shown  by  the 
comments  and  statements  of  the  Accountant- General  and  his  chief  clerk, 
as  contrasted  with  the  suggestions  of  the  Law  Societies  and  several  other 
recommendations  contained  in  the  report. 

There  are,  however,  two  changes  of  an  external  kind,  which,  if  intro- 
duced, would  confer  signal  benefits  :  these  are,  first,  the  establishment  of 
a  branch  office  by  the  Bank  of  England  in  Chancery  Lane ;  and,  secondly, 
the  abolition  of  the  office  of  signing  registrar.  In  regard  to  the  former, 
we  are  glad  to  find  that  the  plans  of  the  new  courts  provide  accommodation 
for  a  branch  bank ;  but  why  should  so  great  a  boon,  more  especially  to 
the  poorer  suitors,  not  at  once  be  conceded  ?  The  signature  of  the 
registrar  to  the  Chancery  cheques  is  the  relict  of  an  antiquated  and 
cumbrous  system,  now  happily  gone.  It  is  clearly  useless,  since  the 
examination  and  check  which  it  formerly  authenticated  have  been  long 
ago  abandoned  as  unnecessary.  On  the  other  hand,  the  adherence  to  the 
sigi  ature  is  productive  of  a  vast  amount  of  inconvenience  and  annoyance, 
not  only  to  the  legal  profession,  but  to  bankers  and  to  the  suitors  them- 
sehes,  because  the  registrar  will  not  sign  certain  cheques  unless  he  sees 
the  orders  of  the  court,  and  these  at  the  time  cannot  often  be  had.  The 
nan  e  of  the  Accountant- General  attached  to  the  cheques  he  draws  on  the 
fan<.s  held  by  him  should  be  sufficient,  without  the  counter-signature  of 
any  other  official  of  the  court. 


208 


aria. 


LALOTTE  and  Lurlci,  beasts  of  ill. 
Still  straying  !     Think  you  it  will  last, 
This  patience  ?     Think  you  I  can  fast 
While  you  till  Domesday  feed  your  fill  ? 
Have  heed,  my  children,  lest  there  fall 
A  week  of  Fridays  in  your  stall. 
Eccole  !     Race  of  perjured  goats  1 
Breed  of  a  rock  !  on  verjuice  reared  ! 
Heaven  send  your  kids  may  have  no  beard  ! 
Or  that  they  follow  from  the  cotes 
Some  other  shepherdess,  for  soon 
You  will  be  tethered  in  the  moon  ! 
Up,  up  !  Stellino  !    Bark,  and  seek  ! 
Bravo,  Stellino  !     (How  they  climb  !) 
Come,  children,  come,  and  on  my  cheek 
Breathe,  for  your  breath  is  sweet  with 

thyme, 

And  sweet  the  air  upon  the  rock, 
Whereon,  a  still  and  happy  flock, 
We  hang  midway,  (thus,  Lurlei,  thus 
Sit  you,  Stellino  !)  and  to  us, 
Clear  as  Giacopo's  flute  below, 
The  bell  rings  up  from  Monaco, 
The  bell  that  rings  while  men,  that  meet 
Upon  the  church  steps  or  the  street, 
Bow  in  the  dark,  and  say,  each  one, 
"  Ave  Maria ! "  and  the  sun 
Is  sunk  to  starlight,  and  the  sea 
Breathes  back  to  all  men  and  to  me, 
"  Ave  Maria  Vergine  1 " 

On  all  the  hills  is  none  but  us  ; 
The  moon  has  folded  every  flower  ; 
Three  hours  ago  the  cytisus 
Had  lost  his  petals  ;  'tis  an  hour 
Since  old  Giuseppe,  like  an  arch 
Bending  beside  his  mules  and  wine — 
No  clock  is  half  so  sure  a  sign 
As  old  Giuseppe— made  his  march 
Down  by  the  Tower,  and  after  him 
No  wheels  come  by,  the  road  grows  dim. 
How  still  it  is  !     O  lights  of  eve, 
That  shine  with  such  a  soft  surprise 
Upon  this  ring  of  silent  eyes, 


In  every  light  I  could  believe 
I  saw  a  thought  set  free,  and  heard 
In  each  brown  orb  the  moving  word. 
Stellino  !— Good  !  the  thought  is  good, 
For  good  it  is  to  shrive  in  Lent. — 
My  child,  suppose  you  wore  a  hood, 
And  I,  your  week-day  penitent, 
Came  to  your  cell  in  church  to  say 
What  thoughts  were  in  my  soul  to-day, 
When  all  the  noonday  sea  was  blue, 
And  bell-bound  Lurlei  led  the  flock 
Upward,  and  you,  my  Father,  you, 
Barked  at  the  lizard  on  the  rock, 
And  watch  at  needless  season  kept, 
And  when  was  need  of  watching,  slept. 

How  often  when  the  Monna,  grown 
More  kind,  has  brought  me  from  the  fair 
A  comb  or  kerchief  for  my  hair, 
I  like  to  watch,  while  on  the  stone 
Under  the  door  she  sits  asleep, 
With  the  last  sunlight  on  her  lids  ! 
But  this  our  Lady,  who  must  keep 
My  soul  in  peace,  who  saves  my  kids 
From  cold,  who  sends  the  flowers  in  prime, 
And  grapes  and  olives  in  good  time, 
Making  the  stony  terrace  green, 
Moistening    the     mountain    burnt    with 

drought, 

Because  my  eyes  had  nowhere  seen, 
I  could  not  praise  her  to  my  thought. 
I  said,  "  O  Lady,  show  thy  face, 
A  little  moment  and  no  more  ;  " 
And  then,  I  hoped  that,  of  her  grace, 
Bright  through  the  blue  sky,  I  should  see 
A  lady,  beautiful  as  she, 
Who  on  the  vaulted  high  church-door, 
Either  on  fasts  or  holy  days, 
Sits  in  her  red  robes  for  our  praise, 
With  the  Bambino  on  her  knee. 
But  still  the  sunlight  laughed  the  same, 
The  arch  was  blue  from  brink  to  brink, 
Nor  answer  on  the  mountain  came — 
Stellino  !  It  is  hard  to  think  ! 


AYE   MARIA. 


209 


It  ivas  this  noon,  this  noon,  I  said, 
When  both  my  eyes  were  filled  with  bine, 
While  from  the  distaff  do\rn  I  drew, 
AY.  lazy,  I,  the  silver  thread, 
The  thought  leapt  through  me,  clear  and 

heen, 

As  one  had  touched  me  with  a  knife, 
A ixl,  like  a  bird,  I  passed  within 
The  circle  of  our  Lady's  life  ; 
So  bright,  so  quick  !     Was  I  the  same, 
I,  Lisa  ?    Father,  thus  it  came. 

Beneath,  a  thousand  metre?,  lay 
The  Prince's  garden,  where  one  sees 
TIN1,  sea-cliff  and  the  cypresses  ; 
Yet  deeper,  on  the  sun-bright  bay, 
I  tl  ought  there  passed  a  darker  mote  ; 
I  srid,  "  It  is  the  father's  boat  ; 
He  has  been  casting  half  the  day." 
I  c(  uld  not  see  the  sail,  nor  yet 
Who  held  the  tiller,  who  the  oar, 
I  knew  the  father  watched  the  net, 
And  always  curved  it  to  the  shore  ; 
Hcv.v  from  his  hands  it  softly  slid, 
And  how  with  a  cool  drip  the  twine 
Plashed  on  the  wave,  and  half  was  hid, 
And  how,  above  the  leaded  line, 
The  corks  in  sunlight  seemed  to  bask 
Black  as  a  snake  twixt  either  cask. 

Moreover,  when  the  haul  began, 
I  heard — it  was  not  by  my  ear — 
Hov,-  up  the  line,  from  man  to  man, 
Through  the  blue  shine  the  shout  cut  clear. 
And  Gianni,  all  but  poised  a-wing, 
Bro^vn  Gianni,  wave-washed  to  the  knees, 
With  eyes  like  Xetta,  when  she  sees 
Tho  swallow  just  beyond  her  spring, 
Was  bending,  while,  all  bright  and  wet, 
Up  •  ame  the  incurved  narrowing  net, 
Firs;  the  fine  meshes,  then,  between, 
A  thousand  silver  inches,  seen 
In  Si, ml  and  shells,  and  all  inlet 
Wit1!  weeds  of  shining  green. 

While  yet  on  fishes  ran  my  dream, 
My  -  ye,  drawn  sideways  by  a  gleam 
Aga  nst  the  sombre  rock-side,  showed 
Scanet  and  green  along  the  road, 
Kerchief  and  kirtle  ;  and  I  said, 
"  Th-2se  arc  the  wedding  guests.     They  go 
To  1  sa,  on  the  rock  below, 
To  see  the  little  Lotta  wed. 
V«>L.  XVI. — NO.  92. 


How  beautiful  the  dresses  !     Which 
Should  be  the  bridegroom  ?     He  is  rich  : 
Wool  in  San  Ecmo  town  he  sell?, 
But,  if  'tis  gospel  Gianni  tells, 
Halt  of  one  foot ;  besides,  one  hears 
Ha  snaps  his  teeth  as  if  -'twere  shears, 
And  has,  they  say,  past  forty  years. 
My  Lotta,  has  it  come  to  this  ? 
Since,  ten  years  gone,  we  kissed  at  school, 
Never  on  mountain  did  we  miss 
To  join  our  pasture ;  if  the  mule 
Were  packed  for  fair,  or  thread  were 

Bpnn, 

Or  vine-trees  cut,  we  still  were  one. 
And  you  must  go — the  first,  and  I 
The  elder !     Well,  we  are  sinners  all  ; 
Whichever  way  the  wind  is  high, 
Plump  as  the  chestnut  so  we  fall  ; 
So  says  the  Padre."    But  at  last 
From  eyeshot  all  the  pilgrims  passed. 
Yet  still  my  eye  pursued,  nor  ceased 
To  watch  the  scarlet  through  the  town 
Strike  fire,  and  in  the  church  kneel  down, 
And,  at  the  altar,  how  the  priest 
Blest  both,  and  joined  their  hands,  and  how 
They  laid  the  flowers  on  Lotta's  brow, 
But  when  she  wore  the  ring,  I  felt 
The  thoughts  of  Lotta  as  she  knelt. 

"  Now  I  am  donna  all  my  life. 
To-morrow,  in  San  Eemo,  they 
Who  pass  i'the  streets  will  nudge,  and  say, 
'  Look  left  !  that  is  our  Sandro's  wife.' 
And  when  I  sit  i'the  window  niche, 
Men  will  glance  up.     Ah  to  be  rich  ! 
And  to  be  married  !     And  to  set 
Tasks  to  my  maid  !    And  yet,  and  yet, — 
Is  Lisa  on  the  sitnny  rock 
With  Lurlei  ?    Does  she  think  of  me  ? 
I  shall  not  much  with  Lisa  be  ; 
I  shall  not  follow  with  my  flock  j 
Sandro  would  talk  of  '  wives  that  roam,' 
And  say,  '  A  housewife's  place  is  home  ! ' 
They  say  the  town  is  dark  and  cool, 
And  the  tall  roofs  so  closely  meet 
Above  the  stalls  of  wine  and  wool, 
The  rain  can  scarcely  wet  the  street. 
And  poor  Giacopo  ?    Well,  Heaven  knows 
An  even  lot  was  given  to  each  ; 
He  cannot  say  'twas  I  that  chose 
Between  the  fig-leaf  and  the  peach. 
Under  my  pillow  both  were  free, 
I  said, '  The  peach  shall  Sandro  be, 
11. 


210 


AYE   MARIA. 


The  fig  is  my  Giacopo's  stake, 
And  even  as  I  dream,  I  take.' 
That  night  I  dreamed  of  both,  but  chief 
Of  figs  ;  yet  doubtful  might  it  seem  ; 
So  when  I  dreamed  again,  the  leaf 
Was    peach.       The    Virgin    sent    the 
dream." 

Then  down  I  looked  where  in  the  sun 

Turbia  lay,  and  at  the  door 

Of  the  old  hostel,  there  were  four 

Who  drank, — all  still  as  lizards  :  one 

Who  in  the  water  'neath  the  wall, 

Her  kirtle  like  a  poppy  bright, 

Dipt  her  brown  arms  and  linen  white  ; 

F(V  there  the  stream,  above  the  fall, 

Broadens  in  a  cool  pause,  and  cleaves 

A  basin  green  with  burdock  leaves, 

Then  leaps,  in  silver  sunlight  blind, 

Then  hides  beneath  the  olives,  grey, 

Beneath  the  olives,  who  shall  say 

If  it  be  the  water  or  the  wind  ? 

And  past  the  tower  with  shining  tiles, 

And  down  the  road  that,  in  and  out, 

Along  the  rocky  mountain  miles, 

Winds  like  the  line  on  a  redoubt, 

I  saw  the  priest  (beside  him  ran 

His  shadow,  like  a  sacristan), 

Black  as  a  raven,  bent  his  head, 

And  heavy  in  the  dust  his  tread. 

I  saw  not,  but  how  oft  he  drew 

The  cross  upon  his  breast  I  knew, 

I  knew  how  many  a  secret  sound 

Pushed    through    his    lips    (like    hasty 

thieves 

Through  windows  under  midnight  eaves), 
With  "  Ave  ! "  or  with  "  Ora  ! "  round. 
Though  down  he  looked  and  seemed  to 

read 

Letters  upon  the  road,  indeed 
Road,  sea,  and  mountain  were  a  blank  ; 
He  knew  not,  he,  how  many  a  hoof 
Had  ringed  the  dust,  and  raised  a  proof 
Clear  as  the  Emperor  on  a  franc. 
"  Ah  well ! "  said  I,  "  the  priest  is  wise, 
And  idle  brains  have  busy  eyes. 
To  each  a  little  !  to  the  priest 
Credo  and  psalm,  the  sun  to  me, 
To  me  the  flock  ;  it  cannot  be 
Who  keeps  the  flock  should    know  the 

feast, 

Nor  when  'tis  fit  in  church  to  bow, 
Nor  what  the  Latin  means,  nor  how 


To  swing  the  silver  censer  chains, 
Nor  when  to  lift  the  wafer  high, 
These  things,  I  say,  are  past  your  pains, 
My  Lisa,  then  keep  you  the  eye, 
But  let  the  Padre  have  the  brains." 

Here  came  my  thought,  If  I  can  see, 

A  small  day- watcher  on  my  tower, 

Unseen,  these  pilgrims  of  the  hour, 

It  were  a  little  thing  that  she, 

Who  holds  her  throne  with  starlight  pearled, 

Should  see  all  men  in  all  the  world  ; 

Both  who  bides  East,  where,  as  men  tell, 

Is  Genoa,  who  on  sunny  capes 

Sits  by  the  palm-tree  and  the  grapes, 

Who  fish  the  bays  to  dim  Estrelle, 

Who  on  the  inland  terrace  lops 

The  olive,  and  sets  seeds  below, 

And  if  beyond  the  northern  tops 

Are  any  shepherds  in  the  snow, 

All  things  that  move,  of  might  or  mean, 

Are  by  the  heavenly  lady  seen. 

And  as  my  friends  at  distance  stirred 

My  heart,  and  drew  me  to  their  brink, 

As  in  a  ferry,  and  I  heard 

Myself  the  thoughts  of  Lotta  think, 

So  to  our  Lady,  morn  and  eve, 

The  thoughts  of  men  rise  up,  and  weave 

A  mantle,  manifold  and  fair  ; 

And  all  the  day,  beneath  her  feet, 

They  mingle,  that  the  large  bright  air 

Is  tremulous,  and  the  time  is  sweet, 

As  with  cross  winds  that  softly  meet, 

Or  flutes  to  mountain-tops  up-borne, 

Or  birds  fresh  wakening  in  the  morn. 

Perchance  my  thought  from  the  sweet  stir 

Has  risen,  and  it  pleases  her, 

Because  remembrance  unbcsonght 

Is  best,  and  I  was  glad  myself, 

When  often,  on  the  rocky  shelf, 

At  noon  the  Lotta  shared  my  thought. 

Therefore,  while  yet  we  linger  all, 
Before  the  stars  are  out  of  sight, 
And  darkened  is  the  roof-tree  light, 
And  Lurlei  quiet  in  the  stall ; 
Ere  I  be  folded  as  the  sheep 
Within  the  hollows  of  thy  sleep, 
And  all  is  silent  save  the  sea, 
Santa  Maria,  hear  thou  me  ! 

Not  much  I  ask,  but  that  the  grass 
Be  sweeter  where  my  goats  shall  pass, 


AYE   MARIA. 


211 


And  that  they  pine  not,  nor  let  fail 

The  white  milk  in  the  evening  pail  ; 

Jpon  my  lambs  set  finer  wool, 

And  let  the  fish  by  Sweet  south  wind 

^3e  driven  till  the  nets  are  full, 

j"or  so  the  father  will  be  kind. 

To  Lotta  and  to  Sandro  all 

(Jood  things,  and  children  in  due  moon 

And,  Lady,  send  to  Lisa  soon 

A  husband,  twice  as  rich  and  tall 

As  Sandro.    And  that  these  things  be, 

( )n  mountain  and  by  terrace  tree, 

At  noon  and  eve,  I  bend  the  knee, 

Signora  nostra  Yergine  ! 

3  f  any  on  the  shore  forget 
To  say  the  Ave — since  the  brow, 
When  all  the  limbs  are  weary  wet, 
j.s  full  of  slumber — heed  not  thou  : 
>\)r  I  will  on  the  mountain  set 


A  cross,  stone-based  ;  and  from  the  bay, 

On  every  morn,  in  every  year, 

Men  shall  look  up,  and  sometimes  say, 

"  Praise  to  her  name  !     The  cross  is  clear 

The  fishing  shall  be  fair  to-day." 

Or,  sometimes,  if  the  sail  be  tost 

By  sudden  wave,  and  on  the  wind 

The  Ave  bell  be  seaward  lost, 

When  bitter  salt  has  made  them  blind, 

And  sick  with  wet  and  hunger,  then 

Shall  some  one  cry  toward  the  coast, 

"  0  Lady  !  we  are  sinful  men, 

But  thou,  most  pitiful  to  save, 

Send  that  by  dawn  we  see  once  more 

Our  Lisa's  cross,  and  the  sweet  shore  ! 

Thine  is  the  hour  on  land  and  wave, 

And  strong  the  Avind,  and  weak  are  \ve, 

Nor  is  there  succour  save  of  thee, 

0  Queen  of  Heaven  !     Star  of  the  sea  ! 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Vcrgiue  !  " 

W.  J.  C. 


11—2 


212 


SUtte  §<Uj#tttt  at  fpeslh. 


ABOUT  the  time  of  tlie  birth  of  Constantine  there  rolled  over  the  provinces 
watered  by  the  Danube,  which  Tiberius  reduced  under  the  dominion  of 
Rome  nearly  three  centuries  earlier,  the  first  wave  of  the  great  barbaric 
ocean  which  inundated  Europe  and  finally  flooded  the  Imperial  City. 
The  Goths  swarmed  into  Pannonia,  and  hustled  out  the  toga'd  warriors 
who,  in  face  of  these  strange  enemies,  whose  reign  terminated  with  the 
life  of  Attila,  held  their  swords  with  feeble  grasp.  In  another  century 
the  Goths  yielded  in  turn  to  the  terrible  Huns.  Abares,  Gepidae,  and 
Lombards  followed  each  wave  that  flowed  westward  and  surged  over  its 
precursor  like  breakers  on  the  sea  shore.  Dacia,  Pannoma,  and  Servia 
owned  an  infinity  of  masters  till  Charlemagne  included  them  within  the 
limits  of  his  Western  Empire.  Biit  no  power  had  prestige  or  force  suffi- 
cient to  avert  the  march  of  conquering  hordes  over  the  vast  plains  which 
offered  such  temptations  to  the  pastoral  Barbarians.  The  course  of  the 
Danube  guided  them  westward,  and  from"  each  great  billow,  as  it  rolled,  a 
deposit  took  place,  and  gradually  a  compost  of  races  was  left,  each  as  distinct 
,as  the  strata  in  a  geological  formation.  The  last  of  these  which  was  pre- 
cipitated on  the  land,  was  the  Magyar,  a  puzzle  to  ethnologists,  a  part  of 
a  great  Arian  mystery — Oriental  no  doubt,  Turk  or  Scythian,  a  back 
current  of  the  Hunic  ocean  which  had  been  let  loose  from  the  now  dried- 
up  reservoirs  of  the  plains  in  Central  Asia.  Who  they  are  and  whence 
they  came  no  one  can  decide.  The  theories  are  learned,  ingenious,  un- 
compromising, and  unsatisfactory.  What  matters  it  ?  Mr.  Vambery  could 
not  find  a  trace  of  Magyarism  in  his  travels ;  but  the  Emperor  of  Austria 
knows  where  it  can  be  discovered  in  intensest  development  at  a  moment's 
notice.  The  Magyars  say  that  when  their  ancestors  made  up  their  minds 
to  move,  they  did  so  in  such  a  complete  and  sweeping  fashion  that  not  a 
soul  was  left  behind,  consequently  all  efforts  to  throw  light  on  the  nursery 
of  this  interesting  self-asserting  race  are  not  likely  to  avail  much.  Arpad 
and  his  Magyars  rushed  into  Hungary  about  the  period  when  Alfred  the 
Great  was  warring  with  the  Danes.  Notwithstanding  the  numbers  and 
courage  of  the  new  comers,  the  nations  of  central  and  western  Europe, 
having  now  settled  down  under  some  sort  of  Government,  were  better  able 
to  oppose  invaders  than  their  ancestors  had  been,  and  the  Magyars  were 
checked  in  their  endeavours  to  overrun  Germany,  and  were  finally  forced 
back  to  the  Waag,  the  Theiss,  and  the  Danube.  In  fact  they  received 
severe  defeats.  Germans,  Poles,  Tartars,  Turks,  and  Bohemians,  over- 
came them  in  turn.  They  were  subject  to  constant  aggression  when  they 
were  not  making  war  on  their  neighbours — a  turbulent  energetic  race,  full 


THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH.  213 

of  life,  vital  force,  anil  fidgetiness.  Their  history  is  exceedingly  pic- 
turesque and  animated  ;  but  to  the  callous  Briton,  or  the  philosophic 
Gaul,  it  is  only  attractive  because  of  recent  events.  Are  we  to  be  grateful 
because  many  thousands  of  Hungarians,  century  after  century,  fell  in 
fighting  Turks  and  made  a  living  wall  of  men  to  protect  us  from  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Mahometan  ?  How  thankful  France  and  England,  aye,  and 
Germany,  have  been  to  the  Poles  for  similar  services  !  We  will  probably 
agree  in  the  view  that  they  could  do  no  less,  and  that  they  fought  very 
much  on  their  own  account.  And.  besides,  these  Magyars  were  often 
provocative  of  battle.  They  would  not  let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  When  the 
Turk  was  easy  and  somnolent  they  blew  trumpets  in  his  ears  and  walked 
on  his  slippered  feet.  At  times  when  they  had  a  fight  of  their  own  on 
hand  they  invited  the  Turk  to  take  part  in  it,  and  there  was  a  period  in 
his  history  when  poor  "  Bono  Johnny  "  never  refused  any  offer  of  the  kind, 
but  was  as  jubilant  as  an  Irishman  at  any  opportunity  of  stepping  on  the 
green  for  a  friendly  combat.  These  Magyars  were  often  worsted,  as  has  been 
said  by  their  neighbours,  and  were  scarred  and  bruised  terribly,  and  their 
last  "insurrectio,"  or  rising  en  masse,  was  put  into  a  cocked  hat  by  one  of 
Napoleon's  lieutenants.  But  they  have  a  long  roll  of  victories  to  boast  of 
over  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  nations.  Nevertheless,  in  1848  Europe  was 
startled  by  the  intelligence  that  Hungary  in  arms  was  putting  to  the  rout 
the  generals  of  Austria,  and  that  the  Kaiser  was  obliged  to  entreat 
the  aid  of  the  Czar  to  keep  his  crown  on  his  head.  In  that  reso- 
lution was  sown  the  seeds  of  a  hate  which  may  be  immortal,  and  a  study 
of  revenge  which  lasted  nearly  twenty  years.  The  Emmetts,  Wolfe  Tones, 
and  Fitzgeralds  of  Hungary  did  not  represent  the  idea  of  a  faction — they 
represented  a  nation,  entire  in  its  nobles,  its  bourgeoisie,  and  its  people. 
Francis  Joseph,  in  whose  ears  the  echoes  of  cannon  of  the  Vienna  barricades 
rang  for  years  after  he  had  assumed  the  imperial  purple,  could  not  forget 
that  the  greatest  enemies  of  his  rule  and  dynasty  were  the  Hungarians, 
who  had  deserted  his  standards,  defeated  his  troops,  and  had  declared 
a  republic.  Ho  stiffened  his  back  and  hardened  his  heart  and 
turned  his  ear  to  men  who  unfolded  to  him  the  project  of  fusing  all 
the  masses  of  his  empire  into  an  Austrian  amalgam,  in  which  the 
leaden,  solid,  useful  German,  the  lively,  political,  unpractical  Hungarian, 
the  stolid  yet  subtle  Croat,  the  vain,  imaginative,  intriguing  Greek,  should 
form  one  placid  composite.  The  Hungarians  too  would  not  be  fused. 
They  were  submitted  to  a  government  analogous  to  that  of  the  Southern 
States  by  the  military  commanders  of  the  North.  Their  taxes  were  collected 
by  force  or  by  free  quarterings  ;  good  roads  were  made  in  spite  of  them  by 
the  Austrians.  But  the  Austrians  were  fatigued  by  a  tremendous  passive 
resistance.  The  battle  of  Solferino  showed  the  Emperor  there  was  a 
weak  spot  in  his  harness,  and  that  his  armour  and  shield  were  alike  vulner- 
able. And  in  1861  a  Diet  was  called,  which  was  filled  with  the  passions 
of  1848.  It  asked  for  what  could  not  be  granted,  unless  Hungary  was  to 
»o  cast  off  from  the  vessel  of  the  state,  The  Diet  was  dissolved.  The 


214  THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH. 

interval  between  that  dissolution  and  the  assembling  of  the  Diet  which* 
was  sent  about  its  business  after  the  battle  of  Custozza,  witnessed  a 
repetition  of  the  process  of  dragooning  which  had  been  resisted  so  long. 
Meantime,  Hungary  had  burst  into  hoots,  menthes,  and  attilas,  had  abjured 
hats  and  buttons  and  bounded  into  ultra-Magyarism.  The  German  tongue 
was  renounced,  an  Austrian  uniform  was  never  seen  in  a  decent  house, 
and  the  nation  asserted  itself  by  the  cut  of  its  clothing,  and  a  sartorial  war 
against  the  oppressor.  What  the  leaders  wanted  was  their  recognition  as 
a  separate  power  from  Austria,  the  only  connection  between  the  two  being 
that  the  Emperor  of  Austria  should  be  accepted  as  the  King  of  Hungary, 
with  hereditary  rights  of  succession.  They  demanded  a  separate  and 
responsible  ministry,  a  Hungarian  army  controlled  by  the  Diet,  a  financial 
budget,  and  right  of  self-taxation. 

Some  really  meant  what  they  said,  others  were  induced  to  make  these 
demands  in  the  hope  that  their^persistence  would  lead  to  separation  from 
Austria,  caring  little  what  else  became  of  them,  or  filled  with  the  idea  of  a 
great  Danubian  State,  which  could  bully  its  Croats,  and  Serbs,  and  Eounians, 
as  it  pleased.  >The  arguments  of  the  Imperial  Government  to  show  the 
unreasonableness  of  many  of  the  assumptions  of  the  Diet  were  forcible, 
and  sometimes  unanswerable,  but  little  head  was  made  either  way  till  the 
Prussian  invasion  of  Bohemia  terrified  and  angered  Austria  by  introducing 
in  rear  of  its  march  a  movement  against  Hungary  conducted  by  Hungarian 
exiles.  The  world  beheld  the  strange  spectacle  of  a  god-fearing  king,  who 
believes  in  divine  right  and  in  the  sacredness  of  sovereign  power,  using  the 
arms  of  men  who  had  broken  their  oaths  as  citizens,  subjects,  and  soldiers, 
to  overturn  the  rule  of  their  legitimate  monarch,  and  allying  himself  with 
ultra -republicans  and  furious  democrats  against  the  most  ancient  and 
orthodox  house  in  Europe.  But  now  it  was  obvious  that  Hungary  must 
be  conciliated  or  Austria  would  be  lost  in  any  future  contest.  She  was  the 
Ireland  on  which  every  enemy  counted,  but  unlike  Ireland,  Hungary  was 
united  almost  as  a  man,  and  was  a  vigorous  nation,  capable,  unaided,  of 
making  defensive  war,  and  aided,  of  meeting  any  enemy  in  the  field. 

Other  rulers  might  learn  a  lesson  from  Francis  Joseph.  He  called  to 
his  presence  men  whose  names  and  antecedents  filled  him  with  repugnance ; 
he  sacrificed  his  pride,  his  dislikes,  his  love  of  ease,  to  his  kingly  duties/; 
he  studiously  sought  the  means  of  a  compromise  with  the  popular  leaders. 
Deak,  with  equal  wisdom  and  patriotism,  helped  by  many  able  men,  met 
his  royal  master  half  way  as  soon  as  he  perceived  that  there  was  a  chance 
of  securing  the  substance  of  what  the  Hungarians  really  desired.  There 
were  conferences  and -interviews  under  the  inspiration  of  M.  Von  Beust,  to 
whose  sage  counsels  the  change  in  Francis  Joseph's  policy  must  be  chiefly 
ascribed.  Much  controversy  about  lt  continuitat  "  and  "  the  laws  of  '48  ;  " 
much  heat  concerning  demands  for  exclusive  military  and  financial  estab- 
lishments ;  and  at  last  an  arrangement  for  a  mixed  committee  of  Austrians 
and  Hungarians,  on  what  were  called  common  affairs,  was  agreed  upon. 
The  Hungarians  were  to  have  their  own  Diet  and  their  own  Ministry  > 


THE   PAGEANT  AT  PESTH.  215 

and  so  it  was  agreed  that  the  coronation  diploma,  which  is  a  sort  of 
formal  announcement  of  the  rights  of  the  people,  should  be  prepared, 
and  that  Francis  Joseph  might  take  the  oaths  before  heaven  as  the  King  of 
Hungary,  some  parts  of  which,  by-the-by,  it  is  scarce  possible  for  him  to 
execute.  In  olden  times  the  kings  of  England  were  supposed  to  accept  as 
a  settled  obligation  the  duty  of  reconquering  the  lands  across  the  Channel 
which  had  been  taken  from  their  ancestors  by  the  French  ;  and  to-day  the 
King  of  Hungary  is  pledged  to  make  war  against  the  Turks,  and  drive 
them  Lord  Redcliffe  knows  not  where,  and  to  do  a  number  of  things  he 
has  no  more  intention  of  doing  than  George  I.  had  of  annexing  the  Pas  de 
Calais.  Francis  Joseph  came  to  Buda  ;  his  lovely  Queen  had  gone  there 
earlier  ;  but  the  Hungarians,  though  respectfully  joyous,  were  not  enthu- 
siastic, and  there  was  no  "  moriamur  pro  rege  nostra"  from  their  lips. 
The  Emperor  was  delighted  with  Pesth  and  the  Hungarians.  Returned 
exiles,  some  of  whom  ought  to  have  been  hanged  long  ago,  had  the 
decrees  of  Austrian  courts  been  carried  out,  thronged  his  palace  halls, 
and  the  days  were  near  at  hand  when  he  was  to  put  on  the  crown  and 
mantle  of  St.  Stephen,  and  ride  on  a  horse  and  swear  an  oath,  and  be 
indeed  a  king. 

There  were  still  difficulties  to  be  tided  over  after  it  had  been  determined 
to  hold  the  coronation,  and  there  were  wearisome  delays  before  the  day 
could  be  fixed.  No  doubt  this  uncertainty,  as  well  as  the  attractions  of 
the  Great  Exhibition,  prevented  the  attendance  of  many  strangers,  but  at 
no  time  could  it  have  been  expected  that  many  Austrians  would  be  present, 
as  they  detested  the  whole  of  the  proceedings  toto  ccelo.  The  Croats 
were  as  obstinate  in  refusing  to  come  to  Pesth  as  the  Hungarians  had 
been  in  absenting  themselves  from  the  former  Reichsraths  at  Vienna. 
They  pinned  their  faith  on  Stratornirivitz,  who  was  their  new  Jellachich, 
and  there  was  a  fluttering  of  wings  among  all  the  little  eaglets  in  Bohemia, 
Gallicia,  and  Slavonia. 

Now,  we  must  all  admit  that  if  a  king  of  England  should  appear  at  his 
coronation  in  a  robe  which  was  worn  by  William  the  Conqueror,  and  with 
a  crown  which  belonged  to  the  first  Christian  monarch  of  the  isle,  it  would 
excite  emotion  even  among  the  most  unpoetical  and  unimaginative  portion 
of  his  subjects.  Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to  say  "  all  of  us  "  must  admit  the 
fact,  for  there  are  some  people  who  won't  admit  anything,  on  principle  ; 
but  at  all  events  one  is  safe  in  presuming  the  adjuncts  of  such  interesting 
objects  would  give  the  ceremony  and  the  wearer  additional  attraction  in 
the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  As  to  the  Hungarians,  it  is  a  revelation  from 
Heaven  to  see  such  things  as  St.  Stephen's  mantle  and  crown.  It  can  be 
but  seldom  they  are  revealed,  for  it  is  only  at  coronations  that  the 
guardians  of  these  relics  permit  them  to  be  looked  upon,  and  then  these 
high  officers  keep  watch  and  ward  for  three  days,  whilst  the  stream  of 
spectators  rolls  on,  struggling  through  the  room  with  eyes  fixed  on  the 
helmet  crown  and  the  tattered  mantle — a  very  tattered  mantle  indeed. 
Whether  it  is  the  same  St.  Stephen  who  repudiated  the  charges  of  the 


216  THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH. 

Poole  of  his  day,  and  covered  him  with  offensive  epithets  on  account  of 
his  little  bill  for  a  pair  of  breeches,  we  must  leave  to  Notes  and  Queries ; 
but  if  it  were,  the  defects  in  a  bad  nether  garment  would  have  been  visible 
through  the  royal  mantle,  had  it  been  in  its  present  condition.  Queen 
Gisla  was  a  cunning  worker  and  neat-handed,  and  she  covered  this  sacred 
cloak  with  a  vast  variety  of  holy  images  and  symbols,  on  which  time  has 
done  much  mischief,  so  that  the  lingers  of  the  royal  ladies  who  have 
been  repairing  it  since  must  have  been  as  active  with  the  scissors  as  with 
the  needle.  As  to  the  crown,  there  is  a  tradition  of  even  greater  sanctify, 
for  men  will  believe  that  though  it  was  sent  to  St.  Stephen  by  Boniface, 
it  was  made  in  heaven,  and  carried  to  the  Pope  by  celestial  mechanics, 
who  must  have  worked  very  much  in  the  style  of  human  artificers 
of  that  period  on  the  earth.  In  form  it  combines  the  morion  and 
the  coronet,  and  the  stones  which  are  set  in  it  do  not  offer  great 
attractions  to  the  admirer  of  precious  jewels.  What  simple  days  these 
were  in  which  subjects  believed  in  their  king  so  thoroughly  that  whatever 
faith  he  adopted  became  theirs  at  once  !  When  Stephen  became  a  Chris- 
tian he  made  all  his  people  of  the  same  faith  at  a  coup — a  wholesale, 
almost  miraculous,  conversion,  if  it  were  not  that  it  might  have  been 
dangerous  for  any  Magyar  to  profess  a  faith  which  his  king  had  renounced. 
Much  in  the  same  way  was  it  that  nations  became  Catholic  or  Protestant 
subsequently.  Bohemia,  once  so  heretic,  was  converted  at  the  battle  of 
the  "White  Mount,  and  the  Protestantism  of  Hungary  yielded  to  the  influence 
of  the  great  landowners  who  remained  faithful  to  the  Pope. 

When  it  was  announced  over  here  that  the  Emperor  of  Austria  would 
certainly  be  crowned  at  Pesth  on  the  8th  of  June,  there  were  probably 
some  dozens  of  diplomatically- minded  persons  who  were  affected  by  the 
intelligence.  Why  should  not  he  be  crowned  there  ?  Why  had  not  he 
been  crowned  before  ?  Why  was  he  to  be  crowned  at  all  ?  Any  Hun- 
garian could  have  expatiated  for  hours  in  reply  to  these  questions  ;  but  to 
the  average  British  man  it  was  matter  of  as  much  inconsequence  and 
indifference  as  if  he  were  told  that  there  was  to  be  a  new  Lama  of  Thibet 
on  such  a  day  installed  at  Lassa.  To  many  millions  of  people,  however, 
the  subject  was  of  vital  importance, — to  millions  more  indeed  than  there 
are  people  in  these  isles, — for  all  the  populations  of  the  Austrian  dominions 
and  the  conterminous  races  were  deeply  affected  by  the  news  that  all 
difficulty  between  the  pretensions  of  the  Crown  and  the  rights  of  the 
Hungarians  had  been  arranged,  and  that  Francis  Joseph  was  to  become 
not  only  Emperor  of  Austria,  but  King  of  Hungary.  But  it  was  only  by  an 
arrangement,  and  therefore  by  a  compromise  on  both  sides ;  and  on  both 
sides  there  were  partisans  who  felt  that  wrong  had  been  done,  and  who 
received  the  concession  with  dislike. 

In  all  contests  between  right  and  power  there  is  sure  to  arise  a  party 
which  takes  the  extreme  view  on  each  side,  and  for  which  there  is  no 
possible  end  but  the  supremacy  of  their  principles.-  They  advance  on  the 
top  of  the  waves  and  when  the  flood  subsides  are  left  stranded.  As  the 


THE  PAGEANT  AT   PESTH.  217 

French  Revolution  has  left  its  deposits  of  Rouges  about  the  world,  as  the 
Italian  Revolution  has  dropped  its  Mazzinis  and  its  Garibaldis,  so  the' 
Hungarian  Revolution  has  precipitated  its  Kossuths — men  to  whom  any 
compromise  seems  to  be  base  treason.  The  party  representing  Kossuth's 
policy  were,  however,  represented  in  Hungary  itself,  although  they 
abandoned  the  fiction  of  a  republic ;  and  to  them  the  surrender  of  the 
demands  made  by  the  Diet  in  1861  was  as  hateful  as  the  concessions 
made  to  the  Hungarians  were  to  the  Germans  proper  and  to  the  Croats  of 
the  Empire. 

Very  few  people  knew  what  the  coronation  of  the  Emperor  would  be 
like.  They  were  not  aware  it  was  to  be  a  political  pageant  of  no  ordinary 
significance,  and  that  the  Hungarians  were  going  to  render  it  one  of  the 
most  singular  spectacles  ever  seen  in  these  modem  days.  Thousands  of 
people  flock  to  far  less  interesting  places  to  behold  much  less  attractive 
Bights ;  and  it  may  be  fairly  said  that  in  one  respect  the  coronation  was  a 
failure.  Not  many  strangers  came  to  witness  it,  and  very  few  of  the 
Austrians  proper,  or  of  the  neighbouring  peoples. 

Up  to  a  few  days  before  the  ceremony,  there  was  no  positive  know- 
ledge when  it  would  take  place.  There  were  man}'  matters  of  importance 
to  be  decided  upon ;  and  it  is  well  the  Magyars  set  to  work  so  soon  to 
devise  their  dresses  and  give  orders  to  their  tailors.  As  it  was,  there  were 
misfits  and  sartorial  failures  and  heartburnings.  There  were  of  coarse 
some  Englishmen  at  the  show  —  Frenchmen  were  all  "gravitating" 
towards  Paris.  A  few  Germans,  odd  Americans,  the  members  of  the  diplo- 
matic missions,  one  Croat  deputy, — all  the  rest  were  Magyar  and  non- 
Magyar  Hungarians,  with  the  exception  of  some  Austrians  and  Roumanb', 
who  looked  in  to  see  how  things  were  getting  on. 

To  Buda  it  was  a  disappointment — to  Pesth  a  bitterness  of  spirit.  The 
Hungarians  are  quite  well  aware  that,  for  all  their  good  qualities,  they  play 
now  but  a  small  part  on  the  political  stage.  They  are  much  like  some 
veteran  bean  sabreur,  in  the  uniform  of  other  days,  with  false  teeth,  wig, 
and  paint  and  patches,  who,  in  antiquated  finery,  totters  along  in  the 
crowd  which  has  assembled  to  see  the  youthful  warriors  returning  vic- 
torious from  the  battle  of  the  hour.  They  have  insisted  on  taking  a  step 
far  back  into  the  Middle  Ages,  and  have  erected  a  barrier  between 
themselves  and  Europe.  With  German — even  with  Latin — they  had 
a  language  which  enabled  them  to  be  of  Europe.  But  with  Hungarian  ! 
It  is  only  the  language  of  some  five  millions  at  most.  Russian  is  spoken 
by  60,000,000,  at  all  events. 

And  if  even  the  troubled  races  of  Sclavonic  origin  can  find  a  common 
language,  there  will  be  many  millions  of  people  erecting  a  wall  between 
their  nationality  and  European  civilization.  Every  nation  is  the  best 
judge  of  its  own  happiness  ;  and  if  the  Hungarians  revert  to  a 
tongue  in  which  there  is  no  original  work  that  has  been  deemed 
worthy  of  widely-read  translations,  they  must  take  their  own  course. 
They  have  been  too  busy  fighting  all  their  lives,  they  say,  to  study 

*    11—5 


218  THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH. 

the  arts  and  sciences  and  to  cultivate  literature ;  but  the  Grecian 
'and  Italian  Republics  had  no  inconsiderable  share  of  the  same  amuse- 
ments in  their  day,  and  }~et  they  contrived  to  produce  poets,  painters, 
sculptors,  and  writers  of  the  first  order  in  extraordinary  numbers.  The 
Hungarians,  however,  had  great  orators ;  and,  judging  by  Kossuth's 
English  speeches,  he  must  have  made  on  his  countrymen's  minds  im- 
pressions such  as  are  due  to  the  highest  efforts  of  eloquence.  They  have 
historians,  poets,  novelists,  and  painters  ;  but  even  national  vanity  cannot 
assign  to  them  a  commanding  position.  The  result  is,  that  other 
European  nations  know  little  of  the  feelings  and  even  of  the  history 
of  their  eccentric  brother,  and  that  the  event  so  very  important  to  him  did 
not  widely  move  their  sympathies. 

On  the  morning  of  the  3rd  of  June  I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  of 
the  train  proceeding  to  Strasbourg,  with  three  Germans  who  had  been  at  the 
Paris  Exhibition,  and  were  returning  full  of  anecdotes  of  the  hardness  of 
the  beer  and  the  monstrosity  of  the  charges  and  the  incivility  of  the 
French.  They  read  Bacdecker  and  smoked  at  intervals,  became  excited  as 
the  train  approached  the  Rhine,  "  hoched  "  when  they  had  crossed  it,  and 
were  quite  pleasant  and  inoffensive  till  a  dreadful  Pole  of  Posen  got  in  at 
Kehl.  Such  a  man  as  that  was !  He  had  a  round  bullet  head  with 
closely- cropped  hair,  an  obstinate  bullet  forehead,  with  a  deep  scar  across 
it,  shaggy  reddish  eyebrows,  a  small  blue-grey  eye  with  a  black  pupil, 
snub  nose,  high  cheek  bones,  heavy  red  moustache,  and  shaved  cheeks 
and  chin ;  dressed  well,  carried  a  huge  signet  ring  on  his  forefinger,  and  a 
tremendous  pipe  of  ineffable  blackness.  He  spoke  all  languages  ;  dis- 
puted on  all  points  ;  talked  whilst  he  smoked — which  was  always ;  never 
slept ;  bounced  about  on  his  seat,  turning  now  from  one  and  now  to 
another,  with  his  forefinger  giving  point  to  an  observation  in  his  adversary's 
ribs.  He  had  fought  all  over  Germany  in  '48 ;  did  not  like  what  had 
happened  before  that  time  from  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  was  disgusted  with 
everything  since.  He  had  fought  at  Berlin,  at  Radstadt,  at  Vienna ;  he 
was  a  good  Catholic,  but  he  considered  the  Pope  a  nuisance ;  he  was  an 
indifferent  Prussian,  for  he  hated  Bismarck,  he  regarded  Francis  Joseph  and 
Austria  as  political  enormities,  and  thought  Napoleon  III.  was  an  impostor. 
England  was  only  a  workshop  full  of  dishonest  mechanics,  about  to  be 
pulled  down  and  overturned  by  Americans  and  Irish  Fenians.  The  very 
salt  of  the  earth  was  Polish,  and  it  was  not  Polish  unless  it  was  Posenish ; 
and  Russia  was  the  source  of  all  the  corruptions  of  the  world,  which 
this  salt  alone  could  cure.  It  w?.s  positively  miraculous  to  hear 
that  man  talk,  to  see  him  smoke,  to  catch  the  fire  of  his  pipe, 
the  outline  of  his  figure  in  gesticulation,  and  the  tone  of  his  high  full 
voice  through  the  night !  At  Ulm  he  got  out,  and  returned  no  more, 
and  the  wearied  Germans  with  the  air  of  men  who  had  been  fighting 
bravely  at  Ephesus  and  had  got  the  worst  of  it,  grunted  and  went  to  sleep, 
to  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  look  on  the  plain  outside  Munich.  And  lo  ! 
there  were  columns  of  infantry,  and  squadrons  of  cavalry  at  work  as  if 


THE   PAGEANT  AT   PESTH.  210 

the  Bavarians  had  not  learned  the  army  was  just  worth  as  much  as  if  they 
were  Nuremberg  toys.  What  on  earth  does  Bavaria  want  of  an  army  ? 
We  know  she  won't  fight.  She  has  no  colonies  to  protect — her  Bund  is 
dissolved.  At  a  moment  when  honour,  duty,  treaties,  promises,  called  on 
them  to  fight  last  year  we  all  know  what  the  Bavarians  did.  And  yet  these 
honest  beer-drinking  people  believe  they  are  a  military  power,  and  pay 
9,500,000  florins  a  year  for  their  army,  and  keep  up  a  force  of  157,000 
infantry,  21,000  horse,  and  186  guns,  out  of  a  population  much  less  than 
that  of  Ireland  !  Let  us  get  on  from  Munich,  although  it  be  with  a 
German  baroness  who  smokes  cigarettes,  and  who  has  a  French  husband 
and  a  large  family  of  children  in  a  state  of  normal  rebellion.  At  four 
o'clock,  however,  we  could  get  on  no  further.  The  engine  declared  itself 
incompetent  some  way  beyond  Linz,  and  selected  for  its  repose,  with  great 
judgment,  a  place  opposite  a  station  at  which  the  telegraph  was  out  of 
order.  So  a  man  was  despatched  on  foot  to  the  next  station  to  send  us 
the  news,  and  the  population  of  the  train  set  itself  to  make  the  best  of  the 
circumstances  with  great  philosophy.  There  were  corn  fields  by  the  road- 
side. Some  wandered  in  and  ate  the  unripe  ears — others  culled  flowers — 
some  played  with  the  ballasting,  and  chucked  pebbles  in  the  water.  A 
great  tabaks  concilium  was  held  over  the  engine,  which  was  declared  to  be 
a  very  evil-minded  piece  of  mechanism.  One  asserted  it  must  be  an 
"  English  machine" — to  be  so  bad.  Men,  women,  and  children — all 
except  the  husband  of  the  German  baroness,  who  had  true  French 
impatience  in  him — would  have  been  content  to  remain  shuffling  about  and 
conversing  de  omnibus  as  long  as  the  glorious  sun  was  lighting  up  the 
beautiful  Austrian  landscape,  with  the  outlines  of  the  Tyrolese  Alps  on  our 
right,  and  the  wooded  heights  over  the  valley  of  the  Danube  on  our  left ; 
but  the  engine  from  Linz  came  puffing  along,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we 
were  bumped  and  butted  onwards,  and  then  drove  into  a  thunder-storm, 
which  toyed  with  the  train  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  pursued  us  almost 
into  Vienna — the  Paris,  and  better  than  the  Paris,  of  Eastern  Europe. 

No  Volksgarten — no' JPrater — no  anything  to-night !  That  shower  of 
rain  had  driven  every  Viennese  of  them  all  into  the  beer-halls,  and  so  to 
Sacher's  for  supper,  and  then  to  bed  at  any  hotel  you  please,  in  the 
snuggest,  best  furnished  bed-room  possible,  at  which  Charing  Cross,  mi 
tromemc,  would  be  in  despair,  and  the  Grand  Hotel  au  Icr  -j-  n  would  be 
in  disgust — Romischer  Kaiser,  Osterreichischer  Hof,  Munsch,  Archduke 
Charles — any  will  do,  though  various  in  cooking,  and  wines,  and  atten- 
dance. The  news  is  certain.  The  Emperor  will  be  crowned  on  8th  June. 
The  ambassadors  and  ministers  go  to-morrow — some  early,  some  by 
2-30  P.M.  train.  The  Danube  is  high,  but  it  needs  early  rising  to  go 
down  by  boat,  and  so  the  afternoon  train  is  decided  on — that  is,  I  decide 
upon  it,  but  my  courier  and  valet  has  very  imperfect  notions  about  time, 
and  is  in  that  capacity  a  man  of  original  character.  All  the  way  from 
England  he  has  been  a  nuisance  to  me.  He  began  by  sitting  on  my  best 
hat ;  next,  he  lost  my  new  umbrella  ;  further,  he  was  nearly  left  behind  at 


220  THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH. 

Calais  ;  further,  he  was  late  with  the  luggage  at  Paris,  so  that  I  missed 
the  train  and  had  to  stay  a  night  in  the  horrors  of  an  over-crowded  hotel ; 
and  ever  since  then  I  have  been  clutching  him  out  of  beer-houses  and 
driving  him  into  his  carriage  as  the  train  starts. 

At  last  it  became  a  joke  among  iny  friends,  who  were  amused  by  my 
constant  care  and  attention,  and  I  was  asked  whether  I  had  been  up  to 
waken  my  valet,  or  had  brushed  his  boots ;  and  if,  as  sometimes  it 
happened,  he  did  not  appear  in  very  neat  trim  in  the  morning,  I  was 
rebuked  for  not  having  taken  him  up  his  shaving  water. 

No  one  who  saw  Vienna  to-day  could  have  imagined  that  so  great  an 
event  in  the  history  of  the  Austrian  Empire  was  about  to  take  place  close 
at  hand.  But  ten  short  months  ago,  and  those  tortuous  streets,  now  so 
listless,  were  filled  with  Hungarian  soldiery,  and  with  the  white-coated 
army  of  the  Kaiser.  The  cafes  were  full  of  excited  and  fearful  citizens  ; 
the  heights  crowded  with  anxious  groups  looking  across  the  Danube  over 
the  flat  plains  of  the  Marchfeld  for  traces  of  the  advancing  Prussians  ;  and 
now  and  then  were  commotions  in  the  thoroughfares  as  wounded  prisoners, 
the  victims  of  outlying  cavalry  skirmishes,  were  hauled  through  the  streets, 
or  some  miserable  creature,  who  had  been  seized^  as  a  spy,  was  dragged 
along  to  death. 

The  streets  were  now  in  their  normal  state.  Vienna  has  been  accustomed 
to  such  terrors  of  the  foe ;  and  long  ere  the  French  were  accustomed  to 
march  in  und  out  as  they  pleased,  Hungarians  and  Turks  had  encamped 
beneath  her  walls  and  threatened  her  with  sack  and  pillage  bombardment 
and  storm. 

By  a  merciful  dispensation  for  tardy  people  the  Vienna  railways 
always  give  grace  of  some  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and  so  we  managed 
to  get  away  from  the  NordBahn  station  by  the  2*30  afternoon  train,  on  the 
5th,  which  was  filled  with  the  diplomacy  of  the  great  and  little  powers. 

Over  the  Danube  sped  the  train  and  out  through  the  fortifications  of 
Florisdorf,  which  already  afford  a  warning  to  man.  "  Put  not  your  trust  in 
earthworks."  The  winter's  rain  has  cut  deep  crevasses  in  scarp  and 
counterscarp,  and  the  spring  and  early  summer  have  brought  forth  their 
crops  of  weeds  and  wild  flowers ;  but  the  Austrian,  wisely  doubting  the 
defensive  power  of  the  great  wet  ditch  of  the  Danube,  is  about  to  construct 
permanent  works  around  one  of  the  most  easily  defended  capitals  in 
the  world. 

Within  a  few  miles  of  Florisdorf,  hid  in  the  ripe  honours  of  the 
glorious  harvest,  lie  the  famous  fields  of  Aspem,  Essling,  and  Wagram, 
marked  solely  by  the  little  church  spires  which  rise  above  the  corn.  Right 
and  left  spread  the  undulating  fields  of  the  Marchfeld,  and  here  and  there 
around  'the  simple  villages  of  whitewashed  houses  with  shingled  roofs, 
are  spread  great  commons  covered  with  flocks  of  geese  and  herds  of 
Hungarian  cattle. 

The  peasants,  nnvexed  of  Prussians,  are  tilling  the  fields  or  tending 
their  flocks ;  the  men  in  loose  linen  drawers  and  boots,  the  women  only 


THE   PAGEANT  AT   PE3TII.  221 

distinguished  from  the  men  by  wearing  handkerchiefs  bound  round  their 
heads  and  fastened  under  the  chin.  The  bridge  over  the  March,  which 
was  destroyed  as  the  Prussians  advanced,  has  been  temporally  repaired, 
and  the  train  passed  over  it  very  gingerly,  whilst  the  creaking  and 
groaning  of  the  plunks  gave  notice  that  they  were  not  permanently  intended 
for  such  pressure.  Then  we  passed  from  the  plain  through  some 
hillocky  ground  and  mild  hills,  the  end  of  the  spur  of  the  While 
Carpathians  which  runs  down  to  the  Danube  at  Presburg.  These  almost 
shut  out  the  battle-field  of  which  Austrians  and  Prussians  claim  the 
advantage,  on  that  memorable  Sunday  when  the  flag  of  truce,  upborn  in 
the  sight  of  the  fierce-fighting  battalions,  stayed  the  sanguinary  combat. 

From  Presburg,  almost  to  Pesth  itself,  there  is  one  vast  plain  which 
now  is  covered  with  black  masses  of  horses,  herds  of  cream-coloured  cattle, 
fiocks  of  sheep  ;  bounded  on  the  left  by  hillocks  and  ridges  crowned  with 
vineyards,  and  on  the  right  marked  by  ruined  castles,  towns,  and 
monasteries,  dotting  the  course  of  the  Danube. 

The  lights  of  Pesth  were  set  in  the  darkness  «of  night  ere  the  train 
arrived  at  the  station  and  delivered  its  passengers  to  the  mercy  of  Magyar 
porters  and  cabmen. 

The  strongest  man  took  his  luggage ;  the  unscrupulous  took  other 
people's ;  the  weaker  went  to  their  hotels.  I  do  not  know  what  class  I 
belong  to,  but  I  know  I  got  my  own  luggage,  and  my  invaluable  cornier 
carried  off  sxmiebody  else's ;  it  would  bo  unjust  to  my  companion,  a 
stout  countryman,  who  belonged  to  the  Wurtemburg  hussars,  if  I  did  not 
attribute  my  success  to  his  efforts.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  get  into  tho 
Kdnigin  von  England,  particularly  as  the  Oberkelner  laughed  at  the  idea 
of  finding  a  refuge  in  the  hosteliy,  and  utterly  repudiated  a  premonitory 
telegram.  However,  >he  was  quite  open  to  admit  the  efficacy  of  an  engage- 
ment made  for  a  bed-room  a  month  before — that  we  could  have,  but  no 
more  if  we  coined  our  blood  for  drachmas. 

The  room  was  small,  the  Wurtemburg  hussar  was  large — nor  is  the 
writer  exactly  one  of  those  angelic  bodies  which  can  dance  or  sleep  in  large 
numbers  on  the  point  of  a  needle — but  somehow  or  other  two  beds  were 
rigged  up  ;  the  impracticable  courier  was  disposed  of  in  a  crib  among  some 
blacking  brushes,  empty  bottles,  and  Croat  servants  ;  and  we  sallied  forth 
into  the  streets  of  Pesth  to  mingle  with  the  thousands,  who,  like  ourselves, 
were  staring  at  the  preparations  for  the  forthcoming  pageant.  The  crowds 
were  more,  far  more,  worthy  of  attention  than  the  objects  which  attracted 
their  regards.  Women  in  pork-pie  hats  are  no  great  novelties  in 
England,  but  when  they  add  to  these  headdresses,  which  are  called 
Hungarian  hats,  a  costume  which  is  in  many  parts  prse- crinoline,  and  a 
peculiar  mode  of  wearing  it,  the  ensemble  attracts  notice.  And  their 
cavaliers  were  still  more  remarkable,  for  they  wore  their  boots  over  their 
trousers,  repudiated  buttons  on  their  frock-coats,  and  insisted  on  assuming 
pork-pie  hats  without  feathers.  Pesth  is  a  city  of  modem  Germany. 
There  are  cdd  signs  over  the  doors,  and  the  shopkeepers,  of  whom  most 


222  THE   PAGEANT  AT   PESTH. 

boast  German  names,  will  put  their  Christian  after  their  surnames,  so  that 
you  read  Smith  John  and  Jones  William  a  la  Magyar.  There  are  fine 
signboards  in  the  Vienna  fashion — bad  pave  and  much  dust — houses  high 
and  streets  tortuous — many  tall  chimnies  of  sugar  factories  and  breweries, 
and  those  manufacturing  processes  which  make  a  town  so  unattractive  to 
any  stranger,  except  the  statistical,  political,  economical,  and  mercantile 
wanderer.  There  were  tall  painted  poles  and  garlands  at  the  street 
corners  ;  but  the  city  was  still  in  the  grub  state,  and  gave  no  promise  of 
its  butterfly  development.  At  the  Konigin  von  England  most  of  the 
young  diplomatists  were  seated  in  a  cool  gallery  outside  the  dining-room, 
and  looking  out  on  the  court-yard,  where  it  was  cool  and  exclusive.  The 
elder  brethren  of  the  craft  had  sent  their  attaches  away,  probably  in  order 
to  have  their  room  to  themselves  and  a  little  snug  gossip.  There  was  a 
gloom  on  their  young  faces.  And  well  there  might.  It  came  whispered 
about  that  there  was  bad  news  from  Vienna  concerning  the  state  of  the 
Archduchess  Mathilde — a  special  favourite  of  all  people.  'Why  should 
she  not  be  so  ?  Illustrious  by  birth,  she  had  rendered  herself  beloved  for 
her  goodness.  Youthful,  graceful,  fair  to  look  upon,  exceedingly  accom- 
plished, lively  and  amiable  she  was  in  her  way — oh,  how  much  stood  in 
it ! — a  sister  of  charity — the  charm  of  a  court — the  comfort  of  many  a 
lowly  dwelling.  For  long  days  and  nights  she  had  suffered  from  her 
dreadful  burns.  Why  repeat  the  sad  story  ?  Her  resignation  moved 
all  those  around  her  as  much  as  her  pain,  and  now  it  was  that  she  was 
to  be  removed  from  all  anguish  for  ever.  The  news,  in  fact,  prepared 
every  one  for  the  worst.  The  coronation  would  not  be  postponed,  but  it 
was  felt  that  all  gaiety  and  ball-giving  and  dancing  would  be  out  of 
place,  and  so  many  costly  preparations  would  go  for  nought.  The 
Emperor  and  his  fair  wife,  and  the  small  court  keeping  up  their  haughty 
simple  state  over  the  water  at  Buda,  had  a  heavy  shadow  cast  on  their 
to-morrow  ;  for  with  the  news  of  the  sad  condition  of  Archduke  Albrecht's 
daughter  came  the  report  that  Maximilian  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
Mexican  Republicans,  and  men  who  knew  what  1hey  were  feared  to  think 
of  his  fate.  So  all  went  to  bed  in  Buda  and  Pesth  with  a  sense  of 
melancholy.  In  my  chamber  slept  or  reposed  the  Wurtemburg  hussar ; 
and,  although  I  have  no  objection  to  hussars  of  Wurtemburg  "  in  the 
abstract,"  I  think  a  specimen  is  objectionable  when  he  is  over  four- 
teen stone,  and  reposes  two  feet  from  you  in  a  very  small  room  on  an 
intensely  hot  night.  Joy  came  in  the  morning,  but  not  in  the  shape  of 
my  courier  and  valet ;  for  of  him  for  hours  after  were  no  tidings,  and  then 
unfortunately  he  came  to  the  surface,  and  to  the  top  story  of  the  Konigin, 
and  was  alive  after  all.  The  Magnates  were  sitting,  and  the  House  of 
Representatives — matinal  as  these  Hungarian  are — were  in  full  sitting, 
and  we  were  to  go  off  and  see  them ;  for  was  not  Belus,  Lord  of  Sequins, 
to  be  our  cicerone  ? 

Now  as  to  what  was  to  be  seen  in  the  Diet,  has  it  not  been  recorded  in 
the  chronicles  of  the  newspapers  by  their  special  correspondents  ?     There 


THE   PAGEANT  AT  PESTH.  223 

are  old  paintings  to  bo  met  with  all  over  the  world,  which  hang  up  in 
one's  memory.  "  The  Doge  receiving  the  Turkish  Ambassadors,"  or  the 
"  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,"  or  Louis  the  Great  besieging  some  place — 
you  know  the  kind — men  in  strange  dresses,  with  swords  and  jewelled 
raiment.  The  Peers  and  Commons  of  Hungary  recalled  these  pictures  of 
the  past.  There  were  malcontents  who  wore  black  cloth  and  sheaths  to 
their  swords,  and  unadorned  black  caps;  and  there  were  marvels  of 
richness,  such  as  Count  Bela  Szechenyi,  Count  Waldstein  or  Wallenstein, 
Count  Bathyany,  quos  cnumerare  lonyissimum  est.  But  after  all  I  sought 
out  Deak  first,  as  all  comers  would  do,  and  found  him  not,  for  he  did  not 
appear  to  be  in  the  House.  He  is,  physically,  too  big  a  man  to  be 
overlooked,  and  could  not  be  smothered  up  like  our  Lord  Russell,  or  the 
Maccallum  More,  or  Sir  John  Pakington,  or  Messrs.  Koebuck  and  Whalley, 
and  other  senators  who  are  like  Horace,  at  least  in  that  they  are  modo 
bipcdali  staturd.  The  coachmen,  footmen,  and  life  hussars  of  the  nobles 
were  more  radiant  than  their  masters ;  but  many  of  the  Lower  House 
went  up  with  the  address  to  the  palace  at  Buda  in  the  large,  commodious, 
open  carriages  which  serve  as  omnibuses  in  Pesth. 

There  was  an  old  historic  figure  missing  in  the  pageant.  Who  could 
forget  the  courteous,  kindly  grandee,  shining  a  perfect  chrysolite,  from 
diamond  spur  and  heel  to  aigretted  cap,  at  the  Moscow  Coronation,  just 
eleven -years  ago  ?  The  friend  of  emperors,  and  almost  the  peer  of  kings, 
Prince  Esterhazy  was  an  object  to  be  missed  by  any  who  had  seen  him 
then.  And  to  think  of  the  jewels — some  of  them  at  least — ticketed  and 
marked  off  for  sale  in  a  London  auctioneer's  !  And  what  are  lost  for  ever 
• — the  anecdote,  the  knowledge  of  courts  and  men — the  memories  of  times 
when  there  were  giants  fighting  on  earth. 

There  is  in  the  city  of  Pesth  a  most  hospitable  and  excellent  club — the 
Casino — to  which  every  stranger  was  invited  as  an  honorary  member,  the 
only  exception  being  the  British  Ambassador  and  his  suite.  By  some 
quaint  misapprehension  they  were  left  out ;  but  the  suite  were  not  aware 
of  the  fact,  and  came  all  the  same.  The  Duke  de  Graniont  and  his 
secretaries  and  attaches  were  duly  inscribed ;  but  what  was  even-body's 
business  was  done  by  nobody,  and  so  Lord  Bloomfield  and  his  following 
were  left  out  in  the  cold.  The  Casino  was  a  very  refuge  :  in  addition  to 
the  excellent  library  and  reading-rooms,  there  was  an  admirable  restaurant, 
to  which,  in  the  heat  and  fatigue  of  the  day,  the  afflicted  sightseer  could 
repair  for  food  and  shelter.  There,  this  evening,  at  a  table  close  at 
hand,  I  saw  a  man  mumbling  the  end  of  a  cigar :  a  heavily-built,  large- 
headed,  and  slow-moving  man,  of  a  complexion  the  French  would  call 
lasane;  a  heavy  face  and  forehead,  obscured  by  a  low  descending  thatch 
of  thick  iron-grey  hair;  very  shaggy  eyebrows;  a  dark  and  not  very 
brilliant  eye ;  a  thick  greyish  moustache  and  shaven  cheeks.  He  wore 
dark  clothes,  trousers,  and  boots,  and  had  the  air  of  a  Ion  petit  bourgeois. 
And  this  was  Deak ;  and  here  or  at  the  Kunigin  von  England  he  might  be 
seen  daily  and  nightly, — never  at  the  ceremonies  and  receptions  and  state 


224  THE   PAGEANT   AT   PESTH. 

pageants  held  in  honour  of  the  consummation  of  his  work.  One  night 
when  there  was  a  great  clamour  in  the  street  outside,  and  all  the  members 
flocked  to  the  window  and  reported  that  the  Emperor  and  Empress  were 
passing  below  in  an  open  carriage,  looking  at  the  illuminations,  and 
surrounded  by  an  enthusiastic  crowd,  Deak,  who  was  sitting  in  the 
room,  merely  gave  a  sort  of  grunt  when  he  was  told  what  it  was,  and 
went  on  with  his  sweet  omelet.  He  would  not  move  to  the  window 
to  look  at  the  spectacle. 

On  the  6th  the  Magnates  and  Representatives  appeared  in  the  world 
iii  their  full  feathers.  They  were  graciously  received  by  the  Emperor  and 
Empress;  and  in  the  afternoon  the  great  ladies  were  presented  to  her 
Majesty  at  a  sort  of  drawing-room,  the  Emperor  not  being  present,  but 
looking  on  all  the  while  from  another  apartment  or  gallery,  so  that  he 
could  admire  the  quaint  toilettes  and  their  fair  owners.  One  lady  I  saw 
ere  she  set  out  on  her  journey,  and  it  needed  all  the  exertions  of  a  devoted 
husband,  an  excellent  son,  and  a  numerous  valetry,  to  get  her  train  in 
order  and  to  sweep  her  up  in  safety  to  her  carnage.  It  was  a  Hungarian 
dress  of  the  old  style ;  and  all  I  can  say  is,  that  it  was  very  rich,  very- 
extensive,  very  becoming,  and  most  charmingly,  patriotically,  and  mar- 
tyrically  borne  by  the  countess  whom  it  enshrined.  The  great  amusement 
of  that  afternoon  was  in  the  Stadt  Wiildchen — a  rough  kind  of  Rotten  Row, 
very  extensive  and  very  dusty, — in  which  cavaliers  ride  and  ladies  and 
gentlemen  drive  and  look  at  each  other,  the  walks  at  the  side  being 
crowded  by  loungers.  There  was  a  want  of  what  we  would  call  style  in 
the  ensemble  of  the  riders.  The  felt  hats,  and  boots  over  their  trousers,  and 
the  single-breasted  buttonless  coats  did  not  look  like  dress ;  and  the  habit 
of  wearing  large  numnahs  under  the  saddles  detracted  from  the  look  of 
many  fine  horses ;  but  as  to  the  riding  there  could  be  no  mistake,  for,  with 
too  niucli  of  the  circus  about  it,  the  horsemanship  of  most  of  the  men, 
who  delighted  to  "bucket"  about  their  steeds,  was  very  good.  In  the 
Waldchen  there  are  gardens  where  gipsy  bands  may  be  heard  and  ices 
eaten  and  flirtations  carried  on.  The  gipsy  bands  we  have  all  heard 
of,  and  they  are,  if  good,  indeed  worth  hearing.  Imagine  a  group 
of  street  musicians,  not  very  well  clad  and  mostly  with  Jewish  coun- 
tenances of  mean  aspect,  small  receding  foreheads,  big  ears,  and  inani- 
mate looks,  sawing  away  at  their  fiddles ;  and  you  do  not,  if  you 
succeed,  raise  an  agreeable  image.  But  listen  to  them  for  a  little", 
and  when  the  wonderful  unison,  fire,  and  sentiment  of  their  playing 
has  done  its  work  open  your  eyes  and  3*011  will  see  a  transformation. 
Each  man  there  is  inspired  ;  his  face  has  changed,  his  soul  is  at  the 
tips  of  his  fingers,  trembling  up  and  down  the  fibres  from  wThich  he  is 
evolving  such  harmony ;  and  you  no  longer  wonder  why  a  Magyar  will 
oftentimes  fling  down  his  purse  to  the  despised  musicians  with  a  little 
fortune  in  it.  In  the  evening  there  was  a  reception  at  Count  Karolyi's, 
which  only  differed  from  such  assemblies  in  an  European  capital  in  that 
it  gave  the  idea  of  a  fancy  ball,  owing  to  the  Magyar  dress  of  the  men,  for 


THE  PAGEANT  AT  PESTH.  225 

the  ladies  were  attired  like  the  Frenchwomen,  against  \vhoso  luxe  cffrene 
a  veteran  senator  waged  an  idle  war.  Instead  of  livened  servants  and 
men  in  black — those  respectable  persons  who  are  so  distracting  to  the  diffi- 
dent tyro — there  were  gentry  in  grand  hussar  uniforms  and  military-looking 
attire,  who  seemed  ill-employed  in  lining  staircases  and  handing  about 
ices.  They  would  all,  high  and  low,  have  been  happy  but  for  the  pitiful 
news.  The  Archduchess  Mathilde  was  dying,  some  said  was  dead ! 
Albrecht,  conqueror  of  Custozza,  was  known  to  be  no  philo-Magyar,  but  none 
could  refuse  their  sympathy  to  that  much-afflicted  man.  Surely  if  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  be  measured  by  visitations  on  the  children,  there  must  have 
been  many  workers  of  iniquity  among  the  elder  Hapsburgs.  And  sitting  in 
anguish  with  her  heart  far  away  there  is  yet  another  for  whose  grief 
her  bitterest  enemy  must  feel — the  proud  ambitious  mother  of  the  poor 
Emperor,  thousands  of  miles  from  the  land  he  loved,  and  where  he  was  so 
dearly  loved  even  by  the  foes  of  his  house,  wrhose  fate  was  so  soon  to  be 
sealed  in  blood. 

All  next  day  the  Kaiser  was  working  and  fasting  in  his  palace 
of  Buda.  He  entertained  the  ambassadors,  ministers,  and  diplomatic 
corps  at  a  banquet  wrhich  was  very  creditable  to  the  cook.  It  was  a  fast 
day  and  no  meat  could  be  served  at  the  table  of  the  Most  Catholic  King ; 
but  so  little  was  the  want  felt  that  a  carnivorous  Briton  was  fain  to  admit 
he  had  never  had  a  better  dinner  in  his  life.  There  is  a  grandeur  and 
simplicity  in  the  Austrian  Imperial  table.  The  dinners  at  a  large  stock- 
broker's or  a  big  brewer's  are  better,  gastronomically  considered,  than 
the  feasts  at  Schonbrunn  or  Buda,  but  the  company  is  not  quite  so  good 
in  the  matter  of  quarterings,  though  it  may  be  more  lively  and  enter- 
taining. The  family  keep  early  hours,  the  dishes  are  simple,  the  wines 
excellent,  but  the  finest  plate  is  not  produced  on  any  but  extraordinary 
occasions.  The  Emperor  cares  not  much  for  state  ;  he  likes  his  soldier's 
uniform  and  would  never  willingly  exchange  it  for  anything  but 
his  Tyrolese  hunter's  dress,  in  which  the  uncovered  knees  and  short 
cuisse  pieces  terminating  above  the  knee  somewhat  recall  the  kilt. 
The  Hapsburgs  consider  themselves  the  finest  gentlemen  in  Europe,  but 
they  are  rather  shy  and  are  sometimes  brusque.  Still  they  are  the  most 
accessible  sovereigns  in  Europe  as  far  as  their  subjects  are  concerned,  and 
the  poorest  is  not  denied  an  audience,  or  refused  admission  to  the  Emperor's 
palace.  We  cannot  be  so  free  in  constitutional  countries,  where  the  divinity 
\vhich  hedges  the  king  is  generally  a  detective  policeman  in  plain  clothes. 

And  when  all  were  gone  this  great  Kaiser  fasted  on.  Probably  he, 
an  emperor,  crowned  and  accepted,  soon  to  be  a  king — the  exile  with 
a  mocking  title,  and  unhonoured  crown,  soon  to  be  steeped  in  blood — 
bethought  him  often  of  the  brother  whose  pale  hue  of  native  resolution  was 
never  sicklied  over  with  the  pale  cast  of  any  fear  except  such  as  doth 
become  a  man.  And  yet  that  gallant  Max  was  the  man  who  had  made 
\  he  heart  of  Austria  throb  with  a  fervid  pulse  when  she  was  nigh  beaten  to 
i he  dust;  for  from  his  care  and  fostering  providence  came  forth  the 


226  THE   PAGEANT  AT  PESTII. 

fleet  that  won  at  Lissa,  and  completed  the  mantle  which  was  woven  at 
Custozza. 

Through  the  night  came  the  clamour  of  preparation.  There  were 
rivets  to  be  closed,  and  stitches  to  be  sewed,  and  boats  to  be  eased. 

That  night  there  was  another  reception,  at  which  the  question  asked 
by  every  stray  Briton  was  "  How  am  I  to  see  the  coronation  to-morrow?" 
Lord  Bloomfield,  the  Ambassador  of  her  Majesty,  is  one  of  the  kindest  and 
most  agreeable  of  diplomatists,  but  he  had  been  informed  that  there  would 
be  scarcely  room  enough  for  his  own  suite,  and  he  could  scarcely  under 
those  circumstances  hope  to  extend  the  cover  of  his  protection  to  those 
who  did  not  belong  to  the  embassy. 

Count  Zapary,  to  whom  the  arrangements  had  been  entrusted,  took, 
perhaps,  rather  a  limited  view  of  his  functions,  and  there  were,  therefore, 
many  demands  on  the  time  and  patience  of  the  unaccredited  friend  of  the 
human  race,  who,  in  the  guise  of  Count  Bela  Szechenyi,  was  supposed  to 
be  able  to  do  what  ambassadors,  princes,  potentates,  and  powers  con- 
ceived to  be  impossible. 

There  was  this  distracting  circumstance  to  be  attended  to,  that  the 
ceremonial  commenced  in  one  city  and  was  continued  and  ended  in  another, 
and  that  between  the  two  there  was  no  less  an  obstacle  than  the  Danube, 
spanned,  to  be  sure,  by  Tierney  Clarke's  suspension  bridge,  but  still  not 
to  be  got  over  after  a  certain  hour,  and  that  a  very  early  one.  The  actual 
ceremony  of  the  coronation  took  place  in  the  parish  church  of  Buda,  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  Danube,  to  which  the  imperial  procession  went  from 
the  palace  in  carriages.  But  then  when  the  King  came  forth — a  real 
king,  indeed,  crowned  with  the  crown  of*  St.  Stephen,  and  wearing  the 
mantle  of  Gisella — there  began  the  great  dramatic  equestrian  performance 
in  which  he,  riding  to  Pesth,  took  the  oath  of  what  may  be  called 
fealty  to  his  subjects  before  the  Town  Hall  of  the  city,  and  then  acted 
the  most  impressive  part  of  his  role,  in  which,  riding  up  the  Coronation 
Mound,  he  spurred  his  steed  towards  the  four  quarters  of  the  world, 
and  thrusting  his  sword  through  the  air,  bound  himself  to  maintain  the 
rights  and  dominions  of  Hungary,  and  to  rescue  the  spoils  of  Christianity 
from  the  hands  of  the  infidel.  There  are  people  who  sleep  calmly  ere  the 
executioner  taps  them  on  the  shoulder,  and  who  wake  up  from  pleasant 
dreams  to  find  the  grim  myrmidon  at  their  bedside  with  the  bonds  and  jibes 
of  dishonourable  death ;  but  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  any  man  who  has 
not  the  least  idea  of  where  he  will  be  placed  when  the  morning  comes  on 
which  he  is  bound  to  see  the  great  spectacle,  is  stoical  enough  to  close  his 
eyes  in  solid  slumber.  There  were  thousands  of  seats  and  hundreds  of 
windows  to  be  had  for  money  in  Buda  and  in  Pesth,  but  in  none  of  them 
could  all  the  conditions  be  accomplished  which  were  required  by  a  con- 
scientious sightseer. 

Certainly  any  attempts  to  sleep  in  the  "  Queen  of  England  "  that  night 
needed  the  certainty  of  a  place  for  the  morrow  to  ensure  the  smallest  chance 
of  success.  Clothes  were  corning  home  from  tailors,  heavy-booted  retainers 


THE   PAGEANT  AT  PESTII.  227 

were  marching  along  the  passages,  doors  banged,  and  summonses  in  many 
tongues  for  wondering  domestics  broke  through  the  night  air ;  but  even 
the  susurous  breathing  of  my  Liechtenstein  Hussar  on  the  close  adjoining 
bed  did  not  extend  its  influence  to  my  couch.  "  One  !  two  !  three  !  "  the 
clocks  chimed  and  tolled.  I  might  have  heard  "  four,"  but  that  from  the 
Blocksberg  rolled  through  the  morning,  air  the  peal  of  the  cannon  which 
av/oke  into  life  all  who  were  happy  enough  to  sleep.  It  was  a  preposterous 
hour,  and  somehow  or  another  a  calm  followed,  during  which  "  five  o'clock  " 
escaped  me,  and  I  was  in  my  first  sleep  when  the  tall,  austere  form  of 
a  knight,  clad  in  the  full  splendour  of  the  British  diplomatic  uniform, 
appeared  at  my  bedside,  and  with  gentle  admonition  roused  me  to  the 
fact  that  "  my  hour  had  come."  But  if  that  were  so,  my  inimitable  valet 
did  not  imitate  the  hour, — a  fact  which  would  have  been  of  little  conse- 
quence had  he  not  been  in  intimate  relation  with  my  boots  and  uniform. 
Where  he  was  in  that  many-chambered  house  who  could  say  ?  Repeated 
experiments  had  demonstrated  the  utter  futility  of  ringing  the  bell  as  a 
means  of  procuring  attendance.  All  this  would  have  been  very  distracting, 
but  that  the  good  to  be  derived  from  immediate  preparation  was  not  very 
great  or  decided.  In  fact,  the  kind  diplomatist  charged  with  affairs  could 
not  answer  for  my  getting  into  the  church,  and  I  could  make  quite  sure 
of  getting  to  my  window,  humanly  speaking.  It  would  depend  on  our 
finding  a  particular  man  in  a  particular  place  at  a  particular  time  ;  to  wit, 
Count  B.  S.,  in  front  of  the  cathedral,  where  the  ambassadors'  carriages 
arrived,  and,  if  all  these  contingencies  were  disposed  of,  there  was  the 
still  large  doubt  whether  Count  B.  S.,  who  had  given  up  the  notion  of 
entering  the  church,  although  a  magnate  inter  magnates,  could  procure 
admission  for  me.  To  drive  up  the  hill  of  Buda  that  warm  morning 
through  balconied  and  platformed  streets  ;  to  fail  in  obtaining  admission  ; 
and  then  to  return,  like  a  dog  in  a  racecourse,  scuttling  back  on  foot  down 
those  long  lines  of  unsympathising  eyes  and  open  mouths  ;  to  be  chaffed  in 
Magyar,  and  to  be  in  a  hurry,  co-raw  populo ;  and  as  the  bridge  was  closed 
10  every  one  after  the  King  set  out  from  the  palace  for  the  church,  hurry 
vas  obligatory, — that  was  a  terrible  picture,  finishing  with  the  chance  of  not 
being  able  to  get  to  my  window.  It  was  in  fact  a  terror  which  in  some 
i  ort  reconciled  me  to  the  involuntary  confinement  in  my  room  to  which  I  was 
exposed  in  that  trying  moment.  It  was  a  fair  fine  morning.  Buda  some- 
how looks  like  Edinburgh  Old  Town,  and  if  the  Danube  flowed  in  the 
\  ;roove  in  which  the  railway  now  passes  between  the  Castle  and  New  Beekie, 
the  resemblance  would  be  still  greater,  with  some  such  slight  changes  as 
]  aishing  the  Blocksberg  from  the  proper  right  to  the  proper  left  of  the  city, 
find  making  the  Cannongate  clean,  and  having  no  Holyrood  at  all,  and 
illling  Pesth  with  tall  chimney  stacks.  Even  without  these  mutations  there 
i  {  a  similitude  in  general  effect,  and  if  Edinburgh  were  dressed  out  in  flags 
\  herever  flags  could  fly, — black,  white,  and  yellow,  and  all  colours,  and 
t  irned  all  her  people  into  the  streets,  and  gathered  up  the  wildest  High- 
landers, and  then  turned  on  a  stream  of  chivalrv,  formed  of  the  most 


228  THE   PAGEANT  AT   PESTII. 

remarkable  dresses  of  the  Middle  Ages,  she  would  repeat  what  was 
done  at  Bucla  this  8th  of  June,  with  sufficient  accuracy  and  verisimilitude. 
But  there  was  much  in  this  sight  which  was  peculiarly  Magyar  and  national, 
as  well  as  picturesque.  With  all  their  fantasies  the  Magyars  are  a  practical 
people  in  looking  to  their  interests  and  maintaining  their  rights.  They 
have  fought  for  equality  with  Austria,  and  they  have  got  it,  and  with 
equality  they  have  insisted  on  their  predominance  over  the  races  which 
live  in  their  lives,  so  that  less  than  four  millions  and  a  half  of  them  are 
masters  of  more  than  four  millions  and  a  half  of  Germans,  Slaves,  and 
Roumans,  and  Croats ;  just  as  much  as  the  Southron  Scots  ruled  it  over  the 
Highlands.  But  inasmuch  as  the  Highlanders  were  in  language  and  attire 
more  distinct  from  the  Saxon  than  the  Southrons  were,  they  have  won 
such  a  moral  supremacy  over  their  old  masters  that  then-  name  has  becomo 
synonymous  with  Scotch,  and  their  regiments  and  their  attire  are  called  by 
the  national  name ;  so  the  Hungarians  en  masse  availed  themselves  of  their 
native  speech  and  manners  and  dress,  to  point  their .  contest  with  the 
Austrians,  and  reverted  to  obsolete  costumes  and  habits  to  mark  their 
generic  distinctiveness.  In  their  sturdy  independence  they  are  Southron 
Scots  all  over — like  the  men  who  bled  with  Wallace,  and  who  followed 
Bruce,  and  who  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  men  of  the  clans,  their 
natural  enemies.  In  their  love  of  feathers  and  ancient  and  fancy  costumes 
they  resemble  the  Celt  of  the  Highlands,  and  like  him,  are  fond  of  traditions 
of  old  times.  There  was  a  wonderful  smack  of  what  was  old  even  in  the 
newest  costumes,  and  as  for  the  sheep-skin  clad  creatures,  who  looked  at 
the  figures  around  them  with  the  sort  of  look  you  may  see  in  the  eye  of  a 
bullock  as  it  is  driven  through  a  crowd  of  cabs  and  passengers  in 
Farringdon  Street,  they  were  just  the  same  men  as  the  lieutenants  of 
the  Caesar  of  the  day  found  sixteen  hundred  years  ago  tending  their  herds 
by  the  waters  of  the  Danube. 

To  get  to  the  window  looking  out  on  the  Kronungs-hugel,  the  artificial 
mound  composed  of  earth  brought  from  all  the  counties  of  Hungary,  so 
as  to  be  an  epitome  of  the  kingdom,  was  not  a  difficult  matter,  for  in 
that  part  of  the  world  the  crowd  is  readily  cleared  by  any  vessel  in  fine 
bunting  and  canvas.  And  there,  after  a  time,  the  patience  of  all  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  one  of  the  most  original  and  quaint  pieces  of  pageantry 
ever  devised.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  believe  it  was  real !  Could  it 
be  a  real  king  who  was  capering  about  amid  the  people,  or  was  it  a  player 
paid  for  doing  the  part  ?  No.  It  was  veritably  what  it  was  given  out  to 
be,  and  that  was  Francis  Joseph  of  Austria,  who  was  coming  out  of  the 
archway  at  the  bridge,  on  the  curvetting  steed,  in  the  old  mantle  and 
the  dingy  crown.  Who  can  share  the  feelings  which  rule  the  heart 
of  one  whose  ancestors  have  been  kings  or  emperors  for  eight  hundred 
years,  or  dive  into  the  recesses  of  a  Hapsburg  heart  ?  The  youngest 
of  them  all  must  be  as  ancient  as  a  Pharoah  in  his  thoughts  and 
in  the  manner  in  which  he  looks  out  on  the  outer  world.  Francis 
Joseph  is  a  Hapsburg  from  heel  to  head — self-willed,  brave,  persevering, 


THE   PAGEANT   AT   PESTH.  229 

tenacious,  yet  yielding  when  some  dexterous  hand  has  found  out  the 
joints  in  his  mail.  And  here  he  was  going  through  a  ceremonial  which 
was  in  fact  an  admission  of  his  defeat  and  the  token  of  a  subverted  policy. 
But  he  did  it  well.  Never  did  knight  of  old  bear  lance  better  in  the 
press  of  the  tournament  or  in  the  lists  than  did  the  Kaiser  in  his  ancient 
robes  going  through  the  fantastic  rites  prescribed  for  him.  He  fasted, 
he  lay  on  his  stomach  with  his  face  to  the  ground  in  the  church  as  flat  as 
— well  as  a  pancake ;  he  was  oiled  and  greased  and  annointed  ;  he  was 
wiped  dry ;  he  was  dressed  and  undressed  ;  he  was  put  on  a  most  unruly 
Bucephalus  ;  he  took  strange  oaths  and  made  impossible  vows  ;  and  in 
every  act  and  portion  of  his  part  ho,  was  erect,  solemn,  conscious 
and  kingly.  Xo  smile  on  his  lips,  no  frown  on  his  brow — impas- 
sive—  a  sphinx-like  look  about  the  man  as  one  who  was  bent  on 
a  work  adored  by  Fate  and  Heaven.  The  whole  of  the  proceedings 
were  over  long  before  it  was  expected,  and  the  king  had  returned  over  the 
bridge  and  gained  his  palace  ere  midday.  There  wras  still  one  thing  to  ba 
done  ere  he  could  be  let  alone  and  be  at  rest.  The  dinner  was  spread  for 
himself  and  his  fair  queen  and  for  four  of  the  great  ones  of  Hungary,  but  ere 
the  monarch  could  taste  of  the  food  which  was  served  to  him  by  the 
greatest  of  the  magnates  in  full  dress,  it  was  needful  that  the  table  should 
be  ornamented  with  a  piece  of  one  of  the  roast  oxen  which  the  people  were 
devouring  in  an  adjacent  meadow ;  and  with  one  solitary  toast  given  by  the 
king — "  Elgin  a  haza  "  (Long  live  our  country) — the  banquet  ended.  What 
the  end  of  this  day's  work  may  be  no  one  can  foretell ;  but  certain  it  is  no 
more  remarkable  sight  has  been  witnessed  in  its  way  by  this  generation,  or 
even  by  those  who  assisted  at  the  coronations,  many  and  splendid  as  they 
have  been,  which  have  graced  this  half  century. 


230 


€okmm  f  nfame." 


THOSE  who  have  had  the  privilege  of  reading  in  the  original  that  chef 
d'oeuvre  of  modern  Italian  literature,  "I  Promessi  Sposi,"  by  Manzoni, 
will  not  fail  to  have  been  powerfully  impressed  with  the  wonderful  force 
and  vigour  of  his  description  of  the  great  plague  in  Milan  in  the  year  1630, 
of  the  horrors  of  the  "  lazzeretto  "  and  of  the  thousand  infamous  and 
brutal  acts  of  violence  committed  in  the  name  of  justice  by  terror-stricken 
governors  urged  on  by  an  ignorant  and  demoralized  population.  The  firm 
belief  in  tha  wilful  propagation  of  the  plague  by  lawless  persons  by  means 
of  some  powder  or  ointment  smeared  on  the  walls  of  the  city,  so  ably 
commented  on  by  Manzoni  in  this  book,  was  not  as  we  know  common  to 
Milan.  In  most  accounts  we  read  of  the  ravages  of  that  dreadful  pestilenco 
— the  scourge  of  the  seventeenth  century  in  London,  Geneva,  Turin, 
Florence,  and  Palermo — and  even  in  more  recent  severe  visitations  of  Asiatic 
cholera,  we  find  traces  of  a  similar  superstition.  In  Milan,  where  the  terror 
and  panic  ran  so  high,  and  where  the  torture  extorted  from  scores  of  persons 
an  absolute  confession  of  the  horrid  crime  imputed  to  them,  we  have  in 
the  records  of  the  criminal  proceedings  abundant  evidence  of  the  strange 
infatuation,  ignorance  and  depravity  of  both  rulers  and  people.  In  these 
enlightened  times  we  are  perhaps  hardly  capable  of  estimating  with  strict 
justice  the  extent  to  which  an  ignorance  of  physical  laws  may  in  times  of 
panic  have  distorted  the  judgment  of  sober  men.  It  is,  however,  not  so 
much  an  argument  against  the  application  of  the  torture  that  it  has 
repeatedly  been  applied  to  extort  confession  of  crimes  morally  and  physically 
impossible,  as  the  fact  that  by  its  instrumentality  thousands  of  perfectly 
innocent  persons  have  suffered.  Ignorance  may  produce  great  incon- 
veniences but  not  crime ;  and  an  institution  essentially  bad  cannot  apply 
itself  "da  se."  We  cannot,  therefore,  shift  the  burden  of  guilt  altogether 
on  the  shoulders  of  an  ignorance  of  the  possible  and  impossible,  or  acquit 
the  judges  of  a  culpable  and  ignoble  terror  which  led  them  on  to  acts  of 
undoubted  injustice  and  violence.  In  Milan,  in  the  year  1630,  many  persons 
were  condemned  to  suffer  torture  and  death  for  having  smeared  the  walls 
of  the  city  with,  an  ointment  which  propagated  the  plague  ;  we  know  that 
this  was  an  impossible  crime,  but  the  authorities  of  that  time  considered 
these  acts  so  atrocious  and  the  condemnations  so  meritorious  that  they 
caused  the  house  of  one  of  the  principal  of  the  reputed  "  untori,"  or 
annointers,  to  be  pulled  down,  and  on  its  site  to  be  erected  a  column,  entitled 
"  Infame,"  or  infamous,  on  which  was  inscribed  the  offence  arid  its  punish- 
ment. This  column  was  destroyed  in  1778,  and  some  years  ago  the  author 
was  acquainted  with  a  Milanese  gentleman  who  remembered  well  this 


"  LA   COLONNA  INPAME."  231 

curious  relic  of  barbarism.  The  history  of  the  circumstances  which  led  to 
the  erection  of  this  "  Colonna  Infame  "  is  ably  described  by  Manzoni  in  a 
kind  of  appendix  to  his.  celebrated  story  "I  Promessi  Sposi,"  and  I  propose 
giving  a  succinct  account  of  what  was  perhaps  one  of  the  most  reckless  and 
blind  perversions  of  criminal  justice  that  history  can  produce. 

It  was  during  the  height  of  the  terrible  plague,  and  towards  half-past 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  21st  June,  1630,  that  a  silly  woman 
called  Caterina  Rosa  happened  by  misfortune  to  look  out  of  the  window  of 
a  kind  of  gallery  that  Was  at  the  entrance  of  a  street  called  Vetra  de  Citta- 
d'ni,  at  the  end  looking  towards  the  "Porta  Ticinese,"  when  she  saw  a  man 
enveloped  in  a  long  black  cloak  and  his  hat  dr.awn  down  over  his  eyes  ;  he 
h  id  some  paper  in  his  hand,  on  which  (she  said  in  her  subsequent  deposi- 
tion)  he  appeared  to  be  writing.  She  held  the  man  in  view,  and  observed 
that  he  kept  very  close  to  the  wall ;  and  turning  the  corner,  she  remarked 
that  at  intervals  he  drew  his  hand  along  the  wall.  Then,  added  the  woman, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  this  was  one  of  the  persons  who  went  about 
smearing  the  walls  with  ointment  to  propagate  the  plague.  Taken  with 
si:ch  a  suspicion,  she  passed  into  another  room,  the  window  of  which 
looked  up  the  street  the  man  had  taken,  and  here  again  she  observed  that 
ho  constantly  rubbed  his  finger  along  the  wall.  At  another  window  of  the 
same  street  was  another  spectatress,  named  Octavia  Bono,  who  could  not 
say  whether  she  conceived  the  same  suspicions  by  herself,  or  whether  they 
canie  after  hearing  the  rumours  that  had  got  abroad.  This  woman,  when 
examined,  deposed  to  having  seen  the  man  from  the  time  of  his  first 
CE  trance  into  th6  street ;  but  she  can  say  nothing  about  his  rubbing  his 
lirnd  or  finger  against  the  wall.  "I  saw,"  she  said,  "that  he  stopped 
suddenly  at  the  end  of  the  garden- wall  of  the  house  *  delle  Crevelli,'  and 
I  noticed  that  he  had  some  paper  in  his  left  hand  on  which  he  appeared  to 
be  writing.  I  afterwards  saw  him  rub  the  paper  on  a  part  of  the  garden- 
wdl  where  there  was  a  little  whitewash."  Most  probably  the  poor  man 
WKS  only  trying  to  clean  some  inkstains  from  his  fingers,  as  it  seems  that 
he  really  was  engaged  in  writing ;  for  in  his  own  examination  the  next 
day,  he  was  asked  if  he  wrote  as  he  walked  along ;  and  he  replied,  lt  Signer, 
si."  With  regard  to  his  having  kept  so  close  to  -the  wall,  he  said  that  it 
Vfi  s  to  get  shelter  as  it  was  raining.  And  that  it  was  raining  Caterina  her- 
seif  deposed;  but  the  following  ingenious  conclusion  was  drawn  from  this 
circumstance :  "  It  is  probable  that  a  rainy  morning  would  be  chosen 
exoressly,  so  that  persons  passing  along  the  street  under  shelter  of  the 
Vfi  11  might  more  readily  brush  their  clothes  against  the  ointment."  After 
th  )  unfortunate  man  had  reached  the  end  of  the  street  he  turned  back,  and 
juj  t  on  reaching  the"  corner  from  whence  Caterina  Rosa  had  been  watching 
hi;  proceedings,  by  another  piece  of  misfortune,  he  encountered  a  person 
en  ,ering  the  street,  who  saluted  him.  Caterina,  who  in  order  to  see  every- 
thng  had  again  returned  to  the  window  of  the  first  room,  looking  out, 
as  :ed  the  other  man  who  it  was  he  had  saluted.  He  replied  that  he  knew 
him  only  by  sight,  but  that  he  was  one  of  the  sanitary  commissioners. 


232  "  LA  COLONNA  INFAME." 

Then  I  said,  deposed  Caterina,  "  I  have  seen  him  doing  certain 
things  that  do  not  please  me  at  all ;  "  and  going  out  we  observed  that  the 
walls  were  smeared  with  a  yellowish-looking  ointment.  The  other  woman 
deposed  also  to  having  seen  the  walls  smeared  with  ointment  of  a  yellow 
colour.  Thus  commenced  this  extraordinary  judicial  investigation.  It 
never  seems  to  have  struck  any  one  as  singular  that  a  man  engaged  in 
such  a  kind  of  work  should  have  waited  until  after  sunrise  to  do  it,  or  that 
he  should  have  gone  along  without  once  looking  up  at  the  windows  to  see 
if  he  was  observed,  or  even  how  it  was  that  he  could  handle  with 
impunity  an  ointment  that  was  to  kill  those  who  merely  brushed  their 
clothes  against  it  in  passing.  The  inhabitants  of  the  street,  under  the 
influence  of  fright,  soon  discovered  all  kinds  of  ominous  marks  and 
Fniears,  which  had  probably  been  unnoticed  before  their  eyes  for  years, 
and  in  trepidation  and  haste  they  set  about  burning  straw  all  along  the 
wall  to  disinfect  it.  Residing  in  the  same  street  was  a  barber  called 
Giangiancomo  Mora,  and  he  like  many  of  the  others  imagined  that  the 
walls  of  his  house  had  been  smeared  with  the  ointment.  He  little  knew, 
unhappy  wretch,  what  other  and  more  real  danger  was  hanging  over  him, 
and  from  the  action  of  that  same  commissioner.  The  story  of  the  two 
women  was  soon  enriched  by  new  circumstances.  A  son  of  the  barber 
Mora  being  examined  was  asked,  "if  he  knew  or  had  heard  in  what 
manner  the  said  commissioner  smeared  the  said  walls  and  houses," 
replied,  "I  heard  that  a  woman  living  over  the  portico  traversing  the 
Via  Vetra — I  do  not  know  her  name — had  said  that  the  commissioner 
smeared  the  walls  with  a  pen ;  holding  a  jar  in  the  other  hand."  Very  likely 
Caterina  had  spoken  of  a  pen,  and  it  is  easy  to  divine  what  other  article 
she  had  baptised  a  jar;  but  to  a  mind  that  could  see  nothing  but 
poisonous  ointment  a  pen  might  possibly  have  a  more  intimate  connection 
with  &jar  than  with  an  inkstand.  One  circumstance  however  was  true  : 
the  man  ivas  a  sanitary  commissioner,  and  from  this  indication  he  was 
found  to  be  one  "  Gugliemo  Piazza." 

"It  has  been  signified  to  the  Senate  that  yesterday  morning  the  walls 
and  doors  of  the  houses  in  the  Yia  Yetra  de  Cittadini  have  been  smeared 
with  a  pestilential  ointment,"  said  the  Chief  Justice  to  the  criminal  notary  ; 
and  with  these  words,  already  full  of  a  deplorable  certainty,  and  passed 
without  correction  from  the  mouths  of  the  people  into  those  of  the  magis- 
trates, the  process  commenced.  Gugliemo  Piazza  had  been  arrested  and 
bis  house  searched  from  top  to  bottom,  but  nothing  had  been  found. 
Questioned  as  to  his  profession — his  ordinary  habits — on  the  walk  he  had 
taken  the  previous  morning — on  the  clothes  he  wore,  &c.,  they  at 
length  asked  him,  "Have  you  heard  that  certain  walls  in  the  Yia  Yetra, 
particularly  towards  the  '  Porta  Ticinese,'  have  been  smeared  with  a 
poisonous  ointment?  "  He  replied  ;  "  I  don't  know,  because  I  didn't  stop  at 
the  '  Porta  Ticinese."  This  was  considered  to  be  improbable,  and  to  this 
question  four  times  repeated,  he  replied  four  times  the  same  thing  in 
different  words.  Again,  among  the  facts  of  the  previous  day  of  which  Piazza 


"LA  COLONNA  INFAME."  233 

had  spoken  was  his  having  been  in  the  company  of  certain  parochial 
deputies  (these  were  gentlemen  elected  in  each  parish  by  the  sanitary 
tribunal  to  watch  over  and  enforce  the  execution  of  their  orders).  He  was 
asked  who  were  these  deputies,  and  he  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  their 
names,  I  know  them  only  by  sight."  This  was  also  pronounced  improbable 
— a  terrible  word,  to  understand  the  importance  of  which  it  is  necessary  to 
remark,  that  the  judges  could  only  legally  inflict  the  torture  when  it  had 
been  proved  that  the  prisoner  had  lied  in  his  answers  to  the  questions  put 
to  him,  but  the  law  also  stated  that  the  lie  or  lies  must  regard  the 
substantial  circumstances  of  the  crime  imputed ;  beyond  this  the  infliction 
of  the  torture  was  left  entirely  to  the  discretion  of  the  judges.  How  far 
these  improbabilities  were  reasonable  we  leave  to  the  reader.  The  judges 
now  intimated  to  the  prisoner  that  he  should  state  plainly  and  openly 
"  u'hy  he  denied  knowing  that  the  walls  of  the  said  street  had  been 
smeared,  and  why  he  denied  a  knowledge  of  the  names  of  the  deputies  ;  these 
things  being  palpable  falsehoods.  If,  therefore,  he  persisted  in  this  denial  he 
would  be  put  on  the  cords,  so  as  to  extort  from  him  the  truth  regardiug 
these  circumstances."  "If  you  should  also  put  the  collar  on  my  neck 
I  know  no  more  than  what  I  have  told  you,"  replies  the  poor  man,  with 
that  kind  of  desperate  courage  with  which  reason  will  sometimes  defy 
force,  as  if  to  show  that  whatever  it  can  do  it  cannot  make  truth  falsehood. 
The  unfortunate  wretch  is  forthwith  put  to  the  torture  on  the  cords,  and 
lie  is  asked  if  he  has  resolved  to  tell  the  truth.  ' '  I  have  said  it,  Signori — 
C  have  said  it,"  he  persists.  "  Oh  for  the  love  of  God  let  me  down.  I  will 
•say  all  I  know.  Oh,  Heavens  !  make  them  give  me  a  little  water." 
Presently  he  is  let  down  and  placed  on  a  seat,  but  now  again  replies, 
• '  I  know  no  more  than  I  have  told  you.  Oh}  Signori,  make  them  give  me 
-orne  water." 

He  is  reconducted  to  his  cell,  and  the  examination  recommences  on 
The  23rd  June.  TJic  tribunal  now  decrees  that  "  Gugliemo  Piazza,"  after 
.laving  been  shaven,  redressed,  and  purged,  shall  be  put  to  severer 
lortures  than  before  with  the  fine  cords  (an  atrocious  addition,  which 
dislocates  both  arms  and  hands),  at  the  discretion  of  the  president  of  the 
!  anifcary  commission  and  the  chief  justice,  in  consequence  of  certain  false- 
hoods on  the  part  of  the  accused — resulting  from  the  process.  In  order 
'o  understand  the  meaning  of  the  first  part  of  the  order,  viz.,  that  the 
licensed  shall  be  first  shaven,  redressed,  and  purged,  it  is  necessary  to 
:--omark  that  in  those  times  it  was  firmly  believed  that,  either  in  the  hair, 
in  the  skin,  in  the  clothes,  or  even  in  the  intestines,  there  might  be  some 
:  millet  or  charm,  which  these  precautions  were  intended  to  counteract. 
'  "he  miserable  Piazza  is  again  submitted  to  new  and  severer  tortures  ;  but 
}  nothing  is  extracted  from  him  beyond  the  following  pathetic  outcries  : — 
' '  Oh,  my  God  !  what  assassination  is  this  !  Oh,  Signer  President,  make 
1  heni  kill  me,  make  them  cut  off  my  hand — kill  me — kill  me  !  At  least, 
hi  me  rest  a  little.  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  let  me  have  some  water! 
3  know  nothing.  I  have  said  all  I  know."  After  repeated  requests  to 
VOL.  xvi, — NO.  92.  12. 


234  "LA  COLONNA  INFAME." 

tell  the  truth,  tlie  goaded  wretch  can  hardly  gasp  in  his  agony, — "  Oh,  I 
have  said  it.  I  can  say  no  more."  At  length  he  is  let  down  and  con- 
ducted a  second  time  to  his  cell.  After  a  short  interval,  the  following 
decree  is  issued  by  the  governor  : — "  It  is  promised  to  anyone  who  within 
thirty  days  shall  bring  clear  evidence  against  any  person  or  persons  who 
may  have  aided  or  assisted  the  said  Gugliemo  Piazza,  the  following 
premium,"  &c.  ;  "and  if  the  said  person  be  an  accomplice,  it  is  farther 
promised  to  him  free  pardon  and  exemption  from  punishment."  At  the 
same  time  it  was  intimated  to  the  accused  that  he  was  to  be  subjected 
every  day  to  the  torture,  unless  he  confessed  the  whole  truth  ;  but  that  if 
he  would  confess,  and  state  to  the  Senate  who  were  his  accomplices,  he 
should  be  exempt  from  further  torture  and  punishment  of  any  kind. 
Who  can  justly  analyze  the  mind  of  that  tortured  wretch,  in  whose 
memory  the  fearful  agonies  he  had  undergone  were  so  fresh  and  powerful  ? 
Who  can  judge  how  the  conflict  between  the  terror  of  suffering  the  same 
over  again,  and  the  hope  of  security  held  cut  to  him,  may  have  raged 
within  his  breast  ?  It  appears  that  the  barber,  Giangiancomo  Mora,  was 
in  the  habit  of  selling  a  certain  ointment  as  a  cure  for  the  plague — one  of 
the  thousand  specifics  so  readily  believed  in  during  the  time  of  any 
epidemic  disease.  A  few  days  before  his  arrest  Piazza  had  asked  the  barber 
for  some  of  this  ointment,  and  he  had  promised  to  prepare  it  for  him  ; 
and  meeting  him  on  the  very  morning  of  the  day  of  his  arrest,  had  told 
him  that  it  was  ready  if  he  would  come  and  take  it.  The  judges  wished 
to  have  a  story  about  ointment  in  connection  with  the  Via  Vetra  ;  what 
more  natural  than  that  this  recent  circumstance  should  furnish  material  to 
the  miserable  prisoner  driven  to  desperation  by  his  merciless  persecutors  ? 
On  the  26th  of  June  Piazza  was  again  conducted  before  the  examiners, 
and  he  was  requested  to  repeat  what  he  had  already  confessed  in  the 
prison;  viz.,  "Who  it  was  that  had  supplied  him  with,  and  was  the 
fabricator  of,  the  pestilential  ointment  that  had  been  found  on" the  doors 
and  walls  of  the  houses  of  this  city?"  The  desperate  man,  forced  into 
falsehood,  seems  to  have  proceeded  cautiously, — "  The  ointment  was  given 
to  me  by  a  barber."  He  is  asked,  "  What  is  the  name  of  this  barber  ?" 
and  replies,  "I  believe  his  name  is  Giangiancomo — his  surname  I  don't 
know."  The  president  then  asks  him,  "  Did  the  said  barber  give  you 
much  or  little  of  the  ointment?"  and  Piazza  rejoins,  "He  gave  me  a 
certain  quantity — about  as  much  as  would  fill  that  inkstand."  If  he  had 
received  the  jar  of  ointment  the  barber  had  prepared  for  him  as  a  remedy 
against  the  plague,  it  is  probable  he  would  have  described  that ;  but  not 
having  this  on  his  mind,  he  uses  for  illustration  the  first  object  that  comes 
under  his  eye.  When  asked  if  the  barber  was  a  friend  of  his,  ho  says, 
"A  friend?  Oh,  yes  !  That  is — yes,  a  great  friend."  They  now  ask, 
"  For  what  object  did  the  said  barber  give  you  this  ointment?"  and  this 
is  what  the  miserable  man  replies  : — "  I  was  passing  by,  and  he  called  me 
and  said,  '  I  can  give  you — I  won't  say  what ; '  and  I  said,  '  What  is  it  ? ' 
He  said,  '  Some  ointment ; '  and  I  said,  *  Yes,  yes  ;  I  will  come  and  take 


"  LA   COLONNA  INFAME."  235 

it ; '  and  two  or  three  days  afterwards  he  gave  it  to  me."  "  But  what  did 
the  barher  say  to  you  when  he  consigned  to  you  the  jar  of  ointment?  " 
He  said,  replied  the  prisoner,  "  Take  this  jar  and  smear  the  ointment  on 
the  walls  near  here ;  and  then  come  to  me  and  I  will  give  you  a  handful  of 
money."  Being  asked  further,  "  If  the  said  barber  indicated  the  precise 
places  and  walls  where  he  was  to  smear  the  ointment  ?"  Piazza  replies, 
"  He  told  me  to  smear  it  on  the  walls  of  the  Yia  Vetra  de  Cittadini, 
commencing  from  his  house  ;  where,  in  fact,  I  did  commence."  It  was 
then  asked,  "  And  for  what  object  was  this  ointment  to  be  smeared  on  the 
walls  ?"  to  which  he  replied,  "  He  did  not  tell  me,  but  I  imagined  that 
the  ointment  must  have  been  poisonous,  and  might  do  injury,  because,  on 
the  following  morning,  he  gave  me  some  water  to  drink,  telling  me  it 
would  preserve  me  from  the  poison."  In  all  of  these  replies  the  examiners 
seem  to  have  seen  nothing  improbable.  They  have  only  one  more  question 
to  ask.  "Why  did  you  not  say  all  this  at  first?"  and  the  inventive 
genius  of  Piazza  is  equal  to  the  occasion,  for  he  says,  "  I  think  I  must 
attribute  the  cause  to  the  water  he  gave  me  to  drink,  because  your  excel- 
lency sees  what  great  torments  I  have  suffered  without  having  been  able 
to  speak  the  truth." 

This  time,  however,  the  judges  so  easy  to  content  were  not  contented, 
and  so  they  proceed  to  ask,  "  But  why  were  you  not  able  to  speak  the 
truth  before  ?  "  and  Piazza  continues,  "  I  have  said  because  I  could  not ; 
even  if  I  had  been  a  hundred  years  on  the  cords  I  could  not  have  spoken, 
because  when  I  was  asked  everything  went  clean  out  of  my  head."  With 
this  lucid  termination  the  examination  was  closed  and  the  wretched  prisoner 
was  reconducted  to  his  cell.  The  police  now  went  to  the  house  ol 
Giangiancomo  Mora,  the  barber,  and  he  was  arrested  with  all  his  family. 
Here  was  another  culprit  who  had  not  thought  of  running  away,  although 
his  accomplice  had  been  four  days  in  the  hands  of  the  authorities.  The 
house  was  diligently  searched  and  various  things  considered  suspicious 
were  found.  Of  these  it  is  only  necessary  to  note  one,  as  it  is  frequently 
alluded  to  in  the  course  of  the  process.  In  a  kind  of  copper  for  washing 
was  found  a  thick  sediment  of  a  whitish  colour,  which  was  found  to  stick 
to  the  walls  when  applied.  The  authorities  do  not  seem  to  have  been 
afraid  of  experimenting  with  a  substance  considered  so  deadly,  but  let  that 
pass.  The  unlucky  barber  seems  to  have  fancied  that  the  cause  of  his 
arrest  was  having  sold  a  medical  ointment  without  a  licence,  and  when 
interrogated  on  the  subject  of  the  thick  viscous  sediment  found  in  the 
copper,  asserts  that  it  was  "  ranno  "  or  lye  used  in  the  preparation  of  his 
specific.  In  his  first  examination  Mora  denies  having  ever  had  any  inter- 
course with  Piazza,  beyond  having  at  his  request  prepared  some  ointment 
for  him,  but  he  is  told  that  this  is  a  great  improbability — and  it  is  now 
intimated  to  the  commissioner  that  his  story  with  respect  to  his  limited 
intercourse  with  the  barber  is  also  very  improbable,  and  that  unless  he  states 
the  entire  truth  the  promise  of  impunity  will  not  extend  to  him.  Piazza 
in  great  alarm  supplements  his  story  as  follows  :  ' '  I  will  tell  your 

12—2 


236  "LA  COLONNA  INFAME.'* 

excellency  everything.  Two  days  before  giving  me  the  ointment  the  barber 
was  at  the  '  Porta  Ticinese '  in  company  with  several  others,  and  seeing 
rnc  pass,  called  me  and  said  *  Commissioner,  I  have  some  ointment  to  give 
you,'  and  I  said  to  him  'Will  you  give  it  to  me  now  ?  '  and  he  replied  '  No, 
not  now ;  '  but  afterwards  when  he  gave  it  to  me  he  told  me  it  was  to 
smear  on  the  walls  to  give  people  the  plague."  Only  the  day  before  he 
had  said  that  the  barber  had  told  him  nothing,  but  that  he  imagined  it 
must  be  poisonous  because  of  the  water  given  him  to  drink  to  preserve 
him  from  the  effects  of  the  poison.  When  asked  if  he  is  ready  to  repeat  all 
these  things,  confronted  with  the  barber  he  replies— "Yes,  certainly."  He 
is  accordingly  again  subjected  to  the  torture  in  order  to  make  him  a  cred'tll? 
witness,  for  by  the  law  no  malefactor  under  promise  of  impunity  could  give 
evidence  against  another  unless  "purged  of  his  infamy,"  that  is,  unless  he 
can  repeat  his  accusation  under  the  torture,  it  being  considered  that  if  his 
story  was  a  mere  invention  in  order  to  obtain  pardon — the  same  torture  that 
might  have  driven  him  to  invent  it  would  force  him  to  retract  his  invention. 
This  application  of  the  torture  was  doubtless  slight  and  formal,  for  we 
read  that  Piazza  sustained  it  tranquilly.  It  was  asked  him  three  or  four 
times  why  he  had  not  confessed  all  this  at  first,  and  in  every  case  he 
replies  :  "It  must  have  been  in  consequence  of  that  water  he  gave  me  to 
drink."  It  was  evident  therefore  that  the  judges  had  some  doubt  as  to  the 
truth  of  the  story,  and  that  they  wished  for  something  more  satisfactory; 
no  doubt  Piazza  himself  saw  that  there  was  a  want  of  connection  in  what 
he  said,  for  he  now  adds  :  "If  your  excellency  will  give  me  a  little  time  to 
think  over  it,  I  will  tell  you  more — in  particular  what  I  remember  about  the 
barber  and  some  others  as  well."  Accordingly  the  next  day  he  names  three 
or  four  other  persons  as  Mends  and  accomplices  of  the  barber.  In  this 
way  the  hardened  man  seeks  to  make  up,  by  a  number  of  victims,  "the  utter 
want  of  reasonable  evidence.  These  three  or  four  persons  named  by 
Piazza,  each  with  equal  foundation  name  several  others,  all  of  whom  were 
ultimately  condemned  to  atrocious"  and  refined  tortures,  and  death  ;  we 
will  not  however  speak  of  these,  but  return  to  the  process  against  Piazza 
himself  and  the  barber  Mora,  who  were  all  along  regarded  as  the  principals 
in  this  extraordinary  invest  if/atiou,  if  it  can  be  honoured  with  such  a  name. 
We  now  come  to  the  second  examination  of  Mora.  After  various  questions 
concerning  his  specific — the  viscous  substance  found  in  the  copper,  et  cetera 
• — he  is  asked,  How  it  is  that  he  professes  so  little  knowledge  of  Gugliemo 
Piazza,  when  with  so  much  freedom,  meeting  him  in  the  street,  he  recom- 
mends him  the  use  of  his  ointment,  and  even  tells  him  to  come  to  his  house 
to  take  it, — the  barber  replies  :  "  I  did  it  for  my  own  interest  in  order  to 
sell  the  ointment."  When  asked  if  he  is  acquainted  with  those  oihor 
persons  named  by  Piazza,  he  says  that  he  knows  them  by  name,  but  has 
never  had  any  dealings  with  them.  At  last  they  demand  if  he  knows  or 
has  heard  that  any  one  had  offered  money  to  the  said  commissioner 
to  smear  with  a  deadly  ointment  the  walls  of  the  houses  in  the  Via  Vctra 
de  Cittodiui,  and  he  replies,  "  No ;  I  know  nothing  about  it."  And  now 


"LA  COLONNA  INFAME."  237 

comes  the  question, — "Did  you  give  him  a  jar  of  this  deadly  ointment, 
telling  him  to  smear  it  on  the  walls  of  the  said  street,  and  promising  him  a 
handful  of  rnonc}*."  And  Mora  exclaims  with  eagerness, — "  Signor,  no  ! 
never,  never  !  I  do  such  a  thing!"  It  was  replied  to  him:  "What 
would  you  say  if  the  said  Gugliemo  Piazza  sustains  this  fact  to  your  face  ?  " 
"  I  would  say,"  rejoins  Mora,  "  that  he  is  a  lying  scoundrel ;  that  he  can- 
not say  this  because  I  have  never  never  spoken  to  him  on  such  a  subject,  so 
help  me  God !  "  Piazza  is  now  confronted  with  the  barber,  and  repeats 
his  accusations  in  full;  the  miserable  barber  cries, — "  Oh,  merciful  God  ; 
did  ever  any  one  hear  such  infamy  as  this  ?  "  he  denies  that  Piazza  was 
ever  a  friend  of  his,  and  that  he  was  ever  inside  his  house  ;  but  Piazza 
rejoins  : — "  The  barber  has  said  that  I  never  was  in  his  house  ;  let  your 
excellency  examine  Baldassar  Litta,  who  lives  in  the  house  of  Autiano  in 
the  street  San  Bernardino,  and  Stephano  Buzzo,  near  S.  Ambrogio,  both 
of  whom  know  very  well  that  I  have  been  often  in  the  house  of  the  barber." 
These  two  persons,  afterwards  examined,  declare  they  know  nothing  what- 
ever about  it.  At  the  next  examination  Mora  confesses  that  Piazza  has 
been  in  his  shop  as  a  customer,  "  but  never  in  his  house."  This  is  con- 
sidered as  contrary  to  his  former  evidence,  and  also  contrary  to  the  state- 
ment of  other  witnesses,  and  so  it  is  intimated  to  the  prisoner,  with  menaces 
of  torture,  that  he  had  better  say  the  whole  truth  on  this  matter  ;  and  he 
replies  : — "  I  have  already  told  you  the  truth,  and  the  commissioner  may 
say  what  he  likes,  for  he  is  a  lying  scoundrel."  In  virtue  of  many 
improbabilities,  discerned  by  the  acuteness  of  the  judges,  Mora  is  subjected 
to  the  most  severe  tortures.  First,  with  cries  and  heartrending  suppli- 
cations, he  asserts  that  he  is  innocent  of  any  evil ;.  but  at  length  in  his 
agony  demands, — "  AVhat  is  it  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  "  and  eventually  he 
cries  :  <:  Yes,  yes,  I  gave  him  a  jar  full  of  ointment,  and  told  him  to  smear 
the  walls  with  it.  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  let  me  down !  release  me  from 
this  torture,  and  I  will  tell  all  the  truth  !  "  He  is  let  down,  and  in  his 
subsequent  examination  is  asked,  "Who  are  those  companions  that 
Piazza  has  spoken  of  as  your  friends  and  accomplices  ?  "  Mora  replies  : 
"  I  don't  know  their  names,"  but  when  threatened  with  the  torture  he 
names  various  people  at  random — all  of  whom  are  of  course  arrested. 
Some  days  pass,  and  during  this  interval  of  repose  the  miserable  barber. 
evidently  struck  by  a  remorse  stronger  than  the  fear  of  new  torments, 
denies  all  his  previous  accusations,  says  he  never  had  anything  to  do  with  any 
poisonous  ointment,  and  that  what  he  said  was  caused  by  the  torture ;  before 
being  taken  again  to  be  put  on  the  cords  ho  entreats  to  be  allowed  to  repeat 
an  Ave  Maria,  and  he  is  permitted  to  pray  for  some  time  before  a  crucifix. 
Arising  from  his  knees,  he  says  calmly  :  "Before  God  in  heaven  and  my 
own  conscience,  all  I  have  told  you  under  the  torture  is  false."  However, 
under  new  torments  to  which  he  is  subjected,  he  again  confesses  that  all 
is  true,  and  seems,  like  Piazza,  to  become  hardened ;  he  says  it  was  his 
interest  to  keep  up  the  plague  in  order  to  sell  more  of  his  ointment ;  ho 
further  particularizes  the  ingredients  of  the  supposed  pestilential  substance, 


238  "  LA  COLONNA  INFAME." 

and  confesses  that  the  viscous  sediment  found  in  the  copper  was  one  of 
them — the  principal  ingredient  however,  he  says,  was  "  the  foam  collected 
from  the  mouths  of  those  who  had  died  from  the  plague."  However,  the 
motive  he  gives  for  his  infamous  conduct  is  not  considered  sufficiently 
strong,  and  as  the  whole  current  of  his  invented  story  differs  largely  from 
that  given  by  Piazza,  the  latter  is  informed  that  the  promise  of  impunity 
is  null  and  void,  it  having  been  clearly  proved  that  some  of  his  evidence  is 
false.  The  ingenuity  and  depravity  of  this  wretched  man  now  reaches  its 
climax.  He  evidently  thinks  if  he  can  only  succeed  in  drawing  into  the 
net  some  prodigiously  large  fish,  the  efforts  of  this  monster  to  escape 
might  make  a  hole  big  enough  for  him  to  slip  through.  Accordingly  he 
begins  throwing  out  hints  about  some  great  people  who  are  mixed  up  in  a 
very  large  conspiracy,  and  ultimately  he  declares  that  the  chief  person  in 
the  whole  business — and  from  whom  Mora  received  large  sums  of  money 
to  distribute  to  the  others — was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  son  of  the 
great  Signer  Castellano  of  Milan,  a  captain  of  a  cavalry  regiment,  and  one 
of  the  most  rising  men  in  the  city.  Here  was  a  poser  for  the  authorities. 
However,  the  barber  Mora,  after  some  time,  is  tortured  into  a  confession 
that  a  very  great  person  was  at  the  head  of  all,  but  (naturally  enough)  he 
does  not  know  who  the  great  person  is,  until  the  judges  themselves,  in  the 
course  of  a  private  examination,  let  out  the  name,  and  then  the  barber,  as 
boldly  as  Piazza,  asserts  that  they  were  both  paid  by  Capita-no  Padilla,  son 
of  the  castellano  of  Milan.  After  some  time  and  much  hesitation,  Padilla 
is  arrested,  and  his  trial  extends  over  two  years,  when  he  is  acquitted ; 
but  long  before  this  both  Piazza  and  Mora  suffer  the  penalty  due  to  their 
atrocious  crimes.  Their  sentence  was  as  follows  : — That  they  should  be 
taken  on  a  cart  to  the  place  of  execution,  and  their  bodies  burnt  with  hot 
irons ;  in  front  of  the  shop  of  the  barber  their,  right  hands  were  to  be  cut 
off,  their  backs  broken,  and  their  bodies  twisted  on  the  wheel ;  they  were 
then  to  be  suspended  in  the  air  for  six  hours,  when  their  bodies  were  to 
be  burned  to  ashes,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  It  was  further  decreed 
that  the  house  of  Giangiancorno  Mora,  barber,  was  to  be  pulled  down,  and 
on  the  space  occupied  by  it  was  to  be  erected  a  column  to  be  called 
"  Infame,"  and  in  perpetuity  it  was  forbidden  to  any  man  to  build  on  that 
spot.  There  is  no  exact  account  of  the  actual  number  of  victims  who 
Buffered  the  same  cruel  penalties  in  consequence  of  the  testimony  of  the 
commissioner  and  the  barber  Mora,  but  Verri  computes  them  as  at  least 
sixty.  It  is  almost  a  pity  that  the  "  Colonna  Infame  "  should  have  been 
pulled  down  in  1778  ;  it  should  have  been  allowed  to  remain  still  as  a 
monument  of  infamy — as  a  monument  to  the  fallibility  of  human  laws, 
and  of  the  inhuman  cruelty  and  wilful  imbecility  of  the  judges  who  so 
administered  justice. 


239 


S&iont    (Ebge, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

\TATCinxa  ox  A  WINTER'S  XIGIIT. 

ASTER  BUXTON'S  been  back  this 
two  hours  and  more,"  said  German, 
coming  into  the  kitchen  at  Stone 
Edge  dripping  wet  from  the  farm 
below,  where  his  father  had  told 
him  to  meet  him  for  company 
across  the  Lone  Moor. 

"  He  says  feytherwere  a  sitting 
drinking  when  he  come  away  and 
couldn't  be  got  off  nohow.  He 
kep'  on  saying  he'd  be  arter  'urn 
in  no  time." 

The  women  looked  aghast. 
"  Thee'st  been  o'  thy  legs  a'  day, 
German,  thou'st  like  to  be  drowned, 
my  lad, ' '  said  Lydia,  sadly.  ' '  Dost 
thee  think  thee  couldst  go  to  th' 
Mill  and  meet  un  ?  An  he's  in 
liquor  he'll  ne'er  get  back  safe,  wi' 
all  that  money  too.  Seek  to  keep 

t  im  there  an  thee  canst,  and  come  on  i'  th'  morning.    Tak'  my  cloak  about 

t'.iee,  and  a  sup  o'  elder  wine." 

The  lad  took  a  lantern  and  the  cape,  and  went  off  on  his  doleful 

qaest.     When  he  reached  the  valley,  however,  no  one  had  seen  or  heard 

o  :*  Ashford  at  the  few  houses  near  the  road,  and  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock 

v,  hen  he  reached  the  toll-bar. 

"Nay,  I've  seen  none  of  thy  feyther,  more  shame  for  him.     Come  in 

and  dry  thysen,"  said  the  man.     "  Thou  canstna  miss  him  here.     Why, 

tl  ee'lt  melt  away  to  nothing,  thee'rt  so  wet !  " 

German  looked  wistfully  at  the  warm  fire  within — he  had  been  on  his 

fe;)t  ever  since  five  that   morning.     He   pulled  off  his  wet  blouse  and 

trousers,  which  he  hung  up  before  the  fire,  and  then  lay  down  on  the 

settle  while  they  dried.     In  a  moment  he  was  fast  asleep. 

Meanwhile  the  two  women  watched  and  waited.      The  ruddy  light  of 

tl  e  fire  played  over  the  wide  old  kitchen,  touching  a  bright  point  here  and 


240  STONE   EDGE. 

there,  and  making  a  Rembrandt  picture  with  all  the  interest  collected 
into  the  warm  brilliancy  of  the  centre,  and  black  depths  and  dancing 
shadows  gathering  mysteriously  in  the  further  corners.  They  sat  and 
span,  and  the  whirring  of  the  wheels  was  all  the  sound  that  was  heard  in 
the  house.  It  is  surprising  how  few  candles  are  used  in  farmhouses  and 
cottages  :  unless  there  is  needle-work  to  be  done,  firelight  serves  in  winter, 
and  in  summer  they  go  to  rest  and  rise  with  the  sun.  The  wind  rose  as 
the  night  went  on  and  the  fire  sank.  At  last  even  the  spinning  stopped, 
and  Lydia  and  Cassandra  sat  on  in  the  gloom.  But  few  words  were 
exchanged  between  them ;  death  and  misery,  and  care  and  ruin,  were 
hanging  over  them  by  the  turning  of  a  hair,  and  they  were  bracing  them- 
selves, each  in  her  different  way,  to  meet  them. 

"  Dear  heart  o'  me,  it's  a  fierce  night  both  for  man  and  beast,"  said 
Lydia  at  last.  "  I  wonder  where  German's  got  to  by  now  a  struggling 
through  the  mire." 

"I'd  reether  be  him,"  answered  Cassie  with  a  sigh;  "  it's  harder 
work  to  ha'  to  sit  still  and  hear  the  wild  winds  shoutin'  round  us  o'  this 
fashion." 

"  The  storm  is  tremenduous  to-night,  surely.  We  mun  look  the  candle 
ain't  blowed  out  towards  the  Moor,"  observed  Lydia,  going  from  time  to 
time  to  see  after  the  welfare  of  the  little  lighthouse — which  she  had  care- 
fully sheltered  from  the  blast  by  a  fortification  of  pans  and  jugs.  The 
great  fear,  however,  that  underlay  all  was  put  into  words  by  neither  of 
them.  The  winter's  wind  howled  and  sighed,  and  moaned  and  struggled 
round  the  house  with  a  sort  of  fitful  angry  vehemence.  A  storm  easily 
became  almost  a  whirlwind  on  that  exposed  spot,  and  shook  and  rattled 
the  unshuttered  casements  till  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  have  been 
driven  in.  There  seemed  to  the  women  to  be  wailing  cries  sometimes  in 
the  howling  of  the  blast,  which  shook  the  door  and  the  windows  with 
the  sort  of  pitiful  fierce  longing  to  get  in,  which  makes  it  seem  almost 
like  a  personal  presence.  It  is  an  eerie  thing  to  sit  in  the  dark  in 
a  lonely  house  on  such  a  night,  when  all  the  spirits  and  ghosts  and 
powers  of  the  air  of  early  belief  seem  to  be  natural : 

Those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  and  under  ground 

appear  to  be  all  abroad.  We  have  nearly  forgotten  the  awe  which  Nature 
inspired  when  man  struggled,  weak  and  alone,  with  her  mighty  powers,  and 
was  generally  worsted,  as  it  seems,  in  the  days  of  cave  and  lake  dwellers, 
and  makers  of  flint  weapons.  We  judge  of  her,  beaten,  cabined,  and  con- 
fined, as  we  see  her  and  use  her  in  cities  and  civilized  places,  and  we  have 
lost  the  terror  of  her  which  formed  so  large  a  part  of  the  religions  of  old. 

"  Didst  thou  not  hear  the  dog  howling  a  while  back?"  said  Cassie, 
anxiously,  in  a  lull  of  the  wind.  "  They  say  as  that  means  a  death  for 
summun  as  is  not  far  off ;  and  there's  the  boggat  thee  knowest  at  the  turn- 
ing nigh  th'  auld  mill,  where  the  man  was  drownded  as  long  Tim  see'd 


STONE  EDGE.  241 

a  while  back  he  telled  mo  ;  and  they  say  as  the  ghost  at  the  Durable 
shows  hisself  when  any  one  is  nigh  to  death,"  added  the  girl,  beginning 
to  pile  up  one  terror  on  another  in  her  restless  misery. 

"I  dunua  think  as  I  should  much  mind  meeting  them  as  is  gone," 
answered  Lydia,  gently  ;  "and  some  on  'era  I'd  give  a  deal  to  see  again, 
in  the  ilesh  or  out  on  it.  They  canna  do  us  any  hurt  as  I  can  see." 

"  But  them  ill  things  as  is  nicbbe  about  now  i'  th'  wind  ?  "  whispered 
poor  Cassie,  in  an  awestruck  voice. 

"  Dearie,  I  tak'  it  God  A'mighty's  more  cleverablo  and  strong  nor  all 
the  devils  put  togither  ;  they're  but  a  poor  lot  to  strive  again  the  great  God 
as  rules  the  world,  and  I'm  not  afraid,  nayther  for  them  wTe  loves  nor  for 
oursen.  Wilt  thou  not  get  thee  to  bed,  dear  child  ?  I  think  the  storm's 
going  down,  and  thee'lt  be  worcd  out  wi'  watching,"  said  Lydia,  as  the 
clock  struck  twelve. 

"  What,  and  leave  thee  in  the  dreary  night  thy  lane  !  "      m 
"  Then  lie  down  o'  th'  settle,  dearie."    And  she  began  to  prepare  a  place 
for  her  ;  but  almost  before   she  could  look  round,   Cassie  had  dragged 
down  pillows  and  blankets  for  both  from  upstairs.      They  lay  in  silence 
for  some  time. 

"  How  strange  'tis,  that  sonic  folk's  lives  is  just  wait,  wait,  wait,  and 
it's  so  weary,"  said  Cassie,  with  a  sort  of  impatient  sigh.  "  An  I  were  in 
my  grave  I  couldn't  be  farther  off  hearing  o'  lloland.  I  mid  a'most  as  well 
be  dead  ;  I'm  a  no  good  to  nobod}r,"  she  ended,  drearily. 

"  How  iver  canst  thee  talk  o'  that  fashion ;  what  dost  thee  think  I 
bhould  do  wi'out  thee  ?  "  answered  Lydia,  sadly. 

The  girl  drew  her  closer  to  her  side  on  the  "  sofee  "  without  speaking. 
"  To-night's  the  very  pattern  o'  my  life  ;  I'm  ]ike  a  sheep .  caught  in  the 
thicket,  as  canna  stir  ony  way,"  she  said  at  last. 

Lydia  had  never  heard  of  Milton,  but  her  answer  was  much  the  same 
as  if  she  had  known  him  by  heart.  "  The  Lord  has  different  ways  of 
serving  Him,  dear  heart ;  'tis  sometimes  the  hardest  work  He  gives  us 
for  to  be  still.  Please  God  'tain't  for  allus  wi'  thee  ;  there  comes  a  stormy 
time  and  sunshine  to  all.  '  Lo,  the  winter  has  ceased,  the  rain  is  over  and 
gone,'  says  the  wise  Solomon  in  his  song  ;  and  'tis  true  both  for  man  and 
weather.  Sure  the  wind  is  lulling  even  now." 

She  got  up  as  she  spoke  and  looked  out  into  the  night :  the  storm 
seemed  to  have  blown  itself  away,  and  the  moon  was  shining  high  in  thi 
heavens,  with  nothing  near  her  but  masses  of  white  fleecy  cloud  careering 
at  a  great  height  from  the  ground  in  the  keen  north  wind  which  had  risen. 
"  The  winds  and  rain  pass  over  our  life,  but  the  moon  and  stars  are 
shining  steady  behind  the  clouds  for  a'  that.  An  our  feet  are  fixed  on  His 
rock  we  shanna  be  moved.  '  Wait,'  says  the  Psalm.  But  then  it  ain't 
waiting  bare  and  cold  like  ;  doesna  He  put  the  comfort  after  it  ?  Wait, 
I  say,  upon  the  Lord,"  ended  Lydia,  solemnly.  And  then  they  lay  down 
in  each  other's  arms  and  slept  for  two  or  three  hours,  worn  out  by  their 
long  vigil  of  constant  expectation,  than  which  nothing  is  more  trying. 

12—5 


242  STONE  EDGE. 

CHAPTEE  XV. 

WHAT  WAS  FOUND  UNDER  THE  TOE. 

"  GATE  !  "  shouted  a  carter  before  the  closed  toll-bar.  The  moon  was 
nearly  at  the  full,  shining  very  brightly.  German  sprang  up  and  huddled 
on  his  things.  It  was  almost  four  o'clock ;  he  could  hardly  believe  that  he 
had  slept  so  long.  "  There's  been  a  murder,  they  say,  up  th'  dale ;  they'd 
a  fun'  a  body  lyin'  in  the  road,  and  was  a  goin'  for  summat  to  bring  it 
in,"  said  the  man.  "  But  I  daredna  wait  for  to  see  un — I'd  got  coals  for 
to  fetch.  I  thought  I  mid  be  back  though,  an  I  made  haste." 

The  lad  gave  a  loud  cry :  he  felt  sure  whose  body  it  was. 

"  Why,  what's  come  to  the  boy  ?  "  said  the  carter,  as  German  set  off 
at  a  run. 

"It's  his  drunken  feyther,  he  thinks,  most  like." 

"  What,  is  yon  young  German  Ashford  frae  the  Lone  More  ?  He  mun 
hae  his  handful  an  they  speak  true  on  his  feyther." 

There  was  a  sort  of  small  hamlet  gathered  round  a  public -house  a  little 
further  on,  and  the  lad  ran  panting  through.  Early  as  it  was,  women's 
faces  were  looking  out  of  the  windows,  and  the  boys  were  coming  out  like 
flies.  Any  excitement  is  pleasant  in  a  village,  and  a  murder  best  of  all. 

"  They  say  'tis  just  beyond  the  big  Tor,"  they  cried,  as  the  boy  slack- 
ened his  pace  to  inquire. 

He  came  up  at  length  to  the  place,  about  a  mile  beyond.  The  great 
perpendicular  rocks  jutted  out  like  fortress  towers  at  a  turn  in  the  narrow 
valley,  apparently  blocking  all  further  passage  to  the  road.  The  moon 
was  shining  on  the  broad  white  face  of  the  limestone  "  Tor,"  out  of  which 
grew  a  black  yew  from  a  rift  near  the  top,  and  seemed  to  hang  almost  in 
mid  air.  The  dale  below  lay  in  the  deepest  shadow,  except  where  through 
a  gap  in  the  steep  walls  of  rock  the  light  shone  on  the  stream — turbid  and 
swollen  with  the  late  rains  and  flowing  rapidly  across  the  road — and  on 
the  face  of  the  murdered  man  as  he  lay  close  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 
near  the  stone  over  which  he  had  been  thrown.  The  old  mare  had  been 
found  grazing  not  far  off,  and  two  men  who  had  come  up,  after  vainly 
trying  to  lift  the  dreary  burden  of  her  master  upon  her  back,  were  putting 
him  into  a  sort  of  barrow,  which  they  had  brought  with  them.  "  He  ain't 
dead,"  said  one  of  them,  compassionately,  as  the  boy  pressed  panting  up. 

"But  that's  pretty  nigh  all  you  can  say.  He'd  take  a  pretty  deal  o' 
killing  would  old  Ashford,"  said  the  other,  without  any  intention  of  being 
unkind. 

Meantime,  German  was  striving  to  raise  the  head  and  chafe  the  hands. 

"  You'd  best  take  un  to  the  '  Miner's  Anns,'  my  lad.  The  winimen 
and  the  doctors  mun  tak'  him  in  hand;  ye  canna  do  noething,"  said  they 
kindly,  and  began  to  move.  German  looked  round  on  the  place.  The 
marks  of  the  struggle,  if  there  had  been  one,  were  hidden  in  a  sea  of  mud  ; 
there  were  a  few  spots  of  blood  where  the  head  had  lain — nothing  more 
was  to  be  seen. 


STONE  EDGE.  243 

"I've  a  searched  all  round,"  said  the  man,  in  answer  to  his  inquiring 
glance,  "  and  canna  find  owt  but  the  cudgel  that  must  ha'  smashed  un's 
yead,  and  this  bit  o'  broken  pipe.  Is  un  yer  father's?"  said  he,  as  the 
boy  walked  beside  him  leading  the  horse. 

German  shook  his  head.  "  He'd  a  long  sight  o'  money  wi'  him  as  he 
were  a  bringing  for's  rent  at  the  squire's,  but  I  s'pose  a'  that's  gone." 

"Him  as  hit  yon  hole  in  un,  wouldna  ha'  left  the  brass  alone,"  said 
the  man;  "but  }7ou'd  best  look  i'  his  pockets  yersen."  German  did  as  he 
was  bid,  and  the  doleful  little  party  moved  on.  Presently  they  were  met 
by  all  the  available  boys  in 'the  place,  and  many  of  the  men  too. 

"  Won't  one  o'  they  chaps  leave  looking  and  go  for  the  doctor  ?  "  said 
German,  wrathfully,  though  in  so  low  a  voice  that  the  men  could  hardly 
hear. 

"  Go  off,  young  un,  and  tell  Dr.  Baily  as  there's  been  a  man  murdered  ; 
he'll  be  here  fast  enough." 

Another  little  messenger  was  despatched  to  Stone  Edge,  but  the  late 
dull  winter's  dawn  had  risen  before  Lydia  and  Cassie  could  arrive, 
although  they  came  down  the  hill  as  quickly  as  possible,  bringing  with 
them  the  little  cart  to  take  Ashford  home ;  but  the  doctor  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  moved. 

There  was  scarcely  any  help  possible  for  him,  however,  now,  either 
from  the  women  or  the  doctors  :  he  could  neither  move  nor  speak ;  the 
tough  old  frame  was  just  alive,  but  that  was  all,  and  they  could  do 
nothing  but  sit  by  watching  the  fading  life  ebb  slowly  away  in  the  little 
low  dark  bedroom  of  the  "  Miner's  Arms." 

"Poor  feyther,"  repeated  Cassie,  as  she  leant  against  the  post  of  the 
bed  looking  sadly  on,  while  Lydia  sat  silently  by  the  dying  man,  bathing 
the  head  according  to  the  doctor's  directions,  with  that  sort  of  unutterable 
sadness  which  yet  is  very  different  from  sorrow.  The  personal  character 
of  the  man  had,  however,  as  it  were,  died  with  him,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
have  remained  but  the  relation  to  themselves.  "  It "  was  their  father  and 
her  husband  :  all  else  had  been  wiped  out  by  the  pitying  hand  of  death. 
German  came  restlessly  in  and  out  of  the  room,  tormented  by  the  ceaseless 
questionings  and  suppositions  and  surmises  below-stairs,  and  yet  feeling 
of  no  use  in  the  chamber  of  death  above. 

"  To  be  sure  what  a  turn  it  giv'  me  when  first  I  heerd  on  it !  Ye  might 
ha'  knocked  me  down  wi'  a  straw,"  said  the  landlady,  who  looked  like  a 
man  in  petticoats,  and  whose  portly  person  nearly  filled  the  doorway 
as  she  looked  in  with  kindly  intentions  of  help.  "And  ye  can't  do 
nothin',  doctor  says, — and  all  the  money  gone  too,  I  hear  ?  You'd  a  sore 
hantle  wi*  him  bytimes  an  all  tales  be  true  ;  but  for  a'  that  it's  a  pity  to 
see  a  man's  yead  drove  in  like  a  ox's.  I'm  a  coming,"  she  called  out  for 
the  fifth  time.  The  little  public  was  doing  "  a  middlin'  tidy  business,"  as 
she  said,  that  day ;  liquor  was  at  a  premium,  for  curiosity  is  a  thirsty 
passion,  and  the  landlady's  duties  were  thick  upon  her.  But  she  found 
time  continually  to  come  up  and  administer  appropriate  consolations. 


244  STONE   EDGE. 

"  Yer'll  bury  him  decent  and  coinf'able,"  said  she  another  time.  "  I 
were  like  to  hae  died  Janawary  come  a  twelvemonth,  and  I  were  so  low  and 
bad  I  could  ha'  howled,  and  my  master  he  ups  and  says  so  kind,  *  Now 
don't  ye  take  on,  Betty ;  I'll  do  a'  things  handsome  by  ye.  I'll  bury  ye 
wi'  beef!  " 

In  a  few  hours  all  was  over. 

The  world  must  go  on,  however,  whether  life  or  death  be  on  hand ; 
cows  must  be  milked  and  beasts  fed.  "  We  must  be  back  to  Stone  Edge," 
said  Lydia,  with  a  sigh.  "  There's  nobody  but  Tom  i'  charge,  and  he's  but 
a  poor  leer  [empty]  chap." 

"  German  mun  stop  and  bring  the  body  up  home  arter  the  inquest. 
They  say  they'll  get  it  done  afore  night,  else  we  shanna  get  him  home 
at  a'.  There's  more  storms  coming  up,  and  the  snow'll  fall  when  the  wind 
lulls,'"  added  Cassie. 

"Sure  it'll  be  here  afore  morning;  the  wind's  uncommon  nipping," 
said  the  landlady,  as  the  two  women  walked  silently  away. 

It  is  more  mournful  on  such  occasions  not  to  be  able  to  regret.  Not  to 
grieve,  not  to  suffer  loss,  was  the  real  woe,  as  they  wound  their  sad  way 
home  in  the  chill  bleak  winter's  day,  with  a  dull  sort  of  nameless  pain  at 
their  hearts. 

The  absence  of  complaint  is  most  remarkable  in  the  peasant  class  : 
they  mostly  take  the  heaviest  shock  quietly,  as  coming  immediately  "  from 
the  hand  of  God."  "As  a  plain  fact,  whose  right  or  wrong  they  question 
not,  confiding  still  that  it  shall  last  not  over  long." 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

A  MIDNIGHT  "FLITTING." 

THE  town  of  Youlcliffe,  though  considered  by  its  inhabitants  as  a  great 
city,  consisted  of  little  more  than  one  long  street  which  wandered  up 
and  down  the  steepest  "pitches,"  according  to  the  lay  of  the  hill  on  which 
it  was  set,  in  an  extraordinary  fashion.  Indeed,  in  sonic  parts  the  street 
was  so  steep  that  in  frosty  weather  a  cart  could  hardly  get  up  or  down. 
There  seemed  no  reason  why  there  should  have  been  any  town  in  that 
place  at  all :  there  was  no  river,  it  was  singularly  out  of  the  way  and  incon- 
venient of  access — yet  it  was  the  "chef  lieu  "  of  the  "  wap  intake  "  and 
tho  seat  of  the  Mineral  courts,  which,  ruling  by  their  own  strange  laws, 
make  wild  work  of  what  are  considered  in  more  favoured  regions  as  rights 
of  property. 

The  backs  of  all  the  houses  opened  upon  lonely  fields,  and  Joshua's 
was  particularly  well  adapted  to  his  wants.  The  one-eyed  front  stood  rt 
a  corner  of  the  grey  old  market-place,  not  too  much  overlooked,  yet  seeing 
everything.  Alongside  the  dwelling-house  opened  the  deep  dark  stcne 
archway  which  led  into  a  labyrinth  of  cattle-sheds  and  pens,  beyond  which 
lay  a  small  croft  for  the  use  of  his  beasts,  abutting  on  a  blind  lane  which 


STONE   EDGE.  2-15 

Id  to  the  high-road  into  YoulclhTe.  Walls  in  this  district  are  built  to  clear 
the  fields  of  stone,  and  the  stones  had  been  so  abundant  here  that  a  man 
pissing  along  the  path  in  the  lane  was  completely  concealed  by  the  high 
vails.  His  comings  and  goings  were  therefore  almost  as  free  as  if  he  had 
lived  in  the  open  country,  his  beasts  were  brought  in  and  let  out  behind 
the  house  at  his  pleasure  and  no  one  was  much  the  wiser,  while  the  wide 
'ff  ite  under  the  archway  was  always  kept  locked.  Through  this  back  way 
in  the  drenching  rain  passed  Joshua  on  his  "  affairs  "  that  evening,  and 
through  it  he  returned.  He  was  alone  in  the  house,  for  he  had  sent  Roland 
a.vay  upon  some  pretext ;  he  was  wet  through,  and  he  changed  everything, 
a  id  went  out  again  into  the  town.  It  was  not  yet  above  six  o'clock.  "  A' 
that  in  such  a  little  while,"  he  went  on  saying  to  himself  with  a  shudder 
— -"  such  a  little  while  !  "  He  looked  in  at  the  public,  got  his  gin,  and 
ii  quired  for  the  horsedealer.  He  went  to  the  chemist's  and  bought  a 
h'i'porth  of  peppermint,  as  ho  said  he  had  the  colic,  and  then  home, 
where  he  sat  quaking — "  with  cold,"  as  he  told  himself.  When  his  sou 
cunie  in  he  went  to  bed,  saying  that  he  was  ailing,  which  was  perfectly 
tiue.  Roland  could  not  make  him  out  at  all.  The  next  morning  he  carne 
b.ick  in  great  agitation  to  the  kitchen,  where  his  father  sat  moodily 
Blooping  over  the  fire,  half-dressed,  his  knee-breeches  undone,  his 
\vlveteen  jacket  unbuttoned. 

"  They  say  as  Fanner  Ashford  were  robbed  last  night  o'  all  that 
ironey  as  were  Cassie's,  and  welly  murdered  too  ;  they  say  'twere  the 
horsedealer  drinking  wi'  him  as  done  it.  I  ha'  been  up  to  the  turning  i* 
tb'  road  for  to  see  the  place  ;  but  they'd  ha'  fetched  him  away  afore 
diiylight.  There  were  his  blood  about  still,  though,"  he  said,  pityingly. 

It  was  close  to  the  place  where  he  had  asked  Cassie  to  marry  him ;  but 
k  >,  kept  this  in  his  own  heart. 

"  What,  he's  not  dead  ?  "  said  Joshua,  looking  up  at  his  son  for  the 
fi-st  time.  It  seemed  to  take  a  weight  oif  his  mind.  "I'd  a  heerd  tell 
OH  it  afore,"  he  added,  in  great  confusion. 

A  horrible  dread  flashed  over  Roland's  mind.  He  suddenly  remeni- 
biTed  that  he  had  heard  a  stranger's  voice  quarrelling  with  his  father 
among  the  cattle-sheds  the  day  before  as  he  was  going  out  of  the 
h  >use  into  the  market-place  with  a  beast  which  was  to  be  sold;  he 
fancied  that  ho  knew  the  voice,  but  he  could  not  at  the  moment 
r<  collect  to  whom  it  belonged,  and  a  quarrel  for  Joshua  on  market-day 
vis  too  common  for  it  to  interest  him  much.  He  now  felt  sure  that 
tie  horsedealer  Jackman  had  been  there,  and  he  remembered  how  his 
father  had  come  to  him  hurriedly  later  in  the  day  and  sent  him  off 
oi  an  errand  concerning  some  cattle  to  a  village  several  miles  off, 
without  much  apparent  reason — evidently,  he  saw  now,  to  get  him  out  of 
tie  way.  He  turned  off  in  his  agony  down  into  the  yard;  when  he  came 
b-.ck  Joshua  had  dressed  himself  and  gone  out  into  the  town.  He  went 
straight  to  the  centre  of  all  news,  the  public.  A  group  of  men  stood 
ri'iind  the  door  discussing  the  murder. 


246  STONE  EDGE. 

"  There  were  an  ill-looking  chap  as  were  quarrelling  wi'  him  a'  the 
arternoou,"  said  one,  "  a  strivin'  to  keep  him  late." 

"  It  were  that  horsedealer  as  they  said  come  from  York;  I  never  seen 
a  worser.  Then  Ashford  were  so  contrairy  like,"  said  another. 

"I  hadn't  the  speech  o'  him  a'  yesterday,  nor  for  weeks  back,"  said 
Joshua,  which  was  quite  true,  and  then  he  went  home.  He  was  a 
singularly  active  man  for  his  age  :  he  had  been  a  celebrated  morris-dancer, 
and  famous  for  feats  of  strength  and  agility  in  his  time,  and  boasted  much 
of  his  powers  ;  but  now  he  seemed  thoroughly  worn  out.  Eoland  found 
him  fumbling  among  the  things  on  the  dresser.  "  I  want  some  tea,"  said 
he,  "  wi'  my  gin,"  and  his  son  knew  things  must  be  very  bad ;  his  father 
took  refuge  in  tea  only  as  a  last  resource.  As  he  turned  to  the  fire  he  let 
drop  the  teapot  from  his  trembling  hands,  and  it  was  broken  by  the  fall. 
Joshua  almost  turned  pale ;  it  was  a  bad  omen.  "  And  it  were  yer 
mother's,"  he  said,  looking  guiltily  at  Roland. 

Later  in  the  day  he  went  out  again  and  inquired  anxiously  after 
Ashford :  he  was  dead,  they  thought,  and  had  never  spoken.  After  he  was 
found,  Joshua  returned  to  his  house  and  sat  on  silently  with  his  head  on 
his  hands  by  the  fire  ;  at  last  he  gave  involuntarily  a  sudden  groan. 
Roused  by  it  he  looked  aghast  at  Roland,  who  stood  moodily  by  the 
window  before  a  row  of  half-dead  plants  which  had  belonged  to  his 
mother  and  always  reminded  him  of  her,  and  which  he  had  never 
allowed  his  father  to  throw  away. 

"I  suppose  you  know  we're  ruined,  lad ?"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  to 
put  his  agitation  on  that  head. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  man,  without  looking  up. 

"  Eliot,  and  Amat,  and  Buxton,  all  on  'm  together — no  man  could 
stand  it.  I  canna  pay.  I  mun  sell  and  go."  Roland  was  silent.  "  I 
think  we  mun  go  to  Liverpool — there's  a  many  things  I  could  do  there  wi' 
the  cattle  frae  Ireland — or  to  th'  Isle  o'  Man."  Roland  never  stirred. 
1 '  Ye'll  go  wi'  me,  boy  ? ' '  said  his  father,  anxiously.  ' '  Ye  wunna  desert  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  in  a  choking  voice,  with  a  deep  sigh — 
almost  a  sob. 

It  was  strange  to  see  how  his  father  clung  to  him :  it  had  always  been 
the  one  soft  place  in  Joshua's  heart ;  there  was  a  sort  of  womanly  tender- 
ness in  Roland,  which  he  inherited  from  his  mother,  after  which  his  father 
yearned  in  his  trouble  with  an  exceeding  longing. 

That  evening  the  coroner's  inquest  was  held  on  Ashford's  body. 
Joshua  attended  it,  for  the  coroner  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  he  trusted  to 
him  not  to  make  things  more  unpleasant  than  necessary.  The  few  words 
he  uttered  only  turned  on  what  every  one  knew  to  be  true,  that  the  old 
farmer  had  been  delayed  by  the  horsedealer  till  his  friends  were  all  gone. 
Other  evidence  showed  that  the  man  had  said  he  was  going  to  Hawkesley, 
after  which  he  had  been  seen  leaving  Youlclifie  by  the  other  road.  The  bit 
of  pipe  was  identified  as  his,  by  a  drover  who  had  noticed  the  carved 
bowl. 


STONE  EDGE.  247 

Lastly,  the  old  woman  at  the  turnpike  farther  up  the  valley  bore  witness 
t-iat  a  man  on  a  dark  horse  had  thundered  at  the  gate  (her  man  was  ill 
slie  said,  and  she  went  out  to  open  it  herself  with  a  lantern.).  "  She  had 
no  change  for  a  shilling  which  he  offered,  and  he  swore  violently  at  her  for 
the  delay,  and  threw  a  silver  « token'  at  her  with  an  oath  :  '  he  couldn't 
wait  no  more,'  he  said,  and  rode  on  as  the  Devil  sot  behint  him."  The 
man  to  whom  Ashford  sold  his  calf  remembered  that  a  similar  piece  had 
been  amongst  the  money  which  he  had  paid  to  the  old  farmer. 

The  evidence  was  all  against  the  missing  horseman,  and  so  the 
vjrdict  bore.  But  though  all  had  gone  off  satisfactorily  at  the  inquest, 
Joshua  felt  that  strange  looks  were  cast  upon  him.  One  man  had  heard 
him  speaking  to  the  stranger  earlier  in  the  day,  another  had  "  seen  a 
back  uncommon  like  yon  ugly  chap's  "  turning  into  the  blind  lane  which 
ltd  to  Joshua's  house.  In  former  days,  too,  he  was  known  to  have  boasted 
o  i:  his  acquaintance  with  a  horsedealer  at  York.  No  one  seemed  to  care  to 
b  3  in  his  company  ;  he  felt  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  fear,  and  hurried 
o  i  measures  for  his  bankruptcy,  talking  rather  loudly  of  his  losses  and 
his  miseries,  till  poor  Roland  once  or  twice  went  home  and  hid  himself 
M  ith  shame.  He  had  desired  his  son  to  keep  their  destination  a  profound 
secret,  but  Roland  was  determined  in  no  case  to  be  dependent  on  his 
iVther,  and  knew  that  in  a  strange  place  there  was  small  chance  of  his 
obtaining  work  without  a  reference.  He  watched,  therefore,  for  Nathan, 
\\lio  was  almost  his  only  friend:  he  felt  ashamed  to  go  near  his  house, 
M  here  Martha  Savage  and  her  dreaded  tongue  were  said  to  be  staying ; 
b  it  at  last  one  day  he  saw  the  old  man  in  his  close  and  went  sadly  up 
to  meet  him. 

"I'm  come  to  bid  ye  good-by  an  ye'll  shake  hands  wi'  me,  Master 
Nathan.  Is  there  ony  place  out  a  long  way  where  ye  could  help  me  to 
g;dn  a  livin'  ?  I've  heerd  ye  say  as  ye  used  one  time  to  ha'e  dealin's  at 
Liverpool  along  o'  Bessie's  father  as  is  gone.  Ye  know  feyther's  ruined 
a]  id  goin'  away — he  says  he  dunna  know  where.  Would  ye  gi'e  me  a 
re  commend  an  we  go  there,  and  say  nowt  ?  'twould  be  no  end  o'  kindness 
to  one  as  wants  it  sore,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  sadly. 

The  old  man  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"  I'll  not  tell  on  thee,  poor  lad,  and  I'd  gi'e  ye  twenty  recommends 
an't  wer  for  thysen ;  but  wi'  that  drag  round  thy  neck  how  can  I  certify  to 
folk  thou'st  all  right,  boy?  But,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "I  wunna 
ste  thee  life- wrecked  for  that  neither.  There's  an  old  Quaker  man  I 
knows  there.  I'll  tell  him  thy  father's  uncommon  shifty,  let  alone  worse, 
but  that  thou'st  as  honest  as  the  day,  and  then  mebbe,  wi'  his  eyes  open, 
h(  may  do  sununut  for  thee.  And,  Roland,"  added  Nathan,  gravely,  "  the 
Devil  gives  folk  long  leases  betimes,  but  he  tak's  his  own  at  the  end. 
'  letter  is  little  with  the  fear  o'  the  Lord,  than  great  treasure  and  troubles 
th  erewith ;  '  but  I  doubt  it  ain't  much  riches  as  thy  father'll  win  :  it'll  be 
the  promise  nayther  o'  this  world  nor  the  one  after  an  he  goes  on  o' 
this  fashion.  It's  ill  touching  pitch  and  no  to  be  defiled3  or  to  shake 


248  STONE   EDGE. 

hands  wi'  a  chinibley- sweep  and  not  divty  thysen ;  and  it  behoves  thee  to 
tak'  double  heed  to  thy  ways." 

The  young  man  v.Tung  his  hand  in  silence. 

"  And  ye' 11  mind,  my  lad,"  the  old  man  ended  affectionately,  "  as  yer 
mother  were  a  pious  woman  and  one  as  loved  ye  dearly,  and  there 
were  my  Bessie  as  cared  for  ye  a'most  as  thou'dst  been  her  own  ;  and  it 
would  grieve  'urn  both  sorely  and  put  'urn  out — ay,  even  where  they're 
gone  to — an  ye  took  to  bad  ways." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Eoland,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I'm  thinkin'  o'  goin'  away  for  a  bit,"  said  Nathan,  after  a  pause. 
"  'Tain't  lively  livin'  here  my  lane,  wi'  nobody  to  fettle  me  and  the  cow  ; 
and  my  nieee  Martha  she  just  worrits  me  to  come  to  her  to  try.  I've  been 
bo  bad  wi'  the  rheumatics  as  I  could  hardly  stir,  and  she  says  I  shall  be  a 
deal  better  in  her  house,  as  it's  warmer." 

"  Hav'  ye  seen  owt  o'  Cassie  ?  "  said  Eoland  with  a  sigh,  thinking  of 
another  niece. 

"  She  come  down  when  her  father  were  a  dying  to  the  *  Miner's 
Arms  '  for  to  see  the  last  on  him,  but  I  didn't  set  eyes  on  her.  I'd 
hurted  my  foot  and  couldn't  get  down.  You'd  best  not  think  o'  her,  my 
lad  belike;  what  can  there  be  atwixt  her  and  thee  now  ?  "  And  so  they 
parted. 

The  next  night  Joshua  and  his  son  made  a  "  midnight  flitting" 
through  the  back  lane.  There  was  a  horse  still  left  of  the  old  man's 
former  possessions  and  a  rude  little  cart,  in  which  they  drove  forth 
together  into  the  wide  world.  All  was  still  as  Roland  looked  his  last  at 
his  old  home,  still  and  cold  ;  there  was  little  light  but  the  reflection  from 
the  snow,  and  familiar  objects  look  doubly  strange  under  the  cover  of 
starlight  and  mantle  of  white  snow.  He  looked  up  at  the  hills  and  down 
the  valley  towards  Stone  Edge  with  a  cold  grip  at  his  heart  as  the  old 
man  drove  away  as  rapidly  as  the  horse  would  go,  with  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder  as  they  went,  "  fearing  though  no  man  pursued."  The  crunching 
of  the  snow  under  their  wheels  was  all  the  sound  they  heard  ;  still  and 
cold,  on  into  the  dreary  night  they  drove.  "  Shall  I  never  sec  her 
again  ?  "  Roland  moaned  in  his  heart,  but  he  did  not  utter  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  FUNERAL  FEAST  IN  THE  SNOW. 

GERMAN  had  remained  at  the  little  public  till  the  inquest  was  over,  to  give 
evidence  and  bring  home  the  body  afterwards  to  Stone  Edge.  The  night 
was  falling  and  the  snow  had  begun,  as  wet  and  weary  he  toiled  up 
the  long  rough  moorland  road  with  his  dismal  charge. 

"  Did  aught  come  out  as  to  who  could  ha'  done  such  a  thing  ?"  said 
Cassie,  anxiously,  as  he  came  into  the  house  at  Stone  Ed^c. 


STONE  EDGE.  249 

"  It  must;  lia'  been  summiin  as  Imowed  he'd  so  much  money  about  un," 
observed  Lydia,  sadly. 

"  They  all  knowcd  that  pretty  much  i'  th'  market,"  said  the  lad,  a  little 
impatiently;  "  but  they  made  it  out  upo'  th'  inquest  it  were  a  horsedealer 
man  as  were  wrangling  wi'  him  best  part  o'  th'  arternoon." 

11  'Taint  nobody  in  these  parts  as  would  go  for  to  do  such  a  wicked 
thing,  I'm  main  sure  o'  that,"  put  in  Cassie,  warmly. 

"  There  were  a  deal  o'  talk  about  Joshua,  however,  for  a'  that," 
*  nswered  her  brother,  reluctantly ;  "but  the  crowner  he  says,  says  he, 
'  When  ye  hae  got  a  man,  a  foreigner  like,  ready  to  yer  hand  as  'twere 
ior  th'  murder,  what  for  would  ye  go  worriting  and  winnowing  for  to  drag 
another  man  hi  as  is  o'  the  countryside  ?  '  ' 

The  women  looked  thunderstruck — no  one  spoke  for  a  few  minutes — 
1  jydia  glanced  silently  at  Cassie's  white  face,  and  they  then  went  about 
their  dreary  tasks  without  a  wor^l. 

"Ye  inun  be  bidding  the  folk  for  the  buryin'  and  gettin'  in  a'  things' 
ior  to  be  ready,  German,"  said  Lydia,  with  a  sigh,  later  in  the  evening. 
'•YvTe  ordered  flour  at  the  miller's  as  we  came  up  the  Moor.  I  doubt 
is'll  tak'  a  score  to  fulfill*  un  all;  and  we  mun  be  thinking  o'  the  burial 
lams  to-morrow." 

The  preparations  for  a  funeral  feast  in  the  hills  are  a  serious  matter, 
cemanding  much  thought  and  labour,  which  kept  both  the  women  for  the 
i  ext  few  days  from  dwelling  on  the  past.  "  Yer  feyther  settled  his  bearers, 
rnd  the  beer,  and  the  spirits,  and  all,  and  runned  over  them  scores  and 
scores  o'  times  to  me,"  added  Lydia ;  "  and  he  left  the  money  for  it  (for  a' 
1  e  were  so  pushed)  i'  a  hole  i'  the  garret  where  he  tellcd  me,  for  he  said 
1  e'd  like  for  to  hae  his  bcrryin'  comf'able,  and  the  grave  dug  straight ;  so 
}e'll  see  to  it,  German,"  said  she,  most  conscientiously  desirous  to 
accomplish  the  old  man's  wishes.  There  was  not  any  great  difference 
t-otween  his  ideas  of  a  future  state  and  those  of  the  ancient  Briton  whose 
tones  reposed  under  the  cairn  on  the  further  hill,  with  a  drinking  mug  on 
cne  side  and  the  bones  of  a  horse  on  the  other  interred  with  him. 

A  "berrying"  at  Stone  Edge  was  a  tremendous  operation  in  winter. 
There  was  no  graveyard  at  the  solitary  little  chapel  below,  and  the  bodies 
1  ad  to  be  carried  nearly  five  miles  across  the  Lone  Moor,  down  a  hill  on 
t  Lie  top  of  which  was  the  cairn,  and  which  was  almost  like  a  houseside  for 
deepness,  where  the  path,  covered  with  "pavers  "  probably  existing  since  the 
cays  of  the  ancient  Britons  who  raised  the  monument,  was  too  precipitous 
P  ad  too  narrow  for  a  cart.  Relays  of  bearers,  and  consequently  relays  of  beer, 
^  ere  required  the  whole  way.  There  was  a  great  fall  of  snow,  but  on  tho 
(;ay  of  the  "berryin'"  the  sun  shone  out  and  the  glitter  was  almost 
I  ainful.  There  was  something  very  solemn  in  the  immense  expanses  of 
h  weeping  hill  wrapped  in  one  vast  winding-sheet,  the  few  uncovered  objects 
looking  harsh  and  black  by  contrast — the  enforced  stillness  and  idle- 

*  "  Fulfill  " — Prayer  Book,  Conynnnion  Service. 


250  STONE  EDGE. 

ness,  the  earth  like  iron  under  your  feet,  the  sky  like  steel  above.  The 
company  collected  in  the  great  old  kitchen, — they  are  a  stern  race  in  the 
hills, — tall  and  staid,  and  they  looked  like  a  band  of  Covenanters  with  their 
fierce  gestures  and  shaggy  gear,  as  by  twos  and  threes  they  wound  their 
way  up  through  the  snow.  Methodism  was  rife  in  those  outlying  upland 
districts — indeed  in  some  places  it  might  be  called  the  established  religion 
fifty  years  ago :  the  church  in  those  days  was  neglected  and  indifferent, 
poorly  served  and  worse  attended,  and  the  stern  Calvinism  of  the 
Wesleyans  suited  better  the  rather  fierce  manners  and  habits  of  the 
population. 

German  received  them  quietly  and  modestly — "  wi'  a  deal  o'  discretion 
for  such  a  young  un,"  observed  the  company.  The  responsibilities  which 
this  terrible  break  in  his  life  had  brought  upon  him  seemed  to  have  turned 
him  into  a  man  at  a  stride ;  and  his  mother  and  sister  accepted  him  as 
such  and  as  the  head  of  the  family  at  once.  Every  one  came  who  was 
asked.  Ashford  was  not  popular,  but  to  have  been  murdered  and  robbed 
of  a  large  sum  of  money  was  evidently  considered  on  the  whole  a  dignified 
and  interesting  if  not  an  honourable  mode  of  exit  by  his  neighbours. 

They  discussed  the  deceased,  his  circumstances  and  his  sh(  rtcomings, 
in  an  open  way,  very  unlike  our  mealy-mouthed  periphrases ;  and  Lydia 
and  Oassie  as  they  came  and  went,  serving  the  company,  could  not  help 
hearing  comments  which  no  one  seemed  to  think  could  pain  them,  being 
as  they  were  perfectly  true.  Though  in  other  places  the  truth  of  a  libel 
is  only  supposed  to  make  it  worse. 

"  He  couldn't  keep  off  the  drink  couldn't  Ashford.  He  mid  ha'  bin 
home  safe  enouch  an  he'd  come  back  wi'  us,"  said  the  old  miller 
Anthony. 

"He'd  a  wonderful  long  tongue  to  be  sure,  and  quarrelled  wi'  a  very 
deal  o'  folk  up  and  down.  He'd  had  an  upset  with  Joshua  Stracey 
this  dozen  year  or  more,"  observed  his  neighbour  the  master  of  the 
little  public. 

"  We  shall  hae  a  baddish  time  gettin'  across  the  Moor,"  said  a  third, 
helping  himself  liberally  to  a  large  supply  of  "  vittles." 

"  We're  but  poor  soft  creeturs  now-a-days,"  answered  the  miller. 
"I've  heerd  tell  how  in  th'  auld  times  they  used  to  run,  stark  naked 
across  the  snow,  foot-races  for  two  or  three  miles,  wi'  the  bagpipes  for 
to  gi'e  'um  courage." 

"Well,  nobody  couldn't  call  Ashford  soft,  nayther  in  his  temper  nor 
in  hisself ;  he  were  a  hard  and  heavy  un  enough,  so  to  speak ;  and  yet 
they  say  as  his  yead  were  cracked  all  one  as  a  chayney  jug,"  put  in  his 
neighbour. 

"  There  was  wonderful  little  blood  for  to  be  seen,"  observed  a  fanner  ; 
"  nothing  would  serve  my  missus  but  she  mun  go  down  and  see  the  place, 
and  she  have  a  bin  stericky  ever  sin'." 

"  There  was  a  sight  o'  wimmen  went  down,"  said  a  cynical  old 
bachelor  who  lived  in  the  valley,  "  and  they've  all  a  bin  stericky  ever 


STONE   EDGE.  251 

sin'  an  all  tales  be  true  !  I  b'lieve  they  likes  it.  They're  greatish  fools  is 
vimmen  most  times  ;  they's  mostly  like  a  cow,  as  is  curis  by  natur',  and 
v  hen  by  reason  o'  it  she's  put  herself  i'  th'  way  o'  harm,  then  they  loses 
taer  yeads." 

Suddenly  a  tall  miner  arose, — he  was  a  very  handsome  man  with  fine 
i'3gular  features,  large  grey  eyes,  and  soft  light  hair;  but  his  cheeks  were 
sunken  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  a  sort  of  far-seeing  look — the  tempera- 
ment which  sees  illuminations  and  signs,  and  dreams  dreams. 

"  Dear  friends,  shall  we  part  wi'out  seekin'  to  improve  the  occasion  ? 
I  [ere  were  a  drunken  man — one  as  had  lived  wi'out  God  in  the  world — cut 
oft'  wi'out  a  moment's  warning  in  the  midst  of  his  sins,  like  King  Herod, 
Acts  12th  chapter  and  23rd  verse  ;  or  like  Absalom,  2  Samuel  18th 
chapter  and  14th  verse  ;  or  like  Sisera,  as  is  told  in  Judges  ;  and  shall  we 

"  I  mun  speak  my  mind,  as  German's  nobbut  a  young  un,"  said 
Farmer  Buxton,  a  good-natured  giant,  who  stood  six  feet  three  in  his 
''  stocking  feet  "  and  was  broad  in  proportion, — circumstances  which  add 
DO  little  weight  to  one's  arguments.  He  lived  at  the  farm  close  to  tho 
little  chapel  below,  and  therefore  took  it  as  it  were  under  his  protection. 
'•  I  dunno  see,  considerin'  JJ-ernian  Ashford  were  a  good  churchman,  and 
a-lus  come  to  church  (leastways  when  he  went  onywheres),  as  the  Methodees 
has  any  call  to  be  iinprovin'  on  him,  and  takin'  o'  him  up  and  caJlin' 
him  "  [i.  e.  abusing  him],  "  when  he  can't  stand  up  as  'twere  for  hissen. 
We've  a  smartish  bit  of  road  to  go,  and  'twill  be  a  sore  heft  to  carry  will 
Ashford;  the  days  is  short  and  it's  bitter  weather,  and  the  sooner  we're  oft' 
the  better." 

There  was  a  burr  of  agreement  in  the  company  and  a  general  move, 
a  id  in  a  few  minutes  the  funeral  procession  had  streamed  from  the  door, 
G  ennan  leading  the  way.  The  sudden  stillness  which  fell  on  the  house 
was  almost  startling  after  the  noise  and  confusion.  Lydia,  quite  worn  out, 
s;it  down  in  the  great  chair  and  leant  her  head  against',  the  chimney  ; 
Cassie  was  still  looking  out  of  the  door  to  see  the  last  of  them. 

"  '  Yea,  though  we  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  we 
will  fear  no  evil,'  "  said  Lydia,  half  aloud.  "  God  is  more  mercifu'  nor 
n  an,  my  darlin',"  she  added,  as  Cassie  knelt  down  by  her  and  hid  her  face 
oa  her  knees,  while  she  kissed  the  girl's  head  fondly;  '"for  as  the  heavens 
a  :e  high  above  the  earth,  so  is  the  Lord's  mercy.  Man  sees  but  a  little  way 
aid  is  very  hard,  God's  a  deal  more  tender  than  a  mother  and  he  sees 
c  rerything — yea,  we  will  put  our  trust  in  the  Lord.'  " 

The  old  woman  who  had  come  in  to  help  now  returned  from  watching 
the  train  depart  with  extreme  enjoyment.  "To  be  sure  it  have  a  been  a 
vory  fine  funeral,"  said  she,  "  and  now  we  mun  begin  for  to  straighten 
tilings  a  bit." 


252  STONE  EDGE. 

CHAPTER      XVIII. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE. 

THE  next  day  German  received  a  message  from  tho  Squire  to  come  to 
him.  He  was  a  little  wizened  old  man  with  a  shrewd  business-like  way  of 
doing  things,  and  very  intent  upon  improving  his  property — a  most 
unpopular  proceeding  in  those  days  as  tending  to  raise  rents.  Indeed 
he  was  by  no  means  so  well  liked  as  his  spendthrift  predecessor,  who  had 
"had  a  pleasant  way  vri'  him  and  a  kind  word  wi'  folk,  and  very  open- 
handed  "  (with  other  people's  property  as  it  turned  out,  but  this  was  for- 
gotten). "  But  this  un  is  so  close-fisted,  and  as  sour  as  a  bit  o'  stale  oat- 
cake." The  manner  of  doing  a  thing  signifies  generally  much  more  than  the 
matter  in  public  estimation  :  as  far  as  a  man's  reputation  is  concerned,  it  is 
almost  safer  to  injure  great  interests  than  to  wound  small  feelings.  And 
there  is  that  amount  of  truth  in  public  opinion  that  the  small  feelings 
turn  up  every  hour  while  the  great  interests  are  perhaps  years  in  coming. 

German  was  ushered  into  the  fine  old  room  reserved  for  the  squire 
when  he  came  to  collect  his  rents.  There  was  a  curious  mixture  in  it  of 
ancient  statelincss  (though  his  predecessor  h!ld  hardly  lived  there)  and 
present  thrift.  A  beautiful  panelled  ceiling,  and  a  carpet  to  match, 
only  torn  and  threadbare  ;  three  or  four  chairs  wanting  a  leg  or  otherwise 
maimed,  their  red  damask  covers  hanging  in  tatters  about  them,  leaned 
helplessly  against  the  wall ;  a  great  settee,  with  the  crest  of  the  family 
carved  on  the  back,  stood  on  one  side  the  fire,  and  two  rush-bottomed 
chairs  on  the  other.  The  old  man  himself,  with  one  of  the  last  queues 
left  in  England  on  one  end  of  him,  and  shorts  and  blue  stockings  on  the 
other,  was  sitting  before  a  mass  of  papers  at  the  table.  After  all,  however, 
he  was  the  squire,  and  German  felt  a  certain  "  awe  "  as  he  entered. 

"  Well,  Ashford,"  said  he,  as  the  young  man  came  in  and  made  his 
'  obedience,'  "  how  did  you  get  over  the  Lone  Moor  yesterday  with  the 
funeral  ?  It  must  have  been  a  sore  pull  for  you  all." 

"  They  thought  they  shouldn't  hardly  ha'  got  through  at  the  Old  Mare's 
Bottom,"  said  the  lad. 

"And  now,  what's  to  be  done  about  you,  my  man?  It's  a  great 
misfortune,  a  very  great  misfortune  indeed.  I'm  sure  I  feel  it — the  rent 
and  the  arrears  all  gone.  They  say  your  father  got  the  back-rent  in  his 
pocket  too  ?  " 

"It  were  my  sister's  money,"  said  German  in  a  low  voice;  "she'd 
gived  him  every  penny  she  had." 

"  And  quite  right  of  her  too,  but  most  unfortunate  ;  why  didn't  he 
take  it  to  the  bankers  ?  Then,  you  know,  if  anything  had  happened  to  your 
father,  that  would  have  been  safe.  And  I  can't  afford  to  lose  back-rent 
and  present  rent,  and  arrears  for  soughing*  and  all,  I  can  tell  you."  And 

*  Draining. 


STONE  EDGE.  253 

tlio  old  man  began  to  walk  irritably  about  tlio  room.  "  "What  do  you 
and  your  mother  intend  to  do  ?  "  lie  asked  at  last,  as  German  remained 
s'.lent. 

"  We  should  like  to  keep  on  the  farm,  sir:  we've  had  it  now,  father 
and  son,  this  two  hundred  year,  they  say.  I  think  we  mid  mak'  a  shift 
to  get  on,  if  so  be  ye'd  be  patient  with  the  rent." 

"  But  I  can't  afford  to  be  patient,"  said  the  old  man,  fretfully. 
'•  You've  no  capital  and  no  stock,  I  hear.  You'll  just  ruin  me  and  the 
f:irm  and  yourselves  all  together.  It's  out  of  the  case,  I  tell  you.  You 
won't  do  yourselves  a  morsel  of  good  ;  the  sooner  you  go  out  of  the  farm 
the  better  for  everybody." 

German's  colour  rose ;  he  went  out  of  the  room,  his  blood  boiling. 
'•  'Tother  squire  wouldn't  ha'  done  it,"  he  said  to  himself;  but  there  was 
fc'uth  he  knew  in  the  old  man's  unpalatable  words  :  he  could  not  farm 
properly,  and  it  would  be  starvation  to  attempt  to  pay  the  future  rent,  let 
alone  the  past. 

The  two  women  sat  waiting  to  learn  their  fate  in  the  stillness  of  a 
house  where  a  death  has  lately  been.  He  flung  his  hat  angrily  down  on 
the  ground  as  he  entered. 

"  He  wunna  let  us  hae  the  farm,  a'  talked  o'  his  back-rent.  A  black 
c.irso  be  wi'  him  ; — he's  a  very  having  man,"  said  he. 

Neither  Lydia  nor  Cassie  uttered  a  word  ;  they  took  their  doom  in 
perfect  silence.  There  was  a  pathetic  sort  of  leave-taking  in  the  way  they 
looked  round  on  the  old  walls,  and  then  they  turned  to  their  work  again. 

Towards  evening  Cassie,  having  thought  it  over  and  over  in  her  mind, 
felt  indeed  that  on  the  whole  it  was  a  relief  to  go.  The  intense  isolation 
was  almost  more  than  she  could  now  bear ;  she  felt  as  if  she  might  "  hear 
something  "  if  she  were  more  within  reach  of  the  outer  world. 

"  Shall  thee  mind  very  much  flitting,  Lydia  ? "  said  she  at  last, 
siddenly. 

"  I  mind  thee  and  German  being  turned  out  i'  th'  cold  world  as  it 


o 

were." 


"  Then  dunna  heed  it,  dearie,  for  me  ;  I  think  I'd  be  best  down  where 
there's  a  bit  more  moving." 

And  Lydia's  view  of  the  matter  altered  entirely  from  that  moment. 
German  indeed  felt  the  change  much  the  most  of  the  three. 

As  they  sat  at  the  bare  board  that  evening  eating  the  remains  of  the 
f  ineral  feast,  and  calculating  in  a  sort  of  family  council  how  little  there 
was  left  to  them  for  bare  existence  now  that  everything  saleable  had  been 
sold,  Lydia  observed, — 

"  Dostna  think,  German,  that  'twere  best  done  at  once  an  we  are  to 
go  ?  Thee'st  better  leave  the  squire  all  and  every  think,  and  get  thee 
a  quittance.  He  canna  say  aught  an  he  have  it  a'." 

"  He'd  a  squoze  blood  out  o'  a  flint,  I  raly  do  believe,  if  it  could  ha 
luen  done  anyhow,"  said  German,  angrily.  "  I  canna  bear  a  leavin'  the 
o  d  walls,  as  we've  a  held  such  a  many  year  i'  th'  famih7;  but  an  we  mun 


254  STONE   EDGE. 

we  mun,"  tie  ended,  with  a  touch,  of  the  resigned  fatalism  which  forms 
so  large  a  part  of  the  wonderful  "  patience  of  the  poor." 

"  And  ye  mun  hearken  for  a  cottage,  German,  up  and  down  i'  th' 
town"*  (it  was  the  smallest  possible  hamlet).  "  Thou  canst  axe  the  squire 
for  so  mich.  Surely  he'll  make  a  bit  o'  a  push  to  gi'e  us  one,  so  be  he  has 
one  empty,  an  he  turns  us  out  here  just  to  fight  along  for  oursen.  I 
heerd  'um  say  yesterday  as  old  Sammy  were  dead ;  mebbe  his  widder  '11 
be  wishful  to  get  shut  o'  that  place  up  the  steps." 

"  I  canna  think  what  for  we  havena  heerd  owt  o'  yer  uncle,"  said 
Lydia  ;  "  and  he  as  allus  thowt  so  much  o'  ye  both." 

"  They  say  Martha's  gone  for  to  be  with  him  ;  and  she's  one  as  would 
be  sure  set  upo'  kippin'  him  to  hersen  and  lettin'  nobody  else  hae  speech 
nor  business  of  him.  I  saw  that  when  I  were  there,"  returned  German. 

The  next  morning  the  old  squire  was  a  little  surprised  when  German 
called  to  say  they  should  be  ready  to  go  whenever  convenient.  He  had 
not  expected  so  ready  an  acquiescence.  "  On  ne  pent  pas  tondre  un  pele 
qui  n'a  pas  de  cheveux,"  however,  and  his  best  chance  was  for  a  share  of 
the  stock  before  the  inevitable  smash — so  he  took  heart  and  began  to  make 
the  arrangements  necessary. 

German  suffered  a  good  deal :  he  had  a  sort  of  feeling  for  the  old 
place  which  made  it  as  distressing  for  him  to  leave  it  as  if  the  land  had 
been  his  own  patrimony.  The  day  of  their  moving  came ;  the  little  cart 
stood  before  the  door  which  was  to  do  its  last  office  for  its  masters  that 
day  in  removing  their  bits  o'  things.  Lydia  was  sitting  on  a  bundle  of 
bedding — everything  was  packed  in  the  dismantled  kitchen — while  Cassie 
wandered  round  the  place  taking  a  last  look  at  all.  The  last  time  ! — it  has 
a  dreary  sound,  even  when  it  is  a  little-loved  place. 

They  were  waiting  for  German,  who  was  going  once  more  round  the 
farm-buildings,  delivering  up  the  place  to  the  man  put  in  charge  by  the 
F quire,  when  old  Nathan  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  I've  been  so  bad  as  I  couldn't  get  up  this  long  way  afore  now,  and 
I  never  thought  as  you'd  be  off  so  soon.  I'm  a'most  glad  yer  aunt  Bessie 
ain't  here  for  to  see  the  like  o'  this,"  said  he,  looking  grimly  round. 
"  She  never  could  ha'  beared  to  think  ye  was  turned  adrift ;  it's  a  dolesome 
thing  to  see  ye  going  out  o'  this  fashion.  Ye'd  as  pritty  a  look-out  as 
any  lad  or  lass  i'  th'  county,  one  mid  say,  half  a  year  agone,"  added  the 
old  man  with  a  groan.  "  Misfortines  is  very  hasty  o'  foot,  and  comes 
most  times  in  swarms  like  bees." 

"  I'm  hoping  as  you're  better,  Master  Nathan,"  observed  Lydia,  rising 
from  her  bundles  with  her  usual  quiet  courteous  greeting,  while  Cassie  set 
the  only  stool  that  was  left  to  sit  on. 

"  Matters  is  mostly  packed  by  now,  but  Cassie'll  be  fine  and  pleased 

for  to  get  ye  a  sup  o'  summat  an  ye'll  think  well  to  tak'  anything  arter 

your  long  toil."    And  she  did  the  honours  of  her  empty  kitchen  like  a  true 

lady.     Some  of  the  best  manners  in  England  are  to  be  found  among  those 

*  Town— an  inclosurc  from  the  waste. 


STONE   EDGE.  Z'ob 

we  call  "  the  poor."  After  all,  manners  are  the  expression  of  the  nature 
of  the  man;  and  consideration  for  others,  quiet  self-possession,  tact  and 
courtesy,  the  essentials  of  a  gentleman  (which  is  indeed  our  shorthand 
expression  for  these  qualities  combined),  are  to  be  found  among  them 
of  en  to  perfection,  particularly  in  the  country. 

"  We  heerd  as  yer  had  Martha  now  to  live  with  yer,  uncle,"  said  Cassie. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  thowt  on  it ;  she's  coming  next  week 
fo:  to  stop.  She's  a  bit  over  petticklar,  but  she's  wonderful  industrious  ; 
ard  'tis  so  dull  wi'out  a  woman  for  to  bang  about  and  to  fend  for  me.  I 
w: nt  to  speak  to  thee,  Cassie,"  added  he,  drawing  her  into  the  empty 
cheese-room,  which  looked  drearier  than  ever,  with  its  riches  swept  away. 

"  I  were  hard  on  thee,  child,  t'other  time.  I  drama  know  as  thou 
couldst  ha'  done  less  for  thy  feyther  but  lend  him  the  money  when  he'd 
ill  thart  coil.  Arter  all  he  were  thy  feyther  ;  and  so  now  wilt  thou  come 
ard  live  wi'  me,  and  be  a  child  to  me  in  my  old  age,  and  I  will  leave  thea 
a'  I  have  when  I  go  ?  " 

"I  wunna  leave  Lyddy,"  said  Cassie,  stoutly.  "  Thank  ye  kindly  a' 
tho  same,  uncle.  She  and  I  is  one.  I'll  not  return  from  following  arter 
h(r  ;  where  she  goes  I  will  go,  and  where  she  dies  I  will  die,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  passion  of  affection  that  made  her  voice  tremble,  and  her  rich  brown 
ctaek  warm  with  colour  and  her  eyes  bright  with  tears.  It  was  beautiful 
to  see  her,  and  even  the  philosophy  of  Nathan  the  wise  was  not  proof 
against  it. 

"  You'd  make  a  rare  loving  wife,  my  wench,  you  would,"  he  said, 
admiringly. 

The  poor  girl's  ejes  filled  with  tears  as  she  murmured  something 
alout  not  being  any  man's  wife,  and  then  asked  some  unintelligible  ques- 
tion about  Roland. 

"  No  ;  I  hanna  heerd  nowt  about  him  sin'  I  gin  un  a  recommend  for 
Liverpool.  He  went  off  wi'  that  old  raskil  Joshuay ;  but  thee's  better 
fo-get  a'  about  his  father's  son,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Well,  good-by,  my 
la  ;s,  and  ye'll  come  to  me  an  ye  be  in  trouble.  I'd  ha'  liked  sorely  for  to 
hfc'e  had  thee  for  my  own,"  he  added,  clearing  his  throat.  "  Good-by, 
L~'ddy.  I  shall  come  and  see  yer  again  once  ye're  settled,"  he  called  out 
as  he  passed  through  the  kitchen  once  more.  "Eh,  dearie  rne,  to  be  sure, 
v/.io'd  ha'  thought  it  ?  It's  a  sorry  sight  !  "  repeated  Nathan,  shaking  his 
h(  ad  dolefully  as  he  went  out  at  the  door  again. 

"  What  did  he  come  for,  Cassie,  all  in  such  a  hurry?"  said  Lydia, 
ai  xiously,  as  the  girl  came  slowly  back. 

"  Axe  me  no  questions  and  I'll  tell  thee  no  lies,"  answered  she,  with 
a  aughing  caress. 

"  He  came  to  axe  thee  go  wi'  him,"  Lydia  went  on.  "I  know  he  did, 
arid  thou  hast  given  it  up  because  o'  me,  my  daiiin'.  Think  on  it  agin.  I 
can  fend  for  German,  and  belike  too  he  may  many.  Why  shouldst  thou 
fli'ig  away  what's  for  thy  good  wi'  thinkin'  o'  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  na'  thinking  o'  thee  one  bit,"  said  Cassie  gaily  (it  was  the  first 


256  STONE   EDGE. 

time  Lydia  Lad  seen  tlie  poor  girl  smile  for  months).  "  I  were  just  a 
ihinkin'  o'  niysen.  Martha  Savage  'ud  be  a  sore  un  to  live  with.  Sure 
life's  better  nor  house  or  land,  and  'tis  life  to  live  wi'  thee  and  German. 
Thou  shaltna  get  bhut  on  me  so,"  she  added  with  a  kiss. 

Lydia  shook  her  head  lovingly  at  her,  and  said  no  more. 

The  little  cart  was  soon  laden ;  the  old  squire  had  been  substantially 
kind  to  them,  had  found  a  small  cottage  in  the  valley  below  and  given 
them  any  furniture  they  chose  to  take  away,  the  old  cow  and  a  pig.  The 
melancholy  little  party  set  off,  German  in  front  leading  the  horse,  the 
cart  built  up  with  the  "  bits  o'  things  " — which  look  so  pathetic — :of  ^an 
uprooted  household.  Then  came  Cassie  driving  the  cow  and  carrying  a 
basket  with  her  own  particular  laying  hen ;  and  lastly,  Lydia,  with 
certain  brittle  articles  which  the  ruts  made  it  impossible  to  convey  other- 
wise in  safety.  It  was  a  dull,  gloomy  day :  a  thick  mist  almost  blotted  out  the 
landscape,  and  was  nearly  as  wet  as  rain.  Silently  they  turned  away  from 
the  old  pillared  gateway  and  the  old  grey  house,  which  looked  as  mournful 
as  if  it  felt  the  desertion,  and  the  only  sound  heard  was  the  squeaking  of 
the  little  pig  in  a  hamper  at  the  top  of  the  cart,  which  lamented  its  depar- 
ture with  loud  squeals,  answered  from  the  farmyard  by  the  cries  of  the 
bereaved  mother  growing  fainter  and  more  faint  in  the  distance.  Not  a 
word  was  spoken  by  any  of  them  till  they  reached  their  future  home  in 
the  small  scattered  hamlet  below.  It  stood  apart  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
in  the  space  formed  by  a  little  quarry,  out  of  which  the  house  had  been 
built.  On  the  other  side  was  a  steep  terraced  garden  supported  by  a  high 
wall  looking  down  to  the  green  croft  in  which  it  was  set.  Before  the 
door  grew  two  or  three  sycamores — the  tree  which  flourishes  best  in  these 
hills — the  tops  of  which  are  mostly  bare  and  ugly,  while  vegetation  creeps 
down  the  valleys  folio  whig  the  course  of  the  streams. 

"And  thou'lt  set  slips  o'  things  and  have  a  garden,  dearie  ?"  sail 
L}dia,  looking  round.  "  Sure  'tis  a  nice  quiet  pleasant  place." 

The  two  women  got  work  to  do  at  home  from  one  of  the  small  mills 
which  were  beginning  to  take  the  place  of  the  home -spinning,  and  to  rise 
on  even  obscure  "  water  privileges  ;  "  and  German  easily  found  a  place  as 
eowkeeper  to  a  farmer  near.  It  was  a  peaceful  life.  The  descent  in  dignity 
fell  heaviest  on  poor  German,  the  women  scarcely  felt  it  at  all ;  they 
hardly  dared  to  acknowledge,  even  to  themselves,  the  relief  it  was  to  live 
under  their  own  roof- tree  with  none  to  make  them  afraid.  Still  as  time 
went  on,  with  no  tidings  of  Roland,  Cassie's  heart  grew  sick  with  a  longing 
desire  for  a  word  or  a  sign,  and  her  cheeks  grew  pale  with  watching  and 
waiting  in  vain. 


AT  THE  COTTAGE. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE 


SEPTEMBER,  1867. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AT   THE   COTTAGE. 

ULIA  L'E STRANGE  was  busily 
engaged  in  arranging  some  flowers 
in  certain  vases  in  her  little  draw- 
ing-room, and,  with  a  taste  all  her 
,  own,  draping  a  small  hanging  lamp 
with  creepers,  when  Jack  Bramleigh 
appeared  at  the  open  window,  and 
leaning  on  the  sill,  cried  out,  "Good 
morning." 

"  I  came  over  to  scold  you,  Julia," 
said  he.  "It  was  very  cruel  of 
you  to  desert  us  last  evening,  and 
we  had  a  most  dreary  time  of  it 
in  consequence." 

"  Come  round  and  hold  this  chair 
for  me,  and  don't  talk  nonsense." 

"  And   what    are    all  these   fine 
preparations  for  ?      You  are  deck- 
ing out  your  room  as  if  for  a  village 
fete,"  said  he,  not  moving  from  his  place  nor  heeding  her  request. 

"I  fancy  that  young  Frenchman  who  was  here  last  night,"  said  she, 
saucily,  "  would  have  responded  to  my  invitation  if  I  had  asked  him  to 
liold  the  chair  I  was  standing  on." 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  he,  gravely.  "  Frenchmen  are  vastly  more 
gallant  than  we  are." 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  93.  13. 


258  THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"Do  you  know,  Jack,"  said  she  again,  "he  is  most  amusing  ?" 

"Very  probably." 

"  And  has  such  a  perfect  accent ;  that  sort  of  purring  French  one  only 
hears  from  a  Parisian." 

"  I  am  charmed  to  hear  it." 

"  It  charmed  me  to  hear  it,  I  assure  you.  One  does  so  long  for  the 
sounds  that  recall  bright  scenes  and  pleasant  people  ;  one  has  such  a  zest 
for  the  most  commonplace  things  that  bring  back  the  memory  of  very 
happy  days." 

"  What  a  lucky  Frenchman  to  do  all  this  !  " 

"  What  a  lucky  Irish  girl  to  have  met  with  him,"  said  she  gaily. 

"  And  how  did  you  come  to  know  him,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  George  had  been  several  times  over  to  inquire  after  him,  and  out  of 
gratitude  Count  Pracontal, — I'm  not  sure  that  he  is  count  though,  but  it 
is  of  no  moment, — made  it  a  point  to  come  here  the  first  day  he  was  able 
to  drive  out.  Mr.  Longworth  drove  him  over  in  his  pony  carriage,  and 
George  was  so  pleased  with  them  both  that  he  asked  them  to  tea  last 
evening,  and  they  dine  here  to-day." 

"  Hence  these  decorations  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

' '  What  a  brilliant  neighbourhood  we  have !  And  there  are  people  will 
tell  you  that  this  is  all  barbarism  here." 

"  Come  over  this  evening,  Jack,  and  hear  M.  Pracontal  sing, — he  has  a 
delicious  tenor  voice, — and  you'll  never  believe  in  that  stoiy  of  barbarism 
again.  We  had  quite  a  little  salon  last  night." 

"  I  must  take  your  word  for  his  attractive  qualities,"  said  Jack,  as  his 
brow  contracted  and  his  face  grew  darker.  "I  thought  your  brother 
rather  stood  aloof  from  Mr.  Longworth.  I  was  scarcely  prepared  to  hear 
of  his  inviting  him  here." 

"  So  he  did ;  but  he  found  him  so  different  from  what  he  expected, — 
so  quiet,  so  well-bred,  that  George,  who  always  is  in  a  hurry  to  make  an 
amend  when  he  thinks  he  has  wronged  any  one,  actually  rushed  into 
acquaintance  with  him  at  once." 

"  And  his  sister  Julia,"  asked  Jack,  with  a  look  of  impertinent  irony, 
"  was  she  too  as  impulsive  in  her  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  think  pretty  much  the  same." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  charming  party." 

"  I  flatter  myself  it  was.  They  stayed  till  midnight ;  and  M.  Pracontal 
declared  he'd  break  his  other  leg  to-morrow  if  it  would  ensure  him  another 
such  evening  in  his  convalescence." 

' '  Fulsome  rascal !  I  protest  it  lowers  my  opinion  of  women  altogether 
when  I  think  these  are  the  fellows  that  always  meet  their  favour." 

"  Women  would  be  very  ungrateful  if  they  did  not  like  the  people 
who  try  to  please  them.  Now  certainly,  as  a  rule,  Jack,  you  will  admit 
foreigners  are  somewhat  more  eager  about  this  than  you  gentlemen  of 
England." 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  259 

"  I  have  heard  about  as  much  of  this  as  I  am  likely  to  bear  well 
from  my  distinguished  stepmother,"  said  he  roughly,  "  so  don't  push  my 
paiience  further." 

"What  do  you  say  to  our  little  salon  now?"  said  she.  "  Have  you 
evtr  seen  ferns  and  variegated  ivy  disposed  more  tastefully  ?" 

"  I  wish  —  I  wish  "  —  stammered  he  out,  and  then  seemed  unable  to  go  on. 

"  And  what  do  you  wish  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  not  say  it.     You  might  feel  offended  besides." 

"  Not  a  bit,  Jack.  I  am  sure  it  never  could  be  your  intention  to 
offond  me,  and  a  mere  blunder  could  not  do  so." 

"  Well,  I'll  go  round  and  tell  you  what  it  is  I  wish,"  and  with  this  he 
entered  the  house  and  passed  on  into  the  drawing-room,  and  taking  his 
place  at  one  side  of  the  fire,  while  she  stood  at  the  other,  said  seriously, 
"  I  was  wishing,  Julia,  that  you  were  less  of  a  coquette." 

"You  don't  mean  that?"  said  she  roguishly,  dropping  her  long  eye- 
las  aes,  as  she  looked  down  immediately  after. 

"I  mean  it  very  gravely,  Julia.  It  is  your  one  fault;  but  it  is  an 
imnense  one." 

"  My  dear  Jack,"  said  she,  very  gravely,  "you  men  are  such  churls 
that  you  are  never  grateful  for  any  attempts  to  please  you  except  they  be 
limited  strictly  to  yourselves.  You  would  never  have  dared  to  call  any 
little  devices,  by  which  I  sought  to  amuse  or  interest  you,  coquetry,  so 
long  as  they  were  only  employed  on  your  own  behalf.  My  real  offence  is 
that  I  thought  the  world  consisted  of  you  and  some  others." 

"  I  am  not  your  match  in  these  sort  of  subtle  discussions,"  said  he, 
bluntly,  "  but  I  know  what  I  say  is  fact." 

"  That  I'm  a  coquette  ?  "  said  she,  with  so  much  feigned  horror  that 
Ja<  k  could  scarcely  keep  down  the  temptation  to  laugh. 

"Just  so;  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  displaying  some  grace  or  some 
att  :action,  you'd  half  kill  a  fellow  with  jealousy,  or  drive  him  clean  mad 
wiih  uncertainty.  You  insist  on  admiration  —  or  what  you  call  '  homage,' 
which  I  trust  is  only  a  French  name  for  it>  —  and  what's  the  end  of  it  all  ? 
Yo  i  get  plenty  of  this  same  homage  ;  but  —  but  —  never  -mind.  I  suppose 
I'm  a  fool  to  talk  this  way.  You're  laughing  at  me,  besides,  all  this 
while.  I  see  it  —  I  see  it  in  your  eyes." 

"  I  wasn't  laughing,  Jack,  I  assure  you.  I  was  simply  thinking  that 
this  discovery  —  I  mean  of  my  coquetry  —  wasn't  yours  at  all.  Come,  be 
frank  and  own  it.  Who  told  you  I  was  a  coquette,  Jack  ?  " 

"  You  regard  me  as  too  dull-witted  to  have  found  it  out,  do  you  ?  " 
"  No,  Jack.     Too  honest-hearted  —  too  unsuspecting,  too  generous,  to 
pu-  an  ill-construction  where  a  better  one  would  do  as  well." 

"  If  you  mean  that  there  are  others  who  agree  with  me,  you're  quite 


"  And  who  may  they  be  ?  "  asked  she,  with  a  quiet  smile.     "  Come,  I 
have  a  right  to  know." 

"  I  don't  see  the  right.". 

13—2 


260  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Certainly  I  have.  It  would  be  very  ungenerous  and  very  unjust  to 
let  me  continue  to  exercise  all  those  pleasing  devices  you  have  just 
stigmatized  for  the  delectation  of  people  who  condemn  them." 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  help  that.  You'd  do  it  just  to  amuse  yourself,  as 
I'm  sure  was  the  case  yesterday,  when  you  put  forth  all  your  captivations 
for  that  stupid  old  viscount." 

"Did  I?" 

"  Did  you  ?    You  have  the  face  to  ask  it  ?  " 

"  I  have,  Jack.  I  have  courage  for  even  more,  for  I  will  ask  you, 
was  it  not  Marion  said  this  ?  Was  it  not  Marion  who  was  so  severe  on 
all  my  little  gracefulnesses  ?  Well,  you  need  not  answer  if  you  don't 
like.  I'll  not  press  my  question  ;  but  own,  it  is  not  fair  for  Marion,  with 
every  advantage,  her  beauty,  and  her  surroundings " 

"  Her  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  would  not  use  a  French  word ;  but  I  meant  to  say,  those 
accessories  which  are  represented  by  dress,  and  'toilette,' — not  mean 
things  in  female  estimation.  With  all  these,  why  not  have  a  little  mercy 
for  the  poor  curate's  sister,  reduced  to  enter  the  lists  with  very  uncouth 
weapons  ?  " 

"  You  won't  deny  that  Ellen  loves  you  ?  "  said  he,  suddenly. 

"  I'd  be  sorry,  very  sorry,  to  doubt  it ;  but  she  never  said  I  was  a 
coquette  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  she  knows  you  are,"  said  he,  doggedly. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  I  hope  this  is  not  the  way  you  try  people  on  court- 
martial  ?  " 

"  It's  the  fairest  way  ever  a  fellow  was  tried  ;  and  if  one  doesn't  feel 
him  guilty  he'd  never  condemn  him." 

"  I'd  rather  people  would  feel  less,  and  think  a  little  more,  if  I  was  to 
be  '  the  accused,'  "  said  she,  half  pettishly. 

"  You  got  that,  Master  Jack  ;  that  round  shot  was  for  you,"  said  he, 
not  without  some  irritation  in  his  tone. 

"Well,"  said  she  good-humouredly,  "I  believe  we  are  firing  into 
each  other  this  morning,  and  I  declare  I  cannot  see  for  what." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Julia.  You  grew  very  cross  with  me,  because  I  accused 
you  of  being  a  coquette,  a  charge  you'd  have  thought  pretty  lightly  of,  if 
you  hadn't  known  it  was  deserved." 

"  Might  there  not  have  been  another  reason  for  the  crossness,  sup- 
posing it  to  have  existed  ?  "  said  she  quietly. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  one  ;  at  least,  I  can't  imagine  what  reason  you 
point  at." 

"  Simply  this,"  said  she,  half  carelessly,  "  that  it  could  have  been  no 
part  of  your  duty  to  have  told  me  so." 

"  You  mean  that  it  was  a  great  liberty  on  my  part— an  unwarrantable 
liberty?" 

"  Something  like  it." 

"  That  the  terms  which  existed  between  us  " — and  now  he  spoke  with 


THE   BEAMLEIGH8  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  261 

a  tremulous  voice,  and  a  look  of  much  agitation — "  could  not  have 
warranted  my  daring  to  point  out  a  fault,  even  in  your  manner  ;  for  I  am 
sure,  after  all,  your  nature  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  was  silent. 

"  That's  pretty  plain,  anyhow,"  said  he,  moving  towards  the  table, 
where  he  had  placed  his  hat.  "  It's  a  sharp  lesson  to  give  a  fellow 
though,  all  the  more  when  he  was  unprepared  for  it." 

"  You  forget  that  the  first  sharp  lesson  came  from  you." 

"  All  true  ;  there's  no  denying  it."  He  took  up  his  hat  as  she  spoke, 
acd  moved,  half  awkwardly,  towards  the  window.  "  I  had  a  message  for 
ycu  from  the  girls,  if  I  could  only  remember  it.  Do  you  happen  to  guess 
what  it  was  about  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly  as  a  negative,  and  was  silent. 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  I  can  think  what  it  was,"  muttered  he  ;  "  the  chances 
ara,  however,  it  was  to  ask  you  to  do  something  or  other,  and  as,  in 
ycur  present  temper,  that  would  be  hopeless,  it  matters  little  that  I 
hrve  forgotten  it." 

She  made  no  answer  to  this  speech,  but  quietly  occupied  herself 
arranging  a  braid  of  her  hair  that  had  just  fallen  down. 

"  Miss  L'Estrange  !  "  said  he,  in  a  haughty  and  somewhat  bold  tone. 

"  Mr.  Bramleigh,"  replied  she,  turning  and  facing  him  with  perfect 
gravity,  though  her  tremulous  lip  and  sparkling  eye  showed  what  the  effort 
to  seem  serious  cost  her. 

"  If  you  will  condescend  to  be  real,  to  be  natural,  for  about  a  minute 
and  a  half,  it  may  save  us,  or  at  least  one  of  us,  a  world  of  trouble  and 
unhappiness." 

"It's  not  a  very  courteous  supposition  of  yours  that  implies  I  am 
urreal  or  unnatural,"  said  she,  calmly;  "but  no  matter,  go  on;  say 
what  you  desire  to  say,  and  you  shall  find  me  pretty  attentive." 

"  What  I  want  to  say  is  this,  then,"  said  he,  approaching  where  she 
stood,  and  leaning  one  arm  on  the  chimney  close  to  where  her  own  arm 
wj  s  resting  ;  "  I  wanted  to  tell — no,  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  if  the  old  relations 
between  us  are  to  be  considered  as  bygone  ? — if  I  am  to  go  away  from 
this  to-day,  believing  that  all  I  have  ever  said  to  you,  all  that  you  heard 
—  for  you  did  hear  me,  Julia  ?  " 

"  Julia  ! "  repeated  she,  in  mock  amazement.  "  What  liberty  is  this, 
sir?"  and  she  almost  laughed  out  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  knew  well  how  it  would  be,"  said  he  angrily.  "  There  is  a  heart- 
less levity  in  your  nature  that  nothing  represses.  I  asked  you  to  be 
se  ious  for  one  brief  instant." 

"  And  you  shall  find  that  I  can,"  said  she  quickly.  "  If  I  have  not 
bean  more  so  hitherto,  it  has  been  in  mercy  to  yourself." 

"  In  mercy  to  me  ?     To  me  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Simply  this.  You  came  here  to  give  me  a  lesson  this  morning.  But 
it  was  at  your  sister's  suggestion.  It  was  her  criticism  that  prompted  you 
to  the  task.  I  read  it  all.  I  saw  how  ill-prepared  you  were.  You  have 


262  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

mistaken  some  things,  forgotten  others ;  and,  in  fact,  you  showed  me  that 
you  were  far  more  anxious  I  should  exculpate  myself  than  that  you  yourself 
should  be  the  victor.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  I  was  really  annoyed — 
seriously  annoyed,  at  what  you  said  to  me  ;  and  I  called  in  what  you  are  so 
polite  as  to  style  my  'levity'  to  help  me  through  my  difficulty.  Now, 
however,  you  have  made  me  serious  enough ;  and  it  is  in  this  mood  I  say, 
Don't  charge  yourself  another  time  with  such  a  mission.  Reprove  what- 
ever you  like,  but  let  it  come  from  yourself.  Don't  think  lightheartedness 
— I'll  not  say  levity — bad  in  morals,  because  it  may  be  bad  in  taste. 
There's  a  lesson  for  you,  sir."  And  she  held  out  her  hand  as  if  in 
reconciliation. 

"  But  you  haven't  answered  my  question,  Julia,"  said  he,  tremulously. 

"  And  what  was  your  question  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  if  the  past — if  all  that  had  taken  place  between  us — was 
to  be  now  forgotten  ?  " 

"  I  declare  here  is  George,"  said  she,  bounding  towards  the  window 
and  opening  it.  "  What  a  splendid  fish,  George  !  Did  you  take  it  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he  cost  me  the  top  joint  of  my  rod  ;  and  I'd  have  lost  him 
after  all  if  Lafferty  had  not  waded  out  and  landed,  him.  I'm  between  two 
minds,  Julia,  whether  I'll  send  him  up  to  the  Bramleighs." 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lip  to  impose  caution,  and  said,  "  The 
admiral " — the  nickname  by  which  Jack  was  known — "  is  here." 

"  All  right,"  replied  L'Estrange.  "  We'll  try  and  keep  him  for  dinner, 
and  eat  the  fish  at  home."  He  entered  as  he  spoke.  "Where's  Jack? 
Didn't  you  say  he  was  here  ?  " 

"  So  he  was  when  I  spoke.  He  must  have  slipped  away  without  my 
seeing  it.  He  is  really  gone." 

"  I  hear  he  is  gazetted  ;  appointed  to  some  ship  on  a  foreign  station. 
Did  he  tell  you  of  it?" 

"  Not  a  word.  Indeed,  he  had  little  time,  for  we  did  nothing  but 
squabble  since  he  came  in." 

"  It  was  Harding  told  me.  He  said  that  Jack  did  not  seem  overjoyed  at 
his  good  luck ;  and  declared  that  he  was  not  quite  sure  he  would  accept  it." 

"  Indeed,"  said  she,  thoughtfully. 

"  That's  not  the  only  news.  Colonel  Bramleigh  was  summoned  to  town 
by  a  telegram  this  morning,  but  what  about  I  didn't  hear.  If  Harding 
knew — an(j  i'm  not  sure  that  he  did — he  was  too  discreet  to  tell.  But 
I'm  not  at  the  end  of  my  tidings.  It  seems  they  have  discovered  coal 
on  Lord  Culduffs  estate,  and  a  great  share  company  is  going  to  be  formed, 
and  untold  wealth  to  be  distributed  amongst  the  subscribers  ?" 

"  I  wonder  why  Jack  did  not  tell  me  he  was  going  away  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Perhaps  he  does  not  intend  to  go ;  perhaps  the  colonel  has  gone  up 
to  try  and  get  something  better  for  him ;  perhaps " 

"Any  perhaps  will  do,  George,"  said  she,  like  one  willing  to  change 
the  theme.  "  What  do  you  say  to  my  decorations  ?  Have  you  no  com- 
pliments to  make  me  on  my  exquisite  taste  ?" 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLT.  263 

"  Harding  certainly  thinks  well  of  it,"  said  he,  not  heeding  her  question. 

"  Thinks  well  of  what,  George  ?" 

"  He's  a  shrewd  fellow,"  continued  he ;  "  and  if  he  deems  the  investment 
good  enough  to  venture  his  own  money  in,  I  suspect,  Ju,  we  might 
risk  ours." 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  are  talking  about ;  for  all  this  is 
a  perfect  riddle  to  me." 

"  It's  about  vesting  your  two  thousand  pounds,  Julia,  which  now 
return  about  seventy  pounds  a  year,  in  the  coal  speculation.  That's  what  I 
am  thinking  of.  Harding  says,  that  taking  a  very  low  estimate  of  the 
success,  there  ought  to  be  a  profit  on  the  shares  of  fifteen  per  cent.  In 
fact,  he  said  he  wouldn't  go  into  it  himself  for  less." 

"  Why,  George,  why  did  he  say  this  ?  Is  there  anything  wrong  or 
immoral  about  coal  ?  " 

"  Try  and  be  serious  for  one  moment,  Ju,"  said  he,  with  a  slight 
touch  of  irritation  in  his  voice.  "  What  Harding  evidently  meant  was,  that 
a  speculative  enterprise  was  not  to  be  deemed  good  if  it  yielded  less.  These 
shrewd  men,  I  believe,  never  lay  out  their  money  without  large  profit." 

"  And,  my  dear  George,  why  come  and  consult  me  about  these  things  ? 
Can  you  imagine  more  hopeless  ignorance  than  mine  must  be  on  all  such 
questions?" 

"You  can  understand  that  a  sum  of  money  yielding  three  hundred 
a  year  is  more  profitably  employed  than  -when  it  only  returned  seventy.' 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  my  intelligence  can  rise  to  that  height." 

"  And  you  can  estimate,  also,  what  increase  of  comfort  we  should  have 
if  our  present  income  were  to  be  more  than  doubled, — which  it  would  be 
in  this  way?  " 

"  I'd  deem  it  positive  affluence,  George." 

"  That's  all  I  want  you  to  comprehend.  The  next  question  is  to  get 
Yickars  to  consent ;  he  is  the  surviving  trustee,  and  you'll  have  to  write  to 
him,  Ju.  It  will  come  better  from  you  than  me,  and  say — what  you  can 
S;iy  with  a  safe  conscience — that  we  are  miserably  poor,  and  that,  though 
^e  pinch  and  save  in  every  way  we  can,  there's  no  reaching  the  end  of  the 
year  without  a  deficit  in  the  budget." 

"  I  used  that  unlucky  phrase  once  before,  George,  and  he  replied, 
*  Why  don't  you  cut  down  the  estimates  ?  '  ' 

' '  I  know  he  did.  The  old  curmudgeon  meant  I  should  sell  Nora,  and 
te  has  a  son,  a  gentleman  commoner  at  Cambridge,  that  spends  more  in 
vine-parties  than  our  whole  income." 

"  But  it's  his  own,  George.     It  is  not  our  money  he  is  wasting." 

"  Of  course  it  is  not;  but  does  that  exempt  him  from  all  comment? 
Not  that  it  matters  to  us,  however,"  added  he,  in  a  lighter  tone.  "  Sit 
clown,  and  try  what  you  can  do  with  the  old  fellow.  You  used  to  be  a 
great  pet  of  his  once  on  a  time." 

"  Yes,  he  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  I  had  even  twenty  thousand 
j  ounds,  he  didn't  know  a  girl  he'd  rather  have  for  a, daughter-in-law." 


2G4  THE  BKAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  He  didn't  tell  you  that,  JIT  ?  "  said  L'Estrange,  growing  almost 
purple  with  shame  and  rage  together. 

"  I  pledge  you  my  word  he  said  it." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?     What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  wiped  my  eyes  with  my  handkerchief,  and  told  him  it  was  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  the  misery  of  being  poor." 

"  And  I  wager  that  you  burst  out  laughing." 

"  I  did,  George.  I  laughed  till  my  sides  ached.  I  laughed  till  he 
rushed  out  of  the  room  in  a  fit  of  passion,  and  I  declare,  I  don't  think  he 
ever  spoke  ten  words  to  me  after." 

"  This  gives  me  scant  hope  of  your  chance  of  success  with  him." 

"  I  don't  know,  George.  All  this  happened  ten  months  ago,  when  he 
came  down  here  for  the  snipe -shooting.  He  may  have  forgiven,  or,  better 
still,  forgotten  it.  In  any  case,  tell  me  exactly  what  I'm  to  write,  and  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do  with  him." 

"  You're  to  say  that  your  brother  has  just  heard  from  a  person,  in 
whom  he  places  the  most  perfect  confidence,  say  Harding,  in  short — Colonel 
Bramleigh's  agent — that  an  enterprise  which  will  shortly  be  opened  here 
offers  an  admirable  opportunity  of  investment,  and  that  as  your  small 
fortune  in  Consols " 

"  In  what?" 

"  No  matter.  Say  that  as  your  two  thousand  pounds, — which  now 
yield  an  interest  of  seventy,  could  secure  you  an  income  fully  four  times 
that  sum,  you  hope  he  will  give  his  consent  to  withdraw  the  money  from 
the  Funds,  and  employ  it  in  this  speculation.  I'd  not  say  speculation, 
I'd  call  it  mine  at  once — coal-mine." 

"  But  if  I  own  this  money  why  must  I  ask  Mr.  Vickars'  leave  to  mako 
use  of  it  as  I  please  ?  " 

"  He  is  your  trustee,  and  the  law  gives  him  this  power,  Ju,  till  you  are 
nineteen,  which  you  will  not  be  till  May  next." 

"  He'll  scarcely  be  disagreeable,  when  his  opposition  must  end  in  five 
months." 

"  That's  what  I  think  too,  but  before  that  five  months  run  over  the 
share  list  may  be  filled,  and  these  debentures  be  probably  double  the 
present  price." 

"  I'm  not  sure  I  understand  your  reasoning,  but  I'll  go  and  write  my 
letter,  and  you  shall  see  if  I  have  said  all  that  you  wished." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

OFFICIAL  CONFIDENCES. 

LORD  CULDUFF  accompanied  Colonel  Bramleigh  to  town.  He  wanted  a 
renewal  of  his  leave,  and  deemed  it  better  to  see  the  head  of  the  depart- 
ment in  person  than  to  address  a  formal  demand  to  the  office.  Colonel 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  265 

Bramleigh,  too,  thought  that  his  lordship's  presence  might  be  useful  when 
the  day  of  action  had  arrived  respecting  the  share  company — a  Lord  in  the 
City  having  as  palpable  a  weight  as  the  most  favourable  news  that  ever 
sent  up  the  Funds. 

When  they  reached  London  they  separated,  Bramleigh  taking  up  his 
quarters  in  the  Burlington,  while  Lord  Culduff — on  pretence  of  running 
d3wn  to  some  noble  duke's  villa  near  Eichmond — snugly  installed  himself 
in  a  very  modest  lodging  off  St.  James's  Street,  where  a  former  valet 
acted  as  his  cook  and  landlord,  and  on  days  of  dining  out  assisted  at  the 
wonderful  toilet,  whose  success  was  alike  the  marvel  and  the  envy  of 
Culduff's  contemporaries. 

Though  a  man  of  several  clubs,  his  lordship's  favourite  haunt  was  a 
small  uniniposing-looking  house  close  to  St.  James's  Square,  called  the 
"  Plenipo."  Its  members  were  all  diplomatists,  nothing  below  the  head  of 
a  mission  being  eligible  for  ballot.  A  masonic  mystery  pervaded  all  the 
doings  of  that  austere  temple,  whose  dinners  were  reported  to  be  exquisite, 
and  whose  cellar  had  such  a  fame  that  "  Plenipo  Lafitte  "  had  a  European 
reputation. 

Now,  veteran  asylums  have  many  things  recommendatory  about  them, 
frit  from  Greenwich  and  the  Invalides  downwards  there  is  one  especial 
vice  that  clings  to  them — they  are  haunts  of  everlasting  complaint.  The 
men  who  frequent  them  all  belong  to  the  past,  their  sympathies,  their 
associations,  their  triumphs  and  successes,  all  pertain  to  the  bygone. 
Harping  eternally  over  the  frivolity,  the  emptiness,  and  sometimes  the 
vulgarity  of  the  present,  they  urge  each  other  on  to  most  exaggerated 
notions  of  the  time  when  they  were  young,  and  a  deprecatory  estimate  of 
the  world  then  around  them. 

It  is  not  alone  that  the  days  of  good  dinners  and  good  conversation 
have  passed  away,  but  even  good  manners  have  gone,  and,  more  strangely 
too,  good  looks.  "I  protest  you  don't  see  such  women  now" — one  of 
these  bewigged  and  rouged  old  debauchees  would  say,  as  he  gazed 
at  the  slow  procession  moving  on  to  a  drawing-room,  and  his  compeers 
would  concur  with  him,  and  wonderingly  declare  that  the  thing  was 
ii:  explicable. 

In  the  sombre-looking  breakfast-room  of  this  austere  temple,  Lord 
CalduiY  sat  reading  The  Times.  A  mild  soft  rain  was  falling  without ;  the 
w  iter  dripping  tepid  and  dirty  through  the  heavy  canopy  of  a  London  fog ; 
and  a  large  coal  fire  blazed  within, — that  fierce  furnace  which  seems  so 
c<  mgenial  to  English  taste  ;  not  impossibly  because  it  recalls  the  factory  and 
tl  e  smelting-hpuse — the  "  sacred  fire"  that  seems  to  inspire  patriotism  by 
tl  e  suggestion  of  industiy. 

Two  or  three  others  sat  at  tables  through  the  room,  all  so  wonderfully 
a' ike  in  dress,  feature,  and  general  appearance,  that  they  almost  seemed 
r<  productions  of  the  same  figure  by  a  series  of  mirrors ;  but  they  were 
p  iests  of  the  same  "caste,"  whose  forms  of  thought  and  expression  were 
p  -ecisely  the  same, — and  thus  as  they  dropped  their  scant  remarks  OB 


266  THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

the  topics  of  the  day,  there  was  not  an  observation  or  a  phrase  of  one  that 
might  not  have  fallen  from  any  of  the  others. 

"  So,"  cried  one,  "  they're  going  to  send  the  Grand  Cross  to  the  Duke  of 
Hochmaringhen.  That  will  be  a  special  mission.  I  wonder  who'll  get  it  ?" 

"  Cloudesley,  I'd  say,"  observed  another  ;  "  he's  always  on  the  watch 
for  anything  that  comes  into  the  '  extraordinaries.'  " 

"  It  will  not  be  Cloudesley,"  said  a  third.  "  He  stayed  away  a  yeai 
and  eight  months  when  they  sent  him  to  Tripoli,  and  there  was  a  rare 
jaw  about  it  for  the  estimates." 

"  Hochmaringhen  is  near  Baden,  and  not  a  bad  place  for  the  summer," 
said  Culduff.  "  The  duchess,  I  think,  was  daughter  of  the  Margravine." 

"  Niece,  not  daughter,"  said  a  stern-looking  man,  who  never  turned 
his  eyes  from  his  newspaper. 

"  Niece  or  daughter,  it  matters  little  which,"  said  Culduff,  irritated  at 
correction  on  such  a  point. 

"I  protest  I'd  rather  take  a  turn  in  South  Africa,"  cried  another, 
"  than  accept  one  of  those  missions  to  Central  Germany." 

"  You're  right,  Upton,"  said  a  voice  from  the  end  of  the  room,  "the 
cookery  is  insufferable." 

"  And  the  hours.     You  retire  to  bed  at  ten." 

"And  the  ceremonial.  Blounte  never  threw  off  the  lumbago  he  got 
from  bowing  at  the  court  of  Bratensdorf." 

"  They're  ignoble  sort  of  things,  at  the  best,  and  should  never  be 
imposed  on  diplomatic  men.  These  investitures  should  always  be  entrusted 
to  court  functionaries,"  said  Culduff,  haughtily.  "If  I  were  at  the  head 
of  F.  0.  I'd  refuse  to  charge  one  of  the  '  line '  with  such  a  mission." 

And  now  something  that  almost  verged  on  an  animated  discussion 
ensued  as  to  what  was  and  what  was  not  the  real  province  of  diplomacy ; 
a  majority  inclining  to  the  opinion  that  it  was  derogatory  to  the  high 
dignity  of  the  calling  to  meddle  with  what,  at  best,  was  the  function  of 
the  mere  courtier. 

"  Is  that  Culduff  driving  away  in  that  cab  ?"  cried  one,  as  he  stood  at 
the  window. 

"He  has  carried  away  my  hat,  I  see,  by  mistake,"  said  another. 
"  What  is  he  up  to  at  this  hour  of  the  morning  ?  " 

"I  think  I  can  guess,"  said  the  grim  individual  who  had  corrected 
him  in  the  matter  of  genealogy  ;  "  he's  off  to  F.  0.,  to  ask  for  the  special 
mission  he  has  just  declared  that  none  of  us  should  stoop  to  accept." 

"You've  hit  it,  Grindesley,"  cried  another.  "I'll  wager  a  pony 
you're  right." 

"  It's  so  like  him." 

"  After  all,  it's  the  sort  of  thing  he's  best  up  to.  La  Ferronaye  told 
me  he  was  the  best  master  of  the  ceremonies  in  Europe." 

"  Why  come  amongst  us  at  all,  then  ?  Why  not  get  himself  made  a 
gold- stick,  and  follow  the  instincts  of  his  genius  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  believe  he  wants  it  badly,"  said  one  who  affected  a  tone  of 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  267 

hdf  kindliness.  "  They  tell  me  he  has  not  eight  hundred  a  year  left 
him." 

"  Not  four.     I  doubt  if  he  could  lay  claim  to  three." 

' '  He  never  had  in  his  best  day  above  four  or  five  thousand,  though  he 
te;ls  you  of  his  twenty-seven  or  twenty- eight." 

"  He  had  originally  about  six ;  but  he  always  lived  at  the  rate  of 
twelve  or  fifteen,  and  in  mere  ostentation  too." 

"  So  I've  always  heard."  And  then  there  followed  a  number  of  little 
ar  ecdotes  of  Culduff's  selfishness,  his  avarice,  his  meanness,  and  such 
like,  told  with  such  exactitude  as  to  show  that  every  act  of  these  men's 
lives  was  scrupulously  watched,  and  when  occasion  offered  mercilessly 
recorded. 

While  they  thus  sat  in  judgment  over  him,  Lord  Culduff  himself  was 
seated  at  a  fire  in  a  dingy  old  room  in  Downing  Street,  the  Chief  Secretary 
fo  •  Foreign  Affairs  opposite  him.  They  were  talking  in  a  tone  of  easy 
fa  niharity,  as  men  might  who  occupied  the  same  social  station,  a  certain 
ar:  of  superiority,  however,  being  always  apparent  in  the  manner  of  the 
ni-nister  towards  the  subordinate. 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  ask  this,  Culduff,"  said  the  great  man,  as  he 
piffed  his  cigar  tranquilly  in  front  of  him.  "  You've  had  three  of  these 
special  missions  already." 

"  And  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  was  the  one  man  in  England  who 
krcw  how  to  do  them." 

"  We  don't  dispute  the  way  you  did  them;  we  only  say  all  the  prizes 
in  the  wheel  should  not  fall  to  the  same  man." 

"  You  have  had  my  proxy  for  the  last  five  years." 

"  And  we  have  acknowledged  the  support — acknowledged  it  by  more 
thin  professions." 

"  I  can  only  say  this,  that  if  I  had  been  with  the  other  side,  I'd  have 
mot  somewhat  different  treatment." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  Culduff.  Every  party  that  is  in  power  inherits  its 
shire  of  obligations.  We  have  never  disowned  those  we  owe  to  you." 

"  And  why  am  I  refused  this,  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  wanted  other  reasons  than  those  I  have  given  you,  I  might 
be  able  to  adduce  them — not  willingly  indeed,  but  under  pressure,  and 
especially  in  strict  confidence." 

"  Reasons  against  my  having  the  mission  ?  " 

"  Reasons  against  your  having  the  mission." 

"  You  amaze  me,  my  lord.  I  almost  doubt  that  I  have  heard  you 
ar:ght.  I  must,  however,  insist  on  your  explaining  yourself.  Am  I  to 
understand  that  there  are  personal  grounds  of  unfitness  ?  " 

The  other  bowed  in  assent. 

"  Have  the  kindness  to  let  me  know  them." 

"  First  of  all,  Culduff,  this  is  to  be  a  family  mission — the  duchess  is 
a  »  onnection  of  our  own  royal  house — and  a  certain  degree  of  display  and 
consequent  expense  will  be  required.  Your  fortune  does  not  admit  of  this." 


288  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  01?  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Push  on  to  the  more  cogent  reason,  my  lord,"  said  Culduff,  stiffly. 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  more  cogent  reason.  The  court  has  not  forgotten 
• — what  possibly  the  world  may  have  forgotten — some  of  those  passages  in 
your  life  for  which  you,  perhaps,  have  no  other  remorse  than  that  they  are 
not  likely  to  recur ;  and  as  you  have  given  no  hostages  for  good  behaviour, 
in  the  shape  of  a  wife,  the  court,  I  say,  is  sure  to  veto  your  appointment. 
You  see  it  all  as  clearly  as  I  do." 

"  So  far  as  I  do  see,"  said  Culduff,  slowly,  "  the  first  objection  is  my 
\vant  of  fortune,  the  second,  my  want  of  a  wife  ?  " 

''Exactly  so." 

"  Well,  my  lord,  I  am  able  to  meet  each  of  these  obstacles ;  my  agent 
has  just  discovered  coal  on  one  of  my  best  estates,  and  I  am  now  in  town 
to  make  arrangements  on  a  large  scale  to  develope  the  source  of  wealth. 
As  to  the  second  disability,  I  shall  pledge  myself  to  present  the  Viscountess 
Culduff  at  the  next  drawing-room." 

"  Married  already  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  may  be  within  a  few  weeks.  In  fact,  I  mean  to  place  my- 
self in  such  a  position,  that  no  one  holding  your  office  can  pass  me  over 
by  a  pretext,  or  affect  to  ignore  my  claim  by  affirming  that  I  labour  under 
a  disability." 

"  This  sounds  like  menace,  does  it  not  ?  "  said  the  other  as  he  threw 
his  cigar  impatiently  from  him. 

"A  mere  protocol,  my  lord,  to  denote  intention." 

"  Well,  I'll  submit  your  name.  I'll  go  further, — I'll  support  it. 
Don't  leave  town  for  a  day  or  two.  Call  on  Beadlesworth  and  see 
Repsley  ;  tell  him  what  you've  said  to  me.  If  you  could  promise  it  was 
one  of  his  old  maiden  sisters  that  you  thought  of  making  Lady  Culduff,  the 
thing  could  be  clenched  at  once, — but  I  take  it,  you  have  other  views  ?  " 

"  I  have  other  views,"  said  he  gravely. 

"  I'm  not  indiscreet,  and  I  shall  not  ask  you  more  on  that  head.  By 
the  way,  isn't  your  leave  up,  or  nearly  up  ?  " 

"It  expired  on  Wednesday  last,  and  I  want  it  renewed  for  two 
months." 

"  Of  course,  if  we  send  you  on  this  mission,  you'll  not  want  the 
leave  ?  I  had  something  else  to  say.  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  very  vaguest  idea." 

"  Oh  !  I  remember.  It  was  to  recommend  you  not  to  take  your  wife 
from  the  stage.  There's  a  strong  prejudice  in  a  certain  quarter  as  to  that, — 
in  fact,  I  may  say  it  couldn't  be  got  over." 

"I  may  relieve  you  of  any  apprehensions  on  that  score.  Indeed,  I 
don't  know  what  fact  in  my  life  should  expose  me  to  the  mere  suspicion." 

"  Nothing, — nothing, — except  that  impulsive  generosity  of  your  dis- 
position, which  might  lead  you  to  do  what  other  men  would  stop  short  to 
count  the  cost  of." 

"  It  would  never  lead  me  to  derogate,  my  lord,"  said  he  proudly  as  he 
took  his  hat,  and  bowing  haughtily  left  the  room. 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  269 

"  The  greatest  ass  in  the  whole  career,  and  the  word  is  a  bold  one," 
said  the  Minister  as  the  door  closed.  "  Meanwhile,  I  must  send  in  his 
nane  for  this  mission,  which  he  is  fully  equal  to.  What  a  happy  arrange- 
ment it  is,  that  in  an  age  when  our  flunkies  aspire  to  he  gentlemen,  there 
arc  gentlemen  who  ask  nothing  better  than  to  be  flunkies  ! " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WITH   HIS    LAWYER. 

TBOUGH  Colonel  Bramleigh's  visit  to  town  was  supposed  to  be  in  furtherance 
of  that  speculation  by  which  Lord  Culduff  calculated  on  wealth  and 
splendour,  he  had  really  another  object,  and  while  Culduff  imagined  him 
to  be  busy  in  the  City,  and  deep  in  shares  and  stock  lists,  he  was  closely 
closeted  with  his  lawyer,  and  earnestly  poring  over  a  mass  of  time-worn 
letters  and  documents,  carefully  noting  down  dates,  docketing,  and  annotating, 
in  a  way  that  showed  what  importance  he  attached  to  the  task  before  him. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Sedley,"  said  he,  as  he  threw  his  pen  disdainfully 
from  him,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair,  "  the  whole  of  this  move  is  a  party 
dodge.  It  is  part  and  parcel  of  that  vile  persecution  with  which  the  Tory 
faction  pursued  me  during  my  late  canvas.  You  remember  their  vulgar 
allusions  to  my  father  the  brewer,  and  their  coarse  jest  about  my  frothy 
oratory  ?  This  attack  is  but  the  second  act  of  the  same  drama." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  mildly  rejoined  the  other  party.  "  Conflicts  are 
sharp  enough  while  the  struggle  lasts ;  but  they  rarely  carry  their  bitterness 
beyond  the  day  of  battle." 

"  That  is  an  agent's  view  of  the  matter,"  said  Bramleigh,  with  asperity. 
"  The  agent  always  persists  in  believing  the  whole  thing  a  sham  fight ;  but 
though  men  do  talk  a  great  deal  of  rot  and  humbug  about  their  principles 
on  the  hustings,  their  personal  feelings  are  just  as  real,  just  as  acute,  and 
occasionally  just  as  painful,  as  on  any  occasion  hi  their  lives ;  and  I  repeat 
to  you,  the  trumped-up  claim  of  this  foreigner  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
a  piece  of  party  malignity. 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you.  The  correspondence  we  have  just  been 
looking  at  shows  how  upwards  of  forty  years  ago  the  same  pretensions 
were  put  forward,  and  a  man  calling  himself  Montagu-Evelyn  Bramleigh 
declared  he  was  the  rightful  heir  to  your  estates." 

"  A  rightful  heir  whose  claims  could  be  always  compromised  by  a  ten- 
poand  note  was  scarcely  very  dangerous." 

"  Why  make  any  compromise  at  all  if  the  fellow  was  clearly  an 
impostor  ?  " 

"  For  the  very  reason  that  you  yourself  now  counsel  a  similar  course  : 
to  avoid  the  scandal  of  a  public  trial.  To  escape  all  those  insolent  com- 
mt  nts  which  a  party  press  is  certain  to  pass  on  a  political  opponent." 

"  That  could  scarcely  have  been  apprehended  from  the  Bramleigh  I 


270  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

speak  of,  who  was  clearly  poor,  illiterate,  and  friendless ;  whereas  the 
present  man  has,  from  some  source  or  other,  funds  to  engage  eminent 
counsel  and  retain  one  of  the  first  men  at  the  har." 

"  I  protest,  Sedley,  you  puzzle  me,"  said  Bramleigh,  with  an  angry 
sparkle  in  his  eye.  "  A  few  moments  back  you  treated  all  this  pretension 
as  a  mere  pretext  for  extorting  money,  and  now  you  talk  of  this  fellow  and 
his  claim,  as  subjects  that  may  one  day  be  matter  for  the  decision  of  a  jury. 
Can  you  reconcile  two  views  so  diametrically  opposite  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can.  It  is  at  law  as  in  war.  The  feint  may  be  earned  on 
to  a  real  attack  whenever  the  position  assailed  be  possessed  of  an  over- 
confidence  or  but  ill-defended.  It  might  be  easy  enough,  perhaps,  to  deal 
with  this  man.  Let  him  have  some  small  success,  however ;  let  him 
gain  a  verdict,  for  instance,  in  one  of  those  petty  suits  for  ejectment,  and 
his  case  at  once  becomes  formidable." 

"  All  this,"  said  Bramleigh,  "  proceeds  on  the  assumption  that  there 
is  something  in  the  fellow's  claim  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably." 

"  I  declare,"  said  Bramleigh,  rising  and  pacing  the  room,  "  I  have  not 
temper  for  this  discussion.  My  mind  has  not  been  disciplined  to  that 
degree  of  refinement  that  I  can  accept  a  downright  swindle  as  a  demand 
founded  on  justice." 

t{  Let  us  prove  it  a  swindle,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"  And  will  you  tell  me,  sir,"  said  he  passionately,  "  that  every  gentle- 
man holds  his  estates  on  the  condition  that  the  title  may  be  contested  by 
any  impostor  who  can  dupe  people  into  advancing  money  to  set  the  law  in 
motion  ?  " 

"  When  such  proceedings  are  fraudulent  a  very  heavy  punishment 
awaits  them." 

"  And  what  punishment  of  the  knave  equals  the  penalty  inflicted  on 
the  honest  man  in  exposure,  shame,  insolent  remarks,  and  worse  than 
even  these,  a  contemptuous  pity  for  that  reverse  of  fortune  which  news- 
paper writers  always  announce  as  an  inevitable  consummation  ?  " 

11  These  are  all  hard  things  to  bear,  but  I  don't  suspect  they  ever 
deterred  any  man  from  holding  an  estate." 

The  half  jocular  tone  of  his  remark  rather  jarred  on  Bramleigh's 
sensibilities,  and  he  continued  to  walk  the  room  in  silence ;  at  last, 
stopping  short,  he  wheeled  round  and  said, — 

"  Do  you  adhere  to  your  former  opinion ;  would  you  try  a  com- 
promise ?  " 

' '  I  would.  The  man  has  a  case  quite  good  enough  to  interest  a 
speculative  lawyer, — good  enough  to  go  before  a  jury, — good  enough  for 
everything,  but  success.  One  half  what  the  defence  would  cost  you  will 
probably  satisfy  his  expectations,  not  to  speak  of  all  you  will  spare  your- 
self in  unpleasantness  and  exposure. 

"It  is  a  hard  thing  to  stoop  to,"  said  Bramleigh,  painfully. 

"It  need  not  be,  at  least  not  to  the  extent  you  imagine ;  and  when 


THE  BKAMLEIG-HS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  271 

yoi  throw  your  eye  over  your  lawyer's  bill  of  costs,  the  phrase  'incidental 
expenses  '  will  spare  your  feelings  any  more  distinct  reference  to  this 
transaction." 

"  A  most  considerate  attention.  And  now  for  the  practical  part.  Who 
is  this  man's  lawyer  ?  " 

"A  most  respectable  practitioner,  Kelson,  of  Temple  Court.  A  per- 
sonal friend  of  my  own. 

"  And  what  terms  would  you  propose  ?  " 

"I'd  offer  five  thousand,  and  be  prepared  to  go  to  eight,  possibly 
to  ten." 

"  To  silence  a  mere  menace." 

"Exactly.  It's  a  mere  menace  to-day,  but  six  mpnths  hence  it  may 
be  something  more  formidable.  It  is  a  curious  case,  cleverly  contrived 
an<l  ingeniously  put  together.  I  don't  say  that  we  couldn't  smash  it ; 
such  carpentry  always  has  a  chink  or  an  open  somewhere.  Meanwhile 
the  scandal  is  spreading  over  not  only  England,  but  over  the  world,  and 
no  matter  how  favourable  the  ultimate  issue,  there  will  always  remain  in 
men's  minds  the  recollection  that  the  right  to  your  estate  was  contested 
an. I  that  you  had  to  defend  your  possession. 

"I  had  always  thought  till  now,"  said  Bramleigh,  slowly,  "  that  the 
legal  mind  attached  very  little  importance  to  the  flying  scandals  that  amuse 
society.  You  appear  to  accord  them  weight  and  influence." 

"  I  am  not  less  a  man  of  the  world  because  I  am  a  lawyer,  Colonel 
Br.imleigh,"  said  the  other,  half  tartly. 

"  If  this  must  be  done,  the  sooner  it  be  over  the  better.  A  man  of 
high  station — a  peer — is  at  this  moment  paying  such  attention  to  one  of 
mj  daughters  that  I  may  expect  at  any  moment,  to-day  perhaps,  to 
receive  a  formal  proposal  for  her  hand.  I  do  not  suspect  that  the  threat 
of  an  unknown  claimant  to  my  property  would  disturb  his  lordship's  faith 
in  my  security  or  my  station,  but  the  sensitive  dislike  of  men  of  his  class 
to  all  publicity  that  does  not  redound  to  honour  or  distinction, — the 
rej  ugnance  to  whatever  draws  attention  to  them  for  aught  but  court  favour 
or  advancement, — might  well  be  supposed  to  have  its  influence  with  him, 
and  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  spare  him, — to  spare  us,  too, — this 
exposure." 

"  I'll  attend  to  it  immediately.  Kelson  hinted  to  me  that  the 
claimant  was  now  in  England."  » 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  that." 

"  Yes,  he  is  over  here  now,  and  I  gather,  too,  has  contrived  to  interest 
gone  people  in  his  pretensions." 

"  Does  he  affect  the  station  of  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"Thoroughly;  he  is,  I  am  told,  well-mannered,  prepossessing  in 
appearance,  and  presentable  in  every  respect." 

"Let  us  ask  him  over  to  Castello,  Sedley,"  said  Bramleigh,  laughing. 
"  I've  known  of  worse  strategy,"  said  the  lawyer,  dryly. 
"  What !  are  you  actually  serious  ?  " 


272  THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  I  say  that  such  a  move  might  not  be  the  worst  step  to  an  amicable 
settlement.  In  admitting  the  assailant  to  see  all  the  worth  and  value  of 
the  fortress,  it  would  also  show  him  the  resources  for  defence,  and  he 
might  readily  compute  what  poor  chances  were  his  against  such  odds." 

"  Still,  I  doubt  if  I  could  bring  myself  to  consent  to  it.  There  is  a 
positive  indignity  in  making  any  concession  to  such  a  palpable  imposture." 

"  Not  palpable  till  proven.  The  most  unlikely  cases  have  now  and 
then  pushed  some  of  our  ablest  men  to  upset.  Attack  can  always  choose 
its  own  time,  its  own  ground,  and  is  master  of  almost  every  condition  of 
the  combat." 

"  I  declare,  Sedley,  if  this  man  had  retained  your  services  to  make  a 
good  bargain  for  him,  he  could  scarcely  have  selected  a  more  able  agent." 

"  You  could  not  more  highly  compliment  the  zeal  I  am  exercising  in 
your  service." 

"  Well,  I  take  it  I  must  leave  the  whole  thing  in  your  hands.  I  shall 
not  prolong  my  stay  in  town.  I  wanted  to  do  something  in  the  City,  but  I 
find  these  late  crashes  in  the  banks  have  spread  such  terror  and  appre- 
hension, that  nobody  will  advance  a  guinea  on  anything.  There  is  an 
admirable  opening  just  now, — coal." 

"  In  Egypt?" 

"  No,  in  Ireland." 

"  Ah,  in  Ireland  ?  That's  very  different.  You  surely  cannot  expect 
capital  will  take  that  channel  ?  " 

"  You  are  an  admirable  lawyer,  Sedley.  I  am  told  London  has  not 
your  equal  as  a  special  pleader,  but  let  me  tell  you  you  are  not  either  a 
projector  or  a  politician.  I  am  both,  and  I  declare  to  you  that  this  country 
which  you  deride  and  distrust  is  the  California  of  Great  Britain.  Write 
to  me  at  your  earliest ;  finish  this  business,  if  you  can,  out  of  hand,  and  if 
you  make  good  terms  for  me  I'll  send  you  some  shares  in  an  enterprise 
— an  Irish  enterprise — which  will  pay  you  a  better  dividend  than  some 
of  your  East  county  railroads." 

"  Have  you  changed  the  name  of  your  place  ?  Your  son,  Mr.  John 
Bramleigh,  writes  '  Bishop's  Folly  '  at  the  top  of  his  letter." 

"  It  is  called  Castello,  sir.  I  am  not  responsible  for  the  silly  caprices 
of  a  sailor." 


CHAPTEE  XVI. 

SOME  MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 

LORD  CULDTJFF  and  Colonel  Bramleigh  spoke  little  to  each  other  as  they 
journeyed  back  to  Ireland.  Each  fell  back  upon  the  theme  personally 
interesting  to  him,  and  cared  not  to  impart  it  to  his  neighbour.  They 
were  not  like  men  who  had  so  long  travelled  the  same  road  in  life  that  by 
a  dropping  word,  a  whole  train  of  associations  can  be  conjured  up,  and 
familiar  scenes  and  people  be  passed  in  review  before  the  mind. 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OP  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  273 

A  few  curt  sentences  uttered  by  Bramleigh  told  how  matters  stood  in 
the  City — money  was  "  tight  "  being  the  text  of  all  he  said  ;  but  of  that 
financial  sensitiveness  that  shrinks  timidly  from  all  enterprise  after  a 
period  of  crash  and  bankruptcy  Culduff  could  make  nothing.  In  his  own 
craft  nobody  dreaded  the  fire  because  his  neighbour's  child  was  burned, 
and  he  could  not  see  why  capitalists  should  not  learn  something  from 
diplomacy. 

Nor  was  Colonel  Bramleigh,  on  his  side,  much  better  able  to  follow 
the  subject  which  had  interest  for  his  companion.  The  rise  and  fall  of 
kingdoms,  the  varying  fortunes  of  States,  impressed  themselves  upon  the 
City  man  by  the  condition  of  financial  credit  they  implied,  and  a  mere 
glance  at  the  price  of  a  foreign  loan  conveyed  to  his  appreciation  a  more 
correct  notion  of  a  people  than  all  the  Blue  Books  and  all  the  cor- 
respondence with  plenipotentiaries. 

These  were  not  Culduft's  views.  His  code — it  is  the  code  of  all  his 
calling — was  :  No  country  of  any  pretensions,  no  more  than  any  gentleman 
of  blood  and  family,  ever  became  bankrupt.  Pressed,  hard-pushed,  he 
\vould  say.  Yes  !  we  all  of  us  have  had  our  difficulties,  and  to  surmount 
them  occasionally  we  are  driven  to  make  unprofitable  bargains,  but  we 
'•  rub  through,"  and  so  will  Greece  and  Spain  and  those  other  countries 
vhere  they  are  borrowing  at  twelve  or  twenty  per  cent.,  and  raise  a  loan 
each  year  to  discharge  the  dividends. 

Not  only  then  were  these  two  men  little  gifted  with  qualities  to  render 
them  companionable  to  each  other,  but  from  the  totally  different  way 
^very  event  and  every  circumstance  presented  itself  to  their  minds,  each 
grew  to  conceive  for  the  other  a  sort  of  depreciatory  estimate  as  of  one 
vho  only  could  see  a  very  small  part  of  any  subject,  and  even  that 
coloured  and  tinted  by  the  hues  of  his  own  daily  calling. 

"So,  then,"  said  Culduff,  after  listening  to  a  somewhat  lengthy 
explanation  from  Bramleigh  of  why  and  how  it  was  that  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  financially  at  the  moment,  "  so,  then,  I  am  to  gather  the  plan 
of  a  company  to  work  the  mines  is  out  of  the  question  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  call  it  deferred  than  abandoned,"  was  the  cautious 
reply. 

"  In  my  career  what  we  postpone  we  generally  prohibit.  And  what 
c  ther  course  is  open  to  us  ?  " 

"We  can  wait,  my  lord,  we  can  wait.  Coal  is  not  like  indigo  or 
tobacco ;  it  is  not  a  question  of  hours — whether  the  crop  be  saved  or 
ruined.  We  can  wait." 

"Very  true,  sir;  but  /  cannot  wait.  There  are  some  urgent  calls 
rpon  me  just  now,  the  men  who  are  pressing  which  will  not  be  so  com- 
jlaisant  as  to  wait  either." 

"  I  was  always  under  the  impression,  my  lord,  that  your  position  as 
?.  peer,  and  the  nature  of  the  services  that  you  were  engaged  in,  were 
&  amcient  to  relieve  you  from  all  the  embarrassment  that  attach  to  humbler 
men  in  difficulties  ?  " 

VOL.  xvi.— NO.  93.  14. 


274  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"They  don't  arrest,  but  they  dun  us,  sir;  and  they  dun  with  an 
insistance  and  an  amount  of  menace,  too,  that  middle-class  people  can 
form  no  conception  of.  They  besiege  the  departments  we  serve  under  with 
their  vulgar  complaints,  and  if  the  rumour  gets  abroad  that  one  of  us  is 
about  to  be  advanced  to  a  governorship  or  an  embassy,  they  assemble  in 
Downing  Street  like  a  Keform  demonstration.  I  declare  to  you  I  had  to 
make  my  way  through  a  lane  of  creditors  from  the  Privy  Council  Office 
to  the  private  entrance  to  F.  0.,  my  hands  full  of  their  confounded  accounts, 
— one  fellow,  a  bootmaker,  actually  having  pinned  his  bill  to  the  skirt  of 
my  coat  as  I  went.  And  the  worst  of  these  impertinences  is  that  the}r  give 
a  Minister  who  is  indisposed  towards  you  a  handle  for  refusing  your  just 
claims.  I  have  just  come  through  such  an  ordeal :  I  have  been  told  that 
my  debts  are  to  be  a  bar  to  my  promotion." 

The  almost  tremulous  horror  which  he  gave  to  this  last  expression — 
as  of  an  outrage  unknown  to  mankind — warned  Bramleigh  to  be  silent. 

"  I  perceive  that  you  do  not  find  it  easy  to  believe  this,  but  I  pledge 
my  word  to  you  it  is  true.  It  is  not  forty-eight  hours  since  a  Secretary  of 
State  assumed  to  make  my  personal  liabilities — the  things  which,  if  any 
things  are  a  man's  own,  are  certainly  so — to  make  these  an  objection  to 
my  taking  a  mission  of  importance.  I  believe  he  was  sorry  for  his 
indiscretion ;  I  nave  reason  to  suppose  that  it  was  a  blunder  he  will  not 
readily  repeat." 

"  And  you  obtained  your  appointment  ?"  asked  Bramleigh. 

"  Minister  extraordinary  and  plenipotentiary  to  the  court  of  Hoch- 
maringhen,"  said  Culduff,  with  a  slow  and  pompous  enunciation.  ^ 

Bramleigh,  pardonably  ignorant  of  the  geography  of  the  important 
State  alluded  to,  merely  bowed  in  acknowledgment.  "  Is  there  much — 
much  to  do  at  one  of  these  courts  ?  "  asked  he  diffidently,  after  a  pause. 

"In  one  sense  there  is  a  great  deal.  In  Germany  the  action  of  the 
greater  cabinets  is  always  to  be  discovered  in  the  intrigues  of  the  small 
dukedoms,  just  as  you  gather  the  temper  of  the  huntsman  from  the  way 
he  lashes  the  hounds.  You  may,  therefore,  send  a  '  cretin,'  if  you  like,  to 
Berlin  or  Vienna  ;  you  want  a  man  of  tact  and  address  at  Sigmaringen  or 
Klein-Esel-Stadt.  They  begin  to  see  that  here  at  home,  but  it  took  them 
years  to  arrive  at  it." 

"Whether  Bramleigh  was  confounded  by  the  depth  of  this  remark,  or 
annoyed  by  the  man  who  made  it,  he  relapsed  into  a  dreamy  silence  that 
soon  passed  into  sleep,  into  which  state  the  illustrious  diplomatist  fol- 
lowed, and  thus  was  the  journey  made  till  the  tall  towers  of  Castello  came 
into  view,  and  they  found  themselves  rapidly  careering  along  with  four 
posters  towards  the  grand  entrance.  The  tidings  of  their  coming  soon 
reached  the  drawing-room,  and  the  hall  was  filled  by  the  young  members 
of  the  family  to  welcome  them.  "  Remember,"  said  Bramleigh,  "we 
had  nothing  but  a  light  luncheon  since  morning.  Come  and  join  us,  if 
you  like,  in  the  dining-room,  but  let  us  have  some  dinner  as  soon  as 
may  be." 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  275 

It  is  not  pleasant,  perhaps,  to  be  talked  to  while  eating  hy  persons 
quite  unemployed  by  the  pleasures  of  the  table ;  but  there  is  a  sort  of  free 
and  easy  at  such  times  not  wholly  unconducive  to  agreeable  intercourse, 
and  many  little  cares  and  attentions,  impossible  and  unmeaning  in  the 
more  formal  habits  of  the  table,  are  now  graceful  adjuncts  to  the  incident. 
Thus  was  it  that  Marion  contrived  by  some  slight  service  or  other  to 
indicate  to  Lord  Culduff  that  he  was  an  honoured  guest ;  and  when  she 
filled  his  glass  with  champagne,  and  poured  a  little  into  her  own  to  pledge 
him,  the  great  man  felt  a  sense  of  triumph  that  warmed  the  whole  of  that 
region  where,  anatomically,  his  heart  was  situated.  While  the  others 
abound  were  engaged  in  general  conversation,  she  led  him  to  talk  of  his 
jcurney  to  town,  and  what  he  had  done  there  ;  and  he  told  her  somewhat 
p.'oudly  of  the  high  mission  about  to  be  entrusted  to  him,  not  omitting  to 
speak  of  the  haughty  tone  he  had  used  towards  the  Minister  and  the  spirit 
h3  had  evinced  in  asserting  his  just  claims.  "We  had  what  threatened 
a'  one  time  to  be  a  stormy  interview.  When  a  man  like  myself  has  to 
recall  the  list  of  his  services,  the  case  may  well  be  considered  imminent. 
B'e  pushed  me  to  this,  and  I  accepted  his  challenge.  I  told  him,  if  I  am 
n  )t  rich,  it  is  because  I  have  spent  my  fortune  in  maintaining  the  dignity 
oi '  the  high  stations  I  have  filled.  The  breaches  in  my  fortune  are  all 
honourable  wounds.  He  next  objected  to  what  I  could  not  but  admit  as  a 
more  valid  barrier  to  my  claims.  Can  you  guess  it  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  dissent.  It  could  not  be  his  rank,  or  anything 
that  bore  upon  his  rank.  Was  it  possible  that  official  prudery  had  been 
si  ocked  by  the  noble  lord's  social  derelictions  ?  Had  the  scandal  of 
that  old  elopement  survived  to  tarnish  his  fame  and  injure  his  success  ? 
and  she  blushed  as  she  thought  of  the  theme  to  which  he  invited  her 
approach. 

"I  see  you  do  divine  it,"  said  he,  smiling  courteously. 

"  I  suspect  not,"  said  she  diflidently,  and  still  blushing  deeper. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  boon  to  me, — a  most  encouraging  assurance," 
said  he  in  a  low  and  earnest  voice,  "  if  I  could  believe  that  your  interest 
in  me  went  so  far  as  actually  to  read  the  story  and  anticipate  the  cata- 
strophe of  my  life.  Tell  me  then,  I  entreat  you,  that  you  know  what  I 
allude  to." 

She  hesitated.  "  Was  it  possible,"  thought  she,  "  that  he  wished  me 
to  admit  that  my  opinion  of  him  was  not  prejudiced  by  this  '  escapade  '  of 
th  rty  years  ago  ?  Is  he  asking  me  to  own  that  I  am  tolerant  towards 
su  ;h  offences  ?  "  His  age,  his  tone  generally,  his  essentially  foreign  breeding, 
mi,de  this  very  possible.  Her  perplexity  was  great,  and  her  confusion 
increased  with  every  minute. 

At  this  critical  moment  there  was  a  general  move  to  go  into  the 
dr  twing-room,  and  as  he  gave  her  his  arm,  Lord  Culduff  drew  her  gently 
towards  him,  and  said  in  his  most  insinuating  voice,  "Let  me  hear  my 
fat  3." 

"I  declare,  my  lord,"  said  she  hesitatingly,  "I  don't  know  what  to 

14—2 


276  THE   BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

gay.  Moralists  and  worldly  people  have  two  different  measures  for  these 
things.  I  have  no  pretensions  to  claim  a  place  with  the  former,  and  I 
rather  shrink  from  accepting  all  the  ideas  of  the  latter.  At  all  events 
I  would  suppose  that  after  a  certain  lapse  of  time,  when  years  have  gone 
over, — profitably, — I  would  hope, — in  fact,  I  mean, — in  short  I  do  not 
know  what  I  mean." 

"  You  mean,  perhaps,  that  it  is  not  at  my  time  of  life  men  take  such  a 
step  with  prudence.  Is  that  it  ?"  asked  he,  trying  in  vain  to  keep  down 
the  irritation  that  moved  him. 

"  Well,  my  lord,  I  believe  about  the  prudence  there  can  scarcely  be 
two  opinions,  whether  a  man  be  young  or  old.  These  things  are  wrong  hi 
themselves,  and  nothing  can  make  them  right." 

"  I  protest  I  am  unable  to  follow  you,"  said  he,  tartly. 

"  All  the  better,  my  lord,  if  I  be  only  leading  you  where  you  have  no 
inclination  to  wander.  I  see  Nelly  wants  me  at  the  piano." 

"  And  you  prefer  accompanying  her  to  me  ?  "  said  he  reproachfully. 

"  At  least,  my  lord,  we  shall  be  in  harmony,  which  is  scarcely  our 
case  here." 

He  sighed,  almost  theatrically,  as  he  relinquished  her  arm,  and  retiring 
to  a  remote  part  of  the  room,  affected  to  read  a  newspaper.  Mr.  Cutbill, 
however,  soon  drew  a  chair  near,  and  engaged  him  in  conversation. 

"  So  Bramleigh  has  done  nothing,"  whispered  Cutbill,  as  he  bent 
forward.  "He  did  not,  so  far  as  I  gather,  even  speak  of  the  mine  in 
the  City." 

"  He  said  it  was  of  no  use ;  the  time  was  unfavourable." 

11  Did  you  ever  know  it  otherwise  ?  Isn't  it  with  that  same  cant  of 
an  unfavourable  time,  these  men  always  add  so  much  to  the  premium  on 
every  undertaking  ?  " 

"  Sir,  I  am  unable  to  answer  your  question.  It  is  my  first — I  would 
I  might  be  able  to  say,  and  my  last — occasion  to  deal  with  this  class  of 
people." 

"  They're  not  a  bad  set,  after  all ;  only  you  must  take  them  in  the 
way  they're  used  to — the  way  they  understand." 

"  It  is  a  language  I  have  yet  to  learn,  Mr.  Cutbill." 

"  The  sooner  your  lordship  sets  to  work  at  it  the  better  then." 

Lord  Culduff  wheeled  round  in  his  chair,  and  stared  with  amazement 
at  the  man  before  him.  He  saw,  however,  the  unmistakable  signs  of  his 
having  drunk  freely,  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  declared  that  the  moment  was 
not  favourable  for  calm  discussion. 

"It  would  be  as  well  perhaps  to  adjourn  this  conversation,"  said 
Culduff. 

"  I'm  for  business — anywhere  and  at  any  moment.  I  made  one  of 
the  best  hits  I  ever  chanced  upon  after  a  smash  on  the  Trent  Valley  line. 
There  was  Boulders,  of  the  firm  of  Skale  and  Boulders  Brothers, — had  his 
shoulder  dislocated  and  two  of  his  front  teeth  knocked  out.  He  was 
lying  with  a  lot  of  scantling  and  barrel-staves  over  him,  and  he  cried  out, 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  277 

*  Is  there  any  one  there  ? '  I  said,  <  Yes  ;  Cutbill.  Tom  Cutbill,  of 
Viceregal  Terrace,  St.  John's  Wood.'  " 

Lord  Culduff's  patience  could  stand  no  more,  and  he  arose  with  a 
slight  bow  and  moved  haughtily  away.  Cutbill,  however,  was  quickly  at 
his  side.  "  You  must  hear  the  rest  of  this  ;  it  was  a  matter  of  close  on 
ten  thousand  pounds  to  me,  and  this  is  the  way  it  came  out " 

"  I  felicitate  you  heartily,  sir,  on  your  success,  but  beg  I  may  be 
spared  the  story  of  it." 

"  You've  heard  worse.  Egad,  I'd  not  say  you  haven't  told  worse. 
It's  not  every  fellow,  I  promise  you,  has  his  wits  about  him  at  a  moment 
when  people  are  shouting  for  help,  and  an  express  train  standing  on  its 
head  in  a  cutting,  and  a  tender  hanging  over  a  viaduct." 

"  Sir,  there  are  worse  inflictions  than  even  this." 

"  Eh,  what  ?  "  said  Cutbill,  crossing  his  arms  on  his  chest,  and  looking 
fully  in  the  other's  face ;  but  Lord  Culduff  moved  quietly  on,  and 
approaching  a  table  where  Ellen  was  seated,  said,  "  I'm  coming  to  beg 
for  a  cup  of  tea ;  "  not  a  trace  of  excitement  or  irritation  to  be  detected 
in  his  voice  or  manner.  He  loitered  for  a  few  moments  at  the  table, 
talking  lightly  and  pleasantly  on  indifferent  subjects,  and  then  moved 
carelessly  away  till  he  found  himself  near  the  door,  when  he  made  a  pre- 
cipitate escape  and  hurried  up  to  his  room. 

It  was  his  invariable  custom  to  look  at  himself  carefully  in  the  glass 
whenever  he  came  home  at  night.  As  a  general  might  have  examined  the 
list  of  killed  and  wounded  after  an  action,  computing  with  himself  the 
cost  of  victory  or  defeat,  so  did  this  veteran  warrior  of  a  world's  campaign 
go  carefully  over  all  the  signs  of  wear  and  tear,  the  hard  lines  of  pain  or 
chequered  colouring  of  agitation,  which  his  last  engagement  might  have 
inflicted. 

As  he  sat  down  before  his  mirror  now,  he  was  actually  shocked  to  see 
what  ravages  a  single  evening  had  produced.  The  circles  around  his  eyes 
were  deeply  indented,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  drawn  down  so  fixedly  and 
irmly  that  all  his  attempts  to  conjure  up  a  smile  were  failures,  while  a 
purple  tint  beneath  his  rouge  totally  destroyed  that  delicate  colouring 
.vhich  was  wont  to  impart  the  youthful  look  to  his  features. 

The  vulgar  impertinence  of  Cutbill  made  indeed  but  little  impression 
ipon  him.  An  annoyance  while  it  lasted,  it  still  left  nothing  for  memory 
ihat  could  not  be  dismissed  with  ease.  It  was  Marion.  It  was  what  she 
lad  said  that  weighed  so  painfully  on  his  heart,  wounding  where  he  was 
nost  intensely  and  delicately  sensitive.  She  had  told  him — what  had  she 
old  him  ?  He  tried  to  recall  her  exact  words,  but  he  could  not.  They 
'vere  in  reply  to  remarks  of  his  own,  and  owed  all  their  significance  to  the 
Context.  One  thing  she  certainly  had  said, — that  there  were  certain  steps 
:n  life  about  which  the  world  held  but  one  opinion,  and  the  allusion  was  to 
men  marrying  late  in  life  ;  and  then  she  added  a  remark  as  to  the  want 
>f  "  sympathy  " — or  was  it  "  harmony  "  she  called  it  ? — between  them. 
Eow  strange  that  he  could  not  remember  more  exactly  all  that  passed,  he 


278  THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

who,  after  his  interviews  with  Ministers  and  great  men,  could  go  home  and 
send  off  in  an  official  despatch  the  whole  dialogue  of  the  audience.  But 
why  seek  for  the  precise  expressions  she  employed  ?  The  meaning  should 
surely  be  enough  for  him,  and  that  was — there  was  no  denying  it — that 
the  disparity  of  their  ages  was  a  bar  to  his  pretensions.  "  Had  our  ranks 
in  life  been  alike,  there  might  have  been  force  in  her  observation ;  but  she 
forgets  that  a  coronet  encircles  a  brow  like  a  wreath  of  youth  ;  "  and  he 
adjusted  the  curls  of  his  wig  as  he  spoke,  and  smiled  at  himself  more 
successfully  than  he  had  done  before. 

"  On  the  whole,  perhaps  it  is  better,"  said  he,  as  he  arose  and  walked 
the  room.  "  A  mesalliance  can  only  be  justified  by  great  beauty  or  great 
wealth.  One  must  do  a  consumedly  rash  thing,  or  a  wonderfully  sharp 
one,  to  come  out  well  with  the  world.  Forty  thousand,  and  a  good-looking 
girl — she  isn't  more, — would  not  satisfy  the  just  expectations  of  society, 
which,  with  men  like  myself,  are  severely  exacting." 

He  had  met  a  repulse,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  the  sense  of  pain  it 
inflicted  galled  him  to  the  quick.  To  be  sure,  the  thing  occurred  in  a 
remote,  out-of-the-way  spot,  where  there  were  no  people  to  discover  or 
retail  the  story.  It  was  not  as  if  it  chanced  in  some  cognate  land  of 
society,  where  such  incidents  get  immediate  currency  and  form  the 
gossip  of  every  coterie.  Who  was  ever  to  hear  of  what  passed  in  an  Irish 
country-house  ?  Marion  herself  indeed  might  write  it, — she  most  probably 
would — but  to  whom  ?  To  some  friend  as  little  in  the  world  as  herself,  and 
none  knew  better  than  Lord  Culduff  of  how  few  people  the  "  world  "  was 
composed.  It  was  a  defeat,  but  a  defeat  that  need  never  be  gazetted.  And 
after  all,  are  not  the  worst  things  in  all  our  reverses,  the  comments  that 
are  passed  upon  them  ?  Are  not  the  censures  of  our  enemies  and  the 
condolences  of  our  friends  sometimes  harder  to  bear  than  the  misfortunes 
that  have  evoked  them  ? 

What  Marion's  manner  towards  him  might  be  in  future,  was  also  a 
painful  reflection.  It  would  naturally  be  a  triumphant  incident  in  her 
life  to  have  rejected  such  an  offer.  Would  she  be  eager  to  parade  this 
fact  before  the  world  ?  Would  she  try  to  let  people  know  that  she  had 
refused  him  ?  This  was  possible.  He  felt  that  such  a  slight  would  tarnish 
the  whole  glory  of  his  life,  whose  boast  was  to  have  done  many  things 
that  were  actually  wicked,  but  not  one  that  was  merely  weak. 

The  imminent  matter  was  to  get  out  of  his  present  situation  without 
defeat.  To  quit  the  field,  but  not  as  a  beaten  army  ;  and  revolving  how 
this  was  to  be  done  he  sunk  off  to  sleep. 


279 


llnapsaxh  m  Spain. 

(CONCLUSION.) 


IT  is  an  amiable  weakness,  and  one  very  characteristic  of  the  country,  that 
every  place  in  Spain  considers  itself  better  worth  seeing  than  every  other 
place  in  Spain,  and  consequently  in  the  world,  and  generally  has  some 
proverb  or  jingle  which  says  so  pretty  plainly.  Thus  you  are  told  that — 

He's  a  most  unlucky  devil, 

Who  has  missed  that  marvel  Seville. 

Aid- 
He,  again,  has  just  as  bad  a 
Luck,  who  has  not  seen  Granada. 

0  r  perhaps  it  may  run, — 

Happy  for  his  lifetime  made  is 
He  who  has  set  eyes  on  Cadiz. 

Or  — 

City  like  our  Salamanca ! 

Show  me  one,  sir,  and  I'll  thank  ye. 

44- 

He's  a  commonplace  Erastian, 
Who  would  pass  by  San  Sebastian. 

Bit  whatever  the  form  or  subject,  the  sentiment  is  always  the  same.  I 
CE.nnot  recollect  the  corresponding  "  refran  " — there  is  one  no  doubt — 
w  lich  has  for  its  theme  the  town  of  Honda.  The  only  thing  of  the  sort  I 
ci  u  call  to  mind  merely  pays  a  high  compliment  to  the  proverbial  salubrity 

01  the  place,  and  may  be  freely  translated  : — 

Up  at  Honda  no  one  sickens  : 
Men  of  eighty,  there,  are  chickens. 

B  it  judging  by  what  is  always  said  at  Granada,  or  Malaga,  whenever  the 
qi  lestion  is  raised  as  to  the  finest  route  westwards,  I  should  imagine  the 
popular  dictum  must  be  somewhat  in  the  form  of  "If  you  can,  why  then 
b<  yond  a  Doubt  you  ought  to  go  by  Honda."  If  the  reader  has  any  tolerably 
g<  od  map  of  Spain  at  hand,  a  glance  at  it  will  explain  how  it  comes  that 
R  mda  is  at  once  a  place  of  such  decided  attractions,  and  at  the  same  time 
sc  difficult  of  access.  The  great  mountain  chain  of  which  the  Sierra 
N  )vada  forms  the  highest  and  most  easterly  mass,  runs,  under  different 
ni  mes,  and  with  a  break  or  two,  as  at  Padul,  near  Granada,  and  again 
cl  >se  to  Malaga,  pretty  regularly,  and  generally  parallel  tu  the  sea-shore, 
U]  itil  nearly  opposite  the  Straits.  There  it  takes  somewhat  the  form  of  an 
01  tspread  hand,  sending  one  finger  down  to  Gibraltar,  another  to  Tarifa, 


280  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

another  pointing  to  Cadiz,  another  towards  Jerez  ;  not  to  speak  of  several 
thumbs  in  several  directions.  Honda  lies  well  up  among  the  knuckles  of 
this  hand,  consequently  in  the  heart  of  an  intricate  mountain  tract,  charm- 
ingly picturesque,  but  almost  entirely  roadless.  In  fact  there  are  not,  I 
believe,  ten  miles  of  road  properly  so  called  between  Malaga  and  Cadiz. 
There  are  two  or  three  between  San  Koque  and  Campo,  on  the  way  to 
Gibraltar;  and  a  magnificent  road  to  connect  Tarifa  with  Algeciras  has  been 
some  time  laid  out,  and  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half  of  it  is  already  completed 
and  fit  for  travelling  ;  and  there  are,  besides,  some  few  miles  of  fair  road  on 
the  approach  to  Cadiz  ;  but  that  is  all  as  far  as  I  can  recollect.  Conse- 
quently for  the  traveller  who  wishes  to  take  Eonda  and  the  Konda  district 
en  route,  there  is  only  one  way,  according  to  Spanish  ideas,  of  doing  it, — 
to  hire  horses  and  a  guide  and  make  a  saddle  journey  of  it.  This,  with  a 
well-fed  and  well-appointed  steed,  would  be  very  delightful,  but  the  ordinary 
tourist's  chance  of  such  a  luxury  is  a  poor  one,  and  for  what  he  gets  he  has 
to  pay  dearly.  It  will  cost  him  very  nearly  as  much  to  ride  from  Malaga 
to  Cadiz  as  to  go  from  Cadiz  to  Bayonne  by  rail.  The  question  then  will 
naturally  arise  as  to  whether  the  game  is  worth  the  candle,  and  whether 
there  is  no  other  way.  If  so,  solvitur  ambulando ;  the  difficulty  may  easily 
be  settled  by  sending  the  baggage  round  by  Cordova,  and  walking,  for  the 
enterprise  is  really  not  attended  with  more  difficulty  than  a  pedestrian  tour 
in  the  Tyrol. 

As  every  book  of  travels  in  Spain  contains  a  description  of  the  route 
from  Granada  to  Malaga,  either  by  the  bridle-road  across  the  Sierra  Tejeda 
by  Alhama,  or  by  the  diligence  road  through  Loja,  that  portion  of  the 
journey  may  be  passed  over  here,  in  spite  of  the  temptation  to  loiter  on 
the  heights  above  Malaga  and  contemplate  that  glorious  view  over  the 
broad  rich  valley  down  below,  and  its  vineyards  and  palm-trees,  with  the 
yellow  sands  and  blue  sea  beyond  :  a  glorious  view  even  in  this  land  where 
they  are  thick  as  blackberries  in  the  season,  and  each  seems  to  "  kill  "  its 
predecessor  by  its  brilliancy.  A  few  miles  up  this  valley  lies  the  little 
town  of  Alora,  which  owns  a  station  on  the  Malaga  and  Cordova  railway ; 
and  this,  they  told  me  at  Malaga,  was  my  station  if  I  wished  to  walk  over 
the  mountains  to  Honda,  a  most  unaccountable  and  insane  wish,  as  I  was 
given  to  understand  very  unmistakably. 

The  town  itself  is  posted  some  height  above  the  valley  in  a  cleft 
between  two  mountains,  but  there  was  a  clean-looking  little  hostelry, 
something  between  a  fonda  and  a  posada,  close  to  the  railway  station, 
and  evidently  of  about  the  same  date,  which  seemed  to  throw  out  a  hint 
in  a  modest  way  that  to  go  farther  might  be  to  fare  worse.  I  arrived, 
however,  at  an  unfortunate  moment.  El  Amo,  besides  his  business  as 
an  innkeeper,  was  an  orange-contractor,  and  the  whole  energies  of  the 
establishment  were  absorbed  in  the  completion  of  a  large  order  from  an 
export  house  in  Malaga.  The  landlord  himself  was  conducting  six  disputes 
at  once  with  as  many  orange-growers,  and  the  landlady  was  keeping  an 
eye  to  a  bevy  of  dark-eyed  damsels  who  were  busy  wrapping  oranges  in 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  281 

paper  and  packing  them  in  those  long  boxes  which  are  such  familiar 
objects  in  any  landscape  about  Fish  Street  Hill  or  Billingsgate.  A  sound 
of  nail-driving  in  furious  haste,  such  as  might  be  produced  by  a  sporting 
undertaker  who  had  backed  himself  to  make  coffins  against  time,  came 
from  a  verandah  hard  by  where  the  boxes  were  being  put  together,  an 
operation  which  seemed  to  be  effected  with  about  four  taps  of  a  hammer. 
Every  comer  was  piled  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  the  dark  glossy  green 

fruit for  they  are  packed  green  and  allowed  to  ripen  in  transitu, — in 

fact  the  orange  influence  was  as  strong  all  over  the  place  as  if  it  had  been 
the  borough  of  Enniskillen,  and  a  mere  traveller  was  of  no  more  account 
than  a  tourist  in  a  party  inn  at  election  time.  In  other  countries,  where 
the  travelling  public  is  courted  and  petted  and  spoiled,  this  would  be  a 
grievance,  but  in  unlocomotive  Spain  the  traveller  soon  learns  his  position 
and  ceases  to  look  upon  himself  as  one  to  whom  all  things  must  give  way 
because  he  happens  to  be  en  voyage.  So,  until  my  little  business  in  the 
way  of  dinner  could  be  attended  to,  I  amused  myself  with  extracting 
information  about  the  orange-trade  from  the  box-maker  (which  was  not 
as  clear  as  I  could  have  wished,  the  young  man's  mouth  being  full  of 
nails)  and  speculating  on  the  future  of  these  oranges,  following  them  in 
farcy  as  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  pit  in  company  with  lemonade, 
girger-beer,  and  a  bill  of  the  play,  or  haply,  in  another  place,  lubricated 
the  rhetoric  of  Mr.  Whalley  as  he  denounced  the  Pope.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  it  turned  out  they  were  destined  for  the  American  market,  but  of 
course  they  were  just  as  good  for  sentimental  purposes.  There  is  no 
belter  discipline  for  an  impatient  temper  than  a  week's  travelling  on  the 
byroads  of  Spain.  The  Spaniard  will  not  be  driven.  You  must 
accommodate  your  pace  to  his,  and  if  you  do  so  with  a  good  grace  all  will 
go  smoothly.  They  took  their  time  about  it,  I  admit,  but  still  in  their 
own  leisurely  deliberate  way  these  good  people  of  Alora  did  what  they 
could  to  make  me  comfortable,  and  the  landlord  produced  some  uncom- 
monly sound  Malaga  seco,  and  over  it  gave  me  counsel  of  the  same 
quality  as  to  my  road.  Honda  lies  some  nine  or  ten  leagues  to  the  west 
of  Alora,  a  trifle  too  much  for  a  pleasant  day's  walk  in  these  latitudes ; 
so  I  took  his  advice  and  broke  the  journey  by  putting  up  at  the  Baths  of 
Carratraca,  an  easy  march  of  about  five  hours.  Carratraca  is  a  picturesque 
lonely  little  village  planted  on  the  side  of  a  bare  wild  valley  shut  in  by 
lofty  grey  mountains.  In  spite  of  its  loneliness,  or  perhaps  because  of  it, 
it  is  high  in  favour  as  a  watering-place  with  the  people  of  Seville,  Cadiz, 
and  Malaga,  who  muster  there  in  great  force  during  the  autumn  months. 
Ebeumatic  and  cutaneous  affections  are,  I  believe,  the  special  province  of 
the  waters,  but  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  there  is  no  ailment  under  the 
sun  for  which  they  cannot  do  something  in  the  way  of  alleviation. 
Dyspepsia,  hypochondriasis,  loss  of  appetite,  over-eating,  over-work,  or 
idleness,  all  these  seem  to  find  relief  at  Carratraca.  But  perhaps  the 
strongest  proof  of  the  marvellous  efficacy  of  these  baths  is  to  be 
found  in  a  case  which  I  saw  quoted  in  the  columns  of  El  Cascabel. 


282  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

A  middle-aged  gentleman  of  ancient  descent  but  impoverished  estate  had 
married  a  lady  of  mature  years  and  some  property,  and  having  thus 
restored  the  fortunes  of  his  house,  was  naturally  anxious  for  an  heir  to 
his  name.  After  waiting  in  vain  he  consulted  a  friend,  who  recommended 
a  trial  of  the  waters  of  Carratraca.  The  advice  proved  sound,  for,  in  due 
time,  after  a  course  of  the  baths,  the  worthy  couple  had  the  happiness  of 
welcoming  a  little  stranger.  But  the  effect  did  not  cease  here.  For  the 
next  fifteen  years  did  that  lady  continue  with  astonishing  regularity  to 
present  her  husband  annually  with  a  pledge  of  her  affection  and  proof  of 
the  potency  of  the  Carratraca  waters,  and  thus,  though  the  continuance 
of  his  line  was  made  pretty  safe,  the  restoration  of  his  family  to  its 
ancestral  splendour  remained  as  far  off  as  ever. 

If  the  landlord  of  the  Fonda  de  Calenco  at  Carratraca  had  derived 
any  part  of  his  income  from  letting  out  horses  to  travellers,  I  should  not 
have  paid  much  attention  to  his  lecture  on  the  imprudence  of  walking 
alone  across  the  mountains  to  Honda.  But  he  was  evidently  disinte- 
rested, and  besides  what  he  said  was,  to  some  extent,  backed  up  by  the 
authority  of  Ford.  While  robbers  did  exist,  there  certainly  was  not  a 
more  robber-haunted  district  in  the  whole  of  Spain  than  this  of  which 
Honda  is  the  centre.  This  was  the  country  of  Jose  Maria,  the  Kob  Eoy  of 
Andalusia ;  and  it  is  just  here  that  Ford  says  people  very  ambitious  of  a 
brigand  adventure  may  yet  try  the  experiment  with  some  little  prospect  of 
success.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  suspicious  that,  according  to  the 
landlord,  all  the  risk  lay  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Honda,  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  Carratraca  being  perfectly  safe,  and  I  had  been  more  than  once 
before  warned  in  the  same  way  about  localities  which,  in  their  turn, 
recriminated  on  the  quarter  whence  the  warning  came.  Still,  as  there 
might  be  something  in  what  mine  host  said,  it  seemed  advisable  to  take 
some  extra  precautions.  The  day  before  leaving  London,  passing  a  shop 
where  a  quantity  of  spurious  jewellery  was  exhibited,  I  bethought  me  of 
the  advice  in  Gatherings  from  Spain  to  travellers  bound  for  the  Spanish 
byroads  to  provide  themselves  with  a  gaudy  gilt  chain,  the  better  to 
satisfy  brigand  rapacity.  Accordingly  I  purchased,  for  the  sum  of 
eighteenpence,  an  exceedingly  rich  and  massive  ''Albert;"  so  splendid, 
in  fact,  that  up  to  this  I  had  not  had  the  courage  to  wear  it.  The  present, 
however,  seemed  to  be  a  fitting  occasion  for  putting  it  on ;  and  protected 
by  this  talisman  and  another  little  trinket,  also  recommended  by  Ford,  a 
fresh-capped  pocket  revolver,  I  left  Carratraca  long  before  the  most  con- 
scientious invalid  had  begun  to  think  of  his  morning  bath,  and  by  sunrise 
had  got  over  the  first  league  of  the  road  to  Honda.  I  ought  rather  to  say 
the  path,  for  in  truth  it  was  a  mere  track,  a  streak  of  dust  winding  along 
the  bare  brown  mountain- side,  and  scarcely  distinguishable  from  it.  I 
cannot  honestly  commend  this  route  to  Honda  for  richness  or  soft  beauty 
of  landscape  ;  but  there  is  a  pervading  grimness  about  the  scenery  which 
saves  it  from  being  commonplace.  It  is  a  good  sample  of  "  tawny  Spain  " 
in  her  tawniest  mood.  League  after  league  the  path  runs  on  climbing 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  283 

sepif .-coloured  mountains  topped  by  grey  crags,  and  dipping  into  stony 
valleys  innocent  of  tree,  shrub,  or  verdure  of  any  sort.  Now  and  again,  at 
rare  intervals,  it  leads  past  a  lonely  cortijo,  or  farmhouse,  with  its  corral 
and  draw-well  and  cluster  of  ragged  sheep  huddled  together  in  the  shade 
of  the  outer  wall,  and  once  it  passes  through  a  village,  El  Borgo,  I  think, 
by  name.  Here  I  had  my  first  experience  of  the  naturally  savage  and 
brutil  disposition  of  the  inhabitants  of  these  wild  mountains.  A  little 
abo^e  the  village  the  path  divided,  and  fancying  the  left  branch  to  be  the 
moro  likely  line,  I  took  it.  I  had  scarcely  done  so  when  I  was  stopped 
by  a  hideous  bellowing  in  the  rear,  and  found  myself  pursued  by  a  breath- 
less boor  of  truculent  aspect.  "  Was  my  worship  going  to  Ronda  ?"  he 
asked,  when  he  came  up.  "  Very  good :  then  in  that  case  my  worship 
had  better  take  the  other  path,  as  it  saved  at  least  half  a  league."  A 
noblo  fig-tree,  the  first  tree  I  had  seen  since  leaving  Carratraca,  with  a 
well  at  its  foot,  and  genuine  grass  round  it,  presently  suggested  a  halt  for 
breakfast.  Refreshment  always  tends  to  expand  the  sympathies,  and  leads 
one  to  think  better  of  one's  fellow-creatures.  It  may  have  been  this,  or  it 
may  have  been  the  friendly  villager,  that  made  me  begin  to  take  an  easy 
and  philosophical  view  of  the  robber  question  ;  but  I  think  the  reflection 
of  ny  own  figure  in  the  waters  of  the  well  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
It  had  not  struck  me  before  that  there  was  necessarily  any  incongruity  in 
walling  across  country  carrying  a  knapsack  and  at  the  same  time  wearing 
a  chain  of  such  magnificence  as  the  one  I  had  on  ;  but  leaning  over  the 
well  I  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  general  effect,  and  could  not 
help  perceiving  how  grossly  inconsistent  the  ornament  was  with  the  cha- 
ract or  and  circumstances  of  a  pedestrian.  One  or  two  other  considerations 
also  suggested  themselves.  If  there  were  really  robbers  about,  such  a 
reel  less  display  of  property  was,  to  say  the  least,  imprudent ;  if  there  was 
no  such  excuse  for  it,  it  looked  very  like  vulgar  ostentation ;  and  if 
criminal  propensities  were  merely  latent  in  the  neighbourhood,  clearly 
I  wus  not  justified  in  tempting  the  inhabitants  by  a  wanton  exhibition  of 
wea  th.  There  was  no  way  out  of  the  dilemma,  so  I  pocketed  the  chain, 
and  never  wore  it  again.  Whether  or  not  there  is  any  real  risk  to  be 
encountered  on  these  roads  from  robbers  or  mala  gente,  I  cannot  take 
upo  i  myself  to  say.  The  mere  fact  that  I  met  with  none  of  the  profession 
of  ( ourse  proves  nothing.  But,  after  walking  alone  through  the  part  of 
Spain  that  has  the  worst  reputation  in  this  respect,  my  impression  is  that 
of  sill  the  bugbears  raised  to  fright  the  traveller  in  the  Peninsula,  the 
robl>er  bugbear  is  the  one  which  has  the  least  foundation  in  fact. 

Approached  from  this  side,  Ronda  shows  itself  at  last  at  the  far  end  of 
a  vr  st  flat,  which  is  neither  a  plain  nor  a  valley,  nor  yet  a  basin,  but 
something  compounded  of  all  three.  It  is  not  exactly  one  of  the  dehesas 
y  d^spoblados  of  Spain,  for  here  and  there  small  patches  of  tillage,  and  a 
farrihouse  or  two,  are  to  be  seen.  But,  except  for  these  signs  of  life,  it 
is  r,  mere  waste,  strewn  with  blocks  of  limestone  and  overgrown  with 
tliis  ;les  and  brushwood.  Wandering  over  this  dreary  tract  the  path  comes 


284  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

at  length  to  a  bridge  many  sizes  too  large  for  the  stream  it  spans,  passes 
through  a  straggling  oak  wood,  and  then,  on  a  sudden  and  without  the 
slightest  warning,  becomes  a  most  respectable,  broad,  highly-civilized,  and 
macadamized  road,  and  enters  the  town  of  Honda  with  as  much  pomp  and 
circumstance  as  if  it  was  the  camino  real  de  Madrid,  and  constructed 
throughout  regardless  of  expense.  But  this  is  one  of  the  commonest  of 
the  cosas  de  Espafia.  When  the  mutual  interests  of,  let  us  say,  Konda 
and  Oarratraca  demand  a  good  road  fit  for  every  description  of  traffic,  the 
work  is  taken  up  on  both  sides  with  the  greatest  energy,  and  a  mile  or 
two  at  each  end  completed  in  the  most  admirable  manner ;  the  rest  is  left 
to  be  finished — mafiana.  If  the  landlord  at  Carratraca  exaggerated  the 
dangers  of  the  road,  he  certainly  did  not  over-estimate  the  distance.  He 
said  it  was,  not  six  leagues  as  I  had  been  told,  but  seven  and  long  ones, 
and  so  they  proved.  Judging  by  time  and  pace,  I  should  estimate  the 
distance  between  Carratraca  and  Honda  at  about  thirty  miles. 

Konda — as  everybody  knows  who  reads  handbooks,  guidebooks,  or 
books  of  travel — is  made  up  of  a  new  and  an  old  town  ;  the  former  a  clean, 
snug,  cheerful  little  place,  with  regular  streets,  neat  houses,  a  bull-ring — 
the  handsomest  though  not  the  largest  in  Spain — and  an  alameda,  com- 
manding one  of  the  noblest  views  of  plain  and  mountain  in  the  Peninsula ; 
the  latter  a  genuine  Moorish  town,  built  without  plan  or  purpose,  all 
narrow  zigzag  lanes  of  lean-to  houses,  with  loopholes  of  windows  and 
massive  doors  studded  with  nails  of  every  possible  pattern.  The  lion  of 
Honda — the  leading  feature  of  the  place — is  the  Tajo,  the  chasm  that 
separates  these  two.  The  town  stands  on  a  platform  of  rock  along  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  from  three  to  five  hundred  feet  in  depth.  This 
platform  is  cut  into  two  nearly  equal  portions  by  a  mighty  cleft  some 
eighty  or  a  hundred  yards  across,  and  something  in  the  shape  of  a  Z,  or  S 
reversed.  The  old  Moorish  Honda  stands  in  the  upper  angle  or  bend, 
and  is  thus  protected  by  a  precipice  on  every  side,  except  on  the  south, 
where  a  narrow  steep  ridge  affords  an  approach  from  the  plain.  There 
is  only  one  city  in  the  world  that  can  be  fairly  compared  with  Honda. 
The  comparison  has  been  already  made  by  M.  Desbarrolles,  but  the 
similitude  had  struck  me  before  I  had  seen  it  in  Deux  Artistes  en  Espagne. 
Honda,  the  old  town,  is  in  miniature  the  city  of  Constantina  in  Algeria. 
But,  after  all,  it  is  only  in  miniature.  Grand  as  the  Tajo  is,  with  its 
gloomy  depths,  beetling  walls  of  rock,  and  rushing  stream,  it  is  little  better 
than  a  trench  compared  with  that  weird  gulf  that  encompasses  the  old 
capital  of  Numidia.  Honda,  however,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  the 
advantage  in  point  of  surrounding  scenery.  Constantina  has  nothing  to 
show  like  that  noble  amphitheatre  of  purple  mountains  which  bounds  the 
view  as  you  look  out  over  the  broad  valley  of  the  Guadiaro  from  the 
terrace  of  the  alameda. 

The  walk  from  Honda  to  Gaucin  is  in  nearly  every  respect  the  oppo- 
site of  that  from  Carratraca  to  Honda.  The  path,  indeed,  is  just  as 
primitive,  but  it  runs  through  scenery  of  an  entirely  different  character. 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  285 

The  more  obvious  route  southward  would  seem  to  lie  along  the  valley  of 
the  Guadiaro  ("  Guadairo"  in  Murray,  but  I  follow  the  commoner  spell- 
ing) :;  but  the  mountain-path  by  Gaucin  is  far  finer  and  perhaps  a  trifle 
shorter.     Passing  out  through  the  Moorish  gateway  at  the  bottom  of  the 
town  it  ascends  the  opposite  slope,  at  each  turn  as  it  rises  presenting  a 
wider  view  of  the  basin  of  Konda,  with  the  old  town  on  its  throne  of  rock 
in  the  centre,  and  the  many-peaked  Serrania  closing  it  in  on  every  side  ; 
and  then  crossing  the  crest  it  dips  into  a  new  region,  a  region  of  deep 
tortuous  valleys,  separated  by  sharp  ridges,  thickly  wooded  from  top  to 
bottom.     Among  these  the  path  winds  in  and  out,  now  skirting  the  rim 
of  a  shadowy  gorge,  from  the  depth  of  which  there  comes  up  the  grateful 
tinkling  sound  of  falling  water,  now  running  along  the  bare  narrow  edge 
of  some  projecting  spur,  between  ravines  with  sides  all  but  precipitous  ; 
past  vineyards,  and  olive-yards,  and  gardens  where  pomegranates,  figs,  and 
oranges  hang  overhead,  and  the  ground  is  strewed  with  water-melons  and 
golden  pumpkins  ;  and  now  and  then  taking  on  its  way  the  rough-paved, 
zigzag  street  of  some  quaint,  picturesque  little  Moorish  village.      This 
district    is   indeed  the   most   intensely   Moorish   part   of    Spain,    more 
Moorish,  I  think,  than  even  the  Alpujarras  ;  and  no  doubt  the  contrast  it 
presents  in  richness  and  cultivation  is  in  a  great  measure  due  to  that  trace 
of  the  blood  of  the  industrious,  garden-loving  Moor,  which  still  survives 
in  these  valleys.     On  almost  every  knob  or  promontory  there  sits  one  of. 
these  townlets,  with  its  white  walls  glittering  in  the  distance  like  a  carving 
in  alabaster ;  and  some  of  the  sites  are  wonderfully  picturesque.     One 
village  in  particular,  Benarraba,  if  I  mistake  not,  on  the  left-hand  side  of 
the  road,  about  half-way  between  Algatocin  and  Gaucin,  is  perched  upon 
the  very  apex  of  a  steep  cone  rising  abruptly  in  the  centre  of  a  deep  basin, 
and  for  connection  with  the  rest  of  the  world  seems  to  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  depend  upon  but  a  narrow  isthmus,  almost  as  sharp  as  a  knife's 
edge,  which  in  a  sort  of  way  joins  it  with  the  neighbouring  mountain- side. 
A  little  beyond  this,  Gaucin  suddenly  conies  in  sight.  A  wall  of  grey  lime- 
stone, crowned  by  an  old  castle,  seems  to  stretch  across  the  valley  below 
from  side  to  side,  with  a  bare  brown  sierra  rising  beyond  it.    To  the  right 
lies  the  little  town,  peeping  over  some  green  slopes  dotted  with  stone 
pines-  ;  and  on  the  left,  far  away  above  the  tops  of  the  distant  hills,  a 
strange -looking  dark-blue  crag,  backed  by  a  big  shadowy  mountain  still 
more  distant,  forces  itself  somewhat  obtrusively  on  the  vision.     Just  at 
this  period  of  the  journey  I  had  for  travelling  companion  a  trader  bound 
for  Gibraltar  with  a  cargo  of  fowls,  which  were  stowed  away  Spanish 
fashion,  heads  and  tails,  in  nets  on  the  back  of  a  mule.     By  the  way  he 
tried  hard  to  get  me  to  take  off  his  hands  an  apoplectic  pullet,  at  the  very 
point  of  death  from  having  been  carried  several  leagues  head  downwards 
in  the  middle  of  a  mass  of  poultry,  which  he  assured  me  I  should  find 
muy  tierno,  and  far  better  than  anything  I  was  likely  to  get  at  Gaucin. 
As  we  turned  the  corner  where  the  view  just  mentioned  opens  out,  he 
called  my  attention  to  it,  addressing  me  as  "  caballero,"  which,  as  he  was 


286  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

mounted  and  I  on  foot,  was  a  gratifying  recognition  of  my  social  status. 
I  replied  to  the  effect  that  I  saw  the  view,  and  on  the  whole  approved  of 
it,  but  without  showing  any  extraordinary  enthusiasm.  "  Dios  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  poulterer,  in  a  burst  of  indignation  ;  "  un  Ingles  !  y  no  conoce 
Gibraltar  !  "  And  so  indeed  it  was.  Coming  on  it  in  this  unexpected 
way,  I  had  not  recognized  the  dear  old  rock  in  that  small  perky  pyramid 
in  the  distance,  or  perceived  that  I  had  before  me  the  substantial  verities 
of  Abyla  and  Calpe,  the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  Gibel  Musa  and  Gibel  Taric. 


Whatever  may  be  thought  of  it  throughout  the  rest  of  Spain,  Gibraltar 
is  made  a  good  deal  of  just  here,  and  I  fancied  I  could  detect  its  influence 
all  along  the  route  in  sundry  minor  matters.  The  posadas,  for  instance, 
are  very  different  from  the  posadas  elsewhere  :  I  never  met  with  a  specimen 
of  the  bloodsucker  tribe  in  any  one  of  them.  The  house  of  Senor  Juan 
Polo,  opposite  Plaza  de  Toros,  at  Honda,  is  as  snug  a  little  inn  as  any 
one  could  desire  :  the  "  Ingles  Hotel "  (as  I  think  it  describes  itself)  at 
Gaucin  is  more  of  the  rough-and-ready  order,  but  still  reasonably  clean 
and  comfortable  :  *  as  to  Mr.  Macre's  Fonda  Inglesa,  at  San  Roque,  it  is 
unnecessary  to  say  anything,  except  that  it  differs  from  an  English  inn  of 
the  very  cosiest  sort  in  one  particular  only, — there  is  real  sherry  to  be  had 
on  the  premises ;  and  he  must  be  a  fastidious  traveller  who  cannot  take 
his  ease  under  the  roof  of  Bernardo  Salinas,  at  Algeciras.  Certain  indi- 
cations here  and  there  show  that  the  wandering  Briton  has  something  to 
do  with  all  this :  indeed,  I  could  perceive  along  the  road  that,  even  with  a 
knapsack,  he  was  not  an  entirely  unfamiliar  object.  Now  and  then,  it  is 
true,  I  heard  a  voice  say  as  I  passed,  "  Madre  !  madre !  ven  aca,"  and 
occasionally  I  enjoyed  a  few  sarcastic  observations  from  burnt-umber- 
coloured  boys,  who  seemed  to  have  come  out  of  some  canvas  of  Murillo's  ; 
but  it  was  clear  that  the  keen  edge  of  curiosity  had  been  previously 
taken  off. 

*  The  benevolent  and  anonymous  gentleman  who  bequeathed  his  copy  of  that 
thrilling  romance,  The  History  of  Fanny  White  and  her  Friend  Jack  Rawlings,  to  the 
next  sojourner  at  this  inn,  deserves  a  word  of  thanks,  and  he  is  thanked  accordinglj. 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 


287 


From  Gaucin  to  San  Koque  the  way  lies  first  by  countless  zigzags 
down  the  face  of  the  great  mountain  wall  with  which  the  Serrania  seems 
to  end  abruptly  ;  and  then,  for  a  couple  of  leagues,  along  the  fair  valley 
of  the  Guadiaro,  through  a  wilderness  of  oleanders.  As  to  path,  there 
is  rot  much  to  speak  of,  and  such  as  there  is  changes  its  mind  about 
the  side  of  the  river  it  ought  to  keep  almost  every  two  hundred  yards  ; 
but  that  matters  little  in  this  climate,  where  wetting  your  feet  is  rather 
a  luxury  than  the  contrary.  As  Ford  says,  there  is  a  lonely  venta 
on  the  river-bank;  but,  alas,  that  amber  wine  of  Estepona,  which  he 
directs  his  disciples  to  call  for,  is  no  longer  on  draught  there.  They 
offered  me  as  a  substitute  aguardiente, — a  liquid  compared  with  which 
absinthe  is  nectar,  and  which  for  smell  and  taste  can  compete  with  the 
most  abominable  beverages  the  distiller's  art  is  able  to  produce.  Neverthe- 
less the  Spaniards,  with  the  finest  wines  in  the  world  at  their  command, 
think  there  is  nothing  like  it,  as  indeed  is  the  truth.  A  little  beyond 
the  venta  mentioned  by  Ford,  the  valley  of  the  Guadiaro  bends  to 
the  left,  and  the  road  to  San  Roque  quits  its  banks,  and  crossing  the 
tributary  stream  of  the  Jorgargante,  passes  up  a  beautiful  wild  defile,  like 
a  Eighland  glen,  and  then,  taking  to  the  hillside  once  more,  presently 
plunges  into  the  shade  of  a  sinister-looking  cork  wood,  just  the  place 
for  a  brigand  adventure  of  the  regular  dramatic  type.  Some  years  ago 
the  path  would  have  been  a  perilous  one  for  a  solitary  traveller ;  for 
this  was  a  favourite  beat  with  Jose  Maria  and  his  band,  but  now  there 
is  Lttle  risk  of  meeting  any  more  formidable  law-breaker  than  a  chance 
conlrabandista.  From  the  top  of  the  hill  above  the  wood  Gibraltar  and 


Afri  >a  once  more  burst  upon  the  view,  towering  over  the  heights  of  San 
Boqie.  But  it  is  from  the  south  side  of  the  town  that  Gib  and  its 
surroundings  are  seen  to  full  advantage.  There,  at  your  feet,  lies  the  gate 
of  the  Mediterranean ;  far  away,  across  the  strait,  the  rugged  mass  of 
Gib<  1  Musa  looms  big  and  grey,  with  the  little  hill  of  Ceuta  at  its  foot. 
On  the  right  are  Carnero  Point  and  the  white  walls  of  Algeciras  ;  and 
ther.ce  the  shores  of  the  bay  sweep  round  in  a  noble  curve  to  where  the 


288  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

great  "  Rock  "  lies  at  anchor,  moored  to  Europe  by  a  rope  of  sand; 
for,  in  truth,  the  famous  neutral  ground  seems  little  better  as  you  look 
down  upon  it  from  San  Roque,  and  Spain's  geographical  grievance  against 
England  appears  to  have  wonderfully  little  ground  to  stand  on.  Not  that, 
after  all,  it  really  is  a  Spanish  grievance.  Educated  Spaniards  understand 
the  case,  and  only  think  it  a  pity  that  the  arm  of  Spain  is  not  strong 
enough  to  wield  such  a  weapon ;  and  as  for  the  uneducated,  they  think — 
nothing  about  the  matter  one  way  or  the  other.  The  only  genuine  growls 
at  Gibraltar  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  Pyrenees. 

Whether  or  not  Gibraltar  is  geographically  Spain,  to  the  English 
tourist  it  is  unquestionably  England ;  England  at  least  represented  by  a 
mixture  of  Woolwich  and  Ratcliff  Highway,  with  an  African  climate,  and 
a  habit  of  cutting  itself  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  at  gun-fire.  At  any 
rate  so  much  England  and  so  little  Spain  that  it  is  quite  out  of  place  in  a 
knapsack  tour  in  Spain  except  as  one  of  the  halts  en  route.  A  word  or  two, 
however,  may  be  said  about  the  opposite  side  of  the  Straits,  which  both 
Ford  and  O'Shea  recognize  as  coming  fairly  within  the  limits  of  Spanish 
travel.  I  had  some  thought  of  crossing  over  from  Gibraltar  to  Tangier ; 
but  not  finding  an  opportunity  I  gave  up  the  idea  and  went  on  to  Algeciras 
en  route  for  Tarifa  and  Cadiz.  At  Algeciras  I  found  there  was  a  small 
schooner  that  set  forth  every  morning,  "  God  willing,"  like  the  Hawes  fly 
in  The  Antiquary,  for  Ceuta,  carrying  the  mails,  and  also  passengers 
at  a  peseta  a  head.  There  was  something  so  fascinating  in  the  idea 
of  "Africa  and  back"  for  one-and-eightpence,  and  the  Moorish  city  of 
Tetuan  seemed  to  be  within  such  easy  reach  of  Ceuta,  that  I  immediately 
secured  a  passage.  This  little  schooner  and  the  voyage  generally  were 
good  illustrations  of  cosas  de  Espafia.  We  sailed  at  six  in  the  morning, 
and  dropped  slowly  down  the  bay  till  abreast  of  Carnero  point,  when  it 
fell  dead  calm,  and  instead  of  making  for  Ceuta,  we  began  to  drift 
rapidly  outwards  through  the  straits,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  drop- 
ping her  Majesty's  mails  at  the  Bermudas.  Whereupon  the  captain 
anchored,  and  there,  for  about  eight  hours,  we  lay,  broiling  under  a  sun 
hot  enough  to  cook  a  beefsteak,  watching  the  porpoises  tumbling  by  in 
an  endless  game  of  leap-frog,  and  the  purple  jelly-fishes  as  they  rose  to 
the  surface  and  winked  at  us  and  went  down  again,  and  staring  at  the 
African  shore  that  lay  quivering  opposite  in  the  hot  haze,  until  we  had 
every  creek  and  promontory  by  heart.  For  my  part,  so  burnt  in  upon 
my  memory  is  that  view,  I  feel  sure  I  could,  with  shut  eyes,  at  any 
moment  sketch  off  the  whole  coast  from  Ceuta  to  Cape  Spartel,  without 
missing  a  single  peak  or  depression  in  its  outline.  At  last  even  El  Capitan 
had  had  enough  of  it — though  I  suspect  if  the  supply  of  cigarettes  on 
board  had  held  out  we  should  have  remained  at  anchor  longer — and  we 
weighed.  And  now  I  perceived  the  reason  of  what  had  puzzled  me  at 
first,  that  this  old  tub  of  forty  or  fifty  tons  should  have  a  crew  of  about 
five-and-twenty  men.  These  calms  are,  it  seems,  of  frequent  occurrence, 
and  when  they  are  very  obstinate  it  is  necessary  to  tow  the  packet,  the 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  289 

man  relieving  each  other  in  batches  during  this  toilsome  and  tedious  pro- 
ct  ss.  In  this  way  we  crept  across  the  strait  at  the  rate  of  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  an  hour.  Once  or  twice  a  breeze  sprang  up,  but  it  always  died 
avay  the  moment  the  towing  crew  got  on  board  again,  and  it  was  not  till 
tea  in  the  evening  that  the  royal  mails  for  the  important  town  and  fortress 
of  Ceuta — the  African  rival  of  Gibraltar — were  landed  after  a  passage 
of  about  fourteen  miles  in  sixteen  hours.  A  week  afterwards  I  crossed 
apiin  in  the  same  schooner,  but  this  time  there  was  too  much  wind  for 
her,  and  we  had  to  wait  at  Ceuta  for  upwards  of  four  hours  till  the 
woather  moderated.  Perhaps  the  despatches  and  letters  are  not  very 
important — as  for  the  passengers,  they,  of  course,  don't  count  for  any- 
thing ;  but  still  one  would  have  fancied  it  might  have  occurred  to  some 
01  ie  long  ago  that,  even  from  an  economical  point  of  view,  a  small 
st3amer,  with  an  engineer  and  stoker  and  a  couple  of  sailors,  would 
in  the  end  effect  a  considerable  saving  in  wages,  to  say  nothing  about 
tine. 

Ceuta  may  be  a  rival,  as  far  as  position  goes,  but  in  appearance  it  is  a 
sc  rt  of  parody  of  Gibraltar.  Like  Gibraltar  it  is  all  but  an  island,  joined  to 
Ai'icabya  strip  scarcely  so  wide  even  as  the  neutral  ground  ;  but  Ceuta  is 
a  mere  hill,  while  Gibraltar  is  a  mountain,  with  stupendous  precipices  and 
a  lordly  crest.  In  fact,  there  is  the  same  difference  between  them  in 
appearance  as  between  a  squab  butcher's  dog  and  a  bloodhound.  I  have 
no  right,  however,  to  criticize  the  looks  of  Ceuta,  for,  in  the  person  of  its 
governor,  it  treated  me  with  genuine  Spanish  courtesj7".  I  soon  found  that 
Tjtuan,  though  only  seven  or  eight  leagues  off,  was  not  to  be  reached  so 
ersily  as  I  had  fancied.  There  were  visas  and  permisos  to  be  got  before 
I  could  leave  the  fortress,  and  then  I  must  have  an  escort  before  the 
Emperor  of  Morocco  would  allow  me  to  travel  in  his  dominions.  This 
S(  emed  altogether  too  much  fuss,  and  fuss  is  always  fatal  to  enjoyment  in 
travelling,  so  I  gave  up  Tetuan,  and  contented  myself  with  lounging  about 
Cjuta  and  sketching  the  Tetuan  mountains.  But,  strolling  down  the 
ED  am  street,  I  was  stopped  by  an  officer,  who  told  me  the  General 
C3mmandant  wanted  me,  and  on  reaching  the  Fonda  I  found  that 
I  had  indeed  been  sent  for.  I  had  been  detected  in  the  crime  of  sketch- 
ir  g  inside  a  Spanish  fortress,  and  now  I  was  in  for  it :  this  was  my  own 
theory,  but  it  was  clear  the  people  of  the  Fonda  suspected  that  there  was  even 
a  blacker  case  against  me.  The  truth  turned  out  to  be  that  one  of  my 
ft  How- voyagers  of  the  day  before  was  the  Governor's  private  secretary, 
a:  id  hearing  me  say  something  about  an  intention  of  going  to  Tetuan  he 
h  id  spoken  of  it  to  his  chief,  who  in  the  friendliest  and  kindest  way  had 
irade  all  the  necessary  arrangements,  procured  a  Moorish  soldier  for 
ei-  cort,  and  sent  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  the  kaid  of  the  district. 
Nothing  remained  therefore  but  to  hire  a  horse  so  as  to  enter  Tetuan 
w  ith  becoming  dignity — I  found  afterwards  it  was  far  more  dignified  and 
n  uch  more  agreeable  to  walk — and  make  ready  for  an  early  start  next 
n  orning. 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  93.  15. 


200  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

At  one  of  the  little  Moorish  guardhouses  a  couple  of  miles  south  of 
Ceuta,  I  found  my  "  Moro  del  Rey,"  as  the  Spaniards  call  the  native  troops, 
waiting  for  me.  He  was  a  sturdy,  well-built,  good-looking  fellow,  with 
a  ruddy  complexion  and  merry  blue  eyes,  and  altogether  as  unlike  the 
ideal  Moor  as  anything  could  be.  But  of  course  the  inhabitants  of  these 
mountains,  as  well  as  those  of  the.  adjoining  Riff  country,  are  not  Moors  as 
the  term  is  generally  understood,  but  Berbers,  of  the  same  blood  as  the 
Kabyles  of  Algeria.  He  wore  the  loose -sleeved  striped  djellab  which  in  this 
part  of  Barbary  takes  the  place  of  the  picturesque  Arab  burnous,  and  for  arms 
he  had  a  sword  slung  across  his  shoulder  and  a  prodigiously  long  gun  which 
looked  like  the  butt  half  of  a  salmon-rod.  As  the  uniform  worn  by  the 
army  of  the  Emperor  of  Morocco  is  not  very  well  known  I  give  his  portrait 
here.  The  other  figure  represents  a  Moroccan  lady  in  her  walking  costume, 


which  consists  of  an  enormous  palmetto  hat  and  a  quantity  of  cotton 
cloth  wound  round  the  body  so  as  to  give  it  very  much  the  appearance  of 
a  gigantic  chrysalis.  She  is  one  of  three  whom  we  overtook  on  the  road  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  but  whether  young  or  old,  fair  or  foul,  I  cannot  say, 
for  on  our  coming  up  with  them  they  all  coyly  turned  their  faces  to 
the  bushes,  and  kept  them  so  steadily  until  we  had  passed.  The  only 
Moorish  female  face  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  during  my  stay  in  Tetuan  was 
a  very  striking  one.  It  was  fat,  and  of  a  dead  uniform  white  like  a 
bladder  full  of  lard,  and  its  no-expression  was  assisted  by  a  pair  of  intensely 
black,  lack-lustre  eyes,  which  had  no  speculation  in  them.  The  walk 
from  Ceuta  to  Tetuan  is  a  very  charming  one.  As  far  as  Cape  Negro  the 
path  lies  partly  along  the  beach  of  a  beautiful  bay,  partly  over  an  undu- 
lating tract  thickly  covered  with  jungle  and  brush.  In  front  rise  the 
noble  mountains  of  the  Riff  country,  with  the  boldest  and  grandest  outlines, 
some  of  them,  I  imagine,  not  far  short  of  ten  thousand  feet  in  height ;  on 
one  side  is  the  boundless  blue  Mediterranean,  and  on  the  other  Gibel 
Musa,  and  the  broken  Sierra  which  was  the  principal  scene  of  the  short 
struggls  between  Spain  and  Morocco  a  few  years  ago.  It  was  along  hera 


THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 


291 


tiie  Spaniards  advanced  and  the  Moors  retreated  ;  and  indeed  we  had  not 
gone  very  far  before  my  Moro  picked  up  and  presented  me  with  a  token  of 
tie  fact  in  the  form  of  a  battered  conical  bullet.  He  had  served  in  the 
campaign  himself,  and  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  it — for  he  spoke 
Spanish  pretty  glibly ;  but  though  he  had  been  badly  wounded,  and  had 
an  ugly  scar  to  show  on  his  arm,  he  did  not  seem  to  bear  the  Spaniards 
any  ill-will. 

Close  under  Cape  Negro  we  came  on  a  body  of  fishermen,  who 
lad  just  had  a  wonderful  haul  of  sardines.  The  beach  could  scarcely  be 
seen  for  sardines ;  they  lay  in  heaps,  in  piles,  in  stacks,  and  next  day  I 
remarked  all  Tetuan  was  subject  to  a  pervading  sardine  influence.  In 
every  street  there  was  a  sound  of  frying  and  a  smell  of  fish ;  baskets 
of  sardines  met  one  at  every  turn,  the  pavement  was  slippery  with  their 
fragments,  and  the  street  boys  pelted  each  other  and  the  passers-by  with 
them.  From  Cape  Negro  the  route  turns  landward  across  a  broad  bushy 
plain  for  seven  or  eight  miles,  until  it  strikes  upon  the  tract  of  garden- 
ground  which  forms  the  suburbs  of  Tetuan.  Here,  I  remember,  we  came 
i.pon  an  alfresco  cafe,  consisting  of  a  small  fire,  a  coffee-pot,  three  cups, 
a  piece  of  matting,  and  half-a-dozen  Moors  for  company.  My  warrior, 
TV  ho  seemed  to  be  one  of  those  jolly  fellows  who  are  on  intimate  terms 
Y/ith  a  whole  country-side  at  once,  knew  them  all,  and  we  had  of  course 
to  stop  and  drink  with  them,  a  pleasure  I  could  have  excused,  having 
already  had  some  experience  of  Arab  and  Moorish  coffee,  which  is  always 
one-third  bitterness,  two-thirds  mud. 


As  far  as  situation  goes,  there  are  few  prettier  towns  in  the  world  than 
Tetuan.     It  lies  in  a  funnel-shaped  valley,  which  opens  out  eastwards 

15—2 


292  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

into  a  noble  plain,  sloping  down  to  the  Mediterranean,  and  watered  by  a 
pleasant  winding  stream  with  wooded  banks.  On  the  south  and  east  lies 
a  rich  tract  of  gardens  and  orchards.  On  the  north  rises  the  steep  hill 
on  which  the  Kasbah  stands,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley  the 
peaks  of  the  Riff  mountains  shoot  up,  with  the  summits  of  N'hassan 
and  N'sayah  —  I  follow  my  Moor's  pronunciation  —  conspicuous  among 
them. 

As  for  the  town  itself,  it  is  a  genuine  Barbary  city,  very  white  and  very 
dirty ;  in  its  architecture,  for  the  most  part  very  mean,  but  often  sur- 
passingly graceful;  an  intricate  maze  of  narrow  lanes  with  occasional 
rabbit-hutches  for  shops,  and  in  the  centre,  a  large  square  sook,  or  "  sok," 
as  they  call  it  in  Morocco  Arabic,  which  represents  its  "  plaza,"  or 
"  grande  place,"  and  on  which  a  great  deal  of  noise  is  transacted  during 
the  business  hours  of  the  day.  Its  manufactures,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
are  long  Moorish  guns,  of  which  it  seems  to  produce  a  great  number,  and 
very  neatly  finished  and  well  turned  out  many  of  them  seemed  to  be  ;  and 
all  sorts  of  articles,  from  shoes  to  sabretaches,  in  that  red  creased  leather 
which  we  know  as  morocco.  But  Tetuan  suffered  severely  by  the  Spanish 
invasion  ;  before  that,  it  was  the  fourth  city  in  importance  in  the  Empire 
of  Morocco,  taking  rank  after  the  capital,  Fez,  and  Mequinez ;  and,  not  to 
speak  of  the  ruins  on  the  Kasbah  hill,  there  are  signs  about  it  to  show  that 
it  has  been  a  richer  and  more  thriving  place  than  it  is  now.  I  am  afraid, 
on  the  whole,  my  friends  the  Dons  have  not  treated  poor  Tetuan  quite 
fairly.  In  the  course  of  war  they  could  not  help  injuring  it,  perhaps,  but 
they  need  not  have  added  insult  to  injury,  as  I  must  say  I  think  they  have 
in  the  matter  of  the  church,  which  is  such  a  conspicuous  object  in  the 
centre  of  the  town.  There  are  hardly,  I  suppose,  fifty  Spaniards,  includ- 
ing the  consular  staff,  resident  in  Tetuan,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  believe 
that  it  was  their  spiritual  necessities  that  called  for  a  place  of  worship  on 
that  scale.  The  real  object  of  the  building  seems  to  be  to  emphasize  the 
triumph  of  Catholic  Spain  over  her  old  Moslem  foe,  and  no  doubt  to  the 
parti  pretre  there  must  be  something  very  fascinating  in  the  idea  of  a 
grand  Christian  temple  holding  its  head  high  among  the  mosques  of  the 
Prophet.  But  there  is  a  trifle  too  much  swagger  about  the  edifice,  and  it 
is  not  calculated,  I  imagine,  to  increase  the  affection  of  the  Moors  for 
Christianity.  Nor,  for  that  matter,  the  respect,  especially  if  the  church 
bells  ring  as  they  do  in  Spain.  There  is  no  sound  which  carries  less  of 
solemnity  with  it  than  the  voice  of  a  Spanish  church-bell.  Even  the 
clank  clank  of  Little  Bethel  on  Sunday  evening  is  an  awe-inspiring  sound 
compared  with  it.  The  bell  is  not  tolled  as  in  other  countries,  but  turns 
head  over  heels  as  hard  as  it  can  go,  producing  the  most  rollicking  kind 
of  peal  that  can  be  imagined.  Any  one  who  knows  the  melody  of  that 
grotesque  old  lyric  "  The  Cork  Leg  "  has  a  fair  idea  of  its  rhythm.  It 
rattles  away  with  all  the  distracting  volubility  of  a  patter  song,  and  a 
queerer  chime  there  never  rang,  for  the  clapper  flies  round  with  a  comical 
clang,  beating  a  kind  of  iambic  bang,  and  you'd  almost  swear  the  belfry 


THE  KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN.  293 

nang  "  Ri-ioo-ral-loo-ral-loo-ral-loo,  Ri-too-ral-loo-ral-lay,"  &c.  &c.  A 
strange  summons  to  worship  this  must  sound  to  ears  accustomed  to  the 
rolemn  voice  of  the  muezzin  that, 

Loud  in  air,  calls  men  to  prayer, 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 

Out  of  the  ordinary  heat  of  travellers  as  Tetuan  is,  there  is  remark- 
ably good  accommodation  to  he  had  under  the  roof  of  the  worthy 
Mr.  Solomon  Nahon,  who  is,  I  helieve,  vice-consul  for  every  Power  in 
Europe.  His  house  stands  in  the  Jewish  quarter  of  the  town,  and  is  an 
excellent  specimen  of  a  Moorish  dwelling  of  the  hetter  sort,  a  kind  of 
domestic  Alhamhra  with  painted  wooden  galleries  running  round  a  patio 
in  the  centre  ;  where,  by  the  way,  he  and  his  family  on  my  arrival  were 
celebrating  the  Feast  of  Tabernacles  in  a  temporary  arbour  dressed  up 
^vith  palm  branches.  With  comfortable  quarters,  a  quaint  and  picturesque 
lown  to  lounge  about,  and  glorious  scenery  to  gaze  upon,  I  found  time 
:it  Tetuan  very  pleasant,  so  pleasant  that  I  began  to  think  of  further 
•  explorations ;  to  dream  of  penetrating  into  the  recesses  of  those  noble 
iSiff  mountains  which  would  make  any  mountaineer's  mouth  water,  and 
oven  to  speculate  upon  the  possibility  of  a  journey  to  Fez  and  Mequinez, 
only  five  days  from  Tetuan.  But  a  conversation  with  the  British  Consul 
showed  me  that  that  little  expedition  was  not  one  to  be  lightly  undertaken. 
A  Christian,  in  fact,  going  to  Fez,  must  either  go  in  disguise  or  with  a 
strong  armed  party ;  so,  at  least,  I  gathered  from  Mr.  Green,  who  pro- 
bably knows  more  about  this  corner  of  Africa  than  any  other  European. 
There  appears  to  be  nothing  savage  or  fanatical,  however,  about  the 
Tetuan  people,  as  far  as  I  could  see ;  I  found  them  in  the  main 
xiendly,  good-natured  folk,  and  in  my  rambles  about  the  streets  and 
on  the  Kasbah  hill  I  certainly  met  with  no  incivility,  "but  quite  the 
contrary." 

There  is  one  walk  I  ought  to  mention  before  I  have  done  with  walks 
:n  Spain, — that  from  Algeciras  to  Tarifa,  and  I  speak  of  it  with  tender 
''egret,  as  it  was  my  last  walk  among  the  Andalusian  mountains.  Ford, 
.•ecommending  the  route  as  a  ride,  calls  it  "  glorious  ; "  and  if  it  is  glorious 
:o  the  cavalier,  it  must  be  more  so  to  the  easy  and  independent  pedestrian, 
[t  is  a  short  walk,  too,  only  four  leagues,  and  those  very  cortas  from  the 
scenery  through  which  they  pass.  The  rough  mountain  track  that  runs 
vvestward  from  Algeciras,  after  three  or  four  miles  of  ups  and  downs,  opens 
it  length  on  the  vale  of  the  Guadalmesil.  Rugged  grey  mountains  enclose 
;he  head  of  the  valley ;  its  sides  are  thickly  dotted  with  cork  and  evergreen 
oaks,  among  which  the  little  river  tumbles  seaward  in  a  succession  of 
cascades,  pools,  and  rapids ;  and  beyond,  through  its  jaws,  are  seen  the 
African  mountains,  and  the  dark  blue  .strait,  flecked  with  slender  white 
'atteen  sails,  that  look  like  the  wings  of  dipping  sea-birds.  More  splendid 
3ven  is  the  view  which  follows  when  the  summit  of  the  opposite  height  is 
gained,  and,  looking  back,  you  see  Gibraltar,  not  now  like  a  lion  couchant, 


294  THE   KNAPSACK  IN   SPAIN. 

as  from  San  Roque,  but  in  its  cuerpo  aspect,  like  the  corpse  of  a  warrior 
on  his  bier,  the  broad  bay  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  beyond  the  blue 
sierras  of  the  Malaga  mountains  rising  tier  above  tier,  till  they  melt  away 
into  the  sky.  A  little  farther  on  the  ancient  town  of  Tarifa  comes  in 
sight,  with  its  mole,  its  port,  its  girdle  of  Moorish  walls  and  towers, 
and  its  old  castle,  where  you  may  still  see  the  window  from  which 
Guzman  el  Bueno  threw  the  dagger  to  the  Moors  below  when  they 
offered  his  son's  life  as  the  price  of  the  fortress.  Fresh  as  I  was  from 
the  land  of  the  Moor,  with  the  memory  of  Moorish  sights,  sounds,  and 
smells  still  strong,  Tarifa,  with  its  horseshoe  archways,  barbed  battle- 
ments, and  narrow,  dark,  winding  streets,  struck  me  as  being  the  most 
Moorish  town  I  had  seen  in  Spain.  It  is  right  that  it  should  be  so,  for  of 
all  the  towns  in  Spam,  or  in  Europe,  it  is  the  nearest  to  the  land  of  the 
Moors.  The  extreme  south  point  of  Europe,  the  complement  of  the  North 
Cape,  is  to  be  found  in  the  little  peninsula  which  now  constitutes  the  fort 
of  Tarifa.  I  had  some  little  difficulty  in  finding  it — indeed,  I  had  no 
right  to  enter  the  fort  at  all,  and  only  got  in  through  the  laches  of  a 
good-natured  sentry — and  when  I  did  find  it,  I  had  but  brief  enjoyment 
of  it.  The  rising  tide — for  there  are  tides  here — drove  me  back,  and 
I  had  to  relinquish  to  an  old  artilleryman,  who  sat  fishing  on  the  next 
rock,  and  had  no  more  sentiment  in  his  composition  than  a  conger-eel, 
the  proud  position  of  being  the  most  southerly  individual  on  the  continent 
of  Europe. 

It  was,  perhaps,  an  appropriate  end  to  a  pedestrian  ramble  in  the  far 
south  of  Europe.  I  might  well,  I  afterwards  found,  have  gone  on  foot,  at 
any  rate,  as  far  as  the  fine  old  Moorish  town  Vejer  ;  but  the  road  did  not 
look  interesting,  and  I  discovered  there  was  a  diligencia  for  Cadiz,  and  so 
I  set  down  Tarifa  as  long®  finis  chartaque  vi&que. 


295 


cfoftiiujs  from  the  Dfote-Haolt  -of  an  Undmtogd  (Boltertor. 


ON  Saturday  the  23rd  of  February,  1867,  there  was  sold  at  the  auction- 
looms  of  Messrs.  Sotheby,  "Wilkinson,  and  Hodge,  an  etching  of  Rembrandt, 
for  the  enormous  sum  of  One  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds. 
Never  before  has  such  a  price,  or  anything  like  such  a  price,  been  paid  for 
what,  though  unquestionably  a  very  great  rarity,  is,  after  all,  far  from 
being  unique.  It  is  a  memorable  event,  destined  perhaps  to  hold  the  same 
place  in  the  history  of  engraving  that  the  sale  of  the  Soult  Madonna 
does  in  painting,  or  that  of  the  1471  Boccaccio  in  bibliography.  Other- 
wise, if  engravings  are  to  fetch  such  astounding  prices  now-a-days,  one  of 
the  inducements  for  print-collecting  used  by  Mr.  Maberly — a  name  I  shall 
often  have  occasion  to  quote — will  no  longer  be  true:  "One  first-class 
picture  would  purchase  every  purchasable  print  that  it  is  desirable  to 
possess." 

But  I  must  give  some  description  of  the  etching  in  question.  It 
represents  Christ  healing  the  sick,  but  is  more  commonly  known  among 
collectors  by  the  name  of  the  "  Hundred  Guilder,"  because  a  copy  of  it 
was  sold  during  Rembrandt's  lifetime  for  that  sum.  Rembrandt  is 
not  happy  in  his  attempts  to  represent  Scripture  subjects.  Dutch  burgo- 
masters and  their  good  ladies,  estimable  creatures  as  they  are,  hardly 
come  up  to  our  notions  of  models,  either  for  devotional  subjects  or  for 
beauty  and  grace.  In  artistic  effects,  however,  in  the  management  of 
light  and  shade,  in  startling  contrasts,  and  in  versatility  of  imagination, 
Rembrandt's  etchings  are  unrivalled,  and  all  these  charms  are  no  doubt 
to  be  found  in  the  "  Hundred  Guilder."  And  it  is  only  proper  to  say 
that  the  impression  in  question  is  not  one  of  the  prints  Mr.  Maberly 
was  thinking  of.  For  there  is  a  special  circumstance  which  gives  a 
peculiar  value  to  this  impression — which  is,  that  it,  with  seven  others, 
are  the  only  known  examples  of  the  "  first  state  "  of  the  etching.  But 
all  my  readers  may  not  know  what  "  first  state  "  means. 

When  an  etcher  or  engraver  was  busy  about  his  plate,  he  was  very 
naturally  in  the  habit  of  taking  off  impressions  every  now  and  then 
to  see  how  his  work  was  getting  on.  These  impressions  were  called 
artist's  proofs,  and  no  doubt  in  most  instances,  after  serving  their  purpose, 
were  considered  of  but  little  more  value  than  waste  paper.  But  Rembrandt, 
finding  that  not  only  were  his  finished  etchings  selling  well,  but  that  some 
curious  collectors  eagerly  laid  hold  upon  these  unfinished  scraps,  thought 
he  could  turn  an  honest  penny — rather  a  failing  of  his — by  multiplying  the 
"  states  "  of  his  etchings  as  much  as  possible.  It  is  but  perhaps  fair  to 
say  that  Rembrandt,  fond  of  money  as  he  was,  was  yet  no  miser.  The 


296  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE   NOTE-BOOK 

large  sums  he  obtained  were  not  hoarded  away,  but  spent  in  buying 
pictures  and  the  requisites  of  his  art  to  such  an  extent,  that  though  at  the 
death  of  his  wife,  the  pretty  Jantje,  he  was  worth  more  than  4,000?.,  he 
left,  when  he  died,  only  a  few  guilders  for  his  funeral  expenses. 

In  some  cases  there  are  not  less  than  ten  states  known  and  described, 
one  here  and  there  being  simply  ridiculous.  In  the  "  Gold  Weighers," 
for  instance,  the  earliest  and  rarest  state  has  the  face  blank. 

Of  the  eight  known  impressions  of  the  first  state  of  the  "  Hundred 
Guilder,"  five  are  safe  in  public  collections.  The  British  Museum  has 
two,  the  Imperial  Libraries  of  Paris  and  Vienna — the  latter  having  an 
inscription  in  Rembrandt's  handwriting  to  say  it  was  the  seventh  im- 
pression taken  from  the  plate — and  the  Museum  at  Amsterdam,  one  each. 
Of  the  remaining  three,  one  belongs  to  Mr.  B.  S.  Holford,  who  gave  400?. 
for  it ;  the  second  to  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  and  the  third  has  just 
passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  C.  J.  Palmer.  The  history  of  this  last 
impression,  which  is  described  as  a  "magnificent  impression,  undoubtedly 
the  finest  known,  on  Japanese  paper,  with  large  margin,  and  in  perfect 
condition,"  is  thoroughly  ascertained.  From  Rembrandt  it  was  obtained 
by  J.  P.  Zomers,  and  after  gracing  successively  the  collections  of  Signor 
Zanetti,  Baron  Denon,  Messrs.  Woodburn  the  printsellers,  Baron 
Verstolke  of  Amsterdam,  and  Sir  Charles  Price,  it  has  now  found  a  resting- 
place  in  Bedford  Row.  At  the  Baron's  sale  in  1847,  it  was  purchased  for 
1,600  guilders  (133?.)  We  may  congratulate  Mr.  Palmer,  then,  on  having 
gained  a  real  and  rare  treasure, — such  as  may  not  be  in  the  market 
again  this  century  at  least,  even  though  the  price  is,  in  its  way,  as 
princely  as  those  which  have  been  lavished  on  the  art  treasures  of  Hertford 
House. 

The  second  state  of  the  etching,  which  only  consists  in  a  few  cross- 
hatchings  introduced  in  one  part  of  the  plate,  is  by  no  means  to  be  had 
for  nothing.  A  splendid  impression  on  India  paper,  with  large  margin, 
from  the  Dubois  cabinet,  sold  at  Manuel  Johnson's  sale  for  160?. ;  and 
even  this  is  not  the  highest  price  this  state  is  known  to  have  fetched.  It 
is  by  no  means  certain,  however,  that '  these  India-paper  impressions, 
though  the  earliest,  are  the  best  in  point  of  effect.  Many  collectors 
prefer  those  on  plain  paper. 

Many  others  of  Rembrandt's  etchings  bring  very  large  prices.  His 
portrait  of  Advocate  Tolling,  a  very  splendid  work,  cost  Baron  Verstolke 
220?.,  though  it  fetched  at  his  sale  only  1,800  guilders  (150?.)  It  is 
worth  at  least  twice  that  sum  now.  "  Ephraim  Bonus,"  the  Jewish 
physician — perhaps  Rembrandt's  finest  etching — was  bought  at  the  same 
sale  for  the  British  Museum  for  1,650  guilders.  Only  three  other 
impressions  of  this  state  are  known.  "  Coppenol,"  a  writing-master, 
cost  the  Baron  in  1835,  though  not  in  vary  good  condition,  300  guineas, 
though  it  only  produced  1,250  guilders  at  his  sale.  Of  "  Rembrandt 
holding  a  Sabre  "  there  are  four  impressions  of  the  earliest  state 
known — one  at  Amsterdam,  one  at  Paris,  one  in  the  British  Museum, 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  297 

purchased  from  the  Baron  for  1,805   guilders  (1501.},  and  one   in  the 
c  Election  of  Mr.  Holford,  who  is  said  to  have  paid  6001.  for  it. 

None  of  these  prices  I  have  mentioned,  except  the  last,  at  all 
approach  that  given  by  Mr.  Palmer;  but  I  believe  they  have  for  some 
time  been  considered  inadequate.  I  remember  Mr.  Smith,  of  Lisle  Street, 
tolling  me  that  when  the  authorities  of  the  British  Museum  first  thought 
of  making  that  exhibition  of  engravings  which  has  now  been  carried  out, 
he  offered — in  exchange  I  think  for  one  of  the  two  copies  of  the 
"  Hundred  Guilder  " — etchings  by  Eembrandt  to  the  value  of  from  500/. 
to  600/.  His  offer,  however,  was  not  accepted. 

About  one  of  Rembrandt's  etchings  we  have  an  amusing  story.  He 
had  gone  to  spend  a  day  with  his  great  friend,  Jan  Six,  a  burgomaster  of 
.Amsterdam.  As  they  were  sitting  down  to  dinner  it  was  found  the  servant 
hid  forgotten  to  provide  any  mustard.  He  was  sent  off  at  once  to  the 
v  llage  close  by;  but  Rembrandt,  knowing  that  the  favourite  maxim  of 
lutch  servants  was  "much  haste,  little  speed,"  laid  a  wager  with  the 
burgomaster  that  he  would  etch  the  view  from  the  dining-room  window 
bsfore  the  servant  returned.  He  took  up  a  plate,  tried  his  etching-point 
upon  it,  sketched  the  view,  and  won  his  bet.  The  engraving  is  a  very  rare 
oie.  Baron  Verstolke's  impression  sold  for  171.  10s.,  but  he  would  be 
fortunate  who  could  secure  a  good  impression  at  that  price  now. 

In  Mr.  Mabeiiy's  excellent  book,  The  Print  Collector,  is  an  account  of 
another  of  Rembrandt's  etchings,  which  is  worth  compressing.  One  day 
that  artist,  struck  apparently  with  the  attitude  of  a  dog  lying  asleep, 
d  3termined  to  etch  its  portrait.  The  plate  he  took  up  was  much  larger 
than  he  required,  so  that  the  etching  only  occupied  the  left-hand  corner. 
From  this  he  printed  an  impression  upon  a  piece  of  paper,  which,  though 
h  rger  than  was  required  for  the  etching,  was  not  as  large  as  the  plate. 
Ihe  etching  looked  ridiculous  enough,  and  the  artist  accordingly  cut  out 
the  part  of  the  plate  containing  the  little  dog,  and  the  rest  of  the 
impressions  were  struck  off  in  this  reduced  size.  The  first  impression, 
fortunately  or  unfortunately,  was  preserved,  and  an  account  of  the  prices 
it  has  fetched  at  different  times  is  a  very  instructive  example  of  the  mania 
o ::'  collectors.  We  first  hear  of  it  at  Mr.  Hibbert's  sale  in  1809,  where 
it  fetched  thirty  shillings,  the  purchaser  being  M.  Claussin.  He  sold 
it  at  a  small  advance  of  price  to  a  London  printseller,  who  disposed  of 
it  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  for  6/.  At  the  Duke's  sale  in  1834,  it 
p-oduced  611.  But  the  purchaser  made  a  good  bargain,  nevertheless.  A 
I  utchman  heard  of  it,  offered  the  fortunate  owner  100  guineas,  then  150/., 
tl-.en  any  price  lie  liked  to  ask  for  it;  but  no,  he  was  proof  against  all 
t«  mptation,  and  kept  possession  of  his  treasure,  till  at  last,  with  many 
r<  ally  valuable  prints  from  the  same  collection,  it  passed  into  the  British 
Museum  for  the  sum  of  120/. ;  and  in  that  print-room,  where  there  are 
ii  ore  treasures  in  the  way  of  engraving  to  be  found  than  in  any  other 
c  Election  in  the  world,  the  visitor  may  see  "  a  twenty-shilling  print  on 
1 19?-.  worth  of  blank  paper,"  all  in  the  space  of  three  or  four  inches. 

15—5 


298  JOTTINGS  FEOM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

Two  other  instances  of  the  same  kind  are  given  by  Mr.  Maberly — the 
first,  that  of  Rembrandt's  "Four  Prints  for  a  Spanish  Book."  They 
were  engraved  upon  one  plate,  but  after  a  few  impressions  had  been  taken 
off,  the  plate  was  cut  into  four  pieces.  Of  these  first  impressions,  the 
greater  number  were  in  like  manner  cut  into  four,  but  one  at  least  escaped 
this  fate.  This  impression  was  purchased  for  II.  Is.,  then  for  511.  13s., 
and  finally  became  the  property  of  the  British  Museum  for  the  sum  of  100 
guineas.  In  the  second  instance,  Berghem  etched  six  prints  on  one  plate, 
which  he  afterwards  cut  up  into  six  pieces.  The  single  impression  known 
of  the  entire  plate  was  purchased  for  the  National  collection  for  120£. 

Rembrandt's  etchings  are  not  the  only  objects  of  this  kind  that  fetch 

large  prices  in  the  market.  A  niello  of  Maso  Finiguerra,  for  instance 

But  I  should  explain  what  a  niello  is. 

The  Florentine  goldsmiths  of  the  fifteenth  century  were  very  famous  for 
the  exquisite  designs  of  flowers,  portraits,  and  groups  of  figures  which 
they  engraved  upon  various  articles  of  silver,  such  as  watches,  snuff-boxes, 
scabbards,  and  especially  church  plate.  One  of  these  was  the  pax — a 
tablet  of  silver  by  which  the  kiss  of  peace  was  circulated  through  the 
congregation,  after  the  primitive  kiss  of  peace  had  given  rise  to  some 
scandal  in  the  church.  The  hollow  part  of  these  engravings  was  after- 
wards filled  up  with  a  mixture  of  silver  and  lead,  which  being  of  a  dark 
colour,  was  called  nigellum  or  niello,  and  gave  to  the  work  the  effect 
of  shadow.  An  accidental  circumstance — one  of  these  nielli  coming  into 
contact  with  some  molten  sulphur — is  said  to  have  suggested  to  Maso 
Finiguerra  the  idea  of  taking  off  impressions  of  his  work  on  paper. 
Vasari  gives  us  an  account  of  the  process  in  his  life  of  Marc  Antonio,  but 
his  description  is  somewhat  obscure,  and  Lanzi's  fuller  explanation  is  far 
more  intelligible.  "When  he  had  cut  the  plate,  he  next  proceeded  to 
take  a  print  of  it  before  he  inlaid  it  with  niello,  upon  very  fine  earth ;  and 
from  the  cut  being  to  the  right  hand  and  hollow,  the  proof  consequently 
came  out  on  the  left,  shewing  the  little  earthen  cast  in  relief.  Upon 
thiB  last  he  threw  the  liquid  sulphur,  from  which  he  obtained  a  second 
proof,  which,  of  course,  appeared  to  the  right,  and  took  from  the  relief  a 
hollow  form.  He  then  laid  the  ink  (lamp-black  or  printer's  ink)  upon  the 
sulphur  in  such  a  way  as  to  fill  up  the  hollows  in  the  more  indented  cuts, 
intended  to  produce  the  shadow;  and  next,  by  degrees,  he  scooped  away 
from  the  ground  (of  the  sulphur)  what  was  meant  to  produce  the  light. 
The  final  work  was  to  polish  it  with  oil,  in  order  to  give  the  sulphur  the 
bright  appearance  of  silver." 

By  this  process  Maso  was  enabled  to  judge  of  the  effect  of  his  work 
when  filled  in  with  niello.  Some  of  these  impressions,  both  in  sulphur 
and  on  paper,  as  well  as  the  silver  plates  themselves,  are  still  extant ;  and 
as,  in  addition  to  their  great  beauty,  they  are  of  the  utmost  interest  in 
the  history  of  engraving,  they  command  large  prices.  Specimens  of  all 
these  states  are  to  be  found  in  the  noble  collection  in  the  British  Museum. 
Some  icloa  of  its  extent  may  be  formed,  when  it  is  remembered  that  of  the 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  299 

original  niello  plates  alone  this  collection  contains  more  than  forty  examples. 
Of  these  the  most  famous  is  a  pax  by  Maso,  representing  the  "  Virgin  and 
Child,"  with  seven  figures  of  saints  and  two  of  angels,  executed  for  the 
church  of  St.  Maria  Novella  in  Florence.  It  is  set  in  the  original  frame. 
At  Sir  M.  M.  Sykes's  sale  this  niello  produced  315  guineas.  Amongst 
impressions  on  sulphur,  I  may  mention  another  treatment  of  the  same 
s abject,  with  many  more  figures,  and  one  of  the  "  Coronation  of  the 
Virgin,"  executed  for  the  church  of  St.  Giovanni.  It  came  from  the  Duke 
cf  Buckingham's  collection,  who  is  said  to  have  given  250Z.  for  it.  The 
original  niello,  according  to  Duchesne,  is  in  the  gallery  at  Florence.  It 
•was  executed  in  1452,  and  the  price  then  paid  for  it  was  "  G6  florins  of 
gold."  An  impression  of  this  pax  on  paper  was  discovered  by  Zani  in  the 
Imperial  collection  in  Paris,  in  1797.  At  the  time  of  its  discovery  it  was 
the  only  niello  of  Finiguerra  known. 

Amongst  impressions  on  paper,  the  most  remarkable  is  that  which, 
in  the  judgment  of  Dr.  Vvraagen,  surpasses  all  others  of  Maso's  works  "  in 
point  of  size,  beauty,  invention,  and  execution  " — "  The  Adoration  of  the 
jJhree  Kings."  "In  the  richness  of  the  composition  the  artist  has  evi- 
dently taken  for  his  model  the  exquisite  picture  of  '  Gentile  da  Fabriano,' 
now  in  the  Academy  of  Florence."  Mr.  Holford  has  a  copy  of  this,  which 
was  exhibited  amongst  the  art  treasures  at  Manchester.  Round  it  were 
set,  in  a  border,  thirty  small  nielli,  and  the  price  said  to  have  been  paid  for 
the  whole  is  400Z. 

Duchesne,  in  his  Essai  sur  Nielles,  mentions  about  500.  Most  of 
these,  in  some  state  or  other,  are  in  the  British  Museum.  But  the  rich- 
ness of  the  collection  will  be  perhaps  most  fully  understood  when  I  mention 
that  of  the  nielli  selected  by  Duchesne  to  illustrate  the  art,  specimens, 
with  a  single  exception,  are  to  be  found  in  the  Museum. 

The  art  has  some  chance  of  being  again  revived.  I  have  just  been 
f^hown  a  goblet,  with  figures  and  chasings  in  niello,  which,  if  not  equal  to 
the  productions  of  Maso  Finiguerra,  do  not  fall  far  short  of  them.  It 
was  the  work  of  a  young  Scotch  artist,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  who  is  now  engaged 
us  an  engraver  in  one  of  the  large  houses  at  Sheffield. 

Next  in  point  of  importance  come  the  works  of  that  prince  of 
engravers,  Marc  Antonio  Kainiondi.  The  drawing  in  some  of  these  is 
most  exquisite ;  and  well  it  may  be,  when  it  was  probably  that  of  his 
great  friend  Ranaelle,  almost  certainly  in  those  of  "  Adam  and  Eve  "  and 
•'  The  Judgment  of  Paris."  Manuel  Johnson's  copy  of  this  last, — "  one  of 
i-he  finest  impressions  known " — fetched  320Z.  His  "Adam  and  Eve "  has 
fetched  150Z.,  and  his  "  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,"  a  proof  before  the 
inscription,  250Z.  Among  the  engravings  in  the  Dusseldorf  collection 
attributed  to  Marc  Antonio  is  one  of  the  Madonna  sitting  upon  clouds, 
with  the  infant  Saviour  standing  at  her  right  side,  so  exquisitely  executed, 
especially  in  the  heads,  that  Professor  Miiller  saj^s  it  differs  so  essentially 
from  all  that  Marc  Antonio  has  done,  he  does  not  hesitate  to  attribute  it 
to  llaffa'elle  himself. 


300  JOTTINGS  FEOM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

Of  Albert  Durer's  etchings  the  most  beautiful  is  his  "Adam  and 
Eve."  Some  time  ago  the  finest  known  impression  of  this  engraving 
came  into  the  possession  of  Mr.  Smith,  the  eminent  printseller  whom  I 
have  mentioned  already.  He  showed  the  print  to  Mr.  Maberly,  who 
eagerly  inquired  the  price — which,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  was  about  60Z. 
Possessing  another  impression  already,  Mr.  Maberly  was  at  first  not 
inclined  to  pay  this  large  sum  even  for  such  superior  excellence.  Day 
after  day,  however,  he  came  to  look  at  the  charming  impression,  and  at 
last  said,  "  Well,  well,  I  must  have  it.  But  you  will  take  back  my  other 
impression,  won't  you,  and  allow  me  what  I  paid  you  for  it — 15L?" 
"Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Smith.  "I  don't  think  I  can  do  that.  I  won't 
offer  you  151.,  but  if  you  like,  I  will  give  you  80?."  The  value  of  Durer's 
engravings  had  been  doubled  since  Mr.  Maberly 's  former  purchase.  At 
Mr.  Maberly's  death  his  prize  sold  for  551.  Mr.  Johnson's  impression,  which 
was  no  doubt  a  fine  one,  fetched  46L  What  a  change  from  the  price 
Durer  himself  tells  us  he  got  for  his  engraving  in  1520, — four  stivers  (four- 
pence)  !  Even  taking  into  account  the  difference  in  the  value  of  money  in 
his  time  and  our  own,  what  he  received  cannot  have  amounted  to  a  couple 
of  shillings. 

Coming  down  to  more  modern  times,  we  have  F.  Miiller's  engraving 
of  "The  Madonna  di  San  Sisto."  It  proved  his  death.  On  taking  a 
proof  of  his  plate  to  the  publisher  by  whom  he  was  employed,  he  was  told 
he  must  go  over  the  whole  work  again,  as  it  was  far  too  delicate  for 
commercial  purposes.  With  heavy  heart  he  set  about  his  work,  but  it 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  on  the  very  day  the  proofs  were  taken  off1 
from  the  retouched  plate,  he  died.  It  fetches  large  prices  now.  At 
Mr.  Johnson's  sale,  a  "fine  proof  before  any  letters  "  brought  120Z.  The 
same  sum  was  obtained  for  Count  Archinto's  copy  in  1862. 

I  must  not  forget  Kaphael  Morghen.  Wonderfully  beautiful  are  some 
of  his  engravings,  and  their  value  quite  as  rare  and  startling.  That  of  the 
"Last  Supper,"  after  L.  da  Vinci,  "before  the  letters  and  with  the  white 
plate,"  sold  at  Mr.  Johnson's  sale  for  316Z.,  and  at  Count  Archinto's 
sale  for  20L  beyond  even  that  price.  Another  copy  was  sold  at  Sotheby's 
in  the  same  year  (1862)  for  275L 

Engravings  by  English  artists  fetch  much  more  moderate  prices  than 
those  I  have  mentioned.  Not  that  in  some  instances  at  least  they  are  at 
all  inferior  to  foreign  productions.  Mr.  Maberly  does  Sir  Robert  Strange 
and  Woollett  no  more  than  justice  when  he  says  that  they  "  are  perhaps 
the  finest  engravers — the  one  of  subjects  and  the  other  of  landscapes — 
that  the  English  school  has  ever  produced ;  and  in  some  of  their  qualities 
they  equal  indeed  any  artist  of  any  school."  An  impression  of  Woollett's 
"Niobe,"  all  but  unique,  fetched  at  Mr.  Johnson's  sale  70Z.  His 
"  Fishery  "  has  produced  35L  10s.  Some  of  Strange's  portraits  bring 
good  sums.  His  "  Charles  I.,"  for  instance,  has  been  sold  for  62?.  Still 
larger  prices  have  been  obtained  for  some  portraits  by  earlier  engravers. 
At  Bindley's  sale  in  1819,  Faithorne's  "Lady  Castlemaine "  produced 


OP  AN  UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  801 

79L ;  and  at  Sir  M.  M.  Sykes's  sale  in  1824,  B.  Elstrake's  portrait  of 
"  The  Most  Illustrious  Prince  Henry  Lord  Darnley,  King  of  Scotland, 
a  ad  the  Most  Excellent  Princess  Mary  Queen  of  Scotland,"  presumed  to 
1)3  unique,  811.  10s.  It  is  not,  however,  unique  ;  another  impression,  with 
some  very  rare  portraits,  is  bound  up  in  a  copy  of  Dyson's  collection  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  proclamations  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  The  highest 
price  probably  ever  paid  for  an  English  portrait  was  100L,  the  sum  given 
by  Mr.  Halliwell  for  an  early  and  unfinished  state  of  Drocshout's  Shak- 
s jeare. 

In  the  case  of  one  of  Hogarth's  prints,  there  is  an  impression  con- 
taining a  peculiarity  that  gives  it  a  very  factitious  value — "  The  Modern 
Midnight  Conversation."  The  print  usually  fetches  thirty  shillings,  but  the 
impression  in  question,  in  which  modern  was  spelt  with  two  d's,  was  bought 
by  the  British  Museum  for  78  guineas. 

Portraits  of  all  kinds,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  were  in  great  request 
a  few  years  since,  when  there  was  a  rage  for  illustrating  such  books  as 
Ch'ainger's  Biographical  History  of  England.  To  this  rage  is  owing,  in 
g:eat  measure,  the  fact  that  so  many  books  are  minus  the  portraits  which 
oaght  to  accompany  them.  Unscrupulous  collectors  did  not  hesitate  to 
"  convey"  a  good  many  rarities  out  of  the  volumes  they  were  "  con- 
s' ilting  "  in  public  libraries.  Horace  Walpole,  in  one  of  his  letters,  says, 
"  We  have  at  present  a  rage  for  prints  of  English  portraits ;  lately  I  assisted 
a  clergyman  in  compiling  a  catalogue  of  them.  Since  this  publication  scarce 
haads  in  books  not  worth  threepence  will  sell  for  five  guineas."  Perhaps 
the  finest  of  these  collections  is  the  Sutherland  Clarendon  now  in  the 
Eodleian.  Amongst  the  multitude  of  portraits  it  contains  is  one  of  John 
Felton,  for  which  Mrs.  Sutherland,  after  her  husband's  death,  was  offered 
1DO  guineas.  Mr.  Sutherland  had  given  80/.  for  it. 

In  comparing  the  ancient  prices  of  prints  on  their  first  publication  with 
the  modern  ones — (I  have  already  mentioned  Durer's  "  Adam  and  Eve;  " 
a  id  Mr.  Maberly  tells  us  that  Durer  purchased  Lucas  Van  Leyden's 
"  Eulenspeigel, "  now  worth,  when  in  good  state,  50£.,  for  a  stiver) — we 
n  ust  not  forget  the  immensely  larger  sums  that  engravers  are  paid  now- 
a  days  than  what  were  usual  in  former  times.  The  artist  then  was  often 
h  s  own  publisher ;  but  even  when  he  was  engaged  by  some  other  person,  he 
r<  ceived  what  would  be  considered  at  present  most  inadequate  remunera- 
ti  Dn.  Woollett,  for  instance,  a  hundred  years  ago,  asked  only  50  guineas 
fcr  engraving  his  "Niobe,"  though  Alderman  Boydell  generously  gave 
h  m  100.  The  price  at  which  it  was  published  was  five  shillings,  no  difference 
b  ing  made  between  proofs  and  prints, — the  subscribers  being  allowed  to 
trke  which  they  pleased.  Contrast  these  prices  with  those  that  are 
obtained  now.  We  will  take  an  instance  from  France.  Louis  XIV. 
commenced  a  "  Chalcographie  du  Musee  Koyale,"  a  series  of  engravings 
fnm  pictures  in  the  Louvre.  The  series  is  still  continued;  and  in  1854 
tl  e  sum  voted  for  this  purpose  was  nearly  9,000/.  Of  this  H.  Dupont  was 
tc  receive  1,666L  for  engraving  Paul  Veronese's  "  Pilgrims  of  Emmaus ;  " 


802  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE   NOTE -BOOK 

and  De  Francois  (the  artist  engaged  for  Frith's  "  Derby  Day  "),  1,2507. 
for  Fra  Angelico's  "  Coronation  of  the  Virgin."  When  in  1847  there  was 
a  similar  commission  contemplated  by  the  English  Government,  it  was 
said  that  the  sum  Mr.  J.  H.  Robinson  was  to  receive  for  engraving  "  The 
liaising  of  Lazarus  "  was  5,0007.  A  publisher  will  often  spend  several 
thousand  pounds  in  bringing  out  a  first-class  engraving.  The  "  copy- 
right "  alone  is  a  most  serious  item.  Landseer  got  for  the  "  Peace  and 
War,"  now  in  the  Vernon  Gallery,  2,6507.  The  prices  charged  for  the 
impressions  must  of  course  be  in  proportion.  For  instance,  when  Colnaghi 
published  Doo's  engraving  of  the  "  Raising  of  Lazarus,"  there  were 
100  artist's  proofs  at  20  guineas,  100  proofs  on  India  paper  at  15  guineas, 
100  proofs  on  plain  paper  at  10  guineas,  200  prints  on  India  paper  at 
6  guineas,  whilst  the  prints  themselves  were  charged  5  guineas  each. 

As  I  have  mentioned  nielli  as  the  earliest  works  in  engraving  properly 
so  called,  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  just  to  allude  to  the  earliest  known 
specimens  of  three  other  kinds  of  illustration — woodcuts,  etchings,  and 
mezzotints. 

The  earliest  wood  engraving  with  a  date  is  that  discovered  by 
Heinecken,  pasted  inside  the  cover  of  a  MS.  book  of  prayers  in  the 
Chartreuse  of  Buxheim,  near  Memmingen.  It  is  of  folio  size,  ll£  inches 
high  by  8^  inches  wide,  and  represents  S.  Christopher  carrying  the 
infant  Christ.  Under  it  are  the  following  lines  and  date  : — 

Christofori  faciem  die  quacunque  tueris,  ' 
Ilia  nempe  die  morte  mala  non  morieris. 

Millcsimo  ccccxx.  tcrcio. 

It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Earl  Spencer.  A  facsimile  of  this  very 
interesting  woodcut  may  be  seen  in  Ottley's  valuable  work,  The  Early 
History  of  Engraving.  Early,  however,  as  is  this  woodcut,  the  art  itself, 
introduced  apparently  by  the  Venetians  from  China,  was  almost  certainly 
practised  in  Venice  for  two  or  three  centuries  before  that  date.  Indeed, 
if  Papillon's  story  in  the  Peintre  Graveur  be  true — and  there  seem  no 
sufficient  grounds  for  rejecting  it — that  author  actually  found  at  Bagneux, 
near  Mont  Rouge,  a  book  containing  woodcuts  illustrative  of  the  history  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  executed  by  a  brother  and  sister  called  Cunio,  dedi- 
cated to  Pope  Honorius  IV.,  who  lived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  thirteenth 
century  (1284-5).  The  book  itself,  however,  has  disappeared. 

It  is  a  matter  of  considerable  doubt  who  first  practised  etching.  In 
the  British  Museum  are  two  specimens  attributed  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
(A.D.  1492-1519) :  one  the  bust  of  a  young  and  beautiful  female ;  the 
other  a  study  of  three  horses'  heads.  In  the  same  collection  is  another 
by  Wenceslaus  d'Olmutz,  with  the  date  1496.  Whether  the  art  was  first 
practised  in  Italy  or  Germany  is  a  point  which  perhaps  cannot  now 
be  determined. 

In  Evelyn's  Sculptura  is  an  early  mezzotinto  engraving,  which  is 
interesting  not  only  as  the  work  of  a  royal  artist,  Prince  Rupert,  but 
because  the  Prince,  on  Evelyn's  authority  was  for  a  long  time  considered 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOE.  303 

to  be  the  author  of  that  process.  The  Prince's  claim,  however,  to  the 
honour,  has  been  effectually  disposed  of  by  the  discovery  of  a  letter  from 
Lieutenant- Colonel  Ludwig  von  Siegen,  an  officer  in  the  service  of  the 
Landgrave  of  Hesse,  in  which  he  gives  an  account  to  the  Prince  of  his  new 
n  ethod  of  engraving.  This  first  published  mezzotint  was  a  portrait  of 
Amelia  Elizabeth,  Landgravine  of  Hesse,  a  very  fine  impression  of  which, 
"  in  its  first  state,  before  the  date  was  altered,"  was  priced  by  Messrs.  Evans 
a  few  years  ago  at  twelve  guineas. 

Prince  Rupert  is  not  the  only  royal  personage  who  has  produced 
engravings.  In  the  Museum  at  Amsterdam  is  a  most  quaint  allegorical 
ei  ching  by  Peter  the  Greafc,  representing  apparently  the  triumph  of  Russia 
over  Turkey.  It  was  engraved  in  the  Illustrated  London  News  of 
November  19,  1853.  The  present  King  of  Sweden  employs  some  of  his 
k  isure  hours  in  line  engraving ;  and  some  of  my  readers  will  no  doubt 
recollect  the  list  given  in  the  Literary  Gazette  for  1848  of  sixty-three 
etchings,  executed  by  her  Majesty  and  the  late  Prince  Consort.  Nor  is 
hor  Majesty  the  only  lady  who  has  handled  the  graver.  Not  to  go  back  to 
such  ancient  ladies  as  Diana  Ghisi,  Mr.  Maberly  mentions  one  who  has 
imitated  Rembrandt  so  well  that  none  but  the  most  practised  judges  can 
detect  the  difference. 

The  subject  of  engraving  leads  us  naturally  to  the  sister  subject  of 
painting.  No  collecting  mania  is  anything  like  so  popular  or  so  exten- 
sively practised  as  that  for  pictures.  They  have  come  to  be  considered  as 
indispensable  articles  of  furniture  in  every  well-appointed  house  :  and  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing,  in  consequence,  to  meet  with  a  collector  who  talks, 
aad  evidently  thinks,  much  less  of  the  gems  that  ornament  his  gallery 
than  of  the  cheques  by  which  they  were  secured.  And  how  grossly  the 
<l  old  masters  "  are  belied  in  many  of  these  collections.  They  had  no 
more  to  do  with  the  productions  to  which  their  names  are  appended,  in 
all  the  splendour  that  gilt  letters  can  give  them,  than  the  purchaser 
himself.  But  if  a  man  will  order  a  Claude  five  feet  by  three  and  a  half, 
because  he  has  a  spare  corner  of  those  dimensions,  he  had  better  not 
i2iquire  too  closely,  any  more  than  in  the  case  of  a  St.  Anthony's  tooth, 
as  to  what  animal  it  originally  belonged.  In  London  alone  there  are,  I 
sappose,  sold  every  year  more  pictures  by  the  "old  masters"  than  are  left 
to  us  of  their  paintings  altogether.  Let  me  mention  two  facts.  In  the 
5  ear  1845,  the  number  of  pictures  imported  into  England  amounted, 
according  to  the  returns  of  the  Custom  House,  to  14,901.  In  one  month 
of  the  same  year  there  were  sold  by  auction  in  London  alone,  without 
reckoning  those  included  in  furniture  sales,  though  the  number  of  these 
must  have  been  considerable,  4,617. 

The  difference  between  the  prices  at  which  such  pictures  are  acquired 
end  those  they  fetch  when  brought  to  the  hammer,  is  amusing.  A 
llaffaelle,  declared  in  the  auction-room  to  have  cost  its  late  owner  1,000 
guineas,  sells  for  37/. !  A  Yorkshire  gentleman  bequeaths  twelve  of  his 
1  ictures  to  the  National  Gallery  :  they  are  rejected,  every  one.  The 


304  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

whole  collection  is  brought  to  the  hammer ;  it  had  cost  3,OOOZ. ;  it  pro- 
duces 1501.) — about  the  value  of  the  frames.  Nor  is  it  only  in  England 
that  a  man  sells  a  horse  for  a  gross  of  green  spectacles.  A  French 
collector  insures  his  gallery  for  3,339,500  francs.  It  is  sold  some  years 
afterwards,  numerous  additions  having  meantime  been  made  to  it,  for 
535,435  francs.  And  one  cannot  imagine  in  these  cases  that  there  is 
any  such  possible  explanation  as  in  the  case  of  the  Earl  of  Suffolk's  ten 
pictures — Guide's  "  Ecce  Homo  "  amongst  them — that  were  stolen  so 
mysteriously  from  Charlton  Park  in  October,  1856,  and  not  recovered  till 
the  early  part  of  1858,  when  some  of  them  had  been  hanging  in  a  small 
public-house  and  an  old  picture-shop,  but  failed  to  meet  with  purchasers, 
as  they  were  considered  such  very  inferior  productions ! 

Many  of  the  pictures  brought  into  England  are  most  likely  re-exported. 
One  day  I  was  in  a  well-known  warehouse  in  the  City,  when  on  turning  a 
corner  I  knocked  down  what  in  the  imperfect  light  seemed  to  be  a 
valuable  landscape.  Knowing  the  art  propensities  of  some  of  the  partners, 
I  was  really  afraid  I  had  committed  some  perhaps  irreparable  damage  ; 
but  a  young  man  who  came  to  my  rescue  soon  reassured  me.  "  Never 
mind,  sir,  we  have  plenty  of  these — we  deal  in  pictures."  Wholesale  of 
course,  as  it  was  a  wholesale  house.  Accordingly  I  was  soon  introduced 
to  a  large  collection.  On  my  pointing  to  one  and  saying  if  I  bought  any 
I  should  buy  that,  my  friend  said,  "  We  can  do  you  that  cheap ;  frame 
and  all,  thirty  shillings."  Those  pictures  were  exported  principally  to 
Australia. 

Few  instances  of  such  forgeries  are  more  amusing  than  that  given  in 
the  "confession"  of  Major  Pryse  Gordon,  for  which  I  am  indebted 
to  the  Art  Journal.  "When  I  returned  from  Italy  in  1800,  I  had  a 
beautiful  copy  of  the  '  Venere  Vestita  '  after  Titian  in  the  Pitti  Palace  : 
it  was  painted  on  a  gold  ground,  and  highly  finished,  and  the  countenance, 
I  thought,  somewhat  resembled  Mary  Stuart,  our  Scottish  Queen.  A  few 
years  afterwards,  my  virtu  was  sold  by  old  Christie  at  the  hammer,  and 
in  the  catalogue  this  morceau  the  knowing  auctioneer  had  called  '  Mary 
Stuart,  by  Titian,  the  only  miniature  known  to  be  by  that  great  master's 

hand.'     The  bait  took,  and  a  person  of  the  name  of  F bought  it  for 

551.  The  next  day  I  went  to  the  sale-room  to  settle  my  accounts,  when  a 
g-it^r-looking  fellow  addressed  me,  with  the  miniature  in  his  hand,  saying 
he  was  the  purchaser.  '  What  a  lucky  person,'  I  replied,  'you  are,  sir? 
Why,  you  will  make  your  fortune  by  this  precious  article.  I  advise  you  to 
take  a  room  and  exhibit  it.'  He  took  the  hint,  advertised  it  in  St.  James's 
Street  forthwith  :  — '  To  be  viewed,  at  No.  15,  an  undoubted  miniature  of 
Queen  Mary,  by  Titian,  valued  at  1,000  guineas,'  &c.  &c.  The  public 
flocked  to  this  wonder,  by  which  the  cunning  Pat  put  more  than  200L  in 
his  pocket,  and  afterwards  sold  this  '  unique  gem '  to  Lord  Badstock  for 
750Z." 

A  stoiy  is  told  about  the  late  W.  Hope,  the  wealthy  banker  of 
Amsterdam,  and  one  of  his  purchases.  He  had  bought  a  picture  as  a 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR,  305 

Bembrandt  and  given  2,000  guineas  for  it.  Finding  that  it  did  not  quite 
fit  the  frame,  he  sent  for  a  carpenter  to  ease  it  a  little.  Whilst  watching 
th(  operation  he  remarked  how  wonderfully  the  picture  was  preserved, 
considering  that  it  was  nearly  200  years  old.  "  That  is  impossible," 
sail  the  carpenter.  "  This  wood  is  mahogany :  and  mahogany  had  not 
beon  introduced  into  Europe  at  that  time."  Mr.  Hope  burnt  the  picture. 

One  can  feel  no  pity  for  such  cases  as  those  of  the  American  who 
sail  his  father's  collection  consisted  almost  entirely  of  Raffaelles  and 
Leonardos,  with  a  few  Correggios.  But  there  are  others  in  which  even 
the  best  judges  have  been  deceived.  We  all  remember  the  purchase, 
sorie  years  ago,  of  a  portrait  by  Holbein  for  the  National  collection, 
for  600  guineas.  The  authorities,  however,  have  not  waited  for 
Mr.  Wornum  or  Dr.  Woltmann  to  acknowledge  it  a  forgery.  It  had 
been  at  one  time  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Nieuwenhuys,  a  well-known 
de?  ler  in  Brussels,  who  had  been  well  content  to  get  20/.  for  it.  Even 
prc fessed  judges  differ  toto  ccelo  about  particular  pictures.  One  specimen 
in  the  National  collection — a  "  Virgin  and  Child  "  by  Giovanni  Bellini 
— !vlr.  Conyngham,  in  a  letter  to  The  Times,  July  11,  1856,  assures  us  is 
spirious  and  vamped  up,  "of  the  very  lowest  type  of  art"  and  "for 
educational  purposes  utterly  useless ; "  whilst  Dr.  Waagen  is  equally 
positive  on  the  opposite  side.  "  I  am.  acquainted  with  most  of  Giovanni 
Be'lini's  works  in  Italy,  France,  England,  and  Germany,  and  setting 
the  indubitable  signature  on  this  picture  in  the  National  Gallery  entirely 
aside,  I  know  of  no  '  Madonna  and  Child  '  by  him  which,  as  regards  the 
question  of  genuineness,  more  decidedly  bears  the  stamp  of  his  hand." 

One  most  successful  forger  of  Eaffaelles  was  Micheli,  a  Florentine. 
Thore  is  at  this  moment,  in  the  Imperial  collection  at  St.  Petersburg,  a 
pic  ,ure  known  to  be  one  of  his  forgeries,  yet  placed  as  a  genuine  Kaffaelle. 
Italian  "restorers"  again  have  done  a  good  deal  to  complicate  the 
question.  An  anecdote  given,  I  think,  in  the  Quarterly  Revieiv  some 
years  ago,  is  worth  repeating.  "  We  once  asked  an  able  Italian  restorer 
if  be  had  ever  met  with  any  pictures  by  a  painter  of  the  Lombard  School 
of  ( onsiderable  merit,  whose  only  work  with  which  we  are  acquainted  is  in 
the  Louvre."  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  frankly  replied.  "  The  very  first  job  upon 
which  I  was  employed  was  in  converting  one  of  his  pictures  into  the 
Le(  nardo  da  Vinci  now  in  a  well-known  gallery.  Since  then  I  have 
fre<  uently  repeated  the  operation,  and  I  don't  know  of  one  now  existing 
uncer  his  name." 

It  is  not  surprising  that  of  the  multitude  of  copies  made  from  the  old 
ma;  ters  one  here  and  there  should  pass  for  an  original.  But  it  will  not  be 
eas;r  to  find  an  instance  so  startling  as  the  following.  Dr.  Waagen,  in  the 
supplement  to  his  Arts  and  Artists  in  England,  describes  the  Earl  of 
No:manton's  collection  at  Somerley.  He  speaks  in  the  most  guileless 
ma:  mer,  amongst  other  pictures,  of  two  specimens  of  Claude,  three  of  Sir 
J.  Reynolds,  and  one  of  Greuze,  all  of  which  turn  out  to  be  copies  made  by 
Mr.  J.  R,  Powell.  The  doctor  had  actually  described  some  of  the  originals 


306  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

in  his  earlier  volumes.  And  the  most  amusing  part  of  it  is,  that  he  speaks 
in  far  higher  terms  of  the  copies  than  he  does  of  the  genuine  pictures. 

But  putting  aside  such  cases  as  these,  painters  of  no  little  eminence 
have  lent  themselves  to  very  unworthy  practices.  Rembrandt  is  said  to 
have  sometimes  touched  up  the  pictures  of  his  pupils  and  sold  them  as 
his  own.  Guido  is  accused  of  having  done  the  same  thing.  Some  of 
these  were  probably  as  good  as  those  he  painted  when  his  gambling 
propensities  had  got  him  into  greater  difficulties  than  usual.  Lanzi 
tells  a  good  story  about  one  of  these  productions.  He  had  half 
finished  a  picture,  when  a  favourite  pupil  of  his,  Ercolino  di  Guido, 
substituted  a  copy  of  his  own  for  the  original.  The  painter  quietly  went  on 
with  his  work  without  suspecting  the  trick  that  had  been  played  on  him. 

Patrick  Nasmyth,  amongst  English  painters,  has  been  guilty  of  similar 
malpractices.  A  picture-dealer  had  purchased  a  work  of  Decker.  He 
sent  for  Nasmyth,  got  him  to  sharpen  up  the  foliage  and  add  some  figures 
copied  from  Ruysdael ;  then  substituted  Ruysdael's  name  for  Decker's, 
and  the  transformation  was  complete.  That  picture  was  sold  some  time 
afterwards  for  480  guineas.  Nasmyth  got  11  guineas  for  his  share  in  the 
transaction.  And  so  lately  as  1847  there  was  exhibited  in  the  Royal 
Academy  a  picture  bearing  the  name  of  an  R.A.,  which  was  claimed  by  a 
young  artist,  certainly  not  an  R.A.,  as  his  own  work.  He  had  sold  it  for 
22  shillings :  on  the  books  of  the  Royal  Academy  it  was  prized  at 
30  guineas. 

The  address  of  some  of  these  dealers  in  old  masters  is  so  admirable  that 
one  deeply  regrets  it  is  not  exerted  in  some  more  honest  way.  A  friend 
of  mine  was  one  day  looking  over  a  gallery  which  had  visited  the  town  in 
which  he  was  living,  when  he  came  to  a  picture  attributed  to  Morland,  an 
artist  of  whom  he  was  very  desirous  to  obtain  an  example.  He  inquired 
the  price.  "  Oh,"  says  the  dealer,  "  so  you  have  found  out  my  Morland. 
I  never  intended  to  have  parted  with  that  picture.  Morland  painted  it 
expressly  for  my  father.  It  hung  in  my  drawing-room  after  my  father's 
death,  and  would  be  hanging  there  still ;  but  as  I  am  never  at  home  it 
seems  useless  to  keep  it  any  longer.  If  you  really  wish  to  have  it,  I 
don't  mind  parting  with  it  for  30L"  My  friend  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  to  pay  for  the  prize,  but  finding  that  his  purse  was  not  supplied  to 
the  requisite  amount,  told  the  dealer  to  call  on  him  with  the  picture  at  a 
certain  hour.  Meanwhile  an  acquaintance  dropped  in,  who  in  the  course  of 

conversation  happened  to  say,  "Do  you  know  that the  picture -dealer 

here,  is  the  greatest  rascal  in  England?"  "  I  hope  not,"  said  my  friend. 
"  I  have  just  bought  a  picture  from  him."  "  Then  you  have  been  taken 
in.  There  is  not  a  single  genuine  picture  in  his  collection."  By-and-by  in 
came  the  dealer.  "  You  are  quite  sure  you  can  guarantee  the  genuineness 
of  the  picture  ?  "  he  was  asked ;  "  because  you  see  it  would  be  very  unpleasant 
if,  on  showing  my  purchase,  I  should  catch  any  of  my  friends  shrugging 
their  shoulders,  and  evidently  doubting  whether  it  was  a  Morland  after 
all."  "  Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  dealer.  "  Mr. — —  has  been  to  you.  I  will  tell 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  307 

yo  i  a  good  deal  about  the  spite  that  person  has  against  me ;  but  it  is  too 
long  a  story  to  trouble  you  with  now.  However,  if  you  have  any  doubt 
about  the  picture,  I  will  send  for  the  original  correspondence  between  my 
father  and  Moiiand  about  it,  and  you  can  then  convince  yourself  that 
I  Lave  told  you  nothing  but  the  truth."  So  completely  did  my  friend 
believe  in  the  apparent  honesty  of  the  story  that  he  all  but  paid  the  money 
then  and  there  ;  but  he  said,  "  Well,  I  should  like  to  see  the  correspondence 
very  much."  "  You  shall  have  it,  sir,  in  a  few  days."  The  dealer  went 
off  with  his  picture,  but  the  Morland  correspondence  from  that  day  to  this 
han  not  been  forthcoming. 
How  true  it  is  that 

Pictures  like  coins  grow  dim  as  they  grow  old  ; 
It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  gold  ; 

and  sums  are  squandered  upon  "  old  masters  "  that  would  have  saved 
many  a  promising  young  artist  from  utter  ruin  !  There  is  no  doubt  some 
reason  at  the  bottom  of  this  treatment.  Rare  excellence  requires  rare 
discrimination  to  detect  it,  and  many  a  noble  picture  "  wastes  its 
sweetness  "  on  the  generation  for  which  it  was  produced.  And  again  a 
picture  presumed  to  be  old  may  reasonably  be  expected  to  outlive  the 
lifetime  of  the  purchaser,  which  is  by  no  means  so  certain  with  some 
of  the  pictures  of  our  modern  artists.  The  colours  employed,  whilst 
they  ensure  marvellous  effects  at  the  moment,  are  something  like  the 
beautiful  green  we  ornamented  our  walls  with  a  short  time  ago  and  the  ball- 
dresses  of  our  wives  and  daughters,  except  that  whilst  the  one  dealt  murder, 
these  commit  suicide.  Many  a  modern  picture,  which  we  can  ill  afford  to 
loso,  promises  to  be  before  long  little  else  than  frame  and  canvas. 

Nothing  can  be  more  striking  than  the  prices  paid  for  genuine  produc- 
tions of  the  old  masters  and  those  the  artists  themselves  received  for  their 
work.  Think,  for  instance,  amongst  the  artists  of  our  own  school,  of  the 
prices  Wilson's  pictures  fetch  in  the  market  now,  and  his  painting  his 
"  Ceyx  and  Alcyone  "  for  a  pot  of  beer  and  the  remains  of  a  Stilton  cheese. 
Wilson  was  not  in  fashion  then.  Patrick  Nasmyth  again  had  his 
dealings  principally  with  pawnbrokers.  One  day  when  a  young  Scotch 
friend  was  complaining  of  his  pictures  being  badly  hung,  Nasmyth 
inquired  whether  they  were  inside  the  window  or  outside.  "Inside." 
"  Well,  then,  I  don't  care  ;  they  might  have  been  hung  worse."  His  view 
of  "  Leigh  Woods "  sold  at  Lord  Northwicke's  sale  for  7401. 
Hogarth's  pictures  of  the  "  Harlot's  Progress  "  were  sold,  in  1745 — the 
artist  still  alive — for  84  guineas;  and  his  "Rake's  Progress  " — eight 
pictures — for  176  guineas.  The  first  of  these  sets  was  destroyed  by  fire  at 
Foothill  in  1755  ;  the  other  is  now  in  the  Soane  Museum,  Sir  John  having 
paid  59S/.  for  them  ;  but  he  had  to  give  1,755  guineas  for  the  four  pictures 
of  the  "  Election."  When  Hogarth  wished  to  dispose  of  his  "  March  to 
Fiichley"  by  lottery,  several  of  the  tickets  found  no  purchaser,  and 
accordingly  they  were  given  to  the  Foundling  Hospital,  whicfe  was  fortunate 


308  JOTTINGS  FEOM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

enough  to  obtain  the  prize.  Cuyp's  landscapes,  which  now-a-days  fetch 
astounding  prices,  were  not  at  all  appreciated  whilst  the  painter  was  alive< 
But  even  when  the  artist  had  justice  done  to  him  to  some  extent,  what 
a  wonderful  advance  do  we  find  upon  the  original  prices — in  those  of 
Gainsborough  for  instance,  who  ventured  gradually  to  raise  his  charges 
from  5  guineas  a  portrait  to  40  guineas  for  a  half,  and  100  for  a  whole 
length.  His  portrait  of  Mrs.  Siddons  was  cheaply  secured  for  the  National 
Gallery  in  1860  for  1,OOOZ. ;  but  it  took  twice  that  sum  for  Mr.  Graham 
of  Kedgorton  to  get  possession  of  the  exquisite  portrait  of  the  lovely  Mrs. 
Graham,  which  he  bequeathed  in  1859  to  the  Scottish  National  Gallery. 
Burns  mentions  "  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Graham  "  in  one  of  his  letters ;  and 
Mr.  K.  Chambers  in  his  edition  of  the  poet  gives  us  some  additional 
particulars  about  her.  Her  husband  was  at  the  time  of  their  marriage 
a  plain  country  gentleman,  Thomas  Graham  of  Balgowan.  Five  years 
afterwards  she  died,  when  her  husband  entered  the  army,  commanded  the 
English  at  Barossa,  and  was  created  Lord  Lynedoch.  The  portrait 
meantime  had  been  sent  to  London  to  await  further  orders.  But  he  was 
never  able  to  send  for  the  picture.  It  was  his  friend  and  heir  Mr.  Graham 
of  Balgowan  who  rescued  it. 

Sir  Joshua  Keynolds's  portraits  command  larger  prices.  Lord  Ward 
gave  1,100  guineas  at  Mr.  Windus's  sale  in  1859  for  "Miss  Penelope 
Boothby ;  "  and  the  Marquis  of  Hertford  gave  2,550  guineas  at  the  same 
sale  for  "Mrs.  Hoare,  of  BorehamPark,  Essex,  and  her  child."  The  same 
princely  collector  gave  2,100  guineas  at  Kogers's  sale  in  1856  for  the 
replica  of  the  Bowood  "  Strawberry  Girl,"  the  original  of  which  had  been 
sold  to  Lord  Carysfort  for  fifty  guineas.  Of  this  picture  Sir  Joshua  said, 
"  No  artist  can  produce  more  than  half-a-dozen  really  original  works,  and 
this  is  one  of  my  originals."  The  Imperial  Gallery  of  St.  Petersburg 
possesses  the  "Infant  Hercules  Strangling  the  Serpents."  He  received 
1,800  guineas  for  it,  and  a  gold  snuff-box,  with  the  Empress's  portrait 
set  in  large  diamonds. 

One  or  two  of  Wilkie's  pictures  deserve  mention.  The  King  of 
Bavaria  gave  1,000  guineas  for  the  "Beading  the  Will,"  now  fast  melt- 
ing in  the  Koyal  Gallery  at  Schleissheim.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  gave 
him  1,200Z.  for  the  "  Chelsea  Pensioners  Reading  the  News  of  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo."  His  "  Rent  Day  "  fetched  1,050  guineas  at  Mr.  Wells's  sale 
in  1848 ;  Lord  Mulgrave  had  given  Wilkie  1501.  for  it. 

Few  pictures  of  modern  times  have  brought  larger  prices  than 
Turner's.  Three  of  his  works,  the  "  Guard  Ship,"  for  which  he  got  25Z., 
"  Cologne  ".and  "  Dieppe  "  (he  had  500?.  for  each  of  these),  were  purchased 
in  1848  for  1,500L  ;  but  at  Mr.  Wadman's  sale  in  1854  brought  1,530 
guineas,  2,000  guineas,  and  1,850  guineas.  In  1860  his  "  Grand  Canal, 
Venice,"  fetched  2,400  guineas,  and  "Ostend"  1,650  guineas;  Turner 
had  got  400  guineas  for  the  two.  But  the  rage  for  Turners  has,  to 
some  extent,  gone  by;  for  whilst  Mr.  Windus  in  1850  had  given  710 
guineas  for  th£  "  Dawn  of  Christianity,"  it  realized  in  1859  no  more  than 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  309 

820,  and  the  "Glaucus  and  Scylla,"  bought  for  700  guineas,  280.  The 
largest  price,  however,  I  believe  ever  given  for  a  Turner  was  that  obtained 
in  the  May  of  this  year  at  Mr.  Monro's  sale,  when  "Modern  Italy" 
brought  3,300  guineas. 

Of  other  modern  artists  I  may  mention  Eoberts,  whose  "  Interior  of 
the  Duomo,  Milan,"  sold  in  1860  for  1,700Z.  The  largest  price  he  ever 
received  for  a  picture  was  1,000  guineas,  from  Mr.  T.  Cubitt,  for  the. 
"Interior  of  St.  Peter's,  Rome,"  somewhat  different  from  the  second 
picture  on  Mr.  Ballantine's  list — "  Old  House,  Cowgate,  Edinburgh," 
2<7.  10s.  His  first  picture  was  sold  to  a  dealer,  and  never  paid  for. 
Calcott's  "  Southampton  Water,"  at  Sir  J.  Swinburne's  sale,  1861, 
fetched  1,205  guineas;  Mulready's  "  Convalescent  from  Waterloo"  in 
1857,  1,180  guineas:  his  "First  Voyage,"  in  1863,  1,450  guineas. 
Etty's  "Dance  from  the  Shield  of  Achilles,"  one  of  his  finest  works, 
brought  1,155Z.  in  1857 ;  but  his  "  Joan  of  Arc  "  is  said  to  have  pro- 
ducad  3,000  guineas.  Lord  Northwick  gave  2,OOOZ.  for  Maclise's  "Mar- 
riage of  Strongbow,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  with  the  Princess  Eva;"  at  his 
sale  in  1857  it  fetched  1,710  guineas.  Stanfield's  "  Port  na  Spania,  near 
the  Giant's  Causeway,"  produced  1,1001.  ;  Faed's  beautiful  "  Sunday  in 
the  Back  Woods  of  Canada,"  1,7101.  ;  Leslie's  "  Sancho  and  the 
Duchess,"  at  Rogers 's  sale,  1,170  guineas  ;  the  poet  had  given  seventy 
for  it.  Landseer's  pictures  command  very  large  prices.  His  "Dead 
Gane,"  in  1853,  was  sold  for  1,200  guineas.  His  "  Titania,  with 
Botoom  and  the  Fairies,"  for  which  he  got  500  guineas,  cost  Lord  R. 
Clii  ton  in  1860,  2,800  guineas,  and  Christie  undertook  to  get  2,000 
guineas  for  "  Jack  in  Office."  But,  perhaps,  as  large  sums  as  Sir  Edwin 
ever  received  for  pictures  were  for  the  four  exhibited  in  the  Academy  in 
1846,  "Peace"  and  "War,"  "Refreshment"  and  "the  Stag  at  Bay." 
For  these  pictures,  including  the  very  important  and  costly  item  of  copy- 
rigtt,  he  was  paid  6,850Z. 

But  some  very  startling  prices  have  lately  been  paid  for  pictures  by 
English  artists.  Holman  Hunt  received  from  Mr.  Gambart  for  his  well- 
kuo>vn  picture,  the  "Finding  the  Saviour  in  the  Temple,"  5,500?.  True, 
it  v  as  the  result  of  six  years'  labour.  The  modern  system  of  exhibiting 
single  pictures — "admittance  one  shilling  each" — makes  even  such  a 
spe<ulation  as  that  of  Mr.  Gambart's  pretty  successful.  Other  pre- 
Rafaellite  paintings  bring  much  more  moderate  sums.  Hunt's  "  Scape- 
goai,"  for  instance,  which  figured  in  Miss  Florence  Claxton's  amusing 
"  C  loice  of  Paris,"  in  the  Portland  Gallery,  1860,  was  sold  at  Mr.  Windus's 
sale  1862,  for  495  guineas.  The  same  sale  disposed  of  Millais's 
"Ophelia"  for  760  guineas;  and  another  sale  the  same  year  of 
his  "Black  Brunswicker,"  for  which  Mr.  Flint  had  given  1,000?.,  for 
780  guineas. 

But  perhaps  the  most  fortunate  of  all  our  modern  artists  is  Frith. 
Omitting  his  "Derby  Day,"  I  may  mention  his  "Railway  Station,"  for 
whi>  h  Mr,  Flatou  paid  8,750  guineas — the  largest  sum,  surely,  up  to 


310  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE   NOTE-BOOK 

that  time  in  modern  days  an  artist  has  received  for  a  single  picture.  One 
of  the  items  of  the  agreement  was  that  Mr.  Frith,  though  an  K.A.,  was 
not  to  send  his  picture  to  the  Academy.  He  was  engaged  two  years  over 
it.  Even  here  somebody  seems  to  have  made  a  good  speculation,  for 
Mr.  Graves,  to  whom  the  picture  now  belongs,  has  just  been  assuring  the 
authorities  of  Maiiborough  Street,  that  it  cost  him,  copyright  and  the 
right  of  publishing  included,  23,000/.  In  1862  Mr.  Gambart  commis- 
sioned him  to  paint  three  pictures,  "Morning,"  "  Noon,"  and  "Night" 
in  London — the  sum  to  be  paid  being  10,000  guineas.  Before,  however, 
this  commission  was  executed,  her  Majesty  engaged  him  to  paint  a  picture 
of  the  "  Marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  "  for  3,OOOZ.  Mr.  Flatou  further 
purchased  the  copyright  of  the  picture  for  5,000  guineas. 

To  get  beyond  such  prices  as  these,  we  have  to  go  to  rare  examples 
of  the  finest  painters  that  ever  lived.  Notwithstanding  the  numerous 
examples  that  are  safe  from  the  hammer,  for  the  present,  at  least,  in 
public  collections,  many  choice  pictures  have  been  in  the  market  during 
this  present  century.  No  sale,  however,  for  years  has  approached  in 
excellence  that  of  the  Orleans  Gallery  in  1796,  which  has  supplied  so 
many  gems  to  Lord  Ellesmere's  Bridgewater  and  Stafford  Gallery.  Still 
one  has  heard  it  said  that  Lord  Northwick,  whose  fine  collection  was 
dispersed  in  1857,  became  possessed  before  he  died  of  nearly  all  the 
pictures  he  had  specially  cared  for  as  a  young  man ;  and  as  for  the 
famous  Hertford  collection,  the  gems  the  marquis  has  filled  his  house 
with  would  require  a  volume.  One  great  source  of  his  acquisitions  was  the 
Fesch  Gallery  at  Home. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  know  the  prices  at  which  some  fine  specimens 
of  old  masters  have  been  sold.  We  must  recollect,  however,  that  some 
of  their  finest  specimens  have  never  been  in  the  market  at  all,  whilst  in 
other  cases  several  pictures  having  been  purchased  together,  we  have  no 
record  of  their  individual  prices.  To  begin  then  with  the  Italian  school. 
The  National  Gallery  Perugino,  "  The  Virgin  Worshipping  the  Infant 
Christ,"  was  obtained  from  the  Mebzi  family  of  Milan  for  2,5711.  The 
altar-piece  by  Francia  in  the  same  collection,  from  the  Duke  of  Lucca's 
gallery,  cost  3,500L  Pictures  by  L.  Da  Vinci  are  of  rare  occurrence  in 
the  market.  At  the  King  of  Holland's  sale  in  1850,  "  La  Columbine  " 
was  bought  for  the  Emperor  of  Austria  for  40,000  florins  (3,330Z.)  Of 
Eaffaelle's  pictures  I  must  mention  two  or  three.  "  The  most  important, 
and  in  composition  unquestionably  the  finest,  of  Eaffaelle's  Holy  Families  " 
(Kugler),  is  that  known  by  the  name  given  to  it  by  Philip  IV.,  who  on 
seeing  it  exclaimed,  "  This  is  my  pearl."  He  obtained  it  from  the 
collection  of  Charles  I.,  when  the  precious  gallery  of  that  true  lover  of  art 
was  "  inventoried,  appraised,  and  sold  "  by  order  of  the  commonwealth, 
and  all  that  contained  representations  of  the  Virgin  Mary  or  the  first 
person  in  the  Trinity  so  narrowly  escaped  being  consigned  to  the  flames. 
Even  in  those  days  it  fetched  2,OOOL  About  the  same  sum  was  paid  by 
Lord  Northwick  for  the  "  St.  Catherine,"  now  in  the  National  Gallery.  The 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  811 

ex-King  of  Bavaria  gave  7,000/.  for  the  portrait  presumed  to  be  of 
Efiffaelle  himself,  and  engraved  as  such  by  Raphael  Morghen,  but 
which  is  really  that  of  Birdo  Altoviti.  The  "  Garvagh  "  or  "  Aldro- 
vaidini  Madonna  "  was  secured  for  the  nation  two  years  ago  for  9,000 
guineas. 

Everybody  that  has  been  at  Dresden  remembers  the  Madonna  di  San 
Sit  to,  so  disappointing  at  first — so  at  least  it  was  to  myself — so  fascinating 
afterwards.  Augustus  III.  secured  this  gem  beyond  all  price  from  a 
convent  at  Piacenza  for  17,000  ducats  (about  8,OOOL),  and  a  copy  of  the 
picture.  In  1846  there  was  discovered  at  Florence,  in  what  had  been  the 
refoctory  of  the  house  of  the  sisters  of  St.  Omofrio,  but  at  that  time 
occupied  by  a  carriage  varnisher,  a  fresco  of  the  Last  Supper,  upon  which 
wa^  discovered  this  inscription  in  gold  letters,  almost  obliterated — "Raphael 
Urbinas,  1505."  A  fragment  of  a  very  early  engraving  of  this  fresco  is  in 
the  print-room  of  the  British  Museum.  This  fresco  was  purchased  by  the 
Tuscan  Government  for  the  Ducal  gallery  for  13,OOOZ.  The  exquisite 
Correggio  in  the  National  Gallery,  "  La  Vierge  au  Panier,"  though  only 
thirteen  inches  by  ten  inches,  cost  us  3,800Z. ;  his  two  other  great 
pictures  in  the  same  collection,  "Ecce  Homo"  and  "Education  of 
Cupid,"  10,000  guineas.  The  five  splendid  examples  of  the  work  in  the 
Dr3sden  Gallery  were  obtained  from  Francis  III.  Duke  of  Este,  for 
"  130,000  zechinos  which  were  coined  in  Venice."  One  of  these  is  the 
"  Reading  Magdalen,"  so  well  known  by  Longhi's  beautiful  engraving. 
Some  years  ago  there  was  a  sale  of  pictures  at  Rome  when  a  water-colour 
wa^  knocked  down  for  a  few  scudi.  The  fortunate  purchaser  was  a 
Signor  Valati,  who,  on  carrying  it  home,  found  an  oil  painting  underneath 
the  water-colours — a  replica  of  the  "  Reading  Magdalen."  The  former 
owner,  on  hearing  of  this,  brought  an  action  for  its  recovery ;  and  after 
long  and  most  vexatious  proceedings,  the  law  courts  decided,  on  the 
principle  I  suppose  of  "not  guilty,  but  must  not  do  it  again,"  that 
Signor  Valati  was  to  keep  the  picture,  but  must  pay  2,000  scudi  in 
addition  to  the  purchase-money,  and  promise  not  to  let  the  picture  leave 
the  country.  But  promises,  like  piecrusts,  are  notoriously  made  to  be 
broken,  and  thousands,  no  doubt,  have  seen  this  very  picture  in  the 
gallery  which  Lord  Ward — now  Earl  Dudley — so  generously  opened  to 
the  public  at  the  Egyptian  Hall,  Piccadilly.  Lord  Ward,  it  is  said,  gave 
1,600Z.  for  it,  but  I  have  heard  nearly  double  that  sum  mentioned  as  the 
purchase-money. 

The  grand  picture  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  one  of  the  chief  treasures 
of  our  National  Gallery,  deserves  a  few  words.  Besides  the  intrinsic 
value  as  a  painting,  it  is  especially  interesting  for  its  connection  with  the 
rivalry  between  Raffaelle  and  Michel  Angelo.  Michel  Angelo  was  too 
pro  ad  to  condescend  himself  to  a  trial  of  skill  with  his  rival,  and  put 
forward  his  friend  Sebastian  as  a  worthy  competitor.  But  when  the 
Cardinal  Giulio  de'  Medici,  by  way  of  testing  their  respective  merits, 
commissioned  Raffaelle  to  paint  the  "  Transfiguration,"  he  at  the  same  time 


312  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

ordered  the  ' '  Raising  of  Lazarus ' '  from  Sebastian.  Michel  Angelo  knowing 
that  Sebastian  was  very  deficient  in  many  points  both  of  design  and 
drawing,  made  several  sketches  for  the  picture  ;  many  of  which  were  in 
Sir  T.  Lawrence's  collection.  When  Raffaelle  heard  of  it,  he  said, 
' '  Michel  Angelo  has  paid  me  a  great  compliment  in  thinking  me  worthy 
to  compete  with  himself  and  not  with  Sebastian."  Both  the  pictures  were 
intended  for  the  Cathedral  of  Narbonne,  to  the  archbishopric  of  which  the 
cardinal  had  been  appointed  by  Francis  I.  But  unwilling  to  take  both 
these  masterpieces  away  from  Rome,  he  only  sent  Sebastian's  picture  to 
Narbonne.  Here  it  remained  till  purchased  by  the  Regent  Duke  of 
Orleans  for  about  1,0002.  When  the  Orleans  collection  came  to  England, 
Mr.  Angerstein  bought  this  picture  for  3,500  guineas.  Mr.  Beckford  was 
very  desirous  of  possessing  it,  and  offered,  it  is  said,  15,000?.  for  it,  but 
Mr.  Angerstein  insisting  on  guineas,  the  negotiations  were  broken  off.  When 
the  French  had  carried  off  the  "Transfiguration"  to  the  Louvre,  they 
were  anxious  to  unite  the  two  pictures  on'ce  more,  but  fortunately  were 
unsuccessful ;  and  when  the  Angerstein  Gallery  became  the  property  of  the 
nation,  and  the  foundation  of  our  National  Gallery,  this  picture  was  still 
its  most  valuable  treasure. 

Passing  by  Titian,  of  whom  I  don't  find  any  particular  examples  as 
having  occurred  for  sale  lately,  I  come  to  the  fine  Paul  Veronese,  "  The 
Family  of  Darius  before  Alexander,"  which  was  secured  in  1856  for  our 
National  Gallery  from  Count  Vittore  Pisani  of  Venice,  for  an  ancestor  of 
whom  it  was  painted,  for  13,650?. 

I  must  only  mention  one  more  name  of  the  Italian  school — Annibale 
Caracci.  Lord  Carlisle  secured  the  well-known  picture"  of  the  "  Three 
Maries"  for  4,000?.  ;  and  the  National  Gallery  has  "  Christ  and  St.  Peter" 
for  8,000?. 

Of  the  French  school  perhaps  Claude's  name  may  suffice.  'His 
"Italian  Seaport  at  Sunset,"  formerly  in  the  Angerstein  Gallery  and  now 
in  our  National  collection,  and  one  of  the  artist's  chef-d'ceuvres,  was 
valued  in  1860  at  5,000?.  Two  others  in  the  same  collection,  "The 
Marriage  of  Isaac  and  Rebecca,"  and  the  "  Embarcation  of  the  Queen 
of  Sheba,"  cost  Mr.  Angerstein  8,000?.  The  same  sum  is  said  to  have 
been  offered  for  the  "Morning"  and  "Evening,"  now  in  the  Grosvenor 
Gallery. 

Of  the  Flemish  and  Dutch  schools,  Cuyp,  Hobbima,  Wouvermann,  &c., 
command  large  prices.  A  specimen  of  Isaac  Ostade — "  A  Winter  Scene  " — 
cost  Sir.  R.  Peel  4,000?.  And  as  a  curiosity  I  may  add  that  a  tiny  little 
picture  by  Mieris,  nine  inches  by  seven,  produced  at  Mr.  Wells's  sale 
498?.  10s.  Rubens's  exquisite  portrait  of  Mademoiselle  Lunden,  better 
known  as  the  "  Chapeau  de  Paille,"  would  fetch  now  more  than 
Sir  R.  Peel  paid  for  it,  3,500?.  His  "Rainbow  Landscape,"  now  in 
Hertford  House,  cost  4,550?.  Sir  Culling  Eardley  refused  7,000?.  for  the 
portrait  of  the  "  Duchess  of  Buckingham  and  Family." 

Of  Rembrandt's  pictures  George  IV.  gave   5,250?.  for  the  "  Master 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOE.  818 

Skip-builder,"  from  the  Schmidt  collection  at  Amsterdam  ;  Mr.  Angerstein 
6,OOOZ. '  for  the  "Woman  taken  in  Adultery,"  now  in  the  National 
Gdlery ;  whilst  the  picture  just  secured  for  the  same  collection  from 
the  gallery  of  M.  Sweenardt — "  Christ  Blessing  Little  Children  "—cost 
7,000/. 

But  it  is  to  the  Spanish  school  we  must  go  to  find  the  largest  sum  paid 
in  modern  times  for  a  picture.  Of  the  thirteen  Murillos  which  Marshal 
So  alt  managed  to  collect  in  Spain,  one  of  them,  an  "Immaculate  Con- 
ception," at  the  Marshal's  sale  in  May,  1852,  was  bought  by  the  French 
Gc  vernment  for  23,4401. !  We  have  an  amusing  story  of  the  circumstances 
unier  which  Soult  secured  his  prize.  In  his  pursuit  of  Sir  John  Moore  he 
overtook. two  Capuchin  friars,  who  turned  out,  as  he  suspected  them  to  be, 
spies.  On  hearing  that  there  were  some  fine  Murillos  in  the  convent  to 
which  they  belonged,  he  ordered  them  to  show  him  the  way  to  it.  Here  he 
saw  the  Murillo  in  question  and  offered  to  purchase  it.  All  to  no  purpose, 
till  the  prior  found  that  the  only  way  to  save  the  lives  of  his  two  monks 
was  to  come  to  terms.  "But,"  said  the  prior,  "we  have  had  100,000 
francs  offered  for  the  picture."  "I  will  give  you  200,000  francs,"  was  the 
rq.ly  ;  and  the  bargain  was  concluded.  "  You  will  give  me  up  my  two 
br<  thren  ?  "  asked  the  prior.  "  Oh,"  said  the  Marshal,  very  politely,  "  if  you 
wirh  to  ransom  them,  it  will  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  meet  your 
wirhes.  The  price  is — 200,000  francs."  The  poor  prior  got  his  monks, 
and  lost  his  picture. 

One  word  about  miniatures.  We  have  had  some  famous  men  in  that 
branch  of  art ;  as,  for  instance,  the  one  mentioned  by  Donne — 

A  hand  or  eye 

By  Hilliard  drawn,  is  worth  a  history 
By  a  worse  painter  made. 

One  of  his  miniatures — of  Lady  Jane  Grey — was  sold  at  Lord  North- 
wick's  sale  for  125  guineas.  Another  very  beautiful  one  of  Lady  Digby, 
by  P.  Oliver,  fetched  at  the  same  sale  100  guineas.  Probably  the  highest 
prise  given  for  such  a  work  in  modern  days  was  that  for  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  by  Isabey,  which  was  purchased  by  the  Marquis  of  Hertford  in 
18-51  for  something  more  than  440L 

My  subject  would  be  incomplete  without  some  mention  of  drawings. 
By  far  the  finest  collection  of  drawings  by  the  old  masters  was  that  made 
by  Sir  T.  Lawrence.  The  sum  he  spent  amassing  them  is  variously 
est  mated  at  from  40,OOOZ.  to  75,000/.  At  his  death  the  collection  was 
to  oe  offered  tc  the  British  Museum  for  the  sum  of  20,OOOZ.  But,  thanks 
to  ;he  exertions  of  Lord  Grey  and  Sir  M.  A.  Shee,  this  generous  offer  was 
not  accepted.  Whilst  the  subject  of  the  purchase  was  under  Consideration, 
Sir  C.  Eastlake  took  some  of  the  drawings  to  Lord  Brougham,  then  Lord 
Ch  mcellor.  Lord  Lansdowne  and  Talleyrand  were  with  the  Chancellor ; 
an<.  Talleyrand  said,  "  Si  vous  n'achetez  pas  ces  choses  la,  vous  etes  des 
bai  bares."  But  to  our  everlasting  disgrace  we  did  not.  The  collection 
wa  !  then  broken  up.  The  King  of  Holland  had  first  choice,  and  bought 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  93.  16. 


314  JOTTINGS  OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLEOTOE. 

• 

to  the  amount  of  20,OOOZ. ;  though  his  speculation,  by  the  way,  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  very  successful,  for  at  his  sale  in  1850  they  only 
realized  7,5007.  Another  very  interesting  portion,  containing  seventy- 
nine  by  Michel  Angelo  and  162  by  Raffaelle,  was  secured  for  the  University 
of  Oxford,  at  the  expense  of  7,000/.,  of  which  the  largest  portion  was 
munificently  contributed  by  Lord  Eldon. 

Of  single  drawings,  I  may  mention  one  of  Michel  Angelo,  "  The 
Virgin,  Infant  Christ,  and  S.  John,"  sold  for  200  guineas ;  and  the  same 
sum,  or  more,  was  obtained  at  Christie's  for  another  interesting  drawing 
of  his,  the  heads  and  upper  parts  of  the  principal  figures  in  a  picture  by 
Seb.  del  Piombo, — "  The  Salutation  of  Mary  and  Elizabeth,"  which  is 
or  was  at  Farly  Hall,  in  Berkshire.  Of  drawings  by  Raffaelle,  "  Jacob's 
Dream  "  has  brought  200  guineas ;  and  a  portrait  of  Timoteo  della  Yite, 
320  guineas  ;  "  The  Entombment,"  from  the  Crozat  collection,  at  Rogers's 
sale,  440  guineas ;  and  "  Christ  at  the  Tomb,"  the  finest  hi  the  King  of 
Holland's  collection,  550  guineas.  It  was  purchased  for  the  Louvre. 
The  British  Museum  secured  the  drawing  of  the  "  Garvagh  Madonna,"  at 
Dr.  Wellesley's  sale,  for  600/. 

Of  modern  water-colour  drawings,  six  by  Turner  fetched,  at  Mr. 
Wheeler's  sale,  1864,  3,500  guineas  ;  one  of  them  alone,  27  inches  by  15^, 
bringing  1,350.  The  Bicknell  sale  in  1863  furnished  a  marvellous  instance 
of  successful  speculation  in  three  drawings  of  Copley  Fielding — "  Brid- 
lington  Harbour,"  "  Rivaulx  Abbey,  evening,"  and  "  Crowborough  Hill." 
The  original  prices  were  36,  42,  and  25  guineas;  they  sold  for  530,  600, 
and  760. 


815 


THE  RATIONALE  OF  RECREATION 


AT  this  time  of  the  year  recreation  is  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  nearly 
all  classes.  The  farmer  alone,  looking  over  his  fields  as  they  spread  their 
ripeness  under  the  summer  sun,  thinks  joyfully  of  work.  For  most  of  us 
harvest-time  brings  a  different  but  still  glorious  fruition  to  the  labours  of  the 
year.  Our  dreams  at  night  are  of  the  rest  we  have  earned,  and  our  thoughts 
by  day  are  of  mountain-tops,  of  rushing  streams,  and  of  the  open  sea.  Into 
tie  dreary  "  chambers  "  these  gleams  of  sunshine  have  made  their  way,  bring- 
ing a  message  of  the  fields.  The  cosy  study,  such  an  attractive  workshop  in 
other  seasons,  looks  dull  and  heavy  now,  and  the  backs  of  the  books  are 
persecuting  in  their  too  familiar  aspect,  for  the  sunshine  which  opens  all 
tie  flowers  shuts  up  these  blossoms  of  the  human  tree.  The  roar  of  the 
street  comes  in  through  the  open  window  with  the  distant  whistle  of  the 
trains,  and  it  suddenly  strikes  us  how  like  the  one  is  to  the  boom  of  the 
sea,  and  what  a  sound  of  country  travel  there  is  in  the  other.  In  society, 
too,  the  talk  is  of  journeys,  and  even  the  children  just  home  from  school 
are  full  of  thoughts  of  flight.  A  happy  restlessness  is  on  us ;  a  peaceful 
flutter  pervades  the  household — a  quiet  agitation  makes  itself  manifest. 
Tiiere  is  a  buzz  of  travel  in  the  air,  domestic  and  social  life  has  a  pro- 
visional character,  and  all  the  ties  of  society  seem  to  be  loosening.  It  is 
the  holidays,  and  we  are  "  breaking-up."  Duty  stands  aside,  care  is 
content  to  wait,  routine  is  thrown  gaily  off,  business  and  ambition  put  the 
yoke  from  their  shoulders,  and  even  divinity  assures  itself  that  "  there  is 
a  time  to  play." 

Perhaps  it  may  be  true,  as  many  a  paterfamilias  is  saying,  that  holiday 
travel  is,  in  the  present  day,  pushed  to  an  extreme.  But  there  is  the 
bt-st  and  profoundest  reason  for  a  custom  which  has  so  thoroughly  incor- 
porated itself  with  modern  civilization.  There  is  in  human  nature  a 
necessity  for  change ;  and  the  more  intense  is  the  life  we  live,  the  stronger 
ai..d  more  imperious  does  that  necessity  become.  The  habits  of  a  vege- 
table are  only  possible  to  those  who  vegetate,  and  a  certain  stolidity  of 
mind  and  feebleness  of  character  almost  always  characterize  the  vegetating 
portion  of  the  race.  It  is  the  wonderful  intellectual  activity  of  the  age 
wliich  produces  its  restlessness.  A  highly  developed  nervous  system  is 
usually  connected  with  a  somewhat  restless  temperament  ;  but  the  ten- 
dency of  intellectual  activity  is  to  give  an  undue  development  to  the 
nervous  organization  at  the  expense  of  the  muscular  tissues.  In  com- 
parison with  our  great  grandfathers,  we  are  highly  nervous,  restless,  and 

16-2 


316  "OFF  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS." 

what  they  would  have  called  "  mercurial."  The  stress  of  nineteenth- 
century  civilization  is  on  the  brain  and  the  nerves ;  and  one  of  the  sad 
forms  in  which  this  fact  becomes  visible  to  the  eye  is  the  melancholy 
vastness  of  such  establishments  as  those  at  Colney  Hatch  and  Hanwell. 
Of  course  the  very  stress  under  which  so  many  break  down  develops 
the  power  and  capacity  of  vastly  larger  numbers  than  succumb  to  it ; 
and  if  in  the  present  day  there  is  some  diminution  in  the  muscular 
development  of  the  race,  there  is  a  more  than  corresponding  increase 
in  its  nervous  development  and  of  all  that  depends  thereon.  Physical 
beauty,  in  so  far  as  it  depends  on  splendid  muscular  organizations, 
may  not  be  as  general  among  us  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks  ;  but 
magnificent  nervous  organizations,  with  all  the  power  of  work  which  they 
confer,  are  more  numerous  among  Englishmen  and  Americans  to-day  than 
they  have  ever  been  among  any  people  whom  the  world  has  seen  before. 
Our  national  temperament  is  in  process  of  rapid  development  and  change. 
The  typical  John  Bull  is  fast  becoming  a  merely  legendary  personage  ;  his 
vegetative  life  and  stationary  habits  and  local  prejudices  are  all  disappearing 
beneath  the  stimulating  influences  of  railways  and  telegraphs  and  great 
cities.  But  this  change  of  national  temperament  brings  with  it,  and  in 
part  results  from,  an  entire  change  of  national  habits  and  customs. 
English  life  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  that  of  a  nation  who  took  the 
world  easily, — in  the  nineteenth  century  it  is  that  of  a  people  who  feel 
that  "art  is  long  and  .time  is  fleeting,"  and  that  life  must  be  made  the 
most  of.  From  being  what  philosophers  call  extensive  and  running  into 
physical  developments,  rit  has  become  intensive  and  takes  intellectual 
forms.  Our  great  grandfathers  ate  and  drank,  laughed  and  grew  fat ;  we 
plan  and  study,  labour  and  fret,  and  are  nervous  and  thin.  They  took 
life  as  it  came  :  we  are  more  anxious  to  mould  it  to  our  purpose,  and 
make  it  what  we  think  it  ought  to  be.  They  were  content  with  news  when 
it  had  already  become  history ;  we  want  to  watch  the  history  of  this 
generation  in  the  very  process  of  making.  They  lived  a  life  which  was 
self-contained  and  satisfied  ;  we  are  greedy  of  information,  anxious  for 
conquest,  determined  to  acquire.  Their  times  are  typified  by  the  pillion 
and  the  pack-horse  ;  ours  by  the  telegraph  and  the  train.  The  same 
figure  aptly  typifies  the  relative  wear  and  tear  of  the  two  modes  of  life. 
Theirs  ambled  along  with  an  almost  restful  movement ;  ours  rushes  along 
at  high  pressure,  with  fearful  wear  and  noise.  Their  work  was  almost 
play  compared  with  ours  ;  business  of  all  kinds  was  steadier  and  quieter, 
politics  were  less  exacting  and  exhausting,  literature  was  rather  a  pursuit 
than  a  profession,  and  even  divinity  was  duller.  It  may  be  that  our 
pleasures  are  more  refined  than  theirs  were,  but  they  are  of  a  more 
exciting  character ;  we  take  them  in  a  busier  and  more  bustling  way,  and 
tire  of  them  sooner.  Hence  our  greater  need  of  change  of  scene  and 
surrounding.  Travel  was  only  a  luxury  to  them,  but  it  has  become  a 
necessity  to  us.  It  is  not  merely  fashion  that  sends  us  all  from  home, 
for  the  fashion  itself  has  originated  in  an  intellectual  and  physical  need. 


"OFF  FOB  THE  HOLIDAYS."  317 

The  condition  of  animal  life  is  movement.  Little  children  are  perpetually 
active,  and  the  form  of  their  activity  is  perpetually  changing.  There 
seems  to  be  in  the  physical  organization  a  disgust  of  sameness,  and 
this  disgust  extends  through  the  whole  of  our  sensational  experience. 
The  lungs  always  breathing  the  same  air,  the  stomach  always  taking 
the  same  food,  the  ears  always  hearing  the  same  sounds,  even  the 
eyes  always  resting  on  the  same  round  of  familiar  objects,  become 
disgusted,  lose  their  tone  or  strength,  and  cry  out  for  change.  Disuse 
is  well  known  to  be  fatal  to  our  active  powers,  but  a  mill-horse  round, 
which  puts  the  stress  of  use  always  on  the  same  part  of  them,  is 
only  less  injurious  than  disuse.  Yet  the  tendency  of  life  is  to  fall  into 
routine.  It  is  always  easier  to  go  on  using  the  powers  that  are  in  action 
than  to  rouse  into  activity  those  that  have  been  overlooked.  To  change 
our  course  needs  effort,  to  keep  on  in  the  old  one  needs  none.  The 
common  prescription  of  "  change  of  air  "  really  means  change  of  scene,  of 
surroundings,  and,  consequently,  of  habit.  The  bodily  machine  has  fallen 
into  a  rut,  and  is  "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  bound  in  "  to  a  course  of  life 
which  has  the  sole  but  sufficient  condemnation  of  an  oppressive  sameness. 
Change  of  place  and  scene  helps  us  to  lift  it  out  of  the  rut,  as  we  could 
never  do  if  we  stayed  at  home.  The  first  thing  we  do  when  we  get  away 
for  "  change  of  air  "  is  to  change  our  habits.  The  late  man  gets  up  early, 
and  the  early  man  lies  in  bed  late.  The  man  who  has  bustled  from  his 
meals,  giving  his  digestion  no  time  to  act,  sits  quietly  over  them  and  gives 
his  stomach  a  chance ;  the  young  lady  who  has  lounged  or  worked  at  home, 
afraid  of  the  air,  puts  away  her  in-door  occupations,  and  lives  in  the  wind 
and  the  sunshine.  The  student  puts  away  his  books,  the  merchant 
forgets  his  counting-house,  and  the  diligent  housewife  lays  aside  her 
household  cares.  The  hours  of  sleeping  and  eating  are  altered,  even  the 
food  is  somewhat  different,  and  all  around  there  is  the  gentle  stimulus  of 
general  newness  and  change.  It  is  just  this  break  in  the  continuity  of 
sameness,  this  lifting  of  the  animal  machine  out  of  the  rut,  which  does 
us  good.  We  come  back  from  change  of  air  recruited  and  refreshed,  but 
the  natural  law  which  has  blessed  us  for  our  obedience  to  it  is  just  that 
law  by  which  a  change  of  attitude  relieves  an  aching  limb,  and  by  which 
change  of  work  is  as  good  as  play.  The  old.  coachmen  used  to  tell  us  that 
a  long  unbroken  level  was  more  fatiguing  to  the  horses  than  a  road  which 
was  diversified  by  hill  and  valley — the  change  from  level  to  uphill  or 
downhill  bringing  new  muscles  into  play,  and  preventing  the  whole  stress 
of  the  journey  from  falling  on  the  same  parts  of  the  animal  organization. 
But  herein  is  a  parable  of  human  life.  The  dead  level  needs  to  be  diver- 
sified. A  weariness  of  perpetually  recurring  sensations,  a  disgust  of 
sameness,  a  restlessness  beneath  the  continued  stress  of  active  use  belongs 
to  our  physical  organization — is  the  instinct  of  the  body's  wholeness,  and, 
therefore,  the  law  of  its  health. 

There  is,  therefore,  not  only  a  profound  necessity  for  holidays,  but  a 
reason  equally  good  why  we  can  never  take  our  holidays  at  home.     We 


818  "OFF  FOE  THE   HOLIDAYS." 

not  only  require  rest,  but  change ;  and  not  only  change  of  attitude  or 
change  of  work,  but  change  in  our  surroundings  and  in  the  impressions 
we  are  receiving  from  them.  This  is  not  only  the  law  of  the  body's 
wholeness,  but  of  the  mind's  health.  The  brain,  like  the  stomach,  is 
disgusted  if  it  always  has  the  same  work  to  do  or  the  same  material  to 
work  on.  The  nerves,  like  the  muscles,  weary  of  sameness,  and  must 
have  the  stress  of  labour  shifted  and  the  continuity  of  impression  broken. 
But  the  law  of  association  ties  us  in  this  also  to  the  mill-horse  round.  In 
the  same  scenes  the  same  thoughts  come  back,  and  among  the  same 
circumstances  we  are  always  recurring  to  the  same  cares.  A  man  of 
business  cannot  throw  business  off  him  till  he  has  left  his  counting- 
house.  A  student  cannot  sit  in  his  library  and  forget  his  books.  A 
doctor  cannot  ignore  his  patients,  nor  a  preacher  his  congregation, 
while  he  is  surrounded  by  everything  that  reminds  him  of  them.  To 
forget  life's  ordinary  activities,  we  must  turn  our  backs  upon  its  ordinary 
scenes.  There  is  no  life  in  which  there  is  not  some  fret,  or  worry, 
or  anxiety,  or  care ;  in  most  lives  there  is  much  of  them,  and  it  is  fret 
which  wears  us,  care  which  kills  ns.  Even  the  most  favoured  lives  are 
surrounded  by  circumstances  which  call  for  effort — and  effort  soon  becomes 
fatigue.  A  kind  of  necessity  is  upon  ns,  even  at  home,  much  more  in  our 
spheres  of  duty  or  activity,  and  all  continuous  necessity  is  a  strain.  But 
we  get  rid  of  all  this  as  soon  as  we  get  away  from  the  associations  which 
bring  it.  There  is  a  joyful  sense  of  lightness  when  we  have  got  clear  away 
which  never  comes  while  we  are  amid  our  responsibilities.  A  feeling  of 
irresponsibility,  of  happy  emancipation  from  effort  and  constraint,  of 
deliverance  from  anxiety  and  care,  of  happy  and  exultant  liberty,  is  the 
really  glorious  and  refreshing  thing  in  holiday  travel.  We  get  our  child- 
likeness  back  again  for  a  while.  We  liberate  the  mind  from  pressure, 
and  it  regains  its  elasticity  with  a  bound.  No  wonder  that  we  break  out 
into  extravagant  costumes,  strange  freaks,  and  mad  enterprises.  They 
are  but  the  rebound  of  an  elastic  nature  from  the  repression  and  constraint 
of  civilized  life.  We  come  back  to  our  duties  none  the  worse,  but  much 
the  better,  for  having  indulged  in  them  ;  and  though,  as  we  return  to  the 
old  associations,  the  cares  and  responsibilities  return  to  meet  us,  and  the 
old  burden  waits  to  be  taken  up  again,  we  take  the  burden  upon 
strengthened  shoulders,  and  meet  the  stress  of  circumstances  with 
freshened  minds.  The  body's  wholeness  and  the  mind's  elasticity  have 
both  been  restored,  and  we  are  recreated  and  renewed. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  true  idea  of  a  holiday  is  that  it  shall 
be  recreative.  The  philosophy  of  holidays  is  the  philosophy  of  recreation. 
But  the  whole  subject  of  recreation  is  only  now  beginning  to  be  under- 
stood. A  lingering  asceticism  of  sentiment, — a  relic  of  the  superstition 
which  looked  upon  the  body  as  the  source  of  sin,  and  peopled  the  Theban 
desert  with  self-mortifying  anchorites — still  affects  our  modes  of  thought, 
though  the  dogma  itself  has  perished  from  our  intellectual  convictions. 
We  do  not  proscribe  amusements,  as  some  generations  have  done ;  nor  do 


"OFF  FOR  THE   HOLIDAYS."  319 

we  go  heartily  into  them,  as  Paganism  did  and  the  Latin  races  do  :  but  we 
indulge  in  them  and  apologize  for  them.     We  take  some  of  our  most 
pleasant  and  most  needful  recreations  with  a  half  suspicion  that  they  are 
only  half  right.     There  is,   consequently,   an  entire  want  of  abandon  in 
them,  for  which  some  of  us  make  up  by  extreme  abandon  when  we  are  off 
for  the  holidays.     We  are  dreadfully  afraid  of  making  ourselves  ridiculous 
before  one  another,  but  we  take  it  out  with  interest  by  making  ourselves 
extremely  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  foreigners.     But  nothing  shows  the 
popular  misunderstanding  of  the  whole  subject  of  recreation  so  thoroughly 
as  this  fear  of  being  ridiculous.    Public  opinion  often  exhibits  the  extremest 
ignorance  of  human  nature,  but  in  nothing  is  it  more  entirely  childish 
than  in  its  ideas  on  amusement  and  recreation.     It  persistently  merges 
the  man  in  his  profession,  keeps  him  perpetually  on  the  pedestal  of  his 
status,  and  will  on  no  account  allow  him  to  descend  from  it.     It  judges 
the  fitness  of  his  amusements  by  the  nature  of  his  duties,  expects  ever- 
lasting gravity  from  those  whose  calling  is  a  grave  one,  and  perpetual 
lightheartedness  from  those  whose  vocation  is  to  amuse.     For  a  preacher 
to  romp  with  his  boys  would  shock  half  the  ladies  of  his  congregation ; 
for  a  man  of  business  to  join  in  amateur  theatricals  would  make  hia 
banker  watchful  over  his  account,  and  his  brother  merchants  suspicious  of 
his  solvency  ;  for  a  lawyer  to  be  a  poet,  for  a  dean  to  be  a  satirist,  for  a 
schoolmaster  to  enjoy  whist  or  billiards,  or  for  a  bishop  to  dance,  would 
expose  them    all   to   remark  and  suspicion.      Yet  a  moment's  thought 
would  show  to  the  least  penetrating  of  persons  that  no  true  recreation  can 
be  found  in  the  line  of  a  man's  calling.     It  is  that  disgust  of  sameness 
which  makes  us  need  change  of  scene  and  drives  us  off  for  the  holidays, 
v/hich  justities  and  necessitates  recreation  of  every  kind.     Change  is  the 
first  condition  of  relaxation.     A  man  might  just  as  well  sleep  in  his  full 
evening  dress  as  seek  his  amusement  in  the  same  direction  as  his  work. 
Work  and  play,  like  day  and  night,  are  opposites,  and  the  widest  unlike- 
ness  between  them  is  the  truest  completeness  of  each.     Of  course  there 
must  be  no  moral  incongruity  between  any  parts  of  a  true  man's  life,  but 
physically  and  intellectually  there  cannot  be  too  wide  a  difference  between 
his  labour  and  his  recreation.     They  should  surround  him  with  different 
associations,  call  up  different  feelings,  exercise  different  faculties,  appeal 
to  different  parts  of  his  nature  :  should  be,  in  fact,  the  antithesis  of  each 
other.     The  man  of  sedentary  occupation  should  take  active  recreation, 
the  man  of  laborious  work  needs  restful  play.      The    student   requires 
unintellectual  amusement,  the  tradesman  may  find  his  recreation  in  books. 
The  man  whose  calling  needs  the  preservation  of  an  official  dignity  requires 
as  recreation  something  in  which  even  personal  dignity  may  be  laid  aside 
and  forgotten,  some  innocent  but  not  dignified  amusement  hi  which  he 
descends  to  the  level  of  others,  and  is  no  longer  the  priest  or  the  peda- 
gogue, the  justice  or  the  physician,  but  simply  the  man.     The  public  may 
always  remember  his  status,  he  needs  to  remember  himself.     The  world 
foolishly  tells  him  to  keep  upon  his  stilts  ;  he  needs  to  come  down  from 


320  "OFF  FOB  THE  HOLIDAYS." 

them  to  know  "  the  blessedness  of  being  little,"  and  to  get  out  of  his 
vocation  and  out  of  himself.  That  is  true  recreation,  and  fulfils  its 
function. 

This  seems  to  be  the  " rationale"  of  recreation.  Recreation  is 
something  more  than  amusement,  for  amusement  merely  occupies  or 
diverts,  while  recreation,  as  the  word  itself  indicates,  renews  and 
recreates.  But  this  renewal  and  recreation  proceeds  on  the  principle 
of  antithesis.  Life  is  a  balance  of  opposites,  health  is  their  equipoise, 
and  the  overbalance  of  either  is  disease  and  death.  Arctic  explorers  tell 
of  the  dreadful  persecution  of  perpetual  daylight  in  the  six  months'  polar 
day,  and  of  the  terrible  depression  produced  by  the  perpetual  darkness  in 
the  six  months'  night.  But  the  beautiful  alternation  of  these  opposites  in 
the  habitable  parts  of  the  globe,  the  perpetual  swing  of  this  exquisitely 
balanced  antithesis,  is  the  fundamental  condition  of  our  healthy  activity. 
Nature  does  not  leave  us  to  balance  work  and  rest,  but  does  all  she  can  to 
strike  the  balance  for  us.  Yet  even  the  rest  of  sleep  is  something  more 
than  the  cessation  of  activity :  every  muscle  in  the  body  has  its  corre- 
lative, and  it  is  by  the  use  of  the  one  that  the  other  is  rested.  All 
muscular  action  consists  of  contractile  movement,  and  a  muscle  can  only 
be  elongated  by  the  pull  caused  by  the  contraction  of  its  correlative.  We 
rest  by  employing  other  muscles  than  those  on  which  the  stress  of  action 
has  lain.  When  I  close  my  eyes  from  very  weariness,  the  muscles  which 
have  kept  them  open  lose  their  contractility,  the  opposite  muscles  come 
into  play,  and  by  contraction  pull  down  my  eyelids  and  elongate  the 
muscles,  which  in  their  turn  will  contract  to-morrow  and  open  my  eyelids 
to  the  daylight.  This  principle  of  rest  by  alternation  of  activity  runs 
through  the  greater  part  of  our  experience.  Play  is  change  of  work,  not 
change  which  merely  gives  the  same  organs  or  faculties  something  else  to 
do,  but  change  which  brings  other  and  correlative  organs  or  opposite 
faculties  into  action.  Mere  rest  is  not  true  recreation.  An  unused  power  or 
faculty  will  not  fitly  counterbalance  an  overworked  one.  To  keep  one  eye 
shut  would  never  compensate  for  overuse  of  the  other;  yet  it  is  just  that 
overuse  of  some  one  power  or  faculty  which  is  the  evil  we  all  need  to 
redress.  We  are  created  men,  and  it  is  only  by  art  that  we  are  made 
into  tradesmen  or  statesmen,  literary  men  or  handicraftsmen,  professional 
men  or  workmen.  Our  vocation  is  a  limitation  put  upon  us  by  necessity, 
a  nan-owing  of  our  life  into  a  special  channel,  a  straitening  of  our  energies 
into  one  line  of  special  faculty,  and  its  unavoidable  result  is  a  one-sided 
development  of  our  powers.  But  in  its  highest  and  truest  form  recreation 
is  the  prevention  of  this  one-sidedness.  A  really  noble  recreation  is  a 
perfecting  discipline.  It  redresses  the  injured  balance  of  our  nature, 
cultivating  that  side  of  it  which  our  vocation  neglects,  developing  those 
powers  our  necessary  business  represses,  and  out  of  the  man  of  study  or 
of  business,  out  of  the  statesman  or  the  tradesman,  reproducing  and 
recreating  the  Man.  It  is  therefore  compensatory  in  its  influence  and 
restorative  in  its  effects  ;  it  is  antithetical  to  our  occupation,  restoring  the 


"OFF  FOB  THE  HOLIDAYS."  321 

harmony  of  a  well-balanced  mind  and  the  soundness  of  a  well- developed 
body,  and  preserving  or  recreating  the  active  wholeness,  the  physical  and 
mental  health  of  the  whole  man.  It  is  thus  a  part  of  culture,  and  might 
well  be  considered  to  be  a  part  of  religion  too. 

Many  examples  might  be  given  in  illustration  of  the  principle  here 
stated.  Where  the  instinctive  action  of  mind  or  body  suggests  a  restora- 
tive or  recreative  movement,  it  will  usually  be  found  to  proceed  on  this 
principle  of  complement,  compensation,  or  antithesis.  It  is  a  well-known 
optical  experience,  that  when  an  eye  which  has  been  dazzled  by  some 
brilliant  colour  is  turned  away  from  it  to  some  colourless  object,  that 
object  is  partially  obliterated  by  a  patch  or  blot  of  some  other  quite  diffe- 
rent colour.  But  the  imaginary  colour  bears  an  exact  relation  to  the  colour 
which  produced  the  dazzling  effect.  It  is  its  correlative,  its  complement, 
its  opposite,  and  the  mingling  of  the  two  would  produce  perfect  harmony, 
because  they  would  constitute  perfect  light.  But  this  physical  fact  has  a 
hundred  parallels  in  our  moral  and  intellectual  life.  Our  castles  in  the 
air  are  never  counterparts  of  home ;  they  are  generally  complementary 
to  it.  The  ideal  life  we  picture  to  ourselves  in  day-dreams  is  generally 
set  in  vivid  contrast  to  the  life  we  really  live.  Escaping  into  a  world  we 
can  create  after  our  own  fancy,  it  is  often  the  antithesis  of  this.  The 
serious  work  of  Milton's  life  was  political  and  theological  controversy. 
He  was  known  among  his  contemporaries  as  the  great  heretic  and  Radical  of 
his  time,  and  was  supposed  to  delight  in  the  distasteful  and  disturbing  labours 
to  which  the  interests  of  truth  and  liberty  seemed  to  call  him.  But  though 
he  lived  in  the  very  noise  and  dust  of  the  battle,  his  "  love  of  sacred 
song"  kept  the  fountain  of  his  feelings  fresh  and  clear.  He  fought,  with 
all  the  strength  of  his  nature,  for  what  he  believed  to  be  the  right,  but  he 
kept  all  its  sweetness  by  converse  with  poetic  themes.  Controversy  was 
his  duty,  but  poetry  was  his  delight.  He  did  his  work  with  an  heroic 
devotedness,  but  kept  himself  from  one-sided  development  by  the  divine 
recreation  of  his  muse ;  and  when  he  had  fallen  on  evil  days  and  evil 
tongues,  he  took  refuge  from  them  in  an  ideal  world,  and  refreshed  his 
mind  with  immortal  song.  Coming  nearer  to  our  own  times,  we  find  other 
examples  of  the  same  principle.  Lamb's  quaint  and  quiet  humour  was 
the  escape  of  a  gentle  nature  from  harsh  surroundings,  and  the  genial 
satire  and  good-humoured  mockery  which  make  his  essays  such  fascinating 
reading  are  but  the  antithesis  of  his  serious  and  sad  experience,  the  flight 
of  his  fancy  into  another  sphere  to  redress  the  balance  of  this.  He  laughs 
with  his  readers  because  he  needed  a  laugh,  and  could  not  laugh  with 
himself.  He  is  bright,  and  airy,  and  gay  in  his  writings,  because  he  must 
have  some  glimpses  of  life's  brighter  side,  and  such  glimpses  were  not 
given  him  by  experience,  for  his  heavy  domestic  cares  and  troubles  took 
all  airiness  and  gaiety  out  of  his  life.  Almost  the  same  may  be  said  of 
Hood,  His  genial  laughter  came  from  a  suffering  soul.  His  literary 
labours  were  the  escape  of  his  mind  from  ill  health  and  painful  experiences 
into  another  world.  Nor  is  it  violating  any  propriety  to  say  that,  in  a 

16—5 


322  "OFF  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS." 

very  different  manner,  we  owe  Mrs.  Gaskell's  writings  to  the  same  principle 
of  our  nature.  It  was  a  home  affliction  that  gave  her  great  powers  to  the 
public  use.  It  was  as  a  recreation  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  as 
an  escape  from  the  great  void  of  a  life  from  which  a  cherished  presence 
had  been  taken,  that  she  began  that  series  of  exquisite  creations  which 
has  seemed  to  multiply  the  number  of  our  acquaintances,  and  to  enlarge 
even  the  circle  of  our  friendships.  But  this  escape  from  the  real  into  the 
ideal  would  not  be  possible  to  any  were  not  our  nature  "  antithetically 
mixed."  Physically  and  mentally  overbalance  is  distress  and  disease, 
equipoise  is  happiness  and  health ;  and  whether  it  be  needful  duties  or 
unavoidable  experiences,  cherished  habits  or  detested  necessities,  which 
throw  the  weight  on  one  side,  that  only  is  a  truly  restorative  discipline  or 
recreative  experience  which  puts  an  equal  weight  upon  the  other  side. 

Guided  by  this  principle  it  would  be  very  possible  for  us  to  select  our 
recreations  with  a  near  approach  to  scientific  fitness.  To  understand  the 
nature  of  recreation  and  the  high  purposes  it  may  subserve  is  to  be  far  on 
the  road  to  the  discovery  of  its  method.  Physically,  it  should  be  directed 
to  the  restoration  of  the  body's  wholeness  by  ensuring  the  equal  and 
harmonious  development  of  all  its  parts.  Intellectually,  it  should  aim  at 
rounding  off  our  experience,  and  extending  the  culture  of  our  faculties  to 
every  part  of  them.  It  should  not  minister  to  the  mere  love  of  change  or 
the  desire  of  novelty,  but  new  experiences  and  changed  surroundings  are 
essential  to  its  perfectness.  It  should  be  change  of  occupation  and  of 
mental  air.  It  should  take  us  into  a  new  world,  and  open  a  wider  horizon 
to  our  observation  and  experience.  Holiday  travel  is,  in  fact,  its  typical 
form,  and  that  recreation  will  be  most  truly  recreative  to  which  we  can 
turn  from  time  to  time  with  all  the  zest  of  freshness,  in  which  we  can 
forget  our  cares  and  merge  our  anxieties,  and  which  is  so  far  from  the 
track  of  necessary  work,  so  different  from  our  enforced  activity,  that  we 
can  enter  on  it  with  something  of  that  fresh  and  joyous  feeling  with  which 
at  this  moment  we  are  "  off  for  the  holidays." 


MANY  WATERS  WILL  NOT  QUENCH  LOVE. 


323 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

Tis  JUST  THE  WAY  o'  THE  \YORLD. 

NE  Saturday  afternoon  work  was 
done,  and  Cassie  had  gone  down 
to  the  mill  to  be  paid.  It  was  a 
still  evening,  and  Lydia  sat  on  a 
broad  stone  outside  her  door, 
with  her  Bible  on  her  knees  ;  but 
she  was  not  reading,  only  looking 
intently  up  at  a  little  sunset  cloud 
sailing  over  her  head.  There  is 
a  woman  in  front  of  Guide's 
"  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  " 
at  Bologna,  with  a  dead  baby  at 
her  feet  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
its  angelic  semblance  in  the  sky 
above.  Lydia's  face  had  the 
same  expression.  "  Their  angels 
do  always  behold  the  face  of  their 
Fatier  in  Heaven,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  It  was  the  only  luxury  in 
which  she  indulged,  to  sit  in  perfect  stillness  and  think  of  her  child, 
—  '•  gone  back  again,"  as  she  always  called  it  to  herself.  She  was  roused 
by  ihe  click  of  the  little  garden-gate,  and  turning,  met  the  keen  grey  eyes 
of  (  >ld  Nanny  Elmes  fixed  upon  her.  Nanny  was  leaning  over  the  wicket, 
clan  as  usual  in  a  long  grey  great-coat,  the  tails  of  which  reached  almost 
to  her  heels.  She  now  put  down  her  basket  and  came  and  sat  on  the  low 
wal."  beside  her.  "  I've  been  a  watchin'  o'  ye  ever  so  long,  Lyddy,  and  ye 
stin  ed  no  more  than  the  stone  babby  in  the  church.  I  didn't  know  as 
how  ye  could  read,"  she  added,  looking  suspiciously  at  the  book. 

•'  'Tain't  but  a  very  little.  I  learnt  *  mysen  a  bit  afore  I  married. 
The  :e  was  a  little  maid  o'  Mrs.  Goose's  as  were  a  rare  un  for  her  book, 
and  she  learnt  me  my  letters,  and  fund  the  places  i'  th'  Bible  when  parson 
was  a  readin',  and  so  I  cum  for  to  know  the  words  when  I  see'd  un  in  their 
own  places  —  when  they'se  at  home  as  'twere.  And  it  seems,"  she  went 
on  rfter  a  pause,  "  when  I  gets  at  the  words,  like  as  if 


I  were  a  hearing 


*  \Vhy  not  ?     "  Oh,  learn  me  true  understanding."  —  Ps,  cxix.     "  My  life  and 
oduc.ition  both  do  learn  me  now."  —  O/AtJfo,  Act  i» 


324  STONE  EDGE. 

my  Saviour  talk  to  me  ;   and  whiles  when  I'm  my  lane  seems  to  me  as  if 
He  cum  in  at  the  door  and  say'd  thae  gracious  words  to  me  His  own  self." 

The  old  woman  listened  intently,  with  her  head  on  one  side  like  a  bird. 
"  Well,  it's  wonderful  for  to  hear  ye ;  ye're  like  Mary  i'  th'  story ;  but  then 
you've  your  bite  and  sup  certain,  and  you've  time  for  faith  and  your 
salvation,  and  a'  them  things.  I  as  has  got  my  old  body  for  to  kip  my  own 
self,  must  just  gi'e  tent  to  my  feet,  and  ha'  eyes  i'  th'  back  of  my  bonnet 
(for  the  childer's  finners,  bless  'um,  is  as  mischeevous  and  quick  as  mag- 
pies), or  I  should  ha'  nowt  to  my  belly  nor  nowt  to  my  back.  And  I  dunna 
see,"  she  continued,  as  her  natural  pride  in  her  calling  returned,  "  as 
Martha  ain't  as  much  wanted  i'  th'  world  as  Mary.  There  wouldn't  ha' 
been  much  dinner,  I'll  warrant,  i'  th'  house  where  they  were  i'  Bethany, 
an  it  hadn't  been  along  o'  she." 

Lydia  rose  with  a  smile.  "  Tea'll  be  masked  soon  now,  when  Cassie 
and  German  comes  in ;  belike  ye'll  hae  a  sup  o'  milk  though  afore  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I'll  wait.  More  by  reason  here  she  comes,  and  the  lad  too. 
Why,  child,  yer  fine  colour's  gone  sadly.  Ha'  ye  been  bad  sin'  I  saw  ye  ?  " 
she  said,  compassionately.  "  Ye  munna  take  on  a  thattens  for  what's  past 
and  gone.  I  hae  been  so  throng  as  I  couldna  come  before,"  she 
apologetically. 

In  fact  the  story  of  the  murder  had  been  an  invaluable  stock  in 
trade  to  Mrs.  Elmes.  "  It  has  been  the  vally  to  me,"  as  she  declared,  "  of 
more  suppers  and  teas  than  I'd  ever  ha'  know'd,  me  knowing  the  parties 
so  well,  and  had  a  sould  'um  the  very  buttons  as  was  upon  old  Ashford's 
shirt  the  day  he  were  murdered  (them's  the  very  same,  leastways  off 
the  same  card,  mum.  I've  sould  a  sight  on  'um.)"  She  therefore  felt 
considerable  gratitude  to  those  who  had  been  the  means,  even  involun- 
tarily, of  procuring  her  such  a  pleasant  time.  She  had  not  seen  them 
since  the  funeral — when  in-  the  capacity  of  "  our  own  correspondent "  she 
had  gone  up  to  Stone  Edge  to  collect  the  latest  information — and  she  felt  as 
if  she  had  been  guilty  of  neglect. 

"  I've  been  a  wanting  to  see  ye  this  three  months,"  she  went  on,  "  but 
I  couldn't  get  up  this  way  afore  now."  Then  looking  critically  about  her, 
"  Ye'r  a  deal  better  off  down  here,  to  my  mind,  nor  upo'  the  top  o'  yon 
nob,  with  the  winds  blowing  like  as  they'd  tak'  yer  heads  off.  It  took  sich 
a  sight  o'  time,  too,  going  up  the  Lone  Moor,  and  yer  heart  i'  yer  mouth 
as  'twere  wi'  a'  the  boggarts  and  things  as  mid  be  upo'  the  road.  I'd  ha' 
folk  live  in  a  comeatabler  place,  where  their  frens  can  git  at  'um  asy, 
wi'out  such  a  deal  o'  toil." 

"'I  can'  ain't  allus  the  same  as  'I  would/"  said  G-erman,  half 
annoyed.  "  Him  as  canna  get  oat-cake  mun  put  up  wi'  bread,  but  I  loved 
the  old  house  dearly  I  did.  'Tain't  the  place  so  mich,  'tis  the  feelin'." 

"  I've  a  baked  some  fresh  oat-cake  to-day,  and  it's  gey  sweet,"  inter- 
posed Lydia,  as  she  placed  what  looked  like  layers  of  round  flaps  of  tough 
whitey-brown  leather  on  the  table. 

"  If  there's  one  thing  I  do  love  it's  fresh  oats,"  said  the  old  woman ; 


STONE  EDGE.  825 

"  and  it's  a  deal  wholesomer  for  strength  and  delight  nor  any  other  grain. 
They  say  folk's  teeth  as  eats  it  is  whiter  and  long  and  broad ;  but  it's  not 
you  as  wants  that,  my  lass,"  she  added,  as  she  looked  at  the  row  of  pearls 
in  Cassie's  mouth.  The  girl  smiled  absently,  hardly  seeming  to  hear. 
"  Manners  is  manners,"  Nanny  went  on,  accepting  all  that  was  pressed  upon 
her.  "  I  will  say  that  for  this  house  ;  first  ye  picks  a  bit  and  then  ye  chats 
a  bit ;  ye  dunno  wolf  it  down  as  some  folk  I  see  does." 

"P'raps  they're  poor  creatures  as  is  sore  put  to  it  for  a  livin',"  said 
Lydia,  excusingly. 

"Ha'  ye  heerd,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Elmes,  after  a  pause,  "how  Lawyer 
Gilbert  have  a  took  on  hisself  along  of  the  murderin'  of  yer  feyther  ? 
He  says  it's  a  sin  and  a  shame  as  Joshuay  werena  put  upo'  his  oath  and 
'xarninated.  He's  a  been  up  in  Yorkshire  where  his  mother  died,  or  he'd 
a  sin  to  it  hisself,  he  says,  before ;  and  the  crowner  were  a  deal  too  thick 
wi'  Joshuay  he  says.  There  were  summat  about  a  horse  atwixt  'um ;  but 
there's  such  a  many  tales  allus,  one  doesna  know  which  to  believe.  I 
thought  mebbe  the  councillor  had  a  been  up  here  for  to  ax  ye  (he  said  as 
how  he  would)  about  a'  that  ballaraggin'  and  quarrellin'  atwixt  yer  feyther 
and  Joshuay." 

"  I  hanna  nowt  to  say,"  answered  the  lad,  shortly,  "  nor  what  I  telled 
un  all  at  the  'quest.  My  feyther  sent  me  home  early  o'  that  market-day, 
and  I  know  nowt  o'  any  quarrel  nor  ballaragging  nor  nowt." 

Cassandra's  tongue  and  lips  seemed  too  dry  to  utter  a  word,  but  she 
looked  pitifully  at  Lydia,  who  asked  the  question  for  her. 

"  Ha'  ye  heerd  owt  o'  Joshua  or  Roland  sin  they  went  ?  " 

"Not  th'  littlest  bit  o'  a  word,"  replied  Nanny.  "And  'tain't  nateral 
we  should.  Joshuay  '11  kip  as  close  as  a  hunted  hare  an  a'  be  true,  wi' 
all  this  hanging  over  him." 

"  And  what's  come  o'  poor  Roland  ?  "  said  Lydia  again. 

"  They  say  he  looked  a  very  deal  more  cut  up  nor  his  feyther,  hiding 
o'  his  face  like,  and  just  an  he  knew  more  o'  th'  murder  nor  were  good 
for's  soul,  he  were  so  white." 

"  I  dunna  believe  a  word  on't,"  burst  out  German.  "  Roland  were  as 
good  a  chap  as  ever  walked  i'  shoeleather.  I  were  main  fond  o'  him.  I'd 
lay  my  life  he  know'd  no  more  o'  wrong  nor  I  did, — and  I'd  gi'e  a  great  deal 
for  to  see  he  again — that's  what  it  is,"  said  the  lad,  pushing  away  his 
chair  and  getting  up  with  an  angry  glow  in  his  face,  which  made  poor 
Cassie's  heart  swell  with  gratitude  to  her  brother. 

"  'Tis  just  the  way  o'  the  world,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 

"  Vfell,  I'm  not  a  sayin'  nowt  agin  the  poor  fellow,"  said  Mrs.  Elmes, 
rising  also  and  shaking  the  buttery  crumbs  from  her  lapf  "  He's  a  good- 
livin'  chap,  I  believe.  I'm  on'y  a  tellin'  of  ye  what  folk  says,  and  as  yer- 
selves  has  the  best  right  to  know.  And  now,  Cassia,  I  want  ye  for  to  help 
mo  wash  my  vtwo  or  three  closs.  To-morrow's  Sabbath  day  and  I'm  to 
sleep  at  Fanner  Clay's,  and  I  wants  to  be  tidy  like.  'Tis  very  viewly  for  to 
be  clean,  for  all  that  one's  things  mid  be  mended  and  coarse.  And  it's  my 


825  STONE   EDGE. 

'pinion,"  she  added,  significantly,  "  that  if  I  was  Roland,  his  frens  'ud  do 
well  to  advise  un  to  kip  hissen  out  o'  the  way  an  he  dunna  want  for  to 
be  brought  in  '  axnaparte '  witness  agin  his  feyther.  Joshuay's  one  as  '11  fin' 
a  many  for  to  swear  his  life  against  him.  There  ain't  ne'er  a  dirty  puddle 
o'  bad  things  as  he  han't  a  put  his  foot  into  this  score  o'  years  and  more, 
and  a  broken  pitcher  may  go  on'st  too  often  to  th'  well,  we  all  know  that," 


CHAPTER   XX. 

VERY     LONELY. 

JOSHUA  and  his  son  had  continued  their  slow  way  unmolested  to  Liverpool. 
As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  town  and  drove  through  street  after  street  of 
frowsy,  squalid,  grimy  houses,  Roland's  heart  sank  within  him.  There 
are  few  things  more  depressing  than  the  suburbs  of  a  great  city,  where 
all  the  beauty  of  nature  has  been  destroyed,  and  man's  handiwork  is  only 
shown  in  ugliness  and  wretchedness. 

"  And  they  have  a  dirtied  the  very  air  as  it  ain't  clean  to  swalla,"  said 
Roland,  with  inexpressible  disgust  as  they  passed  into  the  lurid,  foggy,  dull 
smoky  atmosphere. 

"  Yes,"  answered  his  father ;  "  but  it  mun  be  a  fine  place,  and  safe, 
an  a  body  didn't  want  for  to  be  looked  arter." — The  views  to  be  taken  of 
the  same  place  vary  curiously  according  to  the  seer. 

The  next  day  Roland  went  in  search  of  the  old  Quaker's  warehouse 
with  Nathan's  letter  in  his  hand. 

""What  a  sight  o'  folk,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  And  how  they  runs  to 
and  fro,  nobody  a  speaking  to  nobody,  nor  simmingly  caring  whether  we 
all  be  alive  or  dead."  In  Youlcliffe  everybody  knew  everybody,  and  the 
intense  solitude  of  the  crowd  of  a  great  town  made  his  loneliness  sometimes 
almost  unbearable. 

Mr.  Rendall  received  him  coldly  and  suspiciously ;  he  seemed  nearly  to 
have  forgotten  Nathan's  existence,  and  questioned  the  young  man  closely 
and  very  unpleasantly.  Just,  however,  as  Roland  was  turning  on  his  heel, 
half  in  anger  and  half  in  dismay,  the  old  Quaker  said  placidly, — 

"Well,  young  man,  I'll  give  thee  a  chance  and  try  thee  in  the  outer 
warehouse  for  a  while — lest,  as  Nathan  Brown  observes,  perchance  thy 
falling  into  evil  ways  might  reproach  us  for  our  neglect.  Thou  seem'st  a 
bit  hasty,  friend.  Dost  thee  think  the  father  can  eat  sour  grapes  and  the 
son's  teeth  not  be  set  on  edge  ?  'twould  be  against  Scripture.  Thee  rnayst 
come  to-morrow  and  we'll  see  what  thee'st  good  for." 

Although  he  was  accepted,  it  was  a  galling  position,  however,  for 
Roland  :  he  felt  that  he  was  watched  by  the  foreman  and  watched  by  the 
masters.  At  YoulclifFe  his  own  character  stood  him  in  stead,  and  he  was 
trusted  and  respected,  with  little  reference  to  his  connection  with  Joshua ; 
but  the  sins  of  the  father  were  beginning  to  tell  fearfully  against  his  child. 


STONE   EDGE.  827 

The  lodging  which  he  first  took  was  too  respectable  for  Joshua,  who  had 
soon  fallen  into  the  worst  possible  set. 

"  I  dunno  like  them  stuck-up  folk  a  pryin'  into  a  body's  ways.  I  tell 
thee,  Roland,  I  wunna  come  to  thee  no  more  an  thou  dostna  change," 
said  he. 

And  they  moved  gradually  into  a  more  and  more  miserable  part  of  the 
town — for  Roland  was  set  upon  keeping  a  kind  of  home  for  his  father — 
coming  at  last  into  one  of  the  narrow  airless  courts  of  which  Liverpool  is 
full,  with  high  houses  all  round  shutting  out  the  sky,  where  Roland, 
used  to  the  free  air  of  the  hills,  could  scarcely  breathe  :  the  dirt  and 
wretchedness  of  the  other  inhabitants  was  a  misery  to  him — the  world 
of  dark  and  dismal  houses  oppressed  him  like  a  nightmare.  The  want 
of  space  is  of  itself  excessively  trying  to  one  who  has  had  as  it  were  the 
run  of  half  a  county. 

He  made  no  friends,  scarcely  any  acquaintance  ;  the  clerks  at  Mr. 
Rendall's  rather  looked  down  upon  his  country  ways ;  besides,  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  were  being  borne  along  on  a  rapid  current  he  knew  not 
where,  as  if  everything  were  a  temporary  makeshift,  that  "something" 
was  coming,  he  never  said  to  himself  what,  and  that  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  make  plans  or  undertake  anything  beyond  his  day's  work.  There 
was  a  steep  street  leading  down  towards  the  river,  where  he  could  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  blue  Welsh  hills  beyond  the  forests  of  masts,  along  which 
.lie  always  passed  if  he  could — they  "  seemed  friendly."  His  only  amuse- 
ment, indeed,  was  to  stroll  down  it  in  the  evening  and  along  the  docks  to 
watch  the  outgoing  ships.  Why  could  not  his  father  be  persuaded  to 
f*o  somewhere, — anywhere,  far  away  ? 

One  day  he  had  picked  up  a  little  crying  child  who  had  lost  its  way, 
sind  having  patiently  inquired  out  its  belongings,  had  spent  much  trouble 
in  bringing  it  home,  which  had  won  the  heart  of  its  grandfather,  an  old 
i  ailor  almost  past  work  who  hung  about  the  docks  doing  odd  jobs,  and 
vdth  whom  Roland  used  occasionally  to  talk.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  him 
to  hear  of  far-off  lands,  something  as  different  from  his  present  perplexities 
cs  possible.  "  Why  don't  ye  go  over  the  way  and  seek  yer  fortin'  out 
tliere?"  repeated  the  sailor  at  the  end  of  all  his  glowing  descriptions. 
'•  There's  plenty  of  room  for  them  as'll  work,  and  it's  a  fine  place  where 
riy  son  is,  he  writes  me  word." 

But  even  in  his  haziest  visions  the  two  images  of  Cassie  and  his 
father  could  never  come  together,  and  it  was  as  grievous  to  him  to  think 
of  going  as  of  staying.  He  had  no  rest  even  in  day-dreams  for  his  soul, 
aad  his  longing  after  Cassie,  after  a  loving  home  such  as  she  would 
have  given  him,  became  sometimes  almost  more  painful  to  him  than  he 
could  bear. 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove,"  said  the  poor  fellow  to  himself, 
watching  the  spreading  sails,  which  looked  to  him  Kke  wings.  "  This  is  a  dry 
a  id  thirsty  land,  where  no  water  is,"  he  went  on,  as  he  gazed  over  tho 
n  uddy  Mersey.  It  was  true  to  his  feeling,  though  not  to  senss.  It  is 


328  STONE  EDGE. 

strange  how  the  images  of  a  climate  and  manners  so  opposed  to  ours 
should  have  hecome  our  true  expression  of  feeling  in  defiance  of  reality 
of  association.  The  isolation,  the  anxiety,  were  half  breaking  his  heart, 
but  he  felt  as  if  he  were  the  last  plank  to  which  the  drowning  soul,  fast 
sinking  from  all  good,  was  clinging,  and  he  stayed  on,  though  there  were 
sometimes  whole  days  when  he  scarcely  saw  his  father. 

Late  one  evening  Joshua,  having  nothing  to  do,  strolled,  excited  and 
half-tipsy,  into  the  warehouse  to  inquire  for  his  son,  and  while  Koland,  in 
the  greatest  possible  distress  and  annoyance,  was  trying  to  persuade  him 
to  go  home,  the  chief  clerk — a  precise,  ceremonious  old  gentleman  with  a 
dash  of  powder  in  his  hair  came  up — and  ordered  him  very  summarily  off 
the  premises. 

Joshua  was  exceedingly  insolent. 

"What's  that  powder-headed  monkey  mean  ?"  said  he.  "I  hanna 
done  nowt !  I  appeal  to  th'  coumpany,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the 
bystanders,  to  their  infinite  delight,  as  the  clerk  was  not  popular.  It  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  Roland  could  get  his  father  away. 

That  night  he  was  even  more  restless  than  usual  after  they  had  gone 
to  bed  :  the  wretched  room  was  close  and  airless,  and  he  muttered  fright- 
fully in  his  sleep.  At  last,  in  the  dim  moonlight  which  came  in  over  the 
tops  of  the  tall  houses  in  the  court,  Roland,  who  was  dozing,  suddenly 
saw  him  sit  up  and  stretch  out  his  arm  angrily. 

"Hold  yer  hand,  yer  rascal!  I  won't  ha*  it  made  a  hanging  matter 
on." 

The  voice  then  sank  in  unintelligible  sounds  as  he  lay  down  again,  and 
all  was  then  so  still,  as  Roland,  in  an  agony  of  horror,  leant  forward,  that  he 
heard  the  cinder  fall  in  the  grate  as  he  listened.  Presently  the  ghastly  figure 
rose  again.  "  I  tell  'ee  half  the  gold's  mine  ;  the  county  notes  won't  be 
worth  nothing  i'  th'  county.  Share  and  share  alike,"  he  repeated  fiercely, 
and  as  his  son  shook  him  violently  to  wake  him,  he  muttered, — "  No,  he 
shanna  know  owt  on  it — not  Roland.  I  wunna  hae  him  flyted  at."  And 
then  he  sank  into  a  dull,  heavy  leaden  sleep. 

His  poor  son  lay  shivering  with  the  extremity  of  his  misery  till  the 
dull  daylight  broke  upon  the  town.  He  seemed  somehow  never  to  have 
realized  the  thing  before,  and  the  touch  of  tenderness  to  himself  made 
his  heart  ache.  In  the  morning  Joshua  rose,  quite  unconscious  of  his 
night's  revelations,  and  Roland  went  to  his  work,  feeling  as  if  he  had  com- 
mitted a  great  crime  himself.  Indeed,  those  who  saw  the  two  might  have 
doubted  which  was  the  guilty  man.  He  could  hardly  bear  to  look  any  one  in 
the  face. 

"  How  shall  I  get  through  the  day  wi'  them  a'  at  the  office  ?"  said  he 
to  himself.  It  was  settled  for  him  very  summarily.  As  soon  as  he  reached 
the  warehouse  the  old  Quaker  sent  for  him,  and  said,  that  though  he  had 
no  complaints  to  make  of  his  own  conduct,  no  young  man  of  his  could  be 
allowed  to  associate  with  such  a  fellow  as  Joshua  was  now  known  to  be  : 
"  it  injured  the  establishment" — and  he  dismissed  him. 


STONE  EDGE.  329 

It  was  a  sentence  of  exclusion  from  all  respectable  places  of  trust.  He 
had  no  one  now  to  apply  to  for  a  character ;  and  his  heart  seemed  to  die 
within  him  as  he  walked  down  to  his  father's  usual  haunts,  and  wandered 
to  and  fro  in  search  of  him.  He  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  however  ;  and 
Roland  returned  through  the  sloppy,  grimy  streets,  more  depressed  even 
than  usual,  and  sat  drearily  waiting  in  the  desolate  little  room.  He 
thought  he  would  make  one  more  effort  to  get  his  father  away.  Joshua 
came  moodily  in  at  last :  another  of  his  reckless  schemes  had  failed, 
and  he  was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper.  He  sat  down  sulkily  without 
speaking. 

"  What  is  it  ye  was  inquiring  arter  me  for,  Roland  ?"  he  said  at  last, 
almost  sadly,  turning  unwillingly  towards  his  silent  son. 

"  Father,  I'm  turned  off." 

"  Well,  there  ain't  no  great  harm  in  that.     I  hated  th'  ould  man." 

"  And  how  am  I  to  get  anither  place  ?  who'll  trust  me  ?  Mr.  Rendall 
says,"  added  the  poor  fellow,  goaded  by  his  father's  indifference,  "  '  None  o' 
my  young  men  shall  ha'  aught  to  do  with  such  as  thy  father,'  says  he.  I 
mun  go  and  work  at  the  docks  an  we  bide  here.  Let  us  go,  feyther, 
away  from  this  dolesome  place.  What  for  should  we  stop  here  ?  "  muttered 
the  poor  fellow,  desperately. 

Joshua  had  fallen  into  the  very  sink  and  slough  of  life,  but  there 
remained  the  one  spark  of  light,  his  belief  in  and  respect  for  his  son's 
character, — a  sort  of  love  for  him. 

"  Leave  me,  lad — go  ;  thou'st  been  a  good  lad  to  me.  I  shall  be  thy 
ruin,  body  and  soul,  I  know,  an  thou  bidest  wi'  me." 

"  Oh,  feyther,  canna  we  go  thegether  ?  Come  wi'  me  !  Let's  try 
anither  place,  not  this  horrid  black  hole, — ony  ither  place.  There's  a 
many  homes  over  the  water,  sailor  Jack  says :  why  shouldn't  we  go  out 
there  ?  The  Jumping  Jenny  sails  in  a  month  somewhere,  he  says ;  let 
us  go." 

"  I  canna  go  gadding  o'  that  fashion.  England's  good  enough  for  me ; 
but  do  thou  go  thysen.  Nay,  child,  thou  canstna  drag  me  up,  and  I  on'y 
drag  thee  down.  Go  while  'tis  time  ;  go  d'reckly  ;  who  knows  what  may 
happen?"  he  said  almost  fiercely.  "  If  God  A'mighty  is  as  parson 
Says,  He'll  reward  thee.  Dunna  folia  me ;  'twill  be  o'  no  use — I  shanna 
come  back.  Thee  knowest  I'm  as  obstinate  as  a  bull,  and  I  wunna  see 
thee " 

And  from  a  hidden  place  in  the  floor  he  dragged  out  a  hoard  of  some 
kind,  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief,  which  made  Roland  shiver.  Joshua  had 
striven  to  keep  his  son  free  from  the  knowledge  of  his  past  crimes,  with 
a  curious  respect  for  his  good  name  ;  and  rolling  some  few  articles  of 
clothing  into  a  bundle,  he  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes  with  a  kind  of  rage, 
wrung  his  boy's  hand,  and  was  gone. 


330  STONE  EDGE. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MANY  WATERS  WILL  NOT  QUEXCII  LOVE. 

THE  young  man  had  hardly  a  shilling  in  the  world  after  having  paid 
the  few  things  which  he  owed,  and  he  set  off  to  walk  towards  home.  Ho 
wanted  the  quiet  of  the  fields,  the  freedom  of  the  open  road,  to  be  able  to 
collect  his  thoughts  ;  the  dark  and  dirty  town  was  each  day  more  and 
more  dreadful  to  him.  He  slept  two  or  three  nights  on  the  road  on  his 
slow  progress  home. 

"  I  niun  see  her  again,"  he  muttered,  as  he  went  along,  "  an  it  be 
only  to  say  good-by.  But  who  knows  whether  she'll  hae  speech  wi'  me  ?  An 
they've  any  scent  o'  the  thing,  happen  they  mid  think  there  were  a  taint  o' 
blood  o'  my  hands  too," — it  seemed  to  drive  him  half  out  of  his  senses  as 
the  thought  crossed  his  mind. 

The  sweet  air  from  the  hills  seemed  to  come  to  him  like  an  old  and 
soothing  friend  as  he  approached  his  own  country.  When  the  stone  walls 
and  the  rocky  outlines  came  in  sight  he  greeted  them  like  living  beings. 
"  How  can  onybody  live  in  thoe  stinking  holes  ?"  said  he  to  himself.  "  I'd 
reither  be  a  herd-boy  nor  have  all  Mr.  Kendall's  stores.  Eh,  but  it's  a 
lovely  sight,"  said  he,  as  he  saw  a  plough  passing  crosswise  along  a  field 
on  a  hill  nearly  as  steep  as  a  house  side. 

He  was  leaning  over  the  parapet  of  a  bridge,  watching  the  rush  of  the 
water  among  the  big  stones,  and  trying  to  make  out  Stone  Edge  in  the 
distance,  when  a  voice  near  him  cried  out,  "  Why,  if  it  ain't  Roland 
Stracey!"  and  he  encountered  the  sharp  eyes  of  Lawyer  Gilbert,  a  low 
attorney,  with  whom  he  knew  his  father  had  had  a  long  quarrel  about  an 
•exchange. 

"And  where's  your  father,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  "  said  he.  "He  cheated  me 
once,  but  I'll  be  even  with  him  yet.  He  got  off  finely  at  the  inquest ;  he'd 
hardly  be  so  lucky  again.  I  should  like  to  know  if  you'd  a  been  set  in 
the  witness-box  and  the  screw  put  on,  what  you'd  ha'  been  made  to  say  ? 
There  was  one  Jackman,  horsedealer,"  he  added,  with  a  searching  look — 

"And  what  right  ha'  you  to  take  folk's  characters  away  o'  that 
fashion  ?"  said  Roland,  fiercely,  turning  at  bay.  "  I  know  a  thing  or  two 
o'  you,  as  ye'll  hardly  like  telled  'i  th'  court ! "  and  he  passed  on  without 
another  word.  He  was  evidently  not  to  be  trifled  with  in  that  mood,  and 
the  man  let  him  go. 

He  struck  across  countiy  to  avoid  meeting  any  one  else — up  a  lonely 
valley,  where  now  runs  a  high-road  and  a  railway  is  threatened,  but  where 
then  there  passed  nothing  but  the  old  pack-horse  way,  paved  in  places, 
which  had  probably  existed  since  before  the  time  of  the  Romans.  Up 
and  down  it  went,  without  the  smallest  idea  of  keeping  any  level,  turned 
aside  by  every  little  obstacle,  running  hither  and  thither  like  a  child  at 
play,  instead  of  the  stern  determination  of  a  Roman  road,  or  even  of  its 
modern  equivalent.  He  walked  for  miles  without  meeting  a  living  thing, 


STONE  EDGE.  331 

and  all  was  silent  except  a  brawling  stream,  which  ran  at  the  bottom, 
hidden  amid  moss  and  magnificent  broad  leaves.  Sometimes  the  steep  hill- 
sides rose  bare,  with  nothing  but  bush  and  shaley  loose  stones  mixed  with 
lilies  of  the  valley  and  rare  mountain  aromatic  herbs  ;  then  came  sweeps 
of  the  short  sweet  emerald  grass  of  the  limestone  pastures,  and  a  sheep 
or  two,  as  nimble  as  goats,  bounded  out  of  the  way.  And  still  as  he 
went  he  had  scarcely  determined  in  himself  whether  he  should  go  on  to 
Cassie  or  not.  Presently  he  saw  in  the  middle  of  the  steep  bare  path  a 
brown  partridge  cowering  over  her  young.  She  had  brought  out  a  just- 
hatched  brood  to  sun  themselves,  and  awestruck  at  this  unexpected  danger, 
from  which  her  children  could  not  escape,  remained  perfectly  still  as  the 
best  chance  of  saving  the  small  things,  which  could  hardly  run,  by  sharing 
it  with  them.  The  Sortcs  Virefiliance  are  played  in  many  ways  and  by 
varying  needs. 

"  If  she  have  faith  and  doesna  stir,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself, 
"  I'll  go  on  ;  if  she  runs  I  wunna  go  nigh  Cassie.  I  canna  stan'  what  she 
mid  say  to  me."  Many  an  action  is  determined  by  the  behaviour  of  as 
unconscious  an  agent  as  the  partridge,  who  never  flinched  in  the  courage 
of  her  love.  Koland  even  stooped  over  her  as  he  passed ;  but  her  bright 
eye  was  the  only  thing  which  stirred. 

"  Sure  an  the  dumb  beasts  has  that  in  'um,  there's  hope,"  muttered 
he  to  himself  as  he  strode  on.  "  She'd  a  big  heart  had  Cassie."  And 
then  he  remembered  that,  except  that  painful  interview  at  "  the  Druid's 
Stones,"  it  was  almost  a  year  and  a  half  since  he  had  seen  her.  "  There's 
a  deal  may  ha'  happened  sin'  then,"  he  thought,  and  goaded  by  the  idea, 
he  hurried  on  almost  at  a  run. 

He  had  taken  a  cross  cut,  and  was  a  little  out  of  his  reckoning  among 
the  folds  of  hill,  when,  mounting  a  higher  ridge  than  usual  to  look  out,  he 
>aw  suddenly,  just  beneath  him,  the  scene  of  Ashford's  murder  :  it  seemed 
us  if  he  could  not  get  out  of  reach  of  its  memories.  He  sat  down  as  if  he 
liad  been  shot :  he  could  trace  far  below  him  the  bit  of  steep  road,  the 
stream,  the  little  grove,  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  been  there,  and  he  tore 
;iway  in  another  direction.  The  shadow  of  the  guilt  was  on  him,  as  if  he 
had  committed  it  himself.  "  I  oughtna  to  go  belike  to  Cassie,"  he  mut- 
iered  again.  Still,  as  he  said  the  words,  he  was  walking  on  towards  her: 
1  he  attraction  was  too  strong,  and  he  crept  along  the  quietest  way  he  could, 
( ver  hill  and  down  dale,  and  up  to  Stone  Edge  by  the  Druid's  temple  :  the 
frave  old  stones  looked  sadly  at  him — he  remembered  his  last  sight  of 
tiem,  and  hurried  on  to  the  house. 

He  heard  a  loud  scolding  woman's  voice ;  what  did  it  mean  ?  and  a 
blowsy  red-cheeked  girl  was  on  the  threshold. 

"  Where  be  the  Ashfords  ?  "  said  he  ;  but  before  the  answer  came  the 
vholo  truth  flashed  upon  him.  Of  course  they  had  all  been  ruined  by  that 
back  night's  work:  everything  they  possessed  in  the  world  must  have 
b  )en  swept  away,  and  it  had  been  his  own  father's  doing ;  he  could  have 
•\\  rung  his  hands. 


332  STONE  EDGE. 

"  Well,  for  sure,  so  you'd  neevir  heerd  as  they'd  flitted !  Where  do 
ye  come  frae,  young  man  ?  "  said  the  woman,  after  the  fashion  of  all 
secluded  dwellers.  "  Ye  mun  ha'  a  drink  o'  milk  and  a  crust  o'  bread, 
though,"  she  added  compassionately.  "  Ye  look  wored  out  like  to  death." 

"  I  canna'  wait,"  he  replied,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  learnt  their  new 
home  he  hurried  on  again.  The  little  hamlet  was  scattered  up  and  down 
the  hills,  no  three  houses  together,  each  in  its  own  croft  and  garden,  and 
he  went  in  and  out  of  the  green  lanes  for  some  time  at  random,  not  liking 
to  inquire.  At  last  he  saw  Cassie  coming  slowly  up  a  field-path  which  led 
to  the  cottage,  carrying  a  large  bundle  of  work  from  the  mill ;  but  he 
looked  so  haggard,  so  worn,  so  thin,  that  at  first  she  scarcely  recognized 
him.  "  Roland  !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice  at  last. 

He  was  there  for  no  other  purpose  but  to  try  and  see  her,  yet  when 
she  spoke  he  walked  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard.  After  three  or  four  steps 
he  stopped. 

"  Did  ye  call  me  ?  "  he  said,  huskily,  without  turning. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  looked  back.  She  was  leaning  against  the 
narrow  stone  style,  trembling  all  over,  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  Cassie,  my  heart's  nearly  broke,"  he  went  on. 

"  Come  wi'  me  to  the  house  and  see  Lyddy,"  replied  she,  compas- 
sionately. 

"  No,  no  :  thou  dustna  know  all,  thou  dustna  know  all !  I  think  I'm 
going  crazy  wi'  misery  !  "  and  he  took  hold  of  both  her  hands,  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  an  expression  that  went  to  her  heart. 

"  Yea,  but  I  think  I  do,"  said  she  earnestly  and  kindly. 

"  Whativer  dost  thee  know,  and  how  ?  "  answered  he,  in  an  anxious 
tone. 

"I  read  it  i'  the  lines  of  thy  face,  Roland.  Why  shouldna  we  be 
friens  ?  God  Almighty  have  a  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  us  :  why  should  we 
make  it  worse  to  oursens  ?  Come  in  wi'  me  ;  there's  Lyddy  and  German 
will  be  main  glad  to  see  thee.  Come,"  she  said,  with  gentle  compulsion, 
and  something  of  her  old  stately  grace. 

He  followed  her  irresolutely,  as  one  drawn  on  against  his  will,  but 
taking  up  her  bundle  from  the  wall  by  his  instinct  of  help.  The  house  - 
place  was  empty  and  she  hurried  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  a  few  steps 
lower  and  opened  out  into  the  quarry  and  garden. 

"Lyddy,  he's  there"  ("Who's  there?"  said  she),  "like  one  crazed 
wi'  trouble.  Go  in  to  him,  dearie,  comfort  him,  tak'  him  in,  for  my  sake. 
Jtyddy — go  to  him,"  and  the  vehemence  of  her  entreaty  shook  her  from 
head  to  foot. 

Even  Lydia's  large  charity  was  a  little  taken  aback. 

"  Thou'st  sure  it's  trouble,  and  not  wrong  ?  " 

"  Sure,  certain  sure  ;  as  sure  as  there's  a  sun  in  heaven.  Go  in  and 
see  him  thysen." 

Lydia  went  in.  It  was  a  sight  to  touch  even  a  hard  heart,  and  hers 
was  certainly  not  hard.  Roland  had  set  himself  on  a  low  stool,  with  his 


STONE  EDGE.  833 

elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  head  hidden  on  his  hands ;  he  did  not  move 
as  she  came  up  to  him,  but  only  said, — 

"  You're  come  to  send  me  away  ?  " 

"Nay,  poor  lad,  thee'st  welcome,  in  God's  name,"  said  she,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

He  seized  her  by  both  her  wrists  and  pressed  them  almost  fiercely, 
and  walked  out  of  the  door  with  a  great  sob  to  recover  himself. 

In  a  few  minutes  German  appeared,  coming  in  for  his  tea. 

"Eh,  Roland,  but  thee's  kindly  welcome,"  said  the  lad.  "  Why,  thee 
L-ok'st  like  a  ghost,  poor  fellow !  " 

Their  greetings  were  like  coals  of  fire  on  his  head,  and  it  was  horrible 
t )  him  that  he  could  not  even  grieve  over  their  fallen  fortunes,  without 
uiferring  something  about  his  father  either  way.  He  sat,  hardly  speaking, 
his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Where  art  thou  going  to-night?"  said  Lydia,  later  in  the  evening, 
v  hen  he  had  recovered  himself  a  little  under  their  kindly  influence.  "  Thou 
canst  sleep  o'  th'  settle  for  a  turn,"  she  added,  with  a  look  at  German,  to 
S3e  that  he  did  not  object. 

It  was  the  first  dreamless,  quiet  sleep  poor  Roland  had  had  for  months, 
and  till  German  went  out  to  his  morning's  work  he  never  stirred  hand 
or  foot.  When  Lydia  came  down  she  found  him  washing  his  face 
cutside  the  door,  where  a  bright  stream  of  water  came  flashing  out  of 
a  stone  conduit;  "living"  water  is  the  only  word  which  expresses  these 
riountain  wells,  fresh  from  the  hidden  treasures  in  the  heart  of  the  hills. 
He  turned  up  his  wet  face  for  the  cloth  which  she  gave,  as  if  he  had 
teen  a  child.  "  I  want  my  mother,"  said  he. 

Lydia  smiled,  and  turned  to  look  at  Cassie,  standing  in  the  doorway 
1  ehind  her,  smiling  too,  to  see  how  the  haggard  look  had  vanished, 
though  the  worn  and  sad  expression  remained. 

But  after  breakfast  his  anxious  face  came  back  again.  Lydia  was 
sitting  on  the  settle,  busy 'with  the  mill  work,  near  the  small  case- 
uent  window  filled  with  plants,  while  Cassie  seemed  possessed  with  a 
cemon  of  tidying.  Roland  kept  looking  anxiously  in  for  an  opportunity 
t  D  speak  to  her,  which  in  a  coy,  shy  fit,  she  pertinaciously  avoided. 

"  Leave  a'  that  till  to-morrow,  dearie,"  pleaded  Lydia,  vainly.  She 
•s  'as  as  difficult  to  catch  as  a  bird. 

At  last,  saddened  and  disheartened,  Roland  followed  her  to  the 
lower  kitchen,  opening  on  a  sort  of  terrace  above  the  glen,  where  Cassie 
1  ad  lighted  for  a  moment  in  her  cleaning  operations.  • 

"  I  understan',"  said  poor  Roland,  coming  up  to  her  with  a  dimness  in 
1  is  eyes.  "  Dunna  fash  thysen  to  put  it  into  words,  my  daiiin'.  Good-by. 
(rod  bless  thee.  Thou  said'st  we  mid  be  Mends  ;  shake  hands,  Cassie." 

"Ye  dunno  understan'  at  all,"  she  answered  in  a  glow,  with  a 
reproachful  sob.  "  Goin'  about  breaking  thy  heart  (and  somebody  else's 
t  oo)  a'  these  long  months,  and  then  '  Good-by  '  says  he,  quite  quiet — 
'  we  mid  be  friends  ! '  " 


334  STONE  EDGE. 

All  the  latter  part  of  which  speech  was  uttered  under  difficulties,  fcr 
he  had  seized  her  passionately  in  his  arms,  and  was  making  up  with 
interest  for  past  arrears. 

Half  an  hour  or  so  afterwards,  as  they  sat  on  the  little  low  wall  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  under  the  shelter  of  the  French  beans,  she  said, — 
"  Thou  wiltna  part  me  from  Lyddy,  Roland  ?  " 

"  I  want  my  wife  and  my  mother  too,"  replied  he,  looking  deep  into  her 
eyes.  "  I'm  not  sure  I  dunna  love  her  the  best  of  the  two,"  he  went  on, 
smiling  at  what  he  saw  there :  by  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Roland's  spirits 
had  considerably  improved  in  the  last  hour. 

"  Nay,  thee  mustna  say  that ;  thee  mun  say  thee  lovest  me  better  nor 
anything  on  the  earth.  Dost  thou  not,  Roland?"  pleaded  she,  looking 
wistfully  into  his  face. 

"  My  darlin',  ye  needna  fear  for  the  bigness  o'  my  love.  It's  as  if  it 
were  me,  from  the  sole  o'  my  foot  to  the  crown  o'  my  yead ;  but  it's  like 
the  big  bottle  wi'  the  little  neck,  it  canna  get  out.  Ye  should  ha'  seen  me 
i'  that  big  black  place,  when  I'd  a'most  lost  hope  o'  thee." 

"What's  thissen?"  whispered  she,  shyly,  touching  a  bit  of  string 
which  she  saw  hanging  from  his  neck  as  he  sat  with  his  arm  round  her. 
He  pulled  it  out ;  it  was  the  new  shilling  which  she  had  given  him  to  help 
in  buying  German's  knife. 

"  'T would  hae  been  buried  wi'  me  an  I'd  never  seen  thee  agin;"  he 
answered,  tenderly.  "  'Twere  the  only  thing  I  iver  had  o'  thine." 

"  'T  has  been  a  cold  winter  and  a  wet  spring,"  said  she,  later,  "  and 
the  little  buds  was  afraid  o'  coming  out,  and  a'  things  looked  nipped  and 
wretched ;  but  summer's  come  at  last,  even  to  us,  and  ye  see  they're  a' 
green  now."  And  she  smiled  as  she  pulled  leaf  after  leaf  to  pieces,  turning 
away  under  the  light  of  the  loving  eyes  that  were  upon  her. 

"  And  now,  my  dearie,  about  our  life.  I'd  just  come  and  live  and 
work  here  wi'  ye  all,  but  the  world's  a  nasty  place,  Cassie,  and  folks  is 
given  to  evil  speaking.  What  dost  think  o'  our  going  abroad  ?  Yonder, 
at  Liverpool,  I've  seen  scores  o'  ships  and  hundreds  o'  people  goin'  off.  It 
seemed  so  easy,  I  longed  for  to  go  mysen,  on'y  I  couldna  bear  putting  the 
salt  sea  atwixt  thee  and  me  ;  'twould  ha'  been  like  cuttin'  off  my  arm." 

"  Nay,  thee  niver  wouldst  ha'  had  the  heart  to  do  that,"  said  she. 
"  We'll  see  what  Lyddy  and  German  says." 

Such  an  idea  was  very  terrible  to  her  inland  bringing-up,  but  she  was 
beginning  to  understand  how  much  worse  it  might  be  to  stay.  It  was 
nearly  two  hours  before  the  two  returned  into  the  houseplace. 

"  Why,"  said  Lyddy,  looking  up  with  a  low  laugh,  "  I  heerd  Roland 
a  wishin'  on  ye  good-by  mebbe  two  hours  back ;  ain't  he  gone  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  ain't  a  goin'  at  all,"  said  Roland,  drawing  his  stool  close 
to  her  on  one  side,  while  Cassie  laid  her  head  on  her  shoulder  on  tho 
other. 

"  And  what's  more,  he  said  as  how  he  wasna  sure  he  didna  love  his 
mother  the  best  o'  the  two.  What  mun  I  do  to  him  ?  " 


STONE  EDGE.  385 

The  tears  sprang  into  Lydia's  eyes  and  her  lips  trembled  as  she  said, 
"  God  bless  ye  both,  my  dears  ;  ye're  main  good  to  me." 

There  was  something  in  the  feeling  that  their  joy  did  not  make  them 
st  Ifish,  which  to  her  keen  perceptions  of  right  gave  almost  as  deep  a  satis- 
faction as  the  merely  personal  one. 

That  afternoon  Cassie's  work  certainly  suffered.  Roland  followed  her 
to  and  fro  after  the  cow  and  the  pig,  and  they  wandered  together  down  to 
the  little  streamlet  which  flowed  through  the  glen  amid  a  tangle  of  lady- 
f c  :n  and  brushwood,  and  up  and  down  the  rude  steps  and  the  paved  path 
which  led  to  the  church,  by  the  steep  ascent  on  the  other  side.  "  "We'll 
IILG  to  go  there  soon  oursens,  Cassie,"  said  he,  as  they  lingered  on  the 
little  bridge  made  of  three  large  stone  flags  overarched  with  fantastic  ash 
aid  pollard  oak,  till  the  long  level  shadows  fell  round  them. 

Few  were  the  words  he  said  about  his  father,  but  he  made  her  under- 
stand that  Joshua  had  now  cut  himself  off  entirely  from  his  son — the  last 
anchor  to  a  possible  good  life.  They  could  now  do  nothing,  and  he  shrank 
from  exposing  his  future  wife  to  the  reflection  of  the  terrible  doom  which 
might  be  impending.  Surely  it  was  best  to  go  over  sea  when  they  could 
do  no  good  by  staying ;  and  then  he  hinted  at  his  new  and  horrible  dread 
th.it  he  might  be  called  on  to  give  evidence  against  his  father. 
"  Nanny  Elmes  telled  us  so,"  said  Cassie. 

One  word  the  poor  fellow  clung  to :  he  gave  her  his  own  version  of 
thut  night's  revelations,  which  to  Roland's  mind  implied  that  Joshua  had 
no:  himself  struck  a  blow.  "He  never  hit  un;  I  believe  it,  on  my  soul 
I  do,  my  darlin',"  he  went  on  as  they  strolled  home  together. 

"  I  mun  get  the  iron  and  iron  out  them  creases  in  thy  forehead,"  said 
sho  that  evening  as  she  lifted  up  the  mass  of  light  locks  which  had  hung 
so  wildly  when  he  arrived,  but  were  becoming  smooth  and  civilized 
already. 

"  I  think  thee'st  done  a  good  bit  o'  the  job  by  now,"  observed  Lydia, 
smiling. 

He  looked  fondly  at  Cassie,  and  then  a  shadow  passed  over  his  face. 
"  But  there's  creases  there  even  thou  canstna  smooth  away."  And  he 
turned  and  went  out  into  the  quiet  night  to  recover  himself. 

"  We  wants  to  be  our  lone  together,  Lyddy  and  me,"  said  Cassie  at 
night.  "  We're  very  throng,  and  thee'st  sorely  i'  th'  road.  Thou  mun  go 
oui  wi'  German  i'  th'  morning. 

"  I'm  a  wanting  sore  for  to  hear  about  them  foreign  parts,  but  I  canna 
get  a  word  out  on  him.  He  mun  be  a  bit  hard  o'  hearin',  on'y  'tis  queer 
it's  alms  o'  my  side  o'  his  yead  !"  said  the  lad,  smiling  at  Roland. 

German  had  caught  at  the  notion  of  a  change.  Canada  was  of  course 
to  him  the  vaguest  of  ideas,  but  he  had  come  down  from  the  position  of 
a  f.  rmer  to  that  of  a  servant  lad  with  some  difficulty.  The  women  were 
mistresses  in  their  own  dwelling,  but  he  was  at  the  beck  and  orders  of  a 
ma  ;ter,  after  having  been  one  himself,  and  he  had  as  earnest  a  desire 
as  Roland  to  begin  afresh.  A  very  few  words  accordingly  settled  the 


336  STONE  EDGE. 

matter,   and  they  had  begun  to  arrange  for  gelling  the  cow  and   their 
property  in  general  even  before  they  went  out  next  morning. 

"  I'll  write  to  the  ship's  office,"  said  Roland,  "  and  to  auld  sailor  Jack — 
he  were  always  good  to  me,  and  he'll  see  to  all's  being  set  as  it  should  be." 

"  I  mun  go  and  buy  a  sheet  o'  paper  then,  and  borrow  some  ink  at 
the  public  for  yer,"  said  Cassie.  Literary  pursuits  were  not  common  in 
the  cottage  ;  and  she  hung  over  him  to  watch  the  wonderful  performance 
of  making  a  letter,  and  gloried  in  the  marvels  of  his  scholarship. 

A  letter  has  a  body  common  to  all  such  compositions,  to  which  any 
information  it  is  desirable  to  communicate  is  afterwards  added  tfs  a  sort  of 
extra  : — i.e.  "  This  comes  hoping,"  &c.  and  "  leaves  me  at  these  presents," 
is  a  necessary  part ;  your  announcement  that  you  are  married,  or  ruined,  or 
buried  is  but  accidental ;  and  Roland's  epistle  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 

The  women,  however,  were  not  fated  to  have  their  time  alone,  for 
old  Nathan  appeared  not  long  after. 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  a  very  deal  up  and  down  sin'  I  were  here,"  said  he, 
standing  upright  in  the  middle  of  the  house  leaning  on  his  staff.  "  It's 
ill  living  wi'  a  scolding  woman :  a  man  mid  as  lief  be  in  a  windmi]! ; 
it's  better  to  live  on  a  house-top  nor  with  a  brawling  woman  in  a  wide  place. 
I  want  my  own  fireside  again.  My  missus  were  that  good-tempered,  'twere 
like  the  sun  upon  one's  vittles,  so  now  I'm  wantin'  ye  all  for  to  come  and 
bide  wi'  rne — Lyddy  for  to  many  me,  and  Cassie  and  German  to  be  my 
childer.  Now  will  ye  ?  " 

"  Uncle,"  said  the  girl,  half  laughing,  "  did  ye  meet  Roland  a  comin' 
here?" 

"  Roland  Stracey  ?     No,  child.     Is  he  come  back  i'  th'  country  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  be  a  goin'  to  marry  him,  so  ye  see  I  canna  come." 

"  Whew  !  "  said  the  old  man,  with  a  kind  of  whistle.  "  His  father's 
son !  "  The  world's  talk  was  beginning  to  be  heard,  and  "  across  the 
sea  "  grew  fair  in  Cassie's  eyes. 

"  We're  thinking  of  going  to  Canada,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  it  sounds  quare,  too,"  said  Nathan.  "  To  be  sure.  But  there's 
Lyddy.  Won't  ye  hae  me,  Lyddy  ?  I'm  a  year  younger  nor  Ashford 
and  I'd  make  ye  a  kind  husband." 

"And  I'm  certain  sure  ye  would,"  answered  she,  warmly,  "  and  thank 
ye  kindly,  Master  Nathan ;  "  but  I've  a  cast  in  my  lot  wi'  thas  three,  my 
dear  ones,  for  good  and  ill,  till  death  do  us  part." 

"  Let  be,  let  be,"  said  the  old  man.     "  Think  on't,  turn  it  over  a  bit." 

"Nay,  we  canna  spare  her,  uncle,"  answered  Cassie,  with  a  smile  and 
a  sort  of  pride.  "  There's  a  many  wants  her,  ye  see,"  added  the  girl, 
putting  her  arm  over  Lydia's  shoulder  as  she  sat  at  work.  And  Nathan 
saw  that  his  long  -  considered  scheme  had  melted  away.  Presently  the 
young  men  carne  in  together,  eagerly  discussing  their  plans. 

"  I've  a  been  up  to  Parson  Taylor  for  to  see  after  the  «  Gpurrings,".'  * 

*  «  Speer,"  tj  iuk. 


STONE   EDGE.  337 

;said  Roland  as  lie  entered.  "  Th'  auld  man  were  a  sitting  i'th'  kitchen 
wi'  his  porringer  upo'  his  knees,  and  he  says,  '  I  hope  as  you've  enough 
for  to  pay  me  my  rights.  It's  a  hard  matter  for  mo  to  get  through,  I  can  tell 
ye,  Roland  Stracey,  and  that's  the  truth.  'Tweren't  but  last  Easter  as  I  niver 
got  my  dues  upo'  th'  pattens  and  cocks'  eggs.'  "  (The  hens  pay  for 
themselves  of  their  produce — the  cocks  are  probably  punished  for  their 
remissness  in  not  laying.)  "  '  It's  queer  times,  these,'  says  he.  'I  dunno 
whiles  whether  I  stanns  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  And  so  you  and  Cassie 
Ashford's  a  goin'  to  put  yer  horses  togither  ?'  he  says.  *  The  world's  fine 
and  changed  sin'  I  were  young.'  " 

The  class  to  which  "the  parson"  belonged  has  completely  died  out, 
their  existence  being  almost  forgotten.  Miserably  paid,  the  difficulties  of 
communication  rendering  any  intercourse  with  the  outer  world  impossible, 
"  Parson  Taylor,"  in  appearance  and  manner,  was  hardly  above  a  common 
labourer ;  and  although  he  was  not  an  illiterate  man,  his  dialect  was  as 
broad  as  that  of  his  parishioners,  with  whom  indeed  he  was  completely 
on  a  level. 

"  Ho  didna  think  much  o'  them  parts  across  the  water,  when  we  axed 
him ;  but  eh,  he  didna  seem  to  know  nowt  about  it,  so  to  speak ;  and  one 
mid  as  well  be  set  i'  th'  ground  like  a  turmit  as  canna  wag  its  own  head,  as 
not  flit  when  one  has  a  mind  so  to  do.  Dunna  you  say  so,  uncle  ?"  said 
German,  turning  eagerly  towards  him. 

The  old  man  had  stood  by  in  silence  and  some  mortification  for  a  few 
minutes  ;  but  as  he  now  began  to  criticise  their  plans,  the  rejected  suitor 
became  the  wise  Nathan  once  more. 

"  Well,  it  a'most  dazes  a 'man  for  to  hearken  ye  youngsters  talk,  as 
blithe  as  bees ;  and  there's  the  big  watern,  wi'  only  a  board  atwixt  ye 
and  death,  and  the  wild  beasts  and  the  serpents,  and  the  savages  nak'd 
as  when  they  was  born.  There's  a  man  I  heard  no  longer  nor  Toosday, 
and  he'd  a  song  as  said, — 

Peter  Gray  went  out  to  trade 

In  furs  and  other  skins,    • 
But  he  got  scalped  and  tommie-hocked 

By  those  nasty  Indahins. 

Tommie-hocking — I  canna  rightly  tell  what  that  mid  be,  but  it  stan's  to 
reason  'tain't  anything  pleasant." 

The  women  looked  a  little  aghast :  the  unknown  is  always  terrible,  and 
this  new  peril  bade  fair  to  stand  more  in  the  way  of  their  imaginations  than 
all  the  real  obstacles. 

"Me  and  German's  pretty  good  agin  thoe  black  people,  I  take  it," 
said  Roland,  who  was  not  very  strong  ethnographically,  and  somewhat 
doubtful  as  to  the  colour  of  his  future  enemies.  But  though  he  spoke 
contemptuously  he  was  a  little  anxious  as  to  the  effect  of  this  new  view  of 
the  case  on  his  womankind.  "  German  mun  take  his  big  sword,"  he 
added,  laughing  uneasily. 

Nathan,  however,  was  reassured  by  the  effect  of  his  eloquence  after 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  93.  17 


888  STONE   EDGE. 

his  late  discomfiture,  and  lie  began  graciously  to  relent.  "  I  wunna  say, 
though,  as  you're  wrong,  a'  things  considered.  But  law,  ye'll  be  a  sight  o' 
time  getting  the  brass  together !  Come,  I'll  just  lend  ye  twelve  pund,  or 
gi'e  it  for  that  matter,  an  ye  canna  pay  it  back.  Ye're  a'  that's  left  to  me 
o'  Bessie,"  said  he  with  a  sigh,  as  he  prepared  to  depart  with  rather  a 
downcast  face. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  with  us,  uncle,"  said  German. 

"  I'm  too  old,  my  lad,  too  old  by  twenty  year.  But  ye  mun  think  o' 
me  whiles,  where  ye're  a  goin'." 

"You've  took  good  heed  we  shanna  forget  ye,"  said  Cassie,  with  a 
smile  on  her  lip  and  a  tear  in  her  eye.  "  You'll  come  back  to  the  wedding, 
uncle,"  she  went  on,  following  him  as  he  left  the  house.  "  They  say  it  ain't 
lucky  to  hae  any  one  at  a  marrying  as  is  older  nor  bride  and  groom,  but 
Roland  and  me'll  risk  that." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HOPE  IN  THE  FAR  WEST. 

"I  WANT  to  see  th'  auld  place  again  afore  we  flit  for  good,"  said  Cassie  a 
few  days  later  to  Roland,  and  up  the  long  rutted  track  they  went,  every 
step  a  memory  to  her.  But  the  house  at  Stone  Edge  was  dirty  and  ill-kept, 
full  of  screaming  children,  and  little  pleasure  to  see,  and  they  passed  on 
to  the  Druid's  Stones  on  the  Edge  (now,  alas,  destroyed  like  many  of 
their  fellows).  The  grand  old  hills  spread  wide  under  their  feet,  beautiful, 
though  the  day  was  grey  and  colourless,  while  they  looked  their  last  over 
their  old  country. 

'  There's  the  '  self  stone '  above  father's  close  on  Win  Hill,"  said 
Roland,  "  and  Lose  Hill,  where  yer  uncle's  biding  now  with  Martha." 
Probably  the  names  recorded  some  pre-historic  battle  of  the  aborigines 
with  the  Danes,  who  are  generally  fathered  with  all  fights  in  that  county. 
The  two  hills  faced  each  other  over  a  dale  lovely  to  look  upon.  There  is 
little  positive  feeling  for  beauty  of  scenery  in  the  peasant  class  :  it  is  a  taste 
of  cultivation ;  but  there  is  a  clinging  love  to  the  old  landmarks,  a  sehn- 
sucht,  difficult  to  describe,  but  very  real  and  deep. 

"  When  I  were  at  the  worst  about  thee,  I  used  to  come  up  here,"  said 
Cassie.  "  Winter  were  beginning  and  it  were  cold  and  windy  :  there  were  a 
little  blue  harebell  as  growed  in  among  the  dark  stones,  looking  so  nesh 
and  bright  through  it  all,  and  I  thought  it  were  my  hope ;  and  when  the 
weather  grew  snowy  I  was  'fraid  it  would  kill  my  hope,  and  I  just  picked 
it  and  kep'  it  in  my  Bible.  Good-by,"  she  went  on,  going  up  and  stroking 
the  solemn  old  stones.  "You'll  niver  see  us  again  no  more,  and  you'll 
not  break  yer  hearts  nor  yer  corners  for  that,"  she  added,  reproachfully. 

There  is  something  chilling  and  disappointing  in  the  contrast  between 
the  everlasting  hills  and  our  brief  day.  They  will  smile  as  fairly  when 
we  are  gone,  they  care  nothing  for  our  love  or  our  sorrow.  The  want  of 


STONE   EDGE.  839 

sympathy  falls  occasionally  like  an  ache  upon  one's  heart,  Something  like 
this  passed  through  her,  though  she  could  not  have  put  it  into  words,  and 
she  turned  away  with  a  sigh  of  relief  from  the  insensible  nature  to  the 
warm  human  heart  beside  her,  and  ciung  to  his  arm. 

"  I'm  a  poor  portion  for  thce,  Cassie,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh.  "  I've 
nowt  to  give  thee,  and  I  tak'  thee  away  from  a'  thou  lovest." 

"I  wunna  wed  thee  an  thou  sayest  such  things.  Dostna  know  I  care 
more  for  thee  than  for  a'  the  stones  as  iver  was  born  ?  "  answered  she, 
with  a  pout  and  a  smile. 

When  they  re-entered  the  cottage  they  found  Lydia  as  much  "  put 
about "  as  was  possible  to  her  gentle  nature. 

"  Councillor  Gilbert  have  a  been  here  nigh  upon  an  hour,"  said  she, 
"  speering  no  end  o'  questions  up  and  down.  Why  we  hadn't  made  more 

rout  about ,"  and  she  paused;  "and  what  for  we  let  thee  wed  wi' 

Roland,"  she  added  in  a  low  voice,  turning  to  Cassie.  "  I  could  ha'  cried, 
he  deaved  me  so  wi'  it  all ;  but  I  niver  let  on  as  I  cared  a  bit,  and  the 
upshot  o'  it  all  was,  where  were  thy  feyther  ?  I  made  as  if  I'd  niver 
heerd  tell  o'  thissen,  and  I  couldna  understan'  thatten,  and  at  last  he  got 
into  a  rage  like,  and  went  off,  saying  as  he  b'lieved  I  were  just  right  down 
stupid  silly,  but  he'd  get  what  he  wanted  for  a'  that." 

In  fact  Lydia's  demeanour  had  been  a  masterpiece  of  defensive  war- 
fare ;  she  had  let  down  over  her  whole  face  and  manner  that  impenetrable 
veil  of  apparent  stolidity  which  is  so  often  used  by  her  class  as  armour 
against  impertinent  questions,  and  which  is  as  difficult  to  get  through 
as  the  feather-beds  used  in  an  old  siege  hung  over  the  castle  walls. 

"  The  man's  a  bad  un,  and  he's  a  grudge  at  father,"  said  Roland, 
gloomily.  "  I  wish  we  were  off." 

"Ye  dunno  think  as  he  could  forbid  the  banns?"  put  in  Cassie, 
anxiously. 

"  Them  lawyers  is  like  ferrets ;  they're  so  sharp  that  they'd  worrit 
and  worrit  through  a  stone  wall  afore  they'd  be  denied  anythink,"  replied 
he. 

And  they  hurried  on  their  preparations.  They  had  sold  almost  every- 
thing belonging  to  them  to  pay  their  passage,  save  warrior  Ashford's  big 
sword,  which  was  found  not  to  be  allowed  for  in  the  square  inches  of 
"  emigrant's  luggage  "  permitted  in  the  hold,  or  the  still  smaller  space  of 
"  cabin  necessaries,"  and  German  hung  it  up  in  the  little  chapel  up  the 
glen. 

"  Mebbe  I  may  claim  it  still,"  he  said,  rather  sadly. 

The  earliest  possible  day  after  the  banns  was  appointed  for  the  mar- 
riage. It  was  a  still  cloudy  morning  in  July  as  they  passed  along  the  silent 
meadows,  where  the  hay  had  just  been  carried,  and  the  bright  green  of  the 
"  eddish  "  was  fair  to  look  on  ;  up  the  "  clattered  way  "  they  went — the 
paved  path  necessary  in  these  mountain  regions  to  make  the  road  passable 
at  all  in  muddy  weather — and  through  the  copsewood,  to  the  little  chapel 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  deep  wild  glen  on  its  lonely  hillside,  surrounded 

17—2 


340  STONE   EDGE. 

by  great  old  feathery  ash.  Nothing  could  be  more  solitary ;  and  the  still- 
ness seemed  almost  increased  by  the  sound  of  the  single  bell  which  rang 
forth  from  the  small  ornamented  turret  perched  at  one  corner — a  quiet  note, 
used  for  strangely  different  purposes — a  wedding,  a  funeral,  or  a  birth. 
It  belonged  to  the  days  when  bells  were  properly  baptized,  and  had  its 
name  engraved  round  its  neck — "Melodia  nomen  Magdalenae  campana 
rcsonat " — and  now  gave  forth  its  quiet  welcome,  that  peculiarly  restful, 
peaceful  sound  which  a  village  bell  seems  to  "  gather  in  its  still  life  among 
the  trees." 

"  The  parson  ain't  come,"  said  the  old  clerk,  looking  out  from  a 
window  of  the  tower.  "  I'll  go  down  and  open  for  ye.  Things  ain't 
hardly  fettled  yet  within." 

As  they  stood  silently  before  the  closed  door,  Cassie's  face  was  full  of 
thought.  It  is  a  solemn  moment  for  a  woman,  and  must  always  be  so  to 
her,  if  she  thinks  at  all :  the  death  of  the  old  life,  the  birth  of  the  new,  as 
she  stands  on  the  threshold,  as  it  were,  of  an  unknown  future,  giving  up 
her  separate  and  individual  existence  for  ever,  and  becoming  part  of 
another,  can  be  no  light  matter  to  her,  however  deep  her  affection. 
Cassie,  fortunately  for  her,  had  been  made  to  think  and  feel  too  much 
by  the  sufferings  and  anxieties  of  her  past  life,  to  take  marriage  as 
the  peasant  class  (and  indeed  a  much  higher  one,  for  that  matter)  so 
often  does. 

"  Thee'rt  not  afeard,  Cassie,  o'  trustin'  thysen  to  me  ?  "  said  Koland, 
in  a  low  husky  voice,  with  a  pressure  of  her  hand  that  was  almost 
painful. 

The  girl's  expression  in  reply,  as  she  looked  up  to  him,  though  she 
did  not  speak,  told  more  forcibly  than  by  any  words  how  entire  was  the 
confidence  of  her  love.  Lydia  sat  silently  a  little  way  off,  on  the  low 
stone  wall,  and  waited.  No  one  was  ever  less  inclined  to  revert  to  herself 
and  her  own  sensations,  but  it  was  impossible  not  to  contrast  her  own 
loveless  marriage,  so  few  years  before,  in  that  very  church,  with  theirs ;  to 
feel  that,  in  spite  of  trials,  in  spite  of  griefs  before  and  behind  them,  they 
had  in  their  affection  a  blessing  which  could  not  be  taken  away,  and  which 
had  been  denied  to  her.  Nathan  stood  by,  with  rather  a  rueful  counte- 
nance, leaning  on  his  staff. 

"  I  likes  a  bell,"  observed  he,  for  conversation.  "  They  says  as  how  the 
Deevil  can't  abide  it  nohow,  and  as  it  keps  off  ill  things  when  a  soul's  pass- 
ing. And  mebbe  that's  wanted  for  a  wedding  as  well  sometimes,"  he 
ended,  as  the  old  parson  came  up  hurriedly. 

"  Well,  young  uns,"  said  he,  "  you  was  nigh  having  no  weddin'  at  all 
this  morning.  I'd  one  wi'  me  this  ever  so  long  as  would  ha'  forbid  it  an 
he  could.  '  I'd  ha'  Roland  Stracey  took  up,'  he  says,  '  as  partieeps  to  the 
murder,  and  then  the  old  un  would  turn  up  in  no  time,'  but  I  pacified  him 
that  it  weren't  his  business,  and  would  mak'  a  big  scandal.  I'd  a  hard 
matter  to  stop  him,  he  worrited  me  so.  You'd  best  mak'  haste,  I  can 
tell  ye." 


STONE  EDGE.  £41 

"  So  there  was  very  ill  things  i'  th'  wind  for  the  bell  to  tackle,"  said 
Nathan,  in  a  low  voice,  smiling  as  he  followed  them  into  the  chapel. 

The  marriage  ceremony  was  quickly  through.  "And  I  wish  ye  God 
speed,  and  well  through  yer  troubles,  for  you'll  have  plenty  of  them,"  said 
the  old  minister  as  he  dismissed  them. 

"  But  nothing  can't  part  us  now,"  said  Cassie,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as 
they  came  out  again  into  the  open  air,  "  naythir  ill  report  nor  good  report, 
and  we  two  is  one  to  bear  them."  ' 

"Yes,"  observed  Nathan,  overhearing  her,  "two  is  better  than  one, 
because  they  has  a  good  reward  for  their  labour,  for  if  one  fall  the  one 
will  lift  up  his  fellow,  but  woe  to  him  that  is  alone.  Ah,"  added  he,  with 
half  a  smile,  as  she  took  her  husband's  arm,  "  I  duunot  believe  as  my 
Bessie  ever  '  linked '  wi'  any  man  but  me  a'  her  days  as  we  was 
togither." 

As  they  came  back  once  more  to  the  cottage  they  met  Nanny,  who  had 
arrived  to  see  the  last  of  her  friends. 

"  Well-a-day,  I'm  fine  and  pleased  for  to  see  you  so  content,  and  I'm 
hoping  as  it's  all  right,  but  marriage  is  a  vera  tickle  thing — whiles  better, 
whiles  worser.  I  buried  my  first  husband  when  Johnny  were  but  two 
year  old,  and  then  I  chanced  upo'  another,  and  I  mid  a'most  a  been  as 
well  without  one.  He  were  a  sore  un  to  drink,  and  so  I  had  to  fettle  for 
mysen  and  him  and  the  boy  too." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Nathan,  "  most  things  is  kittle, — it's  according  as  ye 
looks  upon  'urn.  It's  a  sore  thing  to  be  alone,  and  it's  what  God  A'mighty 
didn't  see  as  it  were  good, — and  it's  ill- convanient  to  ha'  company  as  is  not 
to  yer  mind.  And  I've  a  got  both  on  'um,  it  sims  to  me,"  he  added  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  I've  a  brought  ye  some  pins  and  tapes,  and  a  little  o'  all  things  as  is 
agreeable,"  said  Nanny,  helping  to  give  a  final  touch  to  the  packings. 
"  Ye'll  feel  mighty  comikle,  I  tak'  it,  wi'out  a  earner  nor  a  'sponsible 
body  peddling  about  wi'  a'  ye  need  in  those  wild  woods  as  German  were  a 
talking  on.  Ye'll  want  sore  to  be  back  again.  I  wish  ye  a'  well  through. 
Ye'll  be  a  sore  loss  to  me  anyhow,  I  know  that." 

"  Ha'  ye  got  plenty  o'  thraps  ?  The  wind's  high  west  to-day"  (i.e. 
close  upon  north),  "  'tis  main  cold.  The  sayin'  is 

Ne'er  cast  a  clout 
Till  May  be  out,"  * 

moralised  Nathan ;  "  but  I  think  as  it  shouldna  be  till  July.  I  wish  I 
were  ten  year  younger,  and  I  think  I'd  a  gone  wi'  ye.  Home's  home,  be 
it  never  so  homely,  but  it'll  seem  cold  and  lonesome  very  for  me ,  when 
ye  be  a'  flitted.  Tak'  heed,"  added  he,  to  a  boy  who  was  wheeling  off 
some  of  the  goods  in  a  wheelbarrow  and  dropped  a  fresh  thing  at  every 
step.  "  Yer  but  a  moithering  chap." 

"  'Tain't  my  fault,"  said  he.     "  I  canna  help  it." 

*  "  Lord  Monmouth  using  oft  that  saying."     1649. 


842  STONE  EDGE. 

"  Eh,  excuses  ain't  nowt — what  were  it  Aaron  said  ?  '  I  put  in  the 
gold  and  there  came  out  a  god,'  "  said  Nathan,  striving  to  be  his  old  self 
and  "keep  up  their  spirits." 

He  seemed  altogether  to  have  forgotten  his  intentions  of  marriage,  and 
treated  Lydia  exactly  as  he  did  his  niece. 

A  number  of  neighbours  had  come  in  to  see  the  last  of  the  emigrants, 
but  they  gradually  dropped  off,  and  only  he  and  Nanny  went  on  with  them 
to  the  turning  which  led  from  their  own  valley  to  the  high-road.  The 
wrench  to  Lydia  was  great,  and  she  suffered  very  much,  though  there  was 
no  outward  sign  of  it  in  her  quiet  face.  The  tearing  up  by  the  roots  as  it 
were  of  all  her  old  associations  seemed  to  give  her  a  separate  pang  with 
every  stick  and  stone  which  they  passed  on  their  way.  Cassie  walked 
along  by  her  husband's  side  in  a  kind  of  maze.  The  outer  world  was 
nothing  to  her  then.  She  was  living  in  her  own  sensations,  which  seemed 
to  her  the  only  reality,  and  all  other  things,  whether  to  go  or  stay,  at  home 
or  abroad,  indifferent  for  the  time  at  least.  "  For  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love,  cherish,  and  obey," 
seemed  ringing  in  her  ears.  They  all  sat  down  on  a  bank  with  their 
bundles  and  awaited  the  waggon.  They  sat  in  silence  ;  even  Nanny  did 
not  utter  a  word.  The  soft  carpet  of  thyme  and  cistus  and  eyebright 
under  their  feet  gave  forth  a  pleasant  smell, — and  smells  have  a  singular 
power  of  association,  and,  at  times,  bring  after  them  a  whole  history  of 
recollections  in  places  and  years  far  removed.  Ever  after  in  Lydia' s 
mind  the  scent  of  thyme  brought  back  the  whole  scene,  the  bitter  sweet  of 
the  parting,  the  rocky  hills,  the  valley,  the  feathery  wych  elms,  and  the  old 
man  murmuring  to  himself. 

"  It  won't  be  long  now,"  said  German,  pointing  to  the  waggon  as  it 
came  slowly  down  the  road,  which  wound  like  a  white  riband  along  the 
green  hillside. 

"  Tain't  for  very  long.  Nothink  ain't  for  very  long,  thank  God,"  said 
the  old  man,  half  aloud. 

"  God  bless  yer,  childer,"  he  continued,  rising  solemnly  as  the  sound 
of  the  jangling  bells  of  the  horses  came  near.  "  I  shall  see  yer  faces  no 
more,  but  we  shall  meet  o'  the  other  side  the  river  i'  th'  morning,  please 
God,  some  time.  God  A'mighty  lap  yer  in  a'  yer  ways,  and  prosper  ye  in 
a'  yer  dealin's,  and  have  mercy  upon  yer  and  upo'  me,  too,"  he  ended, 
as  he  passed  his  hard  hand  over  his  eyes  and  turned  sadly  towards 
Youlcliffe. 

Nanny  was  too  busy  stowing  away  bundles,  helping  to  arrange  cloaks 
and  seats,  to  be  quite  aware  that  the  last  moment  was  come,  till  the  heavy 
waggon  was  once  again  under  way,  when  she  burst  into  a  wild  kind  of 
sob.  "  And  I  haven't  so  much  as  an  old  shoe  to  throw  arter  ye  for  luck!  " 
ehe  cried,  holding  out  her  arms  towards  them.  It  was  the  last  they  saw 
of  their  old  home  as  they  turned  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

They  were  obliged  to  sleep  a  night  or  two  in  Liverpool  before  the  ship 
sailed,  where  the  old  sailor  took  them  in  hand  ;  but  though  Koland  looked 


STONE  EDGE.  343 

out  anxiously  for  his  father  lie  could  not  find  him.  As  the  boat  left  the 
shore  for  the  ship,  however,  with  a  host  of  sympathizers  and  friends 
standing  ahout  and  a  ringing  final  cheer,  the  crowd  parted  for  an  instant, 
and  he  saw  the  face  he  knew  so  well,  looking  earnestly  after  them,  sad, 
dark,  and  lowering.  As  he  caught  his  son's  eye,  however,  he  smiled,  and 
raised  his  cap  above  his  head  with  a  shout  and  a  cheer  that  went  to 
Roland's  heart. 

"Is  it  him?"  said  Cassie,  pressing  close  to  his  side  as  she  saw  him 
turn  pale. 

"  Yes,  dearie,  and  he's  a  shouten  to  make  as  if  he  were  main  glad — 
poor  feyther ! " 

It  was  almost  the  solitary  piece  of  self-denial  of  Joshua's  life ;  let  us 
hope  it  was  counted  to  him — it  was  his  last  gleam  of  good. 

His  children  prospered  in  their  new  land.  They  had  a  hard  fight  to 
begin  with,  but  they  won  their  way  to  a  farm  in  the  backwoods  in  time. 
"  Penetanguisheen  " — the  lake  of  the  silver  strand — became  a  very  pleasant 
homestead,  which  they  called  Stone  E.dge,  in  spite  of  geography.  They  kept 
together.  German  never  married  ;  women  such  as  he  had  been  used  to 
were  scarce  out  there,  and  he  had  all  that  he  wanted  in  his  mother  and 
in  Cassie's  home  and  children. 

Koland  always  held  that  his  father  had  struck  no  blow  against  Ashford, 
and  that  this  made  a  great  difference  ;  Cassie,  as  a  good  wife,  agreed  with 
him,  and  Lydia  held  her  tongue.  She  worked  with  head  and  heart  and 
hands  for  them  all,  and  was  a  happy  woman  in  her  loving  toil  and  the  love 
of  them  all  in  return.  Sometimes  as  she  nursed  Cassie's  numerous  babes 
a  dreamy  look  came  over  her  face,  and  they  knew  she  was  thinking 
of  her  dead  boy,  and  Cassie  would  come  behind  her  with  one  of  her  old 
loving  caresses — or,  better  still,  send  a  small  tyrant,  her  first-born,  a  little 
German,  whom  Lydia  had  tended  in  all  their  early  struggles,  and  to  whom 
she  clung  greatly  and  was  supposed  to  spoil. 

It  was  not  much  more  than  a  month  after  they  sailed  when  the  horse- 
dealer  was  taken  up  for  some  far  inferior  crime,  and  "  Lawyer  Gilbert " 
getting  scent  of  it,  had  the  man  put  on  his  trial  for  the  murder.  He,  of 
course,  laid  the  chief  blame  upon  Joshua,  declared  that  he  had  suggested 
the  robbery  as  a  means  of  freeing  himself  from  debts  which  he  could  not 
otherwise  pay,  that  he  had  ridden  behind  him  to  the  spot  where  Ashford 
was  set  upon,  had  held  the  horse  and  shared  the  spoil,  with  a  great  deal 
more  which  seemed  to  be  apocryphal ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  unravel  the 
truth  from  the  lies  in  his  statement. 

Joshua  was  still  wandering  under  a  feigned  name  about  Liverpool, 
when  one  day,  while  he  was  boozing  grimly  and  sadly  in  a  low  public- 
house  near  the  docks,  a  friendly  voice  said  in  his  ear,  "  Tak'  heed,  they're 
arter  ye." 

He  rose  and  went  out,  he  hardly  knew  where.  The  sun  was  setting 
behind  a  muss  of  dark  red  angry-looking  clouds,  and  the  tall  masts  and 


344  STONE   EDGE. 

rigging  stood  out  black  and  distinct  against  the  sky  as  he  canie  out  on  the 
shore.  Far  in  the  offing  was  a  ship  in  full  sail :  he  stood  for  a  moment 
watching  her,  as  she  seemed  to  follow  on  the  track  of  the  only  thing  he  had 
ever  loved,  his  son;  then  his  thoughts  went  back  to  his  "troubles,"  as 
he  called  them.  He  had  made  a  bad  bargain  with  the  Devil :  the  county 
notes  had  been  of  scarcely  any  value ;  the  seeming  treasure  had  turned  into 
dead  leaves,  as  in  an  old  fairy  tale. 

"  It  were  hardly  worth  while,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  came  to 
a  crowd  of  men  unloading  a  timber  vessel.  It  was  not  a  lofty  sentiment 
for  such  a  crime,  but  some  petty  detail  seems  to  fill  a  mind  stupefied  by 
guilt  and  drink  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  the  great  horror  itself.  In  the 
bustle  and  confusion  he  was  struck  by  a  plank,  and  at  the  same  moment  a 
tipsy  man  hustled  against  him.  "What  for  is  thattens?"  said  Joshua, 
suspiciously,  returning  what  he  thought  a  blow.  In  the  drunken  squabble 
which  ensued  he  lost  his  footing,  and  fell  over  the  river  wall  among  the 
stones  on  the  shore,  and  was  only  rescued  much  injured  and  half-drowned. 
They  took  him  to  the  workhouse,  and  when  the  slow  constables  of  that 
day  came  upon  his  trail  they  found  him  dying.  "  Joshua  Stracey  ?"  said 
one  of  them,  laying  a  hand  on  his  arm  gently.  "  Joshua  Stracey  it  is," 
said  he,  mechanically,  without  opening  his  eyes.  "  It  werena  worth  while," 
he  repeated  again,  and  passed  away. 

The  horsedealer  was  found  guilty  and  executed. 

An  old  guide-book  of  some  fifty  years  ago,  describing  this  part  of  the 
country,  tells  how  a  murder  was  committed  in  this  valley,  and  after  a 
solemn  little  sermon  against  highway  robbery  and  murder,  proceeds  to 
say  "  that  the  murderer  was  hanged  on  the  scene  of  his  wickedness,"  and 
adds,  without  the,  smallest  surprise  or  disgust,  evidently  as  an  ordinary 
event,  that  his  body  was  hanging  there  in  chains,  on  a  gallows  erected 
for  it,  when  he  (the  guide-book)  passed  that  way  some  time  after. 

There  has  been  more  change  in  the  habits  of  thought  and  feeling 
among  us  during  the  last  fifty  years  than  had  taken  place  during  the 
previous  eight  hundred. 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  day  in  Canada  some  seven  or  eight  years  after. 
A  building  "  bee  "  (work  to  be  repaid  in  kind),  in  which  all  the  few 
neighbours  far  and  wide  had  joined,  had  just  raised  a  new  and  larger  log- 
house  for  the  family,  which  had  pretty  well  outgrown  the  old  shed. 
Roland  and  German,  two  tall,  strong,  bearded  fellows,  with  axes  in  their 
hands,  were  just  finishing  a  "  snake  "  fence,  while  Cassie,  now  a  handsome 
matronly  woman,  stood  at  the  door,  with  a  child  on  each  side,  calling 
them  into  supper. 

"Where's  mother?"  said  German.  "Is  she  after  the  weaning 
calf?" 

At  that  moment,  however,  she  came  in  sight,  with  her  little  squire 
proudly  carrying  the  calf  s  jug.  Their  course  might  be  traced  all  over  the 
iarm  by  the  incessant  prattle  of  one  of  the  loving  pair,  while  the  almost 


STONE   EDGE.  "       345 

entire  silence  of  the  other  did  not  seem  to  prevent  the  most  perfect 
sympathy  between  the  friends. 

She  seemed  now  younger  than  Cassia,  with  that  peculiarly  placid 
other-world  look  which  keeps  the  heart  and  the  expression  young  till 
death. 

"  You  spoil  un,  mother,"  said  Cassie,  with  a  smile. 

"  Nay,  I  dunna  humour  un,  and  'tain't  love  that  spoils  :  the  sun 
ma's  the  fruit  rippen.  I  mind  when  I  were  a  little  un  and  hadn't  got 
it,"  said  she,  with  an  answering  smile. 

"  But  we  dunna  see  that  the  fruit  didna  rippen  wi'out,"  said 
German  affectionately. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  door  of  their  new  dwelling.  It  was  on 
a  promontory  overlooking  the  beautiful  lake :  the  forest  spread  wide  all 
round  the  shore ;  their  own  clearing  was  the  only  bit  of  civilization  in 
sight.  The  woods  were  touched  with  the  magnificent  colour  of  an 
American  autumn,  and  there  was  a  gorgeous  sunset,  besides,  over 
all. 

"  Yer  wouldn't  hae  seen  such  a  sight  as  that  in  England,"  said  Roland, 
looking  west. 

The  women  turned  towards  the  old  country  in  the  east,  where  a  little 
moon  was  rising  in  a  pale  delicate  blue  sky.  A  woman  is  generally  more 
apt  to  look  towards  the  past  than  forward  :  a  man's  mind  inclines  more 
towards  the  future  than  to  recollect. 

"  Eh,  there  was  fair  things  too  in  the  dear  old  land,"  said  they, 
"  though  things  mebbe  werena  all  so  gaudy  for  the  look."J 


17—5 


346 


WE  have  no  intention  of  trying  to  do  in  this  article  what  very  few,  either 
lawyers  or  game-preservers,  could  do  for  us,  that  is,  '-lay  down  the  law 
upon  the  subject."  There  are,  probably,  few  Acts  of  Parliament  so 
uncertain,  notwithstanding  their  proverbial  uncertainty,  as  those  which 
relate  to  game  ;  and  all  that  we  aspire  to  do  is  to  place  a  few  general  con- 
siderations-before  our  readers,  which  may  have  the  effect  of  opening  their 
eyes  to  the  true  difficulties  of  the  question. 

At  the  very  outset,  however,  we  would  beg  them  to  take  note  that  the 
unpopularity  of  the  game-laws  and  the  mischiefs  which  arise  from  poach- 
ing are  two  perfectly  distinct  things.  That  the  latter  is  assisted  by  the 
former  all  men  know  who  know  anything  about  game.  But  the  one  does 
not  depend  upon  the  other.  It  is  not  poaching  which  makes  the  game- 
laws  unpopular,  nor  is  it  the  unpopularity  of  the  game-laws  which  begets 
poaching.  Doubtless  there  is  some  connection  between  the  two.  A 
poacher  counts  upon  a  certain  amount  of  public  sympathy  when  he  is 
placed  in  the  dock  ;  a  tenant-farmer  does  not  break  his  heart  at  the  escape 
of  a  poacher ;  but  the  sources  of  the  two  feelings,  dissatisfaction,  namely, 
with  the  game-laws,  and  a  resolution  to  live  by  the  breach  of  them,  are 
quite  separate  from  each  other. 

The  only  people  who  have  any  practical  right  (theory  is  another  thing) 
to  complain  of  the  game-laws  are  the  tenant-farmers  ;  and  even  their 
complaint,  when  we  come  to  look  into  it,  is  reducible  within  a  veiy  small 
compass.  First  of  all,  there  is  the  substantial  injury  done  by  game  ;  but 
this,  after  all,  is  a  matter  of  political  economy.  Either  a  man  does  not 
pay  as  much  for  land  subject  to  the  depredations  of  game  as  for  land  not 
BO  subject,  or  he  does.  If  he  does  not,  he  is  no  loser.  If  he  does,  why 
does  he  ?  He  takes  a  farm  with  his  eyes  open,  and  if  he  consents  to  let 
the  game  go  for  nothing,  it  must  be  because  the  farm  is  so  advantageous 
to  him  in  other  ways  that  it  is  not  worth  his  while  to  raise  the  point. 
This  is  the  broad  view  of  the  case.  Of  course  in  matters  of  detail  hard- 
ships will  occur  ;  but  there  is  no  hardship  in  the  principle.  An  estate 
with  so  much  game  upon  it  is  simply  a  commodity  in  the  market. 
Farmers  are  supposed  to  know  their  own  interests  quite  as  well  as  other 
people.  They  may  take  it  or  leave  it.  But  there  is  besides  this  the 
sentimental  grievance,  which  we  hold  to  be  the  stronger  of  the  two  ;  and 
this  we  fear  is  one  which  country  gentlemen  are  not  sufficiently  anxious 
to  mitigate.  There  is  one  practice  in  particular,  which  causes  more 
heartburnings  than  all  the  other  game-law  grievances  put  together:  we 
mean  the  practice  of  letting  the  shooting  over  the  heads  of  the  tenant- 


POACHING.  347 

farmers.  This  they  cannot  endure.  Nor,  perhaps,  is  their  resentment  to 
be  wondered  at.  A  farm  certainly  is  not  a  freehold  ;  but,  nevertheless, 
the  sense  of  possession  is  easily  engendered  by  occupation,  and  it  is  a  very 
potent  sentiment  in  the  English  mind.  It  is  aggravating  to  see  a  parcel 
of  strangers  running-over  your  land  as  if  it  was  their  own,  breaking  down 
your  fences  and  laughing  at  your  protests,  and  doubly  aggravating  when 
you  know  that  my  lord  or  the  squire  makes  a  profit  out  of  the  transaction. 
Farmers  think,  moreover,  in  many  places,  that  where  the  landlord  doesn't 
shoot  himself,  the  right  ought  to  devolve  upon  the  tenant :  while,  over  and 
above  all  this,  there  is  a  general  soreness  at  what  seems  to  be  an  aristocratic 
privilege — though  nothing  can  be  more  ridiculous  than  to  regard  it  in  that 
light — only  to  be  overcome  by  dint  of  great  tact,  courtesy,  and  liberality 
on  the  landlord's  part,  which  he  is  not  always,  perhaps,  sufficiently 
studious  to  exhibit. 

The  above  are  the  only  sources  of  any  general  dissatisfaction  with  the 
game-laws  which  impartial  critics  need  recognize.  The  starving  peasant 
who  snare-s  a  rabbit  to  get  a  meal  for  his  sick  wife,  and  is  imprisoned 
among  felons  in  consequence,  is  a  pure  myth,  as  all  men  well  acquainted 
with  country  life  know ;  the  misfortune  being  that  a  good  many  of  the 
directors  of  public  opinion  in  London  are  not,  we  fear,  well  acquainted 
with  country  life.  And  as  for  the  regular  poaching  gangs,  we  do  not  know 
why  they  should  constitute  an  argument  against  the  game-laws,  any  more 
than  the  existence  of  burglars  is  an  argument  against  silver- spoons.  These 
remarks  bring  us  down  to  the  special  subject  of  the  present  article — 
poachers,  who  and  what  are  they  ?  what  are  the  laws  on  which  we  rely 
for  punishing  them  ?  and  how  far  are  these  laws  effective  ? 

The  reader  will  be  prepared  to  hear  that  with  the  changes  which  have 
corne  over  game-preserving,  corresponding  changes  have  ensued  in  the 
condition  of  the  poacher.  As  game  has  approximated  to  the  character  of 
ordinary  property,  poaching  has  approximated  to  the  character  of  ordinary 
theft.  In  former  days,  when  natural  woods,  commons,  and  wastes  were 
more  abundant  than  they  are  now,  when  population  was  much  more  scanty, 
transport  much  more  tedious,  and  our  habits  of  life  altogether  different,  it 
is  possible  that  the  poacher  was  one  who  killed  game  for  his  own  consump- 
tion ;  and  that  interference  with  him  was  rather  the  vindication  of  a  feudal 
right  than  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  property.  We  may  picture 
him  to  ourselves,  if  we  like,  lurking  in  some  sequestered  den — half  cave, 
half  cottage — built  into  the  hill-side,  and  protected  by  a  spreading  oak, 
and  there  will  be  no  one  to  disturb  our  vision.  We  may  imagine  him  a 
good  sportsman,  a  self-taught  naturalist,  sober,  and,  in  his  own  eyes  at 
least,  honest  and  industrious.  Last,  but  not  least,  let  him  stand  six  feet 
high,  be  a  model  of  strength  and  activity,  with  a  frank  bold  countenance, 
a  merry  blue  eye,  extremely  white  teeth,  and  a  smile  that  would  subdue 
a  duchess.  Our  fancy  may  paint  him  as  we  like,  and  nobody,  we  repeat, 
can  contradict  us.  That  is  the  poacher  of  the  golden  age ;  before 
modern  preserves,  modern  battues,  or  percussion-caps  were  invented. 


348  POACHING. 

But  as  we  do  not  believe  in  the  "  starving-peasant "  theory  of  poaching, 
still  less  do  we  believe  in  that  romantic  and  picturesque  ideal  which 
modern  novelists  do  still  occasionally  present  to  us.  The  poacher  of  the 
old  school,  if  he  ever  existed,  with  his  Allan-a-Dale  swagger  and  Robin 
Hood-like  generosity,  is  as  extinct  as  Dick  Turpin.  To  him  has  succeeded 
the  poacher  of  the  iron  age  :  the  'member  of  a  ruffianly  gang,  whose  busi- 
ness is  to  fill  the  dealers'  shops  in  town  and  country,  and  to  get  drunk 
upon  the  proceeds.  These  gangs  vary  in  number  and  in  daring,  from  the 
topsawyers  of  London  down  to  the  provincial  artists  who  are  shoemakers 
or  ratcatchers  by  day  and  poachers  only  by  night.  The  cream  of  the  pro- 
fession, we  fancy,  sully  not  their  hands  by  any  meaner  occupation,  not  at 
least  during  the  days  of  their  glory — "in  the  season  of  the  year."  These 
men,  making  some  large  town  or  village  in  a  good  game  country,  or  perhaps 
London  itself,  their  head- quarters,  carry  on  operations  in  a  systematic  and 
wholesale  fashion.  They  have  their  spies  and  underlings  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  all  the  large  preserves,  from  whom  they  receive  accurate  informa- 
tion as  to  the  quantity  of  game,  the  likeliest  covers,  the  movements  of 
the  keepers,  and  the  character  of  the  local. police.  In  fact  their  precautions 
and  their  organization  are  exactly  the  same  as  those  of  any  regular  gang 
of  housebreakers.  When  it  is  once  determined  to  make  a  descent  on  some 
particular  preserve,  the  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to  create  a  false  alarm  in 
an  opposite  direction.  The  keepers  and  watchers  on  the  property  about  to 
be  attacked  are  pretty  sure  to  hear  of  this,  and  to  be  thrown  into  a  state  of 
false  security ;  while  another  and  more  important  point  will  have  been  gained 
if  the  police  have  been  induced  to  look  out  along  a  different  line  of  high- 
road. The  proper  steps  having  been  taken  to  secure  these  desirable  objects, 
the  party  sets  out  so  as  to  arrive  at  the  scene  of  action  between  eleven  and 
twelve  at  night.  If  they  are  sufficiently  numerous  to  defy  any  force  which 
the  keepers  can  bring  against  them,  they  are,  of  course,  less  attentive 
to  those  precautions  which  otherwise  they  are  bound  to  take.  But  this  is 
not  often  the  case,  though  sometimes  gangs  of  as  many  as  forty  or  fifty  men 
will  invade  a  well-stocked  preserve,  and  plunder  it  before  the  keeper's  eyes. 
However,  the  ordinary  way  of  proceeding  makes  secrecy  desirable,  and  your 
regular  poacher  never  courts  a  collision.  He  would  rather  do  anything 
than  fight,  not  from  want  of  courage,  but  because  resistance,  if  ineffectual, 
only  aggravates  the  penalty,  while  severe  hurts  given  or  received  on  either 
side,  create  a  scandal  and  publicity  which  is  sure  to  be  injurious  to  the 
trade.  Accordingly  he  takes  as  many  precautions  as  a  Red  Indian  to  ensure 
perfect  silence.  The  merest  whimper  from  a  dog  ;  the  crackle  of  a  dry 
stick  ;  a  cough,  or  a  sneeze,  may  at  any  moment  betray  his  whereabouts 
to  some  watcher  more  vigilant  than  his  fellows,  or  worse  than  all,  to  that 
savage  and  sleepless  Cerberus,  the  keeper's  dog.  The  wheels  of  the 
cart,  and  sometimes  even  the  feet  of  the  horse,  are  muffled ;  while 
long  practice  has  made  the  poacher  perfect  in  breaking  the  necks 
of  hares  and  rabbits  without  allowing  them  to  squeal.  Herein,  how- 
ever, lies  one  of  his  greatest  dangers.  The  scream  of  a  hare  can  be 


POACHING.  349 

heard  at  a  very  long  distance  ;  and  if  that  sound  is  once  caught,  the 
poacher  knows  that  the  keeper  and  his 'men  will  soon  muster.  Still,  this 
will  take  some  little  time ;  and  then  will  come  the  discussion  as  to  what 
quarter  the  sound  came  from ;  and  even  if  right  on  that  point,  the 
guardians  of  the  furry  tribe  will  perhaps  only  reach  the  spot  to  find  that 
the  poachers  have  by  that  time  moved  off  to  another  cover.  One  of  their 
ordinary  dodges  is  to  sprinkle  a  few  men  about  at  different  points,  in 
order  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  keepers  and  induce  them  to  divide 
their  forces.  Upon  the  whole,  in  netting  hares  and  rabbits  outside  the 
covers,  the  chances  are  very  much  in  the  poacher's  favour.  But  where 
pheasants  are  his  object  the  difficulties  are  greatly  augmented.  For 
pheasants  must  be  shot.  To  shoot  them  the  covers  must  be  entered,  and 
walking  through  brushwood  is  in  itself  no  silent  operation,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  disturbance  raised  by  that  most  useful  of  natural  alarums,  the  boisterous 
wood-pigeon.  Of  course  we  are  here  assuming  that  the  marauders  use 
only  air-guns  ;  if  they  use  powder  they  must  be  very  favourably  circum- 
stanced, indeed,  to  avoid  discovery.  Still,  when  the  wind  is  in  the  right 
quarter  and  the  cover  is  divided  by  a  hill  from  the  nearest  lodge,  a  good 
many  pheasants  may  be  killed  even  in  this  way  before  the  authorities  are 
alarmed.  Netting  partridges  is  not  quite  so  hazardous  an  operation  ;  but 
then  it  is  less  certain  in  its  results,  and  less  profitable  when  successful. 
However,  it  is  of  course  part  of  the  poacher's  business,  and  no  doubt  it  is 
from  partridges  that  a  great  part  of  his  livelihood  irf  drawn. 

The  night's  work  finished,  the  cart  laden,  and  the  public  road  once 
gained,  the  poacher  used  to  be  able  to  congratulate  himself  that  all  danger 
was  over.  Not  so  now,  however.  He  still  has  the  police  to  get  round, 
who  may  be  looking  out  for  him  within  a  mile  or  two  of  the  town  to 
which  he  is  conveying  his  booty.  Of  course  he  puts  in  practice  all  sorts 
of  dodges  to  evade  these  hateful  sentinels.  Long  circuits  by  cross-roads 
from  one  turnpike-road  to  another  are  frequently  adopted  for  this  purpose  ; 
and  sometimes  a  cart-load  of  game  has  been  known  to  be  kept  out  in  the 
country  for  several  nights  before  it  could  run  the  blockade.  But  when 
all  goes  right,  the  game  is  usually  smuggled  into  the  back  premises  of  the 
purchaser  by  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  between  seven  and 
eight  the  poachers  regain  their  hotel,  and  tumble  into  bed  at  once.  About 
twelve  or  one  they  enjoy  a  copious  breakfast  of  beefsteaks,  bacon,  and 
ale ;  and  the  afternoon  is  comfortably  passed  in  smoking,  dog-fighting, 
playing  skittles,  mending  nets,  and  concocting  fresh  plans  for  the  morrow. 
Those  sallow-faced,  round-shouldered  men,  in  dirty  stockings,  unlaced 
ankle-boots,  knee-breeches,  and  velveteen  jackets,  who  are  to  be  seen 
lounging  about  the  door  of  the  most  disreputable -looking  public  in  any 
large  straggling  village  or  country  town,  are  ten  -to  one  members  of  the 
fraternity  aforesaid. 

We  have  seen  that  poaching  to  be  successfully  pursued  demands  a 
combination  of  qualities  decidedly  above  the  average  :  courage,  nerve, 
patience,  great  quickness  of  eye  and  ear,  fertility  of  resource,  and  knowledge 


350  POACHING. 

of  the  habits  of  game .  Such  qualities  demand  and  fetch  a  good  price.  It 
is  impossible  to  calculate  exactly  the  average  earnings  of  a  poacher  during 
his  season  of  five  months,  but  they  are  considerable.  Prices  vary  :  but 
assuming  that  from  first  to  last  he  gets  2s.  Qd.  a  brace  for  partridges,  4s. 
a  brace  for  pheasants,  2s.  Qd.  a  piece  for  hares,  and  Qd.  a  piece  for 
rabbits,  we  can  make  a  rough  guess  at  the  result.*  We  should  say  that  a 
gang  of  ten  men  might  take  a  hundred  pheasants,  a  hundred  hares,  a 
hundred  rabbits,  and  a  hundred  partridges  per  week.  Some  weeks  of 
course  they  may  take  treble  the  quantity,  but  we  should  think  that  from 
the  first  of  September  to  the  first  of  February  the  above  is  a  pretty  fair 
calculation.  At  the  price  we  have  put  upon  each  description  of  game  the 
sum  total  will  be  thirty  pounds  per  week,  or  three  pounds  a  week  to  each 
man  of  the  gang.  Their  expenses  come  to  very  little.  There  is  always  an 
association  of  publicans  to  pay  fines,  employ  counsel,  and  replace  imple- 
ments. The  men  have  their  three  pounds  a  week  clear  profit ;  and  as  it  is 
truer  to  say  that  the  poacher's  season  lasts  from  the  middle  of  August 
to  the  middle  of  February,  it  may  be  said  that  his  earnings  all  the  year 
round  average  thirty  shillings  a  week,  that  is  to  say,  that  for  six  months' 
work  he  gets  the  yearly  income  of  many  a  skilled  artisan. 

What  the  poacher  does  with  himself  out  of  the  season  is  not  very 
clear.  There  are,  of  course,  a  good  many  who  are  always  ostensibly 
engaged  in  some  kind  of  handicraft.  Others  probably  hang  about  pigeon- 
matches,  or  keep  their  hands  in  by  stealing  live  game  or  eggs  for  breeding. 
Some  few,  perhaps,  live  upon  their  savings,  and  take  their  wives  to 
Gravesend ;  but  behind  the  screen  which  veils  the  poacher's  domestic 
life  we  care  not  to  penetrate.  His  public  life  is  one  of  constant  excite- 
ment, large  profits,  and  commensurate  sensuality  :  he  is  the  envy  of  the 
village  youth,  and  the  prop  of  the  village  alehouse. 

Such  are  poachers  and  poaching  in  this  year  of  grace  1867 ;  and  we 
hope  we  shall  not  be  suspected  of  any  illiberal  proclivities,  when  we  say 
that  we  scarcely  understand  the  hostility  provoked  by  those  laws  which 
are  intended  to  restrain  them.  The  question  is  a  very  simple  one.  Does 
the  country  on  the  whole  wish  game  to  exist  or  to  be  exterminated  ?  To 
call  this  a  landowner's  question  is  rather  a  misuse  of  words.  Game  requires 
land  to  live  on,  and  accordingly  the  landowner  is  supposed  to  be  specially 
interested  in  the  game-laws.  A  little  reflection  will  show  us  that  this 
conclusion  is  more  than  doubtful.  It  is  possible  that  if  the  gamp-laws 
were  abolished  to-morrow,  the  owner  of  any  moderate  estate  could  always 
keep  game  enough  upon  it  for  his  own  amusement,  and  to  supply  his  own 
table.  But  what  would  become  of  all  that  numerous  class  who,  possessing 
no  land  of  their  own,  are  nevertheless  enabled,  under  the  present  system, 
to  partake  in  a  healthy  and  invigorating  amusement  at  the  expense  of 
other  people  ?  If  it  were  not  for  the  game-laws,  gentlemen  could  only 
afford  to  invite  such  friends  to  shoot  as  were  in  a  position  to  invite  them 

*  We  believe  that  this  calculation  is  rather  under  the  mark  than  over  it. 


POACHING.  351 

back  again.  In  the  second  place,  the  first  consequence  of  the  abolition  of 
the  game-laws  would  be  an  immense  rise  in  the  price  of  game.  And 
would  that  affect  no  one  but  the  landowners  ?  Why,  the  landowners  are 
almost  the  only  class  in  the  country  whom  it  would  not  affect.  Thus, 
in  both  the  shooting  and  the  eating  of  game,  a  vast  number  of  persons  are 
interested,  besides  those  who  preserve  it.  Accordingly,  whether  the  game- 
laws  be  abolished  or  maintained,  it  is  quite  unreasonable  to  cast  all  the 
odium  of  them  on  the  shoulders  of  the  landed  aristocracy.  The  question 
is  simply  this,  whether  there  is  not  a  sufficiently  large  and  miscellaneous 
minority  desirous  of  keeping  game  in  the  country  to  make  their  wishes 
worthy  of  consideration.  Of  course,  it  is  useless  to  invite  our  readers  to 
any  consideration  of  the  present  state  of  the  law,  or  to  any  proposed  im- 
provements in  it,  unless  they  first  of  all  agree  to  the  propriety  of  some  law. 
There  is  an  objection  to  the  game-laws  cutting  much  more  deeply  into 
the  roots  of  things,  of  which  we  are  bound  to  take  some  notice,  if  only  to 
show  that  we  are  aware  of  its  existence.  The  game-laws  are  injurious  to 
the  morals  of  the  people,  therefore  they  ought  to  be  abolished.  This  bare 
statement,  however,  implies  the  existence  of  a  syllogism  of  which  the  major 
premiss  is  this,  that  all  things  which  are  injurious  to  the  morals  of  the 
people  ought  to  be  abolished.  It  is  plain  either  that  this  cannot  be  the 
case,  or  that  the  principle  of  property  is  a  vicious  one.  For  all  property  is 
a  temptation,  and  all  temptations  are  injurious  to  the  morals  of  the  people. 
By  the  common  consent  of  mankind,  therefore,  we  may  assume  that  our  major 
premiss  is  to  be  negatived.  We  then  descend  to  a  particular  affirmative, — 
some  things  which  are  injurious  to  the  morals  of  the  people  ought  to  be 
abolished.  Very  good  :  but  what  things  ?  And  here  we  are  plunged  into 
a  sea  of  casuistry  in  which  we  may  toss  ourselves  about  for  ever.  Gene- 
rally we  may  say,  that  all  things  which,  being  immoral  in  themselves,  exist 
only  for  the  sake  of  immorality,  ought  to  be  abolished.  In  this  list  would 
come  gambling-houses  and  brothels.  Then  we  come  to  things  which  are 
immoral  in  themselves,  but  of  which  the  object  or  final  cause  is  not 
immoral,  such  as  bribery  at  elections ;  for  there  is  no  immorality  in  being 
a  Member  of  Parliament.  And,  thirdly,  we  may  come  to  things  which, 
though  moral  in  themselves,  do  nevertheless  conduce  to  immorality,  such 
as  public-houses.  Now  it  is  clear  that  game-laws  come  under  neither  of 
the  two  first  heads.  They  are  not  immoral  in  the  abstract.  We  have  to 
consider  them,  then,  as  they  come  under  the  third, — things  which,  in 
themselves  innocent,  conduce  in  their  effects  to  vice.  But  we  now  find 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  a  very  simple  formula  which  it  is  common  to 
apply  to  such  cases,  we  mean  the  use  and  the  abuse  of  things.  And  we 
set  the  one  against  the  other.  As  De  Quincey  points  out,  the  much- 
maligned  science  of  casuistry  is  nevertheless  in  universal  operation  in  the 
affairs  of  the  world.  We  are  always  obliged  to  make  cases.  Now,  in  this 
instance,  we  can  lay  down  no  principle.  We  can  only  say  that,  wherever 
the  abuse  exceeds  the  use,  palpably,  grossly,  and  to  such  an  extent  as 
almost  to  override  and  extinguish  it,  then  such  things  should  be  abolished. 


852  POACHING. 

Common  sense  is  the  only  tribunal  by  which  this  point  can  be  determined. 
We  consider  that  in  this  respect  the  public-house  question  is  closely 
analogous  to  the  game-law  question.  Both  are  temptations  to  vice.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  contended  that  both  serve  other  purposes,  which 
are  not  only  innocent,  but  in  the  one  case  necessary,  and  in  the  other 
salutary  ;  of  which  the  evil  they  do  by  the  temptations  they  hold  out  is 
not  great  enough  to  justify  the  stoppage. j 

On  broad  grounds  it  may  be  added  that  as  all  classes  of  mankind  are 
exposed  to  their  particular  temptations  in  the  path  of  life,  the  poor  must 
expect  to  have  theirs ;  and  that  this  system  of  removing  all  temptations 
lecause  they  are  temptations,  is  inconsistent  with  the  theory  of  moral 
discipline,  and  the  formation  of  virtuous  habits.  The  truth  is  that  life  in 
all  its  varieties  is  a  daily  illustration  of  the  well-known  dilemma  of  the 
old  philosopher  :  Uxorem  si  habeas  informem,  Troivrj  est,  si  bellam,  Koivq  : 
ergo  nullam  duxcris.  But  the  world  nevertheless  rejects  this  conclusion. 
So  we  may  t  argue  that  life  without  certain  pleasures  and  elegancies  is 
a  dreaiJ^  waste  :  with  them  it  is  full  of  temptations,  ergo — cut  your 
throat.  But  the  world  is  illogical,  and  rejects  the  proffered  razor. 

Having  already  shown  that  game-laws  do  not  exist  for  the  benefit  of 
landowners  in  particular,  we  may  now  inquire  whether  there  is  really  any 
way  open  to  us  of  making  them  at  once  more  effective  and  less  odious ; 
that  is  to  say,  whether  any  better  machinery  than  has  yet  been  devised 
can  be  adopted  for  the  repression  of  poaching. 

The  legislature  at  an  early  date  seems  to  have  perceived  where  the 
knot  of  the  difficulty  lay.  In  the  fifth  year  of  Queen  Anne's  reign  an  Act 
was  passed  making  it  illegal  for  any  "higgler  or  chapman"  to  be  in 
possession  of  game.  By  the  28th  of  George  II.  it  was  declared  illegal 
for  such  persons  to  be  in  possession  of  game  unless  obtained  from  those 
who  were  "  qualified  to  kill  game."  In  this  state  the  law  remained  for 
nearly  eight  years.  And  as  in  former  days  very  few  persons  who  were 
qualified  to  kill  game  ever  sold  it,  the  Act  amounted  virtually  to  a  prohi- 
bition of  the  sale  of  game.  Of  course  the  law  was  evaded ;  and  it  was  in 
furtherance  of  such  evasion  that  partridges  acquired  the  special  name  of: 
"birds,"  while  hares  were  generally  known  as  " lions."  Our  readers 
may  remember  the  solemn  waiter  at  Cheltenham  who  informs  "  Pelham  " 
that  he  cannot  have  less  than  a  whole  lion.  At  length,  in  1831,  the  Act 
was  passed  which  is  now  the  recognized  authority  on  the  subject.  It 
abolished  all  qualifications,  and  substituted  the  game-certificate.  It 
authorised  the  sale  of  game  by  all  dealers  who  were  licensed,  the  licence 
being  two  pounds.  It  declared  that  any  licensed  dealer  procuring  game 
from  an  unlicensed  person  should  be  liable  to  a  penalty.  And  it  enacted 
that  the  game-certificate  authorising  to  kill  game  should  carry  with  it  the 
right  of  selling  game.  "We  have  heard  indeed  this  construction  of  the  Act 
disputed,  but  the  wording  of  the  17th  clause  seems  to  admit  of  only  one 
interpretation  :  "Every  person  who  shall  have  obtained  an  annual  game- 
certificate  shall  have  power  to  sell  game  to  any  person  licensed  to  deal  in 


POACHING.  353 

game."  So  that  gentlemen  who  sell  their  game  are  not,  it  seems, 
required  to  take  out  a  dealer's  licence.  The  reader  should  observe  that 
by  this  change  in  the  law,  the  sport  of  shooting  ceased  to  be  the  privilege 
of  the  qualified  few,  and  was  thrown  open  to  everybody  without  any 
reservation  who  chose  to  pay  for  the  luxury.  The  old  qualification  was  of 
various  kinds,  but  in  every  case  it  was  founded  on  connexion  with  the  land 
or  with  the  aristocracy,  and  was  essentially  a  feudal  privilege.  This 
character,  we  would  urgently  impress  upon  our  readers,  it  has  now  totally 
lost.  Every  man  may  shoot  who  can  give  his  three  pounds  for  a  certificate, 
as  every  man  may  hunt  who  can  give  fifty  guineas  for  a  hunter.  The 
owner  of  land  has  no  remedy  against  a  certificated  intruder  but  the  law  of 
trespass  ;  which  is  equally  available  against  intruders  of  all  kinds.  Game 
is  not  protected  against  such  a  man  at  all.  Your  fields  and  hedges  are 
protected  against  him  as  against  any  other  trespasser,  but  not  your  phea- 
sants and  partridges.  He  may  kill  these  wherever  he  can  find  them.  And 
though  it  has  been  decided  that  if  you  catch  a  man  shooting  game  on  your 
own  ground  after  he  has  been  once  warned  off,  you  may  take  it  from  him, 
we  think  it  doubtful  whether  this  decision  is  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
the  Act.  But  you  can't  punish  him  for  the  offence,  except  as  a  trespasser, 
neither  can  you  take  his  gun,  as  many  foolish  people  imagine.  It  is  clear, 
therefore,  that  the  right  of  shooting  has  lost  every  vestige  of  an  aristocratic  or 
exclusive  character.  Landowners  and  lords  of  manors  have  no  more  rights 
than  other  people  in  this  respect.  They  cannot  kill  the  game  on  their  own 
ground  without  paying  for  it.  And  poaching,  therefore,  so  far  as  it  tends 
to  diminish  the  supply  of  game  available  for  the  purposes  of  the  certificated 
public,  is  an  offence  against  the  public,  and  not  against  any  one  class. 

These  considerations,  if  more  generally  propagated,  should  tend  to 
relieve  the  game-laws  of  a  good  deal  of  their  odium.  It  is  a  healthy  and 
popular  exercise  which  they  are  designed  to  protect  quite  as  much  as,  or 
more  than,  an  idle  and  patrician  pastime.  And  poachers,  if  the  question 
were  really  understood,  would  be  regarded  everywhere  as  public  nuisances, 
and  not  as  interesting  martyrs.  But  to  go  back  to  the  point  from  which  we 
started,  the  state  of  the  law,  namely,  as  it  affects  the  sale  and  purchase 
of  game. — 

It  is  pretty  clear  that  no  such  effectual  extinguisher  could  be  placed 
upon  poaching  as  a  legislative  enactment  which  should  cut  away  his 
market  from  the  poacher.  At  present,  it  is  beyond  dispute  that  the 
source  and  root  of  all  the  evil  is  in  the  fishmonger's  back-parlour.  It  is 
obvious  that  for  more  than  a  century  and  a  half  this  truth  has  been 
apparent  to  Government,  and  that  they  have  been  fruitlessly  endeavouring 
to  act  upon  it.  But  hitherto  every  attempt  to  check  unlawful  traffic  in 
game  has  been  a  practical  failure.  The  twenty-eighth  clause  of  the  1st 
and  2nd  William  IV.,  which  we  have  already  cited,  has  remained  a  dead 
letter.  Poulterers  and  fishmongers  continue  their  dealings  with  the  poacher 
in  almost  absolute  security,  and  have  been  known  to  joke  even  a  county 
Member  about  the  pheasants  which  they  had  from  his  preserves.  The 


854  POACHING. 

difficulty  of  detection  seems  almost  insuperable.  Yet  until  the  "fence'' 
can  bo  got  at,  we  shall  do  very  little  with  the  thief.  The  Act  of  1862, 
which  empowered  the  police  to  stop  and  search  carts,  or  suspicious-looking 
jacket-pockets,  and  apprehend  the  owners  if  they  were  found  to  contain 
game,  has  worked  well.  But,  after  all,  it  has  hut  thrown  one  additional 
difficulty  in  the  poacher's  path  :  it  has  caused  more  poachers  to  be  caught, 
but  it  hasn't  diminished  poaching.  Neither  will  anything  have  that  effect 
till  a  blow  can  be  struck  at  the  trade ;  till  the  poacher's  profits  are  affected  ; 
till  the  springs  which  feed  the  stream  begin  to  fail.  Till  that  can  be 
done,  we  may  throw  obstacles  in  the  poacher's  way,  but  they  will  no 
more  kill  poaching  than  dams  will  dry  up  a  river. 

If  all  game-preservers  were  forced  to  take  out  a  separate  licence  for 
selling  game,  it  would  have  one  of  two  effects  :  either  they  would  pay  the 
licence,  and  in  that  case  sell  a  great  deal  more  game,  or  they  would  not 
pay  it,  and  in  that  case  would  preserve  a  good  deal  less.  Either  alterna- 
tive would  be  attended  by  other  good  results.  In  the  first  place,  the 
more  game  the  dealers  got  from  gentlemen,  the  less  they  would  require 
from  poachers.  In  the  second  place,  the  payment  of  this  sum  would 
form  an  additional  contribution  to  the  revenue,  and. would  pro  tanto 
diminish  the  odium  of  preserving,  and  proportionably  the  sympathy  with 
poaching.  On  the  second  hypothesis,  excessive  preserving  would  be  got 
rid  of,  the  complaints  of  the  farmer  would  be  stopped,  and  the  profits  of 
poaching  much  reduced.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that  if  this  suggestion 
were  adopted,  means  might  still  be  found  of  bringing  home  offences  to  the 
game-dealers,  and  of  making  their  trade  with  poachers  much  more 
dangerous  and  precarious  than  it  is  at  present.  Moreover,  there  is  no 
reason  why  gentlemen  should  not  make  a  trade  of  rearing  and  selling 
game  as  of  rearing  and  selling  sheep.  And  if  the  system  were  regularly 
established  and  recognized,  it  is  possible  that  a  feeling  would  gradually 
spring  up  among  the  dealers  adverse  to  buying  from  the  poacher.  There 
is  many  a  butcher  now  who  wouldn't  buy  stolen  sheep  though  he  knew  he 
shouldn't  be  detected.  And  we  sincerely  believe  that,  if  poaching  were 
more  generally  exhibited  in  its  true  light,  and  robbed  of  that  mystery 
and  romance  which  at  present  shroud  it,  such  a  feeling  would  become 
very  common. 

Cases  such  as  that  brought  forward  by  Mr.  Taylor,  the  Member  for 
Leicester,  last  July,  are  very  mischievous.  The  miscarriage  of  justice 
which  took  place  in  that  instance  was  immediately  assumed  to  be  an  in- 
separable accident  of  the  game-laws,  and  to  constitute  a  valid  objection  to 
the  existence  of  an  unpaid  magistracy.  The  inference  is  absurd ;  but 
then,  under  existing  circumstances,  men  should  be  very  careful  how  they 
give  a  handle  to  such  absurdities.  When  a  law  is  unpopular,  its  admini- 
strators should  walk  warily.  And  certainly,  if  of  any  crime,  it  may  be 
said  of  poaching  that  it  is  more  prudent  to  let  twenty  guilty  men  go  than 
to  punish  only  one  who  is  innocent.  In  this  instance  two  men  were 
convicted  of  poaching  before  a  Wiltshire  bench  of  magistrates  on  the  sole 


POACHING.  355 

testimony  of  a  gamekeeper.  One  of  the  two  men  had  heen  convicted 
before  :  and  the  gamekeeper  had  been  mistaken  before.  It  was  contended 
that  the  unsupported  evidence  of  a  man  who  had  proved  himself  liable  to 
error  ought  not  to  have  been  accepted  as  conclusive.  Our  own  opinion  is 
that  it  would  have  been  more  prudent  in  the  magistrates  in  such  a  case  to 
have  erred  upon  the  side  of  leniency.  But  there  are  one  or  two  points 
suggested  by  the  case,  which  affect  poaching  in  general,  and  accordingly 
claim  a  place  in  this  article.  One  is  this,  that  there  is  a  border- land  between 
the  professional  poacher  and  the  honest  labourer,  if  not  so  wide  as  it  used 
to  be,  still  much  wider  than  skirts  any  other  criminal  profession ;  and  that 
the  existence  of  this  border-land  is  a  source  of  great  perplexity  to 
magistrates.  If  a  man  is  caught  picking  a  pocket,  or  breaking  into  a 
house,  or  swindling  by  an  assumed  name,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  he  is 
pretty  sure  to  be  a  regular  professional  criminal.  But  the  man  who  snares 
a  rabbit  is  not  equally  sure  to  be  a  professional  poacher.  He  is  on  the 
high-road  to  become  one ;  that  is  certain.  But  he  may  have  done  it  for 
the  fun  of  the 'thing ;  or  from  an  idea  of  its  cleverness ;  or  merely  from  a 
lawless  disposition  in  general.  But  there  is  very  great  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  between  a  man  of  this  class,  and  a  confirmed  offender  :  and 
probably  hardly  any  one  can  do  it  but  those  who  live  upon  the  spot,  and 
have  constant  opportunities  of  observing  him.  This  is  one  reason  why  the 
evidence  of  gamekeepers  and  the  decision  of  local  magistrates  have  often 
more  in  them  than  meets  the  eye  of  the  general  public.  This  is  a  point 
in  their  favour.  There  is,  secondly,  one  that  tells  against  them  in  just 
about  an  equal  degree.  Between  gamekeepers  and  poachers,  and  especially 
such  poachers  as  oftenest  come  before  the  magistrates,  there  is  a  much  more 
bitter  feeling  than  exists  between  officers  of  justice  in  general  and  criminals 
in  general.  They  are  pitted  against  each  other  in  a  much  more  personal 
way ;  and  the  game  which  the  poacher  takes  is  what  the  keeper  regards 
almost  as  his  own.  He  has  reared  it  and  tended  it  early  and  late,  and 
has  an  interest  in  it  which  it  is  quite  impossible  a  policeman  should  feel 
for  the  stock-in-trade  of  a  goldsmith  or  a  watchmaker.  Then,  again,  the 
policeman  is  one  of  a  numerous  and  disciplined  force,  the  lustre  of  whose 
exploits  is  reflected  upon  each  member  of  it,  whether  he  has  done  anything 
himself  or  not.  But  a  keeper  has  his  own  reputation  either  to  make  or  to 
maintain.  What  keepers  in  general  may  do  affects  not  him.  He  would 
be  thought  none  the  better  of,  though  a  keeper  in  the  next  county  had 
taken  twenty  poachers  single-handed.  Consequently,  there  is  generally  a 
tendency,  kept  in  check,  or  developed  according  to  the  character  of  the 
master,  on  the  part  of  keepers  to  make  business,  and  to  demonstrate  their 
own  activity.  Gentlemen  should  always  be  upon  their  guard  against  this 
very  natural  weakness  of  human  nature  ;  for  sure  we  are  that  in  the  feuds 
upon  the  subject  of  game  which  agitate  most  rural  districts,  it  plays  a  most 
important  part,  and  is  at  the  bottom  of  many  of  the  crimes  which  are 
mostly  charged  against  the  game-laws. 


856 


irase  %t  Sorfi  guilt. 


SOME  years  ago — Eheu !  fuyaces,  (£c. — I  wrote,  in  the  infancy  of  this 
Magazine,  a  modest  essay,  entitled  "The  House  that  John  Built."  The 
John  was  that  venerable  gentleman,  Mr.  John  Company  of  the  East  Indies, 
then  recently  deceased,  and  I  spoke  with  tender  regrets,  and  almost, 
indeed,  with  mournful  memories  of  the  old  times,  when  I  served  the  honest 
merchant  in  his  great  house  in  Leadenhall.  Since  that  time,  the 
delenda  est  has  become  the  dehta  est,  if  I  am  not  wrong  in  the  tenses, 
which  I  learnt  at  Christ's  in  the  old  hatless  days  of  yellow  stockings. 
Not  one  stone  stands  upon  another.  The  old  street,  whose  pavements  I 
trod  for  so  many  years,  should  now  be  baptized  anew,  taking  the  name  of 
"  Ichabod  Street,"  for  "the  glory  has  departed."  I  went  there  once 
after  Mr.  Company's  servants  were  sent  to  lodge  in  the  tavern  over  against 
the  Abbey  of  Westminster,  and  I  saw,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
the  ruins  of  "  The  House  that  John  Built."  One  wall  only  remained, 
with  some  projecting  roofs  and  floors ;  and  I  discerned,  for  the  last  time, 
a  fragment  of  the  room  in  which  I  had  done  Mr.  Company's  work  for  so 
many  long  years.  With  a  mist  about  my  eyes,  I  retreated  to  the  region 
which  gives  its  name  to  the  work  in  which  I  now  write,  and  I  never  had 
the  heart  to  journey  again  into  the  old  street.  I  am  told  that  on  the  site 
where  once  stood  the  House  that  John  Built,  there  is  now  a  vast  stack  of 
offices  in  which  business  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  is  done  by  a  miscellaneous 
assemblage  of  merchantmen  and  brokers,  and  promoters  of  public  com- 
panies. It  may  be  a  fanciful  thought,  but  it  has  seemed  to  me,  that 
ever  since  the  demise  of  Mr.  John  Company,  the  good  old  family  name 
has  fallen  into  disrepute.  There  is  assuredly  an  unsavoury  odour  about 
it  in  these  days  ;  for,  whereas  it  was  the  pride  of  Mr.  John  Company  to 
raise  many  to  fame  and  fortune,  the  companies  which  have  fungused  up 
since  his  time,  bring  only  ruin  and  disgrace. 

Thus  the  old  House  of  which  I  wrote  is  clean  gone  from  the  East ; 
and  a  grand  mansion  or  palace  has  risen  up  in  the  West,  for  the  use  of 
Mr.  Company's  successors.  It  is  easier  to  pull  down  than  to  build  up, 
whether  it  be  fame,  fortune,  or  a  big  house  ;  and  it  has  been  no  surprise 
to  me,  therefore,  to  find  that,  as  I  write,  the  business  is  still  carried  on  at 
the  temporary  lodgings  in  the  Tavern.  It  may  be,  however,  that  before 
these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  the  public,  the  flitting  will  have  commenced, 
and  that  if  my  old  comrades  and  their  masters  are  not  then  fairly  housed 
in  their  new  abode,  they  will  at  least  be  on  their  way  to  Downing  Street. 
I  am  minded,  therefore,  in  this  month  of  August,  having  been  taken  by 
my  nephew  Marmaduke  (now  a  senior  clerk  in  what  is  called  the  Indian 


THE   HOUSE  THAT   SCOTT  BUILT.  357 

Department  of  her  Majesty's  Government)  all  over  the  new  building,  to 
say  something  about  it,  after  my  own  rambling,  desultory  fashion.  Per- 
haps something  of  everything  will  be  found  in  my  discourse,  except  that 
of  which  I  may  be  most  expected  to  speak — the  architecture  of  the  new 
Indian  Palace,  whereof  I  know  nothing.  Indeed,  looking  at  the  outside 
of  the  thing,  I  must  confess  that  I  cannot  quite  take  in  the  design.  But, 
peradventure,  the  reason  of  this  is  that  the  original  conception  of  a  group 
of  public  offices  has  not  yet  been  carried  out  to  completion.  Looking  at 
it  the  other  day,  from  the  park  of  St.  James,  on  my  way  to  the  Tea-and- 
Toast  Club,  hard  by  the  site  of  old  Charlton  House,  which  ever  brings 
back  to  my  memory  the  old  days  of  OEdipus  Tyrannus,  I  confess  I  could 
make  nothing  of  it  as  a  whole,  though  some  of  the  details  are  mighty 
pretty ;  and  I  wished  that  good^  Mr.  Gilbert  or  Mr.  Digby  were  at  my 
elbow  to  delight  me  with  an  intelligent  demonstration  'in  default  of  any 
light  of  my  own.  But  I  am  bound  to  have  faith  in  those  great  men — and 
there  is  no  faith  so  pure  as  that  which  gropes  hopelessly  in  the  dark. 

Not  questioning,  therefore,  the  excellency  of  the  external  structure, 
either  as  a  whole  in  esse,  or  part  of  a  whole  in  jjosse,  I  pass  on  to  the  con- 
templation of  the  interior,  which  is  an  emanation,  as  I  am  instructed,  of 
the  fertile  genius  of  Mister  Digby  Wyatt.  I  speak  only  of  that  part  which 
belongs  to  the  successors  of  Mr.  Company,  who  are  to  be  housed  in  what 
is  now  a  semi-detached  palace,  the  managers  of  her  Majesty's  Foreign 
Department  being  their  neighbours — my  profane  footsteps  have  not  trodden 
that  part  of  the  great  House  that  Scott  Built — nor  do  I  know  aught  of  the 
inner  chambers.  But  although  I  am  little  addicted  to  gauds — a  matter 
whereof  I  purpose  presently  to  speak  with  greater  amplitude — I  am  pleased 
as  an  Englishman  to  see  that  these  high  officers  of  her  Majesty  the  Queen 
have  a  fitting  place  for  the  reception  of  the  ambassadors  and  envoys  of 
foreign  Powers  who  have  relations  in  this  favoured  country.  There  is 
"glory,"  as  the  poet  wrote,  in  "moderation;"  but  those  old  houses  in 
Downing  Street  were  on  the  wrong  side  of  moderation.  It  was  not  merely 
that  they  were  not  palatial,  but  that  they  were  absolutely  shabby — of  such 
a  poor  and  paltry  appearance  altogether,  that  even  humble-minded  English- 
men might  blush  to  think  that  the  ambassadors  of  great  emperors  and  kings 
should  be  received  amidst  so  much  dreariness  and  dirt.  Famous  all  over 
the  world  was  Downing  Street — but  what  a  poor  little  place  it  was  !  How 
many  people  have  made  pilgrimages  thither,  looked  up  the  street 
incredulously,  and  returned  ruefully  disappointed  at  the  rnomeflt,  and 
de-illusionised  for  the  rest  of  their  days.  It  was,  even  in  the  estima- 
tion of  plain  men  like  myself,  not  at  all  given  to  the  vanities,  a  national 
shame  that  foreign  countries  should  see  our  great  Ministers  so  poorly 
housed.  There  was  not  a  nobleman  in  the  country,  or  a  private  gentleman 
of  good  estate,  who  would  have  lived  in  that  miserable  cul  de  sac — not 
much  better  than  a  West  End  mews.  I  trust  that,  in  the  Foreign  Minister's 
new  house,  Mr.  Scott  has  provided  a  grand  "  salon,"  as  I  think  it  is 
called,  in  which  may  be  held  those  conferences,  on  the  issues  of  which  the 


358  THE   HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT   BUILT. 

peace  of  the  world  so  often  hinges  and  depends.  We  may  manage  our 
own  little  affairs  as  poorly  as  we  like — I  do  not  know  that  it  much  matters 
that  we  should  decide  such  questions  as  those  of  over-charged  income-tax 
or  tickets-of-leave  in  grand  ministerial  edifices.  But  when  it  is  the  duty 
of  Britannia  to  give  a  reception  to  other  Powers,  it  becomes  her  to  wear 
becoming  vestments,  not  to  disfigure  herself  with  mean  apparel.  "  What 
is  Majesty  deprived  of  its  externals?"  "A  jest.1'  And  so  the  repre- 
sentatives of  Majesty  may  make  themselves  ludibria,  or  laughing-stocks,  if 
they  do  not  make  a  becoming  appearance  in  the  sight  of  our  allies. 

But,  for  all  this,  I  am  not  without  a  feeling  of  apprehension  that  there 
is  a  little  too  much  of  outward  display  in  the  new  apartments  which  have 
been  assigned  to  the  successors  of  Mr.  John  Company.  I  think  that 
people  who  have  important  work  to  do,  ought  to  be  well  housed.  They 
should  have  light  and  air  and  space.  These  conditions  it  is  essential  to 
fulfil.  But  when  they  are  fulfilled,  I  do  not  know  that,  for  ordinary 
purposes  of  business,  much  more  is  required.  I  know  that  in  what  I 
write  there  is  more  or  less  of  the  prejudice  of  the  superannuated  man — 
the  laudato i'  temporis  acti,  who  thinks  that  "  whatever  was  is  best."  But 
there  was  a  sort  of  sombre  simplicity  about  the  House  that  John  Built, 
which  if  it  did  not  look  like  beauty,  certainly  looked  like  work.  There 
was  very  little  in  the  way  of  decoration  about  it  except  the  mirrors  and 
the  marble  mantel-piece  in  the  court-room,  which  latter  article  of  vertu, 
being  an  allegorical  representation  somewhat  commercial  in  its  tenden- 
cies, has  been  removed  to  the  new  council- chamber.  But  we  never  had 
much  time  to  look  about  us,  and  we  were  regardless  o£  such  things  as 
fresh  paint  and  gilding  and  cornices  of  elaborate  device.  The  change, 
however,  is  all  in  accordance  with  what  is  called  the  "  spirit  of  the  age." 
Even  the  city  of  London  has  cast  off  the  severe  simplicity  so  redolent  of 
business  which  was  erst  the  prevailing  style  of  its  houses.  They  build 
palaces  now  in  place  of  houses  ;  or  at  least  they  have  palatial  fronts, 
distinguished  by  all  sorts  of  fanciful  designs.  Banks  and  Insurance 
companies  and  even  private  firms,  content  in  the  Georgian  era  with 
modest  edifices  of  brick  and  mortar,  straight  up  from  basement  to  roof, 
with  everything  like  their  business  "  on  the  square,"  now  put  on  false 
fronts  of  the  most  pretentious  kind ;  and  as  to  the  taverns  or  hotels  of 
the  present  age,  verily  they  are  of  royal  aspect,  magnificent  to  behold. 
But  it  may  not  perhaps  be  all  an  old  man's  prejudice,  if  I  think  sometimes 
that  the  business,  which  is  thus  gorgeously  represented  on  the  surface, 
may  be  almost  as  gimcracky  as  its  fantastic  front.  My  mind  misgives  me 
when  I  contemplate  all  this  finery.  It  is  what  one  of  my  respected 
seniors  in  the  old  house,  Mr.  Charles  Lamb,  would  have  called  not 
decoration  but  "  decoyration."  And  the  saddest  part  of  all  is  that  the 
cheatery  extends  even  to  God's  most  perfect  works — fair  women,  who 
have  become  in  these  days  mere  "  painted  sepulchres,"  false  of  colour, 
false  of  hair,  plastered  and  padded  and  made  up  with  all  sorts  of  ingenious 
contrivances  for  giving  false  proportions  to  the  human  frame.  "  The 


THE   HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT  BUILT.  359 

pity  of  it,  oh,  lago !  pity  of  it."  What  sane  man  with  wife-ward 
tendencies  would  choose  a  help-mate  from  among  these  decoy- rated 
damsels,  instead  of  following  the  example  of  good  Doctor  Primrose? 
And  I  confess  that'  if  I  were  a  young  man,  beginning  life,  and  had  choice 
of  clerkships  before  me,  I  would  rather  covet  a  stool  in  a  house  of  the 
good  old  inornate  type  than  in  one  of  those  grand  new  palaces,  with  their 
elaborate  frontages,  or,  as  it  is  the  fashion  to  call  them,  fagades. 

I   do  not,  therefore,   as  at  present  minded,   contemplating,    with   a 
certain  amount  of  admiration,  this  magnificent  structure,  think  that   it 
''looks  like  business."     On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  conceded,  that 
on  the  evening  of  the  19th  of  July,  in  this  present  year,  when  the  doors 
of  the  new  office  were  first  opened  to  the  public,  and  the  Grand  Turk  was 
entertained   by   Mr.   Company's   successors,    it   looked   wonderfully  like 
pleasure.     In  virtue  of  my  position  as  a  pensioned  servant  of  Mr.  Com- 
pany,   I   was   permitted   to   look   down   from   an  upper  gallery  at  this 
entertainment ;  and  truly  it  was  a  beautiful  sight.     It  was  like  a  scene 
out  of  the  Arabian  Nights;  but  the  solitary  touch  of  business  in  the  whole 
was  that  it  went  on  "from  ten  to  four," — though  from  eve  to  morn 
instead  of  from  morn  to  eve ;  and  perhaps  not  a  few  rejoiced  as  greatly 
when  the  pleasure-hours  were  over  as  any  workers  at  the  desk  rejoice 
when  the  moment  of  emancipation  is  at  hand,  and  the  pen  is  wiped  finally 
on  the  blotting  pad.     I  have  observed  that  a  great  deal  has  been  said  and 
written  about  this  entertainment.     In  the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament 
especially  there  was  overmuch  of  malignant  speech,  which,  it  occurred  to 
me,  would  not  have  been  vented  if  the  patriotic  speakers  had  been  among 
the  invited  guests.     Verily,  are  we  to  "  have  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ?  " 
For  my  part,   as  I  wrote  of  yore,  I  think  hospitality   is   seemly   and 
becoming,  and  tends  to  good  service.     Mr.  Company  was  not  forgetful 
of  the  duties  of  hospitality.     He  did  many  kindly  and  genial  things.     He 
gave  all  his  principal  domestic  servants  the   temperate   refreshment   of 
breakfast  at  any  hour  of  .the  day ;  and  he  invited  them,  from  time  to  time, 
with  others  who  had  served  him  abroad,  to  dinner  at  the  London  Tavern- 
in  Bishopgate  or  elsewhere, — and  no  better   dinners   were    ever   given. 
Once  a  year,  too,  he  had  a  select  party  at  Mr.  Lovegrove's  Tavern  on 
the  banks  of  the  Thames,  by  Blackwall,  which  were  among  the  pleasantest 
festivities  of  the  season.     I  touched  upon  some  of  these  points  when  I 
wrote  of  the  merits  of  Mr.  Company,  many  years  ago,  but  it  is  an  old 
man's  privilege  to  repeat  himself;  and  what  I  say  now  is  proper  to  the 
occasion.     Since  Mr.   Company's  demise  there   have  been   no  signs   of 
hospitality ;  there  has  been  no  good  cheer.     And  I  know  enough  of  the 
financial  expenditure  of  that  establishment  (for  I  spent  my  life  in  the 
"Accounts'  Branch")   to  be  cognizant  of  the  fact,  that  in  those  nine 
years  this  timid  parsimony,  though  it  may  have  been  in  the  main,  as 
small  economy  always  is,  a  loss,  must  have  shown  immediate  results  of 
profit  on  the  books  of  the  concern,  by  no  means  scored  out  by  the  cost 
of  the  entertainment  to  the  Grand  Turk.     I  think,  however,  that  it  would 


360  THE  HOUSE  THAT   SCOTT  BUILT. 

be  more  beneficial  to  revert  to  the  old  plan  of  distributive  hospitality; 
and  that  the  fat  bucks  and  the  lively  turtles  of  past  years  did  more  for 
the  "  services  "  than  ever  could  be  done  by  a  decennial  dance,  with 
blocks  of  ice  in  the  corridors,  a  deficiency  of  clean  plates  and  cold  chicken 
in  the  supper-rooms,  and  young  guardsmen,  who  would  die  rather  than 
go  to  the  Indies,  as  masters  of  the  ceremonies. 

I  do  not  write  this  in  disparagement  of  the  entertainment  to  the  Grand 
Turk,  which  all  the  world  pronounced  to  be  the  greatest  success  of  the 
season.  Indeed,  though  I  only  looked  down  upon  it  from  on  high,  I 
was  charmed  by  the  spectacle  that  presented  itself  to  my  gaze  through 
my  neplzew  Marmaduke's  race-glasses.  And  not  the  least  charming 
part  of  the  sight  was  that  of  so  many  of  Mr.  Company's  old  servants, 
whose  faces  I  recognized  despite  their  unaccustomed  costumes,  above 
their  uniforms  or  their  courtiers'  garbs,  with  "  knees  and  buckles."  For 
a  rumour  had  run  through  the  club-houses,  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Com- 
pany's successors  were  minded  rather  to  open  their  doors  to  fashionable 
nonentities,  immortalized  by  Mr.  Debrett,  than  to  men  who  will  live  in 
the  history  of  India.  I  confess  that  the  rumour  disturbed  me  greatly ; 
but  I  am  not  the  first  man  who  has  been  disquieted  by  a  lie.  Even  in 
that  great  crowd,  where  so  many  must  have  escaped  an  old  man's  not 
over-quick  observation,  I  saw  so  many  old  familiar  faces,  with  a  prescrip- 
tive right  to  be  there,  and  read  next  day  so  many  names  of  younger  heroes, 
the  Probyns  and  John  Watsons  of  a  later  generation,  who  had  done 
glorious  work  in  the  time  of  our  greatest  need,  that  I  was  well  satisfied 
that  Mr.  Company's  servants  had  not  been  left  under  the  "  cold  shade." 
I  was  pleased,  too,  to  see  that  in  the  upper  gallery,  wherein  many  younger 
members  of  the  Home  Establishment,  and  their  families,  had  been  suffered 
to  disport  themselves,  there  was  as  keen  an  enjoyment  of  the  festival  as 
in  the  lower  more  crowded  rooms ;  that  the  strains  of  Mr.  Godfrey's 
music  lost  nothing  in  the  ascent ;  and  that  as  there  was  more  space,  and 
not  less  champagne,  the  supplementary  dances,  which  were  improvised 
late  in  the  evening,  were  perhaps  the  least  dreary  of  all. 

I  could  not  have  passed  over  in  an  essay,  professing  to  give  some 
account  of  the  House  that  Scott  built,  and  that  Wyatt  decorated,  some 
mention  of  that  magnificent  house-warming  on  the  19th  of  July.  But 
it  is  only  an  episode,  and  the  serious  matter  before  me  is  work,  not 
pleasure.  The  main  question  is,  whether  the  house  is  well  suited  to  the 
business  that  is  to  be  done  in  it.  I  inquired,  when  my  nephew  Marmaduke 
conducted  me  over  the  great  building,  into  the  arrangement  and  disposition 
of  the  several  chambers  for  the  conduct  of  public  business ;  and  I  was 
well  pleased  to  see  that  the  accommodation  was  excellent,  both  for  profit 
and  pleasure,  and  that  future  generations  of  India's  home-servants  will  be 
comfortably  lodged.  It  is  a  common  accident  that  if  a  house  is  long 
a-building,  the  circumstances  of  the  future  occupants  change  before  the 
work  is  done  ;  so  that  what  was  perfect  adaptation  in  the  first  design,  may 
not  be  so  in  the  final  completion.  I  remember  that  when  once,  with  a  poor 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  SCOTT  BUILT.  361 

little  mite  of  money,  my  clerkly  savings,  I  did  a  humble  bit  of  building 
myself,  everything  was  changed  with  me  before  I  could  take  possession, 
and,  indeed,  it  was  all  so  saddened  by  painful  memories,  that  I  never  cared 
to  enter  the  rooms,  which  had  been  built  under  a  flush  of  rosy  hopes 
and  joyful  expectations.  And  there  is  something  of  this  sadness,  though 
not  the  same  personal  sharpness  of  sorrow,  in  the  thought  that  whilst  this 
great  house  was  being  built,  there  were  changes  in  the  establishment,  and 
that  not  only  individual  servants  for  whom  accommodation  had  been 
prepared,  but  whole  departments  disappeared  from  the  scene,  before  the 
building  was  ready  for  their  reception.  This  was,  perhaps,  a  gain  to  the 
rest.  It  would  have  been  worse  if  the  family  had  grown  up  faster  than  the 
building,  and  it  had  been  found  that  there  was  not  a  sufficiency  of  space 
for  so  large  an  official  population.  But  still  I  have  said  that  there  is  some- 
thing, to  an  old  man  like  myself,  mournful  in  the  thought  of  the  disap- 
pearance of  old  institutions  to  which  I  had  been  accustomed  all  my  life. 
Time  was,  for  example,  when  Mr.  Company's  Marine  Department  was  not 
one  of  the  least  serviceable,  or  the  least  honoured  parts  of  his  establish- 
ment. Not  to  speak  of  those  earlier  times,  when  Mr.  Company  had  a 
grand  fleet  of  merchant- ships  of  his  own,  and  on  those  precious  argosies 
brought  home  the  produce  of  the  East,  I  may  recall  the  days  when  there 
was  an  Indian  navy,  as  there  was  an  Indian  army ;  and  men  skilled  in 
the  languages  and  familiar  with  the  usages  of  the  countries  skirting  the 
waters  in  which  they  sailed,  had  not  given  place  to  her  Majesty's  sea- 
captains  with  strange  eccentric  notions  of  the  way  of  dealing  with  native 
chiefs, — the  days,  too,  when  Mr.  Company  sent  every  year  thousands  of 
white  troops  to  the  Indies,  in  transport  vessels,  which  he  took  up  for  the 
purpose ;  but  all  this,  too,  has  gone,  and  his  successors  only  build  troop- 
ships for  others  to  use,  leaving  it  to  servants,  dwelling  in  Somerset  House, 
to  manage  the  fleet,  as  if  it  belonged  to  their  own  masters.  And  this  is 
not  the  only  gap  that  I  find  in  the  Departments.  But  I  doubt  whether 
aught  has  been  done  better  since  Mr.  Company  died,  or  whether  his  suc- 
cessors will  find  better  servants  at  home  or  in  the  Indies. 

It  is  an  old  saying,  and  all  the  more  precious  for  its  age,  that  "  Good 
masters  make  good  servants;"  and  Mr.  Company,  as  I  said  of  old,  was 
one  of  the  best  of  masters.  I  have  heard  much  in  praise  and  honour  of 
the  magnates  who  now  sit  in  the  high  places  occupied  in  past  times  by  the 
Directors  of  Mr.  Company's  affair^.  Indeed,  some  of  the  old  familiar 
names  are  still  to  be  seen  on  the  Kegister,  and  I  saw  some  of  the  old 
familiar  faces  shining  above  the  liveried  figures  that  ushered  the  Grand 
Turk  into  the  new  Palace  on  the  great  occasion  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
But  names,  and  even  faces,  do  not  make  Directors.  The  salt  has  lost  its 
savour  in  these  times.  It  may  be  true,  in  one  sense,  that  "  Knowledge  is 
Power ; "  but  it  is  still  more  true  that  "  Patronage  is  Power."  When  the 
patronage  went  to  her  Majesty  the  Queen,  or  the  Queen's  Minister,  or  was 
thrown  into  a  common  store  to  be  raffled  or  "  competed  "  for  by  the  out- 
side world,  all  the  power  passed  away  from  the  managers  of  the  great 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  93.  18. 


362  THE  HOUSE  THAT   SCOTT  BUILT. 

concern;  and  the  kindly  patriarchal  interest  which  they  took  in  their 
servants  passed  away  with  it.  They  became  only  upper  servants  them- 
selves, paid  to  do  certain  work,  which  some  think  was  not  much 
wanted.  And  I  have  heard  it  said  by  my  nephew  Marmaduke,  and 
others  who  have  stools  in  the  new  concern,  that  the  old  ties  are 
quite  loosened,  and  that  those  who  sit  in  the  high  places  have  no  sort 
of  parental  tenderness  for  those  who  sit  in  the  low.  It  is  a  recollection 
truly  grateful  in  both  senses  of  the  adjective,  for  an  old  man  like  myself 
to  look  back  upon  the  days  when  Mr.  Company's  Directors,  having 
good  things  to  give  away,  ever  remembered  that  patronage,  like  chanty, 
should  "  begin  at  home,"  and  seldom  gave  out  of  the  house  what 
was  wanted  within  it.  To  serve  Mr.  Company  was  to  make  handsome 
provision  for  one's  sons,  or,  in  respect  of  childless  men  like  myself,  for 
one's  nephews  ;  so  that  a  servant  in  the  old  House  that  John  Built  felt, 
if  he  was  not  adding  much  to  his  worldly  store,  that  he  was  laying  up 
a  good  heritage  for  his  children  in  his  admitted  claims  on  Mr.  Company, 
by  reason  of  faithful  service.  One  did  not  spare  any  trouble  for  masters 
who  were  so  good  to  their  servants.  If  they  sent  for  you  one  day  to 
explain  some  difficult  passage  in  their  correspondence  with  the  Indies, 
they  sent  for  you  next  day  to  offer  you  a  writer's  covenant  or  a  cadet's 
commission  or  a  clerk's  stool  in  the  old  House  itself  for  some  of  your  kith 
and  kin.  But  all  this  has  now  become  a  tradition — "  a  history  little 
known."  Competition  has  swallowed  up  the  claims  of  good  and  faithful 
service,  and  what  little  patronage  is  left  after  that  monster  has  been 
satiated,  goes  to  satisfy  the  exigencies  of  Party.  There  is  no  blame  to 
any  one.  As  a  department  of  her  Majesty's  Government,  it  only  follows 
the  example  of  other  departments  of  her  Majesty's  Government,  in  which 
the  great  solvent  of  competition  has  loosened  the  Tite  Barnacles  (whereof 
Mr.  Dickens  wrote  in  such  a  pleasant  vein  of  exaggeration)  from  the  rock 
to  which  they  clung,  generation  after  generation,  with  so  much  affectionate 
tenacity.  There  were  Tite  Barnacles  on  Mr.  Company's  establishment  at 
home  and  abroad ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  they  did  their  work  any  less 
effectually  for  being  born  as  it  were  on  the  rock,  and  sticking  to  it  with 
all  their  might.  Indeed,  I  believe  that  the  great  evil  of  the  present 
day  is  the  want  of  that  very  tenacity,  which  has  been  held  up  to  scorn 
and  reproach  by  writers  of  fiction  who  have  more  erratic  genius  than 
knowledge  upon  these  points.  Yes,  indeed,  since  I  last  wrote  in  these 
pages,  more  than  seven  years  agone,  I  have  seen  that  the  great  solvent 
has  been  a  little  too  effectual  in  the  Indies, — that  everybody  is  trying 
to  sit  as  loosely  as  possible  to  his  work, — that  the  principle  most  venerated 
now-a-days  is  a  common  hatred  of  India  and  all  belonging  to  it.  But  it 
was  not  so  once.  Mr.  Company  had  Tite  Barnacles  who  loved  their  rock — 
workmen  who  loved  their  work.  Go  to  the  House  that  Scott  Built  and  see  ? 
It  was  a  pleasant  notion  to  decorate  the  new  office  with  the  marble 
effigies — some  in  full-length  statues,  others  only  in  busts — of  the  great 
men  who  from  time  to  time  have  served  Mr.  Company,  from  the  days  of 


THE  HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT  BUILT.  363 

Clive  to  the  days  of  Clyde.  It  is  truly  what  maybe  called  a  "  Walhalla  " 
of  heroes, — for  Indian  statesmanship  is,  for  the  most  part,  heroic ;  and 
men  like  Elphinstone  and  Metcalfe,  in  the  course  of  their  careers,  were 
tried  in  the  furnace,  even  as  soldiers  were,  and  showed  as  much  British 
pluck.  It  is  truly  a  great  thing  to-remember  that  Mr.  Company's  system 
fostered  all  this  heroic  growth.  What  a  chapter  might  be  written  upon 
this  gallery  of  marble  soldiers  and  statesmen  !  What  truly  great  men 
Mr.  Company  had  under  him  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  merchant  princes 
of  Leadenhall !  But  it  grieves  me  to  think  that  the  nation  is  out-living 
its  gratitude, — that  there  is  a  younger  generation  of  English  statesmen 
no-w  starting  into  vigorous  life,  who  think  it  a  glory  to  them  to  fling 
reproaches  at  Indian  servants  and  Indian  systems.  Yet,  practical  denial 
is  given  to  these  reproaches  by  the  fact,  that  when  a  good  public  servant  is 
wanted  for  imperial  purposes,  they  are  fain  to  resort  to  the  list  of 
Mr.  Company's  retired  establishment,  civil  or  military :  as  when  the  other 
day  they  sent  John  Grant  to  Jamaica  and  Patrick  Grant  to  Malta, — as 
years  before  they  made  good  use  of  Metcalfe,  Clerk,  Pottinger,  Anderson, 
Trevelyan  and  others  whom  the  nation  could  not  do  without  in  its  sorest 
straits  and  convulsions.  The  rising  choler  is  restrained  by  these  thoughts. 
Such  a  nursery  of  captains,  such  a  nursery  of  rulers,  no  nation  has  ever 
owned  in  a  far-off  dependency  since  the  world  began.  And  are  we  now 
to  speak  scorn  of  all  these  strong-headed,  strong-hearted  men,  because 
once  in  a  generation  a  pretender  may  be  found  out  lacking  both  heart  and 
head  ?  Are  Khirkee,  Mehidpore,  Lucknow,  Delhi  to  be  forgotten,  because 
there  was  a  great  fiasco  in  Orissa  ? 

I  have  been  thinking  that  the  young  statesmen  who  talk  in  this 
strain  might  be  sent  to  learn  better  from  these  "  animated  busts  " — these 
"  true  and  lively  portraitures  " — of  our  great  men  gone  before.  Let 
them  learn  the  truth  from  these  silent  witnesses — these  solemn  memorials 
of  the  mighty  dead.  I  am  almost  minded  to  offer  myself  as  Examiner. 
I  think  I  could  put  a  young  lord,  or  a  middle-aged  commoner  through  his 
facings  in  that  gallery ;  and  at  odd  times  I  might  act  as  cicerone  to  the 
outside  public,  with  a  wand  of  office,  and  do  my  spiriting  like  a  pensioner 
at  Greenwich  or  a  black-robed  housekeeper  at  Woburn.  It  might  be  as 
good  as  most  lectures  ;  more  interesting,  and — shade  of  Sir  Joseph, 
forgive  me ! — more  useful  than  anything  to  be  heard  on  a  Thursday 
evening  at  the  Royal  Society.  For  if  there  be  aught  which  it  is  pro- 
fitable to  learn,  it  is  that  great  lesson  of  "  self-help  "  which  has  been  as 
nobly  illustrated  in  the  lives  of  Mr.  Company's  servants  as  in  those  of 
England's  great  engineers.  How  many,  represented  there  in  the  cold 
marble,  started  from  obscure  beginnings,  and  taking  the  motto  of  the 
chivalrous  Sidney,  Aut  viam  inveniam  aut  faciam,  made  their  way  to  the 
front,  and  landed  themselves  on  the  broad  shining  table- lands  of  full 
success  and  perfect  glory.  They  were  men  who  stuck  to  the  rock  for  long 
years,  not  ever  yearning  after  strange  waters,  and  their  adhesiveness  was 
the  basis  of  their  success. 

18 — o 


364  THE  HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT  BUILT, 

I  say  again,  it  was  a  happy  thought  to  place  in  the  new  house  the 
marble  effigies  of  many  of  the  great  men  who  were  the  glory  of  the  old. 
If  it  be  not  ungracious  to  hint  a  fault  where  so  much  is  to  commend,  I 
should  say  that  the  space  given  in  the  gallery  to  Mr.  Company's  old 
Leadenhall  Directors  is  scarcely  equal  to  their  deserts.  There  is  a  niche 
given  to  Charles  Grant  the  elder,  of  whom  it  has  been  said,  and  with 
truth,  that  at  one  time  he  was  little  less  than  Mr.  Company  himself.  His 
palmiest  days  were  before  my  time  ;  but  there  was  much  vital  sap  in  the 
trunk,  even  when  the  leaf  was  sere.  And  I  have  known  other  Directors, 
now  passed  away  from  the  scene,  who  were  living  influences  in  Leaden- 
hall,  and  did  much  to  keep  the  wheels  of  Indian  Government  on  the  right 
road.  Mr.  Neill  Edmonstone  and  Mr.  St.  George  Tucker,  who  had 
graduated  in  Mr.  Company's  Bengal  service,  were  among  the  most  notable 
of  these.  After  an  experience  of  forty  years  of  desk-work,  I  may  say 
with  some  authority  that,  as  a  general  rule,  Mr.  Company's  Directors, 
though  well  fitted  for  the  general  direction  of  affairs  for  which  they  were 
elected,  rather  marred  than  mended  the  work  of  their  servants,  when 
they  interfered  over-much  in  the  concerns  of  the  house.  For  it  is  one 
thing  to  know  what  should  be  written,  and  another  to  determine  how  to 
write  it.  But  the  two  Directors  whom  I  have  named  had  an  official  style, 
at  once  weighty  and  clear,  and  in  their  hands  the  pen  neither  blurred  nor 
blotched.  They  were  right  honest  men  too — strong  in  defence  of  the 
right,  and  were  ready  to  go  to  prison  for  it.  Others,  too,  might  be 
named,  chronologically  before  or  after  them,  worthy  to  be  perpetuated  in 
marble  as  representatives  of  the  fast- expiring  race  of  "  old-Indian  "  states- 
men, who  were  not  ashamed  to  live  in  the  City,  and  who  signed  themselves, 
in  all  sincerity,  "  Your  loving  friends." 

But,  albeit  my  own  natural  and  I  hope  venial  predilections  cause  me 
to  lament  these  omissions,  I  am  pleased  and  proud  when  I  contemplate 
the  grand  list  of  Mr.  Company's  servants,  whose  effigies  preside  over  the 
beautiful  corridors  of  the  new  house — when  I  think  of  such  men  as  Barry 
Close,  and  John  Malcolm,  and  Thomas  Munro,  in  the  good  old  Welles- 
leyan  days — men  who  never  spared  themselves  when  there  was  good  work 
to  be  done,  and  who  never  did  any  work  that  they  did  not  honestly  and 
well — or  of  men,  in  the  other  service,  like  Elphinstone  and  Metcalfe,  who 
never  faltered  in  the  face  of  any  danger,  and  never  shrunk  from  any  toil, 
so  long  as  the  harness  was  on  their  backs.  And. there  are  others  in  whom, 
from  personal  knowledge,  I  have  a  more  living  interest — men  of  later 
renown,  whose  deeds,  within  our  own  time,  stirred  the  heart  of  the  nation  to 
its  depths.  There  is  Pollock,  who  brightened  anew  the  tarnished  glory 
of  our  English  military  renown,  and  reared  again  the  British  colours  which 
had  been  dragged  and  draggled  through  the  blood-stained  snows  of  the 
Afghan  passes — a  veteran  who  still  remains  amongst  us  to  enjoy  what  he 
has  sown  and  reaped.  There  is  Outram,  the  heroic,  the  chivalrous,  sus- 
tained ever  by  a  great  enthusiasm,  tender  of  heart,  generous,  and  self- 
denying,  but  ever  eager  to  be  in  the  front  of  the  battle — one  of  whose  life 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  SCOTT  BUILT.  865 

and  death  there  is  meet  record  in  these  pages.  There  is  Henry  Lawrence, 
greatest  and  best  of  those  soldier-statesmen  of  whom  Mr.  Company  was  so 
proud,  because  they  were  of  his  own  peculiar  growth ;  one  that  was  seldom 
"  matched  of  earthly  hands" — "  the  truest  to  his  sworn  brother  of  any  that 
buckled  on  the  spear  " — and  all  men  were  his  sworn  brethren  ;  with  a 
spirit  strong  but  gentle  ;  made  alike  for  great  actions  and  for  loving 
deeds ;  who  lived  ever  for  his  fellows,  who  died  for  his  country,  and  who 
in  life  and  death  was  a  great  ensample  to  the  world.  There  is  his  friend 
and  pupil  John  Nicholson,  "  the  sternest  knight  to  his  mortal  foe  that 
ever  laid  spear  in  rest" — a  very  king  of  men,  great  of  stature  and  great 
of  heart,  stricken  down  ere  he  had  reached  his  prime,  but  full  of  the  ripened 
fruit  of  heroism,  with  a  heaven-born  capacity  for  command.  And  there 
are  many  others — soldiers  and  statesmen,  brave  and  wise,  nurtured  in  the 
lap  of  danger,  but  ever  calm  and  resolute,  with  a  noble  sense  of  duty 
and  a  love  of  their  appointed  work.  Men  such  as  these  were  made  by 
what  is  called  an  evil  system.  If  Mr.  Company  and  his  patronage  had  not 
existed,  they  would  have  shrivelled  into  Lincoln's  Inn  lawyers,  or  banker's 
assistants,  or  clerks  in  the  Inland  Revenue  Office,  or  captains  of  militia ; 
and  India  would  have  been  given  up  as  a  rich  preserve  to  the  favourites 
of  his  Royal  Highness.  If  I  could  believe  that  the  century  to  come  would 
produce  such  a  gallery  of  Indian  worthies  as  the  century  gone  by,  verily 
I  should  die  content. 

But  I  was  minded  when  I  commenced  this  essay  to  speak  rather  of 
the  workers  at  home,  than  of  the  workers  abroad.  Perhaps  my  prejudices 
are  more  likely  to  warp  my  judgment  on  this  domestic  ground  than  when 
I  wander  far  in  fields  of  Oriental  enterprise.  But  I  am  not  assured  that 
the  migration  westwards,  with  all  its  attendant  changes,  before  and  after, 
has  done  much  for  the  efficiency  of  the  service,  or  the  comfort  of  the 
servants.  In  the  old  times  of  Mr.  Company,  it  must  be  conceded  that  we 
were  not  fashionable,  but  we  were  eminently  respectable.  We  had  been, 
perhaps,  reared  at  Christ's,  or  Merchant  Taylors',  or  the  Cit}^  of  London, 
but  there  were  many  who  had  never  rejoiced  in  any  educational  alma  mater 
more  dignified  than  a  village  school.  I  remember  one  junior  clerk,  who 
had  flourished  at  Eton,  and  who  had  little  in  common  with  the  rest.  And 
it  happened,  for  like  reasons,  that  many  amongst  us  dwelt  in  suburban 
regions  of  easy  access  from  the  City.  Islington  and  Camberwell,  and  the 
country  about  Tottenham  were  favourite  places  of  residence.  Rents  were 
moderate,  and  cheap  conveyances  were  abundant,  if  there  were  need  to 
ride — a  bit  of  pompous  self-indulgence  to  which  few  of  us  were  prone. 
When  the  great  innovation  of  the  railway  came,  such  of  us  as  con- 
descended to  use  it,  affected  the  line  from  Bishopgate,  like  sober  citizens ; 
and  even  Mr.  Company's  Directors  had  a  tendency  to  the  eastward,  as 
became  the  managers  of  our  Eastern  Empire.  Those  who  dwelt  in 
London  proper,  with  rare  exceptions,  sought  the  central  districts  of 
Bloomsbury  and  St.  Pancras.  One  there  was,  I  know,  who  dwelt  far 
westward — one  of  the  best  workmen  amongst  us,  whose  official  usefulness 


3C6  THE   HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT   BUILT. 

was  in  no  wise  marred  by  such  liveliness  of  imagination  and  such  depth  of 
philosophic  thought  as  I  have  rarely  seen  conjoined  in  one  and  the  same 
ntellectual  growth.  He  has  recorded  pleasantly  in  rhyme  his  morning 
walk,  "  Eastward  Ho  !  "  through  St.  James's  Pleasance,  by  the  water's  side 
over  which  many  of  the  windows  of  the  new  house  now  look),  along  the 
"  Elizabethan  Strand,"  by  the  Savoy  and  Temple  Bar,  and  St.  Paul's, 
all  instinct  with  historical  associations  and  personal  memories  of  men  dear 
to  our  hearts,  such  as  John  Milton  and  Isaak  Walton,  until  he  reaches  the 
familiar  but  not  prosaic  street  of  Leadenhall ;  and  concludes  his  fanciful 
travel-talk, — 

Fully  roused,  no  more  I  loiter,  and  but  scanty  space  remains 
From  the  hall  whose  courts  assemble  India's  merchant  sovereigns, 
And  the  piared  porch  I  enter,  entering,  too,  the  day's  routine, 
Not  less  duly  that  beforehand  such  as  this  my  dream  has  been.  * 

There  were  few,  I  have  said,  of  Mr.  Company's  servants  who  dwelt  so  far 
westward  ;  but  since  the  official  migration  to  Westminster  there  has  been 
a  great  change  in  this  respect,  and  the  servants  of  Mr.  Company's  suc- 
cessors have  mostly  left  the  familiar  regions  of  Islington  and  Camberwell 
for  fresh  Tyburnian  fields  or  the  sylvan  shades  of  the  Evangelist.  These 
fashionable  tendencies  are  not  conducive  to  the  thrift  which  of  old  was 
held  in  high  esteem  amongst  us,  so  that  it  was  our  custom,  on  leaving 
Mr.  Company's  service,  to  have  a  little  store  of  savings,  which,  I  fear,  is 
scarce  likely  in  these  days,  for  West  End  residence  begets  a  West  End  style 
of  living ;  and,  moreover,  the  high  prices  of  commodities  wherewith  we  are 
afflicted  makes  even  a  modest  style  of  living  a  sorer  expense  to  the  most  pro- 
vident. I  have  thought  sometimes  that  if  good  Mr.  Company  had  lived,  he 
would  have  considered  this  in  the  wages  of  his  servants.  It  is  a  hard 
case,  after  seven  years'  longer  service,  to  be  poorer  than  before  ;  and  yet 
such  must  be  the  fate  of  public  servants  on  fixed  salaries,  who  find  the 
value  of  every  pound  diminished  by  a  fourth,  in  consequence  of  the 
increased  prices  of  all  the  necessaries  of  life  during  these  seven  years. 
Skilled  labour  of  all  kinds  but  our  skilled  labour,  0  friends  and  some- 
time fellow- workmen  in  the  public  service,  obtains  for  itself  a  higher  price 
in  the  labour-market.  But  because  ye  are  loyal  and  do  not  "  strike  " — 
an  issue  which  Heaven  forfend — ye  are  left  to  your  patient  sorrows  to  grow 
poorer  every  year. 

*  Modern  Manicheism,  and  other  Poems.    Besides  the  writer  of  this  volume,  there 
were  one  or  two  other  poets  in  Mr.  Company's  old  establishment.     One  essayed  an 
epic,  illustrative  of  the  life  and  death  of  John  Company  (with  notes  of  great  erudi- 
tion), the  first  stanza  of  which  alone  I  can  remember,  it  being  descriptive  of  the 
locality  of  the  "House  that  John  built :  " — 

Not  far  from  where  Tiptrseus  *  now  vends  his  costly  wares, 

Where  the  Lombard  banker  deals  in  bills  and  the  broker  deals  in  shares, 

Where  the  flesher  in  the  market  sells  his  mutton  by  the   stone, 

And  turkeys  fat  at  Christmas-time  go  off  the  hooks  like  fun. 

*  Tipfrans,   sive    Mechceus,    Anglice    Mechi.]      Colonus   illustris    et    vcnditor 
clesantiarum. 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  SCOTT  BUILT.  867 

I  have  been  betrayed  unconsciously  into  more  warmth  on  this  subject 
than  befits  one  in  whom  the  fires  of  youth  have  long  since  burnt  out.  It 
was  my  purpose  only  to  observe  that,  seeing  how  time  itself  has  brought 
some  grievous  changes,  pressing  sorely  on  the  clerkly  purse,  I  have  some- 
times thought  that  the  evil  of  increased  expenditure  might  be  further 
aggravated  by  this  tendency  to  migrate  towards  more  favourite  western 
regions.  I  have  thought,  too,  that  perhaps  West  End  habits  might  come 
as  a  necessary  sequence  of  West  End  residence,  and  that  the  old  punctuality 
for  which  Mr.  Company's  servants  were  famous  in  Leadenhall  might 
in  Whitehall  soon  become  extinct.  I  have  been  accustomed  all  my  days 
to  the  official  work-period  of  "  ten  to  four,"  and  I  would  not  willingly  see 
a  change  ;  but  at  odd  times  innovating  thoughts  have  come  upon  me,  and 
I  have  asked  myself  whether  official  hours  must  not  in  time  follow  the 
general  change  in  our  habits  with  respect  to  the  distribution  of  the  different 
parts  of  the  day.  When  "  ten  to  four"  was  fixed  as  the  business-day, 
men  ate  their  dinners  at  five  o'clock  ;  but  now  they  dine  at  seven  and  eight 
o'clock,  and  retire  to  rest  at  a  time  proportionately  late.  Late  to  bed  is 
late  out  of  bed  ;  and  the  eight  o'clock  breakfast  is  not  readily  accomplished. 
Moreover,  I  must  needs  confess  that  hours  well  suited  to  the  establishment 
of  a  sober  merchant,  like  Mr.  Company,  may  not  be  adapted  to  one  pre- 
sided over  by  a  Minister  of  State.  For  during  the  more  active  part  of  the 
year,  the  Minister  is  constrained  to  keep  late  hours,  sitting  in  what  is 
called  his  place  in  Parliament,  often  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  he 
cannot  in  reason  be  expected  to  break  his  fast  at  an  early  hour,  and  visit 
office  in  the  forenoon.  I  am  told  that  practically  it  often  happens  that 
the  busiest  time  begins  just  as  the  old  official  hours  are  ending,  and  that 
the  head  of  the  office  often  needs  his  assistants  most  after  they  have  taken 
their  departure.  And  if  this  be  true,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  plea 
for  later  hours  is  not  without  a  certain  force  and  cogency  of  its  own.  In 
the  contiguous  dwelling,  where  her  Majesty's  foreign  affairs  are  to  be 
looked  after,  late  hours,  I  am  informed,  are  practically  the  rule,  and  it  is 
not  beyond  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  in  time  the  system  will  extend 
itself  beyond  the  frontier  line  of  the  two  offices — except  in  the  matter  of 
financial  payments  and  other  strictly  business  operations,  the  time  for 
transacting  which  must  correspond  with  ordinary  "  banking  hours,"  which 
are  those  generally  of  commercial  establishments. 

There  is  another  habit  which  also  might  be  contracted  from  the 
contagion  of  next  door,  which  I  think  would  disturb  poor  Mr.  Company 
in  his  grave  even  more  than  a  change  of  hours.  Indeed,  my  mind  even 
now  misgives  me  that  the  cacoethes  or  evil  habit  is  insidiously  making  its 
way  into  the  sacred  vestibules  of  the  India  House.  On  a  recent  visit  to  the 
present  temporary  asylum,  I  am  afraid  that  I  smelt  tobacco,  and  although 
my  nephew  Marmaduke  endeavoured  to  impregnate  me  with  the  belief 
that  it  must  have  proceeded  from  the  contiguous  tavern,  there  was  that  in 
his  countenance,  as  he  spoke,  which  caused  me  to  apprehend  that  he  was 
poking  fun  at  his  old  uncle.  But  well  do  I  remember  the  days  when 


368  THE  HOUSE  THAT   SCOTT  BUILT. 

some  of  Mr.  Company's  old  Directors — and  notably  one  who  had  more 
eloquence  than  his  compeers,  and  on  several  occasions  occupied  the  Chair 
with  great  distinction  and  success  —  were  wont  to  lecture  the  young 
gentlemen,  who  came  up  before  them  to  take  the  oath  of  loyalty  when 
about  to  depart  for  the  Indies,  upon  this  evil  and  demoralizing  habit.  I 
am,  however,  bound  in  sober  truth  to  affirm  that  I  somewhat  doubted  the 
efficacy  of  these  admonitions,  for  happening  one  day  to  be  passing  through 
the  ante-room  into  which  a  bevy  of  these  young  gentlemen  passed  on 
leaving-  the  august  presence  of  the  Directors,  I  observed  that  two  or 
three  of  the  striplings  put  their  fingers  derisively  to  their  noses,  and  I 
heard  them  ask  each  other  if  they  did  not  wish  they  might  get  it,  which  is 
a  light  puerile  mode  of  expressing  a  determination  to  take  no  heed  of  what 
has  been  said.  And  I  am  given  to  understand  that  the  use  of  tobacco  is  so 
general  in  the  Indies,  that  he  who  smokes  not  the  weed  is  a  rarity  among 
men.  In  such  a  clime,  perhaps,  it  may  have  its  uses,  as  a  sedative  and 
a  solace,  and  in  the  damper  regions  may,  in  moderation,  act  beneficially 
as  a  prophylactic,  as  it  is  said  to  do  in  the  Low  Countries.  But  the  evil 
is  that  in  these  days  the  weed  is  not  used  in  moderation,  and  what  should 
be  an  occasional  resource  for  grown  men  has  become  the  constant  habit 
even  of  juveniles  of  small  stature,  who  thereby  check  their  growth  and  in 
time  undermine  their  vigour.  And,  if  it  were  only  that  strict  prohibitory 
enactments  in  our  public  offices  would  keep  the  pipe  out  of  young  men's 
mouths  for  six  hours  of  the  day,  I  would  prohibit  the  innovation,  which, 
I  am  told,  has  now  so  grown  up  in  the  Foreign  Office  as  to  be  past 
checking.  Peradventure,  in  their  half  of  the  new  Palace  of  Adminis- 
tration, the  establishment,  as  I  understand,  not  being  very  numerous, 
space  is  afforded  for  convenient  smoking-rooms ;  and,  if  not,  there  are 
doubtless  corridors  and  galleries,  as  in  the  Indian  moiety  of  the  edifice, 
whence  unlimited  tob'acco- smoke  might  escape  into  the  outer  air,  without 
vitiating  the  atmosphere  of  rooms  sacred  to  business.  It  is  possible  that 
the  waiting-rooms  of  the  Foreign  Office  might  be  devoted  to  fumigation — 
in  which  case  boxes  of  cigars  (first  quality)  might  be  provided  at  the 
public  charges,  for  strangers  waiting  for  an  interview.  And,  in  good 
sooth,  I  do  not  know  any  circumstances  of  life  in  which  it  is  more  per- 
missible to  beguile  the  time  with  tobacco- smoke  than  when  you  are 
waiting  to  see  a  Minister  of  State  or  his  representative,  who  has  perhaps 
half-a-dozen  names  before  your  own  upon  his  list.  The  literature  of  the 
waiting-room  is  of  the  scantiest  kind.  A  Times  or  Homing  Post,  a 
Foreign  Office  List  or  East  India  Register  on  the  tables,  and  a  map  of 
Europe  or  of  Asia  acid  the  year's  almanack  on  the  walls,  comprise  all 
the  sources  of  information  open  to  the  inquiring  mind.  Waiters  are, 
therefore,  left  greatly  to  the  solace  of  their  own  thoughts  ;  and  if  they  bo 
suitors  no  less  than  waiters,  there  is  not,  perhaps,  much  comfort  in  their 
cogitations.  I  am  almost  minded,  therefore,  in  spite  of  my  counter-blasts, 
to  take  an  exceptionally  generous  view  of  the  case  of  the  waiting-rooms  of 
the  Foreign  Office,  which  department,  being  much  frequented  by  strangers 


THE   HOUSE   THAT   SCOTT   BUILT.  360 

from  France,  Germany,  Turkey,  and  other  countries,  may  legitimately  bo 
more  tolerant  than  others. 

But,  referring  again  to  my  immediate  subject,  the  Indian  moiety  of 
the  House  that'  Scott  Built,  I  would  observe  that  it  was  pleasantly  remarked 
to  me  the  other  day,  that  if  smoking  should  become  permissible  among  the 
servants  of  Mr.  Company's  successors,  it  would  be  in  accordance  with 
Mr.  Philosopher  Square's  fitness  of  things,  recorded  in  that  pleasant  work 
in  which  Mr.  Henry  Fielding  recites  the  humourous  adventures  of  Thomas 
Jones,  to  use  only  the  " hookah"  in  the  upper  classes  of  the  service,  and 
the  "  hubble-bubble  "  in  the  lower.  At  the  same  time  it  was  suggested 
that  the  quadrangle,  in  which  the  entertainment  was  given  to  the  Grand 
Turk,  might  be  formed  into  a  sumptuous  Divan,  in  which  Oriental  princes 
and  potentates  might  be  received  by  the  Minister  and  his  chief  officers, 
seated  on  low  cushions,  each  with  a  hookah  in  his  mouth,  the  fumes  of 
that  description  of  pipe  being,  I  am  told,  of  a  pleasantly  odoriferous 
character.  I  am  given  to  understand  that  there  is  already  a  project  for 
roofing  it  over  with  glass,  so  as  not  to  exclude  Heaven's  light,  together 
with  the  rain  and  the  wind  ;  and  truly  if  it  should  be  warmed  with  occult 
hot-water  pipes,  and  decorated  with  choice  exotics  of  tropical  growth,  it 
would  be  a  reception-room  wherein  might  be  welcomed  even  the  Great 
Mogul  himself,  if  that  once  magnificent  race  of  emperors  had  not  snuffed 
itself  out  at  Delhi. 

There  are  other  reception-rooms,  too,  in  different  parts  of  the  building 
—or  waiting-rooms,  as  they  are  officially  called — which  do  great  credit  to 
the  taste  of  Mr.  Digby  Wyatt,  and  will  add  much  to  the  respectability  of 
the  establishment ;  for  it  was  a  sorry  sight  to  see,  in  the  temporary 
Victorian  lodgings,  great  generals  or  high  civil  functionaries  from  the 
Indies,  or  the  turbaned  ambassadors  of  mighty  Indian  chiefs,  hanging 
about  in  the  obscure  passages  or  caged  in  the  messengers'  cupboards, 
whilst  they  were  waiting  for  official  interviews,  or  seeking  to  pay  friendly 
visits  to  the  ministers  of  the  departments.  I  am  all  for  a  becoming 
respectability  of  appearance,  solid  and  substantial,  and  free  from  gauds  ; 
and  I  think  that  in  the  new  House  all  the  conditions  of  a  first-rate  public 
office  have  been  fulfilled,  under  the  judicious  auspices  of  Mr.  Wyatt. 
Accustomed  to  the  sombre  simplicity  of  the  House  that  John  Built,  I  could 
have  dispensed  with  some  of  the  ornamentation,  but  as  the  useful  has  not 
been  sacrificed  to  the  ornamental,  I  am  content  with  the  gross  result ;  and 
I  wish  all  my  friends  many  years  of  health,  and  happiness,  and  useful 
work  in  the  HOUSE  THAT  SCOTT  BUILT. 


18-5 


370 


Cinte* 


THE  looseness  of  idea  which  is  traceable  in  many  of  our  semi-philosophic 
phrases  and  opinions  offers  a  curious  subject  for  reflection.  Habitually, 
partly  from  mental  indolence  probably,  partly  from  inherent  unscientific 
carelessness  of  mind,  we  are  satisfied  with  approaches  to  an  idea  about, 
or  an  explanation  of,  the  phenomena  which  catch  our  attention, — with 
what  Dr.  Chalmers  used  to  call  "  the  inkling  of  an  idea," — not  so  much 
with  half  an  idea  as  with  the  raw  materials  of  an  idea.  We  are  content 
with  feeling  that  a  conception,  and  probably  a  true  conception,  lurks 
under  the  expressions  we  hear  and  repeat ;  and  under  cover  of  this 
inarticulate  sentiment  (for  it  is  usually  nothing  more)  we  absolve  ourselves 
from  the  exertion  of  analysing  the  conception,  embodying  it  in  appropriate 
language,  or  even  carrying  it  so  far  as  distinct  and  expressible  notions. 
We  use  a  phrase,  and  then  fancy  we  have  done  a  thing, — have  elucidated 
a  fact  or  given  utterance  to  an  idea.  We  employ  words  not  to  express 
thought,  nor  (as  Talleyrand  suggested)  to  conceal  it ;  but  to  hide  its 
absence  and  to  escape  its  toil. 

No  word  has  been  oftener  made  to  do  duty  in  this  way  than  TIME. 
We  constantly  say — speaking  of  material  things — that  "  Time  "  destroys 
buildings,  effaces  inscriptions,  removes  landmarks,  and  the  like.  In  the 
same  way — speaking  of  higher  matters  appertaining  to  men  and  nations, 
to  moral  and  intellectual  phenomena — we  are  accustomed  to  say  that 
"  Time  "  obliterates  impressions,  cures  faults,  solaces  grief,  heals  wounds, 
extinguishes  animosities  ; — as  well  as  that  under  its  influence  empires 
decay,  people  grow  enlightened,  errors  get  trodden  out,  brute  natures 
become  humanised,  and  so  on, — that  the  world  "makes  progress,"  in 
short.  Now  what  do  we  mean  when  we  speak  thus  ;  or  do  most  of  us 
mean  anything?  What  are  the  mighty  and  resistless  agencies  hidden 
under  those  four  letters,  and  embodied  in,  or  implied  by,  that  little  word  ? 

Sir  Humphry  Davy,  in  those  Consolations  in  Travel  which  worthily 
solaced  "the  last  days  of  a  philosopher,"  endeavoured  to  answer  this 
question  as  regards  mere  physical  phenomena.  He  analyses  the  several 
causes  which,  in  the  course  of  ages,  contribute  and  combine  to  produce 
the  ruins  which  cover  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  most  of  which  are 
more  lovely  in  their  decay  than  ever  in  their  pristine  freshness.  Putting 
aside  all  results  traceable  to  the  hand  of  man,  to  the  outrages  of  barba- 
rian invaders,  or  the  greed  of  native  depredators, — leaving  out  of  view, 
too,  the  destruction  wrought  from  time  to  time  by  lightning,  the  tempest, 
and  tho  earthquake, — he  shows  that  the  principal  among  those  elements  of 
destruction,  which  operate  slowly  and  surely,  generation  after  generation, 
are  traceable  to  lieat  and  gravitation.  More  precisely,  they  may  be 
classed  under  two  heads,  the  chemical  and  the  mechanical,  usually  acting 


TIME.  371 

in  combination,  and  the  former  much  the  most  powerful  of  the  two.  The 
contraction  and  expansion  of  the  materials  of  which  all  buildings  are 
composed,  due  to  changes  of  temperature,  operate  to  loosen  their  cohe- 
sion, especially  where  wood  or  iron  enters  largely  into  their  Composition  ; 
and  in  northern  climates,  wherever  water  penetrates  among  the  stones, 
its  peculiarity  of  sudden  and  great  expansion  when  freezing,  renders  it 
one  of  the  most  effective  agencies  of  disintegration  known.  The  rain  that 
falls  year  by  year,  independent  of  its  ceaseless  mechanical  effect  in  carry- 
ing off  minute  fragments  of  all  perishable  materials,  is  usually,  and 
especialy  near  cities,  more  or  less  charged  with  carbonic  acid,  the  action 
of  which  upon  the  carbonate  of  lime,  which  forms  so  large  an  element  in 
most  stones,  is  sometimes  portentously  rapid,  as  indeed1  we  see  every 
day  around  us.  The  air,  again,  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  oxygen 
which  is  one  of  its  component  parts,  is  about  the  most  powerful  agency 
of  destruction  furnished  by  the  whole  armoury  of  nature  :  it  corrodes  the 
iron  by  which  the  stones  are  clamped  together ;  it  causes  the  gradual 
decay  of  the  timber  of  which  the  roofs  of  buildings  are  usually  constructed, 
so  that  we  seldom  find  any  traces  of  them  in  the  more  ancient  remains 
which  have  come  down  to  us.  Thus  the  great  principle  of  organic  life 
becomes  also,  in  its  inevitable  and  eternal  action,  the  great  principle  also 
of  decay  and  dissolution.  Then  follows  what  we  may  term  the  unin- 
tentional or  accidental  agencies  of  living  things.  As  soon  as  the  walls 
and  pediments  and  columns  of  a  statue  or  a  temple  have  lost  their  polished 
surface  through  the  operation  of  the  chemical  influences  we  have  enume- 
rated, the  seeds  of  lichens  and  mosses  and  other  parasitic  plants,  which 
are  constantly  floating  in  the  atmosphere,  settle  in  the  roughnesses,  grow, 
decay,  and  decompose,  form  soil,  attract  moisture,  and  are  followed  by 
other  and  stronger  plants,  whose  roots  force  their  way  into  the  crevices 
thus  formed  by  "  Time,"  and  end  by  wrenching  asunder  the  damaged  and 
disintegrated  blocks  of  marble.  The  animal  creation  succeeds  the  vege- 
table and  aids  its  destructive  operations  ;  the  fox  burrows,  the  insect  bores, 
the  ant  saps  the  foundations  of  the  building  ;  and  thus  by  a  series  of 
causes,  all  of  them  in  the  ordinary  and  undying  course  of  nature,  the  most 
magnificent  edifices  ever  raised  by  the  genius,  the  piety,  and  the  industry 
of  man  are  brought  to  an  end,  as  by  a  fixed  and  irreversible  decree. 
And  this  is  "Time,"  so  far  as  its  physical  agencies  are  concerned. 

When  we  turn  from  the  influence  of  Time  on  the  work  of  man's  hands 
to  consider  its  influence  on  the  man  himself,  we  find  a  very  different  mode 
of  operation.  "  Time"  with  individuals  acts  partly  through  the  medium 
of  our  capacities  and  powers,  but  more,  probably,  through  our  defects  and 
the  feebleness  and  imperfection  of  our  nature.  It  ought  not,  perhaps,  to 
be  so,  but  it  is  so.  Time  heals  our  wounds  and  brings  comfort  to  our 
sorrows,  but  how  ?  "It  is  beneath  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings  (says 
Bolingbroke)  to  trust  to  time  and  distraction  as  the  only  cure  for  grief — 
to  wait  to  be  happy  till  we  can  forget  that  we  are  miserable,  and  owe  to 
the  weakness  of  our  faculties  a  result  for  which  we  ought  to  be  indebted 
to  their  strength."  Yet  it  is  precisely  thus  that  "  thinking  beings  '"  gene- 


372  TIME. 

rally  act,  or  find  that  "  Time  "  acts  with  them.  Half  the  healing  influence 
of  Time  depends  solely  upon  the  decay  of  memory.  It  is  a  law  of  nature 
— and  like  all  nature's  laws,  in  the  aggregate  of  its  effects  a  beneficent 
one — that,  T/hile  the  active  powers  strengthen  -with  exercise,  passive 
impressions  fade  and  grow  feeble  with  repetition.  The  physical  blow  or 
prick  inflicted  on  a  spot  already  sore  with  previous  injuries  is  doubly  felt ; 
the  second  moral  stroke  falls  upon  a  part  which  has  become  partially 
benumbed  and  deadened  by  the  first.  Then  new  impressions,  often  far 
feebler,  often  far  less  worthy  of  attention,  pass  like  a  wave  over  the  older 
ones,  cover  them,  cicatrise  them,  push  them  quietly  into  the  background. 
We  could  not  retain  our  griefs  in  their  first  freshness,  even  if  we  would. 
As  Mr.  Arnold  says  : — 

This  is  the  curse  of  life  :   that  not 

A  nobler,  calmer,  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 

Our  passions  from  our  brain. 

But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust, 

Our  soon  choked  souls  to  fill; 
And  we  forget  because  we  must, 

And  not  because  we  will. 

In  a  word,  we  do  not  overcome  our  sorrow — we  only  overlive  it.  It  is 
succeeded — not  subdued ;  covered  up,  mossed  over,  like  the  temples  of 
Egypt  or  the  tombs  of  the  Campagna — not  conquered. 

It  is  the  same,  too,  usually,  with  our  faults.  "  Time  "  cures  them,  we 
say.  It  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  it  removes  the  temptation  to 
them.  Sometimes  it  is  only  that  pleasures  cease  to  please  ;  we  grow  wise 
and  good  through  mere  satiety, — if  wisdom  and  goodness  that  come  to 
us  through  such  an  operation  of  "  Time"  be  not  a  most  fallacious  and 
cynical  misnomer.  The  passions  that  led  our  youth  astray  die  out 
with  age  from  the  slow  changes  in  our  animal  frame,  from  purely  physical 
modifications  of  our  constitution  ; — the  appetites  and  desires  that  spring 
from  the  hot  blood  and  abounding  vigour  of  our  early  years  no  longer 
torment  the  languid  pulse  and  phlegmatic  temperament  of  after  life  ;  the 
world  and  the  devil,  not  the  flesh,  are  then  the  tempters  to  be  prayed 
against.  The  frailties  of 

cheerful  creatures  whose  most  sinful  deeds 

"Were  but  the  overheating  of  the  heart, 

come  easily  and  naturally  to  an  end  when  from  the  dulled  emotions  and 
impaired  vitality  of  advancing  age  we  feel  nothing  vividly  and  desire  nothing 
strongly.  Time  does  not  so  much  cure  our  faults  as  kill  them. 

Sometimes — often,  indeed,  we  would  hope — Time  brings  experience  in 
its  train.  We  learn  that  vice  "  does  not  pay."  We  discover  by  degrees 
that  the  sin  is  far  less  sweet  than  we  fancied,  and  that  it  costs  much  dearer 
than  we  had  bargained  for.  We  grow  better  calculators  than  we  were  ; 
we  reflect  more  profoundly;  we  measure  and  weigh  more  accurately. 
Occasionally,  no  doubt,  "  Time "  operates  through  a  nobler  class  of 
influences.  The  observation  of  life  shows  us  the  extensive  misery  wrought 
by  all  wrong- doing ;  we  find  those  around  us  whom  we  love  better  than 


TIME.  373 

ourselves  ;  and  affection  and  philanthropy  gradually  initiate  us  into  virtue 
and  self-denial.  Growing  sense  aids  the  operations  of  dulled  sensibility  ; — 
we  become  less  passionate  and  fierce  as  our  nerves  become  less  irritable  ; 
we  drop  our  animosities  as  failing  memory  ceases  to  remind  us  of  the 
offences  which  aroused  them,  and  as  a  calmer  judgment  enables  us  to 
measure  those  offences  more  justly ;  we  are  less  willing  to  commit  crimes 
or  neglect  duties  or  incur  condemnation  for  the  sake  of  worldly  advancement, 
as  we  discover  how  little  happiness  that  advancement  brings  us,  and  as  we 
reflect  for  how  short  a  period  we  can  hope  to  enjoy  it.  But,  through  all 
and  to  the  last,  the  physical  influence  of  "  Time  "  upon  our  bodily  frame 
is  the  best  ally  of  its  moral  influence  on  our  character  and  our  intelligence. 
Time  brings  mellowness  to  man  much  as  it  brings  beauty  to  ruins — by  the 
operation  of  decay.  We  melt  and  fade  into  the  gentle  and  the  good,  just 
as  palaces  and  temples  crumble  into  the  picturesque. 

When  we  come  to  speak  of  nations,  and  of  national  progress,  the  idea 
of  "  Time  "  embraces  a  far  wider  range  of  influences,  both  as  to  number 
and  duration,  which  we  can  only  glance  at.  Time,  as  it  operates  on 
empires  and  on  peoples,  on  their  grandeur  and  their  decadence,  includes 
the  aggregate  of  the  efforts,  separate  or  combined,  of  every  individual 
among  them,  through  a  long  succession  of  decades  and  of  centuries.  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold,  in  the  least  sound  of  his  many  sagacious  and  suggestive 
writings — his  inconsiderate  attack  upon  Colenso — speaks  much  of  the 
Zeit-geist,  the  Spirit  of  the  Age,  and  urges  us  to  trust  to  its  slow  and 
irresistible  influence,  and  not  to  seek  to  hasten  it, — that  is,  as  far  as  we 
could  understand  him,  to  abstain  from  all  those  acts  and  efforts  of  which 
its  influence  is  made  up.  Mr.  Leckie,  again,  in  his  admirable  and-  philo- 
sophical work,  The  History  of  Piationalism,  especially  in  the  chapter  on 
magic  and  witchcraft,  writes  as  if  the  decay  of  superstition,  which  he 
chronicles  so  well,  were  owing  to  a  sort  of  natural  spontaneous  growth  of 
the  human  mind,  and  its  added  knowledge,  and  not  to  any  distinct  process 
of  reasoning,  or  to  the  effects  of  the  teaching  of  any  particular  men,  out 
of  which  alone  in  truth  "such  growth  could  come.  But  "  Time,"  in  reality, 
when  used  in  speaking  of  nations  means  nothing  but  the  sum  of  all  the 
influences  which,  in  the  course  of  time,  individual  labourers  in  the  field  of 
discovery,  invention,  reasoning,  and  administration,  have  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  world.  In  the  work  of  religious  truth  and  freedom  "  Time  "  means  the 
blood  of  many  martyrs,  the  toil  of  many  brains,  slow  steps  made  good 
through  infinite  research,  small  heights  and  spots  of  vantage  ground 
won  from  the  retiring  forces  of  ignorance  and  prejudice  by  generations  of 
stern  struggle  and  still  sterner  patience,  gleams  of  light,  and  moments  of 
inspiration  interspersed  amid  years  of  darkness  and  despondency,  thousands 
of  combatants  falling  on  the  field,  thousands  of  labourers  dying  at  the 
plough,  with  here  and  there  a  Moses  mounting  the  heights  of  Pisgah  to 
survey,  through  the  mist  of  tears  and  with  the  eye  of  faith,  the  promised 
land  which  his  followers  may  reach  at  last.  In  material  progress,  in  those 
acts  of  life  which  in  their  aggregate  make  up  the  frame-work  and  oil  the 
wheels  of  our  complicated  civilization,  "Time"  signifies  the  hard- won 


374  TIME. 

discoveries  of  science,  augmented  by  the  accessions  of  each  succeeding  age 
from  Thales  and  Archimedes  to  Newton  and  Davy  ; — the  practical  sagacity 
and  applicative  ingenuity  of  hundreds  of  inventors  like  Arkwright  and  Watt, 
Stephenson  and  Wheatstone  (to  whom  we  owe  the  cotton  manufacture  and 
i  the  steam-engine,  the  railway  and  the  telegraph),  as  well  as  the  humbler  and 
unremembered  labours  of  the  thousands  whose  minor  contrivances  paved 
the  way  for  their  great  completors  ;  the  innumerable  contributions,  age 
after  age,  of  the  professional  or  speculative  men  who  at  last  have  made 
medicine  and  surgery  what  they  now  are ;  finally,  the  daily,  unacknow- 
ledged, half-unconscious,  because  routine,  exertions  of  the  rulers  and 
administrators  who  have  rendered  these  great  victories  of  peace  possible 
because  they  have  enabled  those  who  achieved  them  to  labour  in  security 
and  in  hope.  As  far  as  "  Time  "  has  made  the  world,  or  any  nation  in  it, 
wiser  and  better,  it  is  because  wise  and  good  men  have  devoted  that  brief 
fragment  of  Time  which  was  allotted  to  them  here  below  to  the  task  of 
enlightening  a  id  enouraging  their  fellow-men,  to  rendering  virtue  easier 
and  wisdom  more  attractive,  to  removing  obstacles  in  the  path  of  moral 
progress,  to  dragging  up  the  masses  towards  the  position  which  the 
elite  had  previously  attained.  Where  nations,  once  in  thraldom,  have  won 
liberty  and  independence,  it  is  not  the  cold  abstraction  of  "  Time"  that  has 
enfranchised  them,  but  tyrants  that  have  so  misused  time  as  to  make 
sufferers  desperate ;  prophets  who  have  struck  out  the  enthusiasm  that 
makes  sufferers  daring  because  hopeful,  and  patriots  who  have  been  found 
willing  to  die  for  an  idea  and  an  aim.  And,  to  look  on  the  reverse  of  the 
picture,  when  in  its  ceaseless  revolutions  "  Time,"  which  once  brought 
progress  and  development,  shall  have  brought  decay  and  dissolution,  the 
agencies  in  operation  and  their  modus  operandi  present  no  difficult  analysis. 
Sometimes  the  same  rough  energy  which  made  nations  conquerors  at  first 
makes  them  despots  and  oppressors  in  the  end,  and  rouses  that  hatred 
and  thirst  for  vengeance  which  never  waits  in  vain  for  opportunities, 
if  only  it  waits  long  enough;  and  the  day  of  peril  surprises  them 
with  a  host  of  enemies  and  not  a  single  friend.  Usually  the  wealth 
which  enterprise  and  civilization  have  accumulated  brings  luxury  and 
enervation  in  its  train ;  languor  and  corruption  creep  over  the  people's 
powers,  exertion  grows  distasteful,  and  danger  repels  where  it  formerly 
attracted  ;  degenerate  freemen  hire  slaves  to  do  their  work,  and  mercenaries 
to  fight  their  battles  ;  and  no  strength  or  vitality  or  patriotism  is  left  to 
resist  the  attacks  of  sounder  and  hardier  barbarians.  Occasionally,  in  the 
process  of  territorial  aggrandisement,  a  nation  outgrows  its  administrative 
institutions  ;  the  governmental  system  and  the  ruling  faculties  which 
sufficed  for  a  small  state,  prove  altogether  unequal  to  the  task  of  managing 
a  great  one,  and  the  empire  or  republic  falls  to  pieces  from  lack  of  cohesive 
power  within  or  coercive  power  above.  Not  unfrequently,  it  may  be,  the 
mere  progress  of  rational  but  imperfect  civilization  brings  with  it  its 
peculiar  dangers  and  sources  of  disintegration ;  the  lower  and  less  qualified 
classes  in  a  nation,  always  inevitably  the  most  numerous,  rise  in  intelli- 
gence and  wealth,  and  grow  prosperous  and  powerful ;  institutions  naturally 


TIME.  375 

become  more  and  more  democratic  ;  if  the  actual  administration  of  public 
affairs  does  not  pass  into  the  hands  of  the  masses  or  their  nominees,  at 
least  the  policy  of  the  nation  is  moulded  in  accordance  with  the  views  of 
the  less  sagacious  and  more  passionate  part  of  the  community  ;  the  mischief 
is  done  unconsciously  but  irretrievably,  and  the  catastrophe  comes  without 
being  either  intended  or  foreseen.  In  other  cases,  states  and  monarchies 
come  to  an  end  simply  because  they  have  no  longer  a  raison  d'etre, — 
because  they  never  had  in  them  the  elements  of  permanence ;  because 
destructive  or  disintegrating  causes,  long  in  operation,  have  at  last  ripened 
into  adequate  strength.  The  Ottoman  Power  is  felling  because  the 
military  spirit  which  founded  it  has  died  away,  and  it  has  no  other  point 
of  superiority  to  the  people  over  whom  it  rules  ;  because  the  Turks  are 
stagnant  and  stationary,  and  the  Greeks  are  au  fond  a  progressive  though 
a  corrupt  and  undeveloped  race.  Austria,  too,  seems  crumbling  to  pieces, 
because  composed  of  a  host  of  incongruous  elements,  and  because  neither 
the  genius  to  fuse  them,  nor  the  vigour  to  coerce  them,  can  be  found 
among  their  rulers. 

Is  there,  then,  no  permanence  in  any  earthly  thing  ?  Must  nations 
for  ever  die  out  under  the  slow  corrosion  of  "  Time,"  as  surely  as  men 
and  the  monuments  men  rear  ?  Is  there  no  principle  of  vitality  strong 
enough  to  defy  at  once  assaults  from  without  and  disintegration  from 
within  ; — no  elixir  vita  discoverable  by  the  accumulated  sagacity  and 
experience  of  centuries,  by  means  of  which  the  essential  elements  of 
national  life  can  be  renewed  as  fast  as  they  consume,  and  the  insidious 
causes  of  decay  watched  and  guarded  against  the  instant  they  begin  to 
operate,  and  counteracted  pari  passu  with  their  operation  ?  In  a  word, 
cannot  the  same  wisdom  and  self-knowledge  which  tell  nations  why  and 
how  they  degenerate  and  die,  discover  antidotes  against  degeneracy  and 
death  ?  Or  is  fate  too  mighty  for  human  resistance  ; — that  is,  to  speak 
more  piously  and  definitely,  has  Providence  decreed  that  the  progress  of 
the  race  shall  proceed  by  a  succession  of  states  and  peoples,  and  not  by 
che  adaptation  and  perfectation  of  existing  ones ;  and  must  nations 
perforce  forego  the  noble  egotism  of  immortal  life,  and  be  content  to  live 
vicariously  in  their  offspring  and  inheritors  ?  The  question  is  of  infinitely 
5mall  moment  except  to  our  imaginations  ;  but  there  is  surely  no  reason 
^vhy  the  dearer  and  more  human  hope  should  not  be  realised,  though  we 
may  be  ages  distant  from  the  day  of  realisation.  "We  have  all  the  pre- 
serving salt  that  lies  latent  in  the  true  essence  of  Christianity,  as  yet  so 
jittle  understood  ;  we  are  learning  to  comprehend,  far  better  than  the 
uncients  and  our  ancestors,  in  what  rational  patriotism  consists,  and 
Therein  lie  the  real  interests  of  republics  and  of  empires  ;  all  the  needed 
]  iharmacopoaia  of  policy  is  within  our  reach  as  soon  as  we  thoroughly  know 
<  >ur  constitutions,  and  have  the  virtue  and  nerve  to  apply  the  remedies  in 
lime.  If  there  had  been  conservators  of  the  Coliseum,  versed  in  all  the 
(  estructive  and  reparative  agencies  of  nature,  vigilantly  watching  the  one 
{ nd  promptly  applying  the  other,  the  Coliseum  would  have  been  standing 
i  i  its  strength  and  its  beauty  to  this  hour,, 


376 


.of 


THERE  is  no  creature,  be  it  bird,  beast,  or  fish,  that  exercises  such  an 
influence  over  the  destinies  of  the  human  race  as  the  species  of  tetrao 
which,  for  some  mysterious  but  doubtless  beneficent  reason,  is  confined 
to  limited  portions  of  these  little  islands.  The  beneficence  evinced  in  the 
limitation  of  the  region  in  which  this  potent  bird  flourishes,  however,  is 
principally  to  be  appreciated  by  the  Scottish  lairds,  who  have  been  turning 
barren  moors  into  gold  mines  of  late  years,  and  who  may  yet  find  the  more 
the  mines  are  worked  the  less  they  will  yield.  Let  us  prove  the  assertion 
in  this  way.  The  British  empire  is  the  most  extensive  and  populous  in 
the  world ;  no  throne,  principality,  or  power  can  vie  with  it  in  acreage 
or  population.  The  British  empire  is  governed  by  the  Parliament  of  the 
United  Kingdom.  The  Parliament  of  the  United  Kingdom  is  affected 
materially  in  its  deliberations  and  in  its  legislative  functions  by  the  grouse, 
which,  according  to  law,  must  be  ready  for  shooting  on  12th  August  in 
England  and  in  Scotland ;  but  (with  manifest  unfairness  to  English  and 
Scotch  birds,)  are  allowed  to  enjoy  longer  leases  or  tenant-right  in  Ireland. 
As  the  beginning  of  August  approaches  in  each  year,  the  most  resolute 
Minister  is  made  aware,  by  signs  unmistakable,  that  he  must  not  trifle 
with  the  functions  of  the  tetracides,  and  vex  them  with  attempts  at  legis- 
lation, which  are  certain  to  be  received  with  indifference  or  contempt. 
It  is  probable  that  some  Members  could  sit  all  the  year  round,  and 
like  it.  Mr.  Ayrton,  Mr.  Darby  Griffiths,  Mr.  Whalley,  and  a  few  others, 
would,  it  is  very  likely,  enjoy  perennial  seances  and  speech-makings. 
Such  exceptions  prove  the  rule.  Mr.  Bright  himself  would  lead  off  a  large 
section  of  followers  to  the  side  of  the  salmon-pool,  far  removed  from  the 
patriotic  bellowings  of  Mr.  Beales ;  and  Lord  Eussell  would  prefer  another 
speech  on  the  hill-sides  of  Blairgowrie  to  another  debate  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  The  grouse  season  rules  the  Parliamentary  recess,  and  it 
would  be  very  difficult  to  find  a  Member  in  either  House  who  is  not, 
directly  or  indirectly,  influenced  by  the  opening  of  the  shootings.  It  is 
fitly  preceded  by  the  "  slaughter  of  the  innocents,"  and  if  the  grouse  could 
know  what  deeds  are  wrought  in  the  heated  days  and  hurried  nights 
previous  to  the  holocaust,  they  might  rejoice  in  the  blighted  projects,  the 
burked  speeches,  the  quashed  motions,  the  abortive  preparations,  the 
defeated  ambition,  and  the  abandoned  legislation,  which  mark  the  advent 
of  their  doomsday.  The  Orissa  famine  was  a  cruel  calamity — for  the 
people  of  Orissa  at  all  events,  and  also  for  Sir  Cecil  Beadon.  But  in  his 
heart  of  hearts — well,  I  will  not  say  that.  But  I  wonder  if  my  friend  the 
Laird  of  Karnptully,  who  so  worthily  represents  the  burghs  of  Candle  and 


THE  SHOOTINGS  OF  KAMPTULLY.  877 

Wick,  could  look  me  in  the  face,  and  say  he  felt  as  much  acute  concern 
and  real  active  grief  about  the  prascordia,  when  he  read  of  the  starvation 
of  these  coloured  brethren,  as  he  did  the  day  he  handed  me  a  yellowish 
envelope  from  which  he  had  extracted  a  sheet  of  paper,  after  breaking 
the  wax,  on  which  was  impressed  the  mark  of  a  very  fine  broad  thumb- 
end,  exclaiming,  "  That's  from  Rory  !  It's  frightful  news." 

"  Who  is  Rory,  my  dear  Mac  ?  "  quoth  I,  gazing  on  the  envelope,  which 
was  inscribed,  "  The  MacBirdie  of  Kamptully  and  MacBirdie,  M.P.,  at  the 
Commons  Hous  of  Parlament  in  London,  &c.  &c.  &c."  "  And  what  is  the 
dreadful  intelligence  of  which  you  speak  ?  " 

"  Just  take  it  and  read  for  yourself.     0  dear  me  !  dear  me  !  " 

I  read  the  laboured  scroll,  which  was  written  on  a  printed  form  headed 
"Weekly  Report." 

"  Moors  of  Kamptully,  Tullymore,  MacBirdie  More 

MacBirdiebeg  and  Strathlushy. 

"  HONNERED  SIR, — It  is  with  grate  regret  I  have  to  enform  you  that  own 
to  some  coorse  weather  and  lateness  of  heather  a  grate  mortallity  has  come 
on  the  broods  within  the  last  feaw  days.  The  low  grunds  by  Strathlushy 
are  the  warst,  and  I  am  feearing  we  will  bee  four  to  five  hundreyed  brase 
short  of  our  number  or  more.  Black  game  is  backward.  There  is  not 
mush  tapeworms.  The  dogs  is  well  worked  and  will  give  settisfaction. 
Angus  McMunn  reports  well  of  the  bastes  on  Tullymore  and  rund  be  the 
bak  of  Benbeg — fine  heads. 

"  And  wishing  you  respectkfully  safe  gurney,  I  am  your  honner's  most 
obed.,  as  in  duty  bound, 

"  RODERICK  MACALLISTER/, 
"  (See  remarks  annexed.)" 

"  But  you'll  come  down  all  the  same,  won't  you  ?  "  asked  the  Mac- 
Birdie,  entreatingly.  "  We'll  have  birds  to  shoot  after  all !  A  pleasant 
party.  There  will  be  Dundrumming,  Jack  Pintail  of  the  Tenth,  and  little 
Girder.  General  Tuck  has  made  a  conditional.  I  depend  on  you."/ 

I  promised.  I  felt  I  was  doing  a  noble  deed.  The  MacBirdie, 
summoned  by  the  division-bell,  went  off  much  relieved  in  his  mind  to  give 
a  perfectly  unbiassed  vote  on  an  Irish  grand  jury,  or  fishery,  or  education, 
or  some  bill  of  the  kind  which  the  Irish  Members  will  insist  on  being 
introduced  to  be  killed  ere  they  depart  to  the  bosoms  of  their  constituencies. 
It  so  happened  I  was  bound  to  that  same  country,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  it  would  be  a  clever  thing  to  go  by  Fleetwood  to  Belfast  and  then 
cross  over  to  Glasgow  from  the  North  of  Ireland.  Thus  could  I  dodge  the 
limited  mail-trains  which  were  already  as  exclusive  as  a  subscription  opera- 
box  on  a  Patti  night.  The  places  were  booked  in  advance  weeks  ago,  and 
I  knew  the  horrors  of  the  middle  passage  through  England  by  the  ordinary 
mail-trains  on  the  eve  of  St.  Tetracide — the  sacciferous  camaraderie  and 
the  bad  tobacco,  and  the  sporting  gentry  of  the  carriages.  Well,  of  this 
route  by  Fleetwood  I  would  say,  if  you  are  a  man  of  the  sort  of  those  who 
sit  with  Bradshaw  in  one  hand  and  a  watch  in  the  other,  and  note  the  time 


878  THE  SHOOTINGS  OF  KAMPTULLt. 

of  actual  arrival  at  each  station,  and  comparing  it  with  the  tabulated  time 
get  into  a  passion  or  make  yourself  miserable  ;  if  you  are  a  man  of  the 
sort  of  those  who  dislike  being  late  generally,  and  in  a  hurry  particularly  ; 
who  are  rather  disposed  to  fast  as  little  as  possible  ;  who  are  averse  to 
embarking  in  small  steamers  and  going  out  to  sea  to  embark  in  the  royal 
mail-boats  tossed  on  the  wave  ;  who  aspire  to  the  comforts  of  a  good 
berth ;  who  hate  crowds,  particularly  of  Belfast  linen-merchants  and  pig- 
jobbers  and  horsedealers  ; — do  not  go  by  Fleetwood  and  Belfast  at  this  time 
of  year  unless  you  are  quite  certain  of  being  more  lucky  than  I  was,  and 
of  finding  the  tide  answer  and  a  pause  in  the  migration.  The  tide  rarely 
does  not  answer,  I  am  told.  So  much  the  better  for  frequent  passengers. 

But  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand, 
By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ? 

Anyway,  it  was  very  pleasant  next  morning  to  hear  the  grating  of  the  ship's 
sides  against  the  quay  wall  of  Belfast,  and  to  think  that  within  a  few 
hours  by  rail  there  was  a  certain  stream  flowing  to  the  sea  where  the 
salmon,  as  they  headed  upwards  to  the  gravel-beds,  were  just  jostling 
each  other  in  the  pools.  There  is  no  man  so  persecuted  by  the  weather  and 
so  dependent  for  his  pleasure  on  the  state  of  the  barometer  as  the  con- 
templative angler.  The  water  is  too  bright  and  fine,  or  it  is  too  high 
and  discoloured,  or  the  fish  are  "waiting  for  a  change,"  or  the  wind  is 
in  a  bad  point,  or  "those  white  clouds  prevent  them  rising,"  or  "  there's 
thunder  in  the  air;"  but  something  or  other  there  surely  is  to  prevent 
one's  getting  half-a-dozen  decent  fishing  days  in  the  year,  and  when  they 
come  he  is  sure  to  be  away  or  busy,  or  to  have  the  wrong  fly,  or  to 
break  his  rod  early  in  the  morning,  or  to  get  his  reel  out  of  order.  Why 
pursue  the  recital  of  our  wrongs  at  the  hands  of  fortune  ?  Bather  let  us 
wonder  at  our  perseverance,  and  rejoice  in  the  exquisite  delights  of  our 
rare  moments  of  rewarded  skill  and  indomitable  persistence.  That 
second  week  in  this  present  month  of  August,  however,  was  under  the 
full  sway  of  some  malignant  and  evil-minded  planet.  There  was  the 
river,  in  capital  order  one  would  think,  running  swiftly  in  broad  brown- 
tinged  sheets  over  the  pebbles,  or  resting  its  waters  in  the  long  pools, 
swept  by  a  gentle  breeze  till  it  rushed  forth  to  meet  the  breakers  which 
caught  it  in  snowy  arms  and  swept  it  away  in  the  turmoil  of  waters  at  the 
tiny  bar  of  sand  and  black  rocks  covered  with  seaweed.  There  in  the 
long  reaches  now  and  then  a  something  boiled  up  from  below,  and  a  silver 
gleam  was  visible  through  the  waters,  and  the  surface,  broken  into  a  circling 
whirl,  indicated  the  play  of  "a  fash"  beneath.  What  lure  of  flies  was 
known  to  the  angler's  art  was  all  displayed  in  vain.  From  morn  to  noon, 
from  noon  to  dewy  eve,  three  Summer  days  I  toiled  or  watched  the 
practised  hand  of  the  guardian  of  the  waters  plying  its  skill  in  vain  till 
I  had  a  "  crick"  in  my  back  from  endless  wavings  of  a  seventeen-footer 
and  a  slight  touch  of  the  rheumatics  all  over,  and,  full  of  hatred  to  all  the 
subtle  race  of  the  Salmonidse,  revolved  felon  plans  of  snatching  and  stroke - 
hauling  and  poisoning  in  my  dreams.  It  was  time  to  depart  at  last  from  the 


THE  SHOOTINGS  OF  KAMPTULLY.  879 

ungrateful  stream,  and  to  take  my  revenge  on  the  moors,  if  I  would  escape 
the  horrors  of  a  Sunday  in  Glasgow  between  the  services  and  the  disgrace 
of  arriving  late  at  Kamptully  Lodge.  The  Belfast  steamer  to  Glasgow  was 
certainly  not  a  very  pleasant  medium  of  communication  on  the  night  of 
August  9th.  Every  berth  was  taken,  every  chair  and  bench  occupied, 
and  from  beneath  the  tables  sounded  the  heavy  breathings  of  many 
sleepers.  There  were  sporting  gentlemen  who  had  been  attending  some 
races,  agricultural  gentlemen  who  had  been  engaged  at  a  cattle-show,  flax- 
buyers  and  linen-factors,  and  the  way  in  which  they  devoured  eggs  and 
bacon,  and  flounders,  and  drank  tea  and  whisky-toddy,  and  brandy  and 
"  soddy  wather,"  was  enough  to  alarm  any  one  not  acquainted  with  the 
habits  of  these  meritorious  individuals.  There  were  also  numerous  repre- 
sentatives of  the  class  to  which  I  belonged,  the  happy  men  engaged  to 
friends  with  hunting  grounds  of  their  own,  and  some  who  could  speak  of 
" my  moors"  and  their  prospects.  It  is  curious  how  many  men  shoot 
grouse  because  it  is  the  fashion.  They  feel  themselves  bound  to  do  it. 
They  lose  caste  if  they  are  not  on  the  moors  on  12th  August,  and  so  they 
toil  on  after  a  brace  of  dogs  till  they  are  ready  to  die,  and  make  believe 
that  they  enjoy  it,  and  are  all  the  better  of  the  exhaustion,  which  they  do 
not  recover  for  days  afterwards.  What  would  become  of  the  Highlands, 
or  rather  of  the  Scottish  chiefs,  only  for  this  fashionable  diversion  ?  Red 
deer  would  not  produce  the  same  results  on  the  rental,  nor  would  salmon. 
There  are  limits  to  forests  and  salmon  rivers,  and  to  the  means  and  tastes 
of  those  who  prefer  stalking  and  fishing,  but  the  grouse  mountain  is 
always  profitable,  for  sheep  and  grouse  thrive  together ;  at  least  they  are 
not  antagonistic,  and  it  might  be  a  question  which  of  the  two  should  give 
way,  in  case  they  were  found  incompatible  with  each  other.  The  Liver- 
pool cotton-broker,  the  Manchester  warehouseman,  the  Bolton  "chap," 
the  London  merchant,  must  have  his  moor ;  many  of  the  class  have  forests 
and  rivers  as  well.  They  jostle  the  Highland  chief  out  of  his  fastnesses, 
and  he  swears  and  pockets  the  money,  and  lays  on  the  rent,  unless  he  be 
such  a  great  landed  proprietor  as  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  and  one  or  two 
more.  But  even  a  duke  will  let  his  ancestral  halls  and  his  wide-spread 
acres  of  moor  and  mountain  to  a  sporting  stock-jobber,  and  many  a  poor 
proud  family  is  fain  to  surrender  the  rights  of  the  chase  to  the  Saxon 
lawyer  or  the  Southron,  who  has  well-filled  money-bags,  and  who  seeks 
in  the  Highlands  the  sport  and  the  society  which  he  cannot  get  else- 
where. It  was  doubtless  the  Queen  who  set  the  fashion,  and  made 
the  Highlands  so  popular.  The  Prince  Consort,  as  we  learn,  breathed 
more  freely  when  he  came  to  Balmoral ;  and  although  it  costs  her 
Majesty  some  2,000/..  whenever  she  moves  from  the  south  to  the  north,  it 
is,  perhaps,  the  only  part  of  her  dominions  where  she  really  feels  at  rest. 
The  proximity  of  the  Court  fixed  many  of  the  chiefs  of  the  clans  in  their 
homes.  Some  of  them  were  honoured  by  the  condescending  visits  of  the 
Sovereign  and  the  Prince  Consort,  and  relations  approaching  to  intimacy 
were  established  between  the  Royal  Family  and  the  respectable  commoners 


380  THE   SHOOTINGS  OF   KAMPTULLY. 

who  could  not  even  boast  of  being  "  the"  Mac  anything.  Legal  gentlemen, 
from  the  occupants  of  judicial  seats  down  to  the  flourishing  solicitor  or 
much  brief-giving  attorney,  worn-out  medical  men  and  Low  Church 
parsons,  swell  the  pilgrimage  to  the  shrines  of  St.  Grouse,  north  of  Tay, 
and  away  to  the  west  and  east.  A  return  of  the  sums  paid  for  these 
shootings  and  fishings  would  make  some  of  the  income-tax  officials  jump 
in  their  chairs  ;  and  although  the  reports  of  the  prevalence  of  disease 
caused  many  persons  to  fall  away,  and  prevented  the  lettings  of  various 
shootings  this  year,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  the  rates  of  moors,  forests, 
and  streams  are  on  the  increase,  and  that  they  exhibit  an  annual  rise.  It 
would  be  strange  if  it  were  not  so.  The  accumulation  of  capital  in 
England  and  Scotland  is  to  be  counted  by  many  millions  every  year. 
With  opulence  comes  leisure,  and  a  taste  for  sport  just  as  the  means  of 
indulging  it  are  augmented.  The  hills,  the  moors,  and  streams  cannot 
be  enlarged  or  multiplied.  True,  indeed,  the  sheep  may  be  turned  off  a 
mountain,  and  the  red  deer  will  at  once  take  their  place  for  the  stalker ; 
or  the  growth  of  heather  may  be  encouraged  for  the  grouse,  or  falls  may 
be  levelled  and  channels  opened  for  the  salmon  ;  but,  practically,  there 
can  be  no  accession  to  the  acres  or  the  streams  suitable  for  the  sportsman. 
Whenever  property  comes  into  the  market,  there  are  bidders  for  it  at  the 
most  enormous  prices.  Peers  and  commoners  contend  together  for  the 
coveted  possession  of  solitary  wilds  and  bleak  corries,  where  they  can  toil 
and  be  thankful  when  the  session  is  over,  till  they  are  summoned  back  to 
watch  the  results  of  the  leap  in  the  dark.  The  makers  of  guns  and  car- 
tridges, of  powder  and  shot,  rejoice ;  the  breeders  of  dogs  multiply ;  the 
race  of  keepers  and  gillies  thrives  and  expands,  and  thousands  of  men  are 
turned  away  from  emigration  or  agricultural  labour  to  the  strenuous 
idleness  of  the  chase.  And  after  all,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  If 
a  man  be  in  tolerably  good  condition,  there  is  no  sport  which  is  so  exhi- 
larating and  agreeable  as  that  afforded  in  the  Highlands.  The  chamois- 
shooter  has  to  spend  long  nights  up  among  the  snow-fields  in  cold 
and  solitude  ;  the  partridge-shooter  must  toil  in  blazing  sunshine  over 
heavy  swedes  and  foot-tripping  mangold;  the  Indian  sportsman  is  not 
always  certain  that  his  game  may  not  bag  him ;  and  all  over  the  world, 
wherever  he  may  be,  the  keen  votary  of  the  chase  has  privations  and 
sufferings  to  temper  his  delights.  But  the  Highland  lodge  is  the  abode  of 
comfort.  Lost  in  the  clouds,  without  a  sound  to  break  the  silence  save 
the  belling  of  the  deer  and  the  beatings  of  his  own  heart  in  the  forest,  the 
crowing  of  the  startled  grouse  or  the  bark  of  the  collie  on  the  moors,  the 
sportsman  knows  that  somewhere  in  the  brown  void  beneath  him  there  is 
a  snug  little  palace  of  indolence,  where  plenteous  fare  and  good  living  and 
a  comfortable  bed  await  him  at  nightfall. 

It  is  noon  at  the  Perth  station,  and  half-a-dozen  trains  are  in  at  once  : 
engines  whistling,  guards  tootling,  porters  running.  What  a  scene  it  is  ! 
The  trains  from  the  south  and  the  east  and  the  west  are  all  in,  and  those 
for  the  north  are  making  ready  to  start.  The  energetic,  good-humoured 


THE   SHOOTINGS  OF   KAMPTULLY.  381 

and  obliging  station-master  is  ruling  the  chaos  of  gun  and  rod  cases,  port- 
manteaus, ladies'  boxes  and  bags,  which  has  accumulated  on  the  platform ; 
now  giving  a  hand  to  a  truck, — now  leading  a  distracted  lady's-maid  to 
the  arms  of  her  mistress, — here  attending  to  the  owner  of  a  missing 
pointer, — there  contending  with  a  lordly  Jeames  who  is  seeking  to 
appropriate  a  carriage  for  his  master's  cigar, — or  appeasing  the  wrath  of  a 
gent  who  has  had  "  'is  'at-box  stove  in  by  the  rascally  porters."  You  see 
faces  you  have  not  beheld  since  the  last  war  perhaps,  or  since  the  season 
before  last. 

"  Hallo,  old  fellow,  where  the  deuce  are  you  from  ?  " 

"  So  glad  to  see  you — -just  arrived  from  Calcutta  the  day  before 
yesterday;  so  lucky  to  be  in  time  for  the  first  day  !  " 

See,  there  is  Lord  Tadpole,  and  there  is  my  lady  !  That  heap  of 
luggage,  about  the  size  of  a  shepherd's  bothie,  is  theirs,  you  may  be  bound, 
for  that  is  Tadpole's  own  man  at  one  side  of  it,  and  at  the  other  is  the 
wretched  Clarisse,  my  lady's  maid,  looking  with  horror  to  her  two  months' 
imprisonment  by  the  side  of  Loch  Froggy.  Tadpole,  you  see,  wears  the 
Strathfroggy  stalking  suit,  and  tremendous  shoeing  and  a  wideawake  ;  and 
the  melancholy-looking  man  close  behind  him  will  burst  into  kilt  and  hose 
and  spleuchan,  and  play  the  bagpipes,  as  soon  as  he  gets  his  foot  on  his 
native  heather,  for -he  is  the  Tadpole  piper,  who  makes  dinner  hideous 
and  drinks  a  great  deal  of  whisky  o'  nights.  There,  revolving  round  my 
,  lord,  whose  near  neighbour  he  is,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  obtaining  a  nod 
of  recognition,  is  little  Doechat,  who  has  hired  a  fine  place  for  his  'ealth, 
and  who  would  fall  away  at  once  into  the  nether  depths  if  he  were  not 
( shooting  on  the  12th  August.  Doechat  has  put  his  little  legs  into  pink 
stockings  with  green  bars,  and  is  encased  in  knickerbockers  and  suit  of 
bright  green  Genoa  velvet,  and  his  valetaille  is  in  attendance  on  a 
monstrous  quantity  of  his  property,  and  when  he  thinks  he  is  not  noticed 
enough,  he  demands  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Franswaw  !  " 

11  Franswaw  !  Etes  vous  bien  certang  que  le  dook  de  Bilbow  ne'it  pas 
arrivey  ?" 

"  Oui,  monsieur.  Mais  Monsieur  Abrahams  va  venir.  II  est  dans  le 
convoi  qui  arrive.  Ah  !  voila,  monsieur  !  " 

Doechat  darts  into  the  restaurant,  and  leaves  " Franswaw"  to  receive 
Mr.  Abrahams,  who  is  magnificently  got  up  for  the  occasion,  and  has  an 
Oriental  aspect  which  ill  accords  with  a  Moses'  "  suit  for  the  moors." 

At  last  we  are  off,  with  many  Tadpoles,  Doechats  and  intermediate 
varieties,  and  the  train  dashes  into  the  real  Highlands,  which  open  for  us  at 
Killiecrankie.  The  sun  is  getting  low  as  the  Highland  express  halts  for  a 
moment  at  the  Strathlushy  station,  a  little  wooden  barrack-looking  place 
on  a  moor,  with  mountains  on  all  sides.  There,  in  kilt  and  phillabeg, 
sporran  and  spleuchan  and  bonnet — the  latter  with  a  large  silver  badge  and 
a  bunch  of  heather  to  boot  in  the  side  of  it — stands  the  MacBirdie  himself, 
and  half-a-dozen  kilted  gallowglasses.  The  chiefs  face  is  radiant. 

"  I've  been  over  the  moors  these  two  last  days  ;  plenty  of  birds  strong 


382  THE   SHOOTINGS  OF   KAMPTULLY. 

on  the  wing.  That  fellow  Rory  is  always  of  a  desponding  turn  of  mind, 
or  thinks  it  right  to  prepare  me  not  to  expect  too  much.  You're  the  first 
man  come  yet ;  but  the  others  will  arrive  by  the  evening  train.  Dun- 
drumming  was  driving  up  to  the  lodge  as  we  started  for  the  station." 

It  is  three  miles  to  the  lodge  which  the  MacBirdie  has  built  on  the 
policy  of  Kamptully,  and  as  we  drove  over,  the  laird  told  off  the  party  for 
Monday. 

"  I'll  put  you  on  a  middle  beat  with  Dundrumming,"  he  said,  "  as 
he's  not  fond  of  hard  walking  and  likes  plenty  of  birds.  Take  them  pretty 
quick,  as  he's  apt  to  be  sharp  with  them.  You'll  get  150  brace  between 
you,  I  hope.  I  am  going  with  Pin  to  keep  him  in  order,  and  the  others 
can  pair  off  as  they  like." 

The  lodge  was  a  substantial,  well-built  stone  edifice  of  one  story,  with 
eight  bed-rooms  opening  off  a  central  corridor  at  one  side,  a  large  dining- 
room  and  drawing-room  on  the  other,  the  kitchen  at  the  end.  The  few 
starved  trees  which  had  been  planted  about  could  not  conceal  .the  very 
useful  unornamental  garden  stored  with  cabbages,  potatoes,  onions,  and 
the  like,  nor  the  outhouses  and  kennels  where  gillies  and  dogs  congregated 
and  had  their  being.  Dundrumming,  a  red-faced,  lean  man,  with  watery 
grey  eyes  and  a  hooked  nose  much  tainted  by  snuff,  was  lying  full  length 
on  the  sofa  as  we  came  in. 

"  This  horrid  gout !  "  he  groaned.  "  It  is  just  set  in  the  right  foot. 
I  always  said  Macbogus's  claret  is  loaded — full  of  Hermitage.  Had  you 
ever  the  gout  ?  "  he  asked  of  me,  when  the  MacBirdie  retired. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  can't  say  I  have." 

"  You  are  very  lucky  then.  I  think,"  he  continued,  looking  at  me 
narrowly,  "  this  attack  will  go  away  ;  but  I  thought  it  just  as  well  to  give 
Kamptully  a  hint.  He's  got  capital  claret,  and  he's  got  some  that  isn't"; 
and  I  wanted  to  warn  him  against  trotting  out  the  latter  for  us  just  as  he 
was  going  "to  see  after  the  wine." 

The  Dundrumming  had  a  glimpse  of  intellect  in  him  I  perceived. 
That  evening  he  drank  a  good  deal  of  claret,  and  said  nothing  of  his  gout 
next  morning  ;  so  it  is  fair  to  suppose  there  was  no  Burgundy  adulteration 
in  it.  The  lodge  was  too  far  from  the  kirk  for,  any  but  the  most  energetic 
pedestrians,  and  Sunday  passed  quietly.  Some  of  the  party  tried  their  legs 
over  the  hill,  and  came  back  in  great  spirits  concerning  the  broods. 
Dundrumming  lay  on  the  state  sofa,  with  a  handkerchief  over  his  face  to 
keep  off  the  flies,  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  The  laird  paid 
frequent  visits  to  the  keeper's  lodge  and  to  the  kennels,  in  which  I 
accompanied  him  ;  and  when  tired  of  that,  I  consulted  the  library,  which 
consisted  of  Toplady's  Sermons,  The  Veterinary 's  Companion,  Burns  Poems, 
Burns'  Justice,  Doddridge's  Expositer,  Scrope's  Deer- Stalking,  Davy's 
Salmonia,  and  a  few  odd  volumes  of  novels  and  magazines. 

At  the  first  tap  at  my  door  I  was  awake  in  the  morning,  but  it  was  no 
great  credit  to  me,  for  it  was  past  seven  o'clock.  "  The  laird  disna  starrt 
verra  eerly  at  first,"  said  Andrew,  as  he  arranged  my  knickerbockers  and 


THE   SHOOTINGS  OF   KAMPTULLY.  883 

shoes,  splashed  the  cold  water  into  my  tub,  and  gave  a  farewell  pat  of  the 
hand  to  my  shooting- coat.  "  There's  no  breakfast  till  eight  o'clock,  and 
they'll  no  be  off  'till  nine,  I'm  thinking."  The  yard  outside  my  window 
was  filled  with  a  wonderful  gathering  of  the  clans,  and  all  the  ponies  on 
the  hill- sides  had  been  congregated  there  from  dawn.  The  keeper's  lads 
were  engaged  in  moderating  the  ardour  of  the  straining  couples,  and  I 
very  soon  selected  my  own  particular  friends  and  favourites  from  the  tail- 
wagging  pack — Froth,  a  beautiful  clean-built  pointer  in  splendid  condition, 
and  Frolic,  her  brother,  and,  if  possible,  her  superior.  What  a  breakfast 
we  made,  and  what  a  bustle  of  preparation  then  followed  as  panniers 
were  packed  for  the  game-ponies  and  for  the  lunches  !  Pipes  were  lighted 
• — the  keepers  and  their  gillies  were  told  off  to  each  party,  and  in  solemn 
state  the  great  procession,  headed  by  the  General  and  Pin,  moved  off  in 
detachments  to  the  hills.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  behold  :  the  General 
sat  his  old  wall-eyed  pony  as  if  it  were  a  war-horse,  and  Pin  beside  him 
tried  his  best  to  provoke  his  quadruped  into  a  kick  by  the  use  of  the 
pointed  end  of  his  stick.  Then  came  at  their  heels  a  gillie  leading  their 
pony  with  panniers  for  the  game,  one  being  full  of  creature  comforts  ; 
another  gillie  with  a  brace  of  pointers ;  another  with  a  brace  of  setters ; 
a  third  with  a  retriever  ;  the  keeper  and  two  assistants  with  the  guns  and 
cartridges.  Dundrumming  and  myself  followed  in  similar  state  and  style, 
only  that  Dundrumming  had  his  own  gillies  extra,  and  had  secret  luxuries 
added  to  the  luncheon-pannier.  The  MacBirdie  and  Girder  brought  up 
the  rear,  with  a  still  more  numerous  clientelle  of  ponies,  gillies,  dogs, 
and  keepers,  so  that  as  we  wound  up  the  rude  pathway  which  led  to  the 
point  whence  our  paths  diverged  to  the  different  shootings,  we  resembled 
in  some  sort  a  column  of  infantry  and  cavalry  going  out  on  a  foray. 
"  Good  luck,"  "  Good  sport,"  "  Dinner  at  eight."  And  so  we  parted. 
Our  course  lay  straight  up  by  the  side  of  a  burn,  or  series  of  little  water- 
falls and  cascades,  which  came  down  from  the  moor  above  us,  over  the 
hard  white  stones.  The  day  was  dark  and  warm  and  windy,  just  the  kind 
we  wanted  for  scent  and  shooting. 

"  Ef  at  ell  be  pleesin'  to  yee,  w'all  begin  just  here.  There's  fine 
grand  aboot  us." 

The  dogs  were  cast  loose  and  were  gambolling  in  the  heather  in  a 
preliminary  nourish.  We  dismounted,  took  our  guns,  and  walked  on 
after  the  keeper.  "  Whoa,  steady,  Frolic  !  "  Sure  enough  there  was  a 
point  just  in  one  minute.  Dundrumming  and  I  walked  over  the 
heather  towards  the  rigid  tail,  which  was  backed  by  Froth  with  much 
solicitude. 

"  I  think  you  are  keeping  a  little  too  much  to  my  side,"  quoth  Dun- 
Irumming,  who  was  marching  straight  towards  the  dog's  head. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but " 

Whirr,  whirr  !     Bang,  bang,  bang,  bang ! 

"  That's  well,  indeed,"  said  the  keeper,  as  he  walked  towards  the  birds 
vhich  were  down. 


384=  THE   SHOOTINGS  OF  KAMPTULLY. 

I  knew  both  were  mine.  Dundrumming  had  shot  at  two  which  rose 
across  him,  and  I  caught  the  twinkle  of  the  keeper's  eye  as  my  friend 
exclaimed, — 

"  I'm  in  good  form  I  see  by  these  two  shots.  Take  your  time,  sir,  and 
I'll  be  bound  you'll  do  better  next  time." 

"  Wiry,  I  protest  those  birds  are  mine.     I  fired  at  them  both." 

"  Then  it  was  after  I  had  killed  them,  that's  all,"  quoth  Dundrumming. 

He  was  a  dreadful  man.  I  never  was  in  such  agonies  of  rage  in  my 
life  as  I  was  ere  the  day  was  over.  He  blazed  away  at  everything  that 
rose,  claimed  everything  that  fell,  and  in  the  evening,  as  we  sat  at  dinner 
talking  of  the  shooting,  I  heard  him,  sotto  voce,  say  of  me — me,  the  crack 
shot  of  the  regiment — "  MacEirdie,  I'm  thinking  my  friend  the  captain 
has  not  had  much  practice  with  the  grouse.  He  couldn't  get  on  to  them 
to-day  at  all.  But  he'll  do  better,"  he  added,  in  a  louder  voice,  as  he 
perceived  my  eye  turned  on  him.  "  I  could  see  by  the  style  of  that  right 
and  left  you  got"  (I  had  dozens  of  them,  I  swear)  "  just  before  we  left, 
that  you  were  no  novice."  We  had  bagged  17H  brace,  of  which  I  had  killed 
fully  three-fourths ;  but  before  the  evening  was  over,  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  hearing  Dundrumming  take  his  oath  he  had  killed  200  brace  to  his  own 
gun,  the  ten  he  said  which  were  lost,  and  of  seeing  him  removed  to  his 
chamber  in  a  high  state  of  exaltation,  declaring, — "  I  shay,  MaBirdie, 
I  shos  five  hundre  brashe  to  my  gun.  The  captin  can't  shoot ;  you 
can't  shoot;  Pinttail  can't  shoot;  the  old  General  can't  hit  haystack." 
And  so  ended  my  first  day  with  the  grouse,  and  with  Drumming  of 
Dundrumming. 

There  are  many  of  them,  I  daresay,  at  work  on  the  moors  this  moment, 
and  Dundrumming  still  enjoys  a  high  reputation  at  Kamptully  with  every 
one  but  the  keeper. 


DOWN  FROM  a  HE  CLIFF 


THE 


COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 


OCTOBER,  1867. 


xrf 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

AT    CASTELLO. 

PRIVATE  letter  from  a  Mend  had 
told  Jack  Bramleigh  that  his  father's 
opposition  to  the  Government  had 
considerably  damaged  his  chance 
of  being  employed,  but  that  he  pos- 
sibly might  get  a  small  command 
on  the  African  station.  With  what 
joy  then  did  he  receive  "the  official," 
marked  on^  H.M.'s.  service,  inform- 
ing him  that  he  was  appointed  to: 
the  Sneezer  despatch  gunboat,  to 
serve  in  the  Mediterranean,  and 
enjoining  him  to  repair  to  town 
without  unnecessary  delay,  to  re- 
ceive further  orders. 

He  had  forborne,  as  we  have 
seen,  to  tell  Julia  his  former  tidings. 
They  were  not  indeed  of  a  nature 
to  rejoice  over,  but  here  was  great 
news.  He  only  wanted  two  more 
years  to  be  qualified  for  his  "  Post,"  and  once  a  captain,  he  would 
have  a  position  which  might  warrant  his  asking  Julia  to  be  his  wife,  and 
thus  was  it  that  the  great  dream  of  his  whole  existence  was  interwoven 
into  his  career,  and  his  advancement  as  a  sailor  linked  with  his  hopes 
as  a  lover ;  and  surely  it  is  well  for  us  that  ambitions  in  life  appeal  to 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  94.  19. 


386  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

us  in  other  and  humbler  ways  than  by  the  sense  of  triumph,  and  that 
there  are  better  rewards  for  success  than  either  the  favour  of  princes 
or  the  insignia  of  rank. 

fe  To  poor  Jack,  looking  beyond  that  two  years,  it  was  not  a  three- 
decker,  nor  even  frigate,  it  was  the  paradise  of  a  cottage  overgrown 
with  sweetbriar  and  honeysuckle,  that  presented  itself, — and  a  certain 
graceful  figure,  gauzy  and  floating,  sitting  in  the  porch,  while  he  lay  at 
her  feet,  lulled  by  the  drowsy  ripple  of  the  little  trout-stream,  that  ran 
close  by.  So  possessed  was  he  by  this  vision,  so  entirely  and  wholly  did 
it  engross  him,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  gave  coherent  replies  to  the 
questions  poured  in  upon  him  at  the  breakfast-table,  as  to  the  sort  of 
service  he  was  about  to  be  engaged  in,  and  whether  it  was  as  good  or  a 
better  thing  than  he  had  been  expecting. 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  Jack,"  said  Augustus.  "  You're  a  lucky  dog  to  get 
afloat  again  so  soon.  You  haven't  been  full  six  months  on  half-pay." 

"  I  wish  you  joy  too,"  said  Temple,   "  and  am  thankful  to  Fate  it 

is  you,  and  not  I,  have  to  take  the  command  of  H.M.'s  gunboat  Sneezer." 

"Perhaps,  all  things  considered,  it  is  as  well  as  it  is,"  said  Jack  dryly. 

"It  is  a  position  of  some  importance.     I  mean  it  is  not  the  mere 

command  of  a  small  vessel,"  said  Marion  haughtily;  for  she  was  always 

eager  that  every  incident  that  befell  the  family  should  redound  to  their 

distinction,  and  subserve  their  onward  march  to  greatness. 

"  Oh,  Jack,"  whispered  Nelly,  "  let  us  walk  over  to  the  cottage,  and 
tell  them  the  news  ;  "  and  Jack  blushed  as  he  squeezed  her  hand  in  grati- 
tude for  the  speech. 

"  I  almost  wonder  they  gave  you  this,  Jack,"  said  his  father,  "  seeing 
how  active  a  part  I  took  against  them ;  but  I  suppose  there  is  some  truth  in 
the  saying  that  Ministers  would  rather  soothe  enemies  than  succour  friends." 
"  Don't  you  suspect,  papa,  that  Lord  Culduff  may  have  had  some 
share  in  this  event  ?  His  influence,  I  know,  is  very  great  with  his  party," 
said  Marion. 

;_  "I  hope  and  trust  not,"  burst  out  Jack ;  "  rather  than  owe  my  pro- 
motion to  that  bewigged  old  dandy,  I'd  go  and  keep  a  lighthouse." 

"A  most  illiberal  speech,"  said  Temple.  "  I  was  about  to  employ  a 
stronger  word,  but  still  not  stronger  than  my  sense  of  its  necessity." 

"  Remember,  Temple,"  replied  Jack,  "  I  have  no  possible  objection  to 
his  being  your  patron.  I  only  protest  that  he  shan't  be  mine. ,  He  may 
make  you  something  ordinary  or  extraordinary  to-morrow,  and  I'll  never 
quarrel  about  it." 

"  I  am  grateful  for  the  concession,"  said  the  other,  bowing. 
"  If  it  was  Lord  Culduff  that  got  you  this  step,"  said  Colonel  Bram- 
leigh,  "I  must  say  nothing  could  be  more  delicate  than  his  conduct;  he 
never  so  much  as  hinted  to  me  that  he  had  taken  trouble  in  the  matter." 

"He  is  such  a  gentleman!  "  said  Marion,  with  a  very  enthusiastic 
emphasis  on  the  word. 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  a  very  ignoble  confession,"  said  Nelly,  "but  I 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  387 

frankly  own  I'd  rather  Jack  owed  his  good  fortune  to  his  good  fame  than 
t3  all  the  peers  in  the  calendar." 

"What  pains  Ellen  takes,"  said  Marion,  "to  show  that  her  ideas  of 
life  and  the  world  are  not  those  of  the  rest  of  us." 

"  She  has  me  with  her  whenever  she  goes  into  the  lobby,"  said  Jack, 
"  or  I'll  pair  with  Temple,  who  is  sure  to  be  on  the  stronger  side." 

"  Your  censure  I  accept  as  a  compliment,"  said  Temple. 

"  And  is  this  all  our  good  news  has  done  for  us, — to  set  us  exchanging 
ti.rt  speeches  and  sharp  repartees  with  each  other  ?  "  said  Colonel  Bram- 
kigh;  "I  declare  it  is  a  very  ungracious  way  to  treat  pleasant  tidings. 
Go  out  boys,  and  see  if  you  couldn't  find  some  one  to  dine  with  us,  and 
wet  Jack's  commission,  as  they  used  to  call  it,  long  ago." 

"  We  can  have  the  L'Estranges  and  our  amiable  neighbour  Captain 
Craufurd,"  said  Marion,  "but  I  believe  our  Resources  end  with  these." 

"Why  not  look  up  the  Frenchman  you  smashed  some  weeks  ago, 
Jack?  "  said  Augustus ;  "  he  ought  to  be  about  by  this  time,  and  it  would 
only  be  common  decency  to  show  him  some  attention."  \ 

'"  With  all  my  heart.  I'll  do  anything  you  like  but  talk  French  with 
him.  But  where  is  he  to  be  found  ?  " 

"  He  stops  with  Longworth,"  said  Augustus,  "  which  makes  the 
matter  awkward.  Can  we  invite  one  without  the  other,  and  can  we  open 
our  acquaintance  with  Longworth  by  an  invitation  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  chimed  in  Temple.  "  First  acquaintance  admits  of 
no  breaches  of  etiquette.  Intimacies  may,  and  rarely  too,  forgive  such." 

"  What  luck  to  have  such  a  pilot  to  steer  us  through  the  narrow 
channel  of  proprieties,"  cried  Jack,  laughing. 

"  I  think,  too,  it  would  be  as  well  to  remember,"  resumed  Temple, 
"  that  Lord  Culduff  is  our  guest,  and  to  whatever  accidents  of  acquaint- 
ar  ceship  we  may  be  ready  to  expose  ourselves,  we  have  no  right  to  extend 
these  casualties  to  him" 

"I  suspect  we  are  not  likely  to  see  his  lordship  to-day,  at  least ;  he 
has  sent  down  his  man  to  beg  he  may  be  excused  from  making  his 
appearance  at  dinner :  a  slight  attack  of  gout  confines  him  to  his  room," 
sa'd  Marion. 

"  That's  not  the  worst  bit  of  news  I've  heard  to-day,"  broke  in  Jack. 
'Oining  in  that  old  cove's  company  is  the  next  thing  to  being  tried  by 
coirt-martial.  I  fervently  hope  he'll  be  on  the  sick  list  till  I  take  my 
departure." 

"  As  to  getting  these  people  together  to-day,  it's  out  of  the  question," 
said  Augustus.  "  Let  us  say  Saturday  next,  and  try  what  we  can  do." 

This  was  agreed  upon,  Temple  being  deputed  to  ride  over  to  Long- 
wcrth's,  leaving  to  his  diplomacy  to  make  what  further  advances  events 
se<  med  to  warrant, — a  trustful  confidence  in  his  tact  to  conduct  a  nice 
ne  jotiation  being  a  flattery  more  than  sufficient  to  recompense  his  trouble. 
Jack  and  Nelly  would  repair  to  the  cottage  to  secure  the  L'Estranges. 
Criufurd  could  be  apprised  by  a  note. 

19—2 


388  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  Has  Cutbill  got  the  gout,  too  ?  "  asked  Jack.  "  I  have  not  seen 
him  this  morning." 

"No;  that  very  cool  gentleman  took  out  my  cob  pony,  Fritz,  this 
morning  at  daybreak,"  said  Augustus,  "  saying  he  was  off  to  the  mines  at 
Lismaconnor,  and  wouldn't  be  back  till  evening." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  let  such  a  liberty  pass  unnoticed  ?  "  asked 
Temple. 

"  A  good  deal  will  depend  upon  how  Fritz  looks  after  his  journey.  If 
I  see  that  the  beast  has  not  suffered,  it  is  just  possible  I  may  content 
myself  with  a  mere  intimation  that  I  trust  the  freedom  may  not  be 
repeated." 

"  You  told  me  Anderson  offered  you  two  hundred  for  that  cob,"  broke 
in  Temple. 

"  Yes,  and  asked  how  mu*ch  more  would  tempt  me  to  sell  him." 

"If  he  were  a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  took  such  a  liberty  with  me,  I'd 
not  forgive  him,"  said  Temple,  as  he  arose  and  left  the  room  in  a  burst 
of  indignation. 

"  I  may  say  we  are  a  very  high-spirited  family,"  said  Jack  gravely, 
"  and  I'll  warn  the  world  not  to  try  any  familiarities  with  us." 

"Come  away,  naughty  boy,"  whispered  Eleanor ;  "you  are  always 
trailing  your  coat  for  some  one  to  stand  upon." 

"  Tell  me,  Nelly,"  said  he,  as  they  took  their  way  through  the  pine- 
wood  that  led  to  the  cottage,  "  tell  me,  Nelly,  am  I  right  or  wrong  in  my 
appreciation — for  I  really  want  to  be  just  and  fair  in  the  matter — are  we 
Bramleighs  confounded  snobs  ?  " 

The  downright  honest  earnestness  with  which  he  put,  the  question  made 
her  laugh  heartily,  and  for  some  seconds  left  her  unable  to  answer  him. 

"  I  half  suspect  that  we  may  be,  Jack,"  said  she,  still  smiling. 

"  I'm  certain  of  one  thing,"  continued  he  in  the  same  earnest  tone, 
"  our  distinguished  guest  deems  us  such.  There  is  a  sort  of  simpering 
enjoyment  of  all  that  goes  on  around  him,  and  a  condescending  approval  of: 
us  that  seems  to  say,  '  Go  on,  you'll  catch  the  tone  yet.  You're  not  doing 
badly  by  any  means.'  He  pushed  me  to  the  very  limit  of  my  patience 
the  other  day  with  this,  and  I  had  to  get  up  from  luncheon  and  leave  the 
house  to  avoid  being  openly  rude  to  him.  Do  you  mind  my  lighting  a 
cigar,  Nelly,  for  I  have  got  myself  so  angry  that  I  want  a  weed  to  calm 
me  down  again  ?  " 

"Let  us  talk  of  something  else;  for  on  this  theme  I'm  not  much 
better  tempered  than  yourself." 

"There's  a  dear  good  girl,"  said  he,  drawing  her  towards  him,  and 
kissing  her  cheek.  "  I'd  have  sworn  you  felt  as  I  did  about  this  old  fop ; 
and  we  must  be  arrant  snobs,  Nelly,  or  else  his  coming  down  amongst  us 
here  would  not  have  broken  us  all  up,  setting  us  exchanging  sneers  and 
scoffs,  and  criticizing  each  other's  knowledge  of  life.  Confound  the  old 
humbug ;  let  us  forget  him." 

They  walked  along  without  exchanging  a  word  for  full  ten  minutes  or 


THE   BKAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  389 

more,  till  they  reached  the  brow  of  the  cliff,  from  which  the  pathway  led 
down  to  the  cottage.  "I  wonder  when  I  shall  stand  here  again?"  said 
lie,  pausing.  "  Not  that  I'm  going  on  any  hazardous  service,  or  to  meet 
{=  more  formidable  enemy  than  a  tart  flag-captain ;  but  the  world  has  such 
ttrange  turns  and  changes,  that  a  couple  of  years  may  do  anything  with  a 
man's  destiny."  £ 

"  A  couple  of  years  may  make  you  a  post-captain,  Jack ;  and  that  will 
i>e  quite  enough  to  change  your  destiny." 

He  looked  affectionately  towards  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
away  to  hide  the  emotion  he  could  not  master. 

"And  then,  Jack,"  said  she  caressingly,  "it  will  be  a  very  happy  day 
that  shall  bring  us  to  this  spot  again." 

"  Who  knows,  Nelly?  "  said  he,  with  a  degree  of  agitation  that  sur- 
prised her.  "I  haven't  told  you  that  Julia  and  I  had  a  quarrel  the  last 
t  me  we  met." 

"  A  quarrel!" 

"  Well,  it  was  something  very  like  one.  I  told  her  there  were  things 
about  her  manner, — certain  ways  she  had, — that  I  didn't  like  ;  and  I 
s  3oke  very  seriously  to  her  on  the  subject.  I  didn't  go  beating  about,  but 
said  she  was  too  much  of  a  coquette." 

"Oh,  Jack!" 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  be  shocked,  and  cry  out,  *  Oh,  Jack  ! '  but  isn't 
it  true  ?  haven't  you  seen  it  yourself?  hasn't  Marion  said  some  very 
strange  things  about  it?" 

"  My  dear  Jack,  I  needn't  tell  you  that  we  girls  are  not  always  fair  in 
our  estimates  of  each  other,  even  when  we  think  we  are, — and  it  is  not 
always  that  we  want  to  think  so.  Julia  is  not  a  coquette  in  any  sense 
tlat  the  word  carries  censure,  and  you  were  exceedingly  wrong  to  tell  her 
she  was." 

"  That's  how  it  is !  "  cried  he,  pitching  his  cigar  away  in  impatience. 
"  There's  a  freemasonry  amongst  yauthat  calls  you  all  to  arms  the  moment 
oi.e  is  attacked.  Isn't  it  open  to  a  man  to  tell  the  girl  he  hopes  to  make 
hi  3  wife  that  there  are  things  in  her  manner  he  doesn't  approve  of  and 
would  like  changed  ?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  at  least  it  would  require  some  nicer  tact  than  yours 
to  approach  such  a  theme  with  safety." 

"  Temple,  perhaps,  could  do  it,"  said  he,  sneeringly. 

"  Temple  certainly'would  not  attempt  it." 

Jack  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and,  as  if  desirous  to  change  the 
subject,  said,  "  What's  the  matter  with  our  distinguished  guest  ?  Is  he 
ill,,  that  he  won't  dine  below-stairs  to-day  ?  " 

"  He  calls  it  a  slight  return  of  his  Greek  fever,  and  begs  to  be  excused 
frcm  presenting  himself  at  dinner." 

"  He  and  Temple  have  been  writing  little  three-cornered  notes  to  each 
other  all  the  morning.  I  suppose  it  is  diplomatic  usage." 

The  tone  of  irritation  he  spoke  in  seemed  to  show  that  he  was  actually 


390  THE   BKAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

seeking  for  something  to  vent  his  anger  upon,  and  trying  to  provoke  some 
word  of  contradiction  or  dissent ;  but  she  was  silent,  and  for  some  seconds 
they  walked  on  without  speaking. 

"  Look  !  "  cried  he,  suddenly;  "  there  goes  Julia.  Do  you  see  her 
yonder  on  the  path  up  the  cliff ;  and  who  is  that  clambering  after  her  ? 
I'll  be  shot  if  it's  not  Lord  Culduff." 

"  Julia  has  got  her  drawing-book,  I  see.  They're  on  some  sketching 
excursion." 

"  He  wasn't  long  in  throwing  off  his  Greek  fever,  eh  ?  "  cried  Jack, 
indignantly.  "  It's  cool,  isn't  it,  to  tell  the  people  in  whose  house  he  is 
stopping  that  he's  too  ill  to 'dine  with  them,  and  then  set  out  gallivanting 
in  this  fashion." 

"  Poor  old  man  !  "  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  half  scornful  pity. 

"  Was  I  right  about  Julia  now  ?  "  cried  he  angrily.  "  I  told  you  for 
whose  captivation  all  her  little  gracefulnesses  were  intended.  I  saw  it  the 
first  night  he  stood  beside  her  at  the  piano.  As  Marion  said,  she  is 
determined  to  bring  him  down.  She  saw  it  as  well  as  I  did." 

"  What  nonsense  you  are  talking,  Jack;  as  if  Julia  would  con- 
descend  " 

"  There's  no  condescension,  Nelly,"  he  broke  in.  "  The  man  is  a 
lord,  and  the  woman  he  marries  will  be  a  peeress,  and  there's  not  another 
country  in  Europe  in  which  that  word  means  as  much.  I  take  it  we 
needn't  go  on  to  the  cottage  now  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  we  could  scarcely  overtake  them  ?  " 

"  Overtake  them  !  Why  should  we  try  ?  Even  my  tact,  Nelly,  that 
you  sneered  at  so  contemptuously  a  while  ago,  would  save  me  from  such  a 
blunder.  Come,  let's  go  home  and  forget,  if  we  can,  all  that  we  came  about. 
I  at  least  will  try  and  do  so." 

"  My  dear  dear  Jack,  this  is  very  foolish  jealousy." 

"  I  am  not  jealous,  Nelly.  I'm  angry ;  but  it  is  with  myself.  I  ought 
to  have  known  what  humble  pretensions  mine  were,  and  I  ought  to  have 
known  how  certainly  a  young  lady,  bred  as  young  ladies  are  now-a-days, 
would  regard  them — as  less  than  humble  ;  but  it  all  comes  of  this  idle  shore- 
going  good-for-nothing  life.  They'll  not  catch  me  at  it  again,  that's  all." 

"  Just  listen  to  me  patiently,  Jack.     Listen  to  me  for  one  moment." 

"  Not  for  half  a  moment.  I  can  guess  everything  you  want  to  say  to 
me,  and  I  tell  you  frankly,  I  don't  care  to  hear  it.  Tell  me  whatever  you 
like  to-morrow — "  He  tried  to  finish  his  speech,  but  his  voice  grew  thick 
and  faltering,  and  he  turned  away  and  was  silent. 

They  spoke  little  to  each  other  as  they  walked  homewards.  A  chance 
remark  on  the  weather,  or  the  scenery,  was  all  that  passed  till  they  reached 
the  little  lawn  before  the  door. 

"  You'll  not  forget  your  pledge,  Jack,  for  to-morrow  ?  "  said  Ellen,  as 
he  turned  towards  her  before  ascending  the  steps. 

"I'll  not  forget  it,"  said  he  coldly,  and  he  moved  off  as  he  spoke,  and 
entered  an  alley  of  the  shrubbery. 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  391 

CHAPTER  XVHI. 

A   DULL   DINNER. 

THE  family  dinner  on  that  day  at  Castello  was  somewhat  dull.  The 
various  attempts  to  secure  a  party  for  the  ensuing  Saturday,  which  had 
been  fixed  on  to  celebrate  Jack's  promotion,  had  proved  failures.  When 
Temple  arrived  at  Longworth,  he  learned  that  the  host  and  his  guest  were 
from,  home  and  not  to  return  for  some  days — we  have  seen  how  it  fared 
as  to  the  L'Estranges — so  that  the  solitary  success  was  Captain  Craufurd, 
a  gentleman  who  certainly  had  not  won  the  suffrages  of  the  great  house. 

There  were  two  vacant  places  besides  at  the  table ;  for  butlers  are 
fond  of  recording,  by  napkins  and  covers,  how  certain  of  our  friends 
assume  to  treat  us,  and  thus  as  it  were  contrast  their  own  formal 
observances  of  duty  with  the  laxer  notions  of  their  betters. 

"  Lord  Culduff  is  not  able  to  dine  with  us,"  said  Colonel  Bramleigh, 
making  the  apology  as  well  to  himself  as  to  the  company. 

"  No,  papa,"  said  Marion ;  "  he  hopes  to  appear  in  the  drawing-room 
in  the  evening." 

"  If  not  too  much  tired  by  his  long  walk,"  broke  in  Jack. 

"  What  walk  are  you  dreaming  of  ?  "  asked  Marion. 

"  An  excursion  he  made  this  morning  down  the  coast,  sketching  or 
pretending  to  sketch.  Nelly  and  I  saw  him  clambering  up  the  side  of  a 
cliff " 

"  Oh,  quite  impossible  ;  you  must  be  mistaken." 

"  No,"  said  Nelly,  "  there  was  no  mistake.  I  saw  him  as  plainly  as 
I  see  you  now ;  besides,  it  is  not  in  these  wild  regions  so  distinguished  a 
figure  is  like  to  find  its  counterpart." 

"But  why  should  he  not  take  his  walk?  why  not  sketch,  or  amuse 
himself  in  any  way  he  pleased  ?  "  asked  Temple. 

"  Of  course  it  was  open  to  him  to  do  so,"  said  the  colonel ;  "  only  that 
to  excuse  his  absence  he  ought  not  to  have  made  a  pretext  of  being  ill." 

"I  think  men  are  'ill'  just  as  they  are  'out,'  "  said  Temple.  "I 
am  ill  if  I  am  asked  to  do  what  is  disagreeable  to  me,  as  I  am  out  to  the 
visit  of  a  bore." 

"  So  that  to  dine  with  us  was  disagreeable  to  Lord  Culduff?  "  asked 
Jack. 

"  It  was  evidently  either  an  effort  to  task  his  strength,  or  an  occasion 
which  called  for  more  exertion  than  he  felt  equal  to,"  said  Temple, 
pompously. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  cried  Jack,  "  I  hope  I'll  never  be  a  great  man  !  I  trust 
sincerely  I  may  never  arrive  at  that  eminence  in  which  it  will  task  my 
3nergies  to  eat  my  dinner  and  chat  with  the  people  on  either  side  of  me." 

"  Lord  Culduff  converses  :  he  does  not  chat ;  please  to  note  the 
listinction,  Jack." 

"  That's  like  telling  me  he  doesn't  walk  but  he  swaggers." 


392  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

It  was  fortunate  at  this  moment,  critical  enough  as  regarded  the 
temper  of  all  parties,  that  Mr.  Cutbill  entered,  full  of  apologies  for  being 
late,  and  bursting  to  recount  the  accidents  that  befell  him  and  all  the 
incidents  of  his  day.  A  quick  glance  around  the  table  assured  him  of 
Lord  CuldufFs  absence,  and  it  was  evident  from  the  sparkle  of  his  eye 
that  the  event  was  not  disagreeable  to  him. 

"  Is  my  noble  friend  on  the  sick  list  ?  "  asked  he  with  a  smile. 

"  Indisposed,"  said  Temple,  with  the  air  of  one  who  knew  the  value 
of  a  word  that  was  double -shotted. 

"  I've  got  news  that  will  soon  rally  him,"  continued  Cutbill.'  "  They've 
struck  a  magnificent  vein  this  morning,  and  within  eighty  yards  of  the 
surface.  Plmmys,  the  Welsh  inspector,  pronounced  it  good  Cardiff,  and 
says,  from  the  depth  of  l  the  load '  that  it  must  go  a  long  way." 

"  Harding  did  not  give  me  as  encouraging  news  yesterday,"  said 
Colonel  Bramleigh  with  a  dubious  smile. 

"My  tidings  date  from  this  morning, — yesterday  was  the  day  before 
the  battle  ;  besides,  what  does  Harding  know  about  coal  ?  " 

"  He  knows  a  little  about  everything,"  said  Augustus. 

"  That  makes  all  the  difference.  What  people  want  is  not  the  men  who 
know  things  currently,  but  know  them  well  and  thoroughly.  Eh,  captain," 
said  he  to  Jack,  "  what  would  you  say  to  popular  notions  about  the  navy  ?  ' 
.  "  Cutty's  right,"  said  Jack.  "  Amateurship  is  all  humbug." 

"  Who  is  Longworth  ?  "  asked  Cutbill.     "  Philip  Longworth  ?  " 

"  A  neighbour  of  ours ;  we  are  not  acquainted,  but  we  know  that  there 
is  such  a  person,"  said  Colonel  Bramleigh. 

"He  opines,"  continued  Cutbill,  "  that  this  vein  of  ours  runs  direct 
from  his  land,  and  I  suspect  he's  not  wrong ;  and  he  wants  to  know  what 
we  mean  to  do — he'll  either  sell  or  buy.  He  came  over  this  morning  to 
Kilmannock  with  a  French  friend,  and  we  took  our  breakfast  together. 
Nice  fellows  both  of  them,  and  wide  awake,  too,  especially  the  Frenchman. 
He  was  with  Lesseps  in  Egypt,  in  what  capacity  I  couldn't  find  out ;  but 
I  see  he's  a  shrewd  fellow." 

"  With  Lesseps,"  said  Colonel  Bramleigh,  showing  a  quicker  and 
more  eager  interest  than  before,  for  his  lawyer  had  told  him  that  the 
French  claimant  to  his  property  had  been  engaged  on  the  works  of  the 
Suez  Canal. 

"  Yes  ;  he  spoke  as  if  he  knew  Lesseps  well,  and  talked  of  the  whole- 
undertaking  like  one  who  understood  it." 

"  And  what  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Writing  a  book,  I  fancy;  an  Irish  tour — one  of  those  mock-senti- 
mentalities, with  bad  politics  and  false  morality,  Frenchmen  ventilate 
about  England.  He  goes  poking  into  the  cabins  and  asking  the  people 
about  their  grievances ;  and  now  he  says  he  wants  to  hear  the  other  side, 
and  learn  what  the  gentlemen  say." 

"  We'll  have  to  ask  him  over  here,"  said  Colonel  Bramleigh  coolly,  as 
if  the  thought  had  occurred  to  him  then  for  the  first  time. 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  393 

"  He'll  amuse  you,  I  promise  you,"  said  Cutbill. 

"  I'd  like  to  meet  him,"  said  Jack.  "  I  had  the  ill-luck  to  bowl  him 
over  in  the  hunting- field,  and  cost  him  a  broken  leg.  I'd  like  to  make  all 
the  excuses  in  my  power  to  him." 

"  He  bears  no  malice  about  it ;  he  said  it  was  all  his  own  fault,  and 
that  you  did  your  best  to  pick  him  up,  but  your  horse  bolted  with  you." 

"  Let's  have  him  to  dinner  by  all  means,"  said  Augustus  ;  "  and  now 
that  Temple  has  made  a  formal  visit,  I  take  it  we  might  incite  him  by  a 
polite  note." 

"  You  must  wait  till  he  returns  the  call,"  said  Marion  stiffly. 

"  Not  if  we  want  to  show  a  courteous  desire  to  make  his  acquaintance," 
said  Temple.  "  Attentions  can  be  measured  as  nicely  and  as  minutely  as 
medicaments." 

11  All  I  say,"  said  Jack,  "  is,  have  him  soon,  or  I  may  chance  to  miss 
him  ;  and  I'm  rather  curious  to  have  a  look  at  him." 

Colonel  Bramleigh  turned  a  full  look  at  Jack,  as  though  his  words  had 
some  hidden  meaning  in  them,  but  the  frank  and  easy  expression  of  the 
sailor's  face  reassured  him  at  once. 

"I  hope  the  fellow  won't  put  us  in  his  book,"  said  Temple.  "You 
are  never  quite  safe  with  these  sort  of  people." 

"  Are  we  worth  recording  ?  "  asked  Jack  with  a  laugh. 

Temple  was  too  indignant  to  make  any  'answer,  and  Cutbill  went  on. 
"  The  authorship  is  only  a  suspicion  of  mine,  remember.  It  was  from 
seeing  him  constantly  jotting  down  little  odds  and  ends  in  his  note-book 
that  I  came  to  that  conclusion ;  and  Frenchmen  are  not  much  given  to 
minute  inquiries  if  they  have  not  some  definite  object  in  view." 

Again  was  Bramleigh's  attention  arrested,  but  as  before,  he  saw  that 
the  speaker  meant  no  more  than  the  words  in  their  simplest  acceptance 
conveyed. 

A  violent  ringing  of  the  door-bell  startled  the  company,  and  after  a 
moment's  pause  of  expectancy,  a  servant  entered  to  say,  that  a  Government 
messenger  had  arrived  with  some  important  despatches  for  Lord  Culduff, 
which  required  personal  delivery  and  acceptance. 

"  Will  you  step  up,  Mr.  Cutbill,  and  see  if  his  lordship  is  in  his 
room?" 

"  I'll  answer  for  it  he's  not,"  said  Jack  to  his  father. 

Cutbill  rose,  however,  and  went  on  his  mission,  but  instead  of  returning 
to  the  dining-room  it  was  perceived  that  he  proceeded  to  find  the  messenger, 
and  conduct  him  upstairs. 

"  Well,  Nelly,"  said  Marion,  in  a  whisper,  "  what  do  you  say  now,  is 
it  so  certain  that  it  was  Lord  Culduff  you  saw  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it.     I  was  fully  as  sure  as  Jack  was." 
"  I'll  wager  he's  been  offered  Paris,"  said  Temple,  gravely. 
"  Offered  Paris  ?  "  cried  Jack  ;   "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  I  mean  the  embassy,  of  course,"  replied  he  contemptuously.    "^With- 
out," added  he,  "  they  want  him  in  the  Cabinet." 


394  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  And  is  it  really  by  men  like  this,  the  country  is  governed  ?  "  said 
Nelly,  with  a  boldness  that  seemed  the  impulse  of  indignation. 

."I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Marion  scornfully.  "Mr.  Canning  and  Lord 
Palmerston  were  men  very  like  this, — were  they  not,  Temple  '?  " 

"Precisely;  Lord  Culduff  is  exactly  of  the  same  order,  however 
humble  the  estimate  Ellen  may  form  of  such  people." 

"  I'm  all  impatience  for  the  news,"  said  Augustus.  "  I  wish  Cutbill 
would  come  down  at  once." 

"  I'll  take  the  odds  that  he  goes  to  F.  0.,"  said  Temple. 

"  What  the  deuce  could  he  do  in  China  ?  "  cried  Jack,  whose  ear  had 
led  him  into  a  cruel  blunder. 

Temple  scarcely  smiled  at  what  savoured  of  actual  irreverence,  and 
added,  "  If  so,  I'll  ask  to  be  made  private  secretary." 

"  Mr.  Temple,  sir,  his  lordship  would  be  glad  to  see  you  upstairs  for  a 
moment,"  said  a  footman,  entering.  And  Temple  arose  and  left  the  room, 
with  a  pride  that  might  have  accompanied  him  if  summoned  to  a  cabinet 
council. 

"More  mysteries  of  State,"  cried  Jack.  "I  declare,  girls,  the  atmo- 
sphere of  political  greatness  is  almost  suffocating  me.  I  wonder  how 
Cutty  stands  it!"' 

A  general  move  into  the  drawing-room  followed  this  speech,  and  as  Jack 
sauntered  in  he  slipped  his  arm  within  Nelly's  and  led  her  towards  a 
window.  "  I  can't  bear  this  any  longer,  Nelly, — I  must  trip  my  anchor 
and  move  away.  I'd  as  soon  be  lieutenant  to  a  port  admiral  as  live  here. 
You're  all  grown  too  fine  for  me." 

"  That's  not  it  at  all,  Jack,"  said  she,  smiling.  "  I  see  how  you've 
been  trying  to  bully  yourself  by  bullying  us  this  hour  back  ;  but  it  will  be 
all  right  to-moiTOw.  We'll  go  over  to  the  cottage  after  breakfast." 

"  You  may  ;  Til  not,  I  promise  you,"-  said  he,  blushing  deeply. 

"  Yes,  you  will,  my  dear  Jack,"  said  she,  coaxingly  ;  "  and  you'll  be 
the  first  to  laugh  at  your  own  foolish  jealousy  besides, — if  Julia  is  not  too 
angry  with  you  to  make  laughing  possible." 

"  She  may  be  angry  or  pleased,  it's  all  one  to  me  now,"  said  he 
passionately.  "  When  I  told  her  she  was  a  coquette,  I  didn't  believe  it ; 
but,  by  Jove,  she  has  converted  me  to  the  opinion  pretty  quickly." 

"  You're  a  naughty  boy,  and  you're  in  a  bad  humour,  and  I'll  say  no 
more  to  you  now." 

"  Say  it  now,  I  advise  you,  if  you  mean  to  say  it,"  said  he  shortly  ; 
but  she  laughed  at  his  serious  face,  and  turned  away  without  speaking. 

"  Isn't  the  cabinet  council  sitting  late  ?  "  asked  Augustus  of  Marion. 
"  They  have  been  nigh  two  hours  in  conference." 

"  I  take  it  it  must  be  something  of  importance,"  replied  she. 

"  Isn't  Cutbill  in  it  ?  "  asked  Augustus,  mockingly. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Cutbill  go  down  the  avenue,  with  his  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
just  after  we  came  into  the  drawing-room." 

"  I'U  go  and  try  to  pump  him,"  said  Jack.     "  One  might  do  a  grant! 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  395 

thing  on  the  Stock  Exchange  if  he  could  get  at  State  secrets  like  these." 
And  as  Jack  went  out  a  silence  fell  over  the  party,  only  broken  by  the 
heavy  breathing  of  Colonel  Bramleigh  as  he  slept  behind  his  newspaper. 
At  last  the  door  opened  gently,  and  Temple  moved  quietly  across  the 
room,  and  tapping  his  father  on  the  shoulder,  whispered  something  in  his 
ear.  "What — eh?"  cried  Colonel  Bramleigh,  waking  up.  "Did  you 
say  '  out '  ?  "  Another  whisper  ensued,  and  the  colonel  arose  and  left  the 
room,  followed  by  Temple. 

"  Isn't  Temple  supremely  diplomatic  to-night  ?  "  said  Nelly. 
"I'm   certain  he    is    behaving   with   every  becoming    reserve    and 
decorum,"  said  Marion,  in  a  tone  of  severe  rebuke. 

When  Colonel  Bramleigh  entered  the  library,  Temple  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  and  in  a  voice  of  some  emotion  said,  "  Poor  Lord 
Culduff;  it's  a  dreadful  blow.  I  don't  know  how  he'll  bear  up 
against  it." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Bramleigh,  peevishly.  "  What's  this 
about  a  change  of  Ministry  and  a  dissolution  ?  Did  you  tell  me  the 
Parliament  was  dissolved  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  said  that  a  dissolution  was  probable.  The  Ministry 
have  been  sorely  pressed  in  the  Lords  about  Culduff' s  appointment,  and  a 
motion  to  address  the  Crown  to  cancel  it  has  only  been  met  by  a  majority 
of  three.  So  small  a  victory  amounts  to  a  defeat,  and  the  Premier  writes 
to  beg  Lord  Culduff  will  at  once  send  in  his  resignation,  as  the  only  means 
to  save  the  party." 

"  Well,  if  it's  the  only  thing  to  do,  why  not  do  it  ?  " 
"  Culduff  takes  a  quite  different  view  of  it.     He  says  that  to  retire  is 
to  abdicate  his  position  in  public  life  ;  that  it  was  Lord  Kigglesworth's 
duty  to  stand  by  a  colleague  to  the  last ;  that  every  Minister  makes  it  a 

point  of  honour  to  defend  a  subordinate  ;  and  that " 

"  I  only  half  follow  you.  What  was  the  ground  of  the  attack  ?  Had 
he  fallen  into  any  blunder — made  any  serious  mistake  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir ;  they  actually  complimented  his  abilities, 
and  spoke  of  his  rare  capacity.  It  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  hypocrisy 
we  have  every  now  and  then  in  public  life,  to  show  the  world  how  virtuous 
we  are.  They  raked  up  an  old  story  of  thirty  years  ago  of  some  elopement 
or  other,  and  affected  to  see  in  this  escapade  a  reason  against  his  being 
employed  to  represent  the  Crown." 

"I'm  not  surprised — not  at  all  surprised.  There  is  a  strong  moral 
feeling  in  the  heart  of  the  nation,  that  no  man,  however  great  his  abilities, 
can  outrage  with  impunity." 

"  If  they  dealt  with  him  thus  hardly  in  the  Lords,  we  can  fancy  how 
he  will  be  treated  in  the  Lower  House,  where  Bigby  Norton  has  given 
notice  of  a  motion  respecting  his  appointment.  As  Lord  Bigglesworth 
writes,  '  B.  N.  has  got  up  your  whole  biography,  and  is  fully  bent  on 
making  you  the  theme  of  one  of  his  amusing  scurrilities.  Is  it  wise,  is  it 
safe  to  risk  this  ?  He'll  not  persevere, — he  could  not  persevere, — in  his 


396  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

motion,  if  you  send  in  your  resignation.  We  could  not — at  least  so  Gore, 
our  whip,  says — be  sure  of  a  majority  were  we  to  divide ;  and  even  a 
majority  of,  say  thirty,  to  proclaim  you  moral,  would  only  draw  the  whole 
press  to  open  your  entire  life,  and  make  the  world  ring  with  your,  I 
suppose,  veiy  common  and  every-day  iniquities.'  " 

"I  declare  I  do  not  see  what  can  be  alleged  against  this  advice.  It 
seems  to  me  most  forcible  and  irrefragable." 

' '  Very  forcible,  as  regards  the  position  of  the  Cabinet ;  but,  as  Lord 
Culduff  says,  ruin,  positive  ruin  to  him." 

"  Ruin  of  his  own  causing." 

Temple  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  sort  of  contemptuous  impatience ; 
the  sentiment  was  one  not  worth  a  reply. 

"  At  all  events,  has  he  any  other  course  open  to  him  ?  " 

"He  thinks  he  has;  at  least,  he  thinks  that,  with  your  help  and 
co-operation,  there  may  be  another  course.  The  attack  is  to  come  from 
below  the  gangway  on  the  Opposition  side.  It  was  to  sit  with  these  men 
you  contested  a  county,  and  spent  nigh  twenty  thousand  pounds.  You 
have  great  claims  on  the  party.  You  know  them  all  personally,  and  have 
much  influence  with  them.  Why,  then,  not  employ  it  in  his  behalf?  " 

"  To  suppress  the  motion,  you  mean  ?" 

Temple  nodded. 

"  They'd  not  listen  to  it,  not  endure  it  for  a  moment.  Norton  wouldn't 
give  up  an  attack  for  which  he  had  prepared  himself,  if  he  were  to  find 
out  in  the  interval  that  the  object  of  it  was  an  angel.  As  I  heard  him 
say  one  day  at  'the  Reform,'  '  Other  men  have  their  specialities.  One  fellow 
takes  sugar,  one  the  malt-duties,  one  Servia,  or  may  be,  Ireland ;  my 
line  is  a  good  smashing  personality.  Show  me  a  fellow — of  course  I 
mean  a  political  opponent — who  has  been  giving  himself  airs  as  a  colonial 
governor,  or  "  swelling  "  it  as  a  special  envoy  at  a  foreign  court,  and  if  I 
don't  find  something  in  his  despatches  to  exhibit  him  as  a  false  prophet, 
a  dupe,  or  a  blunderer,  and  if  I  can't  make  the  House  laugh  at  him,  don't 
call  me  Rigby  Norton.'  He  knows  he  does  these  things  better  than  any 
man  in  England,  and  he  does  them  in  a  spirit  that  never  makes  him  an 
enemy." 

"  Culduff  says  that  N.  is  terribly  hard  up.  He  was  hit  heavily  at 
Goodwood,  and  asked  for  time  to  pay." 

"  Just  what  he  has  been  doing  for  the  last  twenty  years.  There  are 
scores  of  ships  that  no  underwriters  would  accept  making  safe  voyages 
half  across  the  globe.  No,  no,  he'll  rub  on  for  many  a  day  in  the  same 
fashion.  Besides,  if  he  shouldn't,  what  then  ?  " 

Temple  made  a  significant  gesture  with  his  thumb  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"  That's  all  your  noble  friend  knows  about  England,  then.  See  what 
comes  of  a  man  passing  his  life  among  foreigners.  I  suppose  a  Spanish 
or  an  Italian  deputy  mightn't  give  much  trouble,  nor  oppose  any 
strenuous  resistance  to  such  a  dealing ;  but  it  won't  do  here — it  will  not." 

"  Lord  Culduff  knows  the  world  as  well  as  most  men,  sir." 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  397 

"  Yes,  one  world,  I'm  sure  he  does  !  A  world  of  essenced  old  dandies 
and  painted  dowagers,  surrounded  by  thieving  lacqueys  and  cringing 
followers ;  where  everything  can  be  done  by  bribery,  and  nothing  without 
it.  But  that's  not  England,  I'm  proud  to  say  ;  nor  will  it  be,  I  hope,  for 
many  a  day  to  come." 

"  I  wish,  sir,  you  could  be  induced  to  give  your  aid  to  Culduff  in  this 
matter.  I  need  not  say  what  an  influence  it  would  exert  over  my  own 
fortunes." 

"You  must  win  your  way,  Temple,  by  your  own  merits,"  said  he 
haughtily.  "I'd  be  ashamed  to  think  that  a  son  of  mine  owed  any  share 
of  his  success  in  life  to  ignoble  acts  or  backstairs  influence.  Go  back  and 
tell  Lord  Culduff  from  me,  that  so  far  as  I  know  it,  Lord  Kigglesworth's 
advice  is  my  own.  No  wise  man  ever  courts  a  public  scandal ;  and  he 
would  be  less  than  wise  to  confront  one,  with  the  certainty  of  being  over- 
whelmed by  it." 

"  Will  you  see  him,  sir  ?     Will  you  speak  to  him  yourself  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  not.     It  would  be  a  needless  pain  to  each  of  us." 

"I  suspect  he  means  to  leave  this  to-night." 

"  Not  the  worst  thing  he  could  do." 

"  But  you'll  see  him,  to  say  good-by  ?  " 

"  Certainly;  and  all  the  more  easily  if  we  have  no  conversation  in  the 
meanwhile.  Who's  that  knocking  ?  Is  the  door  locked  ?  " 

Temple  hastened  to  open  the  door,  and  found  Mr.  Cutbill  begging  to 
have  five  minutes'  conversation  with  Colonel  Bramleigh. 

"  Leave  us  together,  Temple,  and  tell  Marion  to  send  me  in  some  tea. 
You'll  have  tea,  too,  won't  you,  Mr.  Cutbill  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you ;  I'll  ask  for  wine  and  water  later.  At  present  I  want 
a  little  talk  with  you.  Our  noble  friend  has  got  it  hot  and  heavy,"  said 
he,  as  Temple  withdrew,  leaving  Bramleigh  and  himself  together;  "but 
it's  nothing  to  what  will  come  out  when  Norton  brings  it  before  the  House. 
I  suppose  there  hasn't  been  such  a  scandal  for  years  as  he'll  make  of  it." 

"I  declare,  Mr.  Cutbill,  as  long  as  the  gentleman  continues  my  guest, 
I'd  rather  avoid  than  invite  any  discussion  of  his  antecedents,"  said 
Bramleigh  pompously. 

"  All  very  fine,  if  you  could  stop  the  world  from  talking  of  them." 

' '  My  son  has  just  been  with  me,  and  I  have  said  to  him,  sir,  as  I 
have  now  repeated  to  you,  that  it  is  a  theme  I  will  not  enter  upon." 

"  You  won't,  won't  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  will  not." 

"  The  more  fool  you,  then,  that's  all." 

"What,  sir,  am  I  to  be  told  this  to  my  face,  under  my  own  roof? 
Can  you  presume  to  address  these  words  to  me  ?" 

"  I  meant  nothing  offensive.  You  needn't  look  like  a  turkey-cock. 
All  the  gobble-gobble  in  the  world  wouldn't  frighten  me.  I  came  in  here 
in  a  friendly  spirit.  I  was  handsomely  treated  in  this  house,  and  I'd  like 
to  make  a  return  for  it ;  that's  why  I'm  here,  Bramleigh." 


898  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  You  will  pardon  me  if  I  do  not  detect  the  friendliness  yon  speak  of 
in  the  words  you  have  just  uttered." 

"  Perhaps  I  was  a  little  too  blunt — a  little  too — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — 
abrupt ;  but  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  this  :  here's  the  nicest  opportunity 
in  the  world,  not  only  to  help  a  lame  dog  over  the  stile,  but  to  make  a 
good  hound  of  him  afterwards." 

"  I  protest,  sir,  I  cannot  follow  you.  Your  bluntness,  as  you  call  it, 
was  at  least  intelligible." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  passion.  Keep  cool,  and  listen  to  me.  If  this  motion 
is  made  about  Culduff,  and  comes  to  a  debate,  there  will  be  such  stories 
told  as  would  smash  forty  reputations.  I'd  like  to  see  which  of  us  would 
come  well  out  of  a  biography,  treated  as  a  party  attack  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  At  all  events  he  couldn't  face  it.  Stand  by  him,  then,  and  get 
him  through  it.  Have  patience  ;  just  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  The  thing 
can  be  done ;  there's  eight  days  to  come  before  it  can  be  brought  on.  I 
know  the  money-lender  has  three  of  Norton's  acceptances — for  heavy 
sums,  two  of  them.  Do  you  see  now  what  I'm  driving  at  ?  " 

"  I  may  possibly  see  so  much,  sir,  but  I  am  unable  to  see  why  I  should 
move  in  the  matter." 

"  I'll  show  you,  then.  The  noble  viscount  is  much  smitten  by  a 
certain  young  lady  upstairs,  and  intends  to  propose  for  her.  Yes,  I  know 
it,  and  I'll  vouch  for  it.  Your  eldest  daughter  may  be  a  peeress,  and 
though  the  husband  isn't  very  young,  neither  is  the  title.  I  think  he  said 
he  was  the  eighth  lord — seventh  or  eighth,  I'm  not  sure  which — and  taking 
the  rank  and  the  coal-mine  together,  don't  you  think  she  might  do  worse  ?  " 

"  I  will  say,  sir,  that  frankness  like  yours  I've  never  met  before." 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I'd  like  to  hear  you  say  of  me.  There's  no 
quality  I  pride  myself  on  so  much  as  my  candour." 

"  You  have  ample  reason,  sir." 

"  I  feel  it.  I  know  it.  Direct  lines  and  a  wide  gauge — I  mean  in 
the  way  of  liberality — that's  my  motto.  I  go  straight  to  my  terminus, 
wherever  it  is." 

"  It  is  not  every  man  can  make  his  profession  the  efficient  ally  of  his 
morality." 

"  An  engineer  can,  and  there's  nothing  so  like  life  as  a  new  line  of 
railroad.  But  to  come  back.  You  see  now  how  the  matter  stands.  If 
the  arrangement  suits  you,  the  thing  can  be  done." 

"  You  have  a  very  business-like  way  of  treating  these  themes." 

"  If  I  hadn't,  I  couldn't  treat  them  at  all.  What  I  say  to  myself  is, 
Will  it  pay  ?  first  of  all,  and  secondly,  How  much  will  it  pay  ?  And  that's  the 
one  test  for  everything.  Have  the  divines  a  more  telling  argument  against 
a  life  of  worldliness  and  self-indulgence  than  when  they  ask,  Will  it  pay  ? 
We  contract  for  everything,  even  for  going  to  heaven." 

"  If  I  could  hope  to  rival  your  eminently  practical  spirit,  Mr.  Cutbill, 
I'd  ask  how  far — to  what  extent — has  Lord  Culduff  made  you  the  confidant 
of  his  intentions?" 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  399 

"  You  mean,  has  lie  sent  me  here  this  evening  to  make  a  proposal  to 
you  ?  ", 

"No,  not  exactly  that;  but  has  he  intimated,  has  he  declared — for 
intimation  wouldn't  suffice — has  he  declared  his  wish  to  be  allied  to  my 
family." 

"  He  didn't  say,  '  Cutbill,  go  down  and  make  a  tender  in  my  name  for 
her,'  if  you  mean  that." 

"  I  opine  not,  sir,"  said  Bramleigh  haughtily. 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  it's  all  right,"  said  Cutbill,  with  one  of  his  most 
knowing  looks,  "  I  think  that  ought  to  do." 

"  I  take  it,  sir,  that  you  mean  courteously  and  fairly  by  me.  I  feel 
certain  that  you  have  neither  the  wish  nor  the  intention  to  pain  me,  but  I 
am  forced  to  own  that  you  import  into  questions  of  a  delicate  nature  a 
spirit  of  commercial  profit  and  loss,  which  makes  all  discussion  of  them 
harsh  and  disagreeable.  This  is  not,  let  me  observe  to  you,  a  matter  of 
coal  or  a  new  cutting  on  a  railroad." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  tell  Tom  Cutbill  that  out  of  his  own  line  of 
business — when  he  isn't  up  to  his  knees  in  earthworks,  and  boring  a 
tunnel — that  he's  a  fool  and  a  nincompoop  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  express  such  a  sentiment." 

"  Ay,  or  feel  it ;  why  don't  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  even  so  far,  sir,  and  say  I  should  be  sorry  to  feel  it." 

"  That's  enough.  No  offence  meant,  none  is  taken.  Here's  how 
it  is  now.  Authorize  me  to  see  Joel  about  those  bills  of  Norton's.  Give 
me  what  the  French  call  a  carte  blanche  to  negotiate,  and  I'll  promise  you 
I'll  not  throw  your  ten-pound  notes  away.  Not  that  it  need  ever  come 
to  ten  pound  notes,  for  Rigby  does  these  things  for  the  pure  fun  of  them, 
and  if  any  good  fellow  drops  in  on  him  of  a  morning,  and  says,  '  Don't 
raise  a  hue  and  cry  about  that  poor  beggar,'  or  '  Don't  push  that  fellow 
over  the  cliff,'  he's  just  the  man  to  say,  '  Well,  I'll  not  go  on.  I'll  let 
it  stand  over,'  or  he'll  even  get  up  and  say,  '  When  I  asked  leave  to  put 
this  question  to  the  right  honourable  gentleman,  I  fully  believed  in  the 
authentic  character  of  the  information  in  my  possession.  I  have,  however, 
since  then  discovered ' — this,  that,  and  the  other.  Don't  you  know  how 
these  things  always  finish  ?  There's  a  great  row,  a  great  hubbub,  and 
the  man  that  retracts  is  cheered  by  both  sides  of  the  House." 

"  Suppose,  then,  he  withdraws  his  motion, — what  then  ?  The  discus- 
sion in  the  Lords  remains  on  record,  and  the  mischief,  so  far  as  Lord 
Culduff  is  concerned,  is  done." 

"  I  know  that.  He'll  not  have  his  appointment ;  he'll  take  his  pension 
and  wait.  What  he  says  is  this,  '  There  are  only  three  diplomatists  in  all 
England,  and  short  of  a  capital  felony,  any  of  the  three  may  do  anything. 
I  have  only  to  stand  out  and  sulk,'  says  he,  '  and  they'll  be  on  their  knees 
to  me  yet.'  " 
>  "  He  yields,  then,  to  a  passing  hurricane,"  said  Bramleigh,  pompously. 

"  Just  so.     He's  taking  shelter  under  an  archway  till  he  can  caJl  a 


400  THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

Hansom.     Now  you  have  the  whole  case  ;  and  as  talking  is  dry  work, 
might  I  ring  for  a  glass  of  sherry  and  seltzer  ?" 

"  By  all  means.  I  am  ashamed  not  to  have  thought  of  it  before.  This 
is  a  matter  for  much  thought  and  deliberation,"  said  Brarnleigh,  as  the 
servant  withdrew  after  bringing  the  wine.  It  is  too  eventful  a  step  to  be 
taken  suddenly." 

"If  not  done  promptly  it  can't  be  done  at  all.  A  week  isn't  a  long 
tune  to  go  up  to  town  and  get  through  a  very  knotty  negotiation.  Joel 
isn't  a  common  money-lender,  like  Drake  or  Downie.  You  can't  go  to  his 
office  except  on  formal  business.  If  you  want  to  do  a  thing  in  the  way  of1 
accommodation  with  him,  you'll  have  to  take  him  down  to  the  '  Ship,'  and 
give  him  a  nice  little  fish  dinner,  with  the  very  best  Sauterne  you  can  find ; 
and  when  you're  sitting  out  on  the  balcony  over  the  black  mud, — the 
favourite  spot  men  smoke  their  cheroots  in,- — then  open  your  business ; 
and  though  he  knows  well  it  was  all  '  a  plant,'  he'll  not  resent  it,  but  take  it 
kindly  and  well."  • 

"  I  am  certain  that  so  nice  a  negotiation  could  not  be  in  better  hands 
than  yours,  Mr.  Cutbill." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  might  say  without  vanity,  it  might  be  in  worse.  So 
much  for  that  part  of  the  matter ;  now,  as  to  the  noble  viscount  himself. 
I  am  speaking  as  a  man  of  the  world  to  another  man  of  the  world,  and 
speaking  in  confidence  too.  You  don't  join  in  that  hypocritical  cant 
against  Culduff,  because  he  had  once  in  his  life  been  what  they  call  a  man 
of  gallantry  ?  I  mean,  Bramleigh,  that  you  don't  go  in  for  that  outrageous 
humbug  of  spotless  virtue,  and  the  rest  of  it  ?  " 

Bramleigh  smiled,  and  as  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  mouth  to  hide  a 
laugh,  the  twinkle  of  his  eyes  betrayed  him. 

"  I  believe  I  am  old  enough  to  know  that  one  must  take  the  world  as 
it  is  pleased  to  present  itself,"  said  he  cautiously. 

"  And  not  want  to  think  it  better  or  worse  than  it  really  is  ?  "  • 

Bramleigh  nodded  assent. 

"  Now  we  understand  each  other,  as  I  told  you  the  other  evening  we 
were  sure  to  do  when  we  had  seen  more  of  each  other.  Culduff  isn't  a 
saint,  but  he's  a  Peer  of  Parliament ;  he  isn't  young,  but  he  has  an  old 
title,  and  if  I'm  not  much  mistaken,  he'll  make  a  pot  of  money  out  of 
this  mine.  Such  a  man  has  only  to  go  down  into  the  Black  Country  or 
amongst  the  mills,  to  have  his  choice  of  some  of  the  best-looking  girls  in 
England,  with  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  money ;  isn't  that  fact  ?" 

4  c  It  is  pretty  like  it." 

"  So  that,  on  the  whole,  I'll  say  this  is  a  good  thing,  Bramleigh, — a 
right  good  thing.  As  Wishart  said  the  other  night  in  the  House,  '  A  new 
country,' — speaking  of  the  States, — '  a  new  country  wants  alliances  with 
old  States ; '  so  a  new  family  wants  connection  with  the  old  historic 
houses." 

Colonel  Bramleigh's  face  grew  crimson,  but  he  coughed  to  keep  down 
his  rising  indignation,  and  slightly  bowed  his  head. 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  401 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  the  world  has  only  two  sorts  of  people, 
nobs  and  snobs  ;  one  has  no  choice, — if  you're  not  one,  you  must  be  the 
other." 

"And  yet,  sir,  men  of  mind  and  intellect  have  written  about  the 
nntitled  nobility  of  England." 

"  Silver  without  the  hall-mark,  Bramleigh,  won't  bring  six  shillings  an 
ounce,  just  because  nobody  can  say  how  far  it's  adulterated ;  it's  the  same 
with  people." 

"  Your  tact,  sir,  is  on  a  par  with  your  wisdom." 

"  And  perhaps  you  haven't  a  high  opinion  of  either,"  said  Cutbill,  with 
a  laugh  that  showed  he  felt  no  irritation  whatever.  "  But  look  here, 
Iramleigh,  this  will  never  do.  If  there's  nothing  but  blarney  or  banter 
b3tween  us  we'll  never  come  to  business.  If  you  agree  to  what  I've  been 
proposing, — you  have  only  me  to  deal  with,  the  noble  lord  isn't  in  the 
gime  at  all, — he'll  leave  this  to-night, — it's  right  and  proper  he  should ; 
he'll  go  up  to  the  mines  for  a  few  days,  and  amuse  himself  with  quartz 
a  id  red  sandstone  ;  and  when  I  write  or  telegraph, — most  likely  telegraph, 
1  the  thing  is  safe ; '  he'll  come  back  here  and  make  his  proposal  in  all 
form." 

"  I  am  most  willing  to  give  my  assistance  to  any  project  that  may 
rescue  Lord  Culduff  from  this  unpleasant  predicament.  Indeed,  having 
n  yself  experienced  some  of  the  persecution  which  political  hatred  can 
crurry  into  private  life,  I  feel  a  sort  of  common  cause  with  him ;  but  I 
protest  at  the  same  time — distinctly  protest — against  anything  like  a 
pledge  as  regards  his  lordship's  views  towards  one  of  my  family.  I  mean 
I  give  no  promise." 

"I  see,"  said  Cutbill,  with  a  look  of  intense  cunning.  "You'll  do 
the  money  part.  Providence  will  take  charge  of  the  rest.  Isn't  that  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Cutbill,  you  occasionally  push  my  patience  pretty  hard.  What 
I  said,  I  said  seriously  and  advisedly." 

"  Of  course.  Now  then,  give  me  a  line  to  your  banker  to  acknowledge 
rr;y  draft  up  to  a  certain  limit,  say  five  hundred.  I  think  five  ought  to 
do  it." 

"  It's  a  smart  sum,  Mr.  Cut  Dill." 

"  The  article's  cheap  at  the  money.  Well,  well,  I'll  not  anger  you. 
Trrite  me  the  order,  and  let  me  be  off." 

Bramleigh  sat  down  at  his  table,  and  wrote  off  a  short  note  to  his 
ji  nior  partner  in  the  bank,  which  he  sealed  and  addressed,  and  handing  it 
tc  Cutbill  said,  "  This  will  credit  you  to  the  amount  you  spoke  of.  It  will  be 
advanced  to  you  as  a  loan  without  interest,  to  be  repaid  within  two  years." 

"  All  right ;  the  thought  of  repayment  will  never  spoil  my  night's  rest. 
I  only  wish  all  my  debts  would  give  me  as  little  trouble." 

"  You  ought  to  have  none,  Mr.  Cutbill ;  a  man  of  your  abilities,  at  the 
tc  p  of  a  great  profession,  and  with  a  reputation  second  to  none,  should,  if 
ho  were  commonly  prudent,  have  ample  means  at  his  disposal." 

11  But  that's  the  thing  I  am  not,  Bramleigh.     I'm  not  one  of  your  safe 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  94.  20. 


402  THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

fellows.  I  drive  my  engine  at  speed,  even  where  the  line  is  shaky  and  the 
rails  ill  laid.  Good-by ;  niy  respects  to  the  ladies  ;  tell  Jack,  if  he's  in 
town  within  the  week  to  look  me  up  at  Lirnmers."  He  emptied  the 
sherry  into  a  tumbler  as  he  spoke,  drank  it  off,  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    DEPARTURE. 

SOME  days  had  gone  over  since  the  scene  just  recorded  in  our  last  chapter, 
and  the  house  at  Castello  presented  a  very  different  aspect  from  its  late 
show  of  movement  and  pleasure. 

Lord  Culduff,  on  the  pretence  of  his  presence  being  required  at  the 
mines,  had  left  on  the  same  night  that  Cutbill  took  his  departure  for 
England.  On  the  morning  after  Jack  also  went  away.  He  had  passed 
the  night  writing  and  burning  letters  to  Julia;  for  no  sooner  had  he 
finished  an  epistle,  than  he  found  it  too  cruel,  too  unforgiving,  too  un- 
feeling by  half;  and  when  he  endeavoured  to  moderate  his  just  anger,  he 
discovered  signs  of  tenderness  in  his  reproaches  that  savoured  of  sub- 
mission. It  would  not  be  quite  fair  to  be  severe  on  Jack's  failures,  trying 
as  he  was  to  do  what  has  puzzled  much  wiser  and  craftier  heads  than  his. 
To  convey  all  the  misery  he  felt  at  parting  from  her  with  a  just  measure  of 
reproach  for  her  levity  towards  him,  to  mete  out  his  love  and  his  anger  in 
due  doses,  to  say  enough,  but  never  too  much,  and  finally  to  let  her  know 
that,  though  he  went  off  in  a  huff,  it  was  to  carry  her  image  in  his  heart 
through  all  his  wanderings,  never  forgetting  her  for  a  moment,  whether  he 
was  carrying  despatches  to  Cadiz  or  coaling  at  Malta — to  do  all  these,  I 
say,  becomingly  and  well,  was  not  an  easy  task,  and  especially  for  one  who 
would  rather  have  been  sent  to  cut  out  a  frigate  under  the  guns  of  a 
fortress  than  indite  a  despatch  to  "  my  Lords  of  the  Admiralty." 

From  the  short  sleep  which  followed  all  his  abortive  attempts  at  a 
letter  he  was  awakened  by  his  servant  telling  him  it  was  time  to  dress  and 
be  off.  Drearier  moments  there  are  not  In  life  than  those  which  herald  hi 
a  departure  of  a  dark  morning  in  winter;  ^ith  the  rain  swooping  in  vast 
sheets  against  the  window-panes,  and  the  cold  blast  whistling  through  the 
leafless  trees.  Never  do  the  candles  seem  to  throw  so  little  light  as  these 
do  now  through  the  dreary  room,  all  littered  and  disordered  by  the  prepa- 
rations for  the  road.  What  fears  and  misgivings  beset  one  at  such  a 
moment !  What  reluctance  to  go,  and  what  a  positive  sense  of  fear  one 
feels,  as  though  the  journey  were  a  veritable  leap  in  the  dark,  and  that  the 
whole  fortunes  of  a  life  were  dependent  on  that  instant  of  resolution. 

Poor  Jack  tried  to  battle  with  such  thoughts  as  these  by  reminding 

-  him5G.u  01  his  duty  and  the  calls  of  the  service ;  he  asked  himself  again 

and  again,  if  it  were  out  of  such  vacillating,  wavering  materials,  a  sailor's 

heart  should  be  fashioned  ?  was  this  the  stuff  that  made  Nelsons  or  Colling- 

woods  ?    And  though  there  was  but  little  immediate  prospect  of  a  career  of 


THE  BRAMLEIGES  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  403 

distinction,  his  sense  of  duty  taught  him  to  feel  that  the  routine  life  of 
peace  was  a  greater  trial  to  a  man's  patience  than  all  the  turmoil  and  bustle 
oj'  active  service. 

"  The  more  I  x>ling  to  remain  here,"  muttered  he,  as  he  descended  the 
stairs,  "  the  more  certain  am  I  that  it's  pure  weakness  and  folly." 

"  What's  that  you  are  muttering  about  weakness  and  folly,  Jack?" 
sdd  Nelly,  who  had  got  up  to  see  him  off,  and  give  him  the  last  kiss  before 
ho  departed. 

"  How  comes  it  you  are  here,  Nelly  ?  Get  back  to  your  bed,  girl,  or 
you'll  catch  a  terrible  cold." 

"  No,  no,  Jack;  I'm  well  shawled  and  muffled.  I  wanted  to  saygood- 
by  once  more.  Tell  me  what  it  was  you  were  saying  about  weakness  and 
folly." 

"  I  was  assuring  myself  that  my  reluctance  to  go  away  was  nothing  less 
than  folly.  I  was  trying  to  persuade  myself  that  the  best  thing  I  could  do 
w;ts  to  be  off;  but  I  won't  say  I  succeeded." 

"  But  it  is,  Jack ;  rely  on  it,  it  is.  You  are  doing  the  right  thing ;  and 
if  I  say  so,  it  is  with  a  heavy  heart,  for  I  shall  be  very  lonely  after  you."^ 

Passing  his  arm  around  her  waist,  he  walked  with  her  up  and  down 
the  great  spacious  hall,  their  slow  footsteps  echoing  in  the  silent  house. 

"If  my  last  meeting  with  her  had  not  been  such  as  it  was,  Nelly," 
said  he,  falteiingly;  "if  we  had  not  parted  in  anger,  I  think  I  could  go 
with  a  lighter  heart." 

"  But  don't  you  know  Julia  well  enough  to  know  that  these  little  storms 
of  temper  pass  away  so  rapidly  that  they  never  leave  a  trace  behind  them  ? 
Sl.e  was  angry,  not  because  you  found  fault  with  her,  but  because  she 
tluught  you  had  suffered  yourself  to  be  persuaded  she  was  in  the  wrong." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  these  subtleties  ?  She  ought  to  have  known  that 
when  a  man  loves  a  girl  as  I  love  her,  he  has  a  right  to  tell  her  frankly  if 
tli3re's  anything  in  her  manner  he  is  dissatisfied  with." 

"  He  has  no  such  right ;  and  if  he  had,  he  ought  to  be  very  careful  how 
he  exercised  it." 

"  And  why  so  ?  " 

"  Just  because %-ult-finding  is  not  love-making." 

"  So  that,  no  matter  what  he  saw  that  he  disliked  or  disapproved  of, 
he  ought  to  bear  it  all  rather  than  risk  the  chance  of  his  remonstrance 
being  ill-taken?" 

"  Not  that,  Jack  ;  but  he  ought  to  take  time  and  opportunity  to  make 
th )  same  remonstrance.  You  don't  go  down  to  the  girl  you  are  in  love 
wi  h,  and  call  her  to  account  as  you  would  summon  a  dockyard  man  or 
a  rigger  for  something  that  was  wrong  with  your  frigate."  : 

"  Take  an  illustration  from  something  you  know  better,  Nelly,  for  I'd 
do  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  but  if  I  saw  what,  in  the  conduct  or  even  in  the 
ms  nner  of  the  girl  I  was  in  love  with,  I  wouldn't  stand  if  she  were  my 
wii'e,  it  will  be  hard  to  convince  me  that  I  oughtn't  to  tell  her  of  it." 

"  As  I  said  before,  Jack,  the  telling  is  a  matter  of  time  and  opportunity. 

20—2 


404  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OP  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

Of  all  the  jealousies  in  the  world  there  is  none  as  inconsiderate  as  that  of 
lovers  towards  the  outer  world.  Whatever  change  either  may  wish  for  in 
the  other  must  never  come  suggested  from  without." 

"  And  didn't  I  tell  her  she  was  wrong  in  supposing  that  it  was  Marion 
made  me  see  her  coquetry  ?  " 

"  That  you  thought  Marion  had  no  influence  over  your  judgment  she 
might  believe  readily  enough,  but 'girls  have  a  keener  insight  into  each  other 
than  you  are  aware  of,  and  she  was  annoyed — and  she  was  right  to  be 
annoyed — that  in  your  estimate  of  her  there  should  enter  anything,  the 
very  smallest,  that  could  bespeak  the  sort  of  impression  a  woman  might 
have  conveyed." 

"Nelly,  all  this  is  too  deep  for  me.  If  Julia  cared  for  me  as  I 
believed  she  had,  she'd  have  taken  what  I  said  in  good  part.  Didn't  I 
give  up  smoking  of  a  morning,  except  one  solitary  cheroot  after  breakfast, 
when  she  asked  me  ?  Who  ever  saw  me  take  a  nip  of  brandy  of  a  fore- 
noon since  that  day  she  cried  out,  '  Shame,  Jack,  don't  do  that  ?  '  And 
do  you  think  I  wasn't  as  fond  of  my  weed  and  my  glass  of  schnaps  as 
ever  she  was  of  all  those  little  airs  and  graces  she  puts  on  to  make  fools 
of  men?" 

"  Carriage  waiting,  sir,"  said  a  servant,  entering  with  a  mass  of  cloaks 
and  rugs  on  his  arm. 

"  Confound  the  carriage  and  the  journey  too,"  muttered  he  below  his 
breath.  "  Look  here,  Nelly,  if  you  are  right,  and  I  hope  with  all  my 
heart  you  are,  I'll  not  go." 

"  That  would  be  ruin,  Jack ;  you  must  go." 

*  What  do  I  care  for  the  service  ?  A  good  seaman — a  fellow  that 
knows  how  to  handle  a  ship — need  never  want  for  employment.  I'd  just 
as  soon  be  a  skipper  as  wear  a  pair  of  swabs  on  my  shoulders  and  be 
sworn  at  by  some  crusty  old  rear-admiral  for  a  stain  on  my  quarter-deck. 
I'll  not  go,  Nelly ;  tell  Ned  to  take  off  the  trunks ;  I'll  stay  where  I  am." 

"  Oh,  Jack,  I  implore  you  not  to  wreck  your  whole  fortune  in  life.  It 
is  just  because  Julia  loves  you  that  you  are  bound  to  show  yourself  worthy 
of  her.  You  know  how  lucky  you  were  to  get  this  chance.  You  said  only 
yesterday  it  was  the  finest  station  in  the  whole  world.  Don't  lose  it,  like 
a  dear  fellow, — don't  do  what  will  be  the  embitterment  of  your  entire  life, 

the  loss  of  your  rank,  and — the "     She  stopped  as  she  was  about 

to  add  something  still  stronger. 

"  I'll  go  then,  Nelly  ;  don't  cry  about  it;  if  you  sob  that  way  I'll  make 
a  fool  of  myself.  Pretty  sight  for  the  flunkies,  to  see  a  sailor  crying, 
wouldn't  it  ?  all  because  he  had  to  join  his  ship.  I'll  go  then  at  once. 
I  suppose  you'll  see  her  to-day,  or  to-morrow  at  farthest  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure,  Jack.     Marion  said  something  about  hunting  parsons, 
I  believe,  which  gave  George  such  deep  pain  that  he  wouldn't  come  here 
on  Wednesday.     Julia  appears  to  be  more  annoyed  than  George,  and  in 
fact  for  the  moment  we  have  quarantined  each  other." 
"  Isn't  this  too  bad  ?"  cried  he  passionately. 


THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  405 

<i  Of  course  it  is  too  bad  ;  but  it's  only  a  passing  cloud  ;  and  by  the 
tirae  I  shall  write  to  you  it  will  have  passed  away." 

Jack  clasped  her  affectionately  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  twice,  and 
sprang  into  the  carriage,  and  drove  away  with  a  full  heart  indeed;  but 
ah:o  with  the  fast  assurance  that  his  dear  sister  would  watch  over  his 
interests,  and  not  forget  him. 

That  dark  drive  went  over  like  a  hideous  dream.  He  heard  the  wind 
and  the  rain,  the  tramp  of  the  horses'  feet  and  the  splash  of  the  wheels 
along  the  miry  road,  but  he  never  fully  realized  where  he  was  or  how  he 
came  there.  The  first  bell  was  ringing  as  he  drove  into  the  station,  and 
thiTe  was  but  little  time  to  get  down  his  luggage  and  secure  his  ticket. 
Ho  asked  for  a  coupe,  that  he  might  be  alone ;  and  being  known  as  one 
of  the  great  family  at  Castello,  the  obsequious  station-master  hastened 
to  instal  him  at  once.  On  opening  the  door,  however,  it  was  discovered 
tin  it  another  traveller  had  already  deposited  a  great  coat  and  a  rug  in  one 
corner. 

"  Give  yourself  no  trouble,  Captain  Bramleigh,"  said  the  official  in  a 
lov  voice.  "  I'll  just  say  the  coupe  is  reserved,  and  we'll  put  him  into 
another  compartment.  Take  these  traps,  Bob,"  cried  he  to  a  porter, 
"  and  put  them  into  a  first-class." 

Scarcely  was  the  order  given  when  two  figures,  moving  out  of  the 
dark,  approached;  and  one,  with  a  slightly  foreign  accent,  but  in  admirable 
English,  said,  "  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  I  have  taken  that  place." 

"Yes,"  cried  his  friend,  "this  gentleman  secured  the  coupe  on  the 
moment  of  his  arrival." 

"  Very  sorry,  sir — extremely  sorry ;  but  the  coupe  was  reserved — 
specially  reserved." 

"  My  friend  has  paid  for  that  place,"  said  the  last  speaker;  "  and  I 
car  only  say,  if  I  were  he,  I'd  not  relinquish  it." 

"  Don't  bother  yourself  about  it,"  whispered  Jack.  "  Let  him  have 
his  place.  I'll  take  the  other  corner  ;  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  If  you'll  allow  me,  Captain  Bramleigh,"  said  the  official,  who  was 
nov  touched  to  the  quick  on  that  sore  point,  a  question  of  his  department ; 
"  if  you'll  allow  me,  I  think  I  can  soon  settle  this»matter." 

"  But  I  will  not  allow  you,  sir,"  said  Jack,  his  sense  of  fairness  already 
out -aged  by  the  whole  procedure.  "  He  has  as  good  a  right  to  his  place 
as  I  have  to  mine.  Many  thanks  for  your  trouble.  Good-by."  And  so 
saying  he  stepped  in. 

The  foreigner  still  lingered  in  earnest  converse  with  his  friend,  and 
only  mounted  the  steps  as  the  train  began  to  move.  "Abientot,  cher 
Phi  ippe,"  he  cried,  as  the  door  was  slammed,  and  the  next  instant  they 
wers  gone. 

The  little  incident  which  had  preceded  their  departure  had  certainly 
not  conduced  to  any  amicable  disposition  between  them,  and  each,  after  a 
side  long  glance  at  the  other,  ensconced  himself  more  completely  within  his 
wra  ppings,  and  gave  himself  up  to  either  silence  or  sleep. 


406  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OP  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

Some  thirty  miles  of  the  journey  had  rolled  over,  and  it  was  now  day, 
— dark  and  dreary  indeed, — when  Jack  awoke  and  found  the  carriage  pretty 
thick  with  smoke.  There  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  in  the  men  of  tobacco, 
which  never  fails  them,  and  they  have  a  kind  of  instinctive  guess  of  a 
stranger  from  the  mere  character  of  his  weed.  On  the  present  occasion 
Jack  recognized  a  most  exquisite  Havanna  odour,  and  turned  furtively  to  see 
the  smoker. 

"I  ought  to  have  asked,"  said  the  stranger,  "if  this  was  disagreeable 
to  you,  but  you  were  asleep,  and  I  did  not  like  to  disturb  you." 

"Not  in  the  least,  I  am  a  smoker  too,"  said  Jack,  as  he  drew  forth  his 
case  and  proceeded  to  strike  a  light. 

"  Might  I  offer  you  one  of  mine  ? — they  are  not  bad,"  said  the  other, 
proffering  his  case. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Jack ;  "  my  tastea  are  too  vulgar  for  Cubans.  Birds- 
eye,  dashed  with  strong  Cavendish,  is  what  I  like." 

' '  I  have  tried  that  too,  as  I  have  tried  everything  English,  but  the 
same  sort  of  half  success  follows  me  through  all." 

"  If  your  knowledge  of  the  language  be  the  measure,  I'd  say  you've  not 
much  to  complain  of.  I  almost  doubt  whether  you  are  a  foreigner." 

"  I  was  born  in  Italy,"  said  the  other  cautiously,  "and  never  in  England 
till  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Jack,  with  a  smile,  "I  did  not  impress  you  very 
favourably  as  regards  British  politeness,  when  we  met  this  morning ;  but  I 
was  a  little  out  of  spirits.  I  was  leaving  home,  not  very  likely  to  see  it 
again  for  some  time,  and  I  wanted  to  be  alone." 

"  I  am  greatly  grieved  not  to  have  known  this.  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  intruding." 

"  But  there  was  no  question  of  intruding.  It  was  your  right  that  you 
asserted,  and  no  more." 

"Half  the  harsh  things  that  we  see  in  life  are  done  merely  by 
asserting  a  right,"  said  the  other  in  a  deep  and  serious  voice. 

Jack  had  little  taste  for  what  took  the  form  of  a  reflection :  to  his 
apprehension,  it  was  own  brother  of  a  sermon ;  and  warned  by  this  sample 
of  his  companion's  humour,  he  muttered  a  broken  sort  of  assent  and  was 
silent.  Little  passed  between  them  till  they  met  at  the  dinner-table,  and 
then  they  only  interchanged  a  few  commonplace  remarks.  On  their  reaching 
their  destination,  they  took  leave  of  each  other  courteously,  but  half  form- 
ally, and  drove  off  their  several  ways. 

Almost  the  first  man,  however,  that  Jack  met,  as  he  stepped  on 
board  the  mail-packet  for  Holyhead,  was  his  fellow-traveller  of  the  rail. 
This  time  they  met  cordially,  and  after  a  few  words  of  greeting  they 
proceeded  to  walk  the  deck  together  like  old  acquaintances. 
,  Though  the  night  was  fresh  and  sharp  there  was  a  bright  moon,  and 
they  both  felt  reluctant  to  go  below,  where  a  vast  crowd  of  passengers  was 
assembled.  The  brisk  exercise,  the  invigorating  air,  and  a  certain  con- 
geniality that  each  discovered  in  the  other,  soon  established  between  them 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  407 

cne  of  those  confidences  which  are  only  possible  in  early  life.  Nor  do  I 
Inow  anything  better  in  youth  than  the  frank  readiness  with  which  such 
f  iendships  are  made.  It  is  with  no  spirit  of  calculation, — it  is  with  no 
counting  of  the  cost,  that  we  sign  these  contracts.  We  feel  drawn  into 
companionship,  half  by  some  void  within  ourselves,  half  by  some  quality 
tiat  seems  to  supply  that  void.  The  tones  of  our  own  voice  in  our  own 
ears  assure  us  that  we  have  found  sympathy ;  for  we  feel  that  we  are 
speaking  in  a  way  we  could  not  speak  to  cold  or  uncongenial  listeners. 

When  Jack  Bramleigh  had  told  that  he  was  going  to  take  command  of 
a  small  gun-boat  in  the  Mediterranean,  he  could  not  help  going  further, 
and  telling  with  what  a  heavy  heart  he  was  going  to  assume  his  command. 
'  We  sailors  have  a  hard  lot  of  it,"  said  he  ;  "we  come  home  after  a 
cruise, — all  is  new,  brilliant,  and  attractive  to  us.  Our  hearts  are  not 
steeled,  as  are  landsmen's,  by  daily  habit.  We  are  intoxicated  by  what 
cilmer  heads  scarcely  feel  excited.  We  fall  in  love ;  and  then,  some  fine 
day,  comes  an  Admiralty  despatch  ordering  us  to  hunt  slavers  off  Lagos,  or 
fish  for  a  lost  cable  in  Behring's  Straits." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  other,  "  so  long  as  there's  a  goal  to  reach,  so 
long  as  there's  a  prize  to  win,  all  can  be  borne.  It's  only  when  life  is  a 
s  joreless  ocean, — when,  seek  where  you  will,  no  land  will  come  in  sight, 
— when,  in  fact,  existence  offers  nothing  to  speculate  on, — then,  indeed, 
the  world  is  a  dreary  blank." 

"  I  don't  suppose  any  fellow's  lot  is  as  bad  as  that." 

"  Not  perhaps  completely,  thoroughly  so ;  but  that  a  man's  fate  can 
approach  such  a  condition, — that  a  man  can  cling  to  so  small  a  hope  that 
he  is  obliged  to  own  to  himself  that  it  is  next  to  no  hope  at  all ; — that  there 
c  3uld  be,  and  is,  such  a  lot  in  existence,  I  who  speak  to  you  now  am  able 
uafortunafcly  to  vouch  for." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Jack,  feelingly ;  "  and  I  am  sorry, 
b  asides,  to  have  obtruded  my  own  small  griefs  before  one  who  has  such  a 
haavy  affliction." 

"  Remember,"  said  the  Frenchman,  "  I  never  said  it  was  all  up  with 
n.e.  I  have  a  plank  still  to  cling  to,  though  it  be  only  a  plank.  My  case 
is  simply  this :  I  have  come  over  to  this  country  to  prefer  a  claim  to  a 
h  rge  property,  and  I  have  nothing  to  sustain  it  but  my  right.  I  know 
v  ell  you  Englishmen  have  a  theory  that  your  laws  are  so  admirably  and 
go  purely  administered  that  if  a  man  asks  for  justice, — be  he  poor,  or 
u  iknown,  or  a  foreigner,  it  matters  not, — he  is  sure  to  obtain  it.  I  like 
tl  .e  theory,  and  I  respect  the  man  who  believes  in  it,  but  I  don't  trust  it 
n  yself.  I  remember  reading  in  your  debates  how  the  House  of  Lords  sat 
for  days  over  a  claim  of  a  French  nobleman  who  had  been  ruined  by  the 
g:  eat  Revolution  in  France,  and  for  whose  aid,  with  others,  a  large  sum 
h  id  once  been  voted,  of  which,  through  a  series  of  misadventures,  not  a 
si  illing  had  reached  him.  That  man's  claim,  upheld  and  maintained  by 
01  ie  of  the  first  men  in  England,  and  with  an  eloquence  that  thrilled  through 
e^-ery  heart  around,  was  rejected,  ay,  rejected,  and  he  was  sent  out  of  court 


408  THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

a  beggar.  They  couldn't  call  him  impostor,  but  they  left  him  to  starve  !" 
He  paused  for  a  second,  and  in  a  slower  voice  continued,  "  Now  it  may 
be  that  my  case  shall  one  of  these  days  be  heard  before  that  tribunal,  and 
I  ask  you  does  it  not  call  for  great  courage  and  great  trustfulness  to  have 
a  hope  on  the  issue  ?" 

"I'll  stake  my  head  on  it,  they'll  deal  fairly  by  you,"  said  Jack, 
stoutly. 

"The  poor  baron  I  spoke  of  had  powerful  friends.  Men  who  liked 
him  well,  and  fairly  believed  in  his  claim.  Now  I  am  utterly  unknown, 
and  as  devoid  of  friends  as  of  money.  I  think  nineteen  out  of  twenty 
Englishmen  would  call  me  an  adventurer  to-morrow ;  and  there  are  few 
titles  that  convey  less  respect  in  this  grand  country  of  yours." 

"  There  you  are  right;  every  one  here  must  have  a  place  in  society, 
and  be  in  it." 

"  My  landlady  where  I  lodged  thought  me  an  adventurer ;  the  tailor 
who  measured  me  whispered  adventurer  as  he  went  downstairs,  and  when 
a  cabman,  in  gratitude  for  an  extra  sixpence,  called  me  *  count,'  it  was 
to  proclaim  me  an  adventurer  to  all  who  heard  him." 

"  You  are  scarcely  fair  to  us,"  said  Jack,  laughing.  "  You  have 
been  singularly  unlucky  in  your  English  acquaintance." 

"  No.  I  have  met  a  great  deal  of  kindness,  but  always  after  a  certain 
interval  of  doubt — almost  of  mistrust.  I  tell  you  frankly,  you  are  the  very 
first  Englishman  with  whom  I  have  ventured  to  talk  freely  on  so  slight  an 
acquaintance,  and  it  has  been  to  me  an  unspeakable  relief  to  do  it." 

"  I  am  proud  to  think  you  had  that  confidence  in  me." 

"  You  yourself  suggested  it.  You  began  to  tell  me  of  your  plans  and 
hopes,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  follow  you.  A  French 
hussar  is  about  as  outspoken  an  animal  as  an  English  sailor,  ^>  that  we 
were  well  met." 

"  Are  you  still  in  the  service  ?  " 

'•  No  ;  I  am  in  what  we  call  disponibilite.  I  am  free  till  called  on, — 
and  free  then  if  I  feel  unwilling  to  go  back." 

The  Frenchman  now  passed  on  to  speak  of  his  life  as  a  soldier, — a 
career  so  full  of  strange  adventures  and  curious  incidents  that  Jack  was 
actually  grieved  when  they  glided  into  the  harbour  of  Holyhead,  and 
the  steamer's  bell  broke  up  the  narrative. 


409 


m  f  n 


THE  belief  in  witchcraft,  which  in  days  of  yore  was  so  wide-spread 
Ihroughout  almost  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  seems  to  a  great  extent 
to  have  been  driven  back  by  the  ever-advancing  tide  of  education 
und  civilization,  until  it  has  a  refuge  only  in  the  less  advanced  king- 
doms of  the  East.  It  is  strange  to  look  back  on  that  old  superstition 
of  the  darker  ages,  which  led  our  pious  forefathers  to  burn  harmless 
old  women,  and  count  it  a  righteous  deed  so  to  do.  And  it  is  equally 
strange  to  reflect  on  that  same  dreary  superstition  which,  even  in  this 
nineteenth  century,  remains  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  minds  of  multitudes 
of  the  inhabitants  of  India,  and  which  leads  now,  as  it  led  formerly  in 
Europe,  to  crimes  of  torture  and  bloodshed.  But  it  is  to  be  observed  that 
'.here  is  this  difference  between  the  witchcraft  which  was  held  to  exist  in 
!  England  and  that  which  is  believed  to  be  practised  in  the  present  day  in 
India,  that  whereas  in  the  former  case  the  Devil  appeared  to  enter  in  and 
possess  the  souls  of  divers  old  women,  and  of  some  young  women  also,  and 
]>y  his  unhallowed  arts  endue  them  with  a  strange  power,  and  stranger 
iuclination,  to  perform  various  acts  of  petty  malice  and  malignant  and 
spiteful  harm  towards  their  neighbours,  without  cause  and  with  no  fixed 
design  :  in  India,  on  the  other  hand,  there  seems  to  be  a  method  in  the 
madness,  for  the  results  of  the  supposed  witchcraft  are  palpable  and 
direct,  and  the  harm  it  works  is  incalculable.  The  witch  there  has 
it  fixed  object  in  view,  and  spares  no  pains  to  its  furtherance ;  she  has 
f  omething  more  than  the  mere  indulgence  of  her  own  malice  .to  bring 
jibout, — a  more  monstrous  design  in  view  than  that  of  mere  revenge. 
This  idea  of  witchcraft  is  more  or  less  prevalent  all  over  the  continent  of 
India ;  but  it  is  only  in  certain  parts  of  the  country  that  it  seems  to  pass 
heyond  mere  passive  belief,  and  to  assume  its  most  revolting  features. 
And  it  is  of  one  of  these  hotbeds  of  superstition  and  ignorance  that  the 
present  article  principally  treats. 

There  is  a  tract  of  country,  some  hundreds  of  miles  in  length  and  many 
i  nore  in  breadth,  which  stretches  away  from  the  great  backbone  of  Central 
India  down  to  the  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Bengal :  a  territory  wild  and 
{-avage  to  a  degree,  possessing  few  roads,  other  than  the  mere  stony, 
i  ugged  tracks  which  for  centuries  have  been  the  only  means  of  communi- 
<  ation  between  the  coast  and  the  interior ;  a  country  whose  rivers  are  not 
1  -ridged,  are  not  navigable,  and,  for  months  of  each  year,  are  impassable  : — 
1  vidch  is  clothed  on  all  sides  by  dense,  almost  primeval  jungle,  so  dense 
that  in  many  parts  it  is  a  difficult  thing  for  its  denizens  themselves  to, 
i'orce  their  way  through  the  thick  undergrowth  and  the  closely-planted 


410  WITOH-MUBDEBS   IN   INDIA. 

trees.  Its  population  is  but  scanty,  considering  the  vast  area  of  the 
country  ;  and  the  villages,  scattered  here  and  there  in  the  little  openings 
of  the  jungle,  are  small,  miserably  poor,  and  about  as  wretched  specimens 
of  ihe  habitations  of  man  as  can  well  be  supposed.  And  this  country  is, 
moreovei^girt  about  and«traversed  by  great  chains  of  hills,  in  which  dwell 
races  of  people  as  ignorant,  as  superstitious,  and  as  poor,  though  even 
more  savage  and  bloodthirsty,  than  their  brethren  of  the  plains.  And 
all  these  people  are  mere  animals  in  their  ways  of  life  ;  beyond  the  mere 
gratification  of  their  appetites,  they  possess  scarcely  an  idea :  their 
religion,  if  they  have  any,  is  vague  and  gloomy, — a  religion  of  fear  and 
blood.  But  then  they  know  nothing  better,  for,  century  after  century,  they 
have  lived  and  died  in  their  remote  wilderness,  and  it  is  only  now  that 
the  first  rays  of  light  are  beginning  to  shine  in  upon  the  thick  darkness 
which  has  so  long  hung  like  a  heavy  cloud  over  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land.  So  it  happens  that  superstition  has  established  her  head-quarters 
in  this  country,  and  has  thrown  out  such  hideous  offshoots  as  sometimes 
to  appal  her  very  votaries  themselves.  Of  course,  in  such  an  atmosphere 
as  this  a  belief  in  all  the  horrors  ~of  witchcraft  reigns  paramount ;  it  is  an 
established  article  of  faith,  and  leads  the  way  to  outrages  and  atrocities  which 
have  rendered  the  district  notorious  in  other  parts  of  India,  as  one  inhabited 
by  witches  and  devils.  It  is  a  fact,  that  to  this  day  the  lower  classes  of 
other  provinces  entertain  the  greatest  fear  of  even  passing  through  this 
region,  lest  they  should  in  some  mysterious  way  be  tainted  by  the  malignant 
influence  supposed  to  be  abroad.  And  it  is  a  subject  of  congratulation 
that  they  find  themselves  and  their  goods  fairly  out  of  this  ill-omened 
district. 

The  approximate  cause  of  this  prevailing  belief  in  the  power  of  witch- 
craft is  "  cholera,"  that  scourge  of  Hindustan.  This  pestilence,  which  for 
years  has  puzzled  the  wisest  of  European  physicians,  whose  source  is  yet 
a  mystery,  and  for  which,  despite  all  that  science  can  do,  no  real  remedy 
has  yet  been  found,  is  attributed,  very  much  as  we  in  former  times  should 
have  attributed  any  such  inscrutable  plague,  to  simple  witchcraft.  The 
people  themselves  know  nothing  of  excess  of,  or  diminution  of,  ozone, 
have  no  knowledge  of  sanitary  laws,  are  ignorant  of  the  many  ingenious 
theories  from  time  to  time  brought  forward  to  show  that  cholera  is  caused 
by  some  subtle  atmospheric  poison,  or  some  vegetable  impurity.  Failing 
to  find  a  natural  cause,  they  adopt  a  supernatural  one,  and  lay  it  all  to 
the  account  of  the  spirit  of  evil. 

It  is  usually  at  the  commencement  of  the  hot  season  that  cholera 
appears  here  and  there  among  the  villages,  at  first  of  a  milder  type,  more 
sporadic  than  epidemic,  showing  itself  first  at  one  little  village,  then 
another,  moving  sometimes  in  a  direct  line  across  the  country,  sometimes 
fitfully  coming  and  going,  breaking  out  where  least  expected,  and  passing 
over  places  which  would  seem  most  to  favour  its  attacks.  As  the  heat 
increases,  the  disease  acquires  greater  virulence,  grows  more  sudden  in  its 
results,  until  at  last  it  commences  those  ravages  which  decimate  towns 


WITCH-MUBDEBS  IN   INDIA.  411 

and  villages,  and  strikes  panic  into  the  souls  of  the  people.  Driven  to 
desperation,  they  in  many  cases  leave  their  homes,  and  take  refuge  in  the 
jungles,  carrying  the  taint  of  disease  with  them,  and  leaving  a  track  of 
dead  and  dying  behind  them  as  they  fly.  The  very  fact  of  their  having, 
during  the  period  of  their  banishment,  to  subsist  as  well  as  they  can  on 
the  fruits  and  even  on  the  leaves  of  the  jungle  trees,  and  to  drink  the  most 
polluted  water,  renders  them  easy  victims  to  disease.  In  such  times  it 
is  no  uncommon  thing  to  find  whole  towns  deserted,  with  the  dead  lying 
unboned  in  the  houses,  in  the  ditches  and  streets.  By  the  roadside,  and 
in  the  depths  of  the  jungle  fastnesses,  the  dead  lie,  infecting  the  air  for 
miles  round.  If,  in  their  great  need  and  distress,  the  fugitives  approach 
any  other  village  in  hope  of  obtaining  shelter  and  food,  they  are  driven 
away  with  blows  and  curses,  and  must  go  back  into  the  jungles  to  die. 
The  little  traffic  carried  on  in  better  times  is  entirely  suspended ;  roads  are 
unfrequented, — death  is  on  all  sides.  Numbers  take  to  their  beds  and 
die  from  sheer  fright  on  the  first  approach  of  the  destroyer.  It  happens, 
moreover,  most  unfortunately,  that  at  this  season  of  the  year  great 
gatherings  of  the  people  are  held  at  certain  sacred  spots,  as  on  the  banks 
of  a  sacred  river,  or  near  some  holy  well,  or  in  the  neighbourhood  of  some 
deeply- venerated  temple.  The  people  flock  to  these  great  gatherings  or  fairs 
from  all  quarters,  and  remain  for  days  and  weeks  together,  buying,  selling, 
and  performing  their  religious  duties  ;  and  seldom  does  a  year  pass  but  that 
at  one  of  these  fairs,  perhaps  at  all,  in  the  very  height  of  their  enjoyment, 
the  alarm  is  given  that  cholera  has  appeared.  The  scene  that  follows  such 
an  appalling  announcement  may  be  in  some  sort  imagined  from  the  following 
account  of  a  case  in  point,  quoted  in  one  of  the  official  returns  only  a 
short  time  since. 

The  report  states  that  a  vast  multitude  of  men,  women,  and  children 
were  gathered  together  at  some  sacred  spot,  situate  high  up  on  a  lofty 
range  of  hills ;  some  springs  of  pure  sweet  water  sprang  from  the  rocks, 
and  ran  down  in  cool  refreshing  streams  to  the  plains  below ;  the  air  was 
pure  and  exhilarating,  the  scenery  superb,  and  the  people  washed  in  the 
sacred  springs,  bought  and  sold,  and  worshipped  their  gods,  without  a 
thought  of  the  calamity  hanging  over  them.  People  of  many  castes  and 
of  many  districts  were  there,  who  had  brought  with  them  large  quan- 
tities of  merchandise  of  all  kinds  ;  they  had  come  with  their  wives  and 
children,  their  servants,  their  tents,  therfr  elephants,  camels,  horses,  and 
bullocks,  hoping  to  combine  a  profitable  business  with  their  religious 
duties.  Between  business  and  pleasure  the  days  passed  quickly  away, 
and  it  fcegan  to  be  almost  time  to  think  of  betaking  themselves  back  to 
their  respective  villages,  when  on  a  sudden  cholera  of  a  frightfully  virulent 
type  broke  out  in  the  very  heart  of  the  camp.  Universal  panic  ensued, 
each  man  thought  only  of  how  to  save  his  own  life,  regardless  of  his  neighbour. 
Then  began  a  great  rush  for  the  plains.  Leaving  their  goods  behind  them, 
with  one  accord  they  crowded  down  the  steep  ghauts,  to  get  away  from  the 
fatal  spot  as  soon  as  possible.  But  the  destroyer  followed  them — indeed  it 


412  WITCH-MURDERS  IN  INDIA. 

accompanied  them ;  for  long  before  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains, the  path  down  which  they  had  rushed  was  covered  with  dead  and 
dying,  who  were  actually,  as  the  report  describes  it,  piled  up  in  heaps 
among  the  rocks  and  stones  of  the  ghaut.  Once  .down  on  the  plains  the 
vast  multitude  spread  in  all  directions,  all  anxious  to  avoid  contact  with 
their  fellows.  And  as  there  was  scarcely  a  family,  of  all  those  who  came 
down  from  the  mountains,  of  which  one  member  had  not  died,  or  of  which 
one  at  least,  sick  with  cholera,  was  not  being  carried  away  with  them,  so  the 
disease  was  carried  about  to  all  points  of  the  compass.  At  last  the  people 
in  their  panic  abandoned  their  sick  and  dying  relatives,  leaving  them  to 
die  under  the  trees  or  in  the  nullahs,  and  fled  in  every  direction  exhausted 
for  want  of  food.  If  any  of  them  dared  to  go  near  any  village  which  stood 
on  their  route,  the  villagers  armed  themselves  with  clubs  and  stones, 
and  threatened  vengeance  if  they  came  nearer.  And  so  vast  numbers 
died,  some  of  cholera,  some  of  hunger,  some  of  fear  and  exhaustion ; 
and  the  unburied  bodies  polluted  the  atmosphere  and  ended  in  spreading 
the  epidemic  far  and  near. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  the  great  assemblies  of  people  from 
every  part  of  India  at  Juggernaut  and  other  such  sacred  spots  induces 
these  outbreaks  of  cholera,  and  that  the  pilgrims  on  their  return  journey 
carry  the  seeds  of  the  disease  with  them.  There  is  no  doubt  truth 
in  this ;  but  cholera,  as  before  remarked,  seems  to  obey  no  laws,  and 
sets  at  nought  all  the  precautions  which  human  skill  can  devise.  It 
may  consequently  be  imagined  how  intense  a  dread  the  people  have 
of  an  outbreak  of  cholera;  and  seeing  how  unsparing  a  scourge  it 
is,  it  may  not  be  unnatural  that  they  should  believe  witchcraft  to 
be  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Their  theory  of  witchcraft  is  simple  and 
horrible.  They  imagine  that  there  exists  a  certain  "  Devi,"  a  demon  of 
most  blood-thirsty  propensities,  who  possesses  an  insatiable  craving  for 
human  flesh.  In  order  to  appease  this  appetite  he  selects  from  any 
village  he  thinks  will  suit  him  one  or  more  women — old  or  young, 
he  is  not  particular — and  enlists  them  in  his  service ;  he  endows 
them  with  supernatural  powers,  with  that  of  the  evil  eye,  and  enables 
them  at  will  to  produce  cholera.  In  consideration  of  the  powers 
bestowed  on  them,  the  witches  are  under  an  engagement  to  kill  off  as 
many  people  by  cholera  for  the  demon's  especial  eating  as  he  shall 
think  sufficient.  The  witch  herself  is  supposed  to  partake,  and  may 
sometimes  be  discovered  drinking,  the  life-blood  of  her  own  relatives. 
Sometimes  men  are  also  said  to  be  enlisted  in  this  diabolical  cause  ;  but 
the  demon  on  the  whole  seems  to  prefer  the  women,  as  being  more  easy 
to  deal  with.  The  consequences  of  branding  any  one  as  a  witch  are, 
of  course,  more  onerous ;  and  while  such  a  state  of  things  lasts,  it  may 
easily  be  conceived  how  readily  any  malicious  person  may  revenge  him- 
self on  his  neighbours.  No  sooner  does  the  first  case  of  cholera 
appear  in  the  village  than  the  men  hold  a  counsel,  at  which  the  head  of 
the  village  presides,  to  determine  on  what  is  best  to  be  done.  It  is, 


WITCH-MURDERS  IN  INDIA.  413 

perhaps,  decided  that  the  village  divinity  must  be  propitiated.  So  a 
procession  sets  out,  with  as  much  noise  of  tom-toms,  conchs,  and 
other  barbarous  music  as  can  be  made,  to  the  place  where  the  god  has 
his  abode, — usually  immediately  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  village,  under 
some  large  banyan  or  peepul  tree.  After  much  music  has  been  perpetrated, 
garlands  of  yellow  flowers  are  hung  round  the  neck  of  the  deity,  libations 
of  water  are  poured  over  him,  and  he  is  plentifully  anointed  with  red 
ochre.  More  flowers  are  scattered  over  him  and  around  him ;  offerings 
of  fruit  piled  on  large  plaintain-leaves  are  deposited  near  him,  together 
with  several  earthen  jars  of  water ;  and  if  necessity  demands  and  the 
means  of  the  community  admit  of  it,  some  large  sacrifice,  as  a  sheep  or 
goat,  is  made.  The  procession  then  marches  through  the  village  with 
horrid  noise  of  tom-tom,  and  what  is  commonly  called  the  cholera  horn, 
and  the  people  disperse  to  await  the  result  of  their  propitiatory  offerings. 
When  some  time  has  elapsed,  and  the  cholera,  instead  of  decreasing,  as  it 
obviously  should  have  done  had  the  god  been  well-disposed  towards  his 
people,  appears  to  increase  in  violence  and  to  grow  daily  more  formidable 
in  its  attacks,  the  inhabitants  get  panic-stricken,  and  giving  up  appeals  to 
the  clemency  of  their  god  as  hopeless,  agree  among  themselves  that 
witchcraft  must  be  at  work.  Under  these  circumstances  it  seems 
advisable,  that  before  they  are  driven  to  leave  their  homes  and  take  to  the 
jungles,  the  witch  or  witches  should  be  discovered  and  punished.  Another 
secret  council  is  held,  winked  at  perhaps  by  the  two  men  in  authority 
in  the  village,  the  head-man  and  his  kotwal,  whose  duty  it  clearly  should 
be  on  'the  part  of  Government  to  interfere  and  put  a  stop  to  any  such 
proceedings.  It  is  now  solemnly  announced  that  witchcraft  is  abroad,  and 
that  the  witches  must  be  punished.  It  is  determined  to  watch  the 
women  very  carefully,  more  especially  at  those  times  when  they  go  down 
to  the  wells,  or  the  stream,  or  the  tank,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  draw 
water  for  their  households ;  for  it  is  then  that  the  demon  will  no  doubt 
have  most  influence  over  them,  and  who  knows  but  that  they  may  be 
induced  to  poison  the  water  to  bring  about  their  dreadful  ends  ?  The 
women  must  be  kept  under  careful  scrutiny,  and  should  anything  appear 
suspicious  in  their  conduct  they  must  be  confined  altogether  to  their 
houses. 

At  length,  either  from  a  spirit  of  malice,  a  desire  for  revenge,  or 
simply  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  a  victim,  it  is  whispered  about  the 
village  that  the  wife  and  daughter  perhaps  of  some  villager  are  the 
culprits,  that  they  are  in  daily  intercourse  with  the  demon,  and  for  his 
benefit  are  spreading  abroad  the  dreaded  cholera ;  it  may  even  be  asserted  of 
them  that  they  have  been  seen  to  drink  the  blood  of  their  victims.  It  may 
chance  that  the  innocent  objects  of  all  this  popular  indignation  are  sitting 
quietly  in  their  hut  about  the  time — as  the  expressive  native  idiom  has  it 
— "  of  lamp-lighting."  They  have  been,  perhaps,  hard  at  work  all  day, 
rind  are  preparing  the  scanty  evening  meal  of  rice  and  dhal,  or  cakes  of 
coarse  flour,  .for  the  husband  and  father  not  yet  returned  from  his  labour 


414  -WTTCH-MUBDEKS  IN  INDIA. 

in  the  fields.  Suddenly  a  gang  of  men,  savage  and  desperate -looking, 
enter  the  hovel,  and  drag  away  the  two  women,  heedless  of  their  cries  and 
vehement  declarations  of  innocence.  They  have  no  need,  poor  creatures, 
to  ask  what  the  reason  of  this  sudden  visit  may  be ;  they  know  full  well 
that  it  is  a  question  of  witchcraft,  and  perhaps  one  of  violent  death  to 
them.  When  the  master  of  the  house  returns,  he  finds  his  hut  empty, 
and  he  immediately  guesses  the  cause.  He  may,  perhaps,  attempt  to 
remonstrate  with  the  infuriate  mob,  but  he  is  soon  silenced,  for  he  knows 
that  to  show  too  great  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  his  wife  or  his  daughter 
may  suffice  to  implicate  him  also  in  the  charge  of  dealings  with  the  devil. 
He  rarely,  therefore,  interferes,  whatever  may  be  his  feelings  in  the  matter; 
and  indeed  it  is  not  impossible  that  he  himself,  only  one  year  ago,  had  a 
hand  in  some  such  dealings  in  which  his  neighbour's  family  were  concerned. 
The  two  women  have  in  the  meantime  been  dragged  out  of  the  village 
and  taken  to  some  large  tree  near  at  hand,  where  preparations  are  being 
made  for  their  torture.  The  principal  and  favourite  instrument  of  punish- 
ment is  a  rod  of  the  castor- oil  tree ;  for  tradition  says  that  this  alone  has 
any  power  of  hurting  a  witch,  all  other  woods,  even  the  potent  bamboo 
itself,  being  useless  for  the  purpose.  Indeed,  it  is  said  that  if  a  witch 
be  beaten  with  a  stick  cut  from  any  other  than  the  castor- oil  tree,  it 
will  on  the  very  first  application  break  in  pieces,  however  stout  and 
strong  it  may  seem.  So  on  this  occasion  castor-oil  rods  are  in  great 
request,  and  most  of  the  assembled  crowd  appear  armed  with  one  or 
more  of  them. 

The  modes  of  torture  usually  adopted  for  witches  vary  somewhat  accord- 
ing to  the  particular  province  and  district  in  which  they  are  employed. 
In  former  days,  under  the  beneficent  rule  of  the  rajahs,  when  no  one,  from 
the  rajah  to  the  ryot,  had  any  fear  of  gods  or  men  before  his  eyes,  and 
when  atrocities  of  all  kinds  were  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception,  it 
was  the  custom  to  tie  up  witches  in  skins,  and  throw  them  alive  into  the 
water.  Sometimes,  by  way  of  a  little  gentle  torture,  they  were  crammed 
into  a  small  chamber  full  of  cobras,  where  they  first  half  died  of  fright, 
and  then  quite  died  of  snake-bites.  Now-a-days,  however,  the  first  thing 
to  be  done  in  all  such  cases  is  a  flogging  with  castor-oil  rods.  The  women 
are  in  the  first  instance  reasoned  with  and  told  that  denial  is  useless  : 
of  course  they  are  witches,  have  dealings  with  the  demon,  and  have  in 
short,  together  with  him,  drunk  the  blood  and  eaten  the  flesh  of  numbers 
of  the  departed  villagers.  The  women  naturally  deny  the  charge 
vehemently.  They  are  forthwith  disrobed  and  hung,  very  often  head 
downwards,  on  to  a  horizontal  bamboo,  placed  some  ten  or  twelve  feet 
from  the  ground,  on  two  perpendicular  ones  planted  firmly  in  the 
earth.  They  are  then  swung  slowly  backwards  and  forwards,  while 
their  neighbours,  armed  with  their  castor-oil  rods,  stand  in  rows  on 
either  side,  and  give  each  a  blow  as  she  swings  past :  and  the 
castor-oil  rod  is,  in  willing  hands,  capable  of  inflicting  veiy  severe 
punishment. 


V/ITCH-MUEDEES  IN  INDIA.  415 

When  the  victims  are  half  dead  from  the  beating  and  from 
suffocation,  they  are  taken  down  and  dragged  off  to  some  neigh- 
bouring hovel  while  further  tortures  are  being  prepared.  At  this  stage 
of  the  proceedings,  perhaps,  some  more  experienced  or  long-headed 
member  of  the  company  hints  that  the  Sirkar  (i.  e.  Government)  may 
object  to  their  arrangements  ;  for  the  Sirkar,  it  is  well  known,  does  (though 
it  is  very  unaccountable)  object  to  people  being  punished  and  put  to 
death,  unless  for  proven  offences  and  by  competent  authority.  He, 
however,  is  silenced  by  the  remark  that  if  the  Sirkar  catches  them,  why 
then  they  must  be  caught :  in  the  meantime,  is  their  blood  to  be  drunk  and 
Dheir  village  destroyed  by  witches  ?  Some  one  else  then  suggests  that 
burning  with  hot  irons  is  a  good  way  of  making  witches  confess.  So  fires 
ire  lighted  and  pieces  of  old  iron  put  in  to  be  heated,  and  when  all  is 
:;eady  the  unfortunate  victims  are  again  brought  out,  and  are  oftentimes 
yery  cruelly  and  brutally  burned  on  their  necks  and  heads  with  the  red- 
aot  irons.  Another  mode  of  torture  is  to  cover  the  face  and  neck  with 
ootton-wool  and  then  set  fire  to  it,  or  to  heat  a  brass  candlestick  to  a 
white  heat  and  compel  the  accused  to  carry  it  about  until  the  hand  is 
nearly  burnt  off.  Another  plan  is  to  hang  the  witch  from  the  bamboo 
iibove  mentioned  by  the  arms,  to  attach  heavy  weights  to  the  feet,  and 
1o  dash  them  about  until  the  joints  are  ready  to  give  way.  The 
retched  creatures  are  kept  all  this  time  without  food,  water,  or  sleep, 
r.nd  are  beaten  during  the  intervals  of  other  punishments  with  the  all- 
powerful  castor-oil  rod.  In  their  agony  the  victims  very  often  declare 
that  they  really  have  a  compact  with  a  demon,  and  disclose  horrible  parti- 
( ulars  as  to  the  banquets  they  share  with  him.  At  last  it  happens  that 
(ne  or  perhaps  both  of  the  women  die  under  the  cruel  treatment  they 
1  ave  received,  and  then  the  assembly  is  struck  with  a  guilty  fear.  The 
1  odies  must  be  buried  or  got  rid  of  in  some  way  or  other,  and  that  is  a 
•*  ery  difficult  thing  to  accomplish.  No  one  who  has  any  respect  for  his 
caste  or  himself  will  stretch  out  a  hand  to  bury  a  witch — it  would  be 
endless  pollution  to  think  of  it.  The  affair  must  be  kept  quiet,  however ; 
1  iere  must  be  no  delay,  for  if  it  does  come  to  the  ears  of  the  Sirkar,  it 
v  ill  go  hard  with  the  murderers.  So  a  couple  of  men  of  the  lowest  caste 
t )  be  found  in  the  village  are  induced  by  threats  and  bribes  to  drag  away 
fie  bodies  and  throw  them  into  some  neighbouring  ditch,  or  into  a  nullah, 
or  a  tank  even,  of  which  the  water  is  little  used,  and  so  the  tragedy. ends 
-  -for  a  time  at  least.  The  murderers  are  then  all  sworn  to  secrecy,  and  go 
to  their  homes,  hoping  that  cholera  at  any  rate  after  this  night's  work  will 
d  sappear.  When  matters  are  not  carried  quite  so  far  as  this,  they  content 
themselves  with  beating  the  supposed  witches  and  turning  them  and  their 
ft  milies  out  into  the  jungles,  forbidding  them  ever  again  to  approach  the 
village  :  to  prevent  their  doing  so,  they  pull  down  their  huts.  The 
outcasts  wander  into  the  jungles  and  die  very  soon  of  starvation  or 
cholera. 

It  now  probably  becomes  necessary  to  make  a  general  exodus  from 


416  WITCH-MUEDEKS  IN  INDIA. 

the  plague-stricken  village.  Though  the  witches  have  been  murdered 
the  plague  is  not  stayed  ;  therefore,  as  before  described,  the  survivors 
gather  together  what  goods  they  can  conveniently  carry,  and  leaving 
most  of  their  old  and  helpless  relations  to  perish  of  hunger  and 
disease,  betake  themselves  to  the  jungles.  When  the  rainy  season  has 
commenced,  the  great  heats  passed  away,  and  the  cholera  to  some  extent 
lias  abated,  those  who  have  managed  to  keep  themselves  alive  come  back 
to  their  homes  and  their  occupations.  And  it  is  just  at  this  time  that,  by 
Borne  means  or  other,  the  news  of  the  witch-murder  does  get  to  the 
ears  of  the  Sirkar ;  a  quarrel  ensues  most  likely  between  some  of  the 
culprits,  or  one  or  more  find  a  guilty  conscience  too  much  for  them,  and 
BO  walk  in  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  the  nearest  authorities. 
Oftener,  however,  the  relations  of  the  deceased,  who  have  been  probably 
bribed  to  silence,  strike  for  more  money,  and  in  default  thereof  go 
and  lodge  a  complaint  against  the  murderers.  Owing  to  the  zeal  of 
the  civil  authorities,  the  people  are  beginning  to  understand  that  they 
must  not  call  people  witches  and  put  them  to  cruel  deaths ;  because  to 
do  so  is  murder :  a  fact  which  they  found  difficult  at  first  to  grasp. 
The  means  employed,  however,  to  convince  them  of  this  great  truth, 
have  been  summary,  and  consequently,  successful.  The  ringleaders  and 
instigators  of  the  crime  have  been  arrested,  found  guilty,  and  hanged 
on  the  very  spot  where,  in  many  instances,  but  some  few  months 
previously  their  victims  had  suffered  and  died  a  horrible  death. 

There  is  a  strange,  wild  story  of  witchcraft  and  its  results,  well  known 
among  the  people  of  the  district  here  alluded  to,  and  which  will  perhaps 
form  an  appropriate  conclusion  to  this  narrative.  It  is  as  follows : — 
'A  great  many  years  ago, — so  many,  that  it  was  beyond  the  memory  of 
even  the  oldest  inhabitant's  great  grandfather,  so  long  ago  that  perhaps 
in  those  days  many  of  the  ruined  temples  to  be  seen  perched  on  hill-tops 
and  ensconced  picturesquely  among  the  palm-trees  on  the  banks  of  the 
lotus- covered  tanks  or  lakes,  were  in  the  very  climax  of  their  prosperity, 
and  the  gods  enshrined  therein  were  well  fed,  and  had  plenty  of  music  and 
flowers  on  feast  days, — there  was  a  small  village,  situated  on  the  bank  of 
some  such  large  tank,  inhabited  by  industrious  basket-makers.  It  was 
small  and  remote,  and  the  inhabitants  had  a  very  singular  horror  of 
'meeting  or  intermixing  with  the  people  of  other  neighbouring  towns,  for 
they  had  strong  faith  in  the  power  of  the  evil  eye.  At  last  a  report 
reached  them  of  a  certain  dreadful  plague  which  was  ravaging  the 
surrounding  villages,  carrying  off  the  population  by  hundreds.  Witch- 
craft, of  course,  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  It  happened  on  a  certain 
fine  evening,  towards  the  commencement  of  the  hot  season,  that  a 
basket-maker  and  his  wife  were  sitting  at  the  door  of  their  hut,  busily 
engaged  at  their  trade,  and  their  son,  a  boy  of  some  six  years  old, 
was  playing  about  under  a  large  peepul-tree,  some  hundred  yards  off. 
Presently  a  woman  was  seen  to  pass  through  the  village,  and  strike  into 
a  path  which  led  immediately  under  the  peepul-tree.  Always  suspicious 


WITCH-MUEDEKS   IN   INDIA.  417 

cf  strangers,  the  mother,  crying  out  to  her  husband  that  the  stranger  was 
surely  a  witch,  ran  to  pick  up  her  child ;  the  woman  heard  the  exclama- 
tion, and  turning,  looked  for  an  instant  at  the  child,  and  then  went  her 
yay  through  the  jungle.  In  two  hours  from  that  moment  the  child  was 
dead.  The  witch,  said  the  distressed  parents,  had  killed  it  with  a  glance. 
It  must  be  buried  at  once  ;  but  they  both  agreed  that  the  witch,  though 
she  had  killed,  should  not  devour  their  poor  little  one.  So  it  was  buried 
under  a  great  mango-tree,  a  short  distance  from  the  house;  and  it  being 
a  very  dark  night,  the  father  and  mother  climbed  into  the  tree,  and 
determined  to  watch  over  the  grave  until  the  witch  should  come.  Slowly 
the  hours  passed.  At  midnight  they  distinguished,  among  the  faint  night- 
sounds  peculiar  to  a  thick  jungle,  footsteps  approaching ;  it  was  verily 
the  witch.  She  came  cautiously  to  the  grave,  and  muttering  her  incanta- 
tions, dug  up  the  body,  which  she  placed  in  a  sitting  posture  against  the 
tnink  of  the  tree ;  she  then  lit  a  fire,  and  after  performing  certain  devilish 
charms,  seized  the  corpse  in  her  arms,  and  executed  a  horrible  dance  round 
the  fire  with  it.  Life  at  that  moment  seemed  to  re-enter  the  body ;  it  stood 
i  p  of  itself,  and  began  moving  solemnly  round  the  fire.  The  witch  was 
I  reparing  to  end  the  scene,  when  on  a  sudden  the  father  and  mother  sprang 
to  the  ground,  seized  their  son,  dashed  out  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  fled 
to  the  village,  leaving  the  witch  in  a  state  of  astonishment;  and  the 
strangest  part  of  the  story  is  that  the  child  lived,  grew  up,  learnt  his  father's 
t:ade,  became  the  father  himself  of  a  numerous  family,  and  lived  happily 
ever  after. 

There  is  much  nonsense  talked  about  the  injustice  of  taking  Native 
provinces  under  British  rule ;  but  it  may  be  argued  that  if  the  result 
of  such  usurpation  is  to  be  the  clearing  away  of  this  dark  cloud  of 
iterance  and  superstition  from  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  substituting 
for  it  a  clearer  and  brighter  light — then  the  wider  British  rule  extends  the 
letter  and  happier  for  India. 


VOL,  xvi. — NO.  94«  21. 


418 


IT  is  curious  with  what  frequency  Irish  names  turn  up  in  the  memoirs 
of  the  last  century.  Whether  it  he  the  Speaker  of  the  Irish  House  of 
Commons  betting  at  Newmarket,  Lord  Barrymore's  private  theatricals,  or 
St.  Leger's  extravagant  dinners — in  every  direction  the  Irish  appear 
conspicuous. 

It  was  in  fortune-hunting,  however,  that  they  seem  to  have  heen  most 
successful — a  pursuit  in  which  they  excited  considerable  jealousy.  There 
was  that  tall  Hibernian,  Mr.  Hussey,  whose  stalwart  person  and  handsome 
face  not  only  won  the  favour  of  the  widowed  Duchess  of  Manchester,  co- 
heiress of  the  last  Duke  of  Montagu,  and  owner  in  her  own  right  of 
immense  possessions,  but  procured  for  him  the  earldom  of  Beaulieu  and 
the  red  riband  of  the  Bath  to  boot.  Sir  Charles  Hanbury  Williams  wrote 
some  verses  on  this  occasion,  the  conclusion  of  which  set  half  the  Irishmen 
in  London  examining  their  pistols.  "  Nature,"  said  the  famous  wit, — 

Nature,  indeed,  denies  them  sense, 
But  gives  them  legs  and  impudence. 
That  beats  all  understanding. 

Of  all  the  celebrated  Irish,  or,  indeed,  English  names,  in  the  social  history 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  none,  however,  are  so  famous  as  those  of  the 
"  beautiful  Miss  Gunnings." 

These  wild  Irish  girls  burst  upon  London  society  in  the  autumn  of 
1751,  and  in  a  moment  carried  it  by  storm.  For  the  next  ten  years  the 
gossiping  writers  of  the  age  are  incessantly  chronicling  their  appearance, 
their  manners  or  want  of  them,  their  marriages,  and  the  admiration  they 
excited,  not  only  in  fashionable  circles,  but  still  more  among  the  populace. 
If  it  were  not  that  the  accounts  they  give  are  in  most  cases  those  of  eye- 
witnesses, we  should  hesitate  to  believe  them.  Imagine  a  shoemaker 
realizing  three  guineas  in  one  day  by  the  exhibition  at  a  penny  a  head  of 
one  of  their  shoes !  Surely  since  the  time  of  Cinderella  and  her  glass 
slipper  there  has  been  nothing  like  it.  We  doubt  if  Madame  Tussaud 
would  think  it  worth  while- adding  such  a  relic  to  her  museum  of  curiosities 
at  the  present  day. 

Will  our  readers  believe  that  these  girls  were  unable  to  walk  in  the 
Park  on  account  of  the  crowd  that  surrounded  them  in  sheer  admiration, 
and  that  they  were  obliged  to  obtain  the  protection  of  a  file  of  the  Guards  ? 
That  when  they  were  travelling  through  the  country  crowds  lined  the 
roads  to  gaze  at  them,  and  hundreds  of  people  remained  up  all  night 
around  the  inn  at  which  they  were  staying,  on  the  chance  of  getting  a 
peep  at  them  in  the  morning  ?  Can  we  believe  such  things  of  our  great 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  419 

grandfathers  and  mothers,  for  we  are  sure  the  latter  were  not  the  least 
curious  ?  We  think  we  may  propound  the  same  question  about  our 
ancestors  as  one  of  the  Bishops  did  in  reference  to  the  French,  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution, — "  Can  a  whole  nation  lose  its"  senses  ?  "  Where 
is  all  our  enthusiasm  at  the  present  day  ?  Has  it  oozed  away  through 
our  fingers'  ends  in  this  sceptical  age  ?  If  "  those  goddesses  the  Gunnings  " 
now  descended  upon  us,  we  warrant  that  no  extraordinary  means  need  be 
taken  for  their  protection.  London,  in  fact,  has  become  too  extended  and 
its  population  too  numerous  to  have  any  longer  but  one  centre  of  attrac- 
tion. In  our  opinion,  the  popular  admiration  excited  by  "  the  beauties  " 
is  even  more  astonishing  than  their  great  alliances,  splendid  as  these 
undoubtedly  were. 

The  elder  became  Countess  of  Coventry,  and  the  younger  married 
successively  two  dukes,  refused  a  third,  and  was  the  mother  of  four, 
besides  obtaining  a  peerage  in  her  own  right.  Not  bad  for  two  penniless 
Irish  girls  !  We  have  called  these  celebrated  beauties  "  Irish,"  and  as 
such  they  are  generally  spoken  of.  Strictly  speaking,  however,  the 
popular  belief  is  incorrect,  inasmuch  as  there  is  no  doubt  they  were  bom 
at  Hemingford  Grey  in  Huntingdonshire,  but  from  thence  were  removed 
to  the  family  seat  in  Roscommon  when  little  more  than  infants. 

The  Gunning  family  was  an  offshoot  of  a  respectable  English  house, 
and  had  settled  in  Ireland  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  They  possessed  a 
fair  estate,  called  Castle  Coote,  in  Roscommon ;  but  it  was  probably 
heavily  encumbered.  In  the  year  1731,  Mr.  Gunning,  then  a  student  in 
the  Temple,  and  his  father's  heir,  married  the  Hon.  Bridget  Bourke,  daughter 
of  Lord  Mayo,  and  in  the  two  ensuing  years  were  born  Maria,  afterwards 
Countess  of  Coventry,  and  Elizabeth,  the  future  Duchess  of  Hamilton. 
At  the  time  of  Mr.  Gunning's  marriage  his  father  was  still  living,  and 
it  was  not  till  his  death  a  few  years  after  that  the  family  were  transplanted 
to  the  wilds  of  Connaught. 

It  is  hardly  possible  for  us  now  to  realize  the  desolation  of  that  remote 
province  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century.  "To  Hell  or  to  Connaught  " 
presented  then  a  much  more  uncertain  alternative  than  at  the  present 
day  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that,  once  there,  escape  was  nearly  as  difficult 
from  one  place  as  the  other.  There  were  neither  roads  nor  conveyances, 
and  the  travellers  of  the  time  complain  bitterly  of  the  hardships  of  the 
journey. 

We  are  sure  our  readers  share  our  regret  that  we  know  so  little  of 
Mrs.  Gunning.  If  the  lives  of  the  mothers  of  great  men  have  been 
thought  worthy  of  record,  surely  the  mothers  of  fair  women  deserve  a 
niche  in  history.  That  Mrs.  Gunning  was  handsome  we  take  for  granted. 
We  are  told  that  she  was  "  a  lady  of  most  elegant  figure,"  a  grace  her 
daughters  inherited ;  but  we  should  like  to  have  known  much  more 
than  this.  Bitterly,  we  imagine,  she  must  have  lamented  her  exile  in  the 
far  West,  especially  when  she  beheld  her  daughters  developing  every  day 
new  beauties,  and  yet  lacking  those  graces  and  accomplishments  without 

21—2 


420  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS   GUNNINGS. 

which  their  charms  would  lose  half  their  attraction.  Occasionally,  too, 
she  would  hear  of  the  splendour  of  the  Irish  capital,  where  Lord  Chester- 
field was  ruling  with  unwonted  magnificence. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  country  breeding  of  the  Miss  Gunnings  in 
reality  contributed  to  their  future  triumphs.  Their  natural  and  unaffected 
manners  must  have  contrasted  pleasantly  with  the  artificial  and  cere- 
monious society  of  the  period,  while  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  healthy 
breezes  of  the  country  contributed  not  a  little  to  those  brilliant  complex- 
ions which  added  so  materially  to  their  loveliness. 

In  the  year  1748  Mrs.  Gunning  resolved  that  her  daughters  should 
no  longer  "  waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air,"  and  accordingly  the 
whole  family  removed  to  Dublin  ;  Maria,  afterwards  Lady  Coventry,  being 
then  about  sixteen,  and  her  sister  a  year  younger. 

At  that  period  the  society  of  the  Irish  metropolis  possessed  many 
attractions.  Sheridan  had  succeeded  to  the  theatrical  sceptre,  and  his 
accession  heralded  a  new  era  in  the  Irish  drama.  The  riots  and  disturbances 
which  had  so  long  disgraced  the  performances  were  quelled  by  his  firm 
government,  while  the  engagements  of  Garrick,  Gibber,  Mrs.  Womngton, 
and  Miss  Bellamy  shed  a  lustre  over  the  Irish  stage  such  as  had  never 
before  been  equalled. 

The  musical  taste,  too,  for  which  the  Hibernian  capital  is  still  famous 
was  even  then  conspicuous.  Some  years  had  elapsed  since  Handel's 
visit,  but  early  in  1748  his  Judas  Maccabeus  was  produced  for  the  first 
time,  by  the  special  command  of  the  Earl  of  Harrington,  then  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant, and  met  with  a  much  more  cordial  reception  than  in  London. 
Lord  Harrington  had  just  succeeded  the  famous  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  who 
had  departed  the  previous  year,  leaving  behind  him  memories  of  magni- 
ficence and  hospitality  to  which  the  Irish  Court  had  hitherto  been  a 
stranger.  Lord  Harrington,  however,  seems  to  have  been  determined  to 
prove  that  the  junior  branch  of  the  Stanhopes  could  vie  with  the  parent 
stem  in  splendour  and  elegance.  His  Court  was  graced  by  the  presence 
of  his  eldest  son's  bride,  Lady  Caroline  Petersham,  daughter  of  the  Duke 
of  Grafton,  and  one  of  the  handsomest  women  in  England,  who  thus  early 
entered  on  her  career  of  rivalry  with  the  beautiful  Countess  of  Coventry. 
But  from  this  English  belle  the  lovely  Mrs.  Madden,  afterwards  Lady  Ely 
and  the  reigning  Irish  toast,  was  considered  by  many  to  bear  off  the  palm 
— perhaps  through  national  prejudice. 

Of  the  brilliant  festivities  at  the  Castle  of  Dublin  Mr.  Victor,  who  aided 
Sheridan  in  ruling  the  fierce  democracy  of  an  Irish  audience,  gives  us 
some  idea.  He  tells  us  that,  in  virtue  of  his  office,  he  attended  Court  on 
the  birthnight  (October  30,  1748),  and  that  "  nothing  in  the  memory  of 
the  oldest  courtier  living  ever  equalled  the  taste  and  splendour  of  the 
supper-room  at  the  Castle  on  that  occasion.  The  ball  was  in  the  new 
room  designed  by  Lord  Chesterfield,  which  is  allowed  to  be  very  magni- 
ficent. After  the  dancing  was  over,  the  company  retired  to  a  long  gallery, 
where,  as  you  passed  slowly  through,  you  stopped  by  the  way  at  shops 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  421 

elegantly  formed,  where  was  cold  eating  and  all  sorts  of  wines  and  sweet- 
meats, and  the  whole  most  beautifully  disposed  by  transparent  paintings, 
through  which  a  shade  was  cast  like  moonlight.  Flutes  and  other  soft 
instruments  were  playing  all  the  while,  but,  like  the  candles,  unseen.  At 
each  end  of  the  long  building  were  placed  fountains  of  lavender-water  con- 
stantly playing,  that  diffused  a  most  grateful  odour  through  this  amazing 
fairy  scene,  which  certainly  surpassed  everything  of  the  kind  in  Spenser, 
as  it  proved  not  only  a  fine  feast  for  the  imagination  but,  after  the  dream, 
for  the  senses  also,  by  the  excellent  substantiate  at  the  sideboards."  The 
tradition  is  that  the  Miss  Gunnings  having  no  dresses  in  which  to 
appear  at  ihefete  thus  described,  applied  to  Mr.  Sheridan  in  their  diffi- 
culty, and  that  he  at  once  placed  his  whole  theatrical  wardrobe  at  their 
disposal — a  piece  of  generosity  repaid  by  neglect  and  ingratitude,  when, 
some  years  later,  they  were  in  a  position  to  make  a  proper  return  for  it. 
That  the  Gunnings  were  in  a  state  of  impecuniosity,  deeper  even  than 
became  the  Irish  gentry  of  the  period,  not  only  when  in  Dublin,  but 
afterwards  in  London,  is  evident  from  some  anecdotes  about  them  related 
by  Miss  Bellamy,  who  at  this  time  was  acting  in  the*  Irish  capital. 
One  day  as  Miss  Bellamy  was  returning  through  the  streets  from  a 
rehearsal,  she  heard  a  voice  of  distress,  and  at  once  entered  the  house  from 
which  it  proceeded.  She  there  found  "  a  lady  of  most  elegant  figure," 
surrounded  by  four  beautiful  girls  and  a  boy  of  about  three  years  old. 
This  lady  was  Mrs.  Gunning,  who  informed  the  actress  that  having  lived 
beyond  their  income,  her  husband  had  been  compelled  to  retire  into  the 
country  to  avoid  the  disagreeable  consequences  which  were  about  to 
onsue,  leaving  his  family  to  the  tender  mercy  of  the  bailiffs,  who  were 
then  in  the  house,  and  preparing  to  turn  them  out  of  doors.  Miss 
Bellamy,  with  that  kindness  which  is  still  the  characteristic  of  her  pro- 
Cession,  took  pity  on  the  family,  and  brought  them  to  her  own  residence. 
The  bailiffs,  too,  were  outwitted  by  the  actress's  serving-man,  who  was 
sent  at  night  to  remain  under  the  windows  of  the  house,  from  which 
everything  portable  was  thrown  to  him.  While  they  were  thus  residing 
'.vith  Miss  Bellamy,  the  Gunnings,  conscious  of  their  charms  and  eager 
v,o  learn  what  their  effect  would  be,  insisted  on  consulting  a  fortune- 
oiler  who  had  then  gained  great  celebrity  in  Dublin.  This  female 
;eer,  we  are  informed,  told  their  fortunes  with  even  greater  accuracy 
;han  the  mediums  of  the  present  day  ;  foreseeing  not  only  the  e-xalted 
rank  to  which  both  would  attain,  but  also  the  premature  death  of  the 
Countess  of  Coventry. 

Of  the  sensation  the  youthful  beauties  created  in  Dublin  we  have, 
•  infortunately,  but  little  record.  Mrs.  Delany,  whose  charming  Letters 
lately  edited  by  Lady  Llanover  throw  such  light  upon  the  social  history 
of  the  past  century,  gives  us  just  one  peep  at  them  in  a  letter  written  in 
«"une,  1750,  to  her  sister,  from  her  residence  at  Delville,  near  Dublin, 
jler  sister  had  probably  written  to  her,  curious  to  learn  about  the  won- 
derful Gunnings.  In  reply,  Mrs.  Delany  informs  her  that  all  she  has 


422  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS. 

heard  about  the  Gunnings  is  true,  except  about  their  fortunes ;  "but," 
adds  the  censorious  old  lady,  "they  have  a  still  greater  want,  and  that  is 
discretion."  It  was  probably,  however,  this  very  want  of  discretion, — so 
shocking  in  the  eyes  of  the  precise  Mrs.  Delany, — which  constituted  the 
peculiar  charm  of  the  Miss  Gunnings,  and  especially  of  the  elder,  after- 
wards Lady  Coventry.  Their  naivete  and  the  absence  of  restraint  in 
their  manners  must  have  been  quite  refreshing  in  that  artificial  age,  in 
spite  of  an  occasional  betise.  The  "  wits  "  generally  admired  (and  made 
fun  of)  the  "wild  Irish  girls;"  and  Selwyn  especially  appears  to  have 
had  quite  a  fatherly  regard  for  Lady  Coventry,  in  whose  daughter  he 
subsequently  showed  the  deepest  interest. 

One  would  have  imagined  that  the  society  of  the  Irish  metropolis  at 
such  a  brilliant  epoch  ought  to  have  sufficed  for  girls  brought  up  in  the 
retirement  to  which  they  had  been  accustomed.  Success  there  we  should 
have  thought  would  have  satisfied  even  their  soaring  ambition,  especially 
when  their  financial  weakness  is  revealed  to  us.  Perhaps,  however,  these 
very  difficulties  only  hastened  their  departure.  Whether  this  surmise  be 
correct,  or  that  our  beauties  were  determined  to  fulfil  the  prophecies  of 
the  old  fortune-teller,  or  that  the  pension  of  1501.  a  year,  which  at  this 
period  we  find  granted  to  Mrs.  Gunning  out  of  that  mysterious  and 
much-enduring  fund  "  the  Irish  establishment,"  supplied  afresh  the 
sinews  of  war,  in  which  the  family  seem  to  have  been  wofully  deficient — 
at  all  events  the  future  peeresses .  arrived  in  the  metropolis  in  the  autumn 
of  1750."  Such  a  journey  was  then  a  tedious,  if  not  a  perilous  under- 
taking. The  traveller  might  take  a  week  to  reach  Holyhead,  and  would 
certainly  take  as  long  again  to  arrive  at  his  journey's  end. 

On  a  Sunday  in  the  December  of  that  year  they  were  presented  at 
Court,  as  we  leam  from  Faulkner's  Dublin  Journal,  and  most  graciously 
received.  Our  readers  who  have  perhaps  seen  the  "  exhibits  "  of  their 
native  land  hidden  from  the  profane  gaze  of  the  foreigner  on  the  Sabbath, 
will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  ceremony  of  presentation  at  Court 
took  place  on  that  day.  It  was  not  till  the  following  reign  that  the  custom 
of  holding  drawing-rooms  on  a  Sunday  was  abandoned. 

What  a  society  was  that  into  which  the  Gunnings  plunged !  It  was  a 
dandified,  ceremonious  age,  full  of  wicked,  conceited,  mocking,  witty 
"  fine  ladies  and  fine  gentlemen."  A  lord  was  then  a  lord  indeed,  and 
his  superiority  over  common  mortals  duly  acknowledged.  Drinking,  card- 
playing  for  enormous  stakes,  and  horse-racing,  were  the  chief  occupations 
of  the  time.  Lord  March,  so  well  known  afterwards  when  he  became  Duke 
of  Queensberry  as  "Old  Q.,"  Selwyn,  Lord  Carlisle,  and  Walpole,  were 
then  in  their  prime.  The  Court  and  society  in  general  were  frightfully 
dissolute.  Assemblies,  masked  balls,  ridottos,  and  the  gardens  of  Vauxhall 
and  Eanelagh,  afforded  the  "young  bloods"  opportunities  of  which  they 
were  not  slow  to  take  advantage.  Bath,  where  the  long  and  brilliant 
career  of  Nash  was  drawing  to  its  close,  was  still  the  most  fashionable 
resort.  Thither,  in  the  autumn,  went  their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Prince 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  423 

ol  Wales  and  his  wife,  "  cette  diablesse,"  as  King  George  used  to  call  her, 
and  were  followed  by  a  glittering  crowd. 

The  Miss  Gunnings  were  not  long  without  creating  a  sensation  even  in 
tl  e  great  metropolis  itself.  They  were  not  only  sought  after  by  the  leaders 
ol  fashionable  society,  but  were  also  surrounded  by  admiring  crowds  in  the 
1?  irks  and  at  all  places  of  public  resort.  Horace  Walpole  writing  to  Sir 
Horace  Mann,  in  1751,  thus  alludes  to  them  : — "  You  who  knew  England  in 

0  her  times,  will  find  it  difficult  to  conceive  what  indifference  reigns  with 
in  gard  to  Ministers  and  their  squabbles.    The  two  Miss  Gunnings  are  twenty 
times  more  the  subject  of  conversation  than  the  two  brothers  and  Lord 
Granville.     These  are  two  Irish  girls,  of  no  fortune,  who  are  declared  the 
h  indsomest  women  alive.     I  think  their  being  two,  so  handsome  and  both 
such  perfect  figures,  is  their  chief  excellence,  for,  singly,  I  have  seen  much 
handsomer  women  than  either :  however,  they  can't  walk  in  the  Park,  or  go 
to  Vauxhall,  but  such  crowds  follow  them  that  they  are  generally  driven 
a^vay."     A  short  time  after  he  wrote, — "As  you  talk  of  our  beauties, 

1  shall  tell  you  a  new  story  of  the  Gunnings,  who  make  more  noise  than 
a  ay  of  their  predecessors  since  the  days  of  Helen,   though  neither  of 
tiem,   nor  anything  about  them,  has  yet  been  'teterrima  belli  causa.' 
3  hey  went  the  other  day  to  see  Hampton  Court.     As  they  were  going 
into  the  Beauty  Room  another  company  arrived.     The  housekeeper  said, 
'  This  way,  ladies  ;  here  are  the  beauties.'     The  Gunnings  flew  into   a 
passion,  and  asked  her  what  she  meant ;  they  came  to  see  the  palace,  and 
not  to  be  shown  as  a  sight  themselves."     In  spite,  however,  of  these  pro- 
t  ^stations,  there  was  a  very  general  belief  that  they  were  not  wholly  averse 
1 3  the  popular  homage. 

It  was  about  a  year  after  their  arrival  in  London  that  the  marriage  of 
tlie  eldest  Miss  Gunning  with  the  Earl  of  Coventry  was  first  reported. 
]n  August,  1751,  we  find  that  the  editor  of  Faulkner^s  Dublin  Journal, 
\  /hose  readers  doubtless  were  eager  for  any  scrap  of  news  about  their 
f'jrmer  celebrities,  is  confidently  assured  "  that  a  treaty  of  marriage  is 
( oncluded  between  the  Earl  of  Coventry  and  the  celebrated  Miss  Gunning 
<>f  this  city  ; "  and  a  short  time  afterwards  he  informs  us  that  the  marriage 
has  actually  taken  place.  This,  however,  was  anticipating  matters  consi- 
derably. 

The  Earl  of  Coventry  must  have  been  one  of  the  greatest  matches  in 
England.  He  had  just  come  into  possession  of  the  title  and  an  ample 
estate  in  Worcestershire,  of  which  county  he  was  immediately  made  lord- 
lieutenant,  succeeding  his  father  in  the  office.  He  seems  to  have  been  a 
jrave,  solemn  kind  of  young  man.  His  favourite  pursuit  was  music,  of 
,vhich  he  was  enthusiastically  fond.  It  was  this  taste  probably  that  had 
ittracted  him  to  Violetta,  afterwards  famous  as  the  wife  of  Garrick,  to  whom 
.t  had  been  said  he  was  going  to  be  married  a  couple  of  years  before  the 
period  we  are  speaking  of.  At  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  in  November, 
1751,  he  moved  the  address  in  the  Upper  House ;  and  Lord  Chesterfield 
uolls  us  he  did  it  well  enough, -"  though  agitated  at  the  same  time  by  the 


424  THE   BEAUTIFUL  MISS   GUNNINGS. 

two  strong  passions  of  fear  and  love,  Miss  Gunning  being  seated  on  one 
side  of  him  and  the  House  on  the  other."  His  lordship  adds,  "  That 
affair  is  within  a  few  days  of  its  crisis,  but  whether  that  will  be  a  marriage 
or  a  settlement  is  undecided.  Most  people  think  the  latter ;  for  my  part 
I  think  the  former."  We  learn  again  from  the  same  source  that  the  pair 
were  carrying  on  their  negotiations  in  all  public  places,  but  that  people 
were  in  doubt  whether  the  treaty  would  be  final  or  only  provisional. 
-  .  "We  think  there  was  no  foundation  for  these  insinuations  against  Miss 
Gunning.  Whatever  discussions  might  arise  at  White's  about  the  rela- 
tions between  the  Irish  beauty  and  the  English  peer,  however  my  Lord 
March  might  snigger  and  Selwyn  hint,  there  never  appears  to  have  been 
anything  but  an  honourable  alliance  in  contemplation  between  the  parties. 
Lord  Chesterfield,  as  was  natural  for  so  keen  an  observer  of  the  world 
and  its  ways,  had  foreseen  the  inevitable  result,  although  the  crisis  was 
postponed  much  longer  than  he  had  imagined,  and  then  brought  about  in 
rather  a  curious  way.  Walpole  tells  us  the  story  in  a  letter  of  the  end  of 
February,  1752  : — "  ....  The  event  that  has  made  most  noise  since  my 
last  is  the  extempore  wedding  of  the  youngest  of  the  two  Gunnings  (Eliza- 
beth), who  have  made  so  vehement  a  noise.  Lord  Coventry,  a  grave 
young  lord  of  the  remains  of  the  patriot  breed,  has  long  dangled  after  the 
eldest,  virtuously  with  regard  to  her  virtue,  not  very  honourably  with 
regard  to  his  own  credit.  About  six  weeks  ago  the  young  Duke  of 
Hamilton,  the  very  reverse  of  the  Earl,  hot,  debauched,  extravagant,  and 
equally  damaged  in  his  fortune  and  person,  fell  in  love  with  the  youngest 
at  the  masquerade,  and  determined  to  many  her  in  the  spring.  About  a 
fortnight  since,  at  an  assembly  at  my  Lord  Chesterfield's  made  to  show 
the  house,  which  is  really  magnificent,  Duke  Hamilton  made  violent  love 
at  one  end  of  the  room  while  he  was  playing  at  Pharaoh  at  the  other  end ; 
that  is,  he  saw  neither  the  bank  nor  his  own  cards,  which  were  up  three 
hundred  pounds  each.  He  soon  lost  a  thousand.  I  own  I  was  so  little  a 
professor  in  love  that  I  thought  all  this  parade  looked  ill  for  the  poor  girl, 
and  could  not  conceive  why,  if  he  was  so  engaged  with  his  mistress  as 
to  disregard  such  sums,  he  played  at  all.  However,  two  nights  after, 
being  left  alone  with  her,  while  her  mother  and  sister  were  at  Bedford 
House,  he  found  himself  so  impatient  that  he  sent  for  a  parson.  The 
doctor  refused  to  perform  the  ceremony  without  licence  or  ring.  The 
duke  swore  he  would  send  for  the  archbishop.  At  last  they  were  married 
with  the  ring  of  the  bed-curtain,  at  half  an  hour  after  twelve  at  night,  at 
May-fair  Chapel.  The  Scotch  are  indignant  that  so  much  beauty  had  its 
effect ;  and,  what  is  most  silly,  my  Lord  Coventry  declares  that  now  he 
will  marry  the  other." 

This  impatient  duke,  who  was  thus  seized  with  such  a  sudden  passion 
for  the  younger  Miss  Gunning,  was  the  grandson  of  the  unfortunate 
nobleman  who  when  on  the  eve  of  setting  out  as  ambassador  to  France 
in  1712  was  slain  in  a  duel  by  Lord  Mohun.  This  was  not  the  first 
time  that  he  had  fallen  suddenly  and  violently  in  love.  The  fascina- 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  425 

tions  of  Miss  Chudleigh,  whose  trial  for  bigamy  when  Duchess  of 
Kingston  is  well  known,  had  previously  overcome  him.  The  Duke 
proposed  for  her,  and  was  accepted.  He  afterwards  left  for  the  Continent, 
'eaving  her  behind  him  as  his  affianced  bride.  During  his  absence  abroad 
Miss  Chudleigh  met  Mr.  Hervey,  afterwards  Earl  of  Bristol,  and  was 
.named  to  him,  but  their  union  concealed.  It  was  said  that  she  would 
not  have  abandoned  her  first  lover  had  not  her  aunt,  through  the 
interception  of  their  correspondence,  led  her  to  believe  that  she  had 
been  deserted  by  him.  His  Grace  felt  the  disappointment  keenly,  and  for 
roine  time  after  led  such  a  wild  life  as  justified  the  comments  of  Walpole. 
He  was  determined,  evidently,  that  the  second  time,  at  least,  there  should 
be  no  "slip  between  the  cup  and  the  lip."  Owner  of  three  dukedoms 
in  Scotland,  England,  and  France,  besides  other  dignities  innumerable, 
this  nobleman  was  probably  the  haughtiest  man  in  the  kingdom,  now  that 
4;the  proud  Duke  of  Somerset"  had  passed  away.  The  duke  and  his 
cuchess  used  to  walk  into  dinner  before  their  guests,  eat  off  the  same 
I  late,  and  drink  to  nobody  under  the  rank  of  an  earl.  Naturally  enough, 
Yvralpole  wonders  how  they  could  get  any  one,  either  above  or  below 
t"ieir  own  rank,  to  dine  with  them.  Yet  the  duke  was  not  without 
brains  and  culture,  for  Dr.  Carlyle  mentions  him  as  having  spoken  at  the 
Select  Society  in  Edinburgh,  and  says  that  he  was  "  a  man  of  letters  could 
h;3  have  kept  himself  sober." 

The  marriage  of  the  elder  Miss  Gunning  soon  followed  that  of  her 
sister,  and  early  in  March  she  became  Countess  of  Coventry.  An  anecdote 
tcld  by  Miss  Bellamy,  while  it  does  not  say  much  for  the  gratitude  of  her 
ladyship,  shows  that  in  London  as  in  Dublin  the  beauties  were  sometimes 
reduced  to  considerable  straits.  One  night  when  Miss  Bellamy  was 
acting  in  'Romeo  and  Juliet  and  had  just  reached  one  of  the  most  pathetic 
pg  ssages  in  that  tragedy  she  was  disturbe  \  1  y  a  loud  laugh,  which,  it 
turned  out,  proceeded  from  Lady  Coventry,  the  occupant  of  the  stage  box. 
The  actress  was  so  much  upset  by  the  interruption  that  she  was  compelled 
to  retire.  When  the  countess  was  remonstrated  with  she  excused  herself 
by  saying  that  since  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Gibber  act  the  part  she  could  not 
en  lure  Miss  Bellamy.  It  is  probable  that  her  ladyship  would  have  spared 
th:;s  retort  had  she  remembered  certain  pecuniary  obligations  between  her 
anl  the  actress  which  were  still  undischarged.  The  next  day  Miss  Bellamy, 
stung  by  her  conduct,  requested  payment  of  the  note  of  hand  which  the 
countess  had  given  her  when  obtaining  a  loan  just  previous  to  her 
marriage  ;  probably  to  purchase  the  wedding  trousseau.  The  application 
wa^  treated  with  contempt,  and  the  debt  never  paid.  The  giving  of  that 
bu  dness-like  "  note  of  hand  "  appears  to  us,  we  confess,  rather  suspicious; 
it  looks  as  if  it  was  not  the  first  transaction  of  the  kind  in  which  her 
ladyship  had  been  engaged.  She  had,  we  suppose,  the  ideas  of  her 
countryman  on  the  subject,  who,  having  given  a  short-dated  bill  for  a  debt, 
expressed  his  pleasure  that  that  matter  was  settled  at  all  events.  In  spite, 
however,  of  Miss  Bellamy's  assistance,  the  countess  does  not  appear  to 

21—5 


426  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS. 

have  brought  a  very  ample  trousseau  to  her  husband.  Lord  Chesterfield, 
alluding  to  Lady  Coventry's  presence  at  a  Chapel  of  the  Garter  held  a  few 
days  after  her  marriage,  insinuates  as  much  when  he  tells  us,  in  compli- 
menting her  beauty,  that  "my  lord  has  adorned  and  rigged  her  out 
completely.  She  adorns  herself  too  much,  for  I  was  near  enough  to  see 
manifestly  that  she  had  laid  on  a  great  deal  of  white,  which  she  did  not 
want,  and  which  would  destroy  both  her  natural  complexion  and  her  teeth. 
Duchess  Hamilton,  her  sister,  is  to  appear  next  week,  and  will  in  my  mind 
far  outshine  her."  When  the  duchess  was  presented  a  few  days  later 
the  curiosity  and  excitement  were  so  great  that  the  highest  ladies  in  the 
land  climbed  upon  chairs  and  tables  to  look  at  her ;  and  at  the  opera  and 
every  public  place  where  it  was  known  either  of  the  sisters  would  attend 
crowds  assembled  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  them. 

In  May  their  ladyships  proceeded  to  their  several  castles ;  but  Lady 
Coventry  at  least  does  not  seem  to  have  fancied  country  life  ;  and  indeed, 
considering  that  she  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  popularity,  such  a 
dislike  was  only  natural. 

In  July,  Walpole  gossips  about  her  ladyship  in  this  wise  :  "  Our  beauties 
are  returned  (from  Paris)  and  have  done  no  execution.  The  French  would 
not  conceive  that  Lady  Caroline  Petersham  ever  had  been  handsome,  nor 
that  my  Lady  Coventry  has  much  pretence  to  be  so  now.  Indeed  all  the 
travelled  English  allow  that  there  is  a  Madame  Brionne,  handsomer  and  a 
finer  figure." 

We  fear  her  ladyship  must  have  displeased  Walpole  in  some  way,  for 
he  had  previously  been  enthusiastic  about  her  perfect  figure.  He  con- 
tinues in  a  very  depreciatory  strain:  "Poor  Lady  Coventry  was  under 
piteous  disadvantages,  for  besides  being  very  silly,  ignorant  of  the  world, 
breeding,  and  speaking  no  French,  and  suffered  to  wear  neither  red  nor 
powder,  she  had  that  perpetual  drawback  to  her  beauty — her  lord,  who  is 
sillier  in  a  wise  way,  as  ignorant,  ill-bred,  and  speaking  very  little  French 
himself, — -just  enough  to  show  how  ill-bred  he  is.  He  is  jealous,  prude, 
and  scrupulous.  At  Sir  John  Bland's,  before  sixteen  persons,  he  coursed 
his  wife  round  the  table  on  suspecting  she  had  stolen  on  a  little  red,  seized 
her,  scrubbed  it  off  by  force  with  a  napkin,  and  then  told  her  that  since 
she  had  deceived  him  and  broke  her  promise  he  would  carry  her  back 
direct  to  England." 

When  we  remember  how  the  death  of  the  countess  was  hastened  by  her 
liberal  use  of  "  red  and  white,"  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  regretting  that  this 
strict  discipline  was  not  more  perseveringly  maintained.  Parisian  society  was 
much  amused  at  her  naivete  in  excusing  herself  from  attending  Madame 
Pompadour's  fete  on  the  ground  that  it  was  her  dancing-master's  hour ; 
but  we  think  that  such  a  reply  only  showed  a  very  sensible  determination 
to  make  up  for  her  early  deficiencies.  At  the  opera,  which  was  in  London 
the  constant  scene  of  her  triumphs,  Mrs.  Pitt,  a  rival  English  beauty,  took 
a  box  opposite  the  countess ;  and  the  French  people  cried  out  that  she 
was  the  real  English  angel,  thereby  driving  away  her  ladyship  in  tears. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  427 

!:.t  is  clear,  indeed,  that  the  visit  to  Paris  was  a  fiasco.  Its  society  was 
1  oo  spirituelle  for  her  ladyship,  and  her  husband  was  only  anxious  to  get 
back  to  his  musical  festival  at  Worcester. 

She  complained  to  every  one  how  odd  it  was  my  lord  should  treat  her 
no  ill  when  he  was  so  good  as  to  marry  her  without  a  shilling.  In  spite, 
iiowever,  of  these  complaints  of  "  my  dear  Cov,"  as  she  used  to  call  her 
"iusband,  the  pair  seem  to  have  been  very  fond  of  each  other.  We 
:ind,  to  be  sure,  in  the  letters  of  the  time,  many  insinuations  about 
ber  and  Lord  Bolingbroke,  nephew  of  the  great  Bolingbroke.  In  an  age 
jjiven  so  much  to  scandal  such  reports  were  only  to  be  expected ;  but  we 
«lo  not  think  that  in  this  case  there  was  any  foundation  for  them.  There 
:.s  no  doubt  that  Lady  Coventry  was  deficient  in  that  knowledge  of  the 
\vorld  and  those  accomplishments  so  necessary,  especially  at  that  period ; 
but  then  we  must  remember  that  she  became  a  "  lady  of  quality  "  all  at 
)nce,  and  while  still  in  her  'teens. 

In  spite  of  these  disadvantages  Lady  Coventry  was  now  the 
eader  of  fashion  in  the  metropolis.  No  assembly  was  complete 
.vithout  her  presence,  her  dress  was  eagerly  copied  by  admiring 
;rowds  who  imagined  that  in  it  perhaps  lay  some  of  her  attraction. 
She  came  to  her  friend  Selwyn  one  day  to  show  him  her  "birth- 
: light"  dress,  which  was  covered  over  with  spots  of  silver  the  size 
of  a  shilling.  The  wit  told  her  she  would  be  changed  for  a  guinea. 
'.Mrs.  Delany,  who  was  evidently  very  fond  of  dress  and  a  great  authority 
on  the  subject,  hears  that  the  countess  has  been  at  a  ball  in  "  high 
beauty,"  but,  alas  !  gets  no  account  of  her  toilette.  A  short  time  after- 
wards she  was  more  fortunate,  for  she  tells  us,  "  Yesterday,  after  chapel, 
lie  duchess  brought  Lady  Coventry  to  feast  me,  and  a  feast  she  icas  I 
She  is  a  fine  figure,  handsome  notwithstanding  a  silly  look  sometimes 
ibout  her  mouth ;  she  has  a  thousand  airs,  but  with  a  sort  of  innocence 
ohat  diverts  one.  Her  dress  was  a  black  silk  sack  made  for  a  large  hoop, 
which  she  wore  without  any,  and  it  trailed  a  yard  on  the  ground ;  she  had 
i  cobweb  laced  handkerchief,  a  pink  satin  long  cloke  lined  with  ermine 
nixed  with  squirrel-skins.  On  her  head  a  French  cap  that  just  covered 
:he  top  of  her  head  of  blond  and  stood  in  the  form  of  a  butterfly  with  its 
\vings  not  quite  extended,  fiilled  sort  of  lappets  crossed  under  her  chin 
ind  tied  with  pink  and  green  ribbon — a  head-dress  that  would  have 
3harmed  a  shepherd !  She  has  a  thousand  dimples  and  prettinesses  in  her 
sheeks,  her  eyes  a  little  drooping  at  the  corners,  but  fine  for  all  that." 

This  is  the  most  complete  description  we  get  anywhere  of  the  countess. 
It  is  unfortunate  that  she  died  before  Keynolds  had  yet  risen  to  fame. 
Sir  Joshua  would  have  revelled  in  so  fair  a  subject  for  his  brush.  Cotes, 
however,  who  preceded  Eeynolds-  as  a  fashionable  portrait-painter,  has  left  us 
the  likeness  of  both  beauties.  There  was  a  charming  little  oval  portrait  by 
his  hand  of  the  younger  sister,  when  Duchess  of  Argyle,  exhibited  this 
summer  in  the  National  Portrait  Exhibition  at  Kensington.  We  certainly 
igree  with  those  who  maintained  that  the  duchess  was  the  handsomer  of 


428  THE   BEAUTIFUL  MISS   GUNNINGS* 

the  two  ;  and  Dr.  Carlyle,  who  had  seen  her,  speaks  of  her  as  undoubtedly 
the  handsomest  woman  of  her  time.  We  have  all  heard  Pliny's  story  of 
the  citizen  of  Cadiz  who  was  so  enraptured  with  "  Livy's  pictured  page  " 
as  to  travel  from  Spain  to  Home  for  the  sole  purpose  of  beholding  its 
author.  Mrs.  Delany  tells  us  of  a  lady  who  professed  that  she  had  crossed 
the  Atlantic  to  see  Lady  Coventry.  "  Miss  Allen  was  at  the  masquerade  at 
Somerset  House,  and  had  a  great  desire  to  see  Lady  Coventry ;  by  this 
time  most  people  were  unmasked,  and  Miss  Allen  went  up  to  Lady 
Coventry  (resolved  to  make  a  little  sport  with  her),  and  after  looking  at 
her  very  earnestly,  '  I  have  indeed  heard  a  great  deal  of  this  lady's 
beauty,  but  it  far  surpasses  all  I  have  heard.  I  don't  know  whether  I 
may  be  called  an  Englishwoman,  but  I  am  just  come  from  New  York 
upon  the  fame  of  this  lady,  whose  beauty  is  talked  of  far  and  near,  and  I 
think  I  came  for  a  very  good  purpose.'  " 

We  don't  hear  much  of  the  other  members  of  the  family  after  the 
elevation  of  the  elder  Miss  Gunnings.  Of  the  four  beautiful  girls  who 
surrounded  Mrs.  Gunning  when  Miss  Bellamy  first  saw  the  family,  one 
died  while  a  child,  and  the  other  made  an  inferior  match  in  Ireland. 

Their  only  brother  entered  the  army,  and  having  distinguished  himself 
in  the  American  war,  became  a  General  and  a  Knight  of  the  Bath.  He 
had  a  daughter  who,  trusting,  we  suppose,  to  the  proverbial  "  luck  of  the 
Gunnings,"  made  a  bold  stroke  for  a  ducal  coronet,  but  canie  to  rather 
signal  grief.  The  affair  caused  a  good  deal  of  scandal  in  the  next  genera- 
tion; and  Miss  Gunning's  "vaulting  ambition  having  o'erleaped  itself," 
she  was  content  eventually  to  accept  a  plain  Connaught  gentleman. 

Now  that  the  peeresses  had  become  "fine  ladies,"  cultivating  "  Shak- 
speare  and  the  musical  glasses,"  we  hear  nothing  of  their  mother.  Of 
Mr.  Gunning,  who  no  longer  found  it  necessary  to  retire  into  the  country 
to  avoid  unpleasant  consequences,  we  get  a  glimpse  as  he  attends  his 
daughters'  assemblies,  wearing  the  portrait  of  Lady  Coventry  in  his  button- 
hole like  a  Croix  de  St.  Louis,  and  prouder  of  his  decoration  than  others 
of  the  Garter. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1755  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton  and  her 
husband  paid  a  visit  to  the  Irish  capital,  where  the  Marquis  of  Hartingdon 
had  just  assumed  the  reins  of  government.  The  good  folks  in  Dublin, 
we  may  be  sure,  were  not  a  whit  behind  the  metropolis  in  the  homage  they 
paid  at  the  shrine  of  beauty.  The  natural  enthusiasm  of  the  Hibernian 
was  heightened  by  the  knowledge  that  in  this  case  their  devotion  was 
exhibited  towards  the  "  native  article,"  and  the  visit  of  the  duchess  was 
one  continued  triumph.  When  the  pair  dined  at  the  Eagle  Tavern,  Cork 
Street,  vast  crowds  of  all  degrees  assembled  to  see  them  ;  and  when  they 
afterwards  retired  to  their  lodgings,  in  Capel  Street,  the  number  of  spec- 
tators was  so  great  as  to  obstruct  the  traffic.  Of  course  they  were  taken 
to  see  all  the  sights, — visited  Powerscourt  waterfall,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
as  now,  the  most  beautiful  of  them,  attended  a  levee  held  in  their  honour, 
and  patronised  a  charitable  fete.  We  wonder  if  her  grace  visited  the  house 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  429 

in  Britain  Street  from  which  she  and  her  sister  had  tossed  their  valuables 
to  the  actress's  serving-man  below,  in  order  that  something  at  all  events 
might  escape  the  clutches  of  the  bailiffs.  It  was  given  out  that  Lady 
Coventry  was  to  pass  the  winter  in  Dublin,  but  the  rumour  proved 
unfounded,  to  the  intense  disappointment  of  its  inhabitants.  The  countess 
preferred  the  company  of  her  great  London  friends,  to  whom  she  appears 
to  have  sometimes  afforded  considerable  amusement.  Walpole  tells  us 
tlr.it  at  a  great  supper  at  Lord  Hertford's,  he  would  have  made  her  angry 
had  she  not  been  the  best-natured  creature  in  the  world.  We  cannot 
help  thinking,  however,  that  her  good-nature  on  this  occasion  arose  chiefly 
from  her  dulness  in  seeing  that  the  company  were  laughing  at  her. 
After  her  conduct  towards  Miss  Bellamy,  it  is  impossible  to  speak  of 
her  kind-heartedness.  Neither,  if  she  possessed  any  instinctive  regard  for 
the  feelings  of  others,  would  she  have  told  the  King,  then  a  feeble  old  man, 
that  there  was  but  one  other  sight  she  cared  to  see,  and  that  was — a 
coronation  !  "  She  declared,  in  a  very  vulgar  accent,  that  if  she  drank  any 
more  she  would  be  '  muclcibus.'  '  Lord,'  said  Lady  Mary  Coke,  '  what  is 
that  ?  '  '  Oh !  it  is  only  Irish  for  sentimental,'  replied  Walpole." 

In  strong  contrast  to  the  above  rather  coarse  sketch  of  one  of  the 
"  goddesses  "  is  a  second,  by  the  same  hand,  of  a  summer  evening  at  Straw- 
berry Hill,  when  the  other  was  present.  Surely,  if  the  Laureate  had  beheld 
it,  he  would  have  added  another  page  to  his  Dream  of  Fair  Women.  "  Straw- 
berry Hill  is  grown  a  perfect  Paphos  ;  it  is  the  land  of  beauties.  On 
Wednesday  the  Duchesses  of  Hamilton  and  Kichmond,  and  Lady  Ailesbury 
diaed  here  ;  the  two  latter  stayed  all  night.  There  never  was  so  pretty  a 
si^ht  as  to  see  them  all  sitting  in  the  shell.  A  thousand  years  hence,  when 
I  come  to  grow  old,  if  that  can  ever  be,  I  shall  talk  of  that  event,  and  tell 
young  people  how  much  handsomer  the  women  of  my  time  were  than  they 
will  be.  I  shall  say  *  Women  alter  now.  I  remember  Lady  Ailesbury 
looking  handsomer  than  her  daughter,  the  pretty  Duchess  of  Richmond,  as 
they  were  sitting  in  the  shell  on  my  terrace  with  the  Duchess  of  Hamilton, 
one  of  the  famous  Gunnings  1 ' "  Pity  that  Watteau  was  not  alive  to  immor- 
talize such  a  scene. 

The  Duke  of  Hamilton,  who  was  no  less  damaged  in  his  person  than  in 
his  fortune  at  the  period  of  his  marriage,  died  early  in  the  year  1758.  Miss 
Elizabeth  Gunning's  union  with  him  does  not  seem  to  have  been  very  happy. 
S'ie  did  not  remain  long  in  retirement,  and  was  soon  surrounded  anew  by 
ai  i  admiring  train.  It  was  the  general  opinion  that  her  beauty  had  only 
matured  and  improved  during  her  first  marriage,  and  that  at  five-and- 
faventy  she  was  handsomer  than  ever.  The  Duke  of  Bridgewater  was 
smitten  by  her  charms  and  offered  her  his  hand,  only  to  be  refused ;  for 
wliich  refusal  posterity  is  indebted  to  her  grace,  as  it  was  after  his  rejec- 
tion that  the  disappointed  duke  devoted  himself  to  Brindley  and  the  canal 
which  still  bears  his  name.  Thus  a  great  national  benefit  hung  on  the 
cr  price  of  a  Gunning  !  The  refusal  of  the  Duke  of  Bridgewater  did  not, 
however,  imply  that  the  widow  intended  to  remain  for  ever  disconsolate, 


430  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS. 

and  in  the  winter  of  1759  her  engagement  to  John  Campbell,  afterwards 
Duke  of  Argyle,  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Walpole  writes  to  all  his  friends 
about  it.  He  tells  Sir  Horace  Mann  that  it  is  a  match  that  would  not  dis- 
grace Arcadia  between  her  romantic  history  and  the  handsome  person  and 
attractive  manners  of  his  intended.  To  Conway  he  thus  unbosoms 
himself : — 

"  It  is  the  prettiest  match  in  the  world  except  yours,  and  everybody 
likes  it  except  the  Duke  of  Bridgewater  and  Lord  Coventry.  What  an 
extraordinary  fate  to  those  two  women !  who  could  have  believed  that 
a  Gunning  would  unite  the  two  great  houses  of  Campbell  and  Hamilton  ? 
For  my  part  I  expect  to  see  my  Lady  Coventry  Queen  of  Prussia.  I 
would  not  venture  to  marry  either  of  them  these  thirty  years  for  fear  of 
being  shuffled  out  of  the  world  prematurely  to  make  room  for  the  rest  of 
their  adventures.  The  first  time  that  Jack  carries  the  duchess  into  the 
Highlands,  I  am  persuaded  that  some  of  his  second- sighted  subjects  will 
see  him  in  a  winding  sheet  with  a  train  of  kings  behind  him  as  long  as 
those  in  Macbeth.  .  .  .  The  head  of  the  house  of  Argyle  is  content, 
and  considers  the  blood  of  the  Hamiltons  has  purified  that  of  the  Gunnings." 
In  March,  1759,  the  duchess  was  married  to  Mr.  Campbell,  who  soon  after 
succeeded  to  the  family  honours.  After  her  second  marriage  she  almost 
entirely  disappeared  from  the  fashionable  world,  and  the  name  of  the 
Duchess  of  Argyle  is  but  seldom  met  with  in  the  memoirs  of  the  time. 
Not  so,  however,  her  sister,  who  continued  to  shine  in  society  till  the 
moment  of  her  early  death,  which  occurred  about  two  years  later.  There 
is  no  doubt  it  was  hastened  by  her  liberal  use  of  powder  and  paint.  We 
even  in  the  present  day  have  little  idea  how  the  ladies  of  that  age  painted 
themselves.  It  is  true  we  have  our  washes,  our  cosmetics,  our  dyes  and 
our  artists  whose  enamel  renders  the  wearer  "beautiful  for  ever,"  but 
nevertheless  we  doubt  if  in  this  respect  we  go  so  far  as  our  great-grand- 
mothers. Pope,  describing  a  lady's  toilet  a  generation  before,  hinted  at 
the  practice  then  becoming  general : — 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  the  face. 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 

In  the  middle  of  the  last  century  the  habit  had  become  universal ;  we 
must  represent  to  ourselves,  as  Thackeray  says,  all  fashionable  female 
Europe  plastered  with  white  and  raddled  with  red.  Walpole,  when  taking 
his  beautiful  niece,  afterwards  Lady  Waldegrave,  and  her  lively  friend 
Miss  Ashe,  to  Vauxhall,  says,  "  They  had  just  refreshed  their  last  layers 
of  red  and  looked  as  handsome  as  crimson  could  make  them."  In  an 
epigram  on  Lady  Coventry's  great  rival,  Lady  Caroline  Petersham,  the 
writer  asks, 

Her  blooming  cheeks,  what  paint  could  draw  'em  ? 

That  paint  for  which  no  mortal  ever  saw  'em. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  MISS  GUNNINGS.  431 

It  was  in  the  rouge-pot  the  poor  Countess  found  her  early  death.  Her 
:nends  saw  that  the  habit  was  rapidly  bringing  on  consumption,  but  no 
\varnings  could  avail.  In  the  winter  of  1759  her  health  completely  broke 
>Iown,  and  it  was  thought  that  she  could  not  hold  out  long.  Walpole 
mentions  with  surprise,  in  January,  1760,  that  at  the  trial  of  Lord  Ferrers 
for  murder,  in  Westminster  Hall,  she  appeared  as  well  as  ever,  and  was 
acting  over  again  "  the  old  comedy  of  eyes "  with  Lord  Bolingbroke. 
The  Countess  lingered  until  the  autumn  of  that  year.  Her  death-bed  was 
indeed  a  sad  one.  The  deadly  poison  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
using  to  heighten  her  charms  committed  such  ravages  in  the  end  upon 
her  cheeks  that  she  became  a  hideous  object.  Conscious  of  her  changed 
appearance,  she  would  see  no  one ;  and  it  is  said  that  she  obliged  even 
her  attendants  to  hand  her  medicines  through  the  bed-curtains.  She 
died  on  the  1st  of  October,  1760,  after  a  short  reign  of  beauty,  and  many 
moralized  on  the  sad  ending  of  her  brilliant  career.  Mason  wrote  her 
elegy,  which  was  pronounced  beautiful,  though  we  must  confess  it  appears 
to  us  stiff  and  affected.  Her  husband  married  a  second  time,  and 
Selwyn,  who  was  very  fond  of  the  two  daughters  of  the  beautiful 
countess,  gives  us  an  amusing  account  of  the  way  they  sat  in 
their  nursery  conspiring  against  their  stepmother.  The  Duchess  of 
Argyle  does  not  appear  to  have  been  so  frivolous  as  her  sister.  She 
had  a  mind  and  a  will  of  her  own  apparently.  We  are  several  times 
informed  that  "  Betty  Gunning  has  a  fine  spirit."  When  several  years 
later  Boswell  accompanied  Johnson  on  his  tour  to  the  Hebrides,  the  Duke 
asketl  them  both  to  his  castle.  Dearly  as  Bozzy  loved  a  lord,  he  was  yet 
afraid  to  go  on  account  of  the  terrible  duchess,  whom  he  feared  he  had 
offended  in  days  long  past  by  the  part  he  had  taken  in  the  great  Douglas 
cause.  In  the  year  1776  her  ladyship  was  created  a  peeress  in  her  own 
right,  as  Baroness  Hamilton.  Even  at  that  time,  whenever  she  attended 
Court,  where  she  held  a  post  in  attendance  upon  Queen  Charlotte,  she  was 
conspicuous  for  her  elegance  and  beauty.  She  died  in  the  year  1790, 
being  then  in  her  fifty-seventh  year.  Two  of  her  sons,  by  her  marriage 
with  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  succeeded  in  turn  to  that  title ;  while  her 
daughter  married  the  Earl  of  Derby,  and  was  grandmother  to  the  present 
Prime  Minister,  and  two  of  her  sons,  by  her  second  union,  inherited 
successively  the  honours  of  the  ancient  house  of  Argyle. 

So  ended  the  strange  career  of  the  famous  Gunnings.  Born  and 
reared  in  obscurity,  they  reached  in  a  moment  the  pinnacle  of  rank  and 
fashion,  and  gained  titles  which  would  have  been  a  magnificent  reward 
for  the  most  illustrious  services  to  the  country.  Their  lofty  position  they 
owed  entirely  to  their  beauty  ;  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  silly,  and  perhaps 
vulgar  ;  neither  possessed  culture  or  education,  and  yet  in  one  short  year 
they  "  came,  saw,  and  conquered."  If  any  one  be  inclined  to  doubt  the 
empire  of  beauty  over  the  heart  of  man,  or  to  maintain  that  its  dominion 
is  past,  let  him  read  the  history  of  "  the  beautiful  Miss  Gunnings." 


432 


Clje  SSfemajje  fato  rrf  % 


THE  Yelverton  case  having  again  appeared  in  the  House  of  Lords,  naturally 
draws  attention  to  the  anomalous  condition  of  the  Marriage  Law  of  the 
Three  Kingdoms,  and  suggests  reflections  not  flattering  to  the  uniformity 
of  legislation.  As,  however,  a  Marriage  Commission  has  heen  sitting 
to  receive  evidence  of  skilled  and  competent  persons,  we  may  hope  that 
the  report,  when  laid  on  the  table  of  the  House,  will  be  the  foundation 
of  a  carefully  considered  and  uniform  measure  on  the  subject  of  the 
Marriage  Laws  of  the  United  Kingdom,  and  that  a  contract  so  momentous 
may  be  rendered  easy  of  proof  and  intelligible  without  the  aid  of  experts. 
It  is  only  they  who  have  been  professionally  engaged  in  the  consideration 
of  the  law  of  marriage,  as  expounded  in  courts,  who  are  aware  of  the 
intricacies  of  the  apparently  simple  tie  uniting  man  and  woman  in  true 
matrimony.  To  be  told  that  in  Scotland  you  may  be  married  before  the 
process  of  an  ordinary  flirtation  is  begun,  whilst  in  England  or  Ireland 
you  have  to  publish  banns,  or  obtain  licence,  or  get  the  certificate  of  a 
marriage  registrar,  with  a  variety  of  notices  and  entries  in  books,  is  a  slur 
on  our  state  politics.  „ 

The  Scottish  people  have,  with  their  wonted  tenacity,  adhered  to  the 
ancient  system  founded  on  the  civil  law  as  to  marriage,  whereby  a  contract 
•per  verba  de  pr&senti,  or  a  promise  de  futuro  cum  copula,  is  considered 
sufficient  to  constitute  a  legally  valid  marriage,  whereas  by  the  common 
law  of  England  down  to  the  Marriage  Act  (the  26  George  II.  cap.  33), 
it  was  essential  to  the  constitution  of  a  complete  marriage  that  there 
should  be  a  religious  solemnity ;  that  both  modes  of  obligation  should  exist, 
the  civil  and  the  religious ;  that  beside  the  civil  contract  (as  in  Scotland 
per  verba  de  yrasenti),  which  has  always  remained  the  same,  there  should 
be  a  religious  ceremony,  not  always  the  same,  but  varying  from  time  to 
time  according  to  the  variations  of  the  laws  of  the  Church. 

The  law  of  Ireland  was  founded. on  the  common  law  of  England,  and 
was  what  the  English  law  was  prior  to  the  passage  of  the  Marriage  Act ; 
but  thenceforward  divergencies,  according  to  the  ecclesiastical  systems  in 
operation  in  either  country,  took  place. 

It  is  difficult,  however,  to  realize  this  state  of  things — that  a  child 
may  be  born  in  Scotland  of  unmarried  parents  domiciled  in  that  country, 
which  parents  may  afterwards  intermarry  in  Scotland,  that  such  child  may 
be  capable  of  inheriting  lands  in  Scotland,  and  yet  be  incapable  of  inherit- 
ing lands  in  England  or  Ireland,  and  this  because  of  the  anomalies  of  the 
Marriage  Law  operating  in  countries  under  the  same  government  and  the 


THE    MARRIAGE  LAW  OF   THE   THREE   KINGDOMS.  433 

same  sovereign.  '  Prior  to  the  English  Marriage  Act  it  was  generally 
supposed  that  it  was  not  requisite  to  have  any  peculiar  religious  ceremony 
to  constitute  marriage,  and  this  because  of  the  ceremony  resting  on  the 
ancient  common  law,  which,  as  in  Scotland,  only  required  the  consent  of  the 
parties  ;  but  there  was  this  distinction,  that  to  make  a  full  and  complete 
r  larriage  in  England,  an  application  might  be  made  to  the  spiritual  court 
to  compel  the  solemnization  of  an  actual  marriage  ;  and  hence  originated 
the  notion,  that  it  was  always  necessary  to  have  the  ceremony  performed 
i:i  presence  and  with  the  intervention  of  a  minister  in  holy  orders. 
But  the  common  law  of  England  did  not  require  the  consent  of  any 
person  to  render  valid  the  marriage  contract,  save  that  of  the  parties 
themselves,  and  so  far  was  in  accordance  with  the  civil  law ;  but  abuses 
springing  up,  the  Council  of  Trent  intervened  to  prevent  the  spread  of 
clandestine  marriages,  and  such  was  also  the  object  of  the  English  Marriage 
Act.  Before  that  Act  a  marriage  was  valid  though  celebrated  in  a  private 
house  instead  of  in  the  church,  as  the  rubric  prescribes ;  valid  too  even 
though  no  witness  was  present  other  than  the  clergyman,  instead  of  in 
free  of  the  congregation  ;  valid  though  no  person  was  present  to  give  the 
b  ide  away,  valid  without  banns  or  licence,  without  the  use  of  the  ring, 
without  the  repetition  of  the  Marriage  Service.  All  that  was  then  neces- 
BJ  ry  was  that  the  parties  took  one  another  for  husband  and  wife  by 
words  in  the  present  tense,  and  before  a  priest,  or,  since  the  Reformation, 
bofore  a  deacon.  But  the  Marriage  Act,  known  as  Lord  Hardwicke's 
Act,  enacted  that  thenceforward  (1753)  all  marriages  should  be  celebrated 
in  a  church  and  by  banns .  or  licence,  and  no  proceedings  should  be  had 
in  any  spiritual  court  to  compel  the  celebration  of  any  marriage  in  facie 
ecdesice,  by  reason  of  any  contract  of  matrimony,  whether  per  verla  de 
prtzsenti  or  verba  defuturo. 

"The  general  law  of  Western  Europe  before  the  Council  of  Trent 
seems  clear,"  says  Mr.  Justice  Willes  in  the  House  of  Lords'  Cases,  306. 
"  The  fact  of  marriage — that  is,  the  mutual  consent  of  competent  persons  to 
take  one  another  for  man  and  wife  during  their  joint  lives — was  alone 
considered  necessary  to  constitute  true  and  lawful  matrimony  in  the 
contemplation  of  both  Church  and  State."  To  the  same  effect  are  the 
observations  of  Lord  Lyndhurst — "  that  a  contract  per  verba  de  prasenti  was, 
prior  to  1753,  considered  to  be  a  marriage,  that  it  was,  in  respect  of  its 
constituting  the  substance  and  forming  the  indissoluble  knot  of  matrimony, 
regarded  as  verum  matrimonium,  is,  I  apprehend,  clear  beyond  all  doubt." 

It  may  have  been  found  difficult  to  procure  evidence  of  the  con- 
sent or  contract  after  the  celebration,  and  hence  the  presence  of  a  priest 
became  essential,  to  have  trustworthy  proof  of  the  celebration,  independent 
of  another  suggested  reason  for  his  presence — that  if  he  were  aware  of 
ary  lawful  impediment  he  could  prevent  the  ceremony.  Now,  to  render 
valid  a  marriage,  in  addition  to  consent,  there  must  be  some  previous 
notice  or  proclamation  of  banns,  or  licence,  and  a  clergyman  must  be 
present,  or  the  marriage  registrar  of  the  district,  and  the  marriage  must 


434:  THE    MABKIAGE  LAW  OF  THE   THREE  KINGDOMS. 

bo  in  an  authorized  place  and  at  authorized  hours.  In  Scotland  it  is 
still  sufficient  if  both  parties  mutually  declare  themselves  married ;  but 
this  must  be  in  presence  of  witnesses,  or  the  consent  must  be  expressly  or 
impliedly  declared  by  writing. 

From  that  first  English  Marriage  Act  (26  George  II.  cap.  33)  no  legis- 
lative interference  on  the  subject  took  place  for  seventy  years  ;  but  thence- 
foward,  and  down  to  the  4  George  IV.  cap.  76,  several  statutes  were  passed, 
all  considering  a  religious  ceremony  as  essential  to  the  validity  of  the 
marriage  contract.  Later  statutes  have  been  framed,  enabling  marriages 
to  be  solemnized  according  to  any  form  or  ceremony  the  parties  see  fit  to 
adopt;  but  the  4  George  IV.  cap.  76,  though  qualified  as  to  marriages 
solemnized  according  to  the  Established  Church,  is  not  repealed  by  any 
subsequent  statute.  By  that  statute  the  banns  are  to  be  published  in  the 
parish  church  or  an  authorized  chapel  on  three  Sundays,  according  to  the 
rules  prescribed  by  the  rubric  prefixed  to  the  office  of  matrimony  in  the 
Book  of  Common  Prayer.  A  book  is  to  be  kept  for  the  registration  of 
the  banns,  to  be  signed  by  the  officiating  minister;  and  by  this  means 
accurate  evidence  is  forthcoming  of  the  solemnization  of  the  ceremony, 
because,  in  addition  to  the  presence  of  the  minister,  two  witnesses  must 
be  present,  who  also  sign  the  entry. 

This  statute,  however,  did  not  affect  the  marriages  of  Quakers  oi* 
Jews.  Subsequent  legislation  dealt  with  the  marriage  contract,  where 
no  religious  ceremony  is  considered  by  the  parties  necessary  to  its 
validity,  beginning  with  an  Act  of  Parliament  of  6  &  7  William  IV.  cap.  85, 
and  ending  with  3  &  4  of  the  Queen,  cap.  72.  These  Acts  provide  for 
general  registries,  for  the  appointment  of  marriage  registrars,  for  enabling 
them  to  grant  licences,  and  for  the  celebration  of  marriage  according  to 
forms  there  specified  by  the  registrar  himself.  Entries  of  these  mar- 
riages are  preserved  in  books  provided  for  the  purpose,  the  names  of 
the  parties,  the  date  of  the  celebration  of  the  ceremony,  and  the  witnesses 
present ;  again,  by  this  means  is  evidence  furnished  of  the  fact  of  the 
marriage,  and  that  all  due  forms  have  been  complied  with. 

Such  is  the  law  of  England.  As  before  stated,  the  general  marriage 
law  of  Ireland  was  identical  with  that  of  England  before  Lord  Hardwicke's 
Act,  but  it  has  been  modified  by  some  statutes  of  the  Irish  legislature. 
The  common  law  of  that  country  did  not  consider  the  consent  of 
parents  necessary  to  the  validity  of  the  contract;  but  by  a  statute  of 
9  George  II.  cap.  11  of  the  Irish  Parliament,  the  marriages  of  minors 
were  void,  if  made  without  the  consent  of  parents  or  guardians,  and  if  the 
minors  were  entitled  to  a  certain  amount  of  property.  It  further 
inflicted  penalties  for  the  celebration  of  marriage  between  Roman 
Catholics  and  Protestants,  and  its  provisions  were  extended  by  a  later 
statute  of  the  same  reign,  which  made  the  celebration  a  felony  in 
the  celebrant.  Both  these  statutes  were  repealed  by  the  7  &  8  of 
Victoria,  cap.  81.  But  other  statutes  dealt  with  other  offences  in 
reference  to  the  ceremony.  An  Act  of  32  George  III.  cap.  21,  autho- 


THE    MARRIAGE  LAW  OF  THE  THREE   KINGDOMS.  435 

rized  clergymen  of  the  Established  Church  to  marry  Protestants  and 
Roman  Catholics,  but  it  prohibited  .a  Roman  Catholic  priest  celebrating 
the  ceremony  unless  it  had  been  previously  performed  by  a  Protestant 
clergyman.  An  earlier  statute  of  19  George  II.  cap.  13  (Irish),  annulled 
all  marriages  celebrated  by  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  between  Protestants, 
or  persons  professing  to  be  such  within  twelve  months  previous  to  the 
ceremony,  and  Roman  Catholics — a  statute  passed  to  counteract  the 
effect  of  an  occasional  profession,  and  a  statute  made  remarkable  by 
reason  of  its  being  the  statute  on  which  the  alleged  Irish  mar- 
riage of  Major  Yelverton  rested.  •  In  answer  to  the  priest,  he  stated 
lie  was  a  Catholic  Protestant ;  and  the  evidence  of  clergymen  and  others 
proving  that  the  Major  had  gone  to  the  Established  Church  and 
was  still  a  professing  Protestant  within  twelve  months,  the  lady  being 
a  Roman  Catholic,  the  Irish  marriage  was  not  legal.  By  an  Act  of 
33  George  III.  cap.  21,  a  penalty  of  5QOL  was  inflicted  on  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest  marrying  two  Protestants,  or  a  professing  Protestant  and 
a  Roman  Catholic  ;  but  this  Act  was  repealed,  so  far  as  the  penalty  was 
concerned,  by  3  &  4  William  IV.  cap.  102,  though  it  left  the  prohibition 
against  the  validity  of  the  marriage  untouched.  Now,  however,  by  the 
5  &  6  of  the  Queen,  cap.  28,  any  Roman  Catholic  priest  celebrating 
such  marriage,  unless  the  ceremony  have  been  previously  performed  by 
a  Protestant  clergyman,  is  liable  to  transportation  for  seven  years.  Such, 
in  Ireland,  is  still  the  law  of  mixed  marriages,  which,  however,  are  now 
much  discountenanced  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  and  we  doubt  not 
but  that  legislation  will  remove  the  penalty  still  existing  on  the  Roman 
Catholic  priest ;  but  if  it  do  so,  that  Church  should  be  obliged  to  keep 
and  furnish,  when  required,  an  accurate  register  of  its  marriages.  Strange 
to  say,  there  is  no  legal  prohibition  against  minors  marrying  in  that 
Church ;  whatever  ecclesiastical  rules  there  may  be  on  that  head,  there  is 
no  statute  prohibiting  them. 

I'he  cause  celebre  on  the  Scotch  law  of  marriage  is  the  Dalrymple 
case,  and  though  some  of  the  dicta  enunciated  by  Lord  Stowell,  the  great 
jurist  who  decided  it,  have  been  questioned,  his  judgment  is  ever  referred 
to  as  the  exponent  of  the  principles  which  should  guide  tribunals  dealing 
with  the  law  of  marriage. 

Mr.  Dalrymple  was  a  member  of  a  Scotch  family,  but  was  brought  up 
from  early  years  in  England.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  being  then  a  cornet 
'in  the  Dragoon  Guards,  he  accompanied  his  regiment  to  Edinburgh,  where 
it  was  quartered  in  March  or  April,  1804.  Shortly  after  his  arrival  in 
Edinburgh,  he  met  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  society  a  Miss  Joanna 
Gordon,  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  respectable  condition  in  life. 
Mr.  Dalrymple  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  at  the  lady's  father's  house, 
both  in  Edinburgh  and  at  his  country  seat  at  Braid,  near  Edinburgh.  - 
Besides  the  ordinary  visits,  it  appeared  he  and  the  lady  had  clandestine 
interviews  at  the  father's  house,  and  for  several  nights  they  had  remained 
together.  But  there  was  no  evidence  of  cohabitation,  save  wliat  existed 


436  THE    MARRIAGE   LAW  OF   THE   THREE   KINGDOMS. 

in  the  surmises  of  the  servants  and  of  the  lady's  sister.  Mr.  Dalryniple 
left  for  England  in  1805,  and  having  sailed  for  Malta,  continued  abroad 
till  1808,  in  which  year  he  returned  to  England.  His  father  having  died, 
Miss  Gordon  thought  it  time  to  establish  her  marriage,  and  she  accord- 
ingly sent  to  a  friend  of  Mr.  Dalrymple  copies  of  what  she  termed  her 
marriage  lines.  At  this  period  Mr.  Dalrymple  was  on  the  eve  of  a 
marriage  with  a  sister  of  the  then  Duchess  of  St.  Albans,  and  ultimately 
celebrated  with  the  English  lady  in  a  formal  and  regular  manner,  in  facie 
ccclcsia,  the  ceremony  of  marriage.  Thereupon  Miss  Gordon  applied  to 
the  Consistorial  Court  of  London  to  compel  Mr.  Dalrymple  to  the  per- 
formance of  the  marriage  contract  into  which  she  alleged  he  had  entered 
with  herself.  The  evidence  was  that  of  persons  who  deposed  as  to  the 
interviews  at  her  father's  house,  of  nocturnal  meetings,  and  of  his  visiting 
the  house  at  unusual  times.  But  unhappily  for  him,  she  produced  letters 
and  documents  written  to  her,  in  which  he  called  her  his  wife  ;  and  amid 
these  exhibits  was  one  or  two  of  this  kind  : — 

No.  1. 

A   Sacred  Promise. 

I  do  hereby  promise  to  marry  you  as  soon  as  it  is  in  my  power,  and  never  marry 
another. 

J.  DALRYMPLE. 

And  I  promise  the  same. 

JOANNA  GORDON. 

No.  2. 

1  herchy  declare  that  Joanna  Gordon  is  my  lawful  wife. 

J.  DALRYMPLE. 
28th  Aug.  1804. 

And  J  hereby  acknowledge  John  Dalrymple  as  my  lawful  husband. 

J.  GORDON. 

The  social  position  of  the  parties,  Mr.  Dalrymple  being  heir  presump- 
tive to  the  earldom  of  Stair,  Miss  Gordon  being  the  daughter  of  a 
gentleman  of  position,  and  Miss  Manners  being  the  sister  of  a  duchess, 
awakened  great  interest  at  the  time ;  but  the  parties  are  forgotten,  the 
somewhat  romantic  incidents  of  the  case  have  faded  from  memory, 
and  nothing  remains  but  that  unrivalled  judgment  of  Lord  Stowell 
tracing  the  marriage  law  from  its  earliest  authentic  period,  and  affording 
to  every  student  of  our  country's  history  an  admirable  summary  of 
the  principles  which  have  regulated  the  enforcement  of  the  marriage 
contract.  Miss  Gordon  was  successful ;  Mr.  Dalrymple  was  ordered  to 
restore  to  her  conjugal  rights,  and  Miss  Manners,  as  far  as  the  law  was 
concerned,  remained  Miss  Manners.  From  that  judgment  may  be 
deduced  these  positions : — Marriage  is  a  contract  of  natural  law, — the 
parent,  not  the  child  of  civil  society — and  in  civilized  countries,  acting 
under  a  sense  of  the  force  of  sacred  obligations,  it  had  the  sanction  of 
religion  superadded,  and  then  it  became  a  religious  as  well  as  a  civil  and 


THE  MARRIAGE   LAW   OF   THE   THREE   KINGDOMS.  437 

natural  contract :  it  then  came  under  the  cognizance  of  the  Church,  and 
it  was  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  a  sacrament;  and  so  the  law  of  the 
church,  the  canon  law,  though  it  recognized  it  as  a  sacrament,  so  far 
regarded  the  natural  and  civil  origin  of  marriage  as  to  hold  that  where 
ihe  natural  and  civil  contract  was  formed  it  had  the  full  essence  of 
matrimony  without  the  intervention  of  a  priest. 

The  consent  therefore  of  two  persons  expressed  in  words  of  present 
mutual  acceptance  constituted  an  actual  and  legal  marriage,  and  consum- 
mation was  presumed  as  following  that  acceptance.  At  the  Reformation, 
Kngland  disclaimed  the  doctrine  of  a  sacrament  in  marriage,  retaining, 
however,  the  rules  of  the  canon  law  that  were  founded  in  the  natural 
md  civil  contract  of  marriage.  As  we  have  observed,  the  marriage  law 
of  Ireland  was  considered  the  same  as  that  of  England  prior  to  the 
Marriage  Act  of  George  II.,  but  in  1840  there  was  raised  a  question  on 
f,n  indictment  for  bigamy,  which  resulted  in  a  protracted  legal  battle, 
ending  in  the  House  of  Lords.  This  case  was  the  origin  of  the  existing 
statute  law  in  Ireland  now  regulating  the  marriage  ceremony  in  that 
( ountry  ;  but  this  statute  does  not  affect  the  Roman  Catholics,  Quakers, 
or  Jews.  That  statute  is  the  7th  &  8th  of  the  Queen,  and  became 
necessary  by  reason  of  the  following  incidents. 

In  1840  Dr.  Miller,  the  Surrogate  in  the  Consistorial  Court  of 
Armagh,  having  to  decide  a  question  raised  before  him,  on  the  validity 
tf  a  marriage  between  a  Presbyterian  and  a  member  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  solemnized  by  a  Presbyterian  minister,  had  declared  such  contract 
to  be  null  and  void.  In  the  North  of  Ireland,  where  such  marriages  had 
leen  of  frequent  occurrence,  this  judgment  aroused  great  hostility. 
Q.'he  intensity  of  the  indignation  was  increased,  when  it  was  known  that 
the  decision  was  rested  on  a  Saxon  canon  of  the  tenth  century,  requiring 
the  presence  of  a  "  priest "  necessary  to  validate  a  marriage ;  and  the 
Presbyterian  minister  not  being  episcopally  ordained,  was  held  not  to 
come  within  the  canonical  requirement  of  one  in  holy  orders.  The 
question  before  the  Consistorial  Court  was  as  to  the  right  of  administra- 
tion to  the  property  of  a  deceased  individual,  and  in  the  conflict  amongst 
the  next  of  kin  the  legality  of  the  marriage  was  disputed.  Shortly 
after  the  judgment  of  Dr.  Miller  was  pronounced,  a  man  being  indicted  for 
I  igamy  in  the  county  of  Antrim,  pleaded  that  though  he  had  been  previously 
united  in  wedlock  by  a  Presbyterian  minister,  such  was  no  valid  contract, 
because  he  was  an  Episcopalian.  A  special  verdict  was  found  by  the  jury, 
under  the  direction  of  the  judge  who  tried  the  prisoner,  and  the  question 
came  before  the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench  in  Ireland.  The  judges  were 
cl  ivided  in  opinion  as  to  the  validity  of  the  marriage,  and  the  case  was  taken 
to  the  House  of  Lords.  Lords  Brougham,  Campbell,  and  Denman  were 
for  reversing  the  judgment  of  the  Irish  Court;  Lords  Abinger,  Cotten- 
ham,  and  the  Lord  Chancellor  were  against  the  reversal ;  and  so,  according 
to  the  rule  presumitur  pro  negante,  the  judgment  of  the  Queen's  Bench  in 
Ireland  was  affirmed,  and  the  prisoner  acquitted ;  thus  deciding  that  to 


438  THE  MARRIAGE  LAW  OF  THE  THREE  KINGDOMS. 

validate  a  marriage  in  Ireland  the  ceremony  must  be  in  presence  of  a 
priest  in  holy  orders.  To  justify  this  decision  there  was  cited  a  decretal 
of  Edmund,  promulgated  in  940,  directing  that  "  at  the  nuptials  there 
shall  be  a  mass  priest  by  law  who  shall  with  God's  blessing  bind  the 
union  to  all  posterity."  But  it  was  rather  pointedly  asked,  If  this  be 
law,  why  are  not  all  the  Saxon  enactments  law  ?  why  was  the  law  of 
King  Ina  not  part  of  the  Statute  Book,  which  imposed  the  penalty  of  for- 
feiture of  goods  on  a  man  who  had  not  his  child  baptized  ;  or  the  law  of 
King  Alfred,  which  inflicted  a  graduated  scale  of  fines  for  criminal  conver- 
sation, according  to  the  rank  of  the  parties  ?  In  truth,  it  would  appear 
that  the  enactment  of  Edmund  simply  recommended  a  more  formal  cere- 
mony, but  it  did  not  annul  a  marriage  contracted  without  sacerdotal 
benediction.  This  case,  which  is  known  as  The  Queen  v.  Mttlis,  has 
been  more  or  less  questioned,  and  it  is  generally  assumed  that  though  it 
is  a  binding  authority  of  the  highest  appellate  tribunal,  yet  if  the  question 
involved  in  it  were  reopened,  the  decision  would  be  different.  The  effect 
of  it  was  somewhat  alarming,  for  the  legitimacy  of  many  Presbyterian 
families  in  the  North  of  Ireland  was  assailed  by  it ;  and  so  in  the  same 
session  of  Parliament  in  which  it  was  decided,  the  Act  of  7  &  8  of  the 
Queen  was  passed,  validating  previous  marriages  that  had  been  solemnized 
by  Presbyterian  ministers  between  members  of  different  communions,  and 
providing  in  future  for  the  registration  of  all  marriages  depending  on 
the  civil  contract  as  well  as  the  religious.  In  fact  it  is  an  analogous 
statute  with  those  applicable  to  England  dealing  with  Nonconformists  and 
persons  who  object  to  a  religious  ceremony.  It  came  into  operation 
on  the  81st  March,  1845,  and  was  amended  by  9  &  10  of  the  Queen, 
cap.  72,  and  by  12  &  13  of  the  Queen,  cap.  99,  but  not  altered  in  any 
essential.  Now,  therefore,  in  Ireland  all  the  rules  prescribed  by  the  rubric 
concerning  the  solemnizing  of  marriages  continue  to  be  observed  by  every 
person  in  holy  orders  of  the  United  Church  of  England  and  Ireland,  but 
the  giving  of  notice  to  the  marriage  registrar  of  the  district,  and  the  issuing 
of  his  certificate,  may  be  used  instead  of  the  publication  of  banns ;  and 
Presbyterian  marriages  may  be  solemnized  in  Presbyterian  churches 
according  to  the  form  used  therein.  But  the  Act  does  not  affect  Roman 
Catholics,  whose  rights  are  not  interfered  with  if  the  marriages  celebrated 
by  them  were  legal  previously  to  the  Act  passing;  nor  does  it  alter 
the  contract  of  marriage  as  solemnized  by  Quakers  and  Jews,  for  such 
marriage  performed  according  to  their  usage  is  good  in  law,  if  both  parties 
be  Quakers  or  profess  the  Jewish  religion.  These  persons,  however,  must 
give  notice  to  the  registrar  and  obtain  his  certificate  before  the  ceremony. 
Scotland  then  remains  as  before,  the  marriage  being  unaffected  by  any 
statute,  the  law  only  requiring  the  consent  of  the  parties  to  take  each 
other  as  husband  and  wife ;  but  this  consent  is  required  to  be  proved  by 
a  witness  present  when  it  was  given,  or  by  a  writing  signed  by  the 
parties.  But  of  it  may  be  said  what  was  observed  by  Serjeant  Maynard 
in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  "  that  the  law  lies  very  loose  as  to 


THE  MARRIAGE  LAW  OF  THE  THREE  KINGDOMS.     489 

things  that  are  naturally  essential  to  marriages,  as  to  pre-contracts  and 
dissolving  marriages." 

It  would  be  interesting  to  detail  some  of  the  cases  as  reported  in  law 
books  in  reference  to  the  marriage  law,  but  those  who  are  desirous  of 
mastering  the  subject  cannot  do  better  than  peruse  the  reports  we  have  before 
re  ferred  to,  and  especially  an  able  resume  of  the  whole  matter  by  Mr.  Justice 
AVillesin  the  case  of  Beamish  v.  Beamish,  in  the  House  of  Lords'  Reports. 
Taat  was  the  case  of  a  clergyman  in  holy  orders  going  to  the  house  of  a 
person  named  Lewis  in  the  city  of  Cork,  and  there  performing  a  ceremony 
oi  marriage  between  himself  and  one  Isabella  Fitzgerald,  by  reading  between 
them  in  the  house  the  form  of  solemnization  of  matrimony  in  the  Book  of 
Common  Prayer,  and  by  declaring  that  he  Samuel  S.  Beamish  took  Isabella 
Fitzgerald  as  his  wedded  wife,  and  Isabella  Fitzgerald  declaring  she  took 
him  for  her  wedded  husband,  and  by  placing  a  ring  on  her  finger  and  pro- 
ne aincing  the  blessing  in  the  appointed  form.  No  person  was  present  at 
the  ceremony,  but  its  performance  was  seen  by  a  female — who,  however, 
did  not  hear  what  passed  between  them.  The  validity  of  this  marriage 
\v;is  raised  in  an  ejectment  proceeding  on  a  question  of  legitimacy ; 
the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench  in  Ireland  held  it  was  a  valid,  though 
ar  irregular  marriage,  but  the  House  of  Lords  decided  that  it  was  null  and 
vcid.  This  decision  flowed  from  The  Queen  v.  Millis — for  that  case 
deciding  that  to  constitute  a  valid  marriage  by  the  common  law  it  must 
have  been  celebrated  in  the  presence  of  a  clergyman  in  holy  orders,  the 
fa<;t  that  the  bridegroom  was  himself  a  clergyman  in  holy  orders,  there 
being  no  other  clergyman  present,  would  not  make  it  a  valid  marriage. 
Mr.  Beamish  might  have  somewhere  met  in  his  reading  with  this  passage 
from  a  document  of  the  10th  century,  to  be  found  in  Ancient  Laws,  p.  335, 
chap,  ii.,  and.it  might  have  been  well  if  he  had  pondered  it :  "A  priest's 
wife  is  nothing  but  a  snare  of  the  Devil,  and  he  who  is  ensnared  thereby 
or  to  his  end,  he  will  be  seized  fast  by  the  Devil,  and  he  also  must 
pass  afterwards  into  the  hands  of  fiends  and  totally  perish." 


440 


little  gcir 


)0.oir, 


niHERE  is  something  sad  in  most 
-*-  pretty  stories,  in  most  lovely 
strains,  in  the  tenderest  affections 
and  friendships  ;  but  tragedy  is 
a  different  thing  from  the  inde- 
finable feeling  which  lifts  us  be- 
yond to-day  into  that  dear  and 
happy  region  where  our  dearest 
loves,  and  plays,  and  dreams,  are 
to  be  found  even  in  childish 
times.  Poor  little  Red  Riding 
Hood,  with  bright  eyes  glancing 
from  her  scarlet  caplet,  has  been 
mourned  by  generations  of  chil- 
dren ;  but  though  they  pity  her, 
and  lament  her  sad  fate,  she  is 
no  familiar  playmate  and  com- 
panion. That  terrible  wolf  with 
the  fiery  eyes,  glaring  through 
the  brushwood,  haunts  them  from 
the  very  beginning  of  the  story ; — it  is  too  sad,  too  horrible,  and  they 
hastily  turn  the  leaves  and  fly  to  other  and  better  loved  companions,  with 
whose  troubles  they  sympathize,  for  they  are  but  passing  woes,  and  they 
know  that  brighter  times  are  in  store.  For  the  poor  little  maiden  at  the 
well,  for  dear  Cinderella,  for  Roe-brother  and  little  sister,  wandering 
through  the  glades  of  the  forest,  and  Snowwhite  and  her  sylvan  court  of 
kindly  woodland  dwarfs.  All  these  belong  to  the  sweet  and  gentle  region 
where  beautiful  calm  suns  shine  after  the  storm,  amid  fair  landscapes, 
and  gardens,  and  palaces.  Even  we  elders  sympathize  with  the  chil- 
dren in  this  feeling,  although  we  are  more  or  less  hardened  by  time,  and 
have  ourselves  wandering  in  the  midway  of  life  met  with  wolves  roving 
through  the  forest ;  wolves  from  whose  cruel  claws,  alas  !  no  father's  or 
mother's  love  can  protect  us,  and  against  whose  wiles  all  warnings  except 
those  of  our  own  experience  are  vain.  And  these  wolves  devour  little  boys 
as  well  as  little  girls  and  pats  of  butter. 

This  is  no  place  to  write  of  some  stories,  so  sad  and  so  hopeless  that 
they  can  scarcely  be  spoken ;  although  good  old  Perrault,  in  his  simple 
way,  to  some  poor  Red  Riding  Hoods  strayirjg  from  the  path,  utters  a 


LITTLE   RED  BIDING  HOOD.  441 

vord  of  warning  rhyme  at  the  end  of  the  old  French  edition : — Some 
stories  are  too  sad,  others  too  trifling.  The  sketch  which  I  have  in  my 
riind  is  no  terrible  tragedy,  but  a  silly  little  tale,  so  foolish  and  trivial 
t-iat  if  it  were  not  that  it  comes  in  its  place  with  the  others,  I  should 
scarcely  attempt  to  repeat  it.  I  met  all  the  personages  by  chance  at 
Tontainebleau  only  the  other  day. 

The  wrolf  was  playing  the  fiddle  under  Little  Red  Biding  Hood's  window. 
Little  Red  Riding  Hood  was  peeping  from  behind  her  cotton  curtains. 
Remy  (that  was  the  wolf's  Christian  name)  could  see  the  little  balls 
bobbing,  and  guessed  that  she  was  there.  He  played  on  louder  than  ever, 
("ragging  his  bow  with  long  sobbing  chords  across  his  fiddle-strings,  and  as 
ho  played  a  fairy  palace  arose  at  his  bidding,  more  beautiful  than  the  real 
c  Id  palace  across  the  Place  that  we  had  come  to  see.  The  fairy  palace 
arose  story  upon  story,  lovely  to  look  upon,  enchanted;  a  palace  of  art, 
vith  galleries,  and  terraces,  and  belvederes,  and  orange -flowers  scenting  the 
fir,  and  fragrant  blossoms  falling  in  snow- showers,  and  fountains  of  life 
murmuring  and  turning  marble  to  gold  as  they  flowed.  Red  Riding  Hood 
from  behind  her  cotton  curtains,  and  Remy,  her  cousin,  outside  in  the 
courtyard,  were  the  only  two  inhabitants  of  this  wonderful  building.  They 
were  alone  in  it  together,  far  away  in  that  world  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking,  at  a  long  long  distance  from  the  everyday  all  round  about  them, 
though  the  cook  of  the  hotel  was  standing  at  his  kitchen-door,  and  the 
stable-boy  was  grinning  at  Remy's  elbow,  and  H.  and  I,  who  had  arrived 
only  that  evening,  were  sitting  resting  on  the  bench  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
f.mong  the  autumnal  profusion  of  nasturtiums  and  marigolds  with  which  the 
court-yard  was  planted.  H.  and  I  had  come  to  see  the  palace,  and  to  walk 
about  in  the  stately  old  gardens,  and  to  breathe  a  little  quiet  and  silence 
pfter  the  noise  of  the  machines  thundering  all  day  in  the  Great  Exhibition 
of  the  Champ  de  Mars,  the  din  of  the  cannons  firing,  of  the  carnages  and 
multitudes  rolling  along  the  streets. 

The  Maynards,  Red  Riding  Hood's  parents,  were  not  passers-by  like 
ourselves,  they  were  comfortably  installed  at  the  hotel  for  a  month  at  a 
time,  and  came  over  once  a  year  to  see  Mrs.  Maynard's  mother,  an  old 
lady  who  had  lived  at  Fontainebleau  as  long  as  her  two  daughters  could 
remember.  This  old  lady's  name  was  Madame  Capuchon  ;  but  her  first 
husband  had  been  an  Englishman,  like  Mr.  Maynard,  her  son-in-law,  who 
was  also  her  nephew  by  this  first  marriage.  Both  Madame  Capuchon' s 
daughters  were  married, — Marthe,  the  eldest,  to  Henry  Maynard,  an 
English  country  gentleman;  Felicie,  the  youngest,  to  the  Baron  de  la 
Louviere,  who  resided  at  Poictiers  and  who  was  sous-prefet  there. 

It  is  now  nearly  forty  years  since  Madame  Capuchon  first  went  to  live 
ri  Fontainebleau,  in  the  old  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe. 
It  has  long  been  doomed  to  destruction,  with  its  picturesque  high  roof,  its 
narrow  windows  and  balconies,  and  sunny  old  brick  passages  and  staircases, 
with  the  round  ivy  ceil-de-bosuf  windows.  Staircases  were  piled  up  of< 
brick  in  the  time  of  the  Lewises,  broad  and  wide,  and  easy  to  climb,  and 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  94.  22. 


442  LITTLE   RED  BIDING  HOOD. 

not  of  polished  wood,  like  the  slippery  flights  of  to-day.  However,  the  old 
house  is  in  the  way  of  a  row  of  shops  and  a  projected  cafe  and  newspaper- 
office,  so  are  the  ivy-grown  garden-walls,  the  acacia-trees,  the  sun-dial, 
and  the  old  stone  seat.  It  is  a  pity  that  newer  buildings  cannot  sometimes 
be  selected  for  destruction  ;  they  might  be  rebuilt  and  re-destroyed  again 
and  again,  and  people  who  care  for  such  things  might  be  left  in  peace  a 
little  longer  to  hold  the  dear  old  homes  and  traditions  of  their  youth. 

Madame  Capuchon,  however,  is  a  kind  and  despotic  old  lady ;  she  has 
great  influence  and  authority  in  the  town,  and  during  her  life  the  old  house 
is  safe.  It  is  now,  as  I  have  said,  forty  years  since  she  first  came  to  live 
there, — a  young  widow  for  the  second  time,  with  two  little  daughters  and 
a  faithful  old  maid  to  be  her  only  companions  in  her  flight  from  the  world 
where  she  had  known  great  troubles  and  changes.  Madame  Capuchon  and 
her  children  inhabited  the  two  upper  stories  of  the  old  house.  The  rez  de 
chaussee  was  partly  a  porter's  lodge,  partly  a  warehouse,  and  partly  a  little 
apartment  which  the  proprietor  reserved  for  his  use.  He  died  twice  during 
Madame  Capuchon's  tenancy ;  once  he  ventured  to  propose  to  her — but 
this  was  the  former  owner  of  the  place,  not  the  present  proprietor,  an  old 
bachelor  who  preferred  his  Paris  cafe  and  his  boulevard  to  the  stately 
silence  and  basking  life  of  Fontainebleau. 

This  life  suited  Madame  Capuchon,  who  from  sorrow  at  first,  and  then 
from  habit,  continued  the  same  silent  cloistered  existence  for  years — 
years  which  went  by  and  separated  her  quietly  but  completely  from  her  old 
habits  and  friends  and  connections  and  long-past  troubles,  while  the  little 
girls  grew  up  and  the  mother's  beauty  changed,  faded  quietly  away  in  the 
twilight  life  she  was  leading. 

The  proprietor  who  had  ventured  to  propose  to  the  widow,  and  who 
had  been  refused  with  so  much  grace  and  decision  that  his  admiration 
remained  unaltered,  was  no  more  ;  but  shortly  before  his  death  he  had  a 
second  time  accosted  her  with  negotiations  of  marriage,  not  for  himself 
this  time,  but  for  a  nephew  of  his,  the  Baron  de  la  Louviere,  who  had 
seen  the  young  ladies  by  chance,  heard  much  good  of  them  from  his  uncle 
and  their  attached  attendant  Simonne,  and  learnt  that  their  dot.  was  ample 
and  their  connections  respectable.  Marthe,  the  eldest  daughter,  was  the 
least  good-looking  of  the  two,  but  to  most  people's  mind  far  more  charming 
than  Felicie,  the  second.  M.  de  la  Louviere  had  at  first  a  slight  preference 
for  Marthe,  but  learning  through  his  uncle  that  an  alliance  was  contem- 
plated between  her  and  an  English  connection  of  her  mother's,  he  announced 
himself  equally  anxious  to  obtain  the  hand  of  Felicie,  the  younger  sister. 
After  some  hesitation,  much  addition  of  figures,  subtraction,  division,  rule 
of  three  worked  out,  consultations  and  talk  between  Simonne  and  her 
mistress,  and  long  discussions  with  Henry  Maynard  himself,  who  was 
staying  with  a  friend  at  Fontainebleau  at  the  time,  this  favour  was  accorded 
to  the  baron. 

The  young  baroness  went  off  nothing  loth ;  she  was  bored  at  home, 
she  did  not  like  the  habit  of  severity  and  silence  into  which  her  mother  had 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING  HOOD.  4-13 

iallen.  She  was  a  slim,  active,  decided  person,  of  calm  affections,  but 
passionately  fond  of  her  own  way,  as  indeed  was  Madame  Capuchon 
herself,  for  all  her  regrets  for  that  past  in  which  it  must  be  confessed  she 
had  always  done  exactly  as  she  liked,  and  completely  ruled  her  two 
husbands.  For  all  Madame  Capuchon' s  blacks  and  drabs  and  seclusion, 
;md  shut  shutters,  and  confessors,  and  shakes  of  the  head,  she  had  greatly 
cheered  up  by  this  time  :  she  had  discovered  in  her  health  a  delightful  source 
of  interest  and  amusement;  Felicie's  marriage  was  as  good  as  a  play,  as  the 
saying  goes ;  and  then  came  a  catastrophe,  still  more  exciting  than 
Felicie's  brilliant  prospects,  which  occupied  all  the  spare  moments  of  the 
i,wo  years  which  succeeded  the  youngest  girl's  departure  from  home. 

Madame  Capuchon's  nephew,  Henry  Maynard,  was,  as  I  have  said, 
r.taying  at  Fontainebleau  with  a  friend,  who  was  unfortunately  a  very 
good-looking  young  man  of  very  good  family,  who  had  come  to  Fontaine- 
bleau to  be  out  of  harm's  way,  and  to  read  French  for  some  diplomatic 
uppointment.  Maynard  used  to  talk  to  him  about  his  devotion  for  his 
pretty  cousin  Marthe  with  the  soft  trill  in  her  voice  and  the  sweet  quick 
eyes.  Young  Lord  John,  alas,  was  easily  converted  to  this  creed, — ne  also 
1  ook  a  desperate  fancy  to  the  pretty  young  lady  ;  and  Madame  Capuchon, 
n^hose  repeated  losses  had  not  destroyed  a  certain  ambition  which  had 
rlways  been  in  her  nature,  greatly  encouraged  the  young  man.  And  so 
one  day  poor  Maynard  was  told  that  he  must  resign  himself  to  his  hard 
fate.  He  had  never  hoped  much,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  his  cousin, 
f,s  he  called  her,  did  not  care  for  him ;  Marthe  had  always  discouraged 
him,  although  her  mother  would  have  scouted  the  notion  that  one  of  her 
(laughters  should  resist  any  decree  she  might  lay  down,  or  venture  to  think 
for  herself  on  such  matters. 

When  Lord  John  proposed  in  the  English  fashion  to  Marthe  one 
(vening  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  the  drawing-room  window,  Madame 
(Japuchon  was  enchanted,  although  disapproving  of  the  irregularity  of  the 
proceeding.  She  announced  her  intention  of  settling  upon  her  eldest 
(laughter  a  sum  so  large  and  so  much  out  of  the  proportion  to  the  dot 
which  she  had  accorded  to  Madame  de  la  Louviere,  that  the  baron  hearing 
(f  it  by  chance  through  Monsieur  Micotton,  the  family  solicitor,  was 
furious,  and  an  angry  correspondence  then  commenced  between  him  and 
Ids  mother-in-law,  which  lasted  many  years,  and  in  which  Madame 
(Capuchon  found  another  fresh  interest  to  attach  her  to  life  and  an 
i  nfailing  vent  for  much  'of  her  spare  energy  and  excitement. 

Henry  Maynard  went  back  to  his  father's  house  at  Littleton  on 
Thames,  to  console  himself  as  best  he  could  among  the  punts  and  the 
vater-lilies.  Lord  John  went  back  to  England  to  pass  his  examination, 
i  nd  to  gain  his  family's  consent,  without  which  he  said  he  could  not 
i  larry ;  and  Marthe  waited  in  the  old  house  with  Simonne  and  her  mother, 
{ nd  that  w,as  the  end  of  her  story. 

Lorcl  John  didn't  pass  his  examination,  but  interest"  was  made  for  him, 
i.-nd  he  was  given  another  chance,  and  he  got  the  diplomatic  appointment 

22—2 


444  LITTLE  BED  HIDING  HOOD. 

all  the  same,  and  he  went  to  Kussia  and  was  heard  of  no  more  at 
Fontainebleau.  Madame  Capuchon  was  naturally  surprised  at  his  silence. 
While  Marthe  wondered  and  wearied,  but  spoke  no  word  of  the  pain  which 
consumed  her.  Her  mother  sat  down  and  wrote  to  the  duke,  presented 
her  compliments,  begged  to  remind  him  of  his  son's  engagement,  and 
requested  information  of  the  young  man's  whereabouts  and  intentions. 
In  the  course  of  a  week  she  received  a  few  polite  lines  from  the  duchess, 
regretting  that  she  could  give  Madame  Capuchon  no  information  as  to 
Lord  John's  whereabouts  or  intentions,  informing  her  that  she  had  made 
some  mistake  as  to  his  engagement,  and  begging  to  decline  any  further 
correspondence  on  the  subject,  on  paper  so  thick  that  Simonne  had  to  pay 
double  postage  for  the  epistle,  and  it  would  scarcely  burn  when  Madame 
Capuchon  flung  it  into  the  fire.  The  widow  stamped  her  little  foot, 
flashed  her  eyes,  bit  her  lips,  darted  off  her  compliments  to  the  duchess  a 
second  time,  and  begged  to  inform  her  that  her  son  was  a  coward  and  a 
false  gentleman,  and  that  it  was  the  Capuchon  family  that  now  begged  to 
decline  any  further  communication  with  people  who  held  their  word  so 
cheaply.  Naturally  enough,  no  answer  came  to  this,  although  Madame 
Capuchon  expected  one,  and  fumed  and  flashed  and  scolded  for  weeks 
after,  during  which  poor  Marthe  still  wondered  and  knew  nothing. 

"  Don't  let  us  tell  her  anything  about  it,"  Simonne  had  said  when  the 
first  letter  came.  "  Let  her  forget  '  tout  doucement,'  "  and  Madame 
Capuchon  agreed. 

And  so  Marthe  waited  and  forgot  tout  doucement,  as  Simonne  proposed, 
for  fifteen  years,  and  the  swans  came  sailing  past  her  when  she  took  her 
daily  walk,  and  the  leaves  fell  and  grew  again,  and  every  night  the  shadow 
of  the  old  lamp  swinging  in  the  street  outside  cast  its  quaint  lines  and 
glimmer  across  her  dark  leaf-shaded  room,  and  the  trees  rustled  when  the 
wind  blew,  and  her  dreams  were  stranger  and  less  vivid. 

Once  Henry  Maynard  wrote  soon  after  Lord  John's  desertion,  renew- 
ing his  proposals,  to  Marthe  herself  and  not  to  his  aunt ;  but  the  letter 
came  too  soon.  And,  indeed,  it  was  by  Henry  Maynard' s  letter  that 
Marthe  first  realized  for  certain  what  had  happened. 

But  it  came  too  soon.  She  could  not  yet  bear  to  hear  her  faithless 
lover  blamed.  Lord  John  was  a  villain  and  unworthy  of  a  regret,  Henry 
said.  Would  she  not  consent  to  accept  an  honest  man  instead  of  a 
false  one  ? 

"  No,  no,  no,  a  hundred  times  no,"  cried  Marthe  to  herself,  with 
something  of  her  mother's  spirit,  and  she  nervously  wrote  her  answer  and 
slid  out  by  herself  and  posted  it.  She  never  dared  tell  Madame  Capuchon 
what  she  had  done. 

As  time  went  on,  one  or  two  other  "  offers  "  were  made  to  her ;  but 
Marthe  was  so  reluctant  that  as  they  were  not  very  good  ones  Madame 
Capuchon  let  them  go  by,  and  then  Marthe  had  a  long  illness,  and  then 
more  time  passed  by. 

"  What  have  we  been  about?  "  said  Madame  Capuchon  to  her  con- 


LITTLE  BED  BIDING  HOOD.  445 

iidante  one  day  as  her  daughter  left  the  room.  "  Hero  she  is  an  old  maid, 
,'ind  it  is  all  her  own  obstinacy." 

At  thirty-three  Marthe  was  still  unmarried  :  a  gracious,  faded  woman, 
v/ho  had  caught  the  trick  of  being  sad ;  although  she  had  no  real  trouble, 
und  had  almost  forgotten  Lord  John.  But  she  had  caught  the  trick  of 
being  sad,  as  I  say,  of  flitting  aimlessly  across  the  rooms,  of  remember- 
ing and  remembering  instead  of  living  for  to-day. 

Madame  Capuchon  was  quite  cheerful  by  this  time ;  besides  her 
health,  her  angry  correspondence,  her  confessor,  her  game  of  dominoes, 
and  her  talks  with  Simonne,  she  had  many  little  interests  to  fill  up  spare 
^aps  and  distract  her  when  M.  de  la  Louviere's  demands  were  too  much 
j'or  her  temper.  There  was  her  comfortable  hot  and  well-served  little 
dinner  to  look  forward  to,  her  paper  to  read  of  a  night,  her  chocolate  in 
bed  every  morning,  on  a  nice  little  tray  with  a  pat  of  fresh  butter  and  her 
nice  little  new  roll  from  the  English  baker's.  Madame  was  friande,  and 
Simonne's  delight  was  to  cater  for  her.  But  none  of  these  distractions 
<{uite  sufficed  to  give  an  interest  to  poor  Marthe's  sad  life.  She  was 
1  oo  old  for  the  fun  and  excitement  of  youth,  and  too  young  for  the  little 
I'omforts,  the  resignations  and  satisfactions  of  age.  Simonne,  the  good 
old  fat  woman,  used  to  think  of  her  as  a  little  girl,  and  try  to  devise  new 
ireats  for  her  as  she  had  done  when  Felicie  and  Marthe  were  children. 
Marthe  would  kiss  her  old  nurse  gratefully,  and  think,  with  a  regretful 
righ,  how  it  was  that  she  could  no  longer  be  made  happy  by  a  bunch  of 
llowers,  a  hot  buttered  cake,  a  new  trimming  to  her  apron  :  she  would 
#ive  the  little  cake  away  to  the  porter's  grandchildren,  put  the  flowers  into 
water  and  leave  them,  fold  up  the  apron,  and,  to  Simonne,  most  terrible 
mgn  of  all,  forget  it  in  the  drawer.  It  was  not  natural,  something  must  be 
done,  thought  the  old  woman. 

The  old  woman  thought  and  thought,  and  poked  about,  and  one  day, 
with  her  spectacles  on  her  nose,  deciphered  a  letter  which  was  lying  on 
Madame  Capuchon' s  table  ;  it  was  signed  Henry  Maynard,  and  announced 
the  writer's  arrival  at  Paris.  Next  day,  when  Simonne  was  frizzling  her 
mistress's  white  curls  (they  had  come  out  of  their  seclusion  for  some  years 
past),  she  suddenly  asked  what  had  become  of  Monsieur  Maynard, 
Madame' s  English  nephew,  who  used  to  come  so  often  before  Made- 
moiselle Felicie  was  married. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  He  is  at  Paris.  I 
heard  from  him  yesterday." 

"  And  why  don't  you  ask  him  to  come  down  and  see  you?"  said 
{••Jimonne,  frizzling  away  at  the  crisp  silver  locks.  "It  would  cheer  up 
Mademoiselle  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to.  We  don't  want  any  one  ;  we 
have  had  our  day,  you  and  I,  but  Mademoiselle,  I  confess  I  don't  like  to 
r.ee  her  going  on  as  she  does." 

"  Nor  I !  "  said  the  old  lady,  sharply.  "  She  is  no  credit  to  me.  One 
".vould  almost  think  that  she  reproaches  me  for  her  existence,  after  all  the 
sacrifices  I  have  made." 


416  LITTLE  RED  BIDING  HOOD. 

Sinionne  went  on  frizzling  without  stopping  to  inquire  what  these 
sacrifices  might  be.  "I  will  order  a  fricandeau  for  to-morrow,"  she 
said  ;  "  Madame  had  better  invite  Monsieur  to  spend  the  day." 

"  Simonne,  you  are  an  old  fool,"  said  her  mistress.  "  I  have  already 
written  to  my  nephew  to  invite  him  to  my  house." 

Maynard  came  and  partook  of  the  fricandeau,  and  went  for  a  little 
walk  with  Marthe,  and  he  had  a  long  talk  with  his  aunt  and  old  Simonne 
in  the  evening,  and  went  away  quite  late — past  ten  o'clock  it  was. 
Maynard  did  not  go  back  to  Paris  that  night,  but  slept  at  the  hotel,  and 
early  next  morning  there  came  a  note  addressed  to  Marthe,  in  which  the 
writer  stated  that  he  was  still  of  the  same  mind  in  which  he  had  been 
fifteen  years  before,  and  if  she  was  of  a  different  way  of  thinking,  would 
she  consent  to  accept  him  as  her  husband  ? 

And  so  it  came  about  that  long  after  the  first  best  hopes  of  her  youth 
were  over,  Marthe  consented  to  leave  her  own  silent  home  for  her 
husband's,  a  melancholy  middle-aged  bride,  sad  and  frightened  at  the 
thought  of  tjie  tempestuous  world  into  which  she  was  being  cast  adrift, 
and  less  able,  at  thirty-three  than  at  twenty,  to  hold  her  own  against 
the  kindly  domineering  old  mother,  who  was  much  taken  with  the  idea 
of  this  marriage,  and  vowed  that  Marthe  should  go,  and  that  no  daughter 
of  hers  should  die  an  old  maid  if  she  could  help  it.  She  had  been 
married  twice  herself;  once  at  least,  if  possible,  she  was  determined 
that  both  her  daughters  should  follow  her  example.  Felicie's  choice  was 
not  all  that  Madame  Capuchon  could  have  wished  as  far  as  liberality 
and  amiability  of  character  were  concerned,  but  Felicie  herself  was  happy, 
and  indeed,  so  Madame  Capuchon  had  much  reason  to  suspect — abetted 
her  husband  in  his  grasping  and  extortionate  demands.  "And  now 
Marthe's  turn  had  come,"  said  Madame  Capuchon,  complacently,  sitting 
up  among  her  pillows,  sipping  her  chocolate ;  "  she  was  the  eldest,  she 
should  have  married  first ;  she  had  been  a  good  and  devoted  daughter,  she 
would  make  an  excellent  wife,"  cried  the  valiant  old  lady. 

When  Marthe  demurred,  "  Go,  my  child,  go  in  peace,  only  go,  go,  go. 
Simonne  is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  me  :  do  you  think  I  want  the  sacrifice 
of  your  life  ?  For  what  should  I  keep  you  ?  Can  you  curl  me,  can  you 
play  at  dominoes  ?  You  are  much  more  necessary  to  your  cousin  than 
you  are  to  me.  He  will  be  here  directly — what  a  figure  you  have  made  of 
yourself.  Simonne,  come  here,  give  a  coup  de  peigne  to  Mademoiselle. 
There,  I  hear  the  bell,  Henry  will  be  waiting." 

"  He  does  not  mind  waiting,  mamma,"  said  Marthe,  smiling  sadly. 
"  He  has  waited  fifteen  years  already." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you  both,"  cried  the  old  lady,  angrily.  "  If 
I  had  only  had  my  health,  if  my  spirits  had  not  been  completely  crushed 
in  those  days,  I  never  would  have  given  in  to  such  ridiculous  ideas." 

Ridiculous  ideas  !  This  was  all  the  epitaph  that  was  uttered  by  any 
one  of  them  over  the  grave  where  poor  Marthe  had  buried  with  much 
pain  and  many  tears  the  trouble  of  her  early  life.  She  herself  had  no 


LITTLE  BED  BIDING  HOOD.  447 

o.her  text  for  the  wasted  love  of  her  youth.  How  angry  she  had  been 
^  ith  her  cousin  Henry  when  he  warned  her  once,  how  she  had  hated  him 
when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him  before,  tacitly  forcing  upon  her  the  fact 
o ?  his  friend's  infidelity,  and  now  it  was  to  Maynard  after  all  that  she  was 
g  )ing  to  be  married.  After  all  that  had  passed,  all  the  varying  fates,  and 
k  ves,  and  hopes,  and  expectations  of  her  life.  A  sudden  alarm  came  over 
the.  poor  woman — was  she  to  leave  it,  this  still  life,  and  the  old  house,  and 
the  tranquil  shade  and  silence — and  for  what  ?  Ah,  she  could  not  go,  she 
could  not — she  would  stay  where  she  was.  Ah  !  why  would  they  not  leave 
h  3r  alone  ? 

Marthe  went  up  to  her  room  and  cried,  and  bathed  her  eyes  and  cried 
aj-ain,  and  dabbed  more  water  to  dry  her  tears ;  then  she  came  quietly 
down  the  old  brick  stairs.  She  passed  along  the  tiled  gallery,  her  slim 
figure  reflecting  in  the  dim  old  looking-glass  in  the  alcove  at  the  end, 
with  the  cupids  engraved  upon  its  mouldy  surface.  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  took  courage  and  opened  the  dining-room  door.  There 
wis  nobody  there.  It  was  all  empty,  dim-panelled,  orderly,  with  its 
narrow  tall  windows  reflecting  the  green  without,  and  the  gables  and 
chimney- stacks  piling  under  the  blue.  He  was  in  the  drawing-room  then ; 
si  .e  had  hoped  to  find  him  here.  Marthe  sighed  and  then  walked  on  across 
tte  polished  floor,  and  so  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  dimmer,  more  chill 
than  the  room  in  which  their  meals  were  served.  Some  one  was  standing 
w  iiting  for  her  in  one  of  the  windows.  Marthe  remembered  at  that  instant 
that  it  was  Lord  John's  window,  but  she  had  little  time  for  such  remi- 
niscences. A  burly  figure  turned  at  her  entrance,  and  Henry  Maynard 
came  to  meet  her,  with  one  big  hand  out,  and  his  broad  good-natured  face 
beaming. 

"  Well,  Minnie,"  said  Henry  Maynard,  calling  her  by  his  old  name  for 
her,  "  you  see  I  am  here  again  already." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  standing  before  him,  and  then  they  were  both 
silent ;  these  two  midde-aged  people  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak. 

"  How  is  your  mother  ?  "  Maynard  asked.  "  I  thought  her  very  little 
changed,  but  you  are  not  looking  over  well.  However,  time  touches  us  all.'1 

Marthe  drew  herself  up,  with  her  eyes  gleaming  in  her  pale  face,  and 
thm  there  was  another  silence.  At  last  Martha  faltered  out,  gaining 
co  irage  as  she  went  on,  , 

"I  have  been  agitated,  and  a  little  disturbed.  My  mother  is  quite 
well,  cousin  Henry,"  she  said,  and  as  she  spoke  her  sad  looks  encountered 
Maynard' s  good-natured  twinkling  glance.  She  blushed  suddenly  like  a 
giil  of  fifteen.  "  You  seem  amused,"  she  said,  with  some  annoyance. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  spoke  Maynard,  in  his  kind  manly  tones.  "  I  am 
an  used  that  you  and  I,  at  our  time  of  life,  should  be  -shilly-shallying  and 
sei  itimentalising,  like  a  couple  of  chits  who  have  all  their  life  before  them, 
an  I  don't  care  whether  they  know  or  not  what  is  coming  next.  I  want  to 
kn  )w  very  much — for  I  have  little  time  to  lose — what  do  you  and  your 
me  ther  think  of  my  letter  this  morning  ?  " 


448  LITTLE   BED   RIDING   HOOD. 

This  was  coming  to  the  point  very  abruptly,  Mademoiselle  Capuchon 
thought. 

"I  am  so  taken  by  surprise,"  Marthe  faltered,  retreating  a  step  or  two, 
and  nervously  twisting  her  apron  round  about  her  fingers.  "  She  wishes 
it.  I — I  hardly  know.  I  have  had  so  little  time  to  .  ..." 

"  My  dear  Marthe,"  said  Maynard,  impatiently,  "I  am  not  a  romantic 
young  man.  I  can  make  no  professions  and  speeches.  You  must  take 
me  as  I  am,  if  I  suit  you.  I  won't  say  that  after  you  sent  me  away  I  have 
never  thought  of  anybody  but  you  during  these  past  fifteen  years.  But  we 
might  have  been  very  happy  together  all  this  long  time,  and  yesterday 
when  I  saw  how  hipped  you  were  looking,  I  determined  to  try  and  bring 
you  away  with  me  from  this  dismal  place  into  the  fresh  air  of  Littleton, 
that  is,  if  you  liked  to  come  with  me  of  your  own  free  will,  and  not  only 
because  my  aunt  desires  it."  And  Henry  Maynard  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

This  honest  little  speech  was  like  a  revelation  to  Marthe.  She  had 
come  down  feeling  like  a  victim,  meaning  graciously  perhaps,  in  the  end, 
to  reward  Maynard' s  constancy,  taking  it  for  granted  that  all  this  time  he 
had  never  ceased  being  in  love.  She  found  that  it  was  from  old  friendship 
and  kindness  alone  that  he  had  come  to  her  again,  not  from,  sentiment,  and 
yet  this  kindness  and  protection  touched  her  more  than  any  protestations 
of  romantic  affection. 

"  But — but — should  you  really  like  it  ?  "  she  stammered,  forgetting  all 
her  dreams,  and  coming  to  life,  as  it  were,  at  that  instant. 

"  Like  it,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "  You  don't  know  how  fond  I  mean 
to  be  of  you,  if  you  will  come  with  me,  dear  Marthe.  You  shall  make  me 
as  happy  as  you  like,  and  yourself  into  the  bargain.  I  don't  think  you  will 
be  sorry  for  it,  and  indeed  you  don't  seem  to  have  been  doing  much  good 
here,  all  by  yourself.  Well,  is  it  to  be  yes  or  no?"  And  once  more 
Maynard  held  out  the  broad  brown  hand. 

And  Marthe  said  "  Yes,"  quite  cheerfully,  and  put  her  hand  into  his. 
Marthe  got  to  know  her  future  husband  better  in  these  five  minutes 
than  in  all  the  thirty  years  which  had  gone  before. 

The  Maynards  are  an  old  Catholic  family,  so  there  were  no  difficulties 
on  the  score  of  religion.  The  little  chapel  in  the  big  church  was  lighted 
up,  the  confessor  performed  the  service.  Madame  Capuchon  did  not 
go,  but  Simonne  was  there,  in  robes  of  splendour,  and  so  were  the  De  la 
Louvieres.  The  baron  and  his  mother-in-law  had  agreed  to  a  temporary 
truce  on  this  auspicious  occasion.  After  the  ceremony  the  new  married 
pair  went  back  to  a  refection  which  the  English  baker  and  Simonne  had 
concocted  between  them.  The  baron  and  baroness  had  brought  their  little 
son  Reiny,  to  whom  they  were  devoted,  and  he  presented  Marthe  with  a 
wedding  present — a  large  porcelain  vase,  upon  which  was  a  painting  of 
his  mother's  performance — in  both  his  parents'  name.  Madame  Capuchon 
brought  out  a  lovely  pearl  and  emerald  necklace,  which  Felicie  had  coveted 
for  vears  past. 


LITTLE   RED  RIDING-  HOOD.  449 

"  I  must  get  it  done  up,"  the  old  lady  said ;  "  you  won't  want  it  imme- 
diately, Marthe,  you  shall  have  it  the  first  time  you  come  to  see  me." 
"  Do  not  delay  too  long,"  added  Madame  Capuchon,  with  a  confidential 
shake  of  her  head,  to  her  son-in-law  Maynard,  as  Marthe  went  away  to 
change  her  dress.  "  You  see  my  health  is  miserable.  I  am  a  perfect 
martyr.  My  doctor  tells  me  my  case  is  serious ;  not  in  so  many  words, 
but  he  assures  me  that  he  cannot  find  out  what  ails  me,  and  when  doctors 
say  that  we  all  know  what  it  means." 

Henry  Maynard  attempted  to  reassure  Madame  Capuchon,  and  to 
induce  her  to  take  a  more  hopeful  view  of  her  state ;  but  she  grew  quite 
angry,  and  snapped  him  up  so  short  with  her  immediate  prospect  of 
dissolution,  that  he  desisted  in  his  well-meant  endeavours,  and  the  old 
lady  continued  more  complacently, — 

"Do  not  be  uneasy;  if  anything  happens  to  me  Simonne  will  write 
directly  to  your  address.  Do  not  forget  to  leave  it  with  her.  And  now  go 
and  fetch  your  wife,  and  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  in  her 
travelling  dress." 

It  was  a  kind  old  lady,  but  there  was  a  want  in  her  love  ;  so  it  seemed 
to  her  son-in-law  as  he  obeyed  her  behest. 

Marthe  had  never  quite  known  what  real  love  was,  he  thought.  Senti- 
ment, yes,  and  too  much  of  it,  but  not  that  best  home-love — familiar, 
tender,  unchanging.  Her  mother  had  not  got  it  in  her  to  give.  Felicie" 
de  la  Louviere  was  a  hard  and  clear-headed  woman  ;  all  her  affection  was 
for  Remy,  her  little  boy.  Maynard  disliked  her  and  the  baron  too, 
but  they  were  all  apparently  very  good  friends. 

Marthe  came  back  to  the  salle  to  say  good-by,  looking  like  herself 
again  Maynard  thought,  as  his  bride,  in  her  rippling  trailing  grey  silks, 
entered  the  room,  with  Simonne's  big  bouquet  of  roses  in  her  hand,  and  a 
pretty  pink  glow  in  her  cheeks. 

She  was  duly  embraced  by  Felicie  and  her  husband,  and  then  she 
jmelt  down  to  ask  for  her  mother's  blessing.  "  Bless  you!  bless  you  !" 
cried  Madame  Capuchon,  affectionately  pushing  her  away.  "  There,  you 
••vill  disarrange  yourself;  take  care,  take  care."  Simonne  sprang  to  the 
rescue,  and  Marthe  found  herself  all  at  once  embraced,  stuck  with  pins, 
nhaken  out,  tucked  in,  flattened,  folded,  embraced  again  ;  the  handkerchief 
with  which  she  had  ventured  to  wipe  her  tears  was  torn  out  of  her  hand, 
•bided,  smoothed,  and  replaced.  "  Voila !  "  said  Simonne,  with  two  last  loud 
kisses,  "  bon  voyage;  good  luck  go  with  you."  And  Maynard  following 
liter,  somewhat  to  his  confusion,  received  a  couple  of  like  salutations. 


ir. 

benediction  followed  Mrs.  Maynard  to  England,  where  she 
vent  and  took  possession  of  her  new  home.  The  neighbours  called; 
t  ae  drafting-room  chintzes  were  renewed ;  Marthe  Capuchon  existed  on 
longer;  no  one  would  have  recognized  the  listless  ghost  •  flitting  here 

22—5 


450  LITTLE   BED  BIDING  HOOD. 

and  tL  ere,  and  gazing  from  the  windows  of  the  old  house  in  the  Rue 
de  la  Lampe,  in  the  busy  and  practical  mistress  of  Henry  Maynard' s 
home.  She  had  gained  in  composure  and  spirits  and  happiness  since  she 
came  to  England.  Her  house  was  admirably  administered  ;  she  wore  hand- 
some shining  silk  dresses  and  old  lace  ;  and  she  rustled  and  commanded  as 
efficiently  as  if  she  had  been  married  for  years.  Simonne  threw  up  her 
hands  with  delight  at  the  transformation  the  first  time  she  saw  Martha 
after  her  marriage.  "  But  you  are  a  hundred  times  better-looking  than 
Madame  la  Baronne,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  This  is  how  I  like  to  see 
you."  The  chief  new  blessing  and  happiness  of  all  those  blessings  and 
happinesses  which  Simonne  had  wished  to  Martha  Maynard  was  a  blessing 
called  Martha  too.  It  is  considered  a  pretty  name  in  French,  and  Maynard 
loved  it  for  his  wife's  sake,  and  as  time  went  on  for  her  daughter's  as  well. 
He  called  her  Patty,  however,  to  distinguish  the  two.  Far  more  than  the 
happiness  some  people  find  in  the  early  spring,  in  the  voices  of  birds,  the 
delight  of  the  morning  hours,  the  presence  of  this  little  thing  brought  to 
her  mother,  this  bright,  honest  black  and  brown  and  white  and  coral 
maiden,  with  her  sweet  and  wilful  ways  and  gay  shrill  warble.  Every 
year  the  gay  voice  became  more  clear  and  decided,  the  ways  more 
pretty  and  more  wilful.  Mrs.  Maynard  used  to  devise  pretty  fanciful 
dresses  for  her  Patty,  and  to  tie  bright  ribbons  in  the  child's  crisp 
brown  locks,  and  watch  over  her  and  pray  for  her  from  morning  to 
night.  Squire  Maynard,  who  was  a  sensible  man,  used  to  be  afraid  lest 
so  much  affection  should  be  bad  for  his  little  girl :  he  tried  to  be  stern 
now  and  then,  and  certainly  succeeded  in  frightening  Patty  on  such 
occasions.  The  truth  was  he  loved  his  wife  tenderly,  and  thought  that 
Patty  made  a  slave  of  her  mother  at  times.  It  was  a  happy  bondage 
for  them  both.  Marthe  dreamt  no  more  dreams  now,  and  only  entered 
that  serene  country  of  her  youth  by  proxy,  as  it  were,  and  to  make  plans 
for  her  Patty.  The  child  grew  up  as  the  years  went  by,  but  if  Martha 
made  plans  for  her  they  were  very  distant  ones,  and  to  the  mother  as 
impossible  still  as  when  Patty  had  been  a  little  baby  tumbling  in  her 
cradle.  Even  then  Martha  had  settled  that  Patty  was  not  to  wait  for 
years,  as  she  had  waited.  What  hero  there  was  in  the  big  world  worthy 
of  her  darling,  Mrs.  Maynard  did  not  know.  The  mother's  heart  sickened 
the  first  time  she  ever  thought  seriously  of  a  vague  possibility,  of  which 
the  very  notion  filled  her  with  alarm.  She  had  a  presentiment  the  first 
time  that  she  ever  saw  him. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  her  bedroom,  drowsily  stitching  in  the  sunlight 
of  the  pleasant  bow- window,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  clippers  at  work 
upon  the  ivy-hedge  close  by,  and  to  the  distant  chime  from  the  clock-tower 
of  the  town  across  the  river.  Just  below  her  window  spread  the  lawn 
where  her  husband's  beloved  flower-beds  were  flushing — scarlet  and  twink- 
ling violet,  white  and  brilliant  amber.  In  the  field  beyond  the  sloping  lawn 
some  children  were  pulling  at  the  sweet  wild  summer  garlands  hanging  in 
tho  hedges,  and  the  Alderneys  were  crunching  through  the  long  damp 


LITTLE  RED  BIDING  HOOD.  451 

glasses.  Two  pretty  creatures  had  straggled  down-hill  to  the  water-side, 
and  were  looking  at  their  own  brown  eyes  reflected  in  a  chance  clear  pool 
in  the  margin  of  the  river.  For  the  carpet  of  green  and  meadow  verdure 
w.is  falling  over,  and  lapping  and  draggling  in  the  water  in  a  fringe  of 
glistening  leaves  and  insects  and  weeds.  There  were  white  creamy  meadow- 
sweets, great  beds  of  purple  flowers,  bronzed  water  docks  arching  and 
ciisping  their  stately  heads,  weeds  up-springing,  golden,  slimy  water- 
lilies  floating  upon  their  shining  leaves.  A  water  rat  was  starting  out 
of  his  hole,  a  dragon-fly  floating  along  the  bank.  All  this  was  at  the 
foDt  of  the  sloping  mead  down  by  the  bridge.  It  crossed  the  river  to  the 
little  town  of  spires  and  red  brick  gables  which  had  been  built  about  two 
centuries  ago,  and  all  round  about  spread  hills  and  lawns  and  summer  corn- 
fields. Martha  Maynard  had  seen  the  corn-fields  ripen  year  after  year: 
sfce  loved  the  place  for  its  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  were 
very  dear  to  her  then;  but  to-day,  as  she  looked,  she  suddenly  realized; 
poor  soul,  that  a  time  might  come  when  the  keart  and  the  sweetest  life  of 
this  little  home-Eden  might  go  from  it.  And  as  she  looked  through  her 
w  ndow,  something  like  a  chill  came  over  her  :  she  dropped  her  work  into 
he  r  lap,  and  sat  watching  two  figures  climbing  up  the  field  side  by  side ; 
ccming  through  the  buttercups,  disappearing  behind  the  hedge,  reappearing 
at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn,  and  then  one  figure  darted  forwards,  while  the 
otaer  lingered  a  little  among  the  flower-beds  ;  and  Mrs.  Maynard  got 
uj  resolutely,  with  a  pain  and  odd  apprehension  in  her  heart,  and  went 
dc  wn  to  meet  her  daughter.  The  steeples  of  the  little  town  which  strike 
the  hours,  half-hours,  and  the  very  minutes  as  they  pass,  were  striking 
fo  ir  quarters,  and  then  five  again,  as  Mrs.  Maynard  came  out  upon  her 
la  vn,  and  at  each  stroke  the  poor  mother's  heart  sank,  and  she  turned  a 
little  sick  at  the  possibility  which  had  first  occurred  to  her. just  now  in  her 
o^  n  room.  It  seemed  to  thrust  itself  again  upon  her  as  she  stood  waiting 
fo :  the  two  young  people — her  own  Patty  and  the  strange  young  man 
ccroing  through  the  flower-beds. 

There  was  a  certain  likeness  to  herself,  odd,  touching,  bewildering,  in 
tha  utter  stranger,  which  said  more  plainly  than  any  words,  I  belong  to 
you  and  yours  ;  I  am  no  stranger,  though  strange  to  you.  Patty  had  no 
need  to  explain,  all  breathless  and  excited  and  blushing,  "  Mamma, 
d(  you  know  who  this  is  ?  This  is  Remy  de  la  Louviere.  Papa  and  I 
fo  md  him  at  the  hotel,"  for  the  poor  mother  had  already  guessed  that 
this  was  her  sister's  son. 

She  could  not  help  it.  Her  greeting  was  so  stiff,  her  grasp  so  timid 
ar  d  fluttering,  her  words  so  guarded,  that  M.  Remy,  who  was  used  to  be 
cordially  welcomed  and  much  made  of,  was  surprised  and  disappointed, 
tliDugh  he  said  nothing  to  show  it.  His  manner  froze,  his  mustachios 
se  3med  to  curl  more  stiffly.  He  had  expected  to  like  his  aunt  from  her 
le  ters  and  from  what  he  had  seen  of  her  daughter,  and  she  was  just 
tha  same  as  anybody  else  after  all.  In  the  meantime  Remy  was 
in -reducing  himself.  He  had  come  to  make  acquaintance  with  his 


452  LITTLE  BED  BIDING   HOOD. 

English,  relations,  he  told  Mrs.  Mayuard.  His  mother  "  sent  her  love,  and 
would  they  be  kind  to  him?  "  Martha,  for  all  her  presentiments,  could  not 
but  relent  towards  the  handsome  young  fellow ;  she  did  not,  however,  ask 
him  to  stay,  but  this  precaution  was  needless,  for  her  husband  had  done 
so  already.  "  We  heard  him  asking  for  us  at  the  inn,"  explained  Patty. 
"Mamma,  was  not  it  fortunate?  Papa  was  talking  about  the  old  brown 
mare,  and  I  was  just  walking  with  Don  in  the  court-yard,  and  then  I 
heard  my  cousin  saying,  <  Where  is  Sunnymede  ? '  and  I  said,  'Oh,  how 
delightful!  '" 

"  Hush,  darling,"  said  her  mother.  "  Go  and  tell  them  to  bring  us 
some  tea  on  the  lawn." 

There  was  a  shady  corner  not  too  far  from  the  geraniums,  where  the 
table  was  set,  and  Reiny  liked  his  aunt  a  little  better,  as  she  attended  to 
his  wants,  making  a  gentle  clatter  among  the  white  cups,  and  serving  out 
cream  strawberries  with  liberal  hand,  unlike  anything  he  was  used  to  at 
home.  Mi*.  Maynard  came  in,  hot,  grizzled,  and  tired,  and  sank  into  a 
garden-chair ;  his  wife's  face  brightened  as  he  nodded  to  her  ;  the  distant 
river  was  flashing  and  dazzling.  Remy,  with  his  long  nose  and  blight 
eyes,  sat  watching  the  little  home  scene,  and  envying  them  somewhat  the 
harmony  and  plenty.  There  was  love  in  his  home,  it  is  true,  and  food  too, 
but  niggardly  dealt  out  and  only  produced  on  occasions.  If  this  was  English 
life,  Remy  thought  it  was  very  pleasant,  and  as  he  thought  so,  he  saw  the 
bright  and  splendid  little  figure  of  his  cousin  Patty  advancing  radiant  across 
the  lawn.  For  once  Mrs.  Maynard  was  almost  angry  with  her  daughter  for 
looking  so  lovely ;  her  shrill  sweet  voice  clamoured  for  attention ;  her 
bright  head  went  bobbing  over  the  cake  and  the  strawberries ;  her  bright 
cheeks  were  glowing  ;  her  eyes  seemed  to  dance,  shine,  speak,  go  to  sleep, 
and  wake  again  with  a  flash.  Mrs.  Maynard  had  tied  a  bright  ribbon  in 
her  daughter's  hair  that  morning.  She  wore  a  white  dress  like  her  mother, 
but  all  fancifully  and  prettily  cut.  As  he  looked  at  her,  the  young  man 
thought  at  first, — unworthy  simile, — of  coffee  and  cream  and  strawberries, 
in  a  dazzle  of  sunlight ;  then  he  thought  of  a  gipsy,  and  then  of  a  nymph, 
shining,  transfigured:  a  wood-nymph  escaped  from  her  tree  in  the 
forest,  for  a  time  consorting  with  mortals,  and  eating  and  joining  in  their 
sports,  before  she  fled  back  to  the  ivy-grown  trunk,  which  was  her  home, 
perhaps. 

Mrs.  Maynard,  frowning  slightly,  had  asked  for  the  second  time 
whether  lie  had  seen  his  grandmother  lately,  before  Eemy,  with  some 
little  confusion,  came  back  to  his  senses  again.  "  No,  not  veiy  lately ; 
not  for  some  time,"  said  he.  While  Patty  cried  out,  "  I  want  a  nice  large 
piece  of  cake,  mamma ;  this  is  such  a  good  cake.  Have  you  given 
Remy  some?" 

"  Remy  !  "  her  mother  looked  it  rather  than  said  it. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Patty,  nothing  abashed.  "  You  always  called  papa 
Henry,  I  know,  and  he  wasn't  really  your  cousin.  We  want  to  go  out  on 
the  river  in  a  boat  after  dinner,  please,  dearest  mamma ;  and  we  will  get 


LITTLE  RED  BIDING  HOOD.  453 

same  lilies  and  feed  the  swans.     A  little  more  cream,  please  mamma,  and 
some  sugar." 

Kerny  had  not  lived  all  these  years  in  the  narrow  home  school  in 
vhich  he  had  been  bred  without  learning  something  of  the  lesson  which 
v  as  taught  there.  Taught  in  the  whole  manner  and  being  of  the  household, 
of  its  incomings  and  outgoings,  of  its  interests  and  selfish  preoccupa- 
t  ons.  We  are  all  sensible,  coming  from  outside  into  strange  homes,  of 
t  ie  different  spirit  or  lares  penates  pervading  each  household.  As  surely 
as  every  tree  in  the  forest  has  its  sylph,  so  every  house  in  the  city  must 
own  its  domestic  deity, — different  in  aspect  and  character,  but  ruling  with 
irresistible  decision, — orderly  and  decorous,  disorderly ;  patient,  impatient ; 
S3me  stint  and  mean  in  contrivances  and  economies,  others  profuse  and 
neglectful ;  others,  again,  poor,  plain  of  necessity,  but  kindly  and  liberal. 
Borne  spirits  keep  the  doors  of  their  homes  wide  open,  others  ajar,  others 
under  lock  and  key,  bolted,  barred,  with  a  little  cautious  peephole  to 
r3connoitre  from.  As  a  rule,  the  very  wide  open  door  often  invites 
you  to  an  indifferent  entertainment  going  on  within ;  and  people  who  are 
particular  generally  prefer  those  houses  where  the  door  is  left,  let  us  say, 
OQ  the  latch. 

The  household  god  that  Bemy  had  been  brought  up  to  worship  was  a 
mean,  self-seeking,  cautious,  and  economical  spirit.  Madame  de  la  Lou- 
viere's  object  and  ambition  in  life  had  been  to  bring  her  servants  down  to 
the  well-known  straw  a  day ;  to  persuade  her  husband  (no  difficult  matter) 
to  grasp  at  every  chance  and  shadow  of  advantage  along  his  path;  to 
educate  her  son  to  believe  in  the  creed  which  she  professed.  Eemy  must 
n.ake  a  good  marriage ;  must  keep  up  with  desirable  acquaintances ; 
must  not  neglect  his  well-to-do  uncle,  the  La  Louviere  in  Burgundy ; 
n.ust  occasionally  visit  his  grandmother,  Madame  Capuchon,  whose 
savings  ought  to  be  something  considerable  by  this  time.  Madame  de  la 
Louviere  had  no  idea  how  considerable  these  savings  were  until  one  day 
about  a  week  before  Eemy  made  his  appearance  at  Littleton,  when  the 
family  lawyer,  Monsieur  Micotton,  had  come  over  to  see  her  on  business. 
This  grasping  clear-headed  woman  exercised  a  strange  authority  and 
fascination  over  the  stupid  little  attorney, — he  did  her  business  cheaper 
tl  ian  for  any  other  client ;  he  told  her  all  sorts  of  secrets  he  had  no 
right  to  communicate, — and  now  he  let  out  to  her  that  her  mother  had 
b  )en  making  her  will,  and  had  left  everything  that  she  had  laid  by,  in 
trust  for  little  Marthe  Maynard,  her  elder  daughter's  only  child. 

Madame  de  la  Louviere's  face  pinched  and  wrinkled  up  into  a  sort  of 
struggling  knot  of  horror,  severity,  and  indignation. 

"  My  good  Monsieur  Micotton,  what  news  you  give  me !  What  a 
culpable  partiality.  What  an  injustice ;  what  a  horror.  Ah,  that  little 
iiitriguing  English  girl !  Did  you  not  remonstrate  with,  implore,  my 
unfortunate  mother  ?  But  it  must  not  be  allowed.  We  must  interfere." 

"  Madame,"  said  Micotton,  respectfully,  "}^our  mother  is,  as  you  well 
kiow,  a  person  of  singular  decision  and  promptness  of  character.  She 


454  .  LITTLE   RED  RIDING  HOOD. 

explained  to  me  that  when  your  sister  married,  her  husband  (who  appa- 
rently is  rich)  refused  to  accept  more  than  a  portion  of  the  dot  which 
came  by  right  to  madame  your  sister.  M.  de  la  Louviere  unfortunately 
at  that  moment  requested  some  advance,  which  apparently  vexed  madame 

your  mother,  and " 

"  Ah,  I  understand.  It  was  a  plot ;  it  was  a  conspiracy.  I  see  it  all," 
hissed  the  angry  hidy.  "  Ah,  Monsieur  Micotton,  what  a  life  of  anxiety  is 
that  of  a  mother,  devoted  as  I  have  been,  wounded  cruelly  to  the  heart ;  at 
every  hour  insulted,  trampled  on  !  " 

Madame  de  la  Louviere  was  getting  quite  wild  in  her  retrospect ;  and 
M.  Micotton,  fearing  a  nervous  attack,  hastily  gathered  his  papers 
together,  stuffed  them  into  his  shabby  bag,  and  making  a  great  many 
little  parting  bows,  that  were  intended  to  soothe  and  calm  down  his  angry 
client,  retreated  towards  the  door.  As  he  left  he  ran  up  against  a  tall, 
broad-shouldered,  good-looking  young  man,  with  a  long  nose,  quick  dark 
eyes,  and  a  close-cropped  dark  beard,  thick  and  soft  and  bright.  Remy 
had  a  look  of  his  mother,  who  was  a  tall,  straight,  well-built  woman  ;  but 
his  forehead  was  broader,  his  face  softer,  and  his  smile  was  charming.  It 
was  like  the  smile  of  his  unknown  aunt,  far  away  in  England,  the  enemy 
who  had,  according  to  his  mother's  account,  defrauded  and  robbed  him  of 
his  rights. 

"  My  son,  my  poor  child!"  said  the  baroness  excitedly,  "be  calm, 
come  and  help  me  to  unravel  this  plot." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Remy  asked  in  a  cheerful  voice.  He,  however, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  rather  dolefully  when  he  heard  the  news,  for  to 
tell  the  truth  he  was  in  debt,  and  had  been  counting  upon  his  grandmother's 
legacy  to  help  him  out.  "  Hadn't  we  better  make  sure  of  her  intentions 
before  we  remonstrate  ?"  he  suggested,  and  the  baron  was  accordingly 
sent  for  and  desired  to  copy  out  another  of  those  long  letters  of  his  wife's 
devising,  which  he  signed  with  a  flourish  at  the  end. 

Madame  Capuchon  appealed  to,  refused  to  give  any  information  as 
to  the  final  disposition  of  her  property.  She  should  leave  it  to  anybody 
she  liked.  She  thought,  considering  her  state  of  health,  that  the  baron 
might  have  waited  in  patience  until  she  was  gone  to  satisfy  his  curiosity. 
She  sent  her  love  to  her  grandson,  but  was  much  displeased  with  both  his 
parents. 

This  was  a  terrible  climax.  Madame  de  la  Louviere  lay  awake  all  one 
night.  Next  morning  she  sent  for  Remy  and  unfolded  her  plans  to  him. 

"You  must  go  over  to  England  and  marry  your  cousin,"  she  said, 
decisively  ;  "  that  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done." 

When  Micotton  came  next  day  for  further  orders,  Madame  de  la 
Louviere  told  him  that  Remy  was  already  gone. 

All  his  life  long  Remy  remembered  this  evening  upon  the  river, 
sweeter,  more  balmy  and  wonderful  than  almost  any  evening  he  had  ever 
spent  in  his  life  before.  He  had  come  with  a  set  purpose,  this  wolf  in 


LITTLE  EED   BIDING  HOOD.  455 

slio  >p's  clo tiling,  to  perform  his  part  in  a  bargain,  without  thought  of  any- 
thing but  his  own  advantage.  The  idea  of  any  objection  being  made  never 
occ  aired  to  him.  He  was  used  to  be  made  much  of,  as  I  have  said  ;  ho 
could  please  where  he  chose.  This  project  accorded  so  entirely  with  his 
French  ideas,  and  seemed  so  natural  and  simple  an  arrangement,  that 
he  never  thought  of  doubting  its  success.  For  the  first  time  now  a 
possibility  occurred  to  him  of  something  higher,  wiser,  holier,  than  money 
get;  ing  and  grasping,  in  his  schemes  for  the  future  and  for  his  married  life. 
He  scarcely  owned  it  to  himself,  but  now  that  he  had  seen  his  cousin,  he 
unconsciously  realized  that  if  he  had  not  already  come  with  the  set 
purpose  of  marrying  her,  he  should  undoubtedly  have  lost  his  heart  to 
this  winsome  and  brilliant  little  creature.  All  that  evening,  as  they  slid 
through  the  water,  paddling  between  the  twilight  fields,  pushing  through 
the  beds  of  water-lilies,  sometimes  spurting  swiftly  through  the  rustling 
reeds,  with  the  gorgeous  banks  on  either  side,  and  the  sunset  beyond 
the  hills,  and  the  figures  strolling  tranquilly  along  the  meadows,  De  la 
Louviere  only  felt  himself  drifting  and  drifting  into  a  new  and  wonderful 
world..  This  time-wise  young  fellow  felt  as  if  he  was  being  washed  white 
and  happy  and  peaceful  in  the  lovely  purple  river.  Everything  was  at 
one  3  twilit,  moonlit,  and  sunlit.  The  water  flowed  deep  and  clear.  Patty, 
with  a  bulrush  wand,  sat  at  the  stem,  bending  forward  and  talking 
happily;  the  people  on  the  shore  heard  her  sweet  chatter. 

Once  Patty  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm.  "Don!  Where  was  Don?" 
He  had  been  very  contentedly  following  them,  trotting  along  the  bank  ; 
but  now  in  the  twilight  they  could  not  make  him  out.  Patty  called  and 
her  father  halloed,  and  Kerny  pulled  out  a  little  silver  whistle  he  happened 
to  Lave  in  his  pocket  and  whistled  shrilly.  Old  Don,  who  had  been  a 
littlo  ahead,  hearing  all  this  hullabaloo,  quietly  plashed  from  the  banks 
into  the  water,  and  came  swimming  up  to  the  side  of  the  boat,  with  his 
honost  old  nose  in  the  air  and  his  ears  floating  on  the  little  ripples. 
Having  satisfied  them  of  his  safety  and  tried  to  wag  his  tail  in  the  water, 
he  swam  back  to  shore  again,  and  the  boat  sped  on  its  way  home  through 
the  jwilight. 

•'What  a  nice  little  whistle,"  said  Patty. 

•'Do  take  it,"  said  Remy.  "It  is  what  I  call  iny  dogs  at  home  with. 
Plea  se  take  it.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  think  that  anything  of  mine  is 
usec  by  you." 

"'Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Patty,  as  she  put  out  her  soft  warm  hand 
thro  igh  the  cool  twilight  and  took  it  from  him.  Maynard  was  looking 
out  for  the  lock  and  paying  no  attention.  Remy  felt  as  glad  as  if  some 
grea ;  good-fortune  had  happened  to  him. 

r.:'he  light  was  burning  in  the  drawing-room  when  they  got  back.  Mrs. 
May  lard  had  ordered  some  coffee  to  be  ready  for  them,  and  was  waiting 
with  a  somewhat  anxious  face  for  their  return. 

'  Oh,  mamma,  it  has  been  so  heavenly,"  said  Patty,  once  more  sink- 
ing i  ito  her  own  corner  by  the  window. 


456  LITTLE  RED   HIDING  HOOD. 

And  then  the  inoon  came  brightly  hanging  in  the  sky,  and  a  nightingale 
began  to  sing.  Remy  had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life  before.  He 
had  forgotten  all  about  his  speculation,  and  was  only  thinking  that  his 
English  cousin  was  more  charming  than  all  his  grandmother's  money-bags 
piled  in  a  heap.  For  that  night  he  forgot  his  part  of  wolf  altogether. 

In  the  morning,  Patty  took  her  cousin  to  the  greenhouse,  to  the  stable 
to  see  her  pony  ;  she  did  the  honours  of  Sunnymede  with  so  much  gaiety  ^ 
and  frankness  that  her  mother  had  not  the  heart  to  put  conscious  thoughts 
into  the  child's  head,  and  let  her  go  her  own  way.  The  two  came  back 
late  to  the  early  dinner ;  Mr.  Maynard  frowned,  he  disliked  unpunctuality. 
Remy  was  too  happy  to  see  darkness  anywhere,  or  frowns  in  anybody's 
face,  but  then  his  eyes  were  dazzled.  It  was  too  good  to  last,  he  thought, 
and  in  truth  a  storm  was  rising  even  then. 

During  dinner,  the  post  came  in.  Mrs.  Maynard  glanced  at  her 
correspondence,  and  then  at  her  husband,  as  she  put  it  into  her  pocket. 
"  It  is  from  my  mother,"  she  said.  Remy  looked  a  little  interested,  but 
asked  no  questions,  and  went  on  talking  and  laughing  with  his  cousin ;  and 
after  dinner,  when  Mrs.  Maynard  took  her  letter  away  to  read  in  the 
study,  the  two  young  people  went  and  sat  upon  the  little  terrace  in  front  of 
the  house. 

The  letter  was  from  Madame  Capuchon,  and  Mrs.  Maynard  having 
read  it,  put  it  into  her  husband's  hands  with  a  little  exclamation  of 
bewildered  dismay. 

11  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Maynard,  looking  up  from  his 
paper,  which  had  come  by  the  same  afternoon  post. 

"  Only  read  this,"  she  said;  "  you  will  know  best  what  to  do.  Oh, 
Henry,  he  must  go  ;  he  should  never  have  come." 

My  heroine's  mother  was  never  very  remarkable  for  spirit :  her  nearest 
approach  to  it  was  this  first  obstinate  adherence  to  anything  which  Henry 
might  decree.  Like  other  weak  people  she  knew  that  if  she  once  changed 
her  mind  she  was  lost,  and  accordingly  she  clung  to  it  in  the  smallest 
decisions  of  life  with  an  imploring  persistence  :  poor  Marthe,  her  decision 
was  a  straw  in  a  great  sea  of  unknown  possibilities.  Madame  Capuchon 
was  a  strong-minded  woman,  and  not  afraid  to  change  her  mind. 

"I  have  heard  from  Felieie,"  the  old  lady  wrote;  "but  she  says 
nothing  of  a  certain  fine  scheme  which  I  hasten  to  acquaint  you 
with.  I  learnt  it  by  chance  the  other  day  when  Micotton  was  with 
me  consulting  on  the  subject  of  my  will,  which  it  seems  has  given 
great  offence  to  the  De  la  Louvieres.  Considering  the  precarious 
state  of  my  health,  they  might  surely  have  taken  patience ;  but  I 
am  now  determined  that  they  shall  not  benefit  by  one  farthing  that 
I  possess.  Micotton,  at  my  desire,  confessed  that  Remy  has  gone  over 
to  England  for  the  express  purpose  of  making  advances  to  Martha,  your 
daughter,  in  hopes  of  eventually  benefiting  through  me.  He  is  a  37oung 
man  of  indifferent  character,  and  .  he  inherits,  no  doubt,  the  covetous  and 
grasping  spirit  of  his  father."  Mr.  Maynard  read  no  farther  ;  he  flushed 


LITTLE  RED  BIDING  HOOD.  457 

up,  and  began  to  hiss  out  certain  harmless  oaths  between  his  teeth. 
'  •  Does  that  confounded  young  puppy  think  my  Patty  is  to  be  disposed  of 
like  a  bundle  of  hay  ?  Does  he  come  here  scheming  after  that  poor  old 
voman's  money  ?  Be  hanged  to  the  fellow  ;  he  must  be  told  to  go  about 
Lis  business,  Marthe,  or  the  child  may  be  taking  a  fancy  to  him.  Con- 
found the  impertinent  jackanapes." 

"But  who  is  to  tell  him?"  poor  Marthe  faltered,  \vith  one  more 
c  isinal  presentiment. 

"  You,  to  be  sure,"  said  Maynard,  clapping  on  his  felt  hat  and  march- 
iug  right  away  oft'  the  premises. 

In  the  meantime  Remy  and  his  cousin  had  been  very  busy  making  Don 
j  amp  backwards  and  forwards  over  the  low  parapet.  They  had  a  little 
disjointed  conversation  between  the  jumping. 

"  What  is  your  home  like  ?  "  Patty  asked  once. 

"  I  wish  it  was  more  like  yours,"  said  Remy,  with  some  expression; 
' :  it  would  make  me  very  happy  to  think  that,  some  day,  it  might  become 
riore  so." 

The  girl  seemed  almost  to  understand  his  meaning,  for  she  blushed 
f  nd  laughed,  and  tossed  her  gloves  up  in  the  air,  and  caught  them  again. 
'•I  love  my  home  dearly,"  said  she. 

At  that  moment  the  garden  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Maynard  appeared, 
lut  instead  of  coming  towards  them,  he  no  sooner  saw  the  two  young  folks 
than  he  began  walking  straight  away  in  the  direction  of  the  outer  gate,  never 
turning  his  head  or  paying  any  attention  to  the  young  folks. 

"  Papa,  papa  I  "  cried  Patty,  springing  up ;  but  her  father  walked  on, 
never  heeding,  and  yet  she  was  sure  he  must  have  heard.  What  could  it 
mean  ?  She  looked  at  Remy,  who  was  quite  unconscious,  twirling  his 
moustache,  and  stirring  up  Don  with  the  toe  of  his  boot;  from  Remy  she 
looked  round  to  the  library  window,  which  was  open  wide,  and  where  her 
mother  was  standing. 

"  Do  you  want  me  ?  "  Patty  cried,  running  up. 

"  Ask  your  cousin  to  come  and  speak  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Maynard, 
V3iy  gravely — "  here,  in  papa's  room." 

Patty  was  certain  that  something  was  wrong.  She  gave  Reiny  her 
mother's  message  with  a  wistful  glance  to  see  whether  he  did  not  suspect 
R'iy  trouble.  The  young  man  started  up  obediently,  and  Patty  waited 
o  itside  in  the  sun,  listening  to  the  voices  droning  away  within,  watching 
the  sparkle  of  the  distant  river,  lazily  following  the  flight  of  a  big  bumble- 
bee,— wondering  when  their  talk  would  be  over  and  Remy  would  come  out 
to  her  again.  From  where  she  sat  Patty  could  see  the  reflection  of  the  two 
trlkers  in  the  big  sloping  looking-glass  over  the  library  table.  Her  mother 
\\  as  standing  very  dignified  and  stately,  the  young  man  had  drawn  himself 
straight  up — so  straight,  so  grim  and  fierce-looking,  that  Patty,  as  she 
koked,  was  surer  and  more  sure  that  all  was  not  right;  and  she  saw 
hor  mother  give  him  a  letter,  and  he  seemed  to  push  it  away.  And  then 
it  was  not  Remy  but  Mrs.  Maynard  who  came  out,  looking  very  pale  and 


458  LITTLE  BED  RIDING  HOOD. 

who  said,  "Patty,  darling,  I  have  been  very  much  pained.  Your  cousin 
has  behaved  so  strangely  and  unkindly  to  you  and  me  and  to  your  father, 
that  we  can  never  forget  or  forgive  it.  Your  father  says  so." 

Mrs.  Maynard  had  tried  to  perform  her  task  as  gently  as  she  could.  She 
told  Reiny  that  English  people  had  different  views  on  many  subjects  from 
the  French ;  that  she  had  learnt  his  intentions  from  her  mother,  and 
thought  it  best  to  tell  him  plainly  at  once  that  she  and  Mr.  Maynard  could 
never  consent  to  any  such  arrangement ;  and  under  the  circumstances — 
that — that — that 

"  You  can  never  consent,"  repeated  the  young  man,  stepping  forward 
and  looking  through  her  and  round  about  her,  seeing  all  her  doubts,  all 
her  presentiments,  reading  the  letter,  overhearing  her  conversation  with 
her  husband  all  in  one  instant — so  it  seemed  to  poor  Marthe.  "  And  why 
not,  pray  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  argue  the  question,"  his  aunt  said,  with  some  dignity. 
"  You  must  not  attempt  to  see  my  daughter  any  more." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  you  are  turning  me,  your  sister's  son,  out  of 
your  house,"  the  indignant  Remy  said.  "  I  own  to  all  that  you  accuse 
me  of.  I  hoped  to  marry  your  daughter.  I  still  hope  it ;  and  I  shall  do 
so  still,"  cried  the  young  man. 

Remy's  real  genuine  admiration  for  Patty  stood  him  in  little  stead  ; 
he  was  angry  and  lost  his  temper  in  his  great  disappointment  and  surprise. 
He  behaved  badly  and  foolishly. 

"  I  had  not  meant  to  turn  you  out  of  my  house,"  said  his  aunt  gravely; 
"  but  for  the  present  I  think  you  had  certainly  better  go.  I  cannot  expose 
my  daughter  to  any  agitation." 

"  You  have  said  more  than  enough,"  said  Remy.  "I  am  going  this 
instant."  And  as  he  spoke  he  went  striding  out  of  the  room. 

And  so  Remy  came  back  no  more  to  sit  with  Patty  under  the  ash-tree ; 
but  her  mother,  with  her  grave  face,  stood  before  her,  and  began  telling 
her  this  impossible,  unbelievable  fact ; — that  he  was  young,  that  he  had 
been  to  blame. 

"  He  unkind  !  he  to  blame  !  Oh,  mamma,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  voice 
of  reproach. 

"  He  has  been  unkind  and  scheming,  and  he  was  rude  to  me,  darling. 
I  am  sorry,  but  it  is  a  fact."  And  Martha  as  she  spoke  glanced  a  little 
anxiously  at  Patty,  who  had  changed  colour,  and  then  at  De  la  Louviere 
himself,  who  was  marching  up,  fierce  still  and  pale,  with  bristling  hair — his 
nose  looking  hooked  and  his  lips  parting  in  a  sort  of  scornful  way.  He 
was  carrying  his  cloak  on  his  arm. 

"  I  have  come  to  wish  you  good-by,  and  to  thank  you  for  your  English 
hospitality,  madame,"  said  he,  with  a  grand  sweeping  bow.  "  My  cousin, 
have  you  not  got  a  word  for  me  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Maynard's  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  Patty,  with  a  sudden  shy 
stiffness  for  which  she  hated  herself  then  and  for  many  and  many  a  day  and 
night  after,  said  good-by,  looking  down  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  Remy 


LITTLE   RED  ELDING  HOOD.  459 

m  irched  away  with  rage  and  scorn  in  his.  "  They  are  all  alike ;  not  one  bit 
better  than  myself.  That  little  girl  has  neither  kindness,  nor  feeling,  nor 
fie  elity  in  her.  The  money  :  they  want  to  keep  it  for  themselves — that 
is  the  meaning  of  all  these  fine  speeches.  I  should  like  to  get  hold  of  her 
aL  the  same,  little  stony-hearted  flirt,  just  to  spite  them ;  yes,  and  throw 
her  over  at  the  last  moment,  money  and  all — impertinent,  ill-bred  folks." 
And  it  happened  that  just  at  this  minute  Mr.  Maynard  was  coming  back 
thoughtfully  the  way  he  had  gone,  and  the  two  men  stopped  face  to  face, 
ore  red,  the  other  pale.  Mrs.  Maynard,  seeing  the  meeting,  came  hastily  up. 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  am  going,"  said  Bemy,  defiantly 
looking  at  his  uncle  as  he  had  done  at  his  aunt. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Maynard.  "  I  have  no  words  to 
express  the  indignation  which  fills  me  at  the  thought  of  your  making 
a  speculation  of  my  daughter's  affections,  and  the  sooner  you  are  gone 
th3  better." 

"  Hush,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Maynard,  laying  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
am,  and  looking  at  Patty,  who  had  followed  her  at  a  little  distance.  She 
had  had  her  own  say,  and  was  beginning  to  think  poor  Bemy  hardly  dealt 
with. 

"  Let  him  say  what  he  likes,  madame,  I  don't  care,"  De  la  Louviere 
sa.d.  "  I  am  certainly  going.  You  have  failed,  both  of  you,  in  kindness 

and  hospitality  ;  as  for  my  cousin ;  "  but  looking  at  Patty,  he  saw  that 

hef  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  he  stopped  short.  "  I  am  all  that  you 
think,"  Bemy  went  on.  "  I  am  in  debt,  I  have  lost  money  at  gambling, 
I  rm  a  good-for-nothing  fellow.  You  might  have  made  something  of  me, 
all  of  you,  but  you  are  a  sordid  nation  and  don't  understand  the  feelings  of 
a  French  gentleman." 

With  this  bravado  Bemy  finally  stalked  off. 

"I  think,  perhaps,  we  were  a  little  hasty,"  said  the  injudicious  Martha, 
wtile  Patty  suddenly  burst  out  crying  and  ran  away. 

Poor  little  Patty  came  down  to  tea  that  evening  looking  very  pale,  with 
po  iting  red  lips,  prettier  than  ever,  her  mother  thought,  as  she  silently 
ga  -e  the  child  her  cupful  of  tea  and  cut  her  bread-and-butter,  and  put  liberal 
he  pings  of  jam  and  fruit  before  her,  dainties  that  were  served  in  the  old 
cu  -glass  dishes  that  had  sparkled  on  Maynard's  grandmother's  tea  table 
before.  The  old  Queen  Anne  teapot,  too,  was  an  heirloom,  and  the  urn  and 
th(  pretty  straight  spoons,  and  the  hideous  old  china  tea-set  with  the  red 
ani  yellow  flowers.  There  were  other  heirlooms  in  the  family,  and  even 
Pa:ty's  bright  eyes  had  been  her  great-grandmother's  a  century  ago,  as 
an  -body  might  see  who  looked  at  the  picture  on  the  wall.  Mr.  Maynard 
wa  ^  silent ;  he  had  been  angry  with  his  wife  for  her  gentle  remonstrance, 
fui  LOUS  with  the  young  man  for  the  high  hand  in  which  he  had  carried 
matters,  displeased  with  Patty  for  crying,  and  with  himself  for  not  having 
for  3seen  the  turn  things  were  taking  :  and  he  now  sat  sulkily  stirring  his 
tea — sulky  but  relenting — and  not  indisposed  for  peace.  After  all  he  had 
ha^ I  his  own  way,  and,  that  is  a  wonderful  calming  process.  Bemy  was 


460  LITTLE   BED   RIDING   PIOOD. 

gone ;  nothing  left  of  him  but  a  silver  whistle  that  Patty  had  put  away  in 
her  work-table  drawer.  He  was  gone  ;  the  echo  of  his  last  angry  words 
were  dinning  in  Maynard's  ears,  while  a  psalin  of  relief  was  sounding  in 
the  mother's  heart.  Patty  sulked  like  her  father,  and  ate  her  bread-and- 
jam  without  speaking  a  word.  There  was  no  great  harm  done,  Mrs. 
Maynard  thought,  as  she  kept  her  daughter  supplied.  She  herself  had 
been  so  disturbed  and  overcome  by  the  stormy  events  of  the  day  that  she 
could  not  eat.  She  made  the  mistake  that  many  elders  have  made  before 
her :  they  mistake  physical  for  mental  disturbance  ;  poor  well-hacked 
bodies  that  have  been  jolted,  shaken,  patched,  and  mended,  and  strained 
in  half-a-dozen  places,  are  easily  affected  by  the  passing  jars  of  the  moment : 
they  suffer  and  lose  their  appetite,  and  get  aches  directly  which  take  away 
much  sense  of  the  mental  inquietude  which  brought  the  disturbance  about. 
Young  healthy  creatures  like  Patty  can  eat  a  good  dinner  and  feel  a  keen 
pang  and  hide  it,  and  chatter  on  scarcely  conscious  of  their  own  heroism. 

But  as  the  days  went  by  Mrs.  Maynard  suspected  that  all  was  not  well 
with  the  child  ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  little  effort  and  strain  in  the  life  which 
had  seemed  so  easy  and  smooth  before.  More  than  once,  Mrs.  Maynard 
noticed  her  daughter's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  curiously  and  wistfully.  One 
day  the  mother  asked  her  why  she  looked  at  her  so.  Patty  blushed  but 
did  not  answer.  The  truth  was,  it  was  the  likeness  to  her  cousin  which 
she  was  studying.  These  blushes  and  silence  made  Martha  Maynard  a 
little  uneasy. 

But  more  days  passed,  and  the  mother's  anxious  heart  was  relieved. 
Patty  had  brightened  up  again,  and  looked  like  herself,  coming  and 
going  in  her  Undine-like  way,  bringing  home  long  wreaths  of  ivy,  birds' 
eggs,  sylvan  treasures.  She  was  out  in  all  weathers.  Her  locks  only 
curled  the  crisper  for  the  falling  rain,  and  her  cheeks  only  brightened  when 
the  damp  rose  up  from  the  river.  The  time  came  for  their  annual  visit 
to  Madame  de  Capuchon.  Patty,  out  in  her  woods  and  meadows,  won- 
dered and  wondered  what  might  come  of  it ;  but  Poitiers  is  a  long  way  from 
Fontainebleau,  ''fortunately,"  "alas  !"  thought  the  mother — in  her  room, 
packing  Patty's  treasures — and  the  daughter  out  in  the  open  field  in  the 
same  breath.  They  were  so  used  to  one  another  these  two,  that  some  sort 
of  magnetic  current  passed  between  them  at  times,  and  certainly  Martha 
never  thought  of  Remy  des  la  Louviere  that  Patty  did  not  think  of  him  too. 


III. 

OLD  MADAME  DE  CAPUCHON  was  delighted  with  her  grand- daughter,  and 
the  improvement  she  found  in  her  since  the  year  before.  She  made  more 
of  her  than  she  had  ever  done  of  Marthe  her  daughter.  All  manner  of 
relics  were  produced  out  of  the  old  lady's  ancient  stores  to  adorn  Miss 
Patty's  crisp  locks,  and  little  round  white  throat  and  wrists  ;  small  medal- 
lions were"  hung  round  her  neck,  brooches  and  laces  pinned  on,  ribbons 


w 

sp 


LITTLE   RED  RIDING   HOOD.  461 

tied  and  muslins  measured,  while  Simonne  tried  her  hand  once  again  at 
cako-making.  Patty,  in  return,  brought  a  great  rush  of  youth,  and  liberty, 
and  sunshine  into  the  old  closed  house,  where  she  was  spoilt,  worshipped, 
petted,  to  her  heart's  content.  Her  mother's  tender  speechless  love 
seemed  dimmed  and  put  out  by  this  chorus  of  compliments  and  admira- 
tion. "  Take  care  of  your  complexion;  whatever  you  do,  take  care  of  your 
complexion,"  her  grandmother  was  always  saying.  Madame  Capuchon 
actually  sent  for  the  first  modiste  in  the  town,  explained  what  she  wanted, 
and  ordered  a  scarlet  "  capeline  " — such  as  ladies  wear  by  the  sea-side — a 
prelty  frilled,  quilted,  laced,  and  braided  scarlet  hood,  close  round  the 
checks  and  tied  up  to  the  chin,  to  protect  her  grand- daughter's  youthful 
bloom  from  the  scorching  rays  of  the  sun.  She  need  not  have  been  so 
anxious.  Patty's  roses  were  of  a  damask  that  does  not  fade  in  the  sun's  rays. 

Squire  Maynard,  who  was  a  sensible  man,  did  not  approve  of  all  this 
to  do,  and  thought  it  was  all  very  bad  for  Miss  Patty,  "  whose  little  head 
was  quite  full  enough  of  nonsense  already,"  he  said.  One  day  Patty  came 
home  with  the  celebrated  pearls  round  her  neck,  that  Madame  de  la 
Louviere  had  tried  so  hard  to  get.  Madame  Capuchon  forgot. that  she  had 
already  given  them  to  Marthe,  but  Mrs.  Maynard  herself  was  the  last  to 
havo  remembered  this,  and  it  was  her  husband  who  said  to  her,  with  a 
shrrg  of  the  shoulders — 

•'  It  is  all  very  well,  but  they  are  yours,  my  dear,  and  your  mother  has 
no  iiore  right  to  them  than  Patty  has." 

Patty  pouted,  flashed,  tossed  her  little  head,  flung  her  arms  round  her 
mother's  neck,  all  in  an  instant.  She  was  a  tender-hearted  little  person, 
heedless,  impulsive,  both  for  the  best  and  the  worst,  as  her  poor  mother 
knew  to  her  cost.  The  squire  thought  his  wife  spoilt  her  daughter,  and 
occasionally  tried  a  course  of  judicious  severity,  and,  as  I  have  already 
said,  he  had  only  succeeded  in  frightening  the  child  more  than  he  had  any 
idea  of. 

"Take  them,  dear  mamma,"  said  Patty,  pulling  off  her  necklace. 
"  I  didn't  know  anything  about  them.  Grandmamma  tied  them  on." 

k<  Darling,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  are  my  jewel.  I  don't  want  these 
pearls  :  and  if  they  are  mine,  I  give  them  to  you." 

Two  pearl  drops  were  in  Mrs.  Maynard's  eyes  as  she  spoke.  She  was 
thin  dng  of  her  long  lonely  days,  and  of  the  treasures  which  were  now 
hers.  Looking  at  this  bright  face  in  its  scarlet  hood — this  gay,  youthful 
presence  standing  before  them  all  undimmed,  in  the  splendour  of  its 
confidence  and  brightness — it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Mayna'rd  as  if  now,  in 
her  old  age,  now  that  she  had  even  forgotten  her  longings  for  them,  all 
the  *ood  things  were  granted  to  her,  the  want  of  which  had  made  her 
earl}  life  so  sad.  It  was  like  a  miracle,  that  at  fifty  all  this  should  come 
to  h(  r.  Her  meek  glad  eyes  sought  her  husband's.  He  was  frowning, 
and  Dyeing  his  little  girl  uneasily. 

'I  don't  like  that  red  bonnet  of  yours,"  said  he.  "It  is  too  con- 
iciious.  You  can't  walk  about  Paris  in  that." 


462  LITTLE   BED    RIDING   HOOD. 

"  Paris  !  "  shrieked  Patty.     "  Am  I  going  to  Paris,  papa  ?  " 

"  You  must  take  great  care  of  your  father,  Patty,"  said  her  mother. 
"  I  shall  stay  here  with  my  mother  until  you  come  back." 

I  am  not  going  to  describe  Patty's  delights  and  surprise.  Everybody 
has  seen  through  her  eyes,  at  one  time  or  another,  and  knows  what  it  is  to 
be  sixteen,  and  transported  into  a  dazzling  ringing  world  of  sounds,  and 
sights,  and  tastes,  and  revelations.  The  good  father  took  his  daughter 
to  dine  off  delicious  little  dishes  with  sauces,  with  white  bread  and 
butter  to  eat  in  between  the  courses ;  he  hired  little  carriages,  in  which 
they  sped  through  the  blazing  streets,  and  were  set  down  at  the  doors  of 
museums  and  palaces,  and  the  gates  of  cool  gardens,  where  fountains 
murmured  and  music  played  ;  he  had  some  friends  in  Paris — a  good- 
natured  old  couple,  who  volunteered  to  take  charge  of  his  girl ;  but  for 
that  whole,  happy,  unspeakable  week  he  rarely  left  her.  One  night  he 
took  her  to  the  play — a  grand  fairy  piece — where  a  fustian  peasant  maiden 
was  turned  into  a  satin  princess  in  a  flash  of  music  and  electric  light. 
Patty  took  her  father's  arm,  and  came  away  with  the  crowd,  with  the 
vision  of  those  waving  halos  of  bliss  opening  and  shining  with  golden  rain 
and  silver-garbed  nymphs,  and  shrieks  of  music  and  admiration,  all  singing 
and  turning  before  her.  The  satin  princess  was  already  re-transformed, 
but  that  was  no  affair  of  Patty's.  Some  one  in  the  crowd,  better  used  to 
plays  and  fairy  pieces,  coming  along  behind  the  father  and  daughter, 
thought  that  by  far  the  prettiest  sight  he  had  seen  that  night  was  this 
lovely  eager  little  face  before  him,  and  that  those  two  dark  eyes — now 
flashing,  now  silent — were  the  most  beautiful  illuminations  he  had  wit- 
nessed for  many  a  day.  The  bright  eyes  never  discovered  who  it  was 
behind  her.  Need  I  say  that  it  was  Remy,  who,  after  looking  for  them  for  a 
couple  of  days  in  all  the  most  likely  places,  took  a  ticket  for  Fontainebleau 
on  the  third  evening  after  he  had  seen  them.  What  fascination  was  it 
that  attracted  him  ?  He  was  hurt  and  angry  with  her,  he  loved  and  he 
longed  to  see  her.  Sometimes  vague  thoughts  of  revenge  crossed  his 
mind  :  he  would  see  her  and  win  her  affections,  and  then  turn  away  and 
leave  her,  and  pay  back  the  affront  which  had  been  put  upon  him. 
M.  Remy,  curling  his  mustachios  in  the  railway-carriage,  and  meditating 
this  admirable  scheme,  was  no  very  pleasant  object  to  contemplate. 

"  That  gentleman  in  the  corner  looks  ready  to  eat  us  all  up,"  whispered 
a  little  bride  to  her  husband. 

Meanwhile  Patty  had  been  going  on  her  way  very  placidly  all  these 
three  days,  running  hither  and  thither,  driving  in  the  forest,  dining  witk 
her  grandmother,  coming  home  at  night  under  the  stars.  The  little 
red  hood  was  well  known  in  the  place.  Sometimes  escorted  by  Betty, 
an  English  maid  who  had  come  over  with  the  family ;  oftener  Mr.  Maynard 
himself  walked  with  his  daughter.  Fontainebleau  was  not  Littleton,  and 
he  did  not  like  her  going  about  alone,  although  Patty  used  to  pout 
and  rebel  at  these  precautions.  Mrs.  Maynard  herself  rarely  walked ; 
she  used  to  drive  over  to  her  mother's  of  an  afternoon,  and  her  husband 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING   HOOD.  463 

arid  daughter  would  follow  her  later ;  arfd  Simonne,  radiant,  would  then 
superintend  the  preparation  of  fricandeaus  and  galettes,  such  as  she  loved 
to  set  before  them,  and  cream  tarts  and  chicken  and  vol  au  vent.  There 
w$  s  no  end  to  her  resources.  And  yet  to  hear  Madame  Capuchon,  one 
would  think  that  she  led  the  life  of  an  invalid  ascetic  starving  on  a  desert 
island.  "  These  railways  carry  away  everything,"  the  old  lady  would  say ; 
"  ihey  leave  one  nothing.  When  I  say  that  I  have  dined,  it  is  for  tho 
sa^e  of  saying  so.  You  know  I  am  not  particular,  but  they  leave  us 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  eat."  On  this  especial  occasion  the  old 
lady  was  in  a  state  of  pathetic  indignation  over  M.  Bougu,  her  butterman, 
wl  o  had  been  taken  up  for  false  practices.  Simonne  joined  in, — "  I  went 
in  for  the  tray,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  saw  at  once,  by  the  expression  of 
mudame's  face,  that  there  was  something  wrong.  It  was  lard  that  he  had 
mixed  with  his  butter.  As  it  is,  I  do  not  know  where  to  go  to  find  her 
anything  fit  to  eat.  They  keep  cows  at  the  hotel,"  she  added,  turning 
to  Marthe  as  she  set  down  a  great  dish  full  of  cream-cakes  upon  the  table. 
"  Perhaps  they  would  supply  us,  if  you  asked  them." 

Mrs.  Maynard  undertook  the  negotiation  ;  and  next  day  she  called 
Patty  to  her  into  the  little  drawing-room,  and  gave  the  child  a  piece  of 
honeycomb  and  a  little  pat  in  a  vine-leaf,  to  take  to  Madame  Capuchon, 
as  a  sample.  "  Give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  she  can  have  as  much 
mere  as  she  likes ;  and  call  Betty  to  go  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Maynard. 
"  'Cell  Betty  to  follow  me,"  said  Patty,  dancing  off  delighted  with  her 
commission.  Betty  followed  ;  but  there  are  two  roads  to  Madame 
Capuchon's,  one  by  the  street  and  one  by  the  park.  Patty  certainly 
waited  for  three  minutes,  but  Betty  never  came  ;  she  was  trudging  down 
th(  town,  and  gaping  into  all  the  shops  as  she  went  along,  while  Her 
young  mistress  had  escaped  into  the  park,  and  was  hurrying  along  the 
av(  nues,  delighted  to  be  free — hurrying  and  then  stopping,  as  the  fancy 
tock  her.  The  sun  shone,  the  golden  water  quivered,  the  swans  came 
sai  ing  by.  It  was  all  Patty  could  do  not  to  sing  right  out  and  dance  to 
her  own  singing.  By  degrees  her  spirits  quieted  down  a  little. 

Patty  was  standing  leaning  over  the  stone-parapet  at  the  end  of  the 
ter  *ace,  and  looking  deep  down  into  the  water  which  laps  against  it.  A 
shcal  of  carp  was  passing  through  the  clear  cool  depths.  Solemn 
pairiarchs,  bald,  dim  with  age,  bleared  and  faded  and  overgrown  with 
stntnge  mosses  and  lichens,  terrible  with  their  chill  life  of  centuries, 
sol  jmnly  sliding,  followed  by  their  court  through  the  clear  cool  waters 
wh  3re  they  had  floated  for  ages  past.  Unconscious,  living,  indifferent 
wh  le  the  generations  were  succeeding  one  another,  and  angry  multitudes 
BUT  Ting  and  yelling  while  kingdoms  changed  hands ;  while  the  gay  court 
lad  es,  scattering  crumbs  with  their  dainty  fingers,  were  hooted  by  the 
ha£  s  and  furies  of  the  Revolution,  shrieking  for  bread  and  for  blood  for 
the  r  children  : — The  carps  may  have  dived  for  safety  into  the  cool  depths 
of  he  basins  while  these  awful  ghosts  of  want  and  madness  clamoured 
rou  id  the  doors  of  the  palace, — ghosts  that  have  not  passed  away  for 


464  LITTLE   BED  RIDING  HOOD. 

ever,  alas  !  with  the  powders  anc>  patches,  and  the  stately  well-bred  follies 
of  the  court  of  Dives.  After  these  times  a  new  order  of  things  was 
established,  and  the  carps  may  have  seen  a  new  race  of  spirits  in  the 
quaint  garb  and  odd  affectation  of  a  bygone  age,  of  senates  and  consuls 
and  a  dead  Roman  people ;  and  then  an  Emperor,  broken-hearted,  signed 
away  an  empire,  and  a  Waterloo  was  fought ;  and  to-day  began  to  dawn, 
and  the  sun  shone  for  a  while  upon  the  kingly  dignity  of  Orleans ;  and 
then  upon  a  second  empire,  with  flags  and  many  eagles  and  bees  to 
decorate  the  whole,  and  trumpets  blowing  and  looms  at  work  and  a  temple 
raised  to  the  new  goddess  of  industry. 

What  did  it  all  matter  to  the  old  grey  carp  ?  They  had  been  fed  by 
kings  and  by  emperors  ;  and  now  they  were  snatching  as  eagerly  at  the 
crumbs  which  Patty  Maynard  was  dropping  one  by  one  into  the  water, 
and  which  floated  pleasantly  into  their  great  open  maws.  The  little  bits 
of  bread  tasted  much  alike  from  wherever  they  came.  If  Patty  had  been 
used  to  put  such  vague  speculations  into  words,  she  might  have  wondered 
sometimes  whether  we  human  carps,  snatching  at  the  crumbs  which  fall 
upon  the  waters  of  life,  are  not  also  -greedy  and  unconscious  of  the  wonders 
and  changes  that  may  be  going  on  close  at  hand  in  another  element  to 
which  we  do  not  belong,  but  at  which  we  guess  now  and  then. 

A  crumb  fell  to  little  Patty  herself,  just  then  gazing  down  deep  into  the 
water.  The  sun  began  to  shine  hot  and  yet  more  hot,  and  the  child  put 
up  her  big  white  umbrella,  for  her  hood  did  not  shade  her  eyes.  A  great 
magnificent  stream  of  light  illumined  the  grand  old  place,  and  the  waving 
tree-tops,  and  the  still  currentless  lake.  The  fish  floated  on  basking,  the 
birds  in  the  trees  seemed  suddenly  silenced  by  the  intense  beautiful 
ratliance,  the  old  palace  courts  gleamed  bravely,  the  shadows  shrank  and 
blackened,  hot,  sweet,  and  silent  the  light  streamed  upon  the  great  green 
arches  and  courts  and  colonnades  of  the  palace  of  garden  without,  upon 
the  arches  and  courts  and  colonnades  of  the  palace  of  marble  within,  with 
its  quaint  eaves  and  mullions,  its  lilies  of  France  and  D's  and  H's  still 
entwined,  though  D  and  H  had  been  parted  for  three  centuries  and  more. 
It  was  so  sweet  and  so  serene,  that  Patty  began  to  think  of  her  cousin. 
She  could  not  have  told  you  why  fine  days  put  her  in  mind  of  him,  and 
of  that  happy  hour  in  the  boat ;  and  to-day  she  could  not  help  it,  she 
pulled  the  little  silver  whistle  out  of  her  pocket,  and  instead  of  pushing  the 
thought  of  Remy  away,  as  she  had  done  valiantly  of  late,  the  silly  child 
turned  the  whistle  in  her  hands  round  and  round  again.  It  gleamed  in 
the  sun  like  a  whistle  of  fire ;  and  then  slowly  she  put  it  to  her  lips. 
Should  she  frighten  the  carp  ?  Patty  wondered ;  and  as  she  blew  a  very 
sweet  long  note  upon  the  shrill  gleaming  toy,  it  echoed  oddly  in  the  still- 
ness, and  across  the  water.  The  carp  did  not  seem  to  hear  it ;  but  Patty 
stopped  short,  frightened,  ashamed,  with  burning  blushes,  for,  looking  up  at 
the  sound  of  a  footstep  striking  across  the  stone  terrace,  she  saw  her 
cousin  coming  towards  her. 

To  people  who  are  in  love  each  meeting  is  a  new  miracle.     This  was 


LITTLE   RED   RIDING   HOOD.  465 

an  odd  cliancc  certainly,  a  quaint  freak  of  fortune.  The  child  thought  it 
•was  some  incantation  that  she  had  unconscious!}'  performed ;  she  sprang 
back,  her  dark  eyes  flashed,  the  silver  whistle  fell  to  the  ground  and 
wont  rolling  and  rolling,  and  bobbing  across  the  stones  to  the  young 
n.an's  feet. 

He  picked  it  up  and  came  forward  with  an  amused  and  lover-like 
smile,  holding  it  out  in  his  hand.  "  I  have  only  just  heard  you  were 
lure,"  he  said;  "  I  came  to  see  my  grandmother  last  night,  from  Paris. 
3V,]y  dear  cousin,  what  a  delightful  chance.  Are  not  you  a  little  bit  glad  to 
BOG  me  ?"  said  the  young  man,  romantically.  It  was  a  shame  to  play  off 
his  airs  and  graces  upon  such  a  simple  downright  soul  as  Martha  Maynard. 
Some  one  should  have  boxed  his  ears  as  he  stood  there  smiling,  handsome, 
irresistible,  trying  to  make  a  sentimental  scene  out  of  a  chance  meeting. 
Poor  little  Patty,  with  all  her  courage  and  simpleness,  was  no  match  for 
him  at  first ;  she  looked  up  at  his  face  wistfully  and  then  turned  away,  for 
one  burning  blush  succeeded  to  another,  and  then  she  took  courage  again. 
"  Of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  cousin  Remy,"  said  she  brightly,  and 
she  held  out  her  little  brown  hand  and  put  it  frankly  into  his.  "  It  is  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  delight  to  me,  above  all  now  when  I  had  given  up  all 
hopes  for  ever ;  but  it's  no  use,"  said  Patty  with  a  sigh,  "  for  I  know  I 
mustn't  talk  to  you,  they  wouldn't  like  it.  I  must  never  whistle  again 
upon  the  little  whistle,  for  fear  you  should  appear,"  she  said  with  a  sigh. 

This  was  no  cold-hearted  maiden.  Remy  forgot  his  vague  schemes  of 
revenge  and  desertion,  the  moment  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  dear  little 
voice.  "  They  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Remy,  reddening,  "  and  I  have 
boen  longing  and  wearying  to  see  you  again  Patty.  What  do  you  suppose 
I  have  come  here  for  ? — Patty,  Patty,  confess  that  you  were  thinking  of 
me  when  you  whistled,"  and  as  he  said  this  the  wolfs  whole  heart  melted. 
'  *  Do  you  know  how  often  I  have  thought  of  you  since  I  was  cruelly  driven 
away  from  your  house  ?  " 

Two  great,  ashamed,  vexed,  sorrowful  tears,  startled  into  Martha's  eyes 
a^  she  turned  away  her  head  and  pulled  away  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  Remy,  indeed,  indeed  there  must  have  been  some  reason,  some 
mistake  :  dear  papa,  if  you  knew  how  he  loves  me  and  mamma,  and,  oh, 
how  miserable  it  made  me." 

"  I  daresay  there  was  some  mistake,  since  you  say  so,"  said  the  wily 
wolf.  "  Patty,  only  say  you  love  me  a  little,  and  I  will  forgive  everything 
and  anything." 

"  I  mustn't  let  any  one  talk  about  forgiving  them"  said  the  girl.  "  I 
would  love  you  a  great  deal  if  I  might,"  she  added  with  another  sigh. 
"  I  do  love  you,  only  I  try  not  to,  and  I  think, — I  am  sure,  I  shall  get 
over  it  in  time  if  I  can  only  be  brave." 

This  was  such  an  astounding  confession  that  De  la  Louviere  hardly 

b  iew  how  to  take  it ;  touched  and  amused  and  amazed,  he  stood  there, 

looking  at  the  honest  little  sweet  face.     Patty's  confession  was  a  very 

h<  mest  one.     The  girl  knew  that  it  was  not  to  be  ;  she  was  loyal  to  her 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  94.  23. 


466  LITTLE   RED  BIDING  HOOD. 

father,  and,  above  all,  to  that  tender,  wistful  mother.  Filial  devotion 
seemed  like  the  bright  eyes  and  silver  tea-pot  to  be  an  inheritance  in  her 
family.  She  did  not  deceive  herself;  she  knew  that  she  loved  her  cousin 
with  something  more  than  cousinly  affection,  but  she  also  believed  that 
it  was  a  fancy  which  could  be  conquered.  "  We  are  human  beings,"  said 
Patty,  like  St.  Paul ;  "  we  are  not  machines  ;  we  can  do  what  we  will  with 
ourselves,  if  we  only  determine  to  try.  And  I  will  try."  And  she  set  her 
teeth  and  looked  quite  fierce  at  Remy ;  and  then  she  melted  again,  and 
said  in  her  childish  way,  "You  never  told  me  you  would  come  if  I  blew 
upon  the  whistle." 

Do  her  harm, — wound  her, — punish  her  parents  by  stabbing  this 
tender  little  heart  ?  Remy  said  to  himself  that  he  had  rather  cut  off  his 
rnustachios. 

There  was  something  loyal,  honest,  and  tender  in  the  little  thing,  that 
touched  him  inexpressibly.  He  suddenly  began  to  tell  himself  that  he 
agreed  with  his  uncle  that  to  try  to  marry  Patty  for  money's  sake  had  been 
a  shame  and  a  sin.  He  had  been  a  fool  and  a  madman,  and  blind  and  deaf. 
Remy  de  la  Louviere  was  only  half  a  wolf  after  all, — a  sheep  in  wolf 's 
clothing.  He  had  worn  the  skin  so  long  that  he  had  begun  to  think  it 
was  his  very  own,  and  he  was  perfectly  amazed  and  surprised  to  find  such 
a  soft,  tender  place  beneath  it. 

It  was  with  quite  a  different  look  and  tone  from  the  romantic,  impas- 
sioned, corsair  manner  in  which  he  had  begun,  that  he  said  very  gently, 
"  Dear  Patty,  don't  try  too  hard  not  to  like  me.  I  cannot  help  hoping 
that  all  will  be  well.  You  will  hope  too,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  will,"  said  Patty;  "  and  now,  Remy,  you  must  go  :  I 
have  talked  to  you  Jong  enough.  See,  this  is  the  back  gate  and  the  way 
to  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe."  For  they  had  been  walking  on  all  this  time 
and  following  the  course  of  the  avenue.  One  or  two  people  passing  by 
looked  kindly  at  the  handsome  young  couple  strolling  in  the  sunshine  ; 
a  man  in  a  blouse,  wheeling  a  hand-truck,  looked  over  his  shoulder  a 
second  time  as  he  turned  down  the  turning  to  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe. 
Patty  did  not  see  him,  she  was  absorbed  in  one  great  resolution.  She 
must  go  now,  and  say  good-by  to  her  cousin. 

"Come  a  little  way  farther  with  me,"  said  Remy,  "just  a  little  way 
under  the  trees.  Patty,  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you.  You  will 
hate  me,  perhaps,  and  yet  I  cannot  help  telling  you." 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  must  not  come  now,"  Patty  said.  "  Good-by, 
good-by." 

"  You  won't  listen  to  me,  then  ?  "  said  the  young  man ;  so  sadly,  that 
she  had  not  the  corn-age  to  leave  him,  and  she  turned  at  last,  and  walked 
a  few  steps. 

"  Will  you  let  me  cany  your  basket  ?  "  said  her  cousin.  "  Who  are 
you  taking  this  to  ?" 

"It  is  for  my  grandmother,''  said  the  girl,  resisting.  "  Remy,  have 
you  really  anything  to  say  ?  " 


LITTLE  RED  BIDING  HOOD.  4G7 

They  had  coine  to  the  end  of  the  park,  where  its  gates  lead  into  tho 
forest ;  one  road  led  to  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe,  the  other  into  the  great 
waving  world  of  trees.  It  was  a  lovely  summer's  afternoon.  There  was 
11  host  in  the  air,  delighting  and  basking  in  the  golden  comfort ;  butter- 
liies,  midges,  flights  of  birds  from  the  forest  were  passing.  It  was  plea- 
sant to  exist  in  such  a  place  and  hour,  to  walk  by  Remy  on  the  soft 
s  springing  turf,  and  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  his  voice  under  the  shade  of 
Ihe  overarching  boughs. 

"  Patty,  do  you  know  I  did  want  to  marry  you  for  your  money  ?  "  Remy 
raid  at  last.  "I  love  you  truly ;  but  I  have  not  loved  you  always  as  I 
ought  to  have  done — as  I  do  now.  You  scorn  me,  you  cannot  forgive  me  ?  " 
lie  added,  as  the  girl  stopped  short.  "  You  will  never  trust  me  again." 

"  Oh  Remy,  how  could  you  ....  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  indeed  I  do 
forgive  you.  I  do  trust  you,"  she  added  quickly,  saying  anything  to 
comfort  and  cheer  him  when  he  looked  so  unhappy.  Every  moment  took 
ihem  farther  and  farther  on.  The  little  person  with  the  pretty  red  hood 
j.nd  bright  eyes  and  the  little  basket  had  almost  forgotten  her  commission, 
her  conscience,  her  grandmother,  and  all  the  other  duties  of  life.  Remy, 
ioo,  had  forgotten  everything  but  the  bright  sweet  little  face,  the  red 
hood,  and  the  little  hand  holding  the  basket,  when  they  came  to  a  dark, 
( nclosed  halting-place  at  the  end  of  the  avenue,  from  whence  a  few  rocky 
steps  led  out  upon  a  sudden  hillside,  which  looked  out  into  the  open 
world.  It  was  a  lovely  surprising  sight,  a  burst  of  open  country,  a  great 
purple  amphitheatre  of  rocks  shining  and  hills  spreading  to  meet  the  skies, 
clefts  and  sudden  gleams,  and  a  wide  distant  horizon  of  waving  forest 
fringing  the  valley.  Clouds  were  drifting  and  tints  changing,  the  heather 
springing  between  the  rocks  at  their  feet,  and  the  thousands  of  tree-tops 
s  waying  like  a  ripple  on  a  sea. 

Something  in  the  great  wide  freshness  of  the  place  brought  Patty  to 
1  erself  again. 

"  How  lovely  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  Remy,  why  did  you  let  me  come  ? 
Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  have  come." 

Remy  tried  to  comfort  her.  "  We  have  not  been  very  long,"  he  said. 
"  We  will  take  the  short  cut  through  the  trees,  and  you  shall  tell  your 
nother  all  about  it.  There's  no  more  reason  why  we  shouldn't  walk 
together  now  than  when  we  were  at  Littleton." 

As  he  was  speaking  he  was  leading  the  way  through  the  brushwood, 
$  nd  they  got  into  a  cross  avenue  leading  back  to  the  carriage-road. 

"  I  shall  come  to  Madame  Capuchon's,  too,  since  you  are  going,"  said 
Hemy,  making  a  grand  resolution.  "I  think  perhaps  she  will  help  us. 
Bhe  is  bound  to,  since  she  did  all  the  mischief;  "  and  then  he  went  on  a 
law  steps,  holding  back  the  trees  that  grew  in  Patty's  way.  A  little  field- 
mouse  peeped  at  them  and  ran  away,  a  lightning  sheet  of  light  flashed 
1  hrough  the  green  and  changing  leaves,  little  blue  flowers  were  twinkling  on 
Ihe  mosses  under  the  trees,  dried  blossoms  were  falling,  and  cones  and 
i lead  leaves  and  aromatic  twigs  and  shoots. 

23—2 


468  LITTLE   BED   HIDING  HOOD. 

"  Is  this  the  way  ?  "  said  Patty,  suddenly  stopping  short,  and  looking 
about  her.  "  Reiny,  look  at  those  arrows  cut  in  the  trees  ;  they  are  not 
pointing  to  the  road  we  have  come.  Oh,  Remy,  do  not  lose  the  way," 
cried  Patty,  in  a  sudden  fright. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  Remy  answered,  laughing,  and  hurrying  on  before 
her;  and  then  he  stopped  short,  and  began  to  pull  at  his  mustache, 
looking  first  in  one  direction,  and  then  in  another.  "  Do  you  think  they 
jvould  be  anxious  if  you  were  a  little  late  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Anxious,"  cried  Patty.  "  Mamma  would  die  ;  she  could  not  bear  it. 
Oh,  Remy,  Reiny,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  She  flushed  up,  and  almost  began 
to  cry.  "  Oh,  find  the  way,  please.  Do  you  see  any  more  arrows  ?  Here 
is  one ;  come,  come." 

Patty  turned,  and  began  to  retrace  her  steps,  hurrying  along  in  a  fever 
of  terror  and  remorse.  The  wood-pigeons  cooed  overhead,  the  long  lines  of 
distant  trees  were  mingling  and  twisting  in  a  sort  of  dance,  as  she  flew  along. 

"  Wait  for  me,  Patty,"  cried  Remy.  "  Here  is  some  one  to  ask."  And 
.as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  an  old  woman  coming  along  one  of  the  narrow 
cross  pathways,  carrying  a  tray  of  sv/eetmeats  and  a  great  jar  of  lemonade. 

"  Fontainebleau,  my  little  gentleman  ?  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  You  are 
turning  your  back  upon  it.  The  arrows  point  away  from  Fontainebleau, 
and  not  towards  the  town.  Do  you  know  the  big  cross  near  the  gate  ? 
Well,  it  is  just  at  the  end  of  that  long  avenue.  Wait,  wait,  my  little 
gentleman.  Won't  you  buy  a  sweet  sugarstick  for  the  pretty  little 
lady  in  the  red  hood  ?  Believe  me,  she  is  fond  of  sugarsticks.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  that  she  has  bought  some  of  mine." 

But  Remy  knew  that  Patty  was  in  no  mood  for  barley- sugar,  and  he 
went  off  to  cheer  up  his  cousin  with  the  good  news.  The  old  woman 
hobbled  off  grumbling. 

It  was  getting  later  by  this  time.  The  shadows  were  changing,  and  a 
western  light  was  beginning  to  glow  upon  the  many  stems  and  quivering 
branches  of  the  great  waving  forest.  Everything  glowed  in  unwearied 
change  and  beauty,  but  they  had  admired  enough.  A  bird  was  singing 
high  above  over  their  heads,  they  walked  on  quickly  in  silence  for  half  an 
hour  or  more,  and  at  the  end  of  the  avenue — as  the  old  woman  had  told 
them — they  found  a  wide  stony  ascending  road,  with  the  dark  murmuring 
fringe  of  the  woods  on  either  side,  and  a  great  cross  at  the  summit  of 'the 
ascent.  Here  Patty  sank  down  for  a  minute,  almost  falling  upon  the 
step,  and  feeling  safe.  This  gate  was  close  to  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe. 

"  Now  go,"  she  said  to  her  cousin.  "  Go  on  first,  and  I  will  follow, 
dear  Remy.  I  don't  want  to  be  seen  with  you  any  more.  People  know  me 
and  my  red  hood." 

De  la  Louviere  could  only  hope  that  Patty  had  not  already  been 
recognized. 

All  the  same  he  refused  utterly  to  leave  her  until  they  reached  the 
gates  of  the  forest ;  then  he  took  the  short  way  to  the  Rue  de  la  Lampe, 
and  Patty  followed  slowly.  She  had  had  a  shock,  she  wanted  to  be  calm 


LITTLE  BED  RIDING  HOOD.  469 

before  slie  saw  her  grandmother.  Her  heart  was  beating  still,  she  was 
tired  and  sorry.  Patty's  conscience  was  not  easy — she  felt  she  had  done 
v  rong,  and  yet — and  yet — with  the  world  of  love  in  her  heart  it  seemed  as 
if  nothing  could  be  wrong  and  nobody  angry  or  anxious. 

Mrs.  Maynard  herself  had  felt  something  of  the  sort  that  afternoon 
after  the  little  girl  had  left  her.  The  mother  watched  her  across  the 
court-yard,  and  then  sat  down  as  usual  to  her  work.  Her  eyes  filled  up 
v  ith  grateful  tears  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing ;  they  often  did  when 
Henry  spoke  a  kind  word  or  Patty  looked  specially  happy.  Yes,  it  was  a 
miracle  that  at  fifty  all  this  should  come  to  her,  thought  Marthe  Maynard 
— brilliant  beauty  and  courage  and  happiness,  and  the  delight  of  youth  and 
of  early  hopes  unrepressed.  It  was  like  a  miracle  that  all  this  had  come 
to  her  in  a  dearer  and  happier  form  than  if  it  had  been  given  to  herself. 
Marthe  wondered  whether  all  her  share  had  been  reserved  for  her  darling 
in  some  mysterious  fashion,  and  so  she  went  on  stitching  her  thoughts  to 
hor  canvas  as  people  do  ;  peaceful,  tranquil,  happy  thoughts  they  were, 
a*  she  sat  waiting  for  her  husband's  return.  An  hour  or  two  went  by, 
poople  came  and  went  in  the  court-yard  below,  the  little  diligence  rattled 
0:T  to  the  railway ;  at  last,  thinking  she  heard  Henry's  voice,  Marthe 
leant  out  of  the  window  and  saw  him  speaking  to  an  old  woman  with  a 
b.isket  of  sweetmeats,  and  then  she  heard  the  sitting-room  door  open,  and 
she  looked  round  to  see  who  it  was  coming  in.  It  was  Simonne,  who 
c;ime  bustling  in  with  a  troubled  look,  like  ripples  in  a  placid  smooth 
pool.  The  good  old  creature  had  put  on  a  shawl  and  gloves  and  a  clean 
cup  with  huge  frills,  and  stood  silent,  umbrella  in  hand,  and  staring  at 
the  calm- looking  lady  at  her  work-table. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Marthe,  looking  up.  "  Simonne,  is  my  mother 
unwell  ?  " 

"  Madame  is  quite  well ;  do  not  bo  uneasy,"  said  Sinionue,  with  a 
qnick,  uncertain  glance  in  Mrs.  Maynard's  face. 

"  Have  you  brought  me  back  Patty  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Maynard.  "  Has 
Betty  come  with  you  ?  " 

"  Betty  ?  I  don't  know  where  she  is,"  said  Simonne.  "  She  is  a 
craze-pated  girl,  and  you  should  not  allow  her  to  take  charge  of  Patty." 

Mrs.  Maynard  smiled.  She  knew  Simonne's  ways  of  old.  All  cooks, 
housekeepers,  ladies'-maids,  &c.  under  fifty  were  crazy-pated  girls  with 
S:monne,  whose  sympathies  certainly  did  not  rest  among  her  own  class. 
3VTrs.  Maynard's  smile,  however,  changed  away  when  she  looked  at  Simonne 
a  second  time. 

"I  am  sure  something  is  the  matter,"  Marthe  cried,  starting  up. 
"Where's  Patty?"  The  poor  mother  suddenly  conjecturing  evil  had 
timed  quite  pale,  and  all  the  soft  contentment  and  calm  were  gone  in 
one  instant.  She  seized  Simonne's  arm  with  an  imploring  nervous  clutch, 
at>  if  praying  that  it  might  be  nothing  dreadful. 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  madame,"  said  Simonne.  "  Girls  are  girls,  and  that 
B  3tty  is  too  scatterbrained  to  be  trusted  another  time  :  she  missed  Patty 


470  LITTLE  RED   RIDING   HOOD. 

and  came  alone  to  our  house.  Oh,  I  sent  her  off  quickly  enongk  to  meet 
Mademoiselle.  But  you  see,  Madame,"  Siinonne  was  hurrying  on 
nervously  over  her  words,  "  our  Patty  is  so  young,  she  thinks  of  no  harm, 
she  runs  here  and  there  just  as  fancy  takes  her,  but  a  young  girl  must  not 
be  talked  of,  and — and  it  does  not  do  for  her  to  be  seen  alone  in  company 
with  anybody  but  her  mother  or  father.  There's  no  harm  done,  but " 

"  What  are  you  talking  of — why  do  you  frighten  me  for  nothing, 
Simonne  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Maynard,  recovering  crossly  with  a  faint  gasp  of 
relief,  and  thinking  all  was  well.  She  had  expected  a  broken  limb  at  the 
least  in  her  sudden  alarm. 

"  There,  Marthe,"  said  Simonne,  taking  her  hand,  "  you  must  not  be 
angry  with  me.  It  was  the  concierge  de  chez  nous,  who  made  a  remark 
which  displeased  me,  and  I  thought  I  had  best  come  straight  to  you." 

"  My  Patty,  my  Patty  !  What  have  you  been  doing,  Simonne  ?  How 
dare  you  talk  of  my  child  to  common  people  !  "  said  the  anxious  mother. 

"  I  was  anxious,  Madame,"  said  poor  Simonne,  humbly.  "I  looked 
for  her  up  the  street  and  along  the  great  avenue,  and  our  concierge  met 
me  and  said, '  Don't  trouble  yourself.  I  met  }Tour  young  lady  going  towards 
the  forest  in  company  with  a  young  man.'  She  is  a  naughty  child,  and  I 
was  vexed,  Madame,  that  is  all,"  said  Simonne. 

But  Mrs.  Maynard  hardly  heard  her  to  the  end, — she  put  up  her  two 
hands  with  a  little  cry  of  anxious  horror.  "  And  is  she  not  back  ?  What 
have  you  been  doing  ?  why  did  you  not  come  before  ?  My  Patty,  my 
Patty  !  what  absurd  mistake  is  this  ?  Oh,  where  is  my  husband  ?  Papa, 
papa  !  "  cried  poor  Mrs.  Maynard  distracted,  running  out  upon  the  land- 
ing. Mr.  Maynard  was  coming  upstairs  at  that  instant,  followed  by  the 
blowsy  and  breathless  Betty. 

Mr.  Maynard  had  evidently  heard  the  whole  story :  he  looked  black 
and  white,  as  people  do  who  are  terribly  disturbed  and  annoyed.  Had 
they  been  at  home  in  England,  Patty's  disappearance  would  have  seemed 
nothing  to  them ;  there  were  half-a-dozen  young  cousins  and  neighbours 
to  whose  care  she  might  have  been  trusted,  but  here,  where  they  knew  no 
one,  it  was  inexplicable,  and  no  wonder  they  were  disquieted  and  shocked. 
Mr.  Maynard  tried  to  reassure  his  wife,  and  vented  his  anxiety  in  wrath 
upon  the  luckless  Betty. 

Martha  sickened  as  she  listened  to  Betty's  sobs  and  excuses.  "  I  can't 
help  it,"  said  the  stupid  girl  with  a  scared  face.  "  Miss  Patty  didn't  wait 
for  me.  The  old  woman  says  she  saw  a  red  hood  in  the  forest,  going 
along  with  a  young  man, — master  heard  her." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  fool.  How  dare  you  all  come  to  me  with  such 
lies  !  "  shouted  Maynard.  He  hated  the  sight  of  the  girl  ever  after,  and  he 
rushed  down  into  the  court  again.  The  old  woman  was  gone,  but  a 
carnage  was  standing  there  waiting  to  be  engaged. 

"We  may  as  well  go  and  fetch  Patty  at  your  mother's,"  Maynard 
called  out  with  some  appearance  of  calmness.  "  I  daresay  she  is  there 
by  this  time."  Mrs.  Maynard  ran  downstairs  and  got  in,  Simonne 


LITTLE  BED  BIDING  HOOD.  471 

bundled  in  too,  and  sat  with  her  back  to  the  horses.   But  that  ten  minutes' 
drive  was  so  horrible  that  not  one  of  them  ever  spoke  of  it  again. 

They  need  not  have  been  so  miserable,  poor  people,  if  they  had  only 
known  Patty  had  safely  reached  her  grandmother's  door  by  that  time. 
When  the  concierge,  who  was  sitting  on  his  barrow  at  the  door,  let  her  in 
and  looked  at  her  with  an  odd  expression  in  his  face,  "  Simonne  was  in  a 
great  anxiety  about  you,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he ;  "  she  is  not  yet  come  in. 
Your  grandmamma  is  upstairs  as  usual.  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  walk  ?  " 

Patty  made  no  answer;  she  ran  upstairs  quickly.  "  I  must  not  stay 
long,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  wonder  if  Rerny  is  there."  The  front  door 
was  open,  and  she  went  in,  and  then  along  the  passage,  and  with  a  beating 
heart  she  stopped  and  knocked  at  her  grandmother's  door.  "  Come  in, 
child,"  the  old  lady  called  out  from  the  inside  ;  and  as  Patty  nervously 
fumbled  at  the  handle,  the  voice  inside  added,  "  Lift  up  the  latch,  and  the 
hasp  will  fall.  Come  in,"  and  Patty  went  in  as  she  was  told. 

It  was  getting  to  be  a  little  dark  indoors  by  this  time,  and  the  room 
seemed  to  Patty  full  of  an  odd  dazzle  of  light — perhaps  because  the  glass 
door  of  the  dressing  closet,  in  which  many  of  Madame  Capuchon's  stores  were 
kept,  was  open. 

"  Come  here,  child,"  said  her  grandmother,  hoarsely,  "  and  let  me 
look  at  you." 

"  How  hoarsely  you  speak,"  said  Patty ;  "  I'm  afraid  your  cold  is  very 
bad,  grandmamma." 

The  old  lady  grunted  and  shook  her  head.  "  My  health  is  miserable 
at  all  times,"  she  said.  "What  is  that  you  have  got  in  your  basket? 
butter,  is  it  not,  by  the  smell  ? ' ' 

"What  a  good  nose  you  have,  grandmamma,"  said  Patty,  laughing, 
and  opening  her  basket.  "  I  have  brought  you  a  little  pat  of  butter  and 
some  honeycomb,  with  mamma's  love,"  said  Patty.  "  They  will  supply 
you  from  the  hotel,  if  you  like,  at  the  same  price  you  pay  now." 

"  Thank  you,  child,"  said  Madame  Capuchon.  "  Come  a  little  closer 
and  let  me  look  at  you.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  are  all  sorts  of 
colours, — blue,  green,  red.  What  have  you  been  doing,  Miss  ?  See  if 
you  can  find  my  spectacles  on  that  table." 

"  What  do  you  want  them  for,  grandmamma  ?  "  Patty  asked,  fumbling 
about  among  all  the  various  little  odds  and  ends. 

"  The  better  to  see  you,  my  dear,  and  anybody  else  who  may  call 
upon  me,"  said  the  grandmamma,  in  her  odd  broken  English.  Patty  was 
nervous  still  and  confused,  longing  to  ask  whether  Remy  had  made  his 
appearance,  and  not  daring  to  speak  his  name  first,  and  in  her  confusion 
she  knocked  over  a  little  odd-shaped  box  that  was  upon  the  table,  and 
it  opened  and  something  fell  out. 

"  Be  careful,  child !  What  have  you  done  ?  "  said  the  old  lady  sharply. 
"  Here,  give  the  things  to  me." 

"It's- — it's  something  made  of  ivory,  grandmamma,"  said  stupid  Patty, 
looking  up  bewildered.  tf  What  is  it  for  ?  " 


472  LITTLE  EED  RIDING   HOOD. 

"  Take  care ;  take  care.  Those  are  rny  teeth,  child.  I  cannot  eat 
comfortably  without '  them, "  said  the  old  lady  pettishly.  "And  now  I 
want  to  talk  seriously.  Here,  give  me  your  hand,  and  look  me  in  the  face, 
and  tell  me  honestly  what  you  think  of  a  certain  .  .  .  .  ? 

But  at  that  instant  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell  was  heard,  and  voices  in  the 
passage ;  the  door  of  the  room  flew  open,'  and  Mrs.  Maynard  rushed  in, 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  clasped  her  daughter  to  her  beating  heart. 

"  I  tell  you  she  is  here,  monsieur,"  Simonne  was  saying  to  Maynard 
himself,  who  was  following  his  wife.  As  soon  as  he  saw  her  there,  with 
Patty  in  her  arms,  "Now,  Martha,"  he  said,  "you  will  at  last  believe 
what  a  goose  you  are  at  times,"  and  he  began  to  laugh  in  a  superior  sort 
of  fashion,  and  then  he  choked  oddly,  and  sat  down  with  his  face  hidden 
in  his  hands. 

"  But  what  is  it  all  about  ?"  asked  Madame  Capuchon,  from  her  bed. 

Poor  people  !  They  could  hardly  own  or  tell  or  speak  the  thought 
which  had  been  in  their  minds,  so  horrible  and  so  absurd  as  it  now 
seemed.  They  tried  to  pass  it  over  ;  and,  indeed,  they  never  owned  to  one 
another  what  that  ten  minutes'  drive  had  been. 

It  was  all  over  now,  and  Patty,  in  penitent  tears,  was  confessing  what 
had  detained  her.  They  could  not  be  angry  at  such  a  time,  they  could  only 
clasp  her  in  their  loving  arms.  All  the  little  miniatures  were  looking  on 
from  their  hooks  on  the  wall,  the  old  grandmother  was  shaking  her  frills 
in  excitement,  and  nodding  and  blinking  encouragement  from  her  alcove. 

"Look  here,  Henry,"  said  she  to  her  son-in-law.  "I  have  seen  the 
young  man,  and  I  think  he  is  a  very  fine  young  fellow.  In  fact,  he  is  now 
waiting  in  the  dining-room,  for  I  sent  him  away  when  I  heard  la  petite 
coming.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  her  alone.  Felicie  has  written  to  me  on  the 
subject  of  their  union ;  he  wishes  it,  I  wish  it,  Patty  wishes  it ;  oh,  I  can 
read  little  girls'  faces :  he  has  been  called  to  the  bar ;  my  property  will 
remain  undivided  ;  why  do  you  oppose  their  marriage  ?  I  cannot  conceive 
what  objection  you  can  ever  have  had  to  it." 

"What  objection  !  "  said  the  squire,  astounded.  "Why,  you  your- 
self warned  me.  Felicie  writes  as  usual  with  an  eye  to  her  own  interest — • 
a  grasping,  covetous " 

"  Hush,  hush,  dear,"  interceded  Mrs.  Maynard,  gently  pushing  her 
husband  towards  the  door.  The  old  lady's  hands  and  frills  were  trembling 
more  and  more  by  this  time  ;  she  was  not  used  to  being  thwarted ;  the 
squire  also  was  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way. 

"  My  Felicie,  my  poor  child,  I  cannot  suffer  her  to  be  spoken  of  in 
this  way,"  cried  Madame  Capuchon,  who  at  another  time  would  have  been 
the  first  to  complain. 

"Patty  is  only  sixteen,"  hazarded  Mrs.  Maynard. 

"  I  was  sixteen  when  I  married,"  said  Madame  Capuchon. 

"  Patty  shall  wait  till  she  is  sixty-six  before  I  give  her  to  a  penniless 
adventurer,"  cried  the  squire  in  great  wrath. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  lady,  spitefully.     "  Now  I  will  tell  von  v 


LITTLE   BED  BIDING   HOOD.  473 

I  have  told  him.  As  I  tell  you,  he  came  to  see  me  just  now,  and  is  at 
tliis  moment,  I  believe,  devouring  the  remains  of  the  pie  Simonne  prepared 
for  your  luncheon.  I  have  told  him  that  he  shall  be  my  heir  whether  you 
give  him  Patty  or  not.  I  am  not  joking,  Henry,  I  mean  it.  I  like  the 
young  man  exceedingly.  He  is  an  extremely  well-bred  young  fellow,  and 
will  do  us  all  credit." 

Maynard  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

"  But,  child,  do  you  really  care  for  him  ?  "  Patty's  mother  said 
reproachfully.  "  What  can  you  know  of  him?"  and  she  took  both  the 
little  hands  in  hers. 

Little  Patty  hung  her  head  for  a  minute.  "  Oh,  mamma,  he  has  told 
me  everything  ;  he  told  me  he  did  think  of  the  money  at  first,  but  only 
before  he  knew  me.  Dear  papa,  if  you  talked  to  him  you  would  believe 
him,  indeed  you  would — indeed,  indeed  you  would."  Patty's  imploring 
vistful  glance  touched  the  squire,  and  as  she  said,  Maynard  could  not  help 
I  elieving  in  Reniy  when  he  came  to  talk  things  over  quietly  with  him,  and 
•without  losing  his  temper. 

He  found  him  in  the  dining-room,  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  the  empty 
I  ie-dish  before  him  ;  the  young  man  had  finished  off  everything  but  the 
hones  and  the  cork  and  the  bottle.  "  I  had  no  breakfast,  sir,"  said  Remy, 
starting  up,  half  laughing,  half  ashamed.  "  My  grandmother  told  me  to 
look  in  the  cupboard." 

"  Such  a  good  appetite  should  imply  a  good  conscience,"  Maynard 
thought ;  and  at  last  he  relented,  and  eventually  grew  to  be  very  fond  of 
I  is  son-in-law. 

Patty  and  Remy  were  married  on  her  seventeenth  birthday.  I  first 
saw  them  in  the  court-yard  of  the  hotel,  but  afterwards  at  Sunnymede, 
vhere  they  spent  last  summer. 

Madame  Capuchon  is  not  yet  satisfied  with  the  butter.  It  is  a  very 
difficult  thing  to  get  anywhere  good.  Simonne  is  as  devoted  as  ever,  and 
tries  hard  to  satisfy  her  mistress. 


474 


(Srrssrp  mt  Gin 


As  You  Like  It  is  one  of  the  many  plays  of  Shakspeare  that  suffered 
much  at  the  hands  of  the  Shakspeare-tinkers,  of  which  class  Charles 
Johnson  was  one.  He  was  a  man  whose  career  was  of  considerable 
variety.  Like  a  number  of  other  young  fellows  who  had  commenced 
life  as  a  student  of  law,  he  took  to  reading  plays  instead  of  Coke  upon 
Littelton,  to  going  to  the  theatres  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  Drury 
Lane  instead  of  to  the  law  courts.  Any  day  he  might  be  seen  abroad 
with  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  Mr.  "Wilks — the  latter 
all  airiness  and  fine-gentlemanism — towards  whom  many  a  bright  eye  was 
directed,  as  the  handsome  actor  passed  along  the  causeway  or  under  the 
piazza,  while  many  a  smile  greeted  him  as  his  slight  but  sweet  Irish 
accent  was  recognized  in  his  lofty-toned  conversations  with  his  stout  friend. 
Charles  Johnson  had  an  alacrity  in  growing  fat:  he  begun  at  an  early 
period,  and  never  left  off  till  he  died.  Wilks  breathed  him  pretty  freely, 
but  Charles  panted  heavily,  yet  happily,  as  he  kept  up  with  his  lighter- 
heeled  and  swifter-going  friend.  His  admiration  for  Wilks  was  unbounded, 
and  the  graceful  player  repaid  the  homage  by  helping  to  bring  on  the 
stage  about  a  score  of  Johnson's  plays.  These  were  all  more  or  less 
popular  in  their  day.  They  all  belong  to  the  earlier  part  of  the  last  century, 
and  are  all  wrapped  in  wholesome  oblivion  now  ;  but,  in  their  time,  they 
made  a  celebrity  of  their  author,  and  as  he  went  into  Will's  or  Button's, 
or  looked  out  of  the  window  upstairs,  a  poet  or  a  player  at  his  side,  the 
street-public  gazed  at  the  group  with  interest.  At  that  period  every  man 
of  note  was  known  to  the  great  body  of  the  unknown,  for  London  was 
not  larger  than  Manchester  is  now,  and  in  certain  quarters  of  the  town 
the  same  faces  were  to  be  seen  every  day. 

Johnson,  like  most  fat  men,  was  a  good-natured  fellow.  His  worst 
enemies  could  not  say  more  in  his  disparagement  than  that  he  might  have 
been  thinner.  His  popularity  was  manifested  by  the  crowds  that  always 
attended  the  theatre  on  his  benefit — the  "  author's  nights,"  as  they  used 
to  be  called — and  his  audiences  were  inclined  to  look  on  his  writing  as 
something  not  far  off  the  free  style  of  Etherege,  the  easy  vein  of  SecQey, 
the  brilliancy  of  Congreve,  or  the  epigrammatic  humour  of  Wycherley. 
They  took  a  certain  ease  and  vivacity  for  proofs  of  wit.  They  forgot  that 
Johnson  was  merely  an  adapter  of  other  men's  ideas,  while,  at  the  same 
time  they  were  fain  to  confess  that  his  tragedies  only  escaped  being 
comedies  because  they  were  too  dull  to  raise  a  laugh. 

It  is  a  curious  social  trait  of  those  old  times,  not  that  this  coffee-house 
gallant  married  a  young  widow  with  a  fortune,  but  that  he  ceased  to  be  a 
gallant  at  all.  He  who  had  taken  his  punch,  his  chocolate,  or  his  claret, 


A  GOSSIP  ON   OUK  ROSALINDS.  475 

vvith  the  old  bards  and  young  beaux,  the  clever,  idle,  fine,  witty,  witless, 
or  scampish  gentlemen,  who  fluttered,  talked,  and  settled  the  reputation  of 
ministers,  authors,  poets,  players,  and  toasts  of  the  town,  over  their  liquor, 
now  took  to  serving  customers  of  his  own,  in  the  character  of  a  Boniface. 
With  his  wife's  fortune,  Johnson  opened  a  tavern,  or  succeeded  to  one  of 
the  old  ones  in  Bow  Street.  With  his  apron  on  and  a  scratch  wig  on  his 
head,  he  could  see  his  old  fellows,  the  gallants,  in  cataract  perruques  and 
swords  on  their  hips,  going  jauntily  by  to  the  resort  of  such  dainty  person- 
ages. But  these  sometimes  made  a  night  of  it  at  "  Charley's  ;  "  for  Bow 
Street  was  then  not  a  century  old,  and  Covent  Garden  Theatre  and  the 
police  office,  as  yet,  were  not.  Gentry  from  the  countiy  had  their  lodg- 
ings in  this  street  during  their  sojourn  in  town,  and  great  poets,  and 
fashionable  physicians,  and  famous  players  dwelt  there,  and  Wilks  himself 
lived  next  door  to  his  friend,  and  thought  none  the  worse  of  him  for 
selling  good  wine  and  not  objecting  to  long  scores.  When  Johnson's  wife 
died,  the  widower  retired  from  business  with  great  increase  of  fortune,  and 
lived  in  very  easy  circumstances  ever  after. 

Well,  this  dramatic  author,  who  began  life  with  an  intention,  on  his 
father's  part  at  least,  that  he  should  become  a  Lord  Chancellor,  and  who 
ended  it  by  being  a  retired  tapster  of  considerable  fortune,  would  hardly, 
perhaps,  be  remembered  now  at  all  but  for  having  come  under  the  scornful 
notice  of  Pope  in  the  Dunciad,  and  for  having  been  one  of  the  most 
audacious  of  the  Shakspeare-tinkers  who  re-wrote  Shakspeare's  plays,  in  the 
style  in  which  they  considered  he  ought  to  have  written  them,  if  he  had 
had  any  regard  for  his  own  reputation. 

Johnson  took  up  a  well-thumbed  volume  of  Shakspeare's  works  that 
lay  on  an  arm-chair  in  the  little  parlour  behind  the  bar  at  Will's,  on  one 
wet  morning,  and  he  opened  it  at  As  You  Like  It.  The  rain  without, 
and  inclination  within,  enabled  him  to  read  it  through  with  great  interest ; 
but  when  he  closed  the  book,  it  was  with  something  of  the  feeling  of  the 
sign-painter,  who,  after  executing  a  red  lion,  thought  of  the  jealous 
feelings  with  which  Titian  would  have  regarded  it,  and  exclaimed,  good- 
naturedly,  "  Poor  little  Titty !  "  Johnson  held  the  volume  in  his  hand,  and 
shook  his  head.  The  play  was  good,  but  he  thought  it  might  have  been 
better.  Hitherto,  As  You,  Like  It  had  been  looked  upon  as  something  too 
finely  exquisite  for  the  stage  :  as  partaking  more  of  a  poem  than  of  a  play. 
Rosalind  was  a  part  that  neither  Mrs.  Betterton,  Mrs.  Barry,  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle,  Mrs.  Mountfort,  Mrs.  Oldfield,  or  any  of  that  brilliant  sisterhood, 
had  ever  ventured  to  attempt.  There  was  nothing  like  Rosalind  in  any  of 
the  heroines  of  the  modern  comedy  of  the  day.  These  heroines  were 
hussies  of  the  most  audacious  and  intrepid  character ;  women  with  none 
of  the  attributes  of  true,  pure,  womanly  nature  about  them ;  and  Rosalind 
was  even  thought  too  purely  colourless  a  character  for  it  to  be  likely  to  be 
popular  with  audiences  accustomed  to  the  obscenity  which  contemporary 
playwrights  forced  upon  them  against  their  wills,  and  tried  to  persuade  a 
disgusted  public  that  they  liked  it. 


476  A  GOSSIP  ON   OUK  ROSALINDS. 

Johnson  addressed  himself  thus  to  his  work  of  improving  Shakspeare. 
He  began  with  the  title,  drew  his  pen  through  As  You  Like  It,  and  wrote, 
Love  in  a  Forest.  Coming  upon  the  dramatis  persona,  he  scored  out  some 
of  them  with  the  savageness  of  a  democrat  who  has  the  opportunity  of 
proscribing  his  friends  who  do  not  share  his  political  opinions.  We  perhaps 
might  have  pardoned  him  for  erasing  William,  Corin,  Phoebe,  and  Sylvius, 
but  never  for  expelling  Touchstone  and  Audrey  from  Shakspeare's  roll.  To 
turn  them  out  was  a  great  sacrilege ;  but  there  seems  to  have  been  an  idea 
prevalent  (when  the  coarsest  expressions  and  the  most  revolting  indecency 
were  considered  as  fitting  things  to  challenge  the  public  taste  withal)  that 
the  philosophy  of  Shakspeare's  fools  and  clowns  was  too  offensive  or  un- 
intelligible to  be  presented  to  a  British  public.  Thus  for  years  the  tender, 
faithful,  loving,  and  beloved  fool  in  Lear  was  banished  from  the  stage. 
Even  so  accomplished  a  dramatist  as  Colman  could  not  discern  the  beauty, 
poetry,  and  suggestiveness  of  that  incomparable  bit  of  fantastic  nature. 
He  pronounced  it  "  intolerable,"  a  character  that  no  audience  would  bear 
for  an  instant  on  the  stage  ! 

Equally  wonderful  was  Garrick's  insurmountable  aversion  to  the  grave- 
diggers  in  Hamlet.  They  had  charmed  many  a  generation,  but  they 
charmed  not  Roscius,  and  as  long  as  he  played  the  heir  of  Denmark,  the 
grave-diggers,  with  the  philosophy  of  the  one  and  the  simplicity  of  the 
other,  were  conspicuous  only  by  their  absence.  Garrick  opposed  every 
suggestion  for  their  restoration,  and  he  died  firm  in  the  faith  that  to  bring 
the  grave-diggers  on  the  stage  would  be  to  desecrate  all  the  passion  and 
philosophy  of  the  tragedy.  Anathema  maranatha  was  his  legacy  to  all  who 
might  dare  to  restore  our  ancient  friends  to  their  rightful  position. 
But  Garrick  pronounced  much  of  the  fifth  act  of  Hamlet  to  be 
"rubbish,"  and  he  wished,  as  Tillotson  did  of  the  Athanasian  Creed, 
that  we  were  "  well  rid  of  it ! "  He  was  influenced  a  little  by  Voltairian 
reasoning,  and  perhaps  by  the  fact  that  Hamlet  is  not  so  exclusively 
paramount  before  the  audience  as  in  the  preceding  acts.  Laertes  may  be 
said  to  have  almost  the  best  of  it ;  and  Charles  Kemble  knew  well  how  to 
make  the  most  of  that  best,  in  those  great  days  of  his  when  he  played 
such  capital  secondary  parts  as  Laertes,  Falconbridge,  Macduff,  and 
similar  characters,  demanding  for  their  fitting  interpretation  true  actors 
— men  of  intelligence  and  earnestness. 

Let  us,  however,  gossip  back  to  Charles  Johnson,  who,  after  altering 
the  title  and  ejecting  several  of  the  persons  of  the  drama,  proceeded 
to  improve  As  You  Like  It  after  his  fashion ;  and  a  very  droll  fashion 
it  was  ! — just  as  if  he  had  improved  his  own  wine-cellar  by  mixing  his 
claret  with  his  champagne,  and  pouring  his  rum  into  his  Rhenish. 
Johnson  put  some  of  the  speeches  of  the  characters  he  had  left  out  into 
the  mouths  of  others  of  the  characters  he  had  preserved.  Then  some 
lines  in  Richard  the  Second  striking  him  as  fine,  he  transferred  them  into 
his  first  act,  and  he  was  so  pleased  with  the  effect  that  he  looked  for  more 
good  things,  and  finding  what  he  lookecj  for  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 


A  GOSSIP  ON  OUR  ROSALINDS.  477 

he  clapped  it  all  into  his  third  act.  In  the  fourth  there  are  some  gems  from 
Twelfth  Night ;  Viola  does  duty  for  Rosalind,  and  the  last  scene  of  the 
original  play  is  fitted  in  here,  whether  it  will  or  no  !  Into  the  fifth  act  is 
inserted  much  from  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  including  all  the 
mock  play  of  "  Pyramus  and  Thishe."  The  pretty,  saucy,  pleasant 
epilogue  is  omitted  altogether. 

Wilks  looked  at  this  "hash,"  and  did  not  object  to  it.  He  was  to 
play  Orlando  himself,  he  said,  and  he  did,  having  for  the  first  Eosalind  on 
ivcord  as  played  hy  a  woman,  Mrs.  Booth,  the  "  Santlow,  famed  for 
dance,"  of  Gay.  Wonderful  woman  she  was,  with  her  dash  of  aristocratic 
baauty,  and  her  all  -  conquering  ways,  and  her  supreme  love  for  her 
husband  ;  in  token  of  which,  and  to  indicate  her  enduring  sorrow  thirty 
years  after  his  death,  this  first  of  our  Rosalinds  erected  the  tablet  to  his 
memory  in  Westminster  Abbey,  which  still  exists,  but  which,  through 
dust,  damp,  and  darkness,  can  now  be  deciphered  only  with  difficulty.  It 
was  "better  late  than  never!"  Barton  Booth  himself  acted  no  higher 
part  in  the  play  than  the  banished  duke,  while  Gibber  was  the  Jacques ; 
a  ad  his  son  Theophilus  (destined  never  to  be  hanged)  daintily  played 
M.  Le  Beau,  and  made  a  pretty  "  bit "  of  it. 

A  handsomer  pair  than  the  Orlando  and  Rosalind  who  presented 
themselves  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane,  on  the  9th  of  January,  1723,  the 
s^age  could  not  then  supply.  How  they  acted  is  nowhere  on  record  ;  but 
Wilks' s  Orlando  must  have  lacked  no  grace  the  part  demanded ;  and 
Mrs.  Booth's  Rosalind  was,  in  all  probability,  marked  by  more  sauciness 
than  passionate  feeling  in  sentiment  or  expression.  One  thing  is  certain, 
that  the  public  did  not  take  to  the  piece  kindly,  and  that  they  manifested 
a  desire  to  have  Shakspeare's  original  play,  and  not  Johnson's  mangling 
of  three  or  four,  to  make  an  imperfect  medley  out  of  one  perfect  whole. 

Whence  came  this  English  Rosalind  no  biography  can  tell.  She  first 
took  the  town  by  storm  as  a  dancer.  Terpsichore  herself  seemed  to  have 
visited  earth  in  the  person  of  Hester  Santlow,  one  of  whose  great  points 
in  the  ballet  was  to  let  her  clustered  auburn  hair  suddenly  loose  over  a 
pair  of  lustrous  shoulders  that  earned  the  hearts  of  the  whole  house  upon 
them.  She  was  so  full  of  fascination  that  even  Marlborough  would  have 
given  her  gold  for  a  smile ;  and  Craggs,  a  cold  Secretary  of  State,  did 
give  her  a  house,  where  he  was  master  and  she  was  mistress.  The 
daughter  of  that  equivocal  household  married  (successively)  into  the 
families  of  Hamilton  and  Eliot,  whereby  the  present  Marquis  of  Abercorn 
and  Earl  of  St.  German's  are  representatives  or  descendants  of  the  earliest 
of  our  English  Rosalinds,  who  left  the  ballet  for  comedy,  but  who  was 
lardly  equal  to  the  exigencies  of  Shakspearean  dramas.  Yet  her  gifts 
v  ere  many;  she  had  a  soft,  sweet  voice,  a  refined  aspect,  and  much 
intelligence,  but  she  who  originated,  with  such  marked  success  the  part 
of  Dorcas  Zeal  left  no  mark  in  Rosalind.  It  was  easier  to  wear  a  modest 
dress,  observe  a  "  reserved  decency  of  gesture,"  and  manifest  great 
s.mplicity  of  sentiment,  than  to  fulfil  the  exigencies  presented  in 


478  A  GOSSIP  ON  OUll  ROSALINDS. 

Kosaliud.  An  actress  with  intelligence  may  be  made  to  understand  what 
those  exigencies  are,  but  an  actress  of  intellect  will  discover  them  and 
supply  all  they  may  demand. 

And  the  next  Rosalind  was  exactly  a  player  of  that  quality,  though  she 
commenced  her  career  by  acting  at  Southwark  and  other  faii-s,  as  indeed 
many  noble  comedians  of  her  time  had  done.  Her  name,  in  that  earlier 
time,  was  Miss  Vaughan,  but  she  is  better  known  by  her  married  name  of 
Mrs.  Pritchard.  The  stage  had  to  wait  for  Shakspeare's  As  You  Like  It 
till  1741.  At  that  period  the  above-named  actress,  not  yet  famous,  was 
of  a  slim  figure,  moderately  fair,  as  Cowley  says  of  the  mistress  he 
imagined,  of  wonderfully  expressive  eyes,  with  easy  carnage,  elegant 
manners,  and  last  but  not  least,  a  clear  and  harmonious  articulation. 
When  Covent  Garden  put  Shakspeare's  play  on  'the  stage  in  1741,  this 
young  creature  had  not  had  much  experience  in  that  highest  walk  of  the 
drama.  She  had,  however,  acted  Ophelia,  a  part  which  Mrs.  Gibber  made 
exclusively  her  own,  and  which  no  actress  ever  illustrated  as  that  great 
artist  did.  On  the  other  hand,  the  stage  had  never  seen  a  truly  Shak- 
spearian  Rosalind  till  now,  and  the  charming  Mrs.  Pritchard,  by  her 
interpellation  of  the  part,  first  showed  her  claims  to  be  Queen  of  Comedy, 
as  her  Lady  Macbeth  did  to  her  being  Queen  of  Tragedy.  It  may  be 
reasonably  doubted  whether  even  Mrs.  Siddons  ever  approached  Mrs. 
Pritchard  in  Rosalind,  or  excelled  her  in  Lady  Macbeth. 

Drury  Lane  could  think  of  no  one  to  oppose  to  the  Rosalind  of  the 
other  house  till  Margaret  Woffington  suggested  herself  to  the  managers. 
Margaret,  like  Mrs.  Pritchard,  had  played  Ophelia  in  the  country,  but  Rosa- 
lind was  her  first  serious  attempt  at  Shakspeare,  in  London.  Her  training 
had  not  been  of  the  best  quality ;  her  Irish  birth  was  of  the  humblest, 
and  she  had  begun  life  in  Dublin  by  hanging  to  the  legs  of  a  rope-dancer, 
Madame  Violante,  as  the  latter  went  through  her  "  astounding  perform- 
ances." Mrs.  Woffington  was  so  thoroughly  a  lady  in  manner,  speech, 
bearing,  in  grace,  and  in  expression,  that  many  have  doubted  whether 
she  could  have  been  of  such  very  humble  origin,  and  such  degraded 
companionship,  as  her  biographers  assign  to  her.  The  fact  is  that  the 
lady  was  innate  in  Margaret.  It  was  in  her  from  the  first,  even  when  she 
carried  water  on  her  head  from  the  Lifiey  to  her  neighbouring  obscure 
home.  That,  in  spite  of  her  uncultivated  youth,  she  should  have  had  all 
the  graces  of  a  true  lady  (that  is,  all  save  one,  lacking  which  it  must 
be  confessed,  the  others  are  much  tarnished)  has  nothing  remarkable  in 
it.  Look  at  young  French  actresses ;  some  of  them  come  from  homes 
humbler  than  Margaret's,  if  that  can  be,  but  they  play  patched  and 
powdered  marchionesses  with  an  ease,  an  aplomb,  and  a  general  manner, 
as  if  they  had  been  born  into  the  peerage,  and  never  had  companionship 
save  with  what  was  refined  and  noble. 

For  about  fifteen  years,  this  untaught  but  well-inspired  Irish  girl  was 
the  popular  Rosalind  ;  and  yet  she  lacked  one  of  the  great  requisites  for  a 
perfect  interpretation  of  the  character — a  sweet  voice.  But  Margaret  was 


A  GOSSIP   ON   OUR  ROSALINDS.  479 

r.  woman  of  unbounded  resolution,  and  she  even  brought  her  voice,  just 
1,8  a  great  singer  with  a  refractory  organ  can  do,  under  such  control  that 
the  could  make  it  sound  like  a  silver  bell.  In  fact,  she  was  one  of  those 
real  artists  who  never  believe  that  they  are  such  great  proficients  but  that 
they  have  something  more  to  learn  ;  and  it  is  the  looking  for  such 
enlightenment  that  keeps  them  great  artists.  Betterton's  Hamlet  was  the 
grandest  of  all  Hamlets  for  half  a  century,  and  chiefly  for  this  reason,  that 
ihe  most  accomplished  of  English  players  never  ceased  to  study  the 
character. 

Margaret  Womngton  and  Mrs.  Pritchard  were  equally  unendowed  by 
education ;  but  both  were  earnest  actresses  and  apt  at  comprehending 
Iheir  authors.  Therefore,  they  were  sure  of  success,  though  it  might  be 
of  different  degrees.  They  divided  the  town  as  to  the  merits  of  their 
j-espective  Kosalinds  ;  but  Margaret's  air  and  remarkable  beauty  helped  to 
give  her  the  superiority,  notwithstanding  that  Mrs.  Pritchard  carried 
triumph  in  her  voice.  G-arrick,  of  course,  brought  Mrs.  Womngton  out  as 
'.Rosalind.  This  was  in  1747,  the  first  year  of  his  proprietorship  at  Drury 
Lane.  She  was  not,  however,  well  supported,  save  that  Kitty  Clive 
played  Celia  and  Macklin,  Touchstone.  The  receipts  on  her  first  night 
only  reached  99/.  8s.,  the  lowest  sum  received  on  a  Shakspeare  night ; 
:md  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  receipts  of  that  season  never  exceeded 
200Z.,  except  when  a  play  by  Shakspeare  was  performed,  and  that  King 
Lear  drew  the  largest  house,  one  paying  into  the  treasury  208L  In  that 
season  of  1747-8,  consisting  of  171  nights,  the  receipts  amounted  to 
21,0447.  15s.,  the  expenses  averaging  only  601.  a  night. 

Mrs.  Womngton  had  held  Rosalind  as  her  own  for  ten  years,  when,  on 
the  3rd  of  May,  1757,  she  put  on  the  dress  for  the  last  time.  She  was 
then  at  Covent  Garden.  Some  prophetic  feeling  of  ill  came  over  her  as 
she  struggled  against  a  fainting-fit  while  assuming  the  bridal-dress  in  the 
last  act.  She  had  never  disappointed  an  audience  in  her  life  ;  her  indo- 
mitable courage  carried  her  on  the  stage,  and  the  audience  might  have 
taken  her  to  be  as  radiant  in  health  and  spirits  as  she  looked.  She  began 
the  pretty  saucy  prologue  with  her  old  saucy  prettiness  of  manner  ;  but 
when  she  had  said, — "  If  I  were  among  you,  I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you 

as  had  beards  that  pleased  me "  she  paused,  tried  to -articulate,  but 

was  unable,  had  consciousness  enough  to  know  how  she  was  stricken,  and 
to  manifest  her  terror  at  the  catastrophe  by  a  wild  shriek,  as  she  tottered 
towards  the  stage-door.  On  her  way,  she  fell,  paralysed,  into  the  arms  of 
sympathizing  comrades,  who  bore  her  from  the  stage,  to  which  she  never 
returned.  Three  years  of  dying  followed,  and  then  passed  away  the  woman 
whom  her  play-fellows  loved  for  her  magnificent  kindliness  of  heart ;  the 
public  esteemed  her  for  her  rare  merits.  Even  bishops,  it  is  said,  forgot 
her  errors  in  the  excellence  of  her  tea  and  the  brilliancy  of  her  conver- 
sation ;  and  the  poor  of  Teddington,  where  this  Rosalind  died,  profit  at  this 
moment  by  the  active  and  abiding  charity  of  Margaret  Woffington. 

The  little  "  Barbara  S ,"  of  the  well-known  essay  by  Elia,  was  the 


430  A  GOSSIP  ON   OUH  ROSALINDS. 

next  Eosalind  whom  the  town  accepted.  The  town  knew  nothing  of  Miss 
Street,  the  Bath  apothecary's  daughter,  or  of  her  early  struggle  for  life 
and  a  position  on  the  stage.  She  first  appeared  as  Mrs.  Dancer ;  and  when 
she  assumed  Rosalind,  in  1767,  the  critics  of  Old  Drury  pronounced  her 
emphatically  good.  In  one  respect,  they  thought  her  superior  to  Pritchard 
or  Woffington,  having,  as  they  said,  "  a  more  characteristic  person  ;"  and 
the  phrase  is  significant,  if  not  happy.  She  played  the  part  to  the  Orlando 
of  that  plausible  Palmer,  who  once  persuaded  a  bailiff  who  had  him  in 
custody,  to  lend  him  a  guinea.  When,  eight  years  later,  she  played  the 
part  to  the  airy  Orlando  of  restless  Lewis,  the  Jaques  was  Spranger 
Barry,  the  second  of  the  three  husbands  of  Charles  Lamb's  "  Barbara 

S ."  Her  last  left  her  to  the  stage  as  Mrs.  Crawford,  whose  Lady 

Randolph  was  so  magnificent  a  piece  of  acting  that  young  Mrs.  Siddons 
wished  her  elder  sistei  in  art — comfortably  in  Paradise. 

Till  Mrs.  Siddons  herself  played  Rosalind,  in  1785,  at  Drury  Lane, 
no  other  had  much  attracted  the  town.  Mrs.  Bulkeley  had  resplendent 
beauty  and  unparalleled  audaciousness ;  but  Rosalind  requires  a  lady  in 
mind,  taste,  and  bearing  to  ensure  success ;  and  Mrs.  Bulkeley's  Rosalind, 
in  the  last  century,  was,  probably,  like  Mrs.  Nesbitt's  in  this,  too  glowing 
by  half.  Such  Rosalinds  are  to  Shakspeare's  as  Voltaire's  Pucelle  is  to 
the  genuine  Maid  of  Orleans.  Miss  Younge,  when  she  first  played  the 
character,  in  1779,  or  ten  years  later,  as  Mrs.  Pope,  did  not  offend  in 
this  way.  She  rather  offended  in  an  opposite  way,  and  was,  through  fear 
of  being  too  loving,  altogether  too  cold.  Miss  Younge,  however,  who 
was  Garrick's  last  and  favourite  pupil,  was  not  without  ardour.  In 
her  mature  years,  she  took  young  Mr.  Pope  and  married  him.  Many 
a  joke  was  fired  at  them,  and  Mrs.  Siddons  would  have  hers — to  the 
effect  that  the  bridegroom  would  be  the  only  boy  that  would  come  of  that 
marriage. 

In  1785,  Mrs.  Siddons  herself  tried  Rosalind.  Melpomene,  it  is  said, 
looked  ill  in  the  guise  of  Thalia.  She  was  so  scrupulously  modest  as  to 
wear  male  attire  in  the  forest,  such  as  no  male  or  female  had  ever  donned. 
It  belonged  to  neither  sex,  and  her  Rosalind,  in  like  manner,  belonged  to 
neither  comedy  nor  tragedy.  It  needs  archness,  and  of  that,  Charles 
Young  declared  it  had  not  a  particle,  though  it  "  wanted  neither  playful- 
ness nor  feminine  softness."  The  execution  fell  short  of  the  conception. 
Colman,  indeed,  said  rudely  of  Mrs.  Siddons'  attempts  out  of  tragedy, 
that  she  looked,  on  such  occasions,  "  like  Gog  in  petticoats  ;  "  and,  no 
doubt,  when  Mrs.  Jordan  appeared  in  1787  at  Drury  Lane,  as  Rosalind  to 
the  Orlando  of  John  Kemble,  Mrs.  Siddons  felt  that  her  own  attempt  in 
1785  was  a  mistake. 

Mrs.  Jordan,  however,  came  as  near  it  in  Rosalind  as  could  well  be. 
There  was  none  other  like  her  down  to  the  end  of  the  last  century,  and 
none  who  have  thoroughly  possessed  themselves  of  the  character  in  this, 
except  perhaps  Ellen  Tree,  but  certainly  Miss  Helen  Faucit  and  the 
young  Mrs.  Scott  Siddons.  The  interpretations  of  the  latter  two  ladies 


A  GOSSIP  ON  OUR  ROSALINDS.  481 

arc  wide  apart,  thoroughly  original.  They  preserve  throughout,  the  woman, 
— the  lady,  if  you  will — in  all  their  illustrations. 

Mrs.  Jordan  brought  laughter,  vivacity,  and  abounding  spirit  to  the 
task  ;  but  because  she  was  inimitable  as  Nell  or  incomparable  as  the  Eomp, 
it  is  not  necessary  to  conclude  that  she  brought  in  addition  the  manners 
of  either  of  those  lively  personages.  Mrs.  Jordan  had  heart  and  tact, 
impulses  and  judgment  to  control  them.  Doubtless,  her  Eosalind  was  as 
different  from  that  of  Miss  Helen  Faucit  or  Mrs.  Scott  Siddons  as  the 
Eosalind  of  either  of  these  ladies  is  unlike  that  of  the  other.  Nothing  can 
manifest  more  study,  more  excellent  method,  more  delicate  conception, 
more  artistic  execution  than  the  Eosalind  of  both  ladies,  and  yet  they  are 
altogether  different.  Miss  Faucit's  is  a  Eosalind  that  takes  the  serious 
side  of  the  character  :  the  doubts  and  fears  predominate.  She  has  anxious 
rather  than  tender  aspirations.  Her  hopes  are  timidly  rather  than  boldly 
conceived,  and  there  is  no  assurance  in  her  that  all  will  end  well.  There 
is  some  dread,  amid  much  playfulness,  that  all  may  come  to  an  ill  end. 
Mrs.  Scott  Siddons's  Eosalind  is  of  a  different  complexion  altogether. 
Slie  has,  in  the  first  place,  that  which  her  great-grandmother  lacked, — 
archness ; — and  yet  her  face  has  much  of  the  feature  and  expression  of 
her  tragic  ancestress,  with  whom  archness  was  the  last  trait  of  character 
she  could  assume.  The  new  Eosalind  is  a  Eosalind  full  of  courage.  She 
has  not  only  hope  but  confidence  ;  love  and  a  resolve  to  be  loved.  From 
the  very  first,  with  the  chain  she  gives  Orlando,  you  see  that  she  binds 
him.  to  her,  herself  to  him,  for  good  and  aye !  Clouds  may  come  and 
she  will  sit  in  their  shade,  but  she  knows  that  there  is  a  silver  lining 
behind  them.  Death  may  threaten,  and  she  may  tremble  a  little,  but 
"  odds  her  little  life"  there  is  to  be,  after  trial,  much  enjoyment  before 
that  debt  is  paid  ;  meanwhile,  her  heart  defies  all  obstacles  that  may 
stand  between  her  and  the  triumph  of  her  love.  The  study  to  produce 
what  appeared  so  unstudied,  so  natural  and  so  artless,  must  have 
been  great,  but  the  young  actress  is  repaid  by  her  success. 


482 


Saittf  mtir  Smuer, 


AH,  reverend  sir,  she  has  departed 
To  a  realm  more  holy  and  single-hearted  ! 
Draw  the  shroud  from  her  face  and  gaze  on  her  : 
She  looks  alive  with  the  red  sun's  rays  on  her. 

Her  hands  are  clasped  on  her  bosom  saintly, 
Her  cold  red  lips  seem  fluttering  faintly  ; 
So  silent,  with  never  a  stain  of  sin  on  her, 
That  the  light  seems  awed  as  it  creepeth  in  on  her. 

Why  do  you  shudder,  reverend  sir,  so  ? 
Your  prayers  and  counsels,  hallowing  her  so, 
The  sins  of  the  flesh  took,  night  and  day,  from  her 
Cover  her  up  and  come  away  from  her. 

Nay,  sit  a  little  and  talk  below  here, 

The  breath  can  come,  the  blood  can  flow  here. 

Ah,  sainted  sir,  your  conversation 

In  a  time  so  sore  is  a  consolation. 

Was  she  not  fashion'd  in  holy  mould,  sir, 
A  shining  light  in  your  blessed  fold,  sir  ? 
Took  she  not  comfort  and  peace  and  grace  with  her, 
—  snail  1  not  meet  in  a  better  place  with  her  ? 


If,  after  death,  in  the  time  of  waking, 
When  the  Trump  is  sounding,  the  new  dawn  breaking, 
We  met,  do  you  think  my  saint  would  rush  away, 
Avoid  me,  fear  me,  fly  with  a  blush  away  ? 

Must  the  gentle  souls  that  have  loved  and  plighted 

And  married  below  be  above  united  ? 

Is  there  a  meeting  and  never  a  parting  there  ? 

Are  old  wrongs  burning  and  old  wounds  smarting  there  ? 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  you  perceive  so  clearly 
What  racks  poor  sinners  like  me  severely  — 
Pardon  the  silly  fears  which  vex  me  so, 
Expound  the  points  which  in  life  perplex  me  so. 


SAINT  AND   SINNER.  483 

For  every  Sunday  that  softly  passes, 
The  scented,  silken  middle  classes 
Flutter  their  flounces  and,  good  lack  !  are  in 
Joy  at  your  feet,  good  Mr.  Saccharine. 

Cambric  handkerchiefs  scatter  scent  about, 
Pomaded  heads  are  devoutly  bent  about ; 
Silks  are  rustling,  lips  are  muttering, 
In  the  pastor's  emotional  pausing  and  fluttering. 

What  wonder  that  she  who  is  far  from  here  now, 
Singing  your  tunes  in  another  sphere  now, 
Became  so  saintly  that  earth  grew  vague  to  her, 
Her  sinning  husband  a  clog  and  a  plague  to  her  ? 

And  yearning  for  Love  and  the  faith  and  the  trust  of  it, 
Hating  the  flesh  (she  had  wed)  and  the  lust  of  it, 
Stole  to  the  sheepfold,  blushing  and  throbbing  there, 
Then  fell  on  ,the  breast  of  the  shepherd,  sobbing  there  ! 

Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  and  look  at  me, 

Casting  the  wrath  of  the  blessed  Book  at  me  ?  .  .  . 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  be  calm  and  stay  with  me, 

I  wander  .  .  .  my  fancies  run  quite  away  with  me. 

Yet  how  can  I  thank  you  as  you  merit 

For  the  light  you  shed  on  her  blessed  spirit — 

For  the  consolations  and  balmy  blisses,  too, 

She  found  on  your  lips,  and  their  cold  chaste  kisses  too  ? 

You  covered  her  eyes  with  white  hands  blessing ; 
You  hid  her  blush  with  your  pure  caressing, 
And  shut  out  earth  and  the  fears  that  wait  on  it, — 
The  Sinner's  face  and  the  white -heat  hate  on  it. 

And  I,  the  Sinner,  to  my  degradation, 
Dared  to  begrudge  you  her  conversation : 
Envied  her  love  for  the  heaven  you  offer'd  her, 
Hated  your  face  and  the  peace  it  proffer' d  her  ! 

Alas  the  folly,  alas  the  blindness  ! 

I  did  not  bless  you  for  your  kindness  ! 

But  only  cried  with  a  heart  the  sternest  then — 

Best  she  should  go  to  heaven  in  earnest  then  ! 


484  SAINT  AND   SINNER, 

For  at  night  she  lay  with  soft  lips  fluttering, . 
Dreaming  of  angels  and  faintly  muttering, 
And  once  or  twice  stirr'd  in  sleep,  and  alone  to  me, 
Mentioned  the  name  of  an  angel  well  known  to  me. 

That  angel  stands  high  in  the  estimation 

Of  your  silken  and  scented  congregation  ; 

And  she  murmured  his  name  with  her  heart  throbbing  faint  in  her, 

With  a  little  more  than  the  warmth  of  a  saint  in  her  ! 

And,  sinner  and  slave  that  I  am,  J  hated 

A  passion  so  holy  and  elevated : 

And  knowing  her  longing  from  earth  to  upspring  away, 

I  poison' d  the  flesh — that  the  sweet  soul  might  wing  away. 

And  because,  sir,  I  knew  of  your  longing  to  fly,  too, 
My  first  thought  was  darkly,  that  you,  sir,  should  die,  too  ; 
But  I  envied  you  death  and  the  peace  that  doth  dwell  in  it, 
And  kept  you  for  earth  and  the  hate  and  the  hell  in  it. 

I  kept  you  for  slower,  intenser  dying, 
Than  the  sleep  in  whose  bosom  that  lamb  is  lying ; 
Kept  body  and  soul  and  the  terrors  that  run  in  them, 
Td  complete  the  perdition  so  aptly  begun  in  them. 

And,  sainted  sir,  will  you  call,  I  wonder, 

The  hangman  to  come  and  tear  us  asunder  ? 

I  do  not  think  you  will  dare  to  stir  in  it, 

For  the  sake  of  your  sweet  pure  name  and  the  slur  in  it. 

How  the  scented  silken  congregation 

Would  stare  at  the  fearful  insinuation 

That  the  saintly  shepherd  who  saved  so  many  thero 

Was  a  sheep  himself,  and  as  rotten  as  any  there  I 

I 

But  if  you  would  prove  me  wholly  in  error, 
Touch  the  bell  and  proclaim  the  terror  .... 
Whether  the  terror  be  hidden  or  told  of  you, 
I  and  the  Devil  have  got  fast  hold  of  you  ! 


485 


Sfotturgs  from  the  ^ote-looh  D|  an  Mutoctojjd  ®ol(ecion 


PART  II. 

FEAV  manias  take  more  entire  possession  of  a  man  than  that  for  rare  and 
cur  ous  copies  of  old  books,  when  it  conies ;  and  even  to  those  who  can 
feel  no  sympathy  with  the  book- worm  there  are  certain  volumes  which  give 
a  taste  of  the  book- worm's  pleasures,  and  a  touch  of  his  enthusiasm. 
What  can  be  more  suggestive,  for  instance,  than  the  sight  of  the  first  book 
ever  printed  from  moveable  types,  the  Bible  of  Gutenberg  and  Fust,  issued 
at  Mayence  about  1455  ?  What  a  mighty  engine,  both  for  good  and  evil, 
has  the  press  been  since  then  ?  Whatever  other  objections  there  may  be 
to  ifc,  there  is  no  intrinsic  improbability  in  the  story  that  it  was  the  strange 
supply  of  "manuscripts  "  at  this  time,  all  so  precisely  alike,  which  gave 
rise  to  the  legend  of  the  Devil  and  Dr.  Faustus.  The  price,  however, 
at  which  they  were  first  sold  must  have  been  very  considerable,  since 
Van  Praet  tells  us  that  Gutenberg  had  spent  4,000  florins  before  twelve 
sheots  were  printed. 

Copies  of  this  "  Mazarine  Bible,"  as  it  is  called,  because  the  example 
thau  first  attracted  notice  in  modern  times  was  discovered  in  the  library  of 
Cardinal  Mazarin,  fetch  very  large  prices.  They  are  of  two  kinds — on 
vellum  and  on  paper.  Of  those  on  vellum  there  are  six  examples  known, 
of  the  others  about  twenty.  The  beautiful  MacCarthy  copy  on  vellum  was 
sold  for  6,260  francs  ;  it  afterwards  passed  into  the  noble  collection  of 
Mr.  Grenville,  who  bequeathed  it  to  the  British  Museum.  Another  example, 
with  two  leaves  supplied  in  manuscript,  sold,  in  1825,  for  504?.  A  copy 
on  paper  has,  however,  brought  even  a  larger  price  than  this — at  the 
sales  of  the  Bishop  of  Cashel,  in  1858,  where  it  fetched  596/.  It  was  the 
Duke  of  Sussex's  copy,  and  at  his  sale  had  been  bought  for  190/. 

Earlier  by  several  years  than  this  first  Bible  are  what  are  styled  block- 
bocks.  There  is  very  little,  if  anything,  to  recommend  them  except  their 
antiquity.  Both  the  woodcuts  and  the  text  (they  were  almost  always 
illustrated)  are  of  the  rudest  description.  As  they  are  without  date,  it  is 
impossible  to  arrange  them  chronologically,  on  anything  like  a  satis- 
factory plan ;  and  how  widely  those  who  have  studied  the  subject  differ 
in  their  conclusions  may  be  seen  by  comparing  the  ideas  of  Heinecken 
in  1771,  with  those  of  the  recent  work  of  Mr.  Leigh  Sotheby — Pnncipia 
Ty^ograpliica.  There  is  little  doubt  that  these  block-books  were  origi- 
nally produced  in  Holland  and  the  Low  Countries;  and  if  we  follow 
Mr.  Sotheby,  we  shall  place  first  on  our  list  the  Apocalypse  of  St.  John,  in 
Laun,  to  which  the  date  A.D.  1415-20  may  be  assigned.  The  only  known 


480  JOTTINGS  FEOM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

copy  of  what  Mr.  Sotheby  considers  the  first  edition  of  this  work  (accord- 
ing to  Heinecken  it  is  the  fourth,  whilst  his  first  is  Mr.  Sotheby's  fifth)  is 
in  the  possession  of  Earl  Spencer.  Of  the  second  edition  a  copy  is  in  the 
Bodleian,  from  Mr.  Donee's  collection  ;  he  gave  thirty-one  guineas  for  it. 

Of  all  these  block-books,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  is  the  Histories 
Vcteris  et  Novi  Testamenti,  or,  as  it  is  more  commonly  called,  the  Biblia 
Paiiperum,  first  printed  about  1420.  It  is  a  small  folio,  containing  forty 
leaves,  printed  on  one  side  only,  each  leaf  having  three  sacred  subjects, 
placed  side  by  side,  and  four  half-length  figures  of  prophets  or  saints,  two 
above  and  two  below  the  centre  subject.  The  rest  of  the  page  is  taken  up 
with  an  explanation  of  the  illustrations  in  Latin.  The  Inglis  copy,  which 
was  sold  in  1826  for  thirty-five  guineas — about  a  fourth  of  its  present 
value — and  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  E.  S.  Holford,  is  considered  by 
Mr.  Sotheby  to  be  a  specimen  of  the  first  edition.  Four  copies  of  other 
editions  are  in  the  British  Museum.  Examples  have  fetched  large  prices 
— one  in  1815  selling  for  200  guineas,  and  another  in  1813  for  245 
guineas.  The  edition  in  German,  printed  at  Nordlingen  in  1470,  sold  at 
the  Libri  sale  in  1862  for  220/.  Another  block-book,  the  Speculum  Humana 
Salvationis,  has  fetched  300  guineas,  and  the  Gardner  copy  of  the  German 
edition  of  the  Apocalypse,  now  in  the  British  Museum,  160Z. 

Very  curious  and  rude  are  some  of  the  early  attempts  at  the  new  art  of 
printing  from  moveable  types.  Look  at  the  Venice  edition  of  Homer's 
Batraclwmyomacliia  (1486),  printed  in  ink  of  two  colours,  black  and  red, 
the  one  giving  the  text,  the  other  the  interlinear  scholia.  Yet,  if  we  were 
to  judge  from  other  specimens,  we  should  say  that  the  art  of  printing  was 
perfected  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  conceived.  Take  for  instance  the 
Justin  of  Jenson  (Ven.  1470).  Nothing  can  exceed  the  excellence  of  the 
paper,  the  beauty  of  the  type,  the  artistic  set  of  every  page.  Jenson  had, 
of  course,  a  great  advantage  in  one  point  over  his  contemporaries  :  he  had 
been  employed,  before  he  took  up  the  new  art,  much  to  his  royal  master's 
disgust,  in  the  mint  at  Paris. 

The  rarity  of  books  depends  on  a  variety  of  circumstances.  Some- 
times an  author  has  been  ashamed  of  his  progeny  and  done  all  he  could 
to  get  it  consigned  to  the  flames.  Sometimes  works  have  been  suppressed 
by  authority ;  sometimes  accidentally  destroyed.  A  further  cause  of 
rarity  is  an  author's  fancy  for  having  only  a  few  copies, — sometimes  not 
more  than  ten  or  twelve,  in  one  case  only  a  single  copy, — struck  off  at  the 
first  impression.  Many  copies,  again,  were  made  imperfect  by  the  rage 
I  have  mentioned  in  a  previous  paper  for  illustrating  Grainger's  Biogra- 
phical History  of  England,  and  such  like  books,  by  portraits  torn  from 
other  works  ;  and  many  others  were  mutilated  by  a  yet  more  insane  mania, 
— the  collecting  title-pages,  of  which  there  are  several  volumes  in  the 
British  Museum. 

The  fires  of  persecution  were  lighted  in  the  Reformation  days  not 
only  for  authors,  when  they  could  be  found,  but  for  their  books  when  they 
could  not.  There  is  a  fragment  of  a  book  in  the  British  Museum  which 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  487 

is  of  the  highest  interest  to  English  Churchmen.  It  is  the  only  remaining 
portion  of  the  first  attempt  to  circulate  the  English  translation  of  the  New 
Testament  hy  means  of  the  press.  Cochlaeus,  in  his  Life  of  Martin 
Luther,  gives  us  a  history  of  the  book.  He  was  engaged  in  the  office  of 
Pete::  Quentell,  at  Cologne,  superintending  the  printing  of  the  works  of 
Abbot  Rupert,  when  he  heard  that  two  Englishmen  were  engaged  in 
prinling  at  the  same  office  a  book  that  would  convert  all  England  to 
Lutl  eranism.  By  inveigling  the  printers  to  his  lodgings,  and  plying 
then,  well  with  wine,  he  discovered  that  the  work  in  question  was  the  New 
Testiment,  of  which  2,500  copies  had  been  struck  off  as  far  as  sheet  K. 
He  immediately  gave  information  to  Herman  Rinck,  one  of  the  magistrates 
at  Cologne,  and  had  the  house  searched,  but  the  Englishmen  had  taken 
the  alarm,  and  had  already  disappeared  with  the  printed  sheets.  Another 
editi}n  was  printed  at  Worms  the  same  year,  probably  by  Schoyffer.  Both 
theso  editions  had  been  circulated  in  England,  when  in  October  and 
November,  1526,  Bishop  Tonstall  and  Archbishop  "Wai-ham  issued  orders 
prohibiting  the  use  of  them.  All  the  copies  that  could  be  bought  up  were 
bunt  publicly  by  Tonstall  at  Paul's  Cross;  "a  humane,  but  useless 
measure,"  as  Blunt  says  in  his  Sketch  of  the  Reformation;  "for  it  soon 
app<  ared  that  unless  he  could  buy  up  ink,  paper,  and  types,  he  was  only 
making  himself  Tindall's  best  customer."  Of  the  first  edition  the  Gren- 
ville  fragment  of  thirty-one  leaves  is  the  only  one  known ;  of  the  second 
ther  3  is  a  perfect  copy,  excepting  the  title-page,  in  the  rich  library  at  the 
Bapdst  Museum,  Bristol ;  of  a  third  edition,  printed  at  Antwerp  in  1526, 
thero  is  no  copy  known. 

The  first  portion  of  the  Old  Testament  printed  in  English,  excepting 
certain  "  Lyves  and  Hystorys  taken  out  of  the  Bible,"  which  Caxton 
inseied  in  his  Golden  Legende,  in  1483,  was  Tindall's  Pentateuch.  It 
was  issued  from  the  press  of  Luther's  printer,  Hans  Luft,  "  at  Malborow, 
in  ihe  land  of  Hesse."  By  an  Act  of  Parliament  passed  in  1542,  the 
marginal  notes  with  which  it  was  enriched  were  directed  to  be  cut  off. 
The  only  perfect  copy  now  extant  is  in  the  Grenville  Library. 

Among  the  rarest  books  of  divinity  is  The  Bible ;  that  is,  the  Holy 
Scripture  of  the  Olde  and  New  Testament,  faithfully  and  truly  translated 
out  <  f  Douche  and  Latyn  into  Englishe,  better  known  as  Coverdale's  Bible. 
"Where  it  was  printed  is  very  doubtful,  some  assigning  it  to  Zurich,  others 
to  Cologne,  Frankfort,  or  Liibeck.  The  Earl  of  Leicester's  copy  is  the 
onlj  one  possessing  the  title.  Lea  Wilson  offered  1001.  for  an  original 
title,  and  the  same  sum  for  the  next  leaf,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  When 
his  ;plendid  collection  of  Bibles  was  dispersed,  his  "  Coverdale,"  with  the 
two  missing  leaves  supplied  in  facsimile  by  Harris,  passed  into  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  Dunn  Gardner,  at  whose  sale,  on  July  7,  1854,  it  sold  for  365/. 
A  vury  imperfect  copy  sold  in  1857  for  190L 

The  great  fire  of  London,  in  1666,  made  sad  havoc  among  book 
stor  33.  Dr.  Bliss,  the  well-known  editor  of  that  amusing  piece  of  egotism, 
Hec,  rne's  Diary,  had  a  curious  collection  of  books  printed  during  the  years 


488  JOTTINGS  FBOM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

immediately  preceding  the  fire,  such  as  perhaps  had  never  been  assembled 
before.  Pepys  alludes  in  his  Diary  to  the  losses  sustained  at  that  time  : 
— "  September  22,  1666.  By  Mr.  Dugdale  I  hear  the  great  loss  of  books 
in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  at  their  Hall  also ;  some  booksellers  being 
wholly  undone,  and  among  others,  they  say,  my  poor  Kirton.  And 
Mr.  Crumlum,  all  his  books  and  household  stuff  burned :  they  trusting  to 
St.  Fayth's,  and  the  roof  of  the  church  falling  broke  the  arch  down  into 
the  lower  church,  and  so  all  the  goods  burned.  A  very  great  loss.  His 
father  hath  lost  above  1,000/.  in  books  :  one  book  newly  printed,  a 
Discourse,  it  seems,  of  Courts."  The  first  of  the  three  volumes  of 
Prynne's  great  work,  with  its  monstrously  long  title,  narrowly  escaped 
destruction  in  the  same  fire.  From  the  address  to  the  reader  at  the  end 
of  that  volume,  it  appears  that  only  seventy  copies  were  saved.  Sir  M.  M. 
Sykes's  copy  of  the  three  volumes  solcTfor  117/.  10s.  When  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham's  library  at  Stowe  was  dispersed,  a  portion  of  a  fourth  volume 
was  discovered,  consisting  of  400  pages  of  introduction.  This  unique 
fragment  excited  a  most  lively  competition.  It  was  finally  secured  for  the 
Library  of  Lincoln's  Inn  for  325Z. 

The  value  of  rare  books  depends,  of  course,  in  a  great  measure  on  their 
condition,  and  collectors  sometimes  value  the  margin  at  a  much  higher  rate 
than  the  text.  No  one  was  more  particular  on  this  point  than  "  Measuring 
Miller  "  of  Craigintinny.  Consequently  the  prices  quoted  in  bibliographical 
books  often  tend  to  mislead.  Copies,  for  instance,  of  the  first  edition  of 
Homer  (Flor.,  1488)  have  been  purchased  for  very  moderate  sums  ;  but  I 
know  of  one  copy — perhaps  the  finest  in  existence — which  cost  the  library- 
it  now  graces  84£.,  and  even  this  price  has  been  very  recently  exceeded. 

What  a  magnificent  bequest  was  that  of  Mr.  Grenville, — a  library  of 
something  over  20,000  volumes  which  had  cost  him  54,OOOZ.  It  richly 
deserves  the  noble  room  in  which  it  is  now  placed.  And  yet  it  is  said  that 
Mr.  Panizzi  could  not  get  so  much  as  a  piece  of  calico  given  him  to  keep 
the  books,  when  they  first  came,  from  the  dust.  Amongst  them  was  the 
only  known  copy  on  vellum  of  the  edition  of  Livy  printed  at  Rome  by 
Sweynheim  and  Pannartz  about  1469.  In  1815  it  had  fetched  903?. 

There  is  no  want  of  English  books  which  command  large  prices  at  sales. 
The  quarto  editions,  for  instance,  of  the  separate  plays  of  Shakspeare  cost 
large  sums.  What  prices  they  bring !  In  1856,  there  occurred  for  sale  The 
Tragicall  History  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,  1603."  Though  it  wanted 
the  title-page,  Mr.  Halliwell  was  content  to  give  120Z.  for  it.  Only  one 
other  copy  of  the  edition  was  known — discovered  some  fifty  years  since 
by  Sir  H.  Bunbury,  in  an  old  closet  at  B-arton,  in  Suffolk.  This  volume, 
which  contained  eleven  other  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  mostly  first  edition, 
afterwards  passed  into  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  for 
250Z.  The  duke's  copy  wants  the  last  leaf.  But  the  sale  at  which 
Shakspeare  collectors  went  altogether  mad,  was  that  of  Mr.  Daniel,  of 
Islington,  in  1864.  The  first  edition  of  King  Richard  the  Second 
(1597),  almost  unique,  fetched  825  guineas ;  that  of  King  Packard 


OF   AN    UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  489 

tie  Third  (same  year),  335  guineas  ;  The  Pleasant  Conceited  Comedie 
called  Loves  Labor's  Lost  (1598),  330  guineas;  Tie  History  of  Henrie 
the  Fourth  (second  edition,  1599),  110  guineas ;  The  Most  Excel- 
lent and  Lamentable  Tragedie  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  (1599),  50  guineas — (a 
copy  of  the  first  edition,  1597,  is  in  the  British  Museum,  bequeathed  by 
D  ivid  Garrick)  ;  The  Chronicle  History  of  Henry  the  Fifth  (1600),  220 
giineas  ;  Tie  Most  Excellent  Historie  of  tie  Merchant  of  Venice,  with  the 
Extreme  Cmeltie  of  Shylocke  the  Jcwc  (1600),  95  guineas  ;  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing  (1600),  255  guineas ;  Tlie  Midsommer  Night's  Dreame  (1600), 
280  guineas ;  The  most  Pleasant  and  Excellent  Conceited  Comedie  of  Syr 
John  Falstaffe  and  the  Merrie  Wives  of  Windsor  (1602),  330  guineas  ; 
Tl'e  Famous  Historic  of  Troilus  and  Cresseid  (1609),  109  guineas,  and  the 
Tragedy  of  Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice,  1551.  Of  his  other  works,  Lucrece 
(1594)  brought  150  guineas;  Venus  and  Adonis,  second  edition  (1594), 
240  guineas — (Mr.  Grenville,  in  1844,  gave  116Z.  for  the  copy  now  in  the 
British  Museum)  ;  and  the  edition  of  1596,  300  guineas;  and  an  edition 
of  the  Sonnets  (1609),  215  guineas. 

The  first  folio  edition  of  the  Works  of  Shakspeare  (1623),  so  admirably 
reprinted  by  Mr.  Booth,  is  a  rare  treasure.  The  Grenville  copy,  said  to 
be  the  most  beautiful  known,  was  bought  in  1819  for  116  guineas.  The 
Duke  of  Roxburgh's  copy  fetched  100  guineas.  At  Mr.  Baker's  sale,  a 
copy  described  as  the  only  one  containing  the  two  cancelled  leaves  in  As 
YouLikelt,  fetched  163L  15s.  It  was  bought  for  America.  But  Mr.  Daniel's 
copy  went  far  beyond  these  prices.  Most  likely  it  is  the  tallest  and  finest  copy 
in  existence ;  but  Miss  Burdett  Coutts  gave  for  it  no  less  than  682  guineas. 

In  very  few  cases  are  the  copies  of  this  edition  genuine  throughout ; 
page  after  page  generally  having  been  supplied  in  fac-simile  by  Harris, 
whose  imitations  are  so  exquisite  that  it  requires  considerable  discern- 
ment to  detect  them.  Not  unfrequently  he  obtained  paper  of  the  proper 
data  from  blank  sheets  in  the  State  Paper  Office.  No  wonder  his  eyesight 
failed  him  at  last ;  and  sad  it  is  that  such  an  accomplished  artist,  as  no 
doubt  he  was  in  his  way,  should  have  died  in  comparative  poverty. 

Specimens  of  the  earliest  productions  of  the  English  press  command 
very  large  prices.  What  was  the  first  book  printed  in  England,  is  a  ques- 
tion that  has  occasioned  no  little  controversy.  If  we  could  depend  on  the 
dat(  s  given  in  the  books  themselves,  we  must  give  to  Oxford  the  honour 
of  introducing  the  new  art  into  the  country.  There  is  an  edition  of 
St.  Jerome's  Exi^osicio  in  Simboliim  Apostolorum,  which  bears  the  date  1468. 
If,  lowever,  as  is  now  generally  believed,*  the  date  in  the  imprint  ought 

*  Hearnc,  however,  in  his  Diary  (May  7, 1719),  has  a  most  circumstantial  account 
of  ths  printing  of  this  book.  It  was  executed  by  F.  Corsellis,  one  of  Gutenberg's 
workmen,  who  had  been  brought  over  at  an  expense  of  1,500  marks,  300  of  which 
were  contributed  by  Archbishop  Bouchier,  and  the  rest  by  the  king.  The  archbishop 
bein^  Chancellor  of  Oxford,  sent  Corsellis  thither  under  a  guard  to  prevent  his  escape. 
After  printing  the  book,  he  returned  to  Flanders,  and  settled  at  Antwerp,  whither  ho 
was  followed  by  Caxton  to  be  instructed  in  the  art,  about  1470, 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  94.  24 


490  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

to  be  1478,  Caxton  must  have  the  credit  of  being  the  first  English  printer. 
Of  the  ninety-four  works  he  is  known  to  have  printed,  six  exist  only 
in  fragments,  twenty-seven  more  in  single  copies  ;  and  there  are  only 
twelve  of  which  more  than  ten  copies  are  extant.  Tho  most  extensive 
collection  of  Caxton' s  is  at  Lord  Spencer's,  the  next  at  the  British  Museum, 
where,  though  the  number  of  copies  is  larger,  the  number  of  separate  works 
falls  short  by  three  of  the  Spencer  collection.  His  earliest  works  were 
printed  abroad  ;  and  either  at  Cologne,  or  perhaps  more  probably  at  Bruges, 
where  the  printer  Colard  Mansion  employed  a  type  precisely  similar  to  one 
of  Caxton's,  he  published,  about  1471,  the  first  book  printed  in  English, 
the  Recuycll  of  the  Histories  of  Troye.  Sixteen  copies  of  this  are  in 
existence,  one  of  which,  a  matchless  one  though  wanting  a  leaf,  which  once 
belonged  to  Elizabeth  Grey,  Queen  of  Edward  IV.,  was  bought  by  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire  at  the  Roxburgh  sale  for  1060/.  10,9.  The  first  book 
he  printed  in  England  was,  The  Game  and  Play  of  the  Chesse,  dedicated 
to  that  Duke  of  Clarence  who  ended  his  days  in  a  butt  of  Malmsey.  His 
printing  press  was  "  in  the  Abbey  of  Westmynstre  by  London."  Of  other 
works  issued  from  his  press,  The  Boke  of  Tulle  of  Old  Age,  translated  out  of 
Latyn  into  Frenshe  .  .  .  and  emprynted  by  me  sym pie  per  son,  William  Caxton, 
along  with  his  Cicero  de  Amicitia,  sold  in  1858  for  2751. ;  his  Boke  of  the 
Fayt  of  Armcs  of  Chivalrye,  and  his  Grower's  Confessio  Amantis,  each 
brought  336?.,  and  his  Mirror  of  the  World,  S51Z.  15s.,  at  the  Roxburgh 
gale.  After  this  we  need  not  stop  to  mention  any  of  the  publications  of 
William  Maclinia,  Wynkyn  de  Worde,  or  Richard  Pynson  who  had  the 
honour  to  be  the  first  "  King's  printer." 

"  Not  worth  an  old  song"  is  a  saying  of  questionable  force.  Three 
volumes  of  very  rare  and  curious  ballads  were  sold  at  Mr.  Gutch's  sale  iu 
1858  for  thirty  guineas.  In  1852,  "  204  humourous,  romantic,  legendary, 
amatory,  and  historical  broadside  ballads,"  printed  in  black  letter  some  time 
between  the  middle  and  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century,  once  in  the 
Heber  collection,  were  purchased  by  Mr.  Halliwell,  at  Mr.  Utterson's  sale, 
for  104?.  10«.  One  of  the  most  famous  of  such  collections  was  the  Roxburgh 
one.  The  ballads  were  900  in  number,  ranging  from  1570  to  1680,  pasted 
in  three  volumes  folio,  and  fetched,  at  that  famous  sale,  4781. 15-s.  These 
are  now  in  the  British  Museum.  In  1820,  at  the  Bindley  sale,  four  lots 
of  ballads  and  broadsides,  printed  between  1640  and  1688,  which  had  been 
collected  by  Narcissus  Luttrell,  brought  781?.  But  far  beyond  even  this 
price,  in  proportion,  was  the  sum  given  for  some  old  ballads  at  Mr.  Daniel's 
sale.  They  were  seventy  in  number,  printed  between  1559  and  1597,  in 
most  beautiful  condition,  and  yielding  to  no  other  collection  in  interest  or 
variety.  Mr.  Daniel  gave  a  detailed  account  of  them  in  the  Illustrated 
London  Neivs,  1856.  The  price  they  were  sold  in  1864  for,  was  750?. 
The  Society  of  Antiquaries  has  a  collection,  and  there  are  five  volumes 
now  at  Cambridge,  collected  by  Pepys.  They  are  divided  into  heroic, 
romantic,  hunting,  love  pleasant,  and  love  unfortunate.  A  few  of  them 
are  old,  but  mostly  they  are  of  the  times  of  Charles  I.  and  Charles  II. 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  491 

Proclamations,  again,  when  they  occur  for  sale,  bring  large  prices.     A 
beautiful  volume,  in  Dr.  Bandinel's    collection,  of  the  proclamations  of 
Charles  I.,  from  1625  to  1633,  sold  for  81 /.     Six  volumes,  belonging  to 
the  reigns  of  Elizabeth,  James  I.,  Charles  I.,  and  Charles  II.,  brought, 
in  1858,  the  more  moderate  sum  of  78?.     "  The  most  complete  collection 
in  existence  of  the  original  black-letter  broadside  proclamations  of  the 
Irish  Government,  commencing  with  the  year  1678,  and  extending  through 
the  reigns  of  Charles  II.,  James  II.,  William  and  Mary,  Queen  Anne,  and 
George  I.,  to  the  year  1716,"  was  bought  at  the  sale  of  Dr.  Cane,  of  Kil- 
kenny, 1858,  for  the  Marchioness  of  Ormonde,  for  76?.     But  such  volumes 
have  fetched  much  larger  prices  than  these.     I  have  heard  of  one  picked 
up  on  an  old  bookstall  for  half- a- crown  selling  for  120?.     There  is  a  very 
fine  collection  of  proclamations  in  the  library  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries. 
In  the  Bodleian  is  the  magnificent  volume  of  Elizabethan  proclamations  ; 
and  the  library  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  has  a  collection  which  is  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  matchless,  ranging  from  1558  to  1C94.     It  contains  more 
than  1,000  proclamations,  to  say  nothing  of  a  very  large  collodion  of  acts, 
ordinances,  &c.,  issued  during  the  Commonwealth.     The  only  portion  in 
which  it  is  weak  is  the  time  of  Charles  I.     But  in  addition  to  this,  the 
game  library  possesses  two  most  precious  volumes,  containing  a  series  of 
proclamations,    partly   printed   and    partly   in   MS.,    from   the   time   of 
Henry  VII.  to  1641.     Many  of  the  manuscripts  are  the  original  draughts 
as  prepared  for  the  Privy  Council ;  some  of  the  Elizabethan  ones  having 
corrections  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Secretary  Cecil,  and  some  of  the 
Caroline  ones  in  that  of  Mr.  Secretary  Windebank.     Two  of  them  are  the 
original  copies  in  vellum,  with  the  signature  of  Charles  I.     But  perhaps 
the  most  interesting  paper  in  the  collection  is  a  copy  of  the  only  procla- 
mation issued  by  Lady  Jane  Grey.     It  is  a  somewhat  elaborate  document, 
beginning,  "  Jane,  by  the  grace  of  God,  Queen,"  &c.,  and  dated  "Julie  10, 
1553."     Grafton  lost  his  privilege  as  Queen's  printer  in  consequence  of 
having  printed  it.     It  was  at  one  time  supposed  to  be  unique.     Another 
copy,  however,  has  turned  up,  which  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the 
Antiquarian  Society  ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the  beautiful  copy 
at  Queen's. 

Very  curious  and  interesting  proclamations  turn  up  sometimes.  Not 
long  since  there  was  secured  for  the  Royal  Library  at  Windsor  one  of 
Queen  Mary,  declaring  herself  to  be  enceinte.  The  Bodleian  possesses  the 
proclamation  distributed  by  the  Spaniards  just  before  the  Armada,  declaring 
their  intentions  when  they  had  conquered  England.  Among  those  exhibited 
in  the  show-cases  in  the  British  Museum  is  that  of  King  Charles  II.  order- 
ing the  suppression  of  two  of  the  works  of  Milton  ;  who  is  therein  stated 
to  have  fled  from  justice  ;  that  issued  September  15,  1714,  offering 
100,000?.  for  the  apprehension  of  Prince  James  should  he  attempt  to  land 
in  England  ;  and  that  issued  August  22, 1745,  by  Charles  Edward  "  Prince 
of  Wales,"  offering  30,000?.  for  the  apprehension  of  the  "Elector  of 
Hanover."  Some  other  very  interesting  papers  are  displayed  in  the  same 

24—2 


492  JOTTINGS   PROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

collection :  for  instance,  a  copy  of  the  ninety-five  propositions  which 
Luther  on  the  31st  of  October,  1517,  posted  on  the  doors  of  the  church  of 
Wittemberg;  and  the  handbill  and  challenge  of  "  Admirable  "  Crichton,  put 
up  on  the  church  doors  in  Venice  in  1580. 

The  prices  obtained  by  rare  books  at  auctions  are  at  times  utterly 
beyond  all  calculations  of  chances.  The  object  of  ambition  vires  acquirit 
eundo  and  the  excitement  leads  collectors  into  vagaries  which  surely  must 
be  as  surprising  to  themselves  in  sober  moments  as  to  everybody  else. 

The  most  stupendous  price  ever  obtained  for  any  book  was  what  the 
Boccaccio's  Decameron  of  1471  brought  at  the  Roxburgh  sale.  At  the 
beginning  of  this  century  the  copy  then  and  for  a  long  time  afterwards 
considered  to  be  unique  was  in  the  possession  of  a  London  bookseller, 
and  was  purchased  by  the  duke  for  100  guineas.  Two  other  copies  are 
known  now — one  in  the  Arnbrosian  Library  at  Milan,  the  other  in  the 
Imperial  Library,  Paris.  But  the  first  wants  one,  and  the  second  three 
leaves.  The  edition  is  said  to  have  been  suppressed  by  papal  authority. 

The  17th  of  June,  1812,  is  the  dies  cretd  notandus  in  the  annals  of 
bibliomania.  Dibdin  has  a  most  graphic  account  of  it  in  his  Bibliographical 
Decameron.  One  extract  will  give  the  pith  of  his  story : — 

"  The  honour  of  firing  the  first  shot  was  due  to  a  gentleman  of 
Shropshire,  unused  to  this  species  of  warfare,  and  who  seemed  to  recoil 
from  the  reverberation  of  the  report  himself  had  made.  '  One  hundred 
guineas,'  he  exclaimed.  Again  a  pause  ensued ;  but  anon  the  biddings 
rose  rapidly  to  five  hundred  guineas.  Hitherto,  however,  it  was  evident 
that  the  firing  was  but  masked  and  desultory.  At  length  all  random  shots 
ceased  and  the  champions  before  named  (Earl  Spencer  and  the  Marquis  of 
Blandford)  stood  gallantly  up  to  each  other,  resolving  not  to  flinch  from  a 
trial  of  their  respective  strengths.  A  thousand  guineas  were  bid  by  Earl 
Spencer,  to  which  the  Marquis  added  ten.  You  might  have  heard  a  pin 
drop.  All  eyes  were  turned — all  breathing  well  nigh  stopped — every 
sword  was  put  home  within  its  scabbard,  and  not  a  piece  of  steel  was  seen 
to  move  or  to  glitter  except  that  which  each  of  these  champions  brandished 
in  his  valorous  hand."  At  length  Lord  Spencer  had  bid  2,250/.  The 
Marquis  quietly  added  his  usual  ten,  and  down  dropped  the  hammer. 
When  the  Marquis's  library  was  disposed  of  in  1819,  the  day  chosen  for 
the  sale  of  this  famous  book  was  the  17th  of  June,  the  anniversary  of  its 
former  sale.  But  nothing  could  revive  the  old  excitement,  and  it  was 
knocked  down  for  918£.  15s.  It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Lord 
Spencer. 

Of  illustrated  works  I  must  only  mention  one,  Turner's  Liber 
Studiorum.  ;Here,  also,  Turner  put  himself  forward  as  the  rival  of 
Claude.  Finding  that  many  forgeries  of  his  pictures  were  being  sold 
as  original,  Claude  determined  to  make  drawings  of  all  his  pictures, 
adding  the  names  of  the  persons  who  commissioned  them.  These  drawings 
accumulated  till  at  his  death  he  is  said  to  have  left  six  volumes  of  them. 
Only  one  is  at  present  in  existence,  containing  200  drawings,  and  is  in 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  493 

the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire.  It  is  known  as  Claude';? 
Liber  Veritatis.  When  Turner  determined  to  publish  a  series  of  drawings 
which  should  far  eclipse  this  celebrated  volume,  he  engaged  Mr.  Lewis 
as  his  engraver,  but  the  remuneration  was  so  inadequate  that  the 
artist  soon  refused  to  proceed.  Several  other  engravers  were  then 
engaged,  Turner  executing  some  of  the  plates  himself.  Often  after  the 
plate  had  been  engraved,  and  several  impressions  taken  off,  Turner 
made  large  alterations,  and,  consequently,  anything  like  a  perfect  copy 
of  the  etchings  is  a  most  difficult  thing  to  procure.  The  subscription 
price  was  17/.  18s.  In  1865,  Messrs.  Sotheby  and  Wilkinson  offered  for 
sale  what  was  described  as  the  best  entire  copy  of  the  work  known  to 
exist,  each  proof  being  in  the  earliest  state,  having  been  selected  at  the 
printer's  before  the  impressions  were  issued  to  subscribers.  There 
were  also  in  it  some  artist's  proofs,  much  touched  and  drawn  over 
;ind  altered  by  Turner,  and  in  many  cases  bearing  his  own  autograph 
directions  to  the  engraver.  It  fetched  the  very  large  sum  of  4507. 
"Vfr.  Thornbury,  in  his  Life  of  Turner,  says,  "  Before  his  death " 
' '  a  copy  sold  for  thirty  -  one .  guineas,  and  since  his  death  fine  copies 
have  sold  for  3,000?."  But  Mr.  Thornbury  here  refers  to  the  Stokes' 
( ollection  of  etchings,  proofs,  and  every  known  plate,  besides  many  dupli- 
cates. This  collection  was  offered  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum  for 
£,500?.;  on  the  purchase  being  declined,  it  was  broken  up,  and  produced 
about  3,000?. 

Bindings  arc  sometimes  as  much  the  objects  of  a  collector's  ambition 
as  the  books  themselves.  Towards  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  very 
beautiful  bindings  were  made  for  the  Medici,  the  Delia  Rovere,  the  D'Este, 
aad  other  noble  families.  Aldus,  the  famous  printer  of  Yenice,  was  perhaps 
the  first  to  issue  books  in  different  styles  of  covering,  to  suit  the  tastes 
aad  purses  of  his  customers.  There  are  very  early  bindings  which  appear 
to  have  been  stamped  from  engraved  blocks.  Some  of  them  may  be  even 
earlier  specimens  of  wood  engraving  than  the  Spencer  St.  Christopher. 

One  of  the  first  collectors  whose  bindings  are  sought  after  is  Michael 
jNJajoli ;  but  it  was  his  kinsman,  Thomas  Majoli,  whose  devices  and  style 
of  ornamentation  were  first  imitated  by  foreign  bookbinders.  Upon  his 
books  is  found  the  inscription,  "  Tho.  Majoli  et  amicor."  Besides  this 
there  is  his  motto,  which  was  generally  "Inimici  mea  michi,  non  me 
michi ; "  and  more  rarely,  as  an  example  in  the  British  Museum,  "  Ingratis 
servire  nephas."  At  the  Libri  sale,  in  1859,  where  there  were  so  many 
magnificent  specimens  of  bindings,  one  volume  sold  for  91/. ;  another,  at 
the  Bergeret  sale,  produced  104?. 

Still  more  famous  are  the  "Grolier"  bindings.  Jean  Grolier  was 
bom  at  Lyons  in  1479.  He  was  employed  by  Francis  I.  as  paymaster- 
general  to  his  forces  in  Italy,  and  was  afterwards  sent  on  a  political 
mission  to  Clement  VII.,  who  had  become  very  much  attached  to  him. 
Ho  died  in  1565,  but  his  library  was  not  dispersed  till  1675.  There  are 
forty  or  more  volumes  from  it  now  in  the  British  Museum.  The  earlier 


494  JOTTINGS  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

"  Groliers"  are  only  ornamented  with  combinations  of  various  lines,  but 
more  elaborate  devices  of  flowers,  &c.  were  afterwards  introduced.  Grolier 
had  two  or  three  mottoes  which  he  used  for  his  books,  but  his  usual  one 
is,  "  Portio  mea,  Domine,  sit  in  terns  viventium."  At  the  Libri  sale  a 
folio  Heliodorus,  described  as  the  "most  superb  specimen  of  Grolier 
binding  ever  offered  for  sale,"  produced  110Z.  The  book  itself  may  be 
had  for  a  few  shillings.  But  even  this  price  was  exceeded  at  the  same 
sale.  Aldus  printed  the  works  of  Machiavelli,  in  1540,  in  four  separate 
octavo  volumes.  Grolier  had  his  copies  bound  in  four  different  patterns. 
One  of  the  volumes  is  now  in  the  British  Museum  ;  another  in  the  Impe- 
rial Library,  Paris  ;  a  third  is,  or  was,  in  a  private  collection  at  Lyons ; 
and  the  fourth  was  sold  at  the  Libri  sale  for  150Z.  The  binding  is  almost 
always  in  morocco  ;  but  one  specimen  in  ornamented  vellum,  the  only  one 
known,  sold  at  the  same  sale  for  111. 

Books  which  formerly  belonged  to  the  Library  of  Diana  of  Poictiers  are 
eagerly  sought  after.  They  are  in  two  styles  of  binding, — one  much  less 
ornamented  and  thought  to  show  her  own  taste,  the  other  more  elaborate 
and  considered  to  be  the  gift  of  her  royal  lover,  Henry  II.  The  celebrated 
artist  "  le  petit  Bernard  "  is  said  to  have  been  employed  upon  them,  just 
as  Holbein  is  reported  to  have  furnished  Jos.  Cundall,  King  Henry  VIII. 's 
bookbinder,  with  devices.  Citron  morocco  was  perhaps  Diana's  favourite 
binding :  the  sides  of  the  volumes  being  ornamented  with  her  cipher, — 
the  double  D  interlacing  with  H  ;  and  her  devices,  the  interlaced  crescents 
and  crowned  H,  filling  up  the  spaces  of  the  elegantly  scrolled  border.  At 
the  Libri  sale,  two  specimens  from  her  library,  both  of  them  works  of 
divinity,  produced  801.  and  85?. 

Another  connoisseur  in  bindings  was  the  collector  Demetrio  Canevari, 
or  Mecenate,  as  he  is  also  called,  physician  to  the  Papal  Court.  His 
motto  is  "  OP0Q2  KAI  MH  AOSIQ2,"  and  his  device  a  medallion,  beau- 
tifully heightened  with  gold,  silver,  and  colour,  representing  Apollo  driving 
his  car  across  the  sea  towards  a  rock  on  which  his  winged  Pegasus  is 
pawing  the  ground.  Specimens  of  his  library  are  of  rare  occurrence ;  one 
in  the  Libri  collection  sold  for  731.  Another  collector  who  had  very  good 
taste  for  bindings  was  the  infamous  Orsini,  who  strangled  his  wife  with  his 
own  hands. 

I  may  just  mention  one  specimen  of  English  bookbinding  which 
occurred  at  the  Libri  sale,  the  finest  example  of  the  art  in  the  16th  century, 
from  the  library  of  King  Edward  VI.  It  produced  34Z.  10s.  Specimens 
of  most  of  the  bindings  I  have  mentioned — some  of  them  very  fine  ones — 
may  be  seen  in  the  show-cases  in  the  British  Museum. 

Very  magnificent  bindings  were  in  use  long  before  the  invention  of 
printing.  In  the  accounts  of  the  wardrobe  of  Edward  IV.,  for  instance, 
it  appears  that  Piers  Bauduyn  was  paid, -for  "binding,  gilding,  and 
dressing"  two  books,  twenty  shillings  each,  and  sixteen  shillings  each  for 
four  others.  Now  twenty  shillings  in  those  days  would  have  bought  an 
ox.  But  even  this  does  not  represent  the  whole  cost.  The  binder  had 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  495 

six  yards  of  velvet,  as  many  of  silk,  besides  laces,  tassels,  copper  and 
,*ilt  clasps  and  gilt  nails,  supplied  to  him.  And  when  we  remember 
•he  enormous  prices  of  velvet  and  silk  in  those  days,  bookbinding, 
-,\'e  are  sure,  must  have  been  costly  indeed.  Perhaps  the  finest 
collection  of  beautifully-bound  books  ever  formed  was  that  which  belonged 

10  Corvinus,  King  of  Hungary,   who  died  at   Buda  about  1490.     The 
' -olum.es — 30,000  in  number,   mostly   of  course  MSS. — were   bound  in 
brocade,  with  bosses  and  clasps  of  gold  and  silver.     When  Buda  was 
iaken,  in  1526,  the  Turks  very  naturally  tore  off  the  covers.     One  most 
exquisite  specimen  of  rich  binding  is  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum. 

1 i  is  a  missal  case — of  small  octavo  size — of  Italian  work,  about  1580. 
The  binding  is  gold,  ornamented  with  translucent  ruby,  emerald  and  azure 
( name!.     On  one  side  is  represented  the  creation  of  Eve,  with  beasts  and 
i  llegorical  figures ;  on  the  other,  the  fountain  of  Fame,  with  figures,  some 
c  linking,  others  reclining.     It  is  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  Henrietta 
TIaria,   Queen   of  Charles  I.     It   cost   the   Museum  7001.     Still   more 
valuable  was  the  "  Golden  Bible,"  sent  over  from  Russia  to  the  Exhibition 
cf  1862.     It  was  bound  in  precious  metals,  and  thickly  studded  with 
turquoise,  diamonds,  and  Siberian  amethysts,  and  was  valued  at  4,000f. 
1  Jter  this,  we  need  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  when  Landino  had  pre- 
S2nted  a  copy  of  the  Dante  of  1481  on  vellum  to  the  Republican  Govern- 
ment of  Florence,  beautifully  embellished  with  nielli,  he  was  rewarded 
with  the  present  of  a  castle. 

The  collector  has  another  field  for  his  enthusiasm  in  autographs ;  of 
^hich  the  show-cases  in  the  British  Museum  display  some  most  interesting 
specimens.  There,  for  instance,  is  the  great  Duke's  list  of  the  cavalry 
uader  his  command,  written  on  the  field  of  Waterloo  just  before  the 
battle  ;  there  is  Nelson's  last  letter  to  Lady  Hamilton,  found  open  on  his 
d3sk  and  unfinished  after  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
that  character  may  be  detected  in  handwriting.  Look,  for  instance, 
aG  the  free,  dashing  penmanship  of  Prince  Rupert,  and  the  hard, 
Btern,  self-contained  signature  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  At  the  sale  of 
the  Baker  collection  in  1855,  occurred  a  very  interesting  letter  of  the 
Prince  to  Charles  I.  He  had  been  ordered  to  leave  England,  and  writes 
tc-  remonstrate.  "  The  meanest  subject  you  have  could  not  be  soe  unkinde 
a:  id  unnaturally  treated  with  ;  however,  it  shall  never  lessen  my  respect 
t(  your  Majestie,  though  I  am  now  afflicted,  you  should  be  persuaded 
tc  doe  soe  unhandsome  a  thing  with  the  ill-usage  of  your  Majestie's  most 
obedient  nephew  and  faithful  servant,  RUPERT."  It  sold  for  13  guineas. 
Perhaps  the  largest  sum  a  letter  of  Cromwell  had  ever  produced  was  in 
1854,  when  that  to  Mr.  Cotton,  "  Pastor  to  the  Church  at  Boston,  in  New 
England,"  sold  for  36/.  It  was  bought  for  America.  The  Baker  collection 
h  id  a  very  interesting  letter  of  Charles  I.  to  the  Marquis  of  Ormond,  in 
w  lich  he  declares  war  to  be  better  than  a  dishonourable  peace,  and  prefers 
"  the  chance  of  warr  than  to  give  my  consent  to  any  such  allowance  of 
P<>pcry  as  must  evidently  bring  destruction."  This  sold  for  71 /.  At  tho 


496  JOTTINGS  FHOM   THE    NOTE-BOOK 

same  sale  was  an  equally  interesting  letter  from  Lord  Strafford  to  his  wife, 
whilst  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  expressing  his  belief  that  there  was  nothing 
in  the  charge  against  him,  or  that,  "  at  the  worst,  his  Majesty  will  pardon 
all."  This  produced  40?.  10s. 

In  the  library  at  Windsor  is  preserved  a  very  interesting  literary  relic 
of  the  unfortunate  King.  Anybody  that  has  read  Milton's  Iconodastes  will 
remember  the  passage  : — "  I  shall  not  instance  an  abstruse  writer,  wherein 
the  King  might  be  less  conversant,  but  one  whom  we  well  know  was  the 
closet  companion  of  these  hid  solitudes,  William  Shakspeare."  The 
King's  copy  is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  royal  library. 

Of  autographs  in  books  the  British  Museum  has  a  very  rich  collection, 
though  at  the  time  when  the  reckless  sale  of  duplicates  was  practised, 
some  volumes  were  most  culpably  parted  with.  Among  them  is  said  to 
have  been  King  Henry  VIII. 's  copy  of  the  book  that  won  for  him  the 
title  of  defender  of  the  faith,  with  his  autograph  corrections,  and  a  copy 
of  the  works  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  with  notes  by  James  I.  But  there 
is  no  chance  of  the  present  chief  librarian  committing  such  mistakes  as 
these.  Oxford,  however,  has  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  Museum  mal- 
practices, since  she  owes  to  them  the  possession  of  the  splendid  Douce 
collection. 

At  the  Hibbert  sale  in  1829,  there  was  purchased  for  the  Museum,  for 
the  sum  of  267?.  15s.,  a  German  Bible,  said  to  have  belonged  to  Luther 
up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  and  afterwards  to  Melancthon,  Bugenhegius, 
and  Major.  Autographs  of  all  these  famous  men  were  in  it.  If,  how- 
ever, we  are  to  believe  Mr.  Sotheby,  they  are  all  forgeries.  Less  open  to 
doubt  is  a  letter — closely  connected  with  the  history  of  religion — of  John 
Wesley  to  "Dear  Sammy."  In  it  he  says,  "I  still  think  when  the 

Methodists  leave  the  Church  of  England,  God  will  leave  them It 

would  be  contrary  to  all  common  sense,  as  well  as  to  good  conscience, 
to  make  a  separation  now." 

There  are  few  things  in  literary  history  more  remarkable  than  the 
fact  that  relics  of  the  handwriting  of  so  voluminous  an  author  as 
Shakspeare  are  so  rare.  There  do  not  appear  to  be  more  than  five 
or  six  that  are  undoubtedly  genuine.  There  are,  of  course,  the  three 
signatures  to  his  will,  and  the  Guildhall  Library  has  the  counterpart  of 
the  document  to  be  mentioned  presently,  for  which  was  paid  the  sum 
of  147?.  In  1858  the  British  Museum  secured  the  original  mortgage- 
deed  by  which  "  William  Shakspeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  gentleman," 
granted  to  Henry  Walker,  citizen  of  London,  a  lease  of  a  dwelling-house 
in  Blackfriars,  for  the  term  of  ten  years.  On  the  first  of  the  four  labels  which 
are  attached  to  it  is  the  signature  "  W1?  ShakspTf."  It  cost  the  Museum  300 
guineas.  In  1805  the  Bodleian  Library  secured  a  specimen,  which 
there  is  little  doubt  is  genuine,  at  a  ridiculously  small  price.  It  is  written 
in  faded  ink  on  the  title-page  of  a  small  octavo  Aldine  edition  of  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses  (1502).  The  signature  is  "  Wm.  Shr."  The  owner  of 
the  book  in  1682  wrote  within  the  cover,  "  This  little  book  of  Ovid 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  497 

vras  given  to  rfie  by  W.  Hall,  who  sayd  it  was  once  Will.  Shakspeare's." 
frame  doubts  were  thrown  upon  the  genuineness  of  the  signature  in  the 
auction-room,  and  the  library  became  possessed  of  this  rich  treasure 
for  91. 

If,  however,  there  is  a  singular  scarcity  of  Shakspeare's  auto- 
graphs, this  is  by  no  means  the  case  with  those  of  another  of  our  greatest 
poets,  Milton.  The  Library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  has  a  rich 
collection  of  his  juvenile  and  other  poems — including  Comus,  Lycidas,  and 
the  first  design  of  what  was  afterwards  Paradise  Lost.  Its  original  form  is 
that  of  a  Scriptural  drama.  The  MS.  of  the  first  book  of  Paradise  Lost 
\\hich  was  forwarded  to  London  for  licensing,  is  now  in  the  possession  of 
Mr.  Baker,  of  Bayfordbury,  Herts.  In  the  Bodleian,  again,  are  some 
autographs  of  his  works  which  he  had  presented  to  Dr.  Kous,  its  principal 
librarian.  In  the  British  Museum  is  a  volume  of  Aratus  with  his  auto- 
graph which  was  purchased  for  40?.  10s.  But  perhaps  the  most  interesting 
of  Milton's  papers  is  the  covenant  indenture  between  himself  and  Samuel 
Symons,  printer,  for  the  sale  and  publication  of  Paradise  Lost.  It  is 
duted  April  27,  1667.  By  it  the  printer  was  to  pay  him  51.  at  once,  and 
5/.  additional  on  the  sale  of  each  of  the  first  three  impressions — each 
impression  consisting  of  1,800  copies.  Milton,  therefore,  was  to  receive 
20/.  in  all,  if  3,900  copies  were  sold.  The  sale,  however,  never  reached 
this  point,  for  by  a  deed  of  release  made  by  his  widow  in  1680,  she 
covenants  to  receive  81.  in  full  of  all  demands,  10?.  having  been  paid 
previously.  The  original  deed  was  formerly  in  the  possession  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  at  whose  sale  it  fetched  63?.  It  afterwards  belonged 
to  the  poet  Kogers,  who  gave,  it  is  said,  100  guineas  for  it.  He  presented 
it  to  the  British  Museum.  Mr.  Sotheby,  however,  in  his  sumptuous 
volume,  Ramblings  in  the  Elucidation  of  the  Autograph  of  Milton,  would 
have  us  believe  that  the  signature  after  all  is  not  really  Milton's — not 
because  it  is  impossible  for  a  blind  man  to  make  a  signature,  as  anybody 
miiy  convince  himself  on  being  blindfolded,  but  because  it  is  so  exactly 
like  the  hand  of  an  amanuensis  employed  on  his  treatise  De  Doctnna 
Clrist'iana.  In  1858  Mr.  Monckton  Milnes — now  Lord  Houghton — 
secured  a  similar  example  signature  to  the  conveyance  of  a  bond  for  400?. 
to  the  Cyriack  Skinner  to  whom  Milton  dedicated  his  noble  sonnet  on  his 
bliidness.  The  price  paid  was  only  19  guineas.  It  had  belonged  to 
Mr.  Singer,  at  whose  sale  an  interesting  letter  from  Nell  Gwynne  was 
disposed  of.  It  is  addressed  to  Lawrence  Hyde,  the  second  son  of 
the  great  Lord  Chancellor :  but  pretty  Nelly's  education  had  been  sadly 
neglected,  and  she  had  to  use  the  services  of  a  friend.  Her  letter  con- 
chicles,  "  We  are  agoing  to  supe  with  the  king  at  Whitehall  and  my  Lady 
Harvie,  the  king  remembers  his  sarvis  to  you.  Now  lets  talke  of  State 
afilires  for  we  never  caried  things  so  cunningly  as  now,  for  we  don't  know 
whether  we  shall  have  peice  or  war,  but  I  am  for  war,  and  for  no  other 
reason  but  that  you  may  come  home.  I  have  a  thousand  merry  conceits 
but  I  can't  make  her  write  'um,  and  therefore  you  must  take  the  will  for 

24—5 


498  JOTTINGS  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

the  deed.  Good-bye.  Your  most  loveing,  obedient,  faithfull  and  humbel 
sarvant,  E.  G." 

In  the  Soane  Museum  is  a  most  interesting  volume,  the  original  copy  of 
the  Gerusalemme  Liberata  in  the  handwriting  of  Tasso.  Lord  Guildford, 
to  whom  it  formerly  belonged,  has  written  on  the  flyleaf,  "  I  hope  it  will 
be  recorded  to  future  ages  that  England  possesses  the  original  MS.  of  one  of 
the  four  greatest  epic  poems  the  world  has  produced,  and  beyond  all  doubt, 
the  only  one  of  the  four  now  existing."  Other  MSS.  of  Tasso  are  in  the 
British  Museum.  The  prices  at  which  the  Corteyiauo  of  Casticjlione,  with 
an  autograph  sonnet  of  Tasso,  has  been  sold  at  different  times,  are  perhaps 
worth  mentioning.  At  Singer's  sale  in  1818  it  produced  80*.,  at  Hibbert's 
(1829)  100*.,  at  Hanrott's  (1833)  68*.,  at  Heber's  (1835)  41*.,  at  Bishop 
Butler's  (1840)  64*.  It  contained  also  a  copy  of  Crichton's  challenge 
already  alluded  to.  Another  very  interesting  book  is  a  copy  of  Tasso 's 
Genisalemme  Liberata  (4to.,  Parma,  1581)  with  MS.  corrections  in  the 
handwriting  of  the  printer  Aldus,  to  whom  it  is  supposed  they  were  com- 
municated by  Tasso  himself,  whilst  in  prison.  Bishop  Butler  gave  30 
guineas  for  it :  at  the  Libri  sale  it  produced  only  181. 

Of  more  modern  autographs,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  mention  those  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  At  Mr.  Utterson's  sale  the  original  MS.  of  Peveril  of 
the  Peak  sold  for  44*.  ;  in  1857  it  brought  50*.  In  the  beginning  of 
1855  Kenilwortli  was  bought  for  the  British  Museum  for  41*.  But  the 
prices  obtained  last  July  for  those  disposed  of  by  Christie  and  Manson  go 
far  beyond  this.  Anne  of  Geier stein  fetched  121  guineas  ;  fragments  of 
Waverley  and  Ivan/we,  with  some  other  papers,  130  guineas.  Of  Sir 
Walter's  poems,  Maimion  brought  191  guineas ;  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
264  ;  the  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  and  some  other  poems,  37  ;  Eokeby  130 ; 
and  the  Lord  of  the  Isles  101.  I  ought  perhaps  to  mention  one  more 
instance,  Gray's  Elegy,  the  MS.  of  which  was  purchased  by  Mr.  E. 
Wrightson  in  1854  for  130*. 

When  we  remember  the  very  large  prices  that  have  been  paid  for 
ancient  MSS.  and  the  autographs  of  distinguished  persons,  we  cannot  be 
surprised  at  the  number  of  forgeries  that  have  been  perpetrated.  I  do 
not  allude  to  such  instances  as  that  of  the  Amber  Witch,  a  trick  played 
off  upon  the  infallible  critics  of  Tubingen  with  such  astonishing  success, 
nor  again  to  such  a  case  as  Chatterton's  famous  Rowley  MSS.  ;  but  this 
present  century  has  seen  some  wonderful  examples  of  wholesale  forgeries. 
In  1852  there  were  brought  to  Mr.  Murray  forty-seven  autograph  letters 
of  Lord  Byron.  From  the  quarter  through  which  they  came  to  him, 
he  had  reason  to  believe  them  genuine,  and  he  accordingly  purchased 
them  for  something  over  120?.  They  were  forgeries  every  one.  About 
the  same  time  Mr.  Moxon  bought  at  a  sale  several  letters  of  Shelley. 
These  he  very  naturally  published.  But  here  again  the  fraud  was  soon 
discovered,  and  Mr.  Moxon  accordingly  suppressed  the  book  and  called  in  all 
the  copies  that  had  been  delivered  to  the  trade.  The  book  is  now  a  curiosity. 
The  forged  MSS.  themselves  were  given  to  the  British  Museum. 


OF   AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  499 

But  by  far  the  most  accomplished  forger  of  modern  times  is  M. 
loinionides.  He  conies  from  the  island  of  Syrene,  opposite  Caria,  and 
made  his  first  public  appearance  at  Athens,  where  he  offered  some  MSS. 
:br  sale,  which  he  said  had  been  carried  off  secretly  from  Mount  Athos. 
A  commission,  which  was  engaged  to  examine  them,  reported  favourably, 
especially  upon  a  MS.  of  Homer,  which  accordingly  was  purchased  at  a 
high  price.  Before  very  long  it  was  discovered  that  the  text  of  this 
jincient  MS.  was  Wolfs,  with  all  the  errata.  Next  he  appeared  at  Con- 
stantinople, where  he  tried  hieroglyphics,  cuneiform  inscriptions,  and 
Armenian  history,  but  somewhat  unsuccessfully.  Nothing  daunted,  he 
hied  a  new  device,  and  came  out  as  another  Douster  Swivel.  He  declared 
that  at  a  certain  spot  an  Arabic  MS.  in  Syriac  characters  would  be  dis- 
covered by  digging.  Workmen  were  accordingly  employed,  Simonides 
himself  not  being  allowed  to  descend.  By-and-by  a  pause  was  made  for 
luncheon,  and  not  long  afterwards  Simonides  called  out,  "  There  it  is ; 
bring  it  up."  The  soil  about  it,  however,  was  quite  different  from  that  of 
tlie  ground.  The  workmen  were  grinning,  and  when  interrogated  con- 
i.!ssed  that  during  luncheon  the  Greek  came  out  for  a  short  time,  jumped 
i  ito  the  pit,  and  began  to  burrow. 

He  next  made  his  appearance  in  England  with,  amongst  other 
T  onderful  treasures,  a  MS.  of  Homer  on  serpent's  skin,  which  professed 
to  have  been  sent  from  Chios  to  Hipparchus,  son  of  Pisistratus.  This  and 
several  others  he  persuaded  Sir  Thomas  Phillips  to  purchase.  Almost 
tie  only  libraries  which  he  failed  in  cheating  were  the  British  Museum 
aid  the  Bodleian.  On  visiting  the  latter  place  he  showed  some  fragments 
of  MSS.  to  Mr.  Coxe,  who  assented  to  their  belonging  to  the  twelfth 
contury. 

"  And  these,  Mr.  Coxe,  belong  to  the  tenth  or  eleventh  century  ?  " 

«  Yes,  probably." 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Coxe,  let  me  show  you  a  very  ancient  and  valuable 
KS.  I  have  for  sale,  and  which  ought  to  be  in  your  library.  To  what 
contury  do  you  consider  this  belongs  ?  " 

"  This,  Mr.  Simonides,  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Coxe,  "belongs  to 
the  nineteenth  century." 

The  Greek  and  his  MS.  disappeared. 

Some  time  afterwards  a  palimpsest  manuscript  was  sent  to  Berlin, 
professing  to  be  a  history  of  the  Kings  of  Egypt  in  Greek,  by  Uranius,  of 
A  Lexandria.  The  Academy  declared  it  genuine,  and  the  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction  was  ordered  to  purchase  it  for  5,000  thalers.  Professor 
Dindorf  offered  the  University  of  Oxford  the  honour  of  giving  this  valuable 
book  to  the  world,  and  the  work  was  accordingly  begun  under  the  editor- 
si  dp  of  the  professor.  Before  many  sheets,  however,  were  struck  off,  notice 
ci  me  that  the  printing  was  to  be  stopped.  Lepsius,  naturally  anxious  to 
k:  low  how  far  Uranius  supported  or  demolished  some  of  his  theories  about 
E  gyptian  history,  was  disappointed  as  well  as  amused  to  find  that  the 
b<  -ok  was  little  more  than  a  translation  into  very  bad  Greek  of  portions  of 


500         JOTTINGS  FHOM   THE   NOTE-BOOK  OF  A  COLLECTOR. 

the  writings  of  Bimsen  and  himself.  Ehrenberg  then  examined  the 
manuscript  with  his  microscope,  and  discovered  that  the  palimpsest  was 
really  later  than  the  more  modem  one, — the  old  ink  overlaid  the  new. 

Simonides'  last  appearance  is  a  very  amusing  one :  he  claims  to  be  the 
writer  of  the  Codex  Sinaiticus  of  the  New  Testament,  that  was  discovered 
by  Tischendorf,  partly'  in  1844  and  partly  in  1859,  in  one  of  the 
monasteries  of  Mount  Athos.  The  account  which  Simonides  gives  of  it 
is  that  in  1839  the  monks  of  the  Russian  convent  determined  to  make  a 
transcript  of  the  Scriptures  in  ancient  characters  on  vellum  as  a  present  to 
the  Emperor  Nicholas.  Dionysius  the  scribe  to  the  monastery  declining 
to  undertake  the  work,  Simonides,  the  nephew  of  the  head  of  the  monastery, 
offered  to  execute  it.  The  Archimandrite,  Dionysius  of  Xeropotami,  another 
monastery  on  Mount  Athos,  declares  that  the  story  is  false  in  every  particular. 
There  is  little  doubt  that  the  manuscript  which  has  been  published  so 
magnificently  in  four  folio  volumes  at  the  expense  of  the  Emperor  of 
Russia  is  the  oldest  manuscript  of  the  New  Testament  in  existence. 

I  ought  perhaps  to  mention  a  circumstance  which  was  alluded  to  at 
the  recent  meeting  of  the  British  Association.  There  has  very  lately  been 
communicated  to  the  French  Academy  an  elaborate  correspondence 
between  Newton  and  Pascal,  which,  if  genuine,  would  transfer  to  the  latter 
the  honour  of  the  discovery  of  the  law  of  gravitation.  Sir  D.  Brewster, 
however,  gave,  at  Dundee,  several  very  strong  reasons  for  considering  the 
correspondence  "a  gigantic  fraud — the  greatest  ever  attempted  in  the 
world,  connected  with  science  and  literature." 


Jf0r  %  mnii  oi  it 


STONE  walls,  they  say,  have  ears — 'Twere  scarcely  wrong 

To  wish  that  these  walls  likewise  had  a  tongue. 

How  many  gracious  words  would  then  be  said, 

How  many  precious  counsels  uttered  ; 

What  terse  quotations  fresh  applied  and  fit, 

"What  gay  retorts  and  summer-lightning  wit, 

What  sweet  and  deep  affections  would  find  vent, 

What  hourly  invocations  upward  sent  1 — 

No, — they  their  treasured  secrets  ne'er  let  fall — 

Mute  as  this  poor  handwriting  on  the  wall. 

A.  M. 


501 


OF  AUGUST  8,  1866. 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  measure  still  for  measure. 


"  So'ouK-Soo,"  or  "  Cool  Waters,"  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  tho 
lovely  province  of  Abkhasia.  Lying  only  a  few  miles  inland  from  the 
eastern  Black  Sea  shore,  and  on  the  first  rise  of  the  wooded  Caucasus,  a 
day's  ride  north  of  the  town  and  harbour  of  Soukhoum-Kale,  it  was  from 
old  times  a  favourite  summer  residence  of  the  chiefs  of  Abkhasia ;  their 
winter  was  more  often  passed  at  Brand  or  Otchemchiri,  farther  down 
the  coast. 

But  in  addition  to  its  natural  beauty  and  residential  importance,  this 
locality  has  acquired  a  special  title  to  almost  European  interest  since 
August,  1866,  when  it  became  the  scene  and  starting-point  of  an  outbreak 
— disguised  in  distorted  newspaper  accounts  under  fictions  of  brigandage, 
slave- driving,  and  the  like,  but  which  was  in  fact  nothing  else  than  an 
Eastern  re-enactment  of  events  familiar,  since  1830,  to  Warsaw  and  the 
Western  Provinces  of  the  Russian  Empire. 

During  the  month  of  November,  1866,  while  the  memories  of  the 
Abkhasian  insurrection  were  still  recent,  and  the  lingering  autumn  of 
the  Caucasus  yet  permitted  horse-travelling  (for  in  winter  these  mountains 
become  totally  impassable),  we — that  is,  myself  with  a  Mingrelian  servant 
jsnd  guide — arrived  at  So'ouk-Soo,  after  a  ten  hours' ride  from  Soukhoum- 
Kale,  through  bush  and  forest,  stream  and  mire.  Roads  are  luxuries 
often  announced  in  programme;  sometimes  talked  of,  but  never  seen  in 
these  provinces.  It  was  already  dark  when,  after  much  clambering  and 
dipping,  we  found  ourselves  on  a  sort  of  plateau,  entangled  in  a  labyrinth 
( f  hedges,  where  scattered  lights  glimmered  among  the  bushwood,  and  dogs 
1  arking  in  all  directions  gave  us  to  know  that  we  had  reached  So'ouk-Soo. 
]  iike  most  other  Abkhasian  villages,  its  houses  are  neither  ranged  in  streets 
ror  grouped  in  blocks,  but  scattered  as  at  random,  each  in  a  separate 
enclosure.  The  houses  themselves  are  one-storied  and  of  wood,  sometimes 
riere  huts  of  wattle  and  clay ;  the  enclosures  are  of  cut  gtakes,  planted 
n  ud  interwoven  latticewise  ;  the  spaces  between  these  hedgerows  serve  for 
the  passage  of  countless  goats  and  oxen  that  pass  the  night  within  their 
D  tasters'  precincts,  and  go  out  to  pasture  during  the  day.  Old  forest-trees, 
fresh  underwood,  bramble,  and  grass  grow  everywhere,  regardless  of  the 
houses,  which  are  often  in  a  manner  lost  among  them;  one  is  at  times 


502  THE   ABKtfASIAN   INSURRECTION. 

right  in  the  middle  of  a  village  before  one  has  even  an  idea  of  having 
approached  it. 

After  much  hallooing  and  much  answering  in  sibilants  and  gutturals, — 
really  the  Abkhasian  alphabet  seems  to  contain  nothing  else, — we  prevailed 
on  some  peasants  to  get  up  and  guide  us  through  the  darkness  to  the 
house  of  the  Natchalnick,  or  Governor  of  the  district.  Here  we  passed 
the  remainder  of  the  night  with  his  Excellency,  a  Georgian- by  birth,  and, 
like  every  one  else  of  these  ilks,  who  is  not  of  serfish  origin,  a  prince  by 
title,  but  now  an  officer  in  the  Russian  army,  into  which  the  ''natives," 
fond  as  negroes  of  gay  dress  and  glitter,  are  readily  attracted  by  lace  and 
epaulettes.  Many  of  the  "princes"  of  the  land — elsewhere  chiefs  or 
sheykhs  at  most — have,  on  this  motive,  with  the  additional  hope  of  a 
decoration,  assumed  the  badges  of  Russian  military  service,  wherein  they 
easily  obtain  subordinate  posts  ;  and  there  aid  as  spies  or  as  tools  in  dis- 
arming the  constantly  recurring  discontent  of  their  countrymen,  till  some 
day  or  other  their  own  personal  discontent  breaks  out,  and  then  the  tool, 
no  longer  serviceable,  is  broken  and  thrown  aside,  to  be  replaced,  whero 
wanted,  by  another. 

Early  next  morning,  while  the  dew  glittered  on  the  rank  grass,  and 
the  bright  sun  shone  slant  through  the  yet  leafy  trees,  we  rode,  accom- 
panied by  the  "  Natchalnick  "  and  his  whole  suite  of  Georgians  and  Min- 
grelians  in  Cossack  dress,  to  visit  the  "  Meidan  "  of  So'ouk-Soo,  where  the 
first  shot  of  insurrection  had  been  fired  four  months  before. 

A  "  Meidan,"  or  "  open  ground,"  is — all  know  who  have  visited  tho 
East — the  necessary  adjunct  of  eveiy  town  or  village  honoured  by  a 
chieftain's  residence.  It  serves  for  town-hall,  for  park,  for  parade-ground, 
for  scene  of  all  public  gathering,  display,  business,  or  amusement.  On  it 
is  invariably  situated  the  chiefs  or  governor's  abode ;  a  mosque,  if  the 
land  be  Mahometan,  a  church,  if  Christian,  is  never  wanting ;  the  main 
street  or  artery  of  the  locality  terminates  here.  Lastly,  it  is  seldom  devoid 
of  a  few  large  trees,  the  shade  of  loiterers. 

The  Meidan  of  So'ouk-Soo  offers  all  these  characteristic  features,  but 
offers  them  after  a  manner  indicating  the  events  it  has  witnessed,  and  the 
causes  or  consequences  of  those  events.  It  is  an  open  book,  legibly 
written  by  the  Nemesis  of  history,  the  "  measure  for  measure,"  the  recipro- 
cated revenges  of  national  follies  and  national  crimes. 

"  Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live,"  says  Byron, 
contrasting  the  quiet  prolonged  existence  of  great  nature  with  the  short 
and  turbulent  period  of  human  life.  Much  the  same  feeling  comes  over 
one  at  So'ouk-Soo.  The  green  grassy  plot  dotted  with  noble  trees — 
beech,  elm,  and  oak ;  around,  the  swelling  uplands,  between  which  the 
"cool  waters"  of  the  torrent — whence  the  name  of  the  place — rush 
sparkling  down  to  the  blue  sea ;  beyond,  the  huge  Caucasian  mountain- 
chain,  here  seen  in  all  its  central  magnificence  of  dark  forest  below  and 
white  fantastic  peaks  above,  in  unearthly  wildness  of  outline  beyond  the 
dreams  of  the  most  enthusiastic  pre-Raphaelite  landscape-painter;  above, 


THE   ABKHASIAN   IXSUBHECTION.  503 

the  ever- varying  sky ;  around,  the  fresh  hill-breeze  :  The  chiefs  of  Abkhasia 
could  not  have  found  in  all  their  domains  a  fairer,  a  more  life-giving  place 
for  their  residence.  But  another  story  is  told  by  the  traces  of  a  ruined 
mosque  on  one  side  of  the  Meidan,  and  near  it  some  neglected  tombs 
bearing  on  the  carved  posts — which  here  replace  monumental  stones — the 
Mahometan  symbolic  turban.  Close  by  are  four  wooden  crosses,  sunk  and 
awry,  freshly  planted  in  the  still  loose  mould  of  as  many  recent  graves. 
Next,  the  blackened,  walls  and  empty  windows  of  a  large  burnt  house 
surrounded  by  a  broken  stone-wall.  Further  on,  a  second  fire-ruin,  amid 
the  trees  and  shrubs  of  a  yet  thickly-growing  garden.  Opposite,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Meidan,  and  alone  intact  and  entire,  as  though  triumph- 
ing over  the  ruin  it  has  in  no  small  measure  caused,  stands  a  church — a 
small  building  of  the  semi-Byzantine  style  usual  in  Russian  and  Georgian 
ecclesiastical  architecture  hereabouts.  Close  by  is  a  large  house,  symme- 
trically built,  with  a  porch  of  Greek  marble  and  other  signs  of  former 
display.  But  all  within  has  been  gutted  and  burnt.:  the  long  range  of 
stone  windows  opens  into  emptiness,  the  roof  has  fallen  in,  and  the  marble 
columns  are  stained  and  split  with  fire.  Here,  too,  in  the  same  strange 
contrast  of  life  and  death,  a  beautiful  garden,  where  the  mixture  of  cypress 
and  roses,  of  flowering  trees  and  deep  leafy  shrubbery,  betokens  Turkish 
taste,  forms  a  sideground  and  a  background  to  the  dismantled  dwelling. 
Some  elms  and  a  few  Cossack-tenanted  huts  complete  the  outer  circle  of 
the  Meidan. 

Each  one  of  these  objects  has  a  history,  each  one  is  a  foot-print  in  the 
march  of  the  Caucasian  Nemesis,  each  one  a  record  of  her  triumph  and  of 
her  justice. 

The  ruined  mosque  and  turban -crowned  tomb-posts  recall  the  time 
vvhen  Mahometanism  and  submission  to  the  great  centre  of  orthodox 
[slam,  Constantinople,  was  the  official  condition  of  Abkhasia.  This 
passed  into  Russian  rule  and  Christian  lordship ;  and  the  Nemesis  of  this 
j)hase  is  marked  by  the  wooden  crosses  under  which  lie  the  mutilated 
corpses  of  Colonel  Cognard,  Russian  Governor-General  of  Abkhasia,  of 
'.ismailoff,  Russian  * '  Natchalnick  "  of  So'ouk-Soo,  of  Cheripoff,  the  Tiflis 
Commissioner,  and  of  Colonel  Cognard' s  aide-de-camp  :  they  perished  in 
the  outbreak  of  August.  The  large  burnt  house  close  by  was  the  abode 
( -f  Alexander  Shervashiji,  brother  of  the  last  native  chief  of  Abkhasia.  Less 
ihan  half  a  century  since  the  family  bartered  national  independence  and 
jslam  against  Russian  popes  and  epaulettes.  Their  Nemesis  has  come  too. 
jn  this  very  house  Cognard  and  his  suite  were  slaughtered.  The  ruin 
close  by  was  once  the  residence  of  the  ill -famed  "Natchalnick"  Ismailoff- 
i;  recalls  the  special  vengeance  of  licentious  tyranny — how,  we  shall  see 
afterwards.  The  church,  alone  yet  intact,  is  of  old  date  and  of  Georgian 
construction — once  abandoned,  then  revived  and  repaired  by  the  renegade 
khhervashijis,  its  Nemesis  is  now  in  its  lonely  silence.  The  ruin  of  hewn 
stone,  Turkish  in  style,  was  the  palace  of  Michael  Shervashiji,  the  last 
i  ative-born  ruler  of  the  province.  Russian  in  uniform,  Abkhasian  at  heart, 


504  THE   ABKHASIAN   INSURRECTION. 

'rue  to  his  own  interests,  false  to  those  of  others,  he  constructed  this 
palace  on  his  return  from  a  visit  to  the  west :  it  inaugurated  the  beginning 
of  a  late  return  to  the  old  Ottoman  alliance  ;  but  with  the  general  fate 
of  return  movements — especially  when  undertaken  after  their  time — it 
inaugurated  also  his  own  ruin  and  that  of  his  nation.  The  Cossack  and 
Abkhasian  huts  further  on  were  yet  tenanted  in  November  last :  they  are 
now  empty. 

We  alighted,  visited  these  strange  memorials  one  by  one,  heard  the 
story  of  each,  remounted  our  horses,  galloped  up  and  down  the  springy 
turf  of  the  Meidan,  and  then  plunged  into  the  deep  wooded  ravine  north- 
east, and  left  the  scene  of  inconstancy,  violence,  and  blood,  on  our  way 
to  the  districts  of  Bzibb  and  northern  Abkhasia. 

But  our  readers  must  halt  a  little  longer  on  the  Meidan  if  they  de  iro 
to  understand  the  full  import  of  the  tragedy  of  which  we  have  just  seen 
the  stage  decorations. 

Of  the  early  history  of  the  Abkhasian  race  little  is  known,  and  little 
was  probably  to  be  known.  More  than  two  thousand  years  since  we  find 
them,  in  Greek  records,  inhabiting  the  narrow  strip  between  the  mountains 
and  the  sea,  along  the  central  eastern  coast  of  the  Euxine,  precisely  where 
later  records  and  the  maps  of  our  own  day  place  them.  But  whence  these 
seeming  autochthons  arrived,  what  was  the  cradle  of  their  infant  race,  to 
which  of  the  great  "  earth-families,"  in  German  phrase,  this  little  tribe,  the 
highest  number  of  which  can  never  have  much  exceeded  a  hundred  thousand, 
belonged,  are  questions  on  which  the  past  and  the  present  are  alike 
silent.  Tall  stature,  fair  complexion,  light  eyes,  auburn  hair,  and  a  great 
love  for  active  and  athletic  sport,  might  seem  to  assign  them  a  Northern 
origin ;  but  an  Oriental  regularity  of  feature,  and  a  language  which,  though 
it  bears  no  discoverable  affinity  to  any  known  dialect,  has  yet  the  Semitic 
post-fixes,  and  in  guttural  richness  distances  the  purest  Arabic  or  Hebrew, 
would  appear  to  claim  for  them  a  different  relationship.  Their  character, 
too,  brave,  enterprising,  and  commercial  in  its  way,  has  yet  very  generally 
a  certain  mixture  of  childish  cunning,  and  a  total  deficiency  of  organising 
power,  that  cement  of  nations,  which  removes  them  from  European  and 
even  from  Turkish  resemblance,  while  it  recalls  the  so-called  Semitic  of- 
south-western  Asia.  But  no  tradition  on  their  part  lays  claim  to  the 
solution  of  their  mystery,  and  records  are  wanting  among  a  people  who 
have  never  committed  their  vocal  sounds  to  writing ;  they  know  that  they 
are  Abkhasians,  and  nothing  more. 

Pagans,  like  all  early  nations,  they  received  a  slight  whitewash  of 
Christianity  at  times  from  the  Byzantine  Empire,  at  times  from  their 
Georgian  neighbours ;  till  at  last  the  downfall  of  Trebizond  and  the 
extension  of  the  Ottoman  power  on  their  frontier  by  sea  and  by  land 
rendered  them  what  they  have  still  mostly  remained,  Mahometans. 
Divided  from  time  immemorial  into  five  main  tribes,  each  with  its  clannish 
subdivisions,  the  un-euphonic  names  of  which  we  pass  over  out  of  sheer 
compassion  to  printers  and  readers,  they  first,  at  the  beginning  of  the 


THE  ABKHASIAN   INSURRECTION.  505 

EGventcenth  century,  received  a  common  master  in  the  person  of 
Tahniuras-khan,  a  Persian  by  birth,  native  of  Sherwan,  whence  tho  family 
name  of  Sherwajee,  modified  into  Shervashiji,  but  claiming  descent  from 
the  ancient  kings  of  Iran.  Having  in  the  year  1625  lent  considerable  aid 
to  the  Turks  in  their  interminable  contest  with  the  Persians  for  the 
riastery  of  Georgia,  he  was  by  them  confirmed  in  the  government  of 
Abkhasia ;  his  residence  was  at  Soukhoum,  whence  for  a  while  his 
descendants,  still  known  among  the  Turks  by  the  by-name  of  "  Kizil- 
Bash,"  synonymous  with  "Persian,"  ruled  the  entire  province.  But  when 
somewhat  later  Soukhoum  became  the  abode  of  an  Ottoman  Pasha,  the 
Shervashijis  transferred  their  quarters  to  So'ouk-Soo,  which  henceforth 
became  in  a  manner  the  capital  of  Abkhasia. 

The  treaty  of  Adrianople,  in  1829,  handed  over  the  Western  Caucasian 
coast  to  Russian  rule ;  and  the  ruling  Shervashiji  (Hamood  Beg),  then  in 
the  prime  of  life,  showed  himself  a  devoted  worshipper  of  the  rising, — if 
not  sun, — Aurora  Borealis  of  Petersburg.  Quitting  his  ancestral  reli- 
gion and  name,  he  was  baptized  into  Russian  Christianity  under  the  title 
of  Michael  Beg,  received  a  high  rank  in  the  Russian  army,  and,  head  and 
hand,  did  the  work  of  his  new  masters.  For  all  the  long  years  that  the 
Circassian  struggle  lasted,  through  the  months  wasted  by  Omar  Pasha  in 
Mingrelia,  and  during  all  the  squandered  and  lost  opportunity — squandered 
in  1855,  lost  in  1856 — of  restoring  and  of  securing  the  freedom  of  the 
Ciiucasus,  perhaps  of  all  Central  Asia,  from  the  yoke  to  which  more  and 
more  necks  must  daily  bow,  Michael  Shervashiji  was  by  turns  the  main 
implement  of  Russian  diplomacy  in  disuniting  Western  Caucasus  from  the 
coaimon  cause,  and  the  military  executioner  to  whom  was  entrusted  the 
subdual,  and  even  extermination,  of  his  more  patriotic  neighbours.  With 
tho  short-sighted  acuteness  common  among  Easterns  he  saw  only  his  own 
present  advantage,  and  took  no  heed  that  while  helping  to  destroy  his 
petty  though  hereditary  rivals  he  was,  in  the  Russian  point  of  view, 
cutting  away  the  last  props  of  his  own  rule.  Meanwhile  his  every  request 
was  granted,  every  privilege  confirmed.  Russian  garrisons  were  indeed 
at  Soukhoum-Kale,  at  Gagri,  at  other  stations  of  the  coast;  but 
inland  Michael  Shervashiji  was  sole  lord  and  master,  and  not  even  a 
Russian  officer  could  venture  a  "  werst  "  up  the  interior  without  his 
pei  mission  and  escort.  : 

All  this  was  very  well  for  a  time ;  Shamyl  was  still  unconquered,  and 
'  Mi  :hael  Shervashiji  was  too  valuable  an  ally  for  the  Russians  not  to  be 
humoured, — Shakspeare  might  have  said  "fooled," — to  the  top  of  his 
bei  t,  even  at  some  temporary  sacrifice  of  Russian  uniformization  and 
monopoly.  But  at  last  the  circle  of  hunters  narrowed  round  the  mountain 
deer  at  bay  in  the  heights  of  Gunib,  and  eyes  less  keen  than  Michael's 
could  foresee  near  at  hand  the  moment  when  the  last  independence  of  the 
Caucasus  would  have  ceased  to  be.  Tua  res  agitur  paries  cum  proximus 
ard?t,  can  be  thought  in  Abkhasian  no  less  than  expressed  in  Latin  ;  and 
Michael  grew  uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  a  boundless  horizon  of  Russian 


506  THE  ABKHASIAN   INSURRECTION. 

friends.  His  health  suddenly  but  opportunely  failed,  a  change  of  air, — oi 
water  Eastern  M.D.'s  would  say,  —  became  necessary;  a  journey  to 
Europe  was  recommended ;  a  passport  was  taken,  rather  than  granted ; 
and  the  great  Shervashiji,  like  many  other  princes,  vent  to  try  the  waters. 

That  the  said  waters  should  in  a  few  months  have  restored  his  health 
was  quite  natural ;  it  was,  however,  somewhat  singular  that  they  should 
at  the  same  time  have  had  an  Osmanhzing  effect  on  his  own  constitution. 
Some  say  they  were  the  waters  of  the  Bosphorus  that  acted  on  him  thus  ; 
others  attribute  it  to  a  reaction  produced  by  the  waters  of  the  Volga, 
which,  in  a  visit  to  Moscow,  he  drank  near  their  source  about  this  very 
time.  Certainly  on  his  return  strange  and  anti-Muscovite  symptoms 
appeared.  His  new  residence  at  So'ouk-Soo,  the  ancestral  seat  of  his 
independence,  rose  on  a  Turkish  model ;  his  manners,  his  speech,  grew 
less  Kussian.  It  was  noticed,  too,  that  on  entering  church  he  no  longer 
uncovered  his  head,  a  decided  hint,  said  the  Russians,  that  church  and 
mosque  were  for  him  on  much  the  same  footing.  Perhaps  the  Russians 
were  not  far  wrong. 

Then  came  1864,  the  great  Circassian  emigration — i.e.  the  expulsion  of 
well  nigh  a  million  of  starving  and  plundered  wretches  from  their  country, 
for  the  crime  of  having  defended  that  country  against  strangers — was 
accomplished ;  in  Eastern  phrase,  the  Abkhasian  "  back  was  cut,"  and 
now  came  their  turn  to  receive  the  recompence  of  their  fidelity  to  Russia 
and  their  infidelity  to  their  native  Caucasus.  The  first  and  main  tool  of 
Tiflis  had  been  Michael  Shervashiji ;  he  was  accordingly  the  first  to  receive 
his  stipend. 

Too  late  aware  what  that  stipend  was  likely  to  be,  he  had  retired  into 
an  out-of-the-way  country  residence  some  hours  to  the  interior,  behind 
Otchemchiri.  Here,  in  November,  1864,  the  Russian  "pay-day"  found 
him,  in  the  shape  of  a  detachment  of  soldiers  sent  by  his  Imperial  High- 
ness the  Grand  Duke  Michael  to  invite  and  escort  him  to  the  viceregal 
presence  at  Tiflis.  Whether  thinking  that  resistance  would  only  make 
matters  worse,  or  reckoning  on  the  deceptive  chances  of  what  is  called 
"  an  appeal  to  generosity,"  the  Beg  at  once  gave  himself  up  to  the  troops. 
By  them  he  was  forthwith  conducted,  not  to  Tiflis,  but  to  the  coast,  where 
lay  the  ship  appointed  to  convey  him  to  Kertch,  whence  began  his  destined 
journey  to  Russia  and  Siberia.  A  traitor,  he  met  a  traitor's  recompence, 
and  that,  as  was  most  fitting,  at  the  hands  of  those  in  whose  behalf  his 
life  had  been  for  thirty-five  years  one  prolonged  treason  to  his  country. 
Yet  that  country  wept  him  at  his  departure — he  was  their  born  prince, 
after  all,  and  no  stranger — and  they  wept  him  still  more  when  the  news 
of  his  death — the  ready  consequence  of  exile  at  an  advanced  age  into 
the  uncongenial  Siberian  climate  and  Siberian  treatment,  but  by  popular 
rumour  attributed  to  Russian  poison — reached  them  in  the  spring  of  1866. 
His  corpse  was  brought  back  to  his  native  mountains,  and  he  was  buried 
amid  the  tears  and  wailings  of  his  Abkhasian  subjects. 

They  had,  indeed,  already  other  cause  for  their  wailings.     Hardly  had 


THE  ABKHASIAN  INSUBEECTION.  507 

their  last  prince  ceased  to  live,  than  measures  were  taken  by  the  vice- 
regal Government  for  the  nominal  demarcation,  the  real  confiscation,  of 
the  lands  of  the  Abkhasian  nobility;  while  the  peasants,  for  their  part, 
fo:ind  the  little  finger  of  Russian  incorporization  heavier  than  all  the  loins 
of  all  the  Shervashijis.  Russian  custom-houses  formed  a  cordon  along 
thj  coast ;  Russian  Cossacks  and  Natchalnicks  were  posted  everywhere 
uj  the  country;  the  whole  province  was  placed  under  Russian  law  and 
m  litary  administration;  Abkhasian  rights,  Abkhasian  customs  and  pre- 
cedents were  henceforth  abolished.  More  still,  their  religion,  the  great 
supplement  of  nationality  in  the  East — because  in  its  Eastern  form  it 
embodies  whatever  makes  a  nation,  its  political  and  social,  its  public  and 
pr.vate  being — was  now  menaced.  Russian  chronologists  discovered  that 
th-j  Abkhasians  had  once  been  Christians,  whence  the  Tiflis  Government 
dr«)w  the  self-evident  conclusion  that  they  had  no  right  to  be  at  present 
Mahometans.  An  orthodox  bishop  or  archbishop,  I  forget  which,  of 
Atkhasia,  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  the  work,  or  rather  the  attempt  at 
proselytism  was  diligently  pushed  forward  by  enticement  and  intimidation 
under  hierarchical  auspices.  Lastly,  a  census  of  the  population, — a 
process  which  ever  since  David  numbered  the  children  of  Israel  and 
brought  on  them  the  plague  in  consequence,  has  been  in  ill-odour  in  the 
Erst, — was  ordered. 

Of  the  Shervashiji  family  many  remained.  Michael's  own  brother, 
Alexander,  still  resided,  though  without  authority,  at  So'ouk-Soo ;  George, 
Michael's  eldest  son,  now  a  Russian  officer,  and  the  Grand  Duke's  aide- 
de-camp,  had  returned  from  Petersburg,  where  no  amount  of  champagne 
an-1  cards  had  been  spared  to  make  him  a  genuine  Russian ;  epaulettes  and 
aigrettes  would,  it  was  to  be  hoped,  retain  him  such.  But  bred  in  the 
bo:ie  will  not  out  of  the  flesh,  and  he  was  still  a  Shervashiji,  nor  had 
he  forgotten  the  rights  of  heir- apparent.  Another  and  a  powerful  branch 
of  the  same  family,  the  relatives  of  Said  Beg  Shervashiji  of  Kelasoor,  a 
Mahometan,  and  who  had  died  poisoned  it  was  said  by  his  Christian 
kinsman  and  rival,  Michael,  were  also  in  the  country,  and  seemed  inclined 
to  forget  family  quarrels  in  the  common  cause.  Besides  these  were  two 
otter  "  houses  "  of  special  note,  the  Marshians  and  the  Ma'ans.  The 
for  ner  had,  like  the  Shervashijis,  been  in  general  subservient  to  Russia — 
so:  le  had  even  apostatized  from  Islam ;  but  their  chief,  Shereem  Beg,  a 
Mahometan,  had  married  Michael  Shervashiji's  sister,  and  state  marriages 
in  Jhe  East  are  productive  of  other  results  than  mere  non-interventions 
anc  children.  The  other  family,  the  Ma'ans,  staunch  Islam,  had  for 
some  time  previous  broken  off  Russian  connection:  one  of  them,  Mus- 
tap  la  Agha,  had  even  taken  service  in  the  Ottoman  army.  Their  head, 
Ha;an  Ma'an,  had  quitted  his  Abkhasian  abode  at  Bambora,  half  way 
bet  veen  Soukhoum  and  So'ouk-Soo,  for  the  Turkish  territory  of  Trebi- 
2on  1,  where  he  lived  within  call,  but  without  grasp. 

Discontent  was  general  and  leaders  were  not  wanting ;  yet  just  and 
jud  cious  measures  on  the  part  of  the  Russians  might  have  smoothed  all 


508  THE   ABKHASIAN   INSUURECTION. 

down ;  but  their  Nemesis  and  that  of  Abkhasia  had  decreed  that  such 
measures  should  not  be  taken, — the  exact  reverse. 

In  the  month  of  July,  1866,  a  commission  headed  by  the  civilian 
Cheripoff  had  come  from  Tiflis  to  complete  the  survey  and  estimate  of  the 
lands,  those  of  the  Shervashijis  in  particular.  This  commission  had  taken 
up  its  head-quarters  at  So'ouk-Soo  along  with  the  local  military  Governor, 
Ismailoff,  and  a  body  of  Cossacks  about  two  hundred  strong.  Some  of 
these  last  were  stationed  at  the  coast  village  of  Gouda'outa,  a  few  miles 
distant.  To  So'ouk-Soo  now  flocked  all  the  discontented  chiefs,  and  of 
course  their  followers  ;  for  no  Abkhasiau  noble  can  stir  a  foot  out  of  doors 
without  a  "tail"  of  at  least  thirty,  each  with  his  long  slender- stocked 
gun,  his  goat-hair  cloak,  his  pointed  head-dress,  and,  for  the  rest,  a  knife 
at  his  girdle,  and  more  tears  than  cloth  in  his  tight  grey  trousers  and 
large  cartridge  -  breasted  coat.  Some  mezzotints  in  Hughes'  Albanian 
Travels j  old  edition,  two  volumes  quarto,  where  Suliotes,  Albanians,  and 
the  like  are  to  be  seen  clambering  over  rocks,  gun  on  shoulder,  in  the 
evident  intention  of  shooting  somebody,  give  a  tolerable  idea  of  these 
fellows,  only  they  are  more  ragged  than  the  heroes  of  the  said  mezzotints, 
also  less  ferocious.  The  commission  lodged  in  the  houses  about  the 
Meidan ;  the  Abkhasians — for  it  was  summer-— camped  on  the  Meidan 
itself,  filling  it  with  guns  and  gutturals. 

Much  parleying  took  place.  The  Abkhasians  were  highly  excited — why, 
we  have  already  seen  ;  the  Russians,  not  yet  aware  with  whom  they  had 
to  deal,  were  insolent  and  overbearing.  The  fire  of  contest  was,  una- 
vowedly  but  certainly,  fanned  by  many  of  the  Abkhasian  chiefs,  not 
unwilling  to  venture  all  where  they  saw  that  if  they  ventured  nothing 
they  must  lose  all.  Alexander  Shervashiji  was  there  in  his  own  house  on 
the  Meidan ;  his  nephew  George  had  arrived  from  Tiflis  :  the  Russian 
decorations  on  his  breast  lay  over  a  heart  no  less  anti-Russian  than  his 
uncle's  and  his  father's — so  at  least  said  the  Russians :  perhaps  it  suited 
them  to  incriminate  the  last  influential  representatives  of  the  Shervashiji 
family.  There  too  were  many  of  the  Marshians :  was  Shereem  Beg 
amongst  them  ?  Some  said,  some  denied.  "  Se  non  e  vero  e  ben 
trovato,"  was  the  Russian  conclusion.  But  more  active  than  any,  more 
avowedly  at  the  head  of  what  now  daily  approached  nearer  to  revolt,  were 
the  two  Ma'an  brothers,  Mustapha  and  Temshook — the  former  lately 
returned  from  Turkey — both  men  of  some  talent  and  of  much  daring. 

Meanwhile  news  of  all  this  was  brought  to  Colonel  Cognard,  the 
Russian  Governor- General  of  Abkhasia,  and  then  resident  at  Soukhoum- 
Kale.  A  violent,  imperious  man,  full  of  contempt  for  all  "  natives,"  and 
like  many  of  foreign  origin,  more  Russian  than  the  Russians  themselves, 
he  imagined  that  his  presence  at  So'ouk-Soo  would  at  once  suffice  to  quell 
the  rising  storm  and  awe  the  discontented  into  submission.  Accordingly, 
on  the  first  week  of  August,  he  arrived  on  the  scene,  and  lodged  in  the 
great  house  of  Alexander  Shervashiji — whither,  in  consequence,  the  whole 
attention  of  either  party,  Russian  and  Abkhazian,  was  now  directed. 


THE   AI3KIIASIAN    INSURRECTION.  509 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  affair,  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  the 
Russians,  men  of  no  great  sensibility  themselves,  ignored  the  sensibilities 
of  others,  and  seemed  to  think  that  whatever  the  injury,  whatever 
the:  wrong,  inflicted  by  a  Russian  Government,  it  ought  to  arouse  in  its 
victims  no  other  feeling  than  resignation  at  most.  Here  in  Abkhasia 
the  hereditary  ruler  of  the  country  had,  after  life-long  services,  in  time  of 
profound  tranquillity,  with  nothing  proved  or  even  distinctly  charged 
agdnst  him,  been  suddenly  dragged  into  exile  and  premature  death  ;  his 
family,  those  of  all  the  Abkhasian  nobility,  had  been  deprived  of  their 
rights,  and  threatened  with  the  deprivation  of  their  property  ;  ancestral 
customs,  law,  religion,  national  existence,  —  for  even  Abkhasians  lay  claim 
to  ill  these,  —  had  been  brought  to  the  verge  of  Russian  absorption  into 
not  -being  ;  and  the  while  Cognard  with  his  friends  could  not  imagine  the 
existence  of  any  Abkhasian  discontent  that  would  not  at  once  be  appeased, 
be  c.hanged  into  enthusiastic,  into  Pan-slavistic  loyalty,  by  the  appearance 
of  ,hat  "  deits  ex  machind  "  a  Russian  Governor-General.  Vid.  Warsaw 


Nemesis  willed  it  otherwise.  Cognard's  demeanour  was  brutal,  his 
every  word  an  insult.  The  nobles  presented  their  griefs  ;  he  refused  to 
recognize  them  as  nobles.  The  peasants  clamoured  ;  he  informed  them 
that  they  were  not  Abkhasians  but  Russians.  In  vain  Alexander  Sherva- 
shiji  and  the  Marshians,  sensible  and  moderate  men  the  most,  expostulated 
and  represented  that  the  moment  was  not  one  for  additional  irritation  ; 
Cognard  was  deaf  to  expostulation  and  advice  ;  his  fate  was  on  him.  It 
did  not  delay.  On  the  8th  of  August  a  deputation  composed  of  the  prin- 
cipal Abkhasian  nobility  laid  before  him  a  sort  of  Oriental  ultimatum  in  the 
form  of  an  address  ;  the  Russian  Governor-  General  answered  it  by  kicking 
addiess  and  nobles  out  of  doors.  It  was  noon  :  a  cry  of  vengeance  and 
slaughter  arose  from  the  armed  multitude  on  the  Meidan. 

The  assault  began  on  the  Cossacks  stationed  about  the  house  ;  they 
were  no  less  unprepared  than  their  masters,  and  could  offer  but  little 
resistance.  Already  the  first  shots  had  been  fired  and  blood  had  flowed 
when  Cognard  sent  out  George  Shervashiji  to  appease  those  who  should  by 
right  have  been  his  subjects  —  whose  rebellion  was,  in  fact,  for  his  own 
father's  sake.  That  he  never  returned  is  certain.  By  his  own  account, 
which  was  confirmed  on  most  hands,  he  did  his  best  to  quiet  the  insurgents, 
but  unsuccessfully.  They  forced  him  aside,  said  he,  and  detained  him 
at  a  distance  while  the  outbreak  went  on.  The  Russians  ascribed  to  him 
direct  participation  in  what  followed  ;  the  reasons  for  such  imputation  are 
palpable,  the  fact  itself  improbable. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Cossacks  before  the  gate  were  overpowered  and 
slaughtered  ;  the  Abkhasians  burst  into  the  house.  Its  owner,  Alexander 
Bhen  ashiji,  met  them  on  the  inner  threshold,  and  implored  them  to  respect 
the  s;,nctity  of  their  chief's  hearth.  But  that  moment  had  gone  by,  and 
the  o'd  man  was  laid  hold  of  by  his  countrymen  and  led  away  —  respectfully 
indeel,  but  in  a  manner  to  preclude  resistance  —  while  the  massacre 


510  THE   ABKHASIAN   INSURRECTION. 

begun  without  doors  continued  within.  Whatever  was  Russian  perished  : 
the  luckless  Commissioner  from  Tiflis  first ;  Cognard's  aide-de-camp  and 
his  immediate  suite  were  cut  down  ;  but  the  main  search  of  the  insurgents 
was  after  Cognard  himself.  A  Russian  picture,  largely  copied  and  circu- 
lated, represents  him  seated  composedly  in  his  chair,  unblenched  in  feature, 
unmoved  in  limb,  confronting  his  assailants.  Pity  that  so  artistic  a  group 
should  have  existed  only  in  the  artist's  own  imagination.  The  Colonel 
had  not,  indeed,  made  good  his  retreat,  but  he  had  done  his  best  thereto 
by  creeping  up  the  large  fireplace,  of  Abkhasian  fashion,  in  the  principal 
room.  Unfortunately  for  him  his  boots  protruded  downwards  into  the 
open  space  ;  and  by  these  the  insurgents  seized  him,  dragged  him  out 
to  the  mid  apartment  and  there  despatched  him.  His  colleague,  Ismailoff, 
had  a  worse  fate.  Specially  obnoxious  to  the  inhabitants  of  So'ouk-Soo 
for  the  impudence  of  his  profligacy,  he  was  first  mutilated  and  then  hewn 
piecemeal,  limb  by  limb.  It  is  said  that  the  dogs  were  already  eating 
morsels  of  his  flesh  before  life  had  left  his  body.  Such  atrocities  are  not 
uncommon  in  the  East  where  female  honour  is  concerned,  rare  else.  At 
So'ouk-Soo  Ismailoff  was  the  only  instance. 

All  was  now  in  the  hands  of  the  insurgents,  who  sacked  and  burnt  the 
houses  of  Russian  tenants,  killing  all  they  found.  Only  twenty  Cossacks 
escaped,  and  these  owed  their  lives  to  the  humane  exertions  of  the  wife  of 
Alexander  Shervashiji,  who  gave  them  refuge  in  her  own  apartments,  and 
kept  them  there  safe  till  the  massacre  wtis  over.  A  few  Georgians  and 
Mingrelians,  a  Pole  too,  though  wearing  the  Russian  uniform,  were  also 
spared.  "You  are  not  Russians,  our  quarrel  is  not  with  you,"  said  the 
Abkhasians,  p.s  they  took  the  men's  arms,  and  sent  them  off  uninjured  to 
Soukhoum. 

On  the  same  afternoon  the  insurgents  attacked  the  nearest  Russian 
post,  that  of  the  Cossacks  stationed  on  coast-guard  at  Gouda'outa.  Here, 
too,  the  assailants  were  successful,  the  Russians  were  killed  to  a  man,  and 
their  abode  was  burnt.  The  Nemesis  of  Abkhasia  had  completed  another 
stage  of  her  work. 

"  To  Soukhoum  "  was  now  the  cry ;  and  the  whole  mass  of  armed  men, 
now  about  three  thousand  in  number,  were  in  movement  southwards  along 
the  coast,  through  thickets  and  by-paths,  to  the  Russian  stronghold. 
Next  morning,  from  two  to  three  hundred  had  already  crossed  the  Gumista, 
a  broad  mountain  torrent  north  of  Soukhoum,  and  were  before,  or  rather 
behind  the  town. 

A  small  crescent  of  low  one-storied  houses,  mostly  wood,  Soukhoum- 
Kale  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  bay  with  a  southerly  aspect.  At  its 
western  extremity  is  the  Old  Fort,  ascribed  to  the  Genovese,  but  more  pro- 
bably of  Turkish  date,  whence  Soukhoum  derives  the  adjunct  of  "  Kela'at," 
or  "  Castle  "  (Kale  is  erroneous,  but  we  will  retain  it  for  custom's  sake), 
a  square  building,  with  thick  walls  of  rough  masonry  and  a  few  flanking 
bastions ;  within  is  room  for  a  mustered  regiment  or  more.  From  the 
town  crescent  some  straight  lines,  indications  of  roads,  run  perpendicularly 


THE  ABKHASIAN   INSUEEECTION.  511 

b;ick  across  the  plashy  ground  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  tlio  moun- 
tains; along  these  lines  are  ranged  other  small  wooden  houses,  mostly 
tenanted  by  Russian  officers.  The  garrison- camp,  situated  on  the  most 
unhealthy  site  of  this  unhealthy  marsh,  lies  east.  Behind  is  a  table-land, 
wiereon  in  August  last  there  still  stood  the  barracks  of  a  Russian  outpost, 
a  hospital,  a  public  vapour-bath,  and  a  few  houses.  The  coast  strip  is 
low  and  swampy,  a  nest  of  more  fevers  than  there  are  men  to  catch  them ; 
the  mountains  behind,  thickly  wooded  and  fern-clad  between  the  trees,  are 
fairly  healthy. 

At  the  moment  of  the  first  Abkhasian  onset,  the  9th  of  August,  three 
II  issian  vessels — a  transport,  a  corvette,  and  a  schooner,  all  three  belong- 
ing to  the  long- shore  fleet  of  Nicolaieff — were  lying  in  the  harbour.  But 
ths  number  of  men  in  the  camp  was  small,  falling  under  a  thousand,  and 
of  these  not  above  one-half  were  fit  for  duty. 

Had  the  Abkhasians  been  able  at  once  to  bring  their  whole  force  to 
bear  on  Soukhoum-Kale,  town  and  fort  would  probably  have  alike  fallen 
in  o  their  hands.  At  the  first  approach  of  the  enemy,  the  Russian 
garrison  had  abandoned  the  plateau  and  all  the  upper  part  of  the  town, 
co  aiming  themselves  to  the  defensive  in  the  lines  along  the  shore,  where 
they  were  in  a  measure  covered  by  the  fire  of  the  ships,  and  in  the  Fort 
itself.  Meanwhile  all  the  "mixed  multitude"  of  Soukhoum — small 
Greek  and  Armenian  shop-keepers,  Mingrelian  and  Georgian  camp- 
followers,  a  few  Jews  and  the  like — had  fled  for  refuge,  some  into  the 
Fort,  some  on  board  the  vessels  in  the  harbour.  But  their  best  auxiliary 
on  this  occasion  was  a  violent  rain-storm,  which  at  this  very  moment  burst 
ovor  the  mountains,  and  in  a  few  hours  so  swelled  the  Gumista  torrent 
th;  t  the  main  body  of  Abkhasians  mustered  behind  it  were  for  the  wholo 
of  the  ensuing  day  unable  to  cross  over  to  the  help  of  their  comrades,  the 
ass  ailants  of  Soukhoum. 

These  last  had  already  occupied  the  plateau,  burnt  whatever  was  on 
it,  and,  descending  into  the  plain,  plundered  and  set  fire  to  the  dwellings  of 
several  Russian  officers  close  below.  They  even  advanced  some  way  down 
the  central  street,  ostentatiously  called  the  "  Boulevard  "  in  honour  of 
sor  le  little  trees  planted  along  it.  But  here  they  were  checked  by  the 
fire  of  the  Russian  vessels,  and  by  the  few  troops  whom  their  officers 
coi  Id  persuade  to  remain  without  the  fort  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town. 

Two  days,  two  anxious  days,  matters  remained  on  this  footing.  But 
nevs  had  been  despatched  to  Poti,  and  on  the  third  morning  arrived  a 
battalion  from  that  place,  just  as  the  main  body  of  the  Abkhasians,  headed 
by  the  two  sons  of  Hasan  Ma' an,  Mustapha  and  Temshook,  crossed  the 
nov  diminished  Gumista  and  entered  Soukhoum. 

Fighting  now  began  in  good  earnest.  The  numbers  on  either  side 
were  pretty  fairly  matched,  but  the  Abkhasians,  though  inferior  in  arms, 
were  superior  in  courage;  and  it  required  all  the  exertions  of  a  Polish 
cole  nel  and  of  two  Greek  officers  to  keep  the  Russian  soldiers  from  even 
the:  i  abandoning  the  open  ground.  However,  next  morning  brought  the 


512  THE   ABKHASIAN   INSUIiKLCTION. 

Russians  fresh  reinforcements  ;  and  being  by  this  time  fully  double  the 
force  of  their  ill-armed,  undisciplined  enemy,  they  ventured  on  becoming 
assailants  in  their  turn.  By  the  end  of  the  fifth  day  the  insurgents  had 
dispersed  amid  the  woods.  The  Russian  loss  at  Soukhoum-Kale  was 
reckoned  at  sixty  or  seventy  men,  that  of  the  Abkhasians  at  somewhat 
less  •;  but  as  they  earned  their  dead  and  wounded  away  with  them,  the 
exact  number  has  never  been  known.  During  the  short  period  of  their 
armed  presence  at  Soukhoum  they  had  killed  no  one  except  in  fair  fight, 
burnt  or  plundered  no  houses  except  Russian,  committed  no  outrage, 
injured  no  neutral.  Only  the  Botanical  Garden,  a  pretty  copse  of  exotic 
trees,  the  creation  of  Prince  Woronzoff,  and  on  this  occasion  the  scene  of 
some  hard  fighting,  was  much  wasted,  and  a  Polish  chapel  was  burnt. 
Public*  rumour  ascribed  both  these  acts  of  needless  destruction,  the  first 
probably,  the  latter  certainly,  to  the  Russian  soldiery  themselves. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  soon  told.  Accompanied  by  a  large  body  of 
troops,  the  Russian  Governor- General  of  the  "Western  Caucasus  went  to 
So'ouk-Soo.  He  met  with  no  resistance.  Cognard  and  his  fellow- victims 
were  buried — we  have  seen  their  graves — and  the  house  of  Alexander 
Shervashiji,  that  in  which  Cognard  had  perished,  with  the  palace  of  the 
Prince  Michael,  was  gutted  and  burnt  by  a  late  act  of  Russian  vindictive- 
ness.  The  Nemesis  of  Abkhasia  added  these  further  trophies  to  her 
triumph  at  So'ouk-Soo. 

Thus  it  was  in  November  last.  A  few  more  months  have  passed, 
and  that  triumph  is  already  complete.  After  entire  submission,  and 
granted  pardon,  the  remnant  of  kthe  old  Abkhasian  nation — first  their 
chiefs  and  then  the  people — have  at  last,  in  time  of  full  peace  and  quiet, 
been  driven  from  the  mountains  and  coast  where  Greek,  Roman,  Persian, 
and  Turkish  domination  had  left  them  unmolested  for  more  than  two 
thousand  years,  to  seek  under  the  more  tolerant  rule  of  the  Ottoman 
Sultan  a  freedom  which  Russia  often  claims  without  her  own  limits,  always 
denies  within  them.  The  Meidan  of  So'ouk-Soo  is  now  empty.  Russians 
and  Abkhasians,  Shervashijis  and  Cossacks,  native  and  foreigner,  have 
alike  disappeared,  and  nothing  remains  but  the  fast  crumbling  memorials 
of  a  sad  history  of  national  folly  rewarded  by  oppression,  oppression  by 
violence,  violence  by  desolation. 


THE  CURATE   CROSS-EXAMINED. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


NOVEMBER,  1867. 


grmnleicjljs  at 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A  MORNING  OF  PERPLEXITIES. 

OLONEL  BRAMLEIGH  turned  over 
and  over,  without  breaking  the  seal, 
a  letter  which,  bearing  the  post- 
mark of  Rome  and  in  a  well-known 
hand,  he  knew  came  from  Lady 
Augusta. 

That  second  marriage  of  his  had 
been  a  great  mistake.  None  of  the 
social  advantages  he  had  calculated 
on  with  such  certainty  had  resulted 
from  it.  His  wife's  distinguished 
relatives  had  totally  estranged  them- 
selves from  her,  as  though  she  had 
made  an  unbecoming  and  unworthy 
alliance ;  his  own  sons  and  daughters 
had  not  concealed  their  animosity 
to  their  new  stepmother  ;  and,  in 
fact,  the  best  compromise  the 
blunder  admitted  of  was  that  they 
should  try  to  see  as  little  as  possible 
of  each  other ;  and  as  they  could  not  obliterate  the  compact,  they  should, 
as  far  as  in  them  lay,  endeavour  to  ignore  it. 

There  are  no  more  painful  aids  to  a  memory  unwilling  to  be  taxed  than 
a  banker's  half-yearly  statement ;  and  in  the  long  record  which  Christmas 
had  summoned,  and  which  now  lay  open  before  Bramleigh's  eyes,  were 
fri  quent  and  weighty  reminders  of  Lady  Augusta's  expensive  ways. 
VOL,  xvi. — NO.  95.  25. 


514  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

He  had  agreed  to  allow  her  a  thousand  Napoleons — about  eight 
hundred  pounds — quarterly,  which  was,  and  which  she  owned  was,  a  most 
liberal  and  sufficient  sum  to  live  on  alone,  and  in  a  city  comparatively 
cheap.  He  had,  however,  added,  with  a  courtesy  that  the  moment  of 
parting  might  have  suggested,  "Whenever  your  tastes  or  your  comforts 
are  found  to  be  hampered  in  any  way  by  the  limits  I  have  set  down,  you 
will  do  me  the  favour  to  draw  directly  on  'the  House,' and  I  will  take 
care  that  your  cheques  shall  be  attended  to." 

The  smile  with  which  she  thanked  him  was  still  in  his  memory. 
Since  the  memorable  morning  in  Berkeley  Square  when  she  accepted  his 
offer  of  marriage,  he  had  seen  nothing  so  fascinating — nor,  let  us  add,  so 
fleeting — as  this  gleam  of  enchantment.  Very  few  days  had  sufficed  to 
show  him  how  much  this  meteor  flash  of  loveliness  had  cost  him  ;  and  now, 
as  he  sat  conning  over  a  long  line  of  figures,  he  bethought  him  that  the  second 
moment  of  witchery  was  very  nearly  as  expensive  as  the  first.  When  he 
made  her  that  courteous  offer  of  extending  the  limits  of  her  civil  list  he 
had  never  contemplated  how  far  she  could  have  pushed  his  generosity,  and 
now,  to  his  amazement,  he  discovered  that  in  a  few  months  she  had  already 
drawn  for  seven  thousand  pounds,  and  had  intimated  to  the  House  that  the 
first  instalment  of  the  purchase -money  of  a  villa  would  probably  be  required 
some  time  early  in  May ;  the  business-like  character  of  this  "  advice  " 
being,  however,  sadly  disparaged  by  her  having  totally  forgotten  to  say 
anything  as  to  the.  amount  of  the  impending  demand. 

It  was  in  a  very  unlucky  moment — was  there  ever  a  lucky  one  ? — 
when  these  heavy  demands  presented  themselves.  Colonel  Bramleigh  had 
latterly  taken  to  what  he  thought,  or  at  least  meant  to  be,  retrenchment. 
He  was  determined,  as  he  said  himself,  to  "  take  the  bull  by  the  horns  :"  but 
the  men  who  perform  this  feat  usually  select  a  very  small  bull.  He  had 
nibbled,  as  it  were,  at  the  hem  of  the  budget ;  he  had  cut  down  "  the  boys'  " 
allowances.  "  What  could  Temple  want  with  five  hundred  a  year  ?  Her 
Majesty  gave  him  four,  and  her  Majesty  certainly  never  intended  to  take 
his  services  without  fitting  remuneration.  As  to  Jack  having  three 
hundred,  it  was  downright  absurdity;  it  was  extravagancies  like  these 
destroyed  the  Navy;  besides,  Jack  had  got  his  promotion,  and  his  pay 
ought  to  be  something  handsome."  With  regard  to  Augustus,  he  only 
went  so  far  as  certain  remonstrances  about  horse-keep  and  some  hints 
about  the  iniquities  of  a  German  valet  who,  it  was  rumoured,  had  actually 
bought  a  house  in  Duke  Street,  St.  James's,  out  of  his  peculations  in  the 
family. 

The  girls  were  not  extravagantly  provided  for,  but  for  example  sake 
he  reduced  their  allowances  by  one  third.  Ireland  was  not  a  country  for 
embroidered  silks  or  Genoa  velvet.  It  would  be  an  admirable  lesson  to 
others  if  they  were  to  see  the  young  ladies  of  the  great  house  dressed 
simply  and  unpretentiously.  "  These  things  could  only  be  done  by  people 
of  station.  Such  examples  must  proceed  from  those  whose  motives  could 
not  be  questioned."  He  dismissed  the  head-gardener,  and  he  was 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  515 

actually  contemplating  the  discharge  of  the  French  cook,  though  he  well 
foresaw  the  storm  of  opposition  so  strong  a  measure  was  sure  to  evoke. 
When  he  came  to  sum  up  his  reforms  he  was  shocked  to  find  that  the 
total  only  reached  a  little  over  twelve  hundred  pounds,  and  this  in  a 
Household  of  many  thousands. 

Was  not  Castello,  too,  a  mistake  ?  Was  not  all  this  princely  style  of 
iving,  in  a  county  without  a  neighbourhood,  totally  unvisited  by  strangers, 
:»,  capital  blunder  ?  He  had  often  heard  of  the  cheapness  of  life  in  Ireland  ; 
and  what  a  myth  it  was  !  He  might  have  lived  in  Norfolk  for  what  he 
\vas  spending  in  Downshire,  and  though  he  meant  to  do  great  things  for 

•  he  country,  a  doubt  was  beginning  to  steal  over  him  as  to  how  they  were 
r,o  be  done.      He  had  often  insisted  that  absenteeism  was  the  bane  of 
Ireland,  and  yet  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  see  how  his  residence 

•  here  was  to  prove  a  blessing. 

Lady  Augusta,  with  her  separate  establishment,  was  spending  above 
three  thousand  a  year.  Poor  man,  he  was  grumbling  to  himself  over  this, 
nvnen  that  precious  document  from  the  bank  arrived  with  the  astounding 
news  of  her  immense  extravagance.  He  laid  her  letter  down  again :  he 
had  not  temper  to  read  it.  It  was  so  sure  to  be  one  of  those  frivolous 
little  levities  which  jar  so  painfully  on  serious  feelings.  He  knew  so  well 
the  half  jestful  excuses  she  would  make  for  her  wastefulness,  the 
coquettish  prettinesses  she  would  deploy  in  describing  her  daily  life  of 
mock  simplicity,  and  utter  recklessness  as  to  cost,  that  he  muttered  "  Not 
KOW"  to  himself  as  he  pushed  the  letter  away.  As  he  did  so  he  dis- 
( overed  a  letter  in  the  hand  of  Mr.  Sedley,  his  law  agent.  He  had  himself 
written  a  short  note  to  that  gentleman,  at  Jack's  request ;  for  Jack — 
vho,  like  all  sailors,  believed  in  a  First  Lord  and  implicitly  felt  that  no 
jromotion  ever  came  rightfully — wanted  a  special  introduction  to  the 
^reat  men  at  Somerset  House,  a  service  which  Sedley,  who  knew  every  one, 
could  easily  render  him.  This  note  of  Sedley's  then  doubtless  referred  to 
tliat  matter,  and  though  Bramleigh  did  not  feel  any  great  or  warm  interest 
ri  the  question,  he  broke  the  envelope  to  read  it  rather  as  a  relief  than 
otherwise.  It  was  at  least  a  new  topic,  and  it  could  not  be  a  very 
exciting  one.  The  letter  ran  thus  : — 

'•  MY  DEAR  SIR,  "  Tuesday,  January  15. 

"  HICKLAY  will  speak  to  the  First  Lord  at  the  earliest  con- 
V3nient  moment,  but  as  Captain  Bramleigh  has  just  got  his  promotion,  he 
dDes  not  see  what  can  be  done  in  addition.  I  do  not  suppose  your  son 
M  ould  like  a  dockyard  appointment,  but  a  tolerably  snug  berth  will  soon 
b  3  vacant  at  Malta,  and  as  Captain  B.  will  be  in  town  to-morrow,  I  shall 
•v\  ait  upon  him  early,  and  learn  his  wishes  in  the  matter.  There  is  great 
ti  Ik  to-day  of  changes  in  the  Cabinet,  and  some  rumour  of  a  dissolution. 
1  hese  reports  and  disquieting  news  from  France  have  brought  the  Funds 
d  )wn  one-sixth.  Burrows  and  Black  have  failed — the  Calcutta  house  had 
n  ade  some  large  tea  speculation,  it  is  said,  without  the  knowledge  of  the 

25—2 


516  THE   BBAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

partners  here.  'At  all  events,  the  liabilities  will  exceed  a  million  ;  available 
assets  not  a  hundred  thousand.  I  hope  you  will  not  suffer,  or  if  so,  to 
only  a  trifling  extent,  as  I  know  you  lately  declined  the  advances  Black  so 
pressed  upon  you." 

"He's  right  there,"  muttered  Bramleigh.  "I  wouldn't  touch  those 
indigo  bonds.  When  old  Grant  began  to  back  up  the  natives,  I  saw  what 
would  become  of  the  planters.  All  meddling  with  the  labour  market  in 
India  is  mere  gambling,  and  whenever  a  man  makes  his  coup  he  ought  to 
go  off  with  his  money.  What's  all  this  here,"  muttered  he,  "about 
Talookdars  and  Ryots?  He  ought  to  know  this  question  cannot 
interest  me." 

"  I  met  Kelson  yesterday ;  he  was  very  close  and  guarded,  but  my 
impression  is  that  they  are  doing  nothing  in  the  affair  of  the  *  Pretender.' 
I  hinted  jocularly  something  about  having  a  few  thousands  by  me  if  he 
should  happen  to  know  of  a  good  investment,  and,  in  the  same  careless 
way,  he  replied,  '  I'll  drop  in  some  morning  at  the  office,  and  have  a  talk 
with  you.'  There  was  a  significance  in  his  manner  that  gave  me  to 
believe  he  meant  a  '  transaction.'  We  shall  see.  I  shall  add  a  few  lines 
to  this  after  I  have  seen  Captain  B.  to-morrow.  I  must  now  hurry  off  to 
Westminster." 

Bramleigh  turned  over,  and  read  the  following : — 

Wednesday,  16th. 

-  "On  going  to  the  '  Drummond '  this  morning  to  breakfast,  by  appoint- 
ment, with  your  son,  I  found  him  dressing,  but  talking  with  the  occupant 
of  a  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  sitting-room,  where  breakfast  was 
laid  for  three.  Captain  B.,  who  seemed  in  excellent  health  and  spirits, 
entered  freely  on  the  subject  of  the  shore  appointment,  and  when  I 
suggested  caution  in  discussing  it,  told  me  there  was  no  need  of  reserve, 
that  he  could  say  what  he  pleased  before  his  friend — *  whom,  by  the  way,' 
said  he,  *  I  am  anxious  to  make  known  to  you.  You  are  the  very  man  to 
give  him  first-rate  advice,  and  if  you  cannot  take  up  his  case  yourself,  to 
recommend  him  to  some  one  of  trust  and  character.'  While  we  were 
talking,  the  stranger  entered — a  young  man,  short,  good-looking,  and  of 
good  address.  '  I  want  to  present  you  to  Mr.  Sedley,'  said  Captain  B., 
'  and  I'll  be  shot  if  I  don't  forget  your  name.' 

"  « I  half  doubt  if  you  ever  knew  it,'  said  the  other,  laughing;  and, 
turning  to  me,  added,  '  Our  friendship  is  of  short  date.  We  met  as 
travellers,  but  I  have  seen  enough  of  life  to  know  that  the  instinct  that 
draws  men  towards  each  other  is  no  bad  guarantee  for  mutual  liking.'  He 
said  this  with  a  slightly  foreign  accent,  but  fluently  and  easily. 

"  We  now  sat  down  to  table,  and  though  not  being  gifted  with  that 
expansiveness  that  the  stranger  spoke  of,  I  soon  found  myself  listening 
with  pleasure  to  the  conversation  of  a  very  shrewd  and  witty  man,  who 
had  seen  a  good  deal  of  life.  Perhaps  I  may  have  exhibited  some  trait  of 
the  pleasure  he  afforded  me — perhaps  I  may  have  expressed  it  in  words ; 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  517 

at  all  events  your  son  marked  the  effect  produced  upon  me,  and  in  a  tone 
of  half  jocular  triumph,  cried  out,  '  Eh,  Sedley,  you'll  stand  by  him — won't 
you  ?  I've  told  him  if  there  was  a  man  in  England  to  carry  him  through 
a  stiff  campaign  you  were  the  fellow.'  I  replied  by  some  commonplace, 
and  rose  soon  after  to  proceed  to  Court.  As  the  foreigner  had  also  some 
business  at  the  Hall,  I  offered  him  a  seat  in  my  cab.  As  we  went  along, 
he  spoke  freely  of  himself  and  his  former  life,  and  gave  me  his  card,  with 
the  name  *  Anatole  Pracontal.'  So  that  here  I  was  for  two  hours  in  close 
confab  with  the  enemy,  to  whom  I  was  actually  presented  by  your  own 
son  !  So  overwhelming  was  this  announcement  that  I  really  felt  unable  to 
take  any  course,  and  doubted  whether  I  ought  not  at  once  to  have  told 
him  who  his  fellow-traveller  was.  I  decided  at  last  for  the  more 
cautious  line,  and  asked  him  to  come  and  see  me  at  Fulham.  We  parted 
excellent  friends.  Whether  he  will  keep  _his  appointment  or  not  I  am 
unable  to  guess.  By  a  special  good  fortune — so  I  certainly  must  deem  it 
— Captain  Bramleigh  was  telegraphed  for  to  Portsmouth,  and  had  to  leave 
town  at  once.  So  that  any  risks  from  that  quarter  are  avoided.  Whether 
this  strange  meeting  will  turn  out  well  or  ill,  whether  it  will  be  misinter- 
preted by  Kelson  when  he  comes  to  hear  it — for  it  would  be  hard  to  believe 
it  all  accident — and  induce  him  to  treat  us  with  distrust  and  suspicion,  or 
whether  it  may  conduce  to  a  speedy  settlement  of  everything,  is  more  than 
I  can  yet  say. 

"I  am  so  far  favourably  impressed  by  M.  Pracontal's  manner  and 
address  that  I  think  he  ought  not  to  be  one  difficult  to  deal  with.  What 
may  be  his  impression,  however,  when  he  learns  with  whom  he  has  been 
talking  so  freely,  is  still  doubtful  to  me.  He  cannot,  it  is  true,  mistrust 
your  son,  but  he  may  feel  grave  doubts  about  me. 

"  I  own  I  do  not  expect  to  see  him  to-morrow.  Kelson  will  certainly 
advise  him  against  such  a  step,  nor  do  I  yet  perceive  what  immediate 
good  would  result  from  our  meeting,  J>eyond  the  assuring  him — as  I  cer- 
tainly should — that  all  that  had  occurred  was  pure  chance,  and  that, 
though  perfectly  familiar  with  his  name  and  his  pretensions,  I  had  not  the 
vaguest  suspicion  of  his  identity  till  I  read  his  card.  It  may  be  that  out 
of  this  strange  blunder  good  may  come.  Let  us  hope  it.  I  will  write 
uO-morrow. 

"  Truly  yours, 

"M.  SEDLEY." 

Colonel  Bramleigh  re-read  every  line  of  the  letter  carefully ;  and  as  he 
^aid  it  down  with  a  sigh,  said,  "What  a  complication  of  troubles  on  my 
j  lands.  At  the  very  moment  that  I  am  making  engagements  to  relieve 
( .there,  I  may  not  have  the  means  to  meet  my  own  difficulties.  Sedley  was 
<  uite  wrong  to  make  any  advances  to  this  man;  they  are  sure  to  be  misin- 
1  erpreted.  Kelson  will  think  we  are  afraid,  and  raise  his  terms  with  us 
«' ccordingly."  Again  his  eyes  fell  upon  Lady  Augusta's  letter;  but  he 
had  no  temper  now  to  encounter  all  the  light  gossip  and  frivolity  it  was 


618  THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

sure  to  contain.  He  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  and  set  out  to  take  a  walk. 
He  wanted  to  think,  but  he  also  wanted  the  spring  and  energy  which  come 
of  brisk  exercise.  He  felt  his  mind  would  work  more  freely  when  he  was 
in  motion ;  and  in  the  open  air,  too,  he  should  escape  from  the  terrible 
oppression  of  being  continually  confronted  by  himself, — which  he  felt  he 
was  in  the  solitude  of  his  study. 

"  If  M.  Pracontal  measure  us  by  the  standard  of  Master  Jack," 
muttered  he,  bitterly,  "  he  will  opine  that  the  conflict  ought  not  to  be  a 
tough  one.  What  fools  these  sailors  are  when  you  take  them  off  their  own 
element ;  and  what  a  little  bit  of  a  world  is  the  quarter-deck  of  a  frigate  ! 
Providence  has  not  blessed  me  with  brilliant  sons  ;  that  is  certain.  It  was 
through  Temple  we  have  come  to  know  Lord  Culduff ;  and  I  protest 
I  anticipate  little  of  either  profit  or  pleasure  from  the  acquaintanceship. 
As  for  Augustus,  he  is  only  so  much  shrewder  than  the  others,  that  he  is 
more  cautious  ;  his  selfishness  is  immensely  preservative."  This  was  not, 
it  must  be  owned,  a  flattering  estimate  that  he  made  of  his  sons  ;  but  he 
was  a  man  to  tell  hard  truths  to  himself;  and  to  tell  them  roughly  and 
roundly  too,  like  one  who,  when  he  had  to  meet  a  difficulty  in  life,  would 
rather  confront  it  in  its  boldest  shape. 

So  essentially  realistic  was  the  man's  mind  that,  till  he  had  actually 
under  Jus  eyes  these  few  lines  describing  Pracontal' s  look  and  manner,  he 
had  never  been  able  to  convince  himself  that  this  pretender  was  an  actual 
bondtjlde  creature.  Up  to  this,  the  claim  had  been  a  vague  menace,  and 
no  more  ;  a  tradition  that  ended  in  a  threat !  There  was  the  whole  of  it ! 
Kelson  had  written  to  Sedley,  and  Sedley  to  Kelson.  ^Jaere  had  been  a 
half -amicable  contest,  a  sort  of  round  with  the  gloves,  in  which  these  two 
crafty  men  appeared  rather  like  great  moralists  than  cunning  lawyers.  Had 
they  been  peace-makers  by  Act  of  Parliament,  they  could  not  have  urged 
more  strenuously  the  advantages  of  amity  and  kindliness  ;  how  severely 
they  censured  the  contentious  spirits  which  drove  men  into  litigation  !  and 
how  beautifully  they  showed  the  Christian  benefit  of  an  arbitration  "  under 
the  court,"  the  costs  to  be  equitably  divided  ! 

Throughout  the  whole  drama,  however,  M.  Pracontal  had  never  figured 
as  an  active  character  of  the  piece ;  and  for  all  that  Bramleigh  could  see, 
the  machinery  might  work  to  the  end,  and  the  catastrophe  be  announced, 
not  only  without  even  producing  him,  but  actually  without  his  having  ever 
existed.  If  from  time  to  time  he  might  chance  to  read  in  the  public 
papers  of  a  suspicious  foreigner,  a  "  Frenchman  or  Italian  of  fashionable 
appearance,"  having  done  this,  that,  or  t'other,  he  would  ask  himself  at 
once,  "I  wonder  could  that  be  my  man?  Is  that  the  adventurer  who 
wants  to  replace  me  here?"  As  time,  however,  rolled  on,  and  nothing 
came  of  this  claim  more  palpable  than  a  dropping  letter  from  Sedley,  to  say 
he  had  submitted  such  a  point  to  counsel,  or  he  thought  that  the  enemy 
seemed  disposed  to  come  to  terms,  Bramleigh  actually  began  to  regard 
the  whole  subject  as  a  man  might  tlje  danger  of  a  storm,  which,  breaking 
afar  off;  might  probably  waste  all  its  fury  before  it  reached  him. 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  519 

Now,  however,  these  feelings  of  vague,  undefined  doubt  were  to  give 
way  to  a  very  palpable  terror.  His  own  son  had  seen  Pracontal,  and  sat 
at  table  with  him.  Pracontal  was  a  good-looking,  well-mannered  fellow, 
with,  doubtless,  all  the  readiness  and  the  aplomb  of  a  clever  foreigner  ; 
not  a  creature  of  mean  appearance  and  poverty- struck  aspect,  whose  very 
person  would  disparage  his  pretensions,  but  a  man  with  the  bearing  of  the 
world  and  the  habits  of  society. 

So  sudden  and  so  complete  was  this  revulsion,  and  so  positively  did  it 
lepict  before  him  an  actual  conflict,  that  he  could  only  think  of  how.  to 
leal  with  Pracontal  personally,  by  what  steps  it  might  be  safest  to  approach 
aim,  and  how  to  treat  a  man  whose  changeful  fortunes  must  doubtless 
have  made  him  expert  in  difficulties,  and  at  the  same  time  a  not  Unlikely 
lupe  to  well-devised  and  well-applied  flatteries. 

To  have  invited  him  frankly  to  Castello, — to  have  assumed  that  it  was 
i  case  in  which  a  generous  spirit  might  deal  far  more  successfully  than  all 
the  cavils  and  cranks  of  the  law,  was  Bramleigh's  first  thought ;  but  to  do 
this  with  effect,  he  must  confide  the  whole  story  of  the  peril  to  some  at 
'east  of  the  family :  and  this,  for  many  reasons,  he  could  not  stoop  to. 
Bramleigh  certainly  attached  no  actual  weight  to  this  man's  claim, — he  did 
lot  in  his  heart  believe  that  there  was  any  foundation  for  his  pretension  ; 
jut  Sedley  had  told  him  that  there  was  case  enough  to  go  to  a  jury, — and  a 
;ury  meant  exposure,  publicity,  comment,  and  very  unpleasant  comment 
ooo,  when  party  hatred  should  contribute  its  venom  to  the  discussion.  If, 
-,hen,  he  shrunk  from  imparting  this  story  to  his  sons  and  daughters,  how 
long  could  he  count  on  secrecy  ? — only  till  next  assizes  perhaps.  At  the 
:  irst  notice  of  trial  the  whole  mischief  would  be  out,  and  the  matter  be  a 
vorld-wide  scandal.  Sedley  advised  a  compromise,  but  the  time  was  very 
nnpropitious  for  this.  It  was  downright  impossible  to  get  money  at 
*he  moment.  Every  one  was  bent  on ""  realizing,"  in  presence  of  all  the 
crashes  and  bankruptcies  around.  None  would  lend  on  the  best  securities, 
und  men  were  selling  out  at  ruinous  loss  to  meet  pressing  engagements, 
"j.^or  the  very  first  time  in  his  life,  Bramleigh  felt  what  it  was  to  want  for 
ready  money.  He  had  every  imaginable  kind  of  wealth.  Houses  and 
lands,  stocks,  shares,  ships,  costly  deposits  and  mortgages — everything  in 
^;hort  but  gold :  and  yet  it  was  gold  alone  could  meet  the  emergency.  How 
foolish  it  was  of  him  to  involve  himself  in  Lord  Culduff's  difficulties  at 
Mich  a  crisis :  had  he  not  troubles  enough  of  his  own !  Would  that 
<  ssenced  and  enamelled  old  dandy  have  stained  his  boots  to  have  served 
/  im  ?  That  was  a  very  unpleasant  query,  which  would  cross  his  mind,  and 
j  lever  obtain  anything  like  a  satisfactory  reply.  Would  not  his  calculation 
probably  be  that  Bramleigh  was  amply  recompensed  for  all  he  could  do, 
1  y  the  honour  of  being  thought  the  friend  of  a  noble  lord,  so  highly  placed, 
{ nd  so  much  thought  of  in  the  world  ? 

As  for  Lady  Augusta's  extravagance,  it  was  simply  insufferable.  He 
1  ad  been  most  liberal  to  her  because  he  would  not  permit  that  whatever 
Might  be  the  nature  of  the  differences  that  separated  them,  money  in  any 


520  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

shape  should  enter.  There  must  be  nothing  sordid  or  mean  in  the  tone  of 
any  discussion  between  them.  She  might  prefer  Italy  to  Ireland ;  sun- 
shine to  rain  ;  a  society  of  idle,  leisure -loving,  indolent,  soft- voiced  men, 
to  association  with  sterner,  severer,  and  more  energetic  natures.  She 
might  affect  to  think  climate  all  essential  to  her  ;  and  the  society  of  her 
sister  a  positive  necessity.  All  these  he  might  submit  to,  but  he  was 
neither  prepared  to  be  ruined  by  her  wastefulness,  or  maintain  a  contro- 
versy as  to  the  sum  she  should  spend.  "If  we  come  to  figures,  it  must 
be  a  fight,"  muttered  he,  "  and  an  igndble  fight  too  ;  and  it  is  to  that  we 
are  now  approaching." 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  what  is  before  me  here,"  said  he  with  a  grim 
smile,  as  he  tore  open  the  letter  and  prepared  to  read  it.  Now,  though  on 
this  occasion  his  guess  was  not  exactly  correct,  nor  did  the  epistle  contain 
the  graceful  little  nothings  by  which  her  ladyship  was  wont  to  chronicle 
her  daily  life,  we  forbear  to  give  it  in  extenso  to  our  readers  ;  first  of  all, 
because  it  opened  with  a  very  long  and  intricate  explanation  of  motives 
which  was  no  explanation  at  all,  and  then  proceeded  by  an  equally  prolix 
narrative  to  announce  a  determination  which  was  only  to  be  final  on 
approval.  In  two  words,  Lady  Augusta  was  desirous  of  changing  her 
religion ;  but  before  becoming  a  Catholic,  she  wished  to  know  if  Colonel 
Bramleigh  would  make  a  full  and  irrevocable  settlement  on  her  of  her 
present  allowance,  giving  her  entire  power  over  its  ultimate  disposal,  for 
she  hinted  that  the  sum  might  be  capitalized ;  the  recompence  for  such 
splendid  generosity  being  the.noble  consciousness  of  a  very  grand  action, 
and  his  own  liberty.  To  the  latter  she  adverted  with  becoming  delicacy, 
slyly  hinting  that  in  the  church  to  which  he  belonged  there  might 
probably  be  no  very  strenuous  objections  made,  should  he  desire  to 
contract  new  ties,  and  once  more  re-enter  the  bonds  of  matrimony. 

The  expression  which  burst  aloud  from  Bramleigh  as  he  finished  the 
letter,  conveyed  all  that  he  felt  on  the  subject. 

"  What  outrageous  effrontery  !  The  first  part  of  this  '  precious 
document  is  written  by  a  priest,  and  the  second  by  an  attorney.  It  begins 
by  informing  me  that  I  am  a  heretic,  and  politely  asks  me  to  add  to  that 
distinction  the  honour  of  being  a  beggar.  What  a  woman  !  I  have  done, 
I  suppose,  a  great  many  foolish  things  in  life,  but  I  shall  not  cap  them  so 
far,  I  promise  you,  Lady  Augusta,  by  an  endowment  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  No,  my  lady,  you  shall  give  the  new  faith  you  are  about  to 
adopt  the  most  signal  proof  of  your  sincerity,  by  renouncing  all  worldliness 
at  the  threshold ;  and  as  the  nuns  cut  off  their  silken  tresses,  you  shall  rid 
yourself  of  that  wealth  which  we  are  told  is  such  a  barrier  against  heaven. 
Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  he  with  a  sardonic  bitterness,  "  who  have  done 
so  little  for  your  happiness  here,  to  peril  your  happiness  hereafter." 

"  I  will  answer  this  at  once,"  said  he.  "  It  shall  not  remain  one  post 
without  its  reply." 

He  arose  to  return  to  the  house ;  but  in  his  pre-occupation  he  con- 
tinued to  walk  till  he  reached  the  brow  of  the  cliff  from  which  the  roof  of 


THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  521 

the  curate's  cottage  was  seen,  about  a  mile  off.  The  peaceful  stillness  of 
the  scene,  where  not  a  leaf  moved,  and  where  the  sea  washed  lazily  along 
the  low  strand  with  a  sweeping  motion  that  gave  no  sound,  calmed  and 
soothed  him.  Was  it  not  to  taste  the  sweet  sense  of  repose  that  he  had 
quitted  the  busy  life  of  cities  and  come  to  this  lone  sequestered  spot  ?  Was 
not  this  very  moment,  as  he  now  felt  it,  the  realization  of  a  long- cherished 
desire  ?  Had  the  world  anything  better  in  all  its  prizes,  he  asked  himself, 
than  the  peaceful  enjoyment  of  an  unchequered  existence  ?  Shall  I  not 
try  to  carry  out  what  once  I  had  planned  to  myself,  and  live  my  life  as  I 
intended  ? 

He  sat  down  on  the  brow  of  the  crag  and  looked  out  over  the  sea.  A 
gentle,  but  not  unpleasant  sadness  was  creeping  over  him.  It  was  one  of  those 
moments — every  man  has  had  them — in  which  the  vanity  of  life  and  the 
frivolity  of  all  its  ambitions  present  themselves  to  the  mind  far  more  forcibly 
than  ever  they  appear  when  urged  from  the  pulpit.  There  is  no  pathos, 
no  bad  taste,  no  inflated  description  in  the  workings  of  reflectiveness.  When 
we  come  to  compute  with  ourselves  what  we  have  gained  by  our  worldly 
successes,  and  to  make  a  total  of  all  our  triumphs,  we  arrive  at  a  truer 
insight  into  the  nothingness  of  what  we  are  contending  for  than  we  ever 
attain  through  the  teaching  of  our  professional  moralists. 

Colonel  Bramleigh  had  made  considerable  progress  along  this  peaceful 
track  since  he  sat  down  there.  Could  he  only  be  sure  to  accept  the  truths 
he  had  been  repeating  to  himself  without  any  wavering  or  uncertainty ; 
could  he  have  resolution  enough  to  conform  his  life  to  these  convictions, — 
throw  over  all  ambitions,  and  be  satisfied  with  mere  happiness, — was  this 
prize  not  within  his  reach  ?  Temple  and  Marion,  perhaps,  might  resist ; 
but  he  was  certain  the  others  would  agree  with  him, — while  he  thus 
pondered,  he  heard  the  low  murmur  of  voices,  apparently  near  him ;  he 
listened,  and  perceived  that  some  persons  were  talking  as  they  mounted  the 
zigzag  path  which  led  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  and  which  had  to 
cross  and  recross  continually  before  it  gained  the  summit.  A  thick  hedge 
of  laurel  and  arbutus  fenced  the  path  on  either  side  so  completely  as  to  shut 
out  all  view  of  those  who  were  walking  along  it,  and  who  had  to  pass  and 
repass  quite  close  to  where  Bramleigh  was  sitting. 

To  his  intense  astonishment  it  was  in  French  they  spoke  ;  and  a  certain 
sense  of  terror  came  over  him  as  to  what  this  might  portend.  Were  these 
spies  of  the  enemy,  and  was  the  mine  about  to  be  sprung  beneath  him  ?  One 
was  a  female  voice,  a  clear,  distinct  voice — which  he  thought  he  knew  well, 
and  oh,  what  inexpressible  relief  to  his  anxiety  was  it  when  he  recognized 
it  to  be  Julia  L'Estrange's.  She  spoke  volubly,  almost  flippantly,  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  Bramleigh,  in  a  tone  of  half  sarcastic  raillery,  against  which  her 
companion  appeared  to  protest,  as  he  more  than  once  repeated  the  word 
"serieuse,"  in  a  tone  almost  reproachful. 

"If  I  am  to  be  serious,  my  lord,"  said  she,  in  a  more  collected  tone, 
"  I  had  better  get  back  to  English.  Let  me  tell  you  then,  in  a  language 
which  admits  of  little  misconception,  that  I  have  forborne  to  treat  your 

25—5 


522  THE   BRAMLEIGHS  OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

lordship's  proposal  with  gravity,  partly  out  of  respect  for  myself,  partly  out 
of  deference  to  you." 

"  Deference  to  me  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?  what  can  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  my  lord,  that  all  the  flattery  of  being  the  object  of  your 
lordship's  choice  could  not  obliterate  my  sense  of  a  disparity,  just  as  great 
between  us  in  years  as  in  condition.  I  was  nineteen  my  last  birthday, 
Lord  Culduff ;  "  and  she  said  this  with  a  pouting  air  of  offended  dignity. 

"  A  peeress  of  nineteen  would  be  a  great  success  at  a  drawing-room," 
said  he,  with  a  tone  of  pompous  deliberation. 

"  Pray,  my  lord,  let  us  quit  a  theme  we  cannot  agree  upon.  With  all 
your  lordship's  delicacy,  you  have  not  been  able  to  conceal  the  vast  sacri- 
fices it  has  cost  you  to  make  me  your  present  proposal.  I  have  no  such 
tact.  I  have  not  even  the  shadow  of  it ;  and  I  could  never  hope  to-  hide 
what  it  would  cost  me  to  become  grande  dame." 

"  A  proposal  of  marriage  ;  an  actual  proposal,"  muttered  Bramleigh,  as 
he  arose  to  move  away.  "  I  heard  it  with  my  own  ears ;  and  heard  her 
refuse  it,  besides." 

An  hour  later,  when  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the  chief  entrance,  he 
met  Marion,  who  came  towards  him  with  an  open  letter.  "  This  is  from 
poor  Lord  Culduff,"  said  she  ;  '*  he  has  been  stopping  these  last  three  days 
at  the  L'Estranges',  and  what  between  boredom  and  bad  cookery  he 
couldn't  hold  out  any  longer.  He  begs  he  may  be  permitted  to  come  back 
here  ;  he  says,  '  Put  me  below  the  salt,  if  you  like — anywhere,  only  let 
it  be  beneath  your  roof,  and  within  the  circle  of  your  fascinating  society.' 
Shall  I  say  Come,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  we  must,"  muttered  Bramleigh,  sulkily,  and  passed  on  to 
his  room. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 
GrEORGE    AND    JULIA. 

IT  was  after  a  hard  day  with  the  hounds  that  George  L'Estrange  reached 
the  cottage  to  a  late  dinner.  The  hunting  had  not  been  good.  They  had 
found  three  times,  but  each  ftme  lost  their  fox  after  a  short  burst,  and 
though  the  morning  broke  favourably,  with  a  low  cloudy  sky  and  all  the 
signs  of  a  good  scenting  day,  towards  the  afternoon  a  brisk  north-easter 
had  sprung  up,  making  the  air  sharp  and  piercing,  and  rendering  the  dogs 
wild  and  uncertain.  In  fact,  it  was  one  of  those  days  which  occasionally 
irritate  men  more  than  actual  "  blanks ;  "  there  was  a  constant  promise  of 
something,  always  ending  in  disappointment.  The  horses,  too,  were 
fretful  and  impatient,  as  horses  are  wont  to  be  with  frequent  checks,  and 
when  excited  by  a  cold  and  cutting  wind. 

Even  Nora,  perfection  that  she  was  of  temper  and  training,  had  not 
behaved  well.      She  had  taken  her  fences   hotly  and  impatiently,  and 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  523 

actually  chested  a  stiff  bank,  which  cost  herself  and  her  rider  a  heavy  fall, 
and  a  disgrace  that  the  curate  felt  more  acutely  than  the  injury. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  fell,  George  ?  "  said  Julia,  with  a  look  of 
positive  incredulity. 

"  Nora  did,  which  comes  pretty  much  to  the  same  thing.  We  were 
coming  out  of  Gore's  Wood,  and  I  was  leading.  There's  a  high  bank 
with  a  drop  into  Longworth's  lawn.  It's  a  place  I've  taken  scores  of 
times.  One  can't  fly  it ;  you  must  "  top,"  and  Nora  can  do  that  sort  of 
thing  to  perfection  ;  and  as  I  came  on  I  had  to  swerve  a  little  to  avoid 
some  of  the  dogs  that  were  climbing  up  the  bank.  Perhaps  it  was  that 
irritated  her,  but  she  rushed  madly  on,  and  came  full  chest  against  the 

gripe,  and 1  don't  remember  much  more  till  I  found  myself  actually 

drenched  with  vinegar  that  old  Catty  Lalor  was  pouring  over  me,  when  I 
got  up  again,  addled  and  confused  enough,  but  I'm  all  right  now.  Do 
you  know,  Ju,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  was  more  annoyed  by  a 
chance  remark  I  heard  as  I  was  lying  on  the  grass  than  by  the  whole 
misadventure  ?" 

"  What  was  it,  George  ?  " 

"  It  was  old  Curtis  was  riding  by,  and  he  cried  out,  '  Who's  down  ? ' 
and  some  one  said,  « L'Estrange.'  '  By  Jove,'  said  he,  *  I  don't  think 
that  fellow  was  ever  on  his  knees  before ; '  and  this  because  I  was  a 
parson." 

"  How  unfeeling  ;  but  how  like  him." 

"  Wasn't  it  ?  After  all,  it  comes  of  doing  what  is  not  exactly  right. 
I  suppose  it's  not  enough  that  I  see  nothing  wrong  in  a  day  with  tfce 
hounds.  I  ought  to  think  how  others  regard  it ;  whether  it  shocks  them, 
or  exposes  my  cloth  to  sarcasm  or  censure  ?  Is  it  not  dinner-hour  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,  George.     It's  past  eight." 

"  And  where's  our  illustrious  guest ;  has  he  not  appeared  ?  " 

"  Lord  Culduff  has  gone.  There  came  a  note  to  him  from  Castello  in 
the  afternoon,  and  about  five  o'clock  the  phaeton  appeared  at  the  door — 
only  with  the  servants — and  his  lordship  took  a  most  affectionate  leave  of 
me,  charging  me  with  the  very  sweetest  messages  for  you,  and  assurances 
of  eternal  memory  of  the  blissful  hours  he  had  passed  here." 

"  Perhaps  it's  not  the  right  thing  to  say,  but  I  own  to  you  I'm  glad 
he's  gone." 

"  But  why,  George  ;  was  he  not  amusing  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  suppose  he  was  ;  but  he  was  so  supremely  arrogant,  so 
impressed  with  his  own  grandness  and  our  littleness,  so  persistently  eager 
to  show  us  that  we  were  enjoying  an  honour  in  his  presence,  that  nothing 
in  our  lives  could  entitle  us  to,  that  I  found  my  patience  pushed  very  hard 
to  endure  it." 

"I  liked  him.  I  liked  his  vanity  and  conceit;  and  I  wouldn't  for 
anything  he  had  been  less  pretentious." 

"  I  have  none  of  your  humoristic  temperament,  Julia,  and  I  never 
could  derive  amusement  from  the  eccentricities  or  peculiarities  of  others." 


524  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  TOLLY. 

"  And  there's  no  fun  like  it,  George.  Once  that  you  come  to  look  on 
life  as  a  great  drama,  and  all  the  men  and  women  as  players,  it's  the  best 
comedy  ever  one  sat  at." 

"  I'm  glad  he's  gone  for  another  reason,  too.  I  suppose  it's  shabby 
to  say  it,  but  it's  true  all  the  same  :  he  was  a  very  costly  guest,  and  I 
wasn't  disposed,  like  Charles  the  Bold  or  that  other  famous  fellow,  to  sell 
a  province  to  entertain  an  emperor." 

"  Had  we  a  province  to  sell,  George  ?  "  said  she,  laughing. 

"  No  ;  but  I  had  a  horse,  and  unfortunately  Nora  must  go  to  the 
hammer  now." 

"  Surely  not  for  this  week's  extravagance  ?  "  cried  she,  anxiously. 

"  Not  exactly  for  this,  but  for  everything.  You  know  old  Curtis'  a 
saying,  '  It's  always  the  last  glasg  of  wine  makes  a  man  tipsy.'  But  here 
comes  the  dinner,  and  let  us  turn  to  something  pleasanter." 

It  was  so  jolly  to  be  alone  again,  all  restraint  removed,  all  terror  of 
culinary  mishaps  withdrawn,  and  all  the  consciousness  of  little  domestic 
shortcomings  obliterated,  that  L'Estrange's  spirit  rose  at  every  moment, 
and  at  last  he  burst  out,  "  I  declare  to  you,  Julia,  if  that  man  hadn't  gone, 
I'd  have  died  out  of  pure  inanition.  To  see  him  day  after  day  trying  to 
conform  to  our  humble  fare,  turning  over  his  meat  on  his  plate,  and 
trying  to  divide  with  his  fork  the  cutlet  that  he  wouldn't  condescend  to 
cut,  and  barely  able  to  suppress  the  shudder  our  little  light  wine  gave 
him ;  to  witness  all  this,  and  to  feel  that  I  mustn't  seem  to  know,  while  I 
was  fully  aware  of  it,  was  a  downright  misery.  I'd  like  to  know  what 
brought  him  here." 

"  I  fancy  he  couldn't  tell  you  himself.  He  paid  an  interminable  visit, 
and  we  asked  him  to  stop  and  dine  with  us.  A  wet  night  detained  him, 
and  when  his  servant  came  over  with  his  dressing-bag  or  portmanteau,  you 
said,  or  I  said, — I  forget  which, — that  he  ought  not  to  leave  us  without  a 
peep  at  our  coast  scenery." 

"I  remember  all  that ;  but  what  I  meant  was,  that  his  coming  here 
from  Castello  was  no  accident.  He  never  left  a  French  cook  and  Chateau 
Lafitte  for  cold  mutton  and  sour  sherry  without  some  reason  for  it." 

"  You  forget,  George,  he  was  on  his  way  to  Lisconnor  when  he  came 
here.  He  was  going  to  visit  the  mines." 

"  By  the  by,  that  reminds  me  of  a  letter  I  got  this  evening.  I  put  it 
in  my  pocket  without  reading.  Isn't  that  Vickars'  hand  ?" 

' '  Yes  ;  it  is  his  reply,  perhaps,  to  my  letter.  He  is  too  correct  and 
too  prudent  to  write  to  myself,  and  sends  the  answer  to  you." 

"  As  our  distinguished  guest  is  not  here  to  be  shocked,  Julia,  let  us 
hear  what  Yickars  says." 

"  *  My  dear  Mr.  L'Estrange,  I  have  before  me  a  letter  from  your  sister, 
expressing  a  wish  that  I  should  consent  to  the  withdrawal  of  the  sum  of' 
two  thousand  pounds,  now  vested  in  consols  under  my  trusteeship,  and 
employ  these  monies  in  a  certain  enterprise  which  she  designates  as  the 
coal  mines  of  Lisconnor.  Before  acceding  to  the  grave  responsibility 


THE  BBAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  525 

which  this  change  of  investment  would  impose  upon  me,  even  supposing 
that  the  '  Master,' — who  is  the  Master,  George  ?" 

"  Go  on  ;  read  further,"  said  he,  curtly. 

"  *  — that  the  Master  would  concur  with  such  a  procedure,  I  am  desirous 
of  hearing  what  you  yourself  know  of  the  speculation  in  question.  Have 
you  seen  and  conversed  with  the  engineers  who  have  made  the  surveys  ? 

Have  you  heard  from  competent  and  unconcerned  parties ? '  Oh, 

George,  it's  so  like  the  way  he  talks.  I  can't  read  on." 

L'Estrange  took  the  letter  from  her  and  glanced  rapidly  over  the 
lines,  and  then  turning  to  the  last  page  read  aloud.  "  How  will  the 
recommendation  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners  affect  you,  touching 
the  union  of  Portshannon  with  Kilmullock  ?  Do  they  simply  extinguish 
you,  or  have  you  a  claim  for  compensation  ?" 

"What  does  he  mean,  George  ?"  cried  she,  as  she  gazed  at  the  pale 
face  and  agitated  expression  of  her  brother  as  he  laid  down  the  letter 
before  her. 

"  It  is  just  extinguishment;  that's  the  word  for  it,"  muttered  he. 
"When  they  unite  the  parishes,  they  suppress  me." 

"  Oh,  George,  don't  say  that ;  it  has  not  surely  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  There's  no  help  for  it,"  said  he,  putting  away  his  glass  and  leaning 
Hs  head  on  his  hand.  "I  was  often  told  they'd  do  something  like  this ; 
and  when  Grirnsby  was  here  to  examine  the  books  and  make  notes, — you 
remember  it  was  a  wet  Sunday,  and  nobody  came  but  the  clerk's  mother, — 
be  said,  as  we  left  the  church,  *  The  congregation  is  orderly  and  attentive, 
but  not  numerous.' ," 

"  I  told  you,  George,  I  detested  that  man.  I  said  at  the  time  he  was 
no  friend  to  you." 

"  If  he  felt  it  his  duty " 

"  Duty,  indeed !  I  never  heard  of  a  cruelty  yet  that  hadn't  the  plea 
of  a  duty.  I'm  sure  Captain  Craufurd  comes  to  church,  and  Mrs.  Bayley 
comes,  and  as  to  the  Great  House,  there's  a  family  there  of  not  less  than 
thirty  persons." 

"  When  Grinisby  was  here  Castello  was  not  occupied." 

"Well,  it  is  occupied  now;  and  if  Colonel  Bramleigh  be  a  person  of 
the  influence  he  assumes  to  be,  and  if  he  cares, — as  I  take  it  he  must 
c  ire, — not  to  live  like  a  heathen,  he'll  prevent  this  cruel  wrong.  I'm 
not  sure  that  Nelly  has  much  weight,  but  she  would  do  anything  in  the 
•florid  for  us,  and  I  think  Augustus,  too,  would  befriend  us." 

"  What  can  they  all  do  ?     It's  a  question  for  the  Commissioners." 

"  So  it  may  ;  but  I  take  it  the  Commissioners  are  human  beings." 

He  turned  again  to  the  letter  which  lay  open  on  the  table,  and  read 
aloud,  "  '  They  want  a  chaplain,  I  see,  at  Albano,  near  Rome.  Do  you 
kaow  any  one  who  could  assist  you  to  the  appointment,  always  providing 
that  you  would  like  it  ? '  I  should  think  I  would  like  it." 

"  You  were  thinking  of  the  glorious  riding  over  the  Carnpagna,  George, 
tl  at  you  told  me  about  long  ago  ?" 


526  THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"I  hope  not,"  said  he,  blushing  deeply,  and  looking  overwhelmed 
with  confusion. 

"Well,  I  was,  George.  Albano  reminded  me  at  once  of  those  long 
moonlight  canters  you  told  me  about,  with  the  grand  old  city  in  the 
distance.  I  almost  fancy  J  have  seen  it  all.  Let  us  bethink  us  of  the 
great  people  we  know,  and  who  would  aid  us  in  the  matter." 

"  The  list  begins  and  ends  with  the  Jjprd  CulduffI  suspect." 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  the  Bramleighs  can  be  of  use  here.  Lady  Augusta 
lives  at  Rome ;  she  must  be,  I'm  sure,  a  person  of  influence  there,  and  be 
well  known  to,  and  know  all  the  English  of  station.  It's  a  downright 
piece  of  good  fortune  for  us  she  should  be  there.  There  now,  be  of  good 
heart,  and  don't  look  wretched.  We'll  drive  over  to  Castello  to-morrow." 

"  They've  been  very  cool  towards  us  of  late." 

"As  much  our  fault  as  theirs,  George ;  some,  certainly,  was  my  own." 

"  Oh,  Yickars  has  heard  of  her.  He  says  here,  '  Is  the  Lady  Augusta 
Bramleigh,  who  has  a  villa  at  Albano,  any  relative  of  your  neighbour 
Colonel  Bramleigh  ?  She  is  very  eccentric,  sorne  say  mad :  but  she  does 
what  she  likes  with  every  one.  Try  and  procure  a  letter  to  her. ' ' 

"  It's  all  as  well  as  settled,  George.  We'll  be  cantering  over  that 
swelling  prairie  before  the  spring  ends,"  said  she.  Quietly  rising  and  going 
over  to  the  piano,  she  began  one  of  those  little  popular  Italian  ballads 
which  they  call  "  Stornelli " — those  light  effusions  of  national  life  which 
blend  up  love  and  flowers  ancl  sunshine  together  so  pleasantly,  and  seem 
to  emblematize  the  people  who  sing  them. 

"Thither!  oh,  thither!  George!  as  the  girl  sings  in  Goethe's  ballad. 
Won't  it  be  delightful  ?  " 

"  First  let  us  see  if  it  be  possible.'' 

And  then  they  began  one  of  those  discussions  of  ways  and  means 
which,  however,  as  we  grow  old  in  life,  are  tinged  with  all  the  hard  and 
stern  charapters  of  sordid  self-interest,  are,  in  our  younger  days,  blended  so 
thoroughly  with  hope  and  trustfulness  that  they  are  amongst  the  most 
attractive  of  all  the  themes  we  can  turn  to.  There  were  so  many  things 
to  be  done,  and  so  little  to  do  them  with,  that  it  was  marvellous  to  hear 
of  the  cunning  and  ingenious  devices  by  which  poverty  was  to  be  cheated 
out  of  its  meanness  and  actually  imagine  itself  picturesque.  George  was 
not  a  very  imaginative  creature,  but  it  was  strange  to  see  to  what  flights  he 
rose  as  the  sportive  fancy  of  the  high-spirited  girl  carried  him  away  to  the 
region  of  the  speculative  and  the  hopeful. 

"It's  just  as  well,  after  all,  perhaps,"  said  he,  after  some  moments  of 
thought,  "  that  we  had  not  invested  your  rnoney  in  the  mine." 

"  Of  course,  George,  we  shall  want  it  to  buy  vines  and  orange-trees. 
Oh,  I  shall  grow  mad  with  impatience  if  I  talk  of  this  much  longer  !  Do 
you  know,"  said  she,  in  a  more  collected  and  serious  tone,  "  I  have  just 
built  a  little  villa  on  the  lake-side  of  Albano  ?  And  I'm  doubting  whether 
I'll  have  my  '  pergolato '  of  vines  next  the  water  or  facing  the  mountain. 
I  incline  to  the  mountain." 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  527 

"  )Ve  mustn't  dream  of  building,"  said  he,  gravely. 

"  We  must  dream  of  everything,  George.  It  is  in  dreamland  I  am 
going  to  live.  Why  is  this  gift  of  fancy  bestowed  upon  us  if  not  to  conjure 
up  allies  that  will  help  us  to  fight  the  stern  evils  of  life  ?  Without 
imagination,  Hope  is  a  poor,  weary,  plodding,  foot-traveller,  painfully 
lagging  behind  us.  Give  him  but  speculation,  and  he  soars  aloft  on  wings 
and  rises  towards  heaven." 

"  Do  be  reasonable,  Julia  ;  and  let  us  decide  what  steps  we  shall  take." 

"  Let  me  just  finish  my  boathouse  :  I'm  putting  an  aviary  on  the  top 
of  it.  Well,  don't  look  so  pitifully ;  I  am  not  going  mad.  Now,  then, 
for  the  practical.  We  are  to  go  over  to  Castello  to-morrow  early,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"Yes  ;  I  should  say  in  the  morning,  before  Colonel  Bramleigh  goes 
into  his  study.  After  that  he  dislikes  being  disturbed.  I  mean  to  speak 
to  him  myself.  You  must  address  yourself  to  Marion." 

"  The  forlorn  hope  always  falls  to  my  share,"  said  she,  poutingly. 
;<Why,  you  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world  till  a  few  days  back! 
You  men  can  understand  nothing  of  these  things.  You  neither  know  the 
nice  conditions  nor  the  delicate  reserves  of  young  lady  friendships  ;  nor  have 
YOU  the  slightest  conception  of  how  boundless  we  can  be  in  admiration  of 
oach  other*  in  the  imagined  consciousness  of  something  very  superior  in 
ourselves,  and  which  makes  all  our  love  a  very  generous  impulse.  There 
is  so  much  coarseness  in  male  friendships,  that  you  understand  none  of 
these  subtle  distinctions." 

"I  was  going  to  say,  thank  Heaven,  we  don't." 

"You  are  grateful  for  very  little,  George.  I  assure  you  there  is  a 
£>reat  charm  in  these  fine  affinities,  and  remember  you  men  are  not 
necessarily  always  rivals.  Your  roads  in  life  arq  so  numerous  and  so 
varied,  that  you  need  not  jostle.  We  women  have  but  one  path,  and  one 
f;oal  at  the  end  of  it ;  and  there  is  no  small  generosity  in  the  kindliness 
we  extend  to  each  other." 

They  talked  away  late  into  the  night  of  the  future.  Once  or  twice  the 
thought  flashed  across  Julia  whether  she  ought  not  to  tell  of  what  had 
passed  between  Lord  Culduff  and  herself.  She  was  not  quite  sure  but 
that  George  ought  to  hear  it ;  but  then  a  sense  of  delicacy  restrained  her — 
8  delicacy  that  extended  to  that  old  man  who  had  made  her  the  offer  of 
1  is  hand,  and  who  would  not  for  worlds  have  it  known  that  his  offer  had 
been  rejected.  No,  thought  she,  his  secret  shall  be  respected.  As  he 
deemed  me  worthy  to  be  his  wife,  he  shall  know  that  so  far  as  regards 
respect  for  his  feelings  he  had  not  over-estimated  me. 

It  was  all  essential,  however,  that  her  brother  should  not  think  of 
enlisting  Lord  Culduff  in  his  cause,  or  asking  his  lordship's  aid  or  influence 
in  any  way  ;  and  when  L'Estrange  carelessly  said,  "  Could  not  our  distin- 
guished friend  and  guest  be  of  use  here?"  she  hastened  to  reply,  "Do 
not  think  of  that,  George.  These  men  are  so  victimized  by  appeals  of 
tliis  sort  that  they  either  flatly  refuse  their  assistance,  or  give  some  flippant 


528  THE   BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

promise  of  an  aid  they  never  think  of  according.  It  would  actually  fret 
me,  if  I  thought  we  were  to  owe  anything  to  such  intervention.  In  fact," 
said  she,  laughingly,  "it's  quite  an  honour  to  be  his  acquaintance.  It 
would  be  something  very  like  a  humiliation  to  have  him  for  a  friend.  And 
now  good-night.  You  won't  believe  it,  perhaps ;  but  it  wants  but  a  few 
minutes  to  two  o'clock." 

"  People,  I  believe,  never  go  to  bed  in  Italy,"  said  he,  yawning  ;  "  or 
only  in  the  day-time.  So  that  we  are  in  training  already,  Julia." 

"  How  I  hope  the  match  may  come  off,"  said  she,  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand  at  parting.  "  I'll  go  and  dream  over  it." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IN  THE  LIBRARY  AT  CASTELLO. 

WHEN  L' Estrange  and  his  sister  arrived  at  Castello  on  the  morning  after 
the  scene  of  our  last  chapter,  it  was  to  discover  that  the  family  had  gone 
off  early  to  visit  the  mine  of  Lisconnor,  where  they  were  to  dine,  and  not 
return  till  late  in  the  evening. 

Colonel  Bramleigh  alone  remained  behind  :  a  number  of  important 
letters  which  had  come  by  that  morning's  post  detained  him  ;  but  he  had 
pledged  himself  to  follow  the  party,  and  join  them  at  dinner,  if  he  could 
finish  his  correspondence  in  time. 

George  and  Julia  turned  away  from  the  door,  and  were  slowly  retracing 
their  road  homeward,  when  a  servant  came  running  after  them  to  say  that 
Colonel  Bramleigh  begged  Mr.  L'Estrange  would  come  back  for  a  moment ; 
that  he  had  something  of  consequence  to  say  to  him. 

"  I'll  stroll  about  the  shrubberies,  George,  till  you  join  me,"  said 
Julia.  "  Who  knows  it  may  not  be  a  farewell  look  I  may  be  taking  of 
these  dear  old  scenes."  George  nodded,  half  mournfully,  and  followed 
the  servant  towards  the  library. 

In  his  ordinary  and  every- day  look,  no  man  ever  seemed  a  more 
perfect  representative  of  worldly  success  and  prosperity  than  Colonel 
Bramleigh.  He  was  personally  what  would  be  called  handsome,  had  a 
high  bold  forehead,  and  large  grey  eyes,  well  set  and  shaded  by  strong  full 
eyebrows,  so  regular  in  outline  and  so  correctly  defined  as  to  give  a  half 
suspicion  that  art  had  been  called  to  the  assistance  of  nature.  He  was 
ruddy  and  fresh-looking,  with  an  erect  carriage,  and  that  air  of  general 
confidence  that  seemed  to  declare  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  favourite  of 
fortune  and  gloried  in  the  distinction. 

"  I  can  do  scores  of  things  others  must  not  venture  upon,"  was 
a  common  saying  of  his.  "  I  can  trust  to  my  luck,"  was  almost  a 
maxim  with  him.  And  in  reality,  if  the  boast  was  somewhat  vain- 
glorious, it  was  not  without  foundation  ;  a  marvellous,  almost  unerring, 
success  attended  him  through  life.  Enterprises  that  were  menaced  with 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  529 

ruin  and  bankruptcy  would  rally  from  the  hour  that  he  joined  them,  and 
schemes  of  fortune  that  men  deemed  half  desperate  would,  under  his 
guidance,  grow  into  safe  and  profitable  speculations.  Others  might  equal 
liim  in  intelligence,  in  skill,  in  ready  resource  and  sudden  expedient,  but 
jie  had  not  one  to  rival  him  in  luck.  It  is  strange  enough  that  the  hard 
business  mind,  the  men  of  realism  par  excellence,  can  recognize  such  a 
ihing  as  fortune  ;  but  so  it  is,  there  are  none  so  prone  to  believe  in  this 
quality  as  the  people- of  finance.  The  spirit  of  the  gambler  is,  in  fact,  the 
spirit  of  commercial  enterprise,  and  the  "  odds  "  are  as  carefully  calculated 
in  the  counting-house  as  in  the  betting-ring.  Seen  as  he  came  into  the 
breakfast-room  of  a  morning,  with  the  fresh  flush  of  exercise  on  his  cheek, 
or  as  he  appeared  in  the  drawing-room  before  dinner,  with  that  air  of  ease 
rnd  enjoyment  that  marked  all  his  courtesy,  one  would  have  said,  "  There 
13  one  certainly  with  whom  the  world  goes  well."  There  were  caustic, 
iavidious  people,  who  hinted  that  Bramleigh  deserved  but  little  credit  for 
that  happy  equanimity  and  that  buoyant  spirit  which  sustained  him  ;  they 
said,  "He  has  never  had  a  reverse,  wait  till  he  be  tried : "  and  the  world  had 
waited  and  waited,  and  to  all  seeming  the  eventful  hour  had  not  come,  for 
there  he  was,  a  little  balder  perhaps,  a  stray  grey  hair  in  his  whiskers, 
and  somewhat  portlier  in  his  presence,  but,  on  the  whole,  pretty  much 
what  men  had  known  him  to  be  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years  back. 

Upon  none  did  the  well-to-do,  blooming,  and  prosperous  rich  man  pro- 
duce a  more  powerful  impression  than  on  the  young  curate,  who,  young, 
vigorous,  handsome  as  he  was,  could  yet  never  sufficiently  emerge  from  the 
ros  angusta3  domi  to  feel  the  ease  and  confidence  that  come  of  affluence. 

What  a  shock  was  it  then  to  L'Estrange,  as  he  entered  the  library,  to 
soe  the  man  whom  he  had  ever  beheld  as  the  type  of  all  that  was  happy 
and  healthful  and  prosperous,  haggard  and  careworn,  his  hand  tremulous, 
aad  his  manner  abrupt  and  uncertain,  with  a  certain  furtive  dread  at 
moments,  followed  by  outbursts  of  passionate  defiance,  as  though  he  were 
addressing  himself  to  others  besides  him  who  was  then  before  him. 

Though  on  terms  of  cordial  intimacy  with  the  curate,  and  always 
accustomed  to  call  him  by  his  name,  he  received  him  as  he  entered  the 
room  with  a  cold  and  formal  politeness,  apologized  for  having  taken  the 
liberty  to  send  after  and  recall  him,  and  ceremoniously  requested  him  to 
bo  seated. 

"  We  were  sorry  you  and  Miss  L'Estrange  could  not  join  the  picnic 
to-day,"  said  Bramleigh  ;  "  though  to  be  sure  it  is  scarcely  the  season  yet 
for  such  diversions." 

L'Estrange  felt  the  awkwardness  of  saying  that  they  had  not  been 
icvited,  and  muttered  something  not  very  intelligible  about  the  uncertainty 
of  the  weather. 

"  I  meant  to  have  gone  over  myself,"  said  Bramleigh,  hurriedly  ; 
"  but  all  these,"  and  he  swept  his  hand  as  he  spoke  through  a  mass  of 
lexers  on  the  table,  "all  these  have  come  since  morning,  and  I  am  not 
hulf  through  them  yet.  What's  that  the  moralist  says  about  calling  no 


530  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

man  happy  till  he  dies  ?  I  often  think  one  cannot  speculate  upon  a 
pleasant  day  till  after  the  post-hour." 

"  I  know  veiy  little  of  either  the  pains  or  pleasures  of  the  letter-bag. 
I  have  almost  no  correspondence." 

"  How  I  envy  you  !  "  cried  he,  fervently. 

"I  don't  imagine  that  mine  is  a  lot  many  would  be  found  to  envy," 
said  L' Estrange,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"The  old  story,  of  course.  '  Qui  fit  Maecenas,  ut  Nemo,' — I  forget 
my  Horace, — *  ut  Nemo ; '  how  does  it  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  But  I  never  said  I  was  discontented  with  my  lot  in  life. 
I  only  remarked  that  I  didn't  think  that  others  would  envy  it." 

"  I  have  it, — I  have  it,"  continued  Branileigh,  following  out  his  own 
train  of  thought ;  "  I  have  it.  '  Ut  Nemo,  quam  sibi  sortem  sit  contentus.' 
It's  a  matter  of  thirty  odd  years  since  I  saw  that  passage,  L'Estrange,  and 
I  can't  imagine  what  could  have  brought  it  so  forcibly  before  me  to-day." 

11  Certainly  it  could  not  have  been  any  application  to  yourself/'  said 
the  curate,  politely. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  cried  Bramleigh,  almost  fiercely,  f  How 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean,  sir,  thai  few  men  have  less  cause  for  discontent  with 
fortune  ?" 

"  JIow  can  you, — how  can  any  man,  presume  to  say  tfrat  of  another  ! " 
said  Bramleigh,  in  a  loud  and  .defiant  tone,  as  he  arose  and  paced  the 
room.  "  Who  can  tell  what  passes  in  his  neighbour's  house,  still  less  in 
his  heart  or  his  head  ?  What  <Jo  I  Ifnow,  as  I  listen  to  your  discourse  on 
a  Sunday,  of  the  terrible  conflict  of  doubts  that  have  beset  you  during  the 
week, — heresies  tl^at  haye  swarmed  around  you  Ijjte  the  vipers  and  hideous 
reptiles  that  gathered  arouad  St.  Anthony,  and  that,  banished  in  one 
shape,  came  pack  in  another  ?  HOW  do  I  know  wjiat  compromises  you 
may  have  made  with  your  conscience  before  you  come  to  ut^er  to  me  your 
eternal  truths ;  and  how  you  may  have  .said,  '  If  he  can  believe  all  this,  so 
much  the  better  for  him,' — eh  ?" 

He  turned  fiercely  round,  as  if  to  demand  an  answer,  and  the  curate 
modestly  said,  "  I  hope  it  is  not  so  that  men  preach  the  gospel." 

"  And  yet  many  must  preach  in  that  fashion,"  said  Bramleigh,  with  a 
deep  but  subdued  earnestness.  "  I  take  it  that  no  man's  convictions  are 
^yithput  a  flaw  somewhere,  and  it  is  not  by  parading  that  flaw  he  will 
make  converts." 

L'Estrange  did  not  feel  disposed  to  follow  him  into  this  thesis,  and  sat 
silent  and  motionless. 

"  I  suppose,"  muttered  Bramleigh,  as  he  folded  his  arms  and  walked 
the  room  with  slow  steps,  "it's  all  expediency, — all !  We  do  the  best  we 
can,  and  hope  it  may  be  enough.  You  are  a  good  man,  L'Estrange 

"  Far  from  it,  sir.  I  feel,  and  feel  very  bitterly  too,  my  own  un- 
worthiness,"  said -the  curate,  with  an  intense  sincerity  of  voice. 

"  I  think  you  so  far  good  that  you  are  not  worldly.    You  would  not  do 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  531 

a  mean  thing,  an  ignoble,  a  dishonest  thing ;  you  wouldn  t  take  what  was 
not  your  own,  nor  defraud  another  of  what  was  his, — would  you  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  I  hope  not." 

"  And  yet  that  is  saying  a  great  deal.  I  may  have  my  doubts  whether 
that  penknife  be  mine  or  not.  Some  one  may  come  to-morrow  or  next 
day  to  claim  it  as  his,  and  describe  it,  Heaven  knows  how  rightly  or 
wrongly.  No  matter,  he'll  say  he  owns  it.  Would  you,  sir, — I  ask  you  now 
simply  as  a  Christian  man,  I  am  not  speaking  to  a  casuist  or  a  lawyer, — 
would  you,  sir,  at  once,  just  as  a  measure  of  peace  to  your  own  conscience, 
say,  '  Let  him  take  it, '  rather  than  burden  your  heart  with  a  discussion 
for  which  you  had  no  temper  nor  taste  ?  That's  the  question  I'd  like  to 
ask  you.  Can  you  answer  it  ?  I  see  you  cannot,"  cried  he,  rapidly.  "I 
see  at  once  how  you  want  to  go  off  into  a  thousand  subtleties,  and  instead 
of  resolving  my  one  doubt,  surround  me  with  a  legion  of  others." 

"  If  I  know  anything  about  myself  I'm  not  much  of  a  casuist ;  I  haven't 
the  brains  for  it,"  said  L 'Estrange,  with  a  sad  smile. 

."  Ay,  there  it  is.  That's  the  humility  of  Satan's  own  making;  that's 
the  humility  that  exclaims,  '  I'm  only  honest.  I'm  no  genius.  Heaven 
has  not  made  me  great  or  gifted.  I'm  simply  a  poos  creature,  right- 
minded  and  pure-hearted.'  As  if  there  was  anything, — as  if  there  could 
be  anything  so  exalted  as  this  same  purity." 

"  But  I  never  said  that ;  I  never  presumed  to  say  BO,"  said  the  other, 
modestly. 

"  And  if  you  rail  against  riches,  and  tell  me  that  wealth  is  a  snare 
and  a  pitfall,  what  do  you  mean  by  telling  me  that  my  reverse  of  fortune 
is  a  chastisement  ?  Why,  sir,  by  your  own  the.pry  it  ought  to  be  a  blessing, 
a  positive  blessing ;  so  that  if  I  were  turned  out  of  this  princely  house  to- 
morrow, branded  as  a  pretender  and  an  impostor,  I  should  go  forth  better, 
— not  only  better,  but  happier.  Ay,  that's  the  point ;  happier  than  I  ever 
was  as  the  lord  of  these  broad  acres  !  "  As  he  spoke  he  tore  his  cravat 
from  his  throat,  as  though  it  were  strangling  him  by  its  pressure,  and  now 
walked  the  room,  carrying  the  neckcloth  in  his  hand,  while  the  veins  in 
his  throat  stood  out  full  and  swollen  like  a  tangled  cordage. 

L'E strange  was  so  much  frightened  by  the  wild  voice  and  wilder  gesture 
of  the  man,  that  he  could  not  utter  a  word  in  reply. 

Bramleigh  now  came  over,  and  leaning  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder, 
in  a  tone  of  land  and  gentle  meaning,  said, — • 

"It  is  not  your  fault,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  are  illogical  and  un- 
reasonable. You  are  obliged  to  defend  a  thesis  you  do  not  understand,  by 
arguments  you  cannot  measure.  The  armoury  of  the  Church  has  not  a 
weapon  that  has  not  figured  in  the  middle  ages ;  and  what  are  you  to  do 
with  halberds  and  cross-bows  in  a  time  of  rifles  and  revolvers  !  If  a  man, 
like  myself,  burdened  with  a  heavy  weight  on  his  heart,  had  gone  to  his 
confessor  in  olden  times,  he  would  probably  have  heard,  if  not  words  of 
comfort,  something  to  enlighten,  to  instruct,  and  to  guide  him.  Now  what 
can  you  give  me  ?  tell  me  that  ?  I  want  to  hear  by  what  subtleties  the 


582  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

Church  can  reconcile  me  not  to  do  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  yet  not  quarrel 
with  my  own  conscience.     Can  you  help  me  to  that  ?  " 
L'Estrange  shook  his  head  in  dissent. 

' '  I  suppose  it  is  out  of  some  such  troubles  as  mine  that  men  come  to 
change  their  religion."  He  paused  ;  and  then  bursting  into  a  laugh,  said, 
— "  You  hear  that  the  other  bank  deals  more  liberally — asks  a  smaller  com- 
mission, and  gives  you  a  handsomer  interest — and  you  accordingly  transfer 
your  account.  I  believe  that's  the  whole  of  it." 

"  I  will  not  say  you  have  stated  the  case  fairly,"  said  L'Estrange  ; 
but  so  faintly  as  to  show  that  he  was  far  from  eager  to  continue  the  dis- 
cussion, and  he  arose  to  take  his  leave. 

"  You  are  going  already  ?  and  I  have  not  spoken  to  you  one  word  about 
— what  was  it  ?  Can  you  remember  what  it  was  ? — something  that  related 
personally  to  yourself." 

<(  Perhaps  I  can  guess,  sir.  It  was  the  mine  at  Lisconnor,  probably  ? 
You  were  kind  enough  the  other  day  to  arrange  my  securing  some  shares 
in  the  undertaking.  Since  that,  however,  I  have  heard  a  piece  of  news 
which  may  affect  my  whole  future  career.  There  has  been  some  report 
made  by  the  Commissioner  about  the  parish." 

"  That's  it,  that's  it.  They're  going  to  send  you  off,  L'Estrange. 
They're  going  to  draft  you  to  a  cathedral,  and  make  a  prebendary  of  you. 
You  are  to  be  on  the  staff  of  an  archbishop  :  a  sort  of  Christian  unattached. 
Do  you  like  the  prospect  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  To  begin,  I  am  a  very  poor  man,  and  could  ill  bear 
the  cost  of  life  this  might  entail." 

"  Your  sister  would  probably  be  pleased  with  the  change ;  a  gayer 
place,  more  life,  more  movement." 

"  I  suspect  my  sister  reconciles  herself  to  dulness  even  better  than 
myself." 

"  Girls  do  that  occasionally ;  patience  is  a  female  virtue." 

There  was  a  slight  pause ;  and  now  L'Estrange,  drawing  a  long  breath 
as  if  preparing  himself  for  a  great  effort,  said, — 

"  It  was  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  about  that  very  matter,  and  to  ask  your 
assistance,  that  I  came  up  here  this  day." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  bishop,  for  your  sake,  my  dear  friend." 

"  I  know  well,  sir,  I  can  count  upon  your  kind  interest  in  me,  and  I 
believe  that  an  opportunity  now  offers " 

"  What  is  it  ?  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  At  Home,  sir  ;  or  rather  near  Kome,  a  place  called  Albano.  They 
want  a  chaplain  there." 

"  But  you're  not  a  Catholic  priest,  L'Estrange." 

"No,  sir.     It  is  an  English  community  that  wants  a  parson." 

"  I  see  ;  and  you  think  this  would  suit  you  ?  " 

"  There  are  some  great  attractions  about  it ;  the  country,  the  climate, 
and  the  sort  of  life,  all  have  a  certain  fascination  for  me,  and  Julia  is  most 
eager  about  it." 


THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  533 

"  The  young  lady  lias  ambition,"  muttered  Bramleigh  to  himself. 
11  But  what  can  I  do,  L'Estrange  ?  I  don't  own  a  rood  of  land  at  Albano. 
I  haven't  a  villa — not  even  a  fig-tree  there.  I  could  subscribe  to  the  church 
fund,  if  there  be  such  a  thing ;  I  could  qualify  for  the  franchise,  and  give 
you  a  vote,  if  that  would  be  of  service." 

' '  You  could  do  better,  sir.  You  could  give  me  a  letter  to  Lady 
Augusta,  whose  influence,  I  believe,  is  all  powerful." 

For  a  moment  Bramleigh  stared  at  him  fixedly,  and  then  sinking 
slowly  into  a  chair,  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  seemed  lost  in 
thought.  The  name  of  Lady  Augusta  had  brought  up  before  him  a  long 
train  of  events  and  possible  consequences,  which  soon  led  him  far  away 
from  the  parson  and  all  his  cares.  From  her  debts,  her  extravagances,  her 
change  of  religion,  and  her  suggestion  of  separation,  he  went  back  to  his 
marriage  with  her,  and  even  to  his  first  meeting.  Strange  chain  of  disasters 
from  beginning  to  end.  A  bad  investment  in  every  way.  It  paid  nothing. 
It  led  to  nothing. 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  said  L'Estrange,  as  he  gazed  at  the  strange  expression 
of  preoccupation  in  the  other's  face — "  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  not  been  indiscreet 
in  my  request  ?  " 

"  What  was  your  request  ?  "  asked  Colonel  Bramleigh  bluntly,  and  with 
a  look  of  almost  sternness. 

"  I  had  asked  you,  sir,  for  a  letter  to  Lady  Augusta,"  said  the  curate, 
half  offended  at  the  manner  of  the  last  question. 

"  A  letter  to  Lady  Augusta  ?  "  repeated  Bramleigh,  dwelling  on  each 
word,  as  though  by  the  effort  he  could  recall  to  »his  mind  something  that 
had  escaped  him. 

"I  mean,  sir,  with  reference  to  this  appointment, — the  chaplaincy," 
interposed  L'Estrange,  for  he  was  offended  at  the  hesitation,  which  he 
thought  implied  reluctance  or  disinclination  on  Colonel  Bramleigh's  part, 
and  he  hastened  to  show  that  it  was  not  any  claim  he  was  preferring  to 
her  ladyship's  acquaintance,  but  simply  his  desire  to  obtain  her  interest  fn 
his  behalf. 

"  Influence  !  influence  !  "  repeated  Bramleigh  to  himself.  "I  have  no 
doubt  she  has  influence,  such  persons  generally  have.  It  is  one  of  the 
baits  that  catch  them !  This  little  glimpse  of  power  has 'a  marvellous 
attraction — and  these  churchmen  know  so  well  how  to  display  all  their 
reductive  arts  before  the  eager  eyes  of  the  newly  won  convert.  Yes,  I  am 
sure  you  are  right,  sir  ;  Lady  Augusta  is  one  most  likely  to  have  influence, 
— you  shall  have  the  letter  you  wish  for.  I  do  not  say  I  will  write  it  to-day, 
for  I  have  a  heavy  press  of  correspondence  before  me,  but  if  you  will  come 
up  to-morrow,  by  luncheon  time,  or  to  dinner, — why  not  dine  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  come  up  early,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  early  be  it.  I'll  have  the  letter  for  you.  I  wish  I  could 
remember  something  I  know  I  had  to  say  to  you.  What  was  it  ?  What 
Mras  it  ?  Nothing  of  much  consequence,  perhaps,  but  still  I  feel  as  if — eh, 
— don't  you  feel  so  too  ?  " 


534  THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  clue,  sir,  to  what  you  mean." 
"It  wasn't  about  the  mine — no.  I  think  you  see  your  way  there 
clearly  enough.  It  may  be  a  good  thing,  or  it  may  not.  Cutbill  is  like 
the  rest  of  them,  not  a  greater  rogue  perhaps,  nor  need  he  be.  They  are 
such  shrewd  fellows,  and  as  the  money  is  your  sister's, — trust  money,  too, 
— I  declare  I'd  be  cautious." 

L'Estrange  mumbled  some  words  of  assent ;  he  saw  that  Bramleigh's 
manner  betokened  exhaustion  and  weariness,  and  he  was  eager  to  be  gone. 
"  Till  to-morrow,  then,  sir,"  said  he,  moving  to  the  door. 

"  You'll  not  dine  with  us  ?  I  think  you  might  though,"  muttered 
Bramleigh,  half  to  himself.  "  I'm  sure  CuldufF  would  make  no  show  of 
awkwardness,  nor  would  your  sister  either, — wome,n  never  do.  But  do 
just  what  you  like  ;  my  head  is  aching  so,  I  believe  I  must  lie  down  for 
an  hour  or  two.  Do  you  pass  Belton's  ?  " 

"  I  could  without  any  inconvenience  ;  do  you  want  him  ?  " 
"  I  fancy  I'd  do  well  to  see  him ;  he  said  something  of  cupping  me  the 
last  day  he  was  here, — would  you  mind  telling  him  to  give  me  a  call  ?  " 
"  May  I  come  up  in  the  evening,  sir,  and  see  how  you  are  ?" 
"In  the  evening?  this  evening?"  cried  Bramleigh,  in  a  harsh 
discordant  voice.  "Why,  good  heavens,  sir  I  have  a  little,  a  very  little 
discretion.  You  have  been  here  since  eleven ;  I  marked  the  clock.  It 
was  not  full  five  minutes  after  eleven,  when  you  came  in, — it's  now  past 
one.  Two  mortal  hours, — and  you  ask  me  if  you  may  return  this  evening ; 
and  I  reply,  sir,  distinctly — No  !  Is  that  intelligible  ?  I  say — No  !  "  As  he 
spoke  he  turned  away,  and  the  curate,  covered  with  shame  and  confusion, 
hastened  out  of  the  room,  and  down  the  stairs,  and  out  into  -the  open  air, 
dreading  lest  he  should  meet  any  one,  and  actually  terrified  at  the  thought 
of  being  seen.  He  plunged  into  the  thickest  of  the  shrubberies,  and  it  was 
with  a  sense  of  relief  he  heard  from  a  child  that  his  sister  had  gone  home 
some  time  before,  and  left  word  for  him  to  follow  her." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  CURATE  CROSS-EXAMINED. 

WHEN  the  party  returned  from  the  picnic,  it  was  to  find  Colonel  Bram- 
leigh very  ill.  Some  sort  of  fit  the  doctor  called  it — not  apoplexy  nor 
epilepsy,  but  something  that  seemed  to  combine  features  of  both.  It  had, 
he  thought,  been  produced  by  a  shock  of  some  sort,  and  L'Estrange,  who 
had  last  been  with  him  before  his  seizure,  was  summoned  to  impart  the 
condition  in  which  he  had  found  him,  and  whatever  might  serve  to  throw 
light  on  the  attack. 

If -the  curate  was  nervous  and  excited  by  the  tidings  that  reached  him 
of  the  colonel's  state,  the  examination  to  which  he  was  submitted  served 
little  to  restore  calm  to  his  system.  Question  after  question  poured  in. 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  535 

Sometimes  two  or  three  would  speak  together,  and  all — except  Ellen — 
accosted  him  in  a  tone  that  seemed  half  to  make  him  chargeable  with  the 
wiiole  calamity.  When  asked  to  tell  of  what  they  had  been  conversing, 
and  that  he  mentioned  how  Colonel  Bramleigh  had  adverted  to  matters  of 
faith  and  belief,  Marion,  in  a  whisper  loud  enough  to  be  overheard, 
exclaimed,  "  I  was  sure  of  it.  It  was  one  of  those  priestly  indiscretions  ; 
ht  would  come  talking  to  papa  about  what  he  calls  his  Soul's  health,  and 
in  this  way  brought  on  the  excitement." 

"  Did  you  not  perceive,  sir,"  asked  she,  fiercely,  "that  the  topic  was 
too  much  for  his  nerves  ?  Did  it  not  occur  to  you  that  the  moment  was 
inopportune  for  a  very  exciting  subject  ?  " 

"  Was  his  manner  easy  and  natural  when  you  saw  him  first  ?  "  asked 
Augustus. 

"  Had  he  been  reading  that  debate  on  Servia  ?  "  inquired  Temple. 
"  Matter  enough  there,  by  Jove,  to  send  the  blood  to  a  man's  head," 
cried  Culduff,  warmly. 

"  I'm  convinced  it  was  all  religious,"  chimed  in  Marion,  who  triumphed 
nit rcilessly  over  the  poor  parson's  confusion.     "It  is  what  they  call  'in 
sei  son  and  out  of  season  ;"  and  they  are  true  to  their  device,  for  no  men  on 
earth  more  heartily  defy  the  dictates  of  tact  or  delicacy." 
"  Oh,  Marion,  what  are  you  saying  ?  "  whispered  Nelly. 
"  It's  no  time  for  honied  words,  Ellen,  in  the  presence  of  a  heavy 
calamity,  but  I'd  like  to  ask  Mr.  L'Estfange  why,  when  he  saw  the  danger 
of  the  theme  they  were  discussing,  he  did  not  try  to  change  the  topic." 
"  So  I  did.     I  led  him  to  talk  of  myself  and  my  interests." 
"  An  admirable  antidote  to  excitement,  certainly,"  muttered  Culduff  to 
Temple,  who  seemed  to  relish  the  joke  intensely. 

"  You  say  that  my  father  had  been  reading  his  letters — did  he  appear 
to  have  received  any  tidings  to  call  for  unusual  anxiety  ?  "  asked  Augustus. 
"  I  found  him — as  I  thought — looking  very  ill,  careworn  almost,  when 
I  entered.     He  had  been  writing,  and  seemed  fatigued  and  exhausted. 
His  first  remark  to  me  wa's,  I  remember,  a  mistake."     L'Estrange  here 
stopped  suddenly.     He  did  not  desire  to  repeat  the   speech  about  being 
invited  to  the  picnic.     It  would  have  been  an  awkwardness  on  all  sides. 
"  What  do  you  call  a  mistake,  sir  ?  "  asked  Marion,  calmly. 
"  I  mean  he  asked  me  something  which  a  clearer  memory  would  have 
reminded  him  not  to  have  inquired  after." 

il  This  grows  interesting.  Perhaps  you  will  enlighten  us  a  little 
farther,  and  say  what  the  blunder  was." 

•*  Well,  he  asked  me  how  it  happened  that  Julia  and  myself  were  not 
of  t:ie  picnic,  forgetting  of  course  that  we — we  had  not  heard  of  it."  A 

rdeep  flush  was  now  spread  over  his  face  and  forehead,  and  he  looked 
overwhelmed  with  shame. 

"I  see  it  all;  I  see  the  whole  thing,"  said  Marion,  triumphantly. 
"  It  was  out  of  the  worldliness  of  the  picnic  sprung  all  the  saintly  con- 
versation that  ensued." 


536  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  No  ;  the  transition  was  more  gradual,"  said  L'E strange,  smiling, 
for  he  was  at  last  amused  at  the  asperity  of  this  cross-examination. 
"  Nor  was  there  what  you  call  any  saintly  conversation  at  all.  A  few 
remarks  Colonel  Bramleigh  indeed  made  on  the  insufficiency  of,  not  the 
church,  hut  churchmen,  to  resolve  doubts  and  difficulties." 

"  I  heartily  agree  with  him,"  broke  in  Lord  Culduff,  with  a  smile  of 
much  intended  significance.  , 

"  And  is  it  possible ;  are  we  to  believe  that  all  papa's  attack  was 
brought  on  by  a  talk  over  a  picnic  ?  "  asked  Marion. 

* '  I  think  I  told  you  that  he  received  many  letters  by  the  post,  and  to 
some  of  them  he  adverted  as  being  veiy  important  and  requiring  imme- 
diate attention.  One  that  came  from  Kome  appeared  to  cause  him  much 
excitement." 

Marion  turned  away  her  head  with  an  impatient  toss,  as  though  she 
certainly  was  not  going  to  accept  this  explanation  as  sufficient. 

"  I  shall  want  a  few  minutes  with  Mr.  L'Estrange  alone  in  the  library, 
if  I  may  be  permitted,"  said  the  doctor,  who  had  now  entered  the  room 
after  his  visit  to  the  sick  man. 

"  I  hope  you  may  be  more  successful  than  we  have  been,"  whispered 
Marion  as  she  sailed  out  of  "the  room,  followed  by  Lord  Culduff;  and  after 
a  few  words  with  Augustus,  the  doctor  and  L'Estrange  retired  to  confer 
in  the  library. 

"  Don't  flurry  me  ;  take  me  quietly,  doctor,"  said  the  curate,  with  a 
piteous  smile.  "  They've  given  me  such  a  burster  over  the  deep  ground 
that  I'm  completely  blown.  Do  you  know,"  added  he,  seriously,  "  they've 
cross-questioned  me  in  a  way  that  would  imply  that  I  am  the  cause  of  this 
sudden  seizure." 

"  No,  no  ;  they  couldn't  mean  that." 

"  There's  no  excuse  then  for  the  things  Miss  Bramleigh  said  to  me." 

"  Remember  what  an  anxious  moment  it  is ;  people  don't  measure 
their  expressions  when  they  are  frightened.  When  they  left  him  in  the 
morning  he  was  in  his  usual  health  and  spirits,  and  they  come  back  to 
find  him  very  ill — dangerously  ill.  That  alone  would  serve  to  palliate 
any  unusual  show  of  eagerness.  Tell  me  now,  was  he  looking  perfectly 
himself,  was  he  in  his  ordinary  spirits,  when  you  met  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  thought  him  depressed,  and  at  times  irritable." 

"I  see  ;  he  was  hasty  and  abrupt.  He  did  not  brook  contradiction, 
perhaps  ?  " 

"  I  never  went  that  far.  If  I  dissented  once  or  twice,  I  did  so  mildly 
and  even  doubtingly." 

"  Which  made  him  more  exacting,  and  more  intolerant,  you  would  say  ?  " 

"Possibly  it  did.     I  remember  he  rated  me  rather  sharply  for  not  - 
being  con-tented  with  a  very  humble  condition  in  life,  though  I  assured 
him  I  felt  no  impatience  at  my  lowly  state  and  was  quite  satisfied  to  wait 
till  better  should  befall  me.      He  called  me  a  casuist  for  saying  this, 
and  hinted  that  all  churchmen  had  the  leaven  of  the  Jesuit  in  them ; 


THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  537 

but  lie  got  out  of  this  after  a  while,  and  promised  to  write  a  letter  in 
my  behalf." 

"  And  which  he  told  me  you  would  find  sealed  and  addressed  on  this 
table  here.  Here  it  is." 

"  How  kind  of  him  to  remember  me  through  all  his  suffering." 

"  He  said  something  about  it  being  the  only  reparation  he  could  make 
you,  but  his  voice  was  not  very  clear  or  distinct,  and  I  couldn't  be  sure 
1  caught  his  words  correctly." 

"  Reparation  !  he  owed  me  none." 

"  Well,  well,  it  is  possible  I  may  have  mistaken  him.  One  thing  is 
plain  enough :  you  cannot  give  me  any  clue  to  this  seizure  beyond  the 
guess  that  it  may  have  been  some  tidings  he  received  by  post." 

L'Estrange  shook  his  head  in  silence,  and  after  a  moment  said,  "  Is 
the  attack  serious  ?  " 

"  Highly  so." 

"  And  is  his  life  in  danger  ?  " 

"  A  few  hours  will  decide  that,  but  it  may  be  days  before  we  shall 
loiow  if  his  mind  will  recover.  Craythorpe  has  been  sent  for  from  Dublin, 
i  nd  we  shall  have  his  opinion  this  evening.  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
raying  that  mine  is  unfavourable." 

"  What  a  dreadful  thing,  and  how  fearfully  sudden.  I  cannot  conceive 
how  he  could  have  bethought  him  of  the  letter  for  me  at  such  a  moment." 

"  He  wrote  it,  he  said,  as  you  left  him ;  you  had  not  quitted  the  house 
v-hen  he  began.  He  said  to  me,  ;  I  saw  I  was  growing  worse,  I  felt  my 
confusion  was  gaining  on  me,  and  a  strange  co-mixture  of  people  and 
events  was  occurring  in  my  head ;  so  I  swept  all  my  letters  and  papers  into 
a  drawer  and  locked  it,  wrote  the  few  lines  I  had  promised,  and  with  my 
almost  last  effort  of  consciousness  rang  the  bell  for  my  servant.'  " 

"  But  he  was  quite  collected  when  he  told  you  this  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  in  one  of  those  lucid  intervals  when  the  mind  shines  out 
clear  and  brilliant ;  but  the  effort  cost  him  dearly :  he  has  not  rallied  from 
it  since." 

"Has  he  over-worked  himself;  is  this  the  effect  of  an  over-exerted 
brain  ?  " 

"I'd  call  it  rather  the  result  of  some  wounded  sensibility;  he  appears 
to  have  suffered  same  great  reverse  in  ambition  or  in  fortune.  His  tone, 
so  far  as  I  can  fathom  it,  implies  intense  depression.  After  all,  we  must 
say  he  met  much  coldness  here :  the  people  did  not  visit  him,  there  was 
no  courtesy,  no  kindliness,  shown  him ;  and  though  he  seemed  indifferent 
to  it,  who  knows  how  he  may  have  felt  it." 

"  I  do  not  suspect  he  gave  any  encouragement  to  intimacy ;  he  seemed 
to  me  as  if  declining  acquaintance  with  the  neighbourhood." 

"  Ay ;  but  it  was  in  resentment,  I  opine  ;  but  you  ought  to  know  best. 
You  were  constantly  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  frequently  ;  but  I  am  not  an  observant  person  ;  all  the  little 
details  which  convey  a  whole  narrative  to  others  are  utterly  lost  upon  me." 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  95.  26. 


538  THE   BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

The  doctor  smiled.  It  was  an  expression  that  appeared  to  say  he  con- 
curred in  the  curate's  version  of  his  own  nature. 

"  It  is  these  small  gifts  of  combining,  arranging,  sifting,  and  testing, 
that  we  doctors  have  to  cultivate,"  said  he,  as  he  took  his  hat.  "  The 
patient  the  most  eager  to  be  exact  and  truthful  will,  in  spite  of  himself, 
mislead  and  misguide  us.  There  is  a  strange  bend  sinister  in  human 
nature,  against  sincerity,  that  will  indulge  itself  even  at  the  cost  of  life 
itself.  You  are  the  physician  of  the  soul,  sir ;  but  take  my  word  for  it, 
you  might  get  many  a  shrewd  hint  and  many  a  useful  suggestion  from  us, 
the  meaner  workmen,  who  only  deal  with  nerves  and  arteries." 

As  he  wended  his  solitary  road  homewards,  L'Estrange  pondered 
thoughtfully  over  the  doctor's  words.  He  had  no  need,  he  well  knew,  to 
be  reminded  of  his  ignorance  of  mankind  ;  but  here  was  a  new  view  of  it, 
and  it  seemed  immeasurable. 

On  the  whole  he  was  a  sadder  man  than  usual  on  that  day.  The  world 
around  him,  that  narrow  circle  whose  diameter  was  perhaps  a  dozen  miles 
or  so,  was  very  sombre  in  its  colouring.  He  had  left  sickness  and  sorrow 
in  a  house  where  he  had  hitherto  only  seen  festivity  and  pleasure  ;  and 
worse  again  as  regarded  himself,  he  had  carried  away  none  of  those 
kindlier  sympathies  and  friendly  feelings  which  were  wont  to  greet  him  at 
the  great  house.  Were  they  really  then  changed  to  him  ?  and  if  so,  why 
so  ?  There  is  a  moral  chill  in  the  sense  of  estrangement  from  those  wo 
have  lived  with  on  terms  of  friendship  that,  like  the  shudder  that  pre- 
cedes ague,  seems  to  threaten  that  worse  will  follow.  Julia  would  see 
where  the  mischief  lay  had  she  been  in  his  place.  Julia  would  have  read 
the  mystery,  if  there  were  a  mystery,  from  end  to  end ;  but  he,  he  felt  it, 
he  had  no  powers  of  observation,  no  quickness,  no  tact ;  he  saw  nothing 
that  lay  beneath  the  surface,  nor,  indeed,  much  that  was  on  the  surface. 
All  that  he  knew  was,  that  at  the  moment  when  his  future  was  more 
uncertain  than  ever,  he  found  himself  more  isolated  and  friendless  than 
ever  he  remembered  to  have  been.  The  only  set-off  against  all  this  sense 
of  desertion  was  the  letter  which  Colonel  Bramleigh  had  written  in  his 
behalf,  and  which  he  had  remembered  to  write  as  he  lay  suffering  on  his 
sick  bed.  He  had  told  the  doctor  where  to  find  it,  and  said  it  lay  sealed  and 
directed.  The  address  was  there,  but  no  seal.  It  was  placed  in  an  open 
envelope,  on  which  was  written  "  Favoured  by  the  Eev.  G.  L'Estrange." 
Was  the  omission  of  the  seal  accident  or  intention  ?  Most  probably  inten- 
tion, because  he  spoke  of  having  sealed  it.  And  yet  that  might  have  been  a 
mere  phrase  to  imply  that  the  letter  was  finished.  Such  letters  were  probably 
in  most  cases  either  open,  or  only  closed  after  being  read  by  him  who  bore 
them.  Julia  would  know  this.  Julia  would  be  able  to  clear  up  this  point, 
thought  he,  as  he  pondered  and  plodded  homeward. 


539 


Regrets  vi  a 


I  HAVE  often  felt  a  sympathy,  which  almost  rises  to  the  pathetic,  when 
looking  on  at  a  cricket-field  or  a  boat-race.     Something  of  the  emotion 
with  which  Gray  regarded  the  "  distant  spires  and  antique  towers  "  rises 
within  me.     It  is  not,  indeed,  that  I  feel  very  deeply  for  the  fine  in- 
genuous lads  who,  as  somebody  says,   are   about   to   be   degraded  into 
tricky,  selfish  Members  of  Parliament.     I  have  seen  too  much  of  them. 
They  are  very  fine  animals  ;  but  they  are  rather  too  exclusively  animal. 
The  soul  is  apt  to  be  in  such  a  very  embryonic  state  within  these  cases  of 
well-strung  bone  and  muscle.    It  is  impossible  for  a  mere  athletic  machine, 
however  finely  constructed,  to  appeal  very  deeply  to  one's  finer  sentiments. 
I  can  scarcely  look  forward  with  even  an  affectation  of  sorrow  for  the  time 
when,  if  more  sophisticated,  it  will  at  least  have  made  a  nearer  approach 
to  the  dignity  of  an  intellectual  being.     It  is  not  the  boys  who  make  me 
feel  a  touch  of  sadness ;  their  approaching  elevation  to  the  dignity  of 
manhood  will  raise  them  on  the  whole  in  the  scale  of  humanity  :  it  is  the 
older  spectators,  whose  aspect  has  in  it  something  affecting.     The  shaky 
old   gentleman,    who   played   in   the    days  when   it  was    decidedly   less 
dangerous  to  stand  up  to  bowling  than  to  a  cannon-ball,  and  who  now 
hobbles  about  on  rheumatic  joints  by  the  help  of  a  stick ;  the  corpulent 
elder,   who   rowed  when   boats  had  gangways    down   their   middle,  and 
did  not  require  as  delicate  a  balance  as  an  acrobat's  at  the  top  of  a  living 
pyramid — these  are  the  persons  whom  I  cannot  see  without  an  occasional 
sigh.     They  are  really  conscious  that  they  have  lost  something  which  they 
can  never  regain ;  or,  if  they  momentarily  forget  it,  it  is  even  more  forcibly 
impressed  upon  the  spectators.     To  see  a  respectable  old  gentleman  of 
sixty,  weighing  some  fifteen  stone,  suddenly  forget  a  third  of  his  weight 
and  two-thirds  of  his  years,  and  attempt  to  caper  like  a  boy,  is  indeed  a 
startling  phenomenon.     To  the  thoughtless,   it  may  be   simply   comic  ; 
but,  without  being  a  Jaques,  one  may  contrive  also  to  suck  some  melan- 
choly out  of  it. 

Now,  as  I  never  caught  a  cricket-ball,  and,  on  the  contrary,  have 
caught  numerous  crabs  in  my  life,  the  sympathy  which  I  feel  for  these 
declining  athletes  is  not  due  to  any  great  personal  interest  in  the  matter. 
But  I  have  long  anticipated  that  a  similar  day  would  come  for  me,  when 
I  should  no  longer  be  able  to  pursue  my  favourite  sport  of  mountaineering. 
Some  day  I  should  find  that  the  ascent  of  a  zigzag  was  as  bad  as  a 
performance  on  the  treadmill  ;  that  I  could  not  look  over  a  precipice 
without  a  swimming  in  the  head ;  and  that  I  could  no  more  jump  a 
crevasse  than  the  Thames  at  Westminster.  None  of  these  things  have 

26—2 


540          THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

come  to  pass.  So  far  as  I  know,  my  physical  powers  are  still  equal  to 
the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  or  the  Jungfrau.  But  I  am  no  less  effectually 
debarred — it  matters  not  how — from  mountaineering.  I  wander  at  the 
foot  of  the  gigantic  Alps,  and  look  up  longingly  to  the  summits,  which  are 
apparently  so  near,  and  yet  know  that  they  are  divided  from  me  by  an 
impassable  gulf.  In  some  missionary  work  I  have  read  that  certain  South 
Sea  Islanders  believed  in  a  future  paradise  where  the  good  should  go  on 
eating  for  ever  with  insatiable  appetites  at  an  inexhaustible  banquet. 
They  were  to  continue  their  eternal  dinner  in  a  house  with  open  wicker- 
work  sides  ;  and  it  was  to  be  the  punishment  of  the  damned  to  crawl 
outside  in  perpetual  hunger  and  look  in  through  the  chinks  as  little  boys 
look  in  through  the  windows  of  a  London  cookshop.  With  similar  feel- 
ings, I  lately  watched  through  a  telescope  the  small  black  dots,  which 
were  really  men,  creeping  up  the  high  flanks  of  Mont  Blanc  or  Monte 
Kosa.  The  eternal  snows  represented  for  me  the  Elysian  fields,  into 
which  entrance  was  sternly  forbidden,  and  I  lingered  about  the  spot  with 
a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  pain  in  the  envious  contemplation  of  my  more 
fortunate  companions. 

I  know  there  are  those  who  will  receive  these  assertions  with  civil  in- 
credulity. Some  persons  hold  that  every  pleasure  with  which  they  cannot 
sympathize  is  necessarily  affectation,  and  especially  that  Alpine  travellers 
risk  their  lives  merely  from  fashion  or  desire  of  notoriety.  Others  are 
kind  enough  to  admit  that  there  is  something  genuine  in  the  passion  ;  but 
put  it  on  a  level  with  the  passion  for  climbing  greased  poles.  They 
think  it  derogatory  to  the  due  dignity  of  Mont  Blanc  that  he  should  be 
used  as  a  greased  pole,  and  assure  us  that  the  true  pleasures  of  the  Alps 
are  those  which  are  within  reach  of  the  old  and  the  invalids,  who  can  only 
creep  about  villages  and  along  high-roads.  I  cannot  well  argue  with  such 
detractors  from  what  I  consider  a  noble  sport.  As  for  the  first  class,  it  is 
reduced  almost  to  a  question  of  veracity.  I  say  that  I  enjoy  being  on  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  or,  indeed,  half-way  up  a  mountain ;  that  climbing  is  a 
pleasure  to  me,  and  would  be  so  if  no  one  else  climbed  and  no  one  ever 
heard  of  my  climbing.  They  reply  that  they  don't  believe  it.  No  more 
argument  is  possible  than  if  I  were  to  say  that  I  liked  eating  olives,  and 
some  one  asserted  that  I  really  eat  them  only  out  of  affectation.  My 
reply  would  be  simply  to  go  on  eating  olives  ;  and  I  hope  the  reply  of 
mountaineers  will  be  to  go  on  climbing  Alps.  The  other  assault  is  more 
intelligible.  Our  critics  admit  that  we  have  a  pleasure  ;  but  assert  that 
it  is  a  puerile  pleasure — that  it  leads  to  an  irreverent  view  of  mountain 
beauty,  and  to  oversight  of  that  which  should  really  most  impress  a 
refined  and  noble  mind.  To  this  I  shall  only  make  such  an  indirect 
reply  as  may  result  from  a  frank  confession  of  my  own  regrets  at  giving 
up  the  climbing  business — perhaps  for  ever.  I  am  sinking,  so  to  speak, 
from  the  butterfly  to  the  caterpillar  stage,  and,  if  the  creeping  thing  is 
really  the  highest  of  the  two,  it  will  appear  that  there  is  something  in"  the 
substance  of  my  lamentations  unworthy  of  an  intellectual  being.  Let  me 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.          541 

try.  By  way  of  preface,  however,  I  admit  that  mountaineering,  in  my 
sense  of  the  word,  is  a  sport.  It  is  a  sport  which,  like  fishing  or  shooting, 
brings  one  into  contact  with  the  sublimest  aspects  of  nature,  and,  without 
setting  their  enjoyment  before  one  as  an  ultimate  end  or  aim,  helps  one 
indirectly  to  absorb  and  be  penetrated  by  their  influence.  Still  it  is 
strictly  a  sport — as  strictly  as  cricket,  or  rowing,  or  knurr  and  spell — and 
I  have  no  wish  to  place  it  on  a  different  footing.  The  game  is  won  when 
a  mountain-top  is  reached  in  spite  of  difficulties  ;  it  is  lost  when  one  is 
forced  to  retreat ;  and  whether  won  or  lost,  it  calls  into  play  a  great 
variety  of  physical  and  intellectual  energies,  and  gives  the  pleasure  which 
always  accompanies  an  energetic  use  of  our  faculties.  Still  it  suffers  in 
some  degree  from  the  fact  that  it  is  a  sport,  and  especially  from  the  tinge 
which  has  consequently  been  communicated  to  the  narratives.  There  are 
two  ways  which  have  been  appropriated  to  the  description  of  all  sporting 
exploits.  One  is  to  indulge  in  fine  writing  about  them,  to  burst  out  in 
sentences  which  swell  to  paragraphs,  and  in  paragraphs  which  spread  over 
pages,  to  plunge  into  ecstasies  about  infinite  abysses  and  overpowering 
splendours,  to  compare  mountains  to  archangels  lying  down  in  eternal 
winding-sheets  of  snow,  and  to  convert  them  into  allegories  about  man's 
highest  destinies  and  aspirations.  This  is  good  when  it  is  well  done. 
Mr.  Kuskin  has  covered  the  Matterhorn,  for  example,  with  a  whole  web  of 
poetical  associations,  in  language  which,  to  a  severe  taste,  is  perhaps  a 
trifle  too  fine,  though  he  has  done  it  with  an  eloquence  which  his  bitterest 
antagonists  must  freely  acknowledge.  Yet  most  humble  writers  will  feel 
that  if  they  try  to  bend  the  Ruskinian  bow  they  will  pay  the  penalty  of 
becoming  ridiculous.  It  is  not  every  one  who  can  with  impunity  compare 
Alps  to  archangels.  Tall  talk  is  luckily  an  object  of  suspicion  to  English- 
men, and  consequently  most  writers,  and  especially  those  who  frankly 
adopt  the  sporting  view  of  the  mountains,  adopt  the  opposite  scheme  : 
they  affect  something  like  cynicism  ;  they  mix  descriptions  of  scenery  with 
allusions  to  fleas  or  to  bitter  beer  ;  they  shrink  with  the  prevailing  dread 
of  Englishmen  from  the  danger  of  overstepping  the  limits  of  the  sublime 
into  its  proverbial  opposite  ;  and  they  humbly  try  to  amuse  us  because 
they  can't  strike  us  with  awe.  This,  too,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  is 
good  in  its  way  and  place  ;  and  it  seems  rather  hard  to  these  luckless 
writers  when  people  assume  that,  because  they  make  jokes  on  a  mountain, 
they  are  necessarily  insensible  to  its  awful  sublimities.  A  sense  of 
humour  is  not  incompatible  with  imaginative  sensibility ;  and  even 
Wordsworth  might  have  been  an  equally  powerful  prophet  of  nature  if  he 
could  sometimes  have  descended  from  his  stilts.  In  short,  a  man  may 
worship  mountains,  and  yet  have  a  quiet  joke  with  them  when  he  is 
wandering  all  day  in  their  tremendous  solitudes. 

Joking,  however,  is,  it  must  be  admitted,  a  dangerous  habit.  I  freely 
admit  that,  in  some  humble  contributions  to  Alpine  literature,  I  have 
myself  made  some  very  poor  and  very  unseasonable  witticisms.  I  confess 
my  error,  and  only  wish  that  I  had  no  worse  errors  to  confess.  Still  I 


542  THE  REGRETS  OP  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

think  that  the  poor  little  jokes  in  which  \ve  mountaineers  sometimes 
indulge  have  been  made  liable  to  rather  harsh  constructions.  We  are 
accused,  in  downright  earnest,  not  merely  of  being  flippant,  but  of  an 
arrogant  contempt  for  all  persons  whose  legs  are  not  as  strong  as  our  own. 
We  are  supposed  seriously  to  wrap  ourselves  in  our  own  conceit,  and  to 
brag  intolerably  of  our  exploits.  Now  I  will  not  say  that  no  mountaineer 
ever  swaggers  :  the  quality  called  by  the  vulgar  "  bounce  "  is  unluckily 
confined  to  no  profession.  Certainly  I  have  seen  a  man  intolerably  vain 
because  he  could  raise  a  hundredweight  with  his  little  finger ;  and  I  daresay 
that  the  "  champion  bill-poster,"  whose  name  is  advertised  on  the  walls 
of  this  metropolis,  thinks  excellence  in  bill-posting  the  highest  virtue  of  a 
citizen.  So  some  men  may  be  silly  enough  to  brag  in  all  seriousness 
about  mountain  exploits.  However,  most  lads  of  twenty  learn  that  it  is 
silly  to  give  themselves  airs  about  mere  muscular  eminence ;  and  espe- 
cially is  this  true  of  Alpine  exploits,  first,  because  they  require  less 
physical  prowess  than  almost  any  other  sport,  and  secondly,  because  a 
good  amateur  still  feels  himself  the  hopeless  inferior  of  half  the  Alpine 
peasants  whom  he  sees.  You  cannot  be  very  conceited  about  a  game  in 
which  the  first  clodhopper  you  meet  can  give  you  ten  minutes'  start  in  an 
hour.  Still,  a  man  writing  in  a  humorous  vein  naturally  adopts  a  certain 
bumptious  tone,  just  as  our  friend  Punch  ostentatiously  declares  himself 
to  be  omniscient  and  infallible.  Nobody  takes  him  at  his  word,  or  sup- 
poses that  the  editor  of  Punch  is  really  the  most  conceited  man  in  all 
England.  But  we  poor  mountaineers  are  occasionally  fixed  with  our  own 
careless  talk  by  some  outsider  who  is  not  in  the  secret.  We  know  our- 
selves to  be  a  small  sect,  and  to  be  often  laughed  at ;  we  reply  by  assuming 
that  we  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  that  our  amusement  is  the  first  and 
noblest  of  all  amusements.  Our  only  retort  to  the  good-humoured  ridicule 
with  which  we  are  occasionally  treated  is  to  adopt  an  affected  strut,  and  to 
carry  it  off  as  if  we  were  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world.  We  make  a 
boast  of  our  shame,  and  say,  if  you  laugh,  we  must  crow.  But  we  don't 
really  mean  anything  :  if  we  did,  the  only  word  which  the  English  language 
would  afford  wherewith  to  describe  us  would  be  the  very  unpleasant  anti- 
thesis to  wise  men,  and  certainly  I  hold  that  we  have  the  average  amount 
of  common  sense.  When,  therefore,  I  see  us  taken  to  task  for  swaggering, 
I  think  it  a  trifle  hard  that  this  merely  playful  affectation  of  superiority 
should  be  made  a  serious  fault.  For  the  future  I  would  promise  to  be 
careful,  if  it  were  worth  avoiding  the  misunderstanding  of  men  who  won't 
take  a  joke.  Meanwhile,  I  can  only  state  that  when  Alpine  travellers 
indulge  in  a  little  swagger  about  their  own  performances  and  other  people's 
incapacity,  they  don't  mean  more  than  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  what 
they  say,  and  that  they  know  perfectly  well  that  when  history  comes  to 
pronounce  a  final  judgment  upon  the  men  of  the  time,  it  won't  put  moun- 
tain-climbing on  a  level  with  patriotism,  or  even  with  excellence  in  the 
fine  arts. 

The  reproach  of  real  bond  fide  arrogance  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  very 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.  543 

little  true  of  Alpine  travellers.  With  the  exception  of  the  necessary  fringe 
of  exceedingly  weak-minded  persons  to  be  found  in  every  set  of  human 
beings,  so  far  as  my  experience  has  gone,  whose  heads  are  weaker  than 
their  legs,  I  think  the  mountaineer  is  generally  modest  enough.  Perhaps 
he  sometimes  flaunts  his  ice-axes  and  ropes  a  little  too  much  before  the 
public  eye  at  Charnouni,  as  a  yachtsman  occasionally  flourishes  his  nautical 
costume  at  Cowes  ;  but  the  fault  may  be  pardoned  by  those  not  inexorable 
to  human  weaknesses.  This  opinion,  I  know,  cuts  at  the  root  of  the  most 
popular  theory  as  to  our  ruling  passion.  If  we  do  not  climb  the  Alps  to 
gain  notoriety,  for  what  purpose  can  we  possibly  climb  them  !  That  same 
unlucky  trick  of  joking  is  taken  to  indicate  that  we  don't  care  much  about 
the  scenery;  for  who,  with  a  really  susceptible  soul  could  be  facetious 
under  the  cliffs  of  the  Jungfrau  or  the  ghastly  precipices  of  the  Matterhorn  ? 
Hence  people  who  kindly  excuse  us  from  the  blame  of  notoriety-hunting 
generally  accept  the  "  greased-pole  "  theory.  We  are,  it  seems,  over- 
grown schoolboys,  who,  like  other  schoolboys,  enjoy  being  in  dirt,  and 
danger,  and  mischief,  and  have  as  much  sensibility  for  natural  beauty  as 
the  mountain  mules.  And  against  this,  as  a  more  serious  complaint,  I 
wish  to  make  my  feeble  protest,  in  order  that  my  lamentations  on  quitting 
the  profession  may  not  seem  unworthy  of  a  thinking  being. 

Let  me  tiy  to  recall  some  of  the  impressions  which  mountaineering 
has  left  with  me,  and  see  whether  they  throw  any  light  upon  the  subject. 
As  I  gaze  at  the  huge  cliffs  where  I  may  no  longer  wander,  I  find  innu- 
merable recollections  arise — some  of  them  dim,  as  though  belonging  to  a 
past  existence;  and  some  so  brilliant  that  I  can  scarcely  realize  niy 
exclusion  from  the  scenes  to  which  they  belong.  I  am  standing  at  the 
foot  of  what,  to  my  mind,  is  the  most  glorious  of  all  Alpine  wonders — the 
hnge  Obeiiand  precipice,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Faulhorn  or  the  Wengera 
Alp.  Innumerable  tourists  have  done  all  that  tourists  can  do  to  cocknify 
(if  that  is  the  right  derivative  from  cockney)  the  scenery,  but,  like  the 
Pyramids  or  a  Gothic  cathedral,  it  throws  off  the  taint  of  vulgarity  by  its 
imperishable  majesty.  Even  on  turf  strewn  with  sandwich-papers  and 
empty  bottles,  even  in  the  presence  of  hideous  peasant- women  singing 
"  stand-er  auf "  for  five  centimes,  we  cannot  but  feel  the  influence  of  the 
scenery.  When  the  sunlight  is  dying  off  the  snows,  or  the  full  moon 
lighting  them  up  with  ethereal  tints,  even  sandwich-papers  and  singing 
women  may  be  forgotten.  How  does  the  memory  of  scrambles  along 
snow  aretes,  of  plunges — luckily  not  too  deep — into  crevasses,  of  toils 
through  long  snow-fields,  towards  a  refuge  that  seemed  to  recede  as  we 
advanced — where,  to  quote  Tennyson,  with  due  alteration,  to  the  traveller 
toiling  in  immeasurable  snow — 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  tbe  monstrous  hill, 
The  chalet  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt ; — • 

how  do  such  memories  as  these  harmonize  with  the  sense  of  superlative 
sublimity  ? 

One  element  of  mountain  beauty  is,  we  shall  all  admit,  their  vast  size 


544  THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

and  steepness.  That  a  mountain  is  very  big,  and  is  faced  by  perpendicular 
walls  of  rock,  is  the  first  thing  which  strikes  everybody,  and  is  the  whole 
essence  and  outcome  of  a  vast  quantity  of  poetical  description.  Hence 
the  first  condition  towards  a  due  appreciation  of  mountain  scenery  is  that 
these  qualities  should  be  impressed  upon  the  imagination.  The  mere  dry 
statement  that  a  mountain  is  so  many  feet  in  vertical  height  above  the  sea 
and  contains  so  many  tons  of  granite,  is  nothing.  Mont  Blanc  is  about 
three  miles  high.  What  of  that  ?  Three  miles  is  an  hour's  walk  for  a 
lady — an  eighteen-penny  cab-fare — the  distance  from  Hyde  Park  Corner 
to  the  Bank — an  express  train  could  do  it  in  three  minutes,  or  a  race- 
horse in  five.  It  is  a  measure  which  we  have  learnt  to  despise,  looking 
at  it  from  a  horizontal  point  of  view,  and  accordingly  most  persons,  on 
seeing  the  Alps  for  the  first  time,  guess  them  to  be  higher,  as  measured  in 
feet,  than  they  really  are.  What,  indeed,  is  the  use  of  giving  measures  in 
feet  to  any  but  the  scientific  mind  ?  Who  cares  whether  the  moon  is 
250,000  or  2,500,000  miles  distant  ?  Mathematicians  try  to  impress 
upon  us  that  the  distance  of  the  fixed  stars  is  only  expressible  by  a  row  of 
figures  which  stretches  across  a  page  ;  suppose  it  stretched  across  two  or 
across  a  dozen  pages,  should  we  be  any  the  wiser,  or  have,  in  the  least 
degree,  a  clearer  notion  of  the  superlative  distances  ?  We  civilly  say, 
Dear  me  !  when  the  astronomer  looks  to  us  for  the  appropriate  stare,  but 
we  only  say  it  with  the  mouth ;  internally  our  remark  is,  you  might  as 
well  have  multiplied  by  a  few  more  millions  whilst  you  were  about  it. 
Even  astronomers,  though  not  a  specially  imaginative  race,  feel  the 
importance  of  figures,  and  try  to  give  us  some  measure  which  the  mind 
can  grasp  a  little  more  conveniently.  They  tell  us  about  the  cannon-ball 
which  might  have  been  flying  ever  since  the  time  of  Adam,  and  not  yet 
have  reached  the  heavenly  body,  or  about  the  stars  which  may  not  yet 
have  become  visible,  though  the  light  has  been  flying  to  us  at  a  rate 
inconceivable  by  the  mind  for  an  inconceivable  number  of  years ;  and 
they  succeed  in  producing  a  bewildering  and  giddy  sensation,  although 
the  numbers  are  too  vast  to  admit  of  any  accurate  apprehension. 

We  feel  a  similar  need  in  the  case  of  mountains.  Besides  the  bare 
statement  of  figures,  it  is  necessary  to  have  some  means  for  grasping  the 
meaning  of  the  figures.  The  bare  tens  and  thousands  must  be  clothed 
with  some  concrete  images.  The  statement  that  a  mountain  is  15,000 
feet  high,  is  by  itself  little  more  impressive  than  that  it  is  3,000  ;  we 
want  something  more  before  we  can  mentally  compare  Mont  Blanc  and 
Snowdon.  Indeed,  the  same  people  who  guess  of  a  mountain's  height  at 
a  number  of  feet  much  exceeding  the  reality,  show,  when  they  are  cross- 
examined,  that  they  fail  to  appreciate  in  any  tolerable  degree  the  real 
meaning  of  the  figures.  An  old  lady,  one  day,  about  11  A.  M.,  proposed  to 
walk  from  the  ^Eggischhorn  to  the  Jungfrau  Joch,  and  to  return  for  luncheon, 
— the  distance  being  a  good  twelve  hours'  journey  for  trained  mountaineers. 
Every  detail  of  which  the  huge  mass  is  composed  is  certain  to  be  under- 
estimated. A  gentleman  the  other  day  pointed  out  to  me  a  grand  ice-cliff 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.  545 

at  the  end  of  a  hanging  glacier,  which  must  have  been  at  least  100  feet 
high,  and  asked  me  whether  that  snow  was  three  feet  deep.  Nothing  is 
more  common  than  for  tourists  to  mistake  some  huge  pinnacle  of  rock, 
as  big  as  a  church  tower,  for  a  traveller.  The  rocks  of  the  Grand  Mulets, 
in  one  corner  of  which  the  chalet  is  hidden,  are  often  identified  with  a 
party  ascending  Mont  Blanc  ;  and  I  have  seen  boulders  as  big  as  a  house 
pointed  out  confidently  as  chamois.  People  who  make  these  blunders 
must  evidently  see  the  mountains  as  mere  toys,  however  many  feet  they 
may  give  them  at  a  random  guess.  Huge  overhanging  cliffs  are  to  them 
steps  within  the  reach  of  human  legs ;  yawning  crevasses  are  ditches  to  be 
jumped ;  and  foaming  waterfalls  are  like  streams  from  penny  squirts. 
Every  one  knows  the  avalanches  on  the  Jungfrau,  and  the  curiously 
disproportionate  appearance  of  the  little  puffs  of  white  smoke,  which  are 
said  to  be  the  cause  of  the  thunder ;  but  the  disproportion  ceases  to  an 
eye  that  has  learnt  really  to  measure  distance,  and  to  know  that  these 
smoke-puffs  represent  a  cataract  of  crashing  blocks  of  ice. 

Now  the  first  merit  of  mountaineering  is  that  it  enables  one  to  have 
what  theologians  would  call  an  experimental  faith  in  the  size  of  moun- 
tains ;  to  substitute  a  real  living  belief  for  a  dead  intellectual  assent.  It 
enables  me,  first,  to  assign  something  like  its  real  magnitude  to  a  rock  or 
a  snow-slope  ;  and,  secondly,  to  measure  that  magnitude  in  terms  of  mus- 
cular exertion  instead  of  bare  mathematical  units.  Suppose  that  we  are 
standing  upon  t'he  Wengern  Alp  :  between  the  Monch  and  the  Eiger  there 
stretches  a  round  white  bank,  with  a  curved  outline,  which  we  may 
roughly  compare  to  the  back  of  one  of  Sir  E.  Landseer's  lions.  The 
ordinary  tourists — the  old  man,  the  woman,  or  the  cripple,  who  are  sup- 
posed to  appreciate  the  real  beauties  of  Alpine  scenery — may  look  at  it 
comfortably  from  their  hotel.  They  may  see  its  graceful  curve,  the  long 
straight  lines  that  are  ruled  in  delicate  shading  down  its  sides,  and  the 
contrast  of  the  blinding  white  snow  with  the  dark  blue  sky  above  ;  but 
they  will  probably  guess  it  to  be  a  mere  bank,  a  snowdrift,  perhaps,  which 
has  been  piled  by  the  last  storm.  If  you  pointed  out  to  them  one  of  the 
great  rocky  teeth  that  project  from  its  summit,  and  said  that  that  was  a 
guide,  they  would  probably  remark  that  he  looked  very  small,  and  would 
fancy  that  he  could  jump  over  the  bank  with  an  effort.  Now  a  moun- 
taineer knows,  to  begin  with,  that  it  is  a  massive  rocky  rib,  covered  with 
snow  lying  at  a  sharp  angle,  and  varying  perhaps  from  500  to  1,000  feet 
in  height.  So  far  he  might  be  accompanied  by  men  of  less  soaring  ambi- 
tion ;  by  an  engineer  who  had  been  mapping  the  country,  or  an  artist  who 
had  been  carefully  observing  the  mountains  from  their  bases.  They  might 
learn  in  time  to  interpret  correctly  the  real  meaning  of  shapes  at  which 
the  uninitiated  guess  at  random.  But  the  mountaineer  can  go  a  step 
further,  and  it  is  the  next  step  which  gives  the  real  significance  to  those 
delicate  curves  and  lines.  He  can  translate  the  500  or  1,000  feet  of 
snow-slope  into  a  more  tangible  unit  of  measurement.  To  him,  perhaps, 
they  recall  the  memory  of  a  toilsome  ascent,  the  sun  beating  on  his  head 

26—5 


546  THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

for  five  or  six  hours,  the  snow  returning  the  glare  with  still  more  parching 
effect ;  a  stalwart  guide  toiling  all  the  weary  time  cutting  steps  in  hard 
blue  ice,  the  fragments  going  hissing  and  spinning  down  the  long  straight 
grooves  in  the  frozen  snow  till  they  lost  themselves  in  the  yawning  chasm 
below ;  and  step  after  step  taken  carefully  along  the  slippery  staircase  till 
at  length  he  triumphantly  stepped  upon  the  summit  of  the  tremendous 
wall  that  no  human  foot  had  scaled  before.  The  little  black  knobs  that 
rise  above  the  edge  represent  for  him  huge  impassable  rocks,  sinking  on 
one  side  in  scarped  slippery  surfaces  towards  the  snowfield,  and  on  the 
other  stooping  in  one  tremendous  cliff  to  a  distorted  glacier  thousands  of 
feet  below.  The  faint  blue  line  across  the  upper  neve,  scarcely  distin- 
guishable to  the  eye,  represents  to  one  observer  nothing  but  a  trifling 
undulation ;  a  second,  perhaps,  knows  that  it  means  a  crevasse ;  the 
mountaineer  remembers  that  it  is  the  top  of  a  huge  chasm,  thirty  feet 
across,  and  perhaps  ten  times  as  deep,  with  perpendicular  sides  of  glim- 
mering blue  ice,  and  fringed  by  thick  rows  of  enormous  pendent  icicles. 
The  marks  that  are  scored  In  delicate  lines,  such  as  might  be  ruled  by  a 
diamond  on  glass,  have  been  cut  by  innumerable  streams  trickling  in  hot 
weather  from  the  everlasting  snow,  or  ploughed  by  succeeding  avalanches 
that  have  slipped  from  the  huge  upper  snowfields  above.  In  short,  there 
is  no  insignificant  line  or  mark  that  has  not  its  memory  or  its  indication 
of  the  strange  phenomena  of  the  upper  world.  True,  the  same  picture  is 
painted  upon  the  retina  of  all  classes  of  observers  ;  and  so  Porson  and  a 
schoolboy  and  a  peasant  might  receive  the  same  physical  impression  from 
a  set  of  black  and  white  marks  on  the  page  of  a  Greek  play :  but  to  one 
they  would  be  an  incoherent  conglomeration  of  unmeaning  and  capricious 
lines ;  to  another  they  would  represent  certain  sounds  more  or  less  corre- 
sponding to  some  English  words  ;  whilst  to  the  scholar  they  would  reveal 
some  of  the  noblest  poetry  in  the  world,  and  all  the  associations  of  suc- 
cessful intellectual  labour.  I  do  not  say  that  the  difference  is  quite  so 
great  in  the  case  of  the  mountains ;  still  I  am  certain  that  no  one  can 
decipher  the  natural  writing  on  the  face  of  a  snow- si  ope  or  a  precipice  who 
has  not  wandered  amongst  their  recesses  and  learnt  by  slow  experience 
what  is  indicated  by  marks  which  an  ignorant  observer  would  scarcely 
notice.  True,  even  one  who  sees  a  mountain  for  the  first  time  may  know 
that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  scar  on  the  face  of  a  cliff  means,  for  example, 
a  recent  fall  of  a  rock ;  but  between  the  bare  knowledge  and  the  acquaint- 
ance with  all  which  that  knowledge  implies, — the  thunder  of  the  fall,  the 
crash  of  the  smaller  fragments,  the  bounding  energy  of  the  descending  mass, 
— there  is  almost  as  much  difference  as  between  hearing  that  a  battle  has 
been  fought  and  being  present  at  it  yourself.  We  have  all  read  descrip- 
tions of  Waterloo  till  we  are  sick  of  the  subject ;  but  I  imagine  that  our 
emotions  on  seeing  the  shattered  well  of  Hougomont  are  very  inferior  to 
those  of  one  of  the  Guard  who  should  revisit  the  place  where  he  held  out 
for  a  long  day  against  the  assaults  of  the  French  army. 

Now  to  an  old  mountaineer  the  Oberland  cliffs  are  full  of  memories  ; 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.          547 

and,  more  than  this,  he  has  learnt  the  language  spoken  by  every  crag  and 
every  wave  of  glacier.  It  is  strange  if  they  do  not  affect  him  rather  more 
powerfully  than  the  casual  visitor  who  has  never  been  initiated  by  practical 
experience  into  their  difficulties.  To  him,  the  huge  buttress  which  runs 
down  from  the  Mouch  is  something  more  than  an  irregular  pyramid,  purple 
with  white  patches  at  the  bottom  and  pure  white  at  the  top.  He  fills 
up  the  bare  outline  supplied  by  the  senses  with  a  thousand  lively  images. 
He  sees  tier  above  tier  of  rock,  rising  in  a  gradually  ascending  scale  of 
difficulty,  covered  at  first  by  long  lines  of  the  debris  that  have  been 
splintered  by  frost  from  the  higher  wall,  and  afterwards  rising  bare  and 
black,  and  threatening.  He  knows  instinctively  which  of  the  ledges  has 
a  dangerous  look — where  such  a  bold  mountaineer  as  John  Lauener 
might  slip  on  the  polished  surface,  or  be  in  danger  of  an  avalanche  from 
above.  He  sees  the  little  sjhell-like  swelling  at  the  foot  of  the  glacier 
crawling  down  the  steep  slope  above,  and  knows  that  it  means  an  almost 
inaccessible  wall  of  ice,  and  the  steep  snowfields  that  rise  towards  the 
summit  are  suggestive  of  something  very  different  from  the  picture  which 
must  have  existed  in  the  mind  of  a  German  student  who  once  asked  me 
whether  it  was  possible  to  make  the  ascent  on  a  mule. 

Hence,  if  mountains  owe  their  influence  upon  the  imagination  in  a  great 
degree  to  their  size  and  steepness,  and  apparent  inaccessibility — as  no  one 
can  doubt  that  they  do,  whatever  may  be  the  explanation  of  the  fact  that 
people  like  to  look  at  big,  steep,  inaccessible  objects — the  advantages  of  the 
mountaineer  are  obvious.  He  can  measure  those  qualities  on  a  very 
different  scale  from  the  ordinary  traveller.  He  measures  the  size,  not  by 
the  vague  abstract  term  of  so  many  thousand  feet,  but  by  the  hours 
of  labour,  divided  into  minutes — each  separately  felt — of  strenuous 
muscular  exertion.  The  steepness  is  not  expressed  in  degrees,  but  by 
the  memory  of  the  sensation  produced  when  a  snow-slope  seems  to  be 
rising  up  and  smiting  you  in  the  face ;  when,  far  away  from  all  human 
help,  you  are  clinging  like  a  fly  to  the  slippery  side  of  a  mighty  pinnacle 
in  mid-air.  And  as  for  the  inaccessibility,  no  one  can  measure  the  diffi- 
culty of  getting  up  a  thing,  who  has  not  wearied  muscles  and  brain 
in  struggling  against  the  opposing  obstacles.  Alpine  travellers,  it  is  said, 
have  removed  the  romance  from  the  mountains  by  climbing  them.  What 
they  have  really  done  is  to  prove  that  there  exists  a  narrow  line  by  whkh 
a  way  may  be  found  to  the  top  of  any  given  mountain ;  but  the  clue  leads 
through  innumerable  inaccessibilities  ;  true,  you  can  follow  one  path,  but 
to  right  and  left  are  cliffs  which  no  human  foot  will  ever  tread,  and  whose 
terrors  can  only  be  realized  when  you  are  in  their  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. The  cliffs  of  the  Matterhorn  do  not  bar  the  way  to  the  top 
effectually;  but  it  is  only  by  forcing  a  passage  through  them  that  you 
can  really  appreciate  their  terrible  significance. 

Hence,  I  say,  that  the  qualities  which  strike  every  sensitive  observer 
are  impressed  upon  the  mountaineer  with  tenfold  force  and  intensity.  If 
he  is  as  accessible  to  poetical  influences  as  his  neighbours,  and  I  don't 


548          THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

know  why  he  should  be  less  so,  he  has  opened  new  avenues  of  access 
between  the  scenery  and  his  mind.  He  has  learnt  a  language  which  is  but 
partially  revealed  to  ordinary  men.  An  artist  is  superior  to  an  unlearned 
picture-seer,  not  merely  because  he  has  greater  natural  sensibility,  but 
because  he  has  improved  it  by  methodical  experience  ;  because  his  senses 
have  been  sharpened  by  constant  practice  till  he  can  catch  finer  shades  of 
colouring,  and  more  delicate  inflexions  of  line ;  because,  also,  the  lines  and 
colours  have  acquired  new  significance,  and  been  associated  with  a  thousand 
thoughts  with  which  the  mass  of  mankind  have  never  cared  to  connect 
them.  The  mountaineer  is  improved  by  a  similar  process.  But  I  know 
some  sceptical  critics  will  ask,  does  not  the  way  in  which  he  is  accustomed 
to  regard  mountains  rather  deaden  their  poetical  influence  ?  Doesn't  he 
come  to  look  at  them  as  mere  instruments  of  sport,  and  overlook  their 
more  spiritual  teaching  ?  Does  not  all  the  excitement  of  personal  adventure 
and  the  noisy  apparatus  of  guides,  and  ropes,  and  axes,  and  tobacco,  and 
the  fun  of  climbing,  rather  dull  his  perceptions  and  incapacitate  him  from 
perceiving — 

The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills  ? 

Well,  I  have  known  some  stupid  and  unpoetical  mountaineers ;  and 
since  I  have  been  dismounted  from  my  favourite  hobby,  I  think  I  have 
met  some  similar  specimens  amongst  the  humbler  class  of  tourist.  There 
are  persons,  I  fancy,  who  "do"  the  Alps;  who  look  upon  the  Lake 
of  Lucerne  as  one  more  task  ticked  off  from  their  memorandum  book,  and 
count  up  the  list  of  summits  visible  from  the  Gornergrat  without  being 
penetrated  with  any  keen  sense  of  sublimity.  And  there  are  mountaineers 
who  are  capable  of  making  a  pun  on  the  top  of  Mont  Blanc — and  capable 
of  nothing  more.  Still  I  venture  to  deny  that  even  punning  is  incompatible 
with  poetry,  or  that  those  who  quote  the  pun  can  have  no  deeper  feeling 
in  their  bosoms  which  they  are  perhaps  too  shamefaced  to  quote. 

The  fact  is  that  that  which  gives  its  inexpressible  charm  to  moun- 
taineering is  the  incessant  series  of  exquisite  natural  scenes,  which  are  for 
the  most  part  enjoyed  by  the  mountaineer  alone.  This  is,  I  am  aware,  a 
round  assertion ;  but  I  will  try  to  support  it  by  a  few  of  the  visions  which 
are  recalled  to  me  by  these  Oberland  cliffs,  and  which  I  have  seen  profoundly 
enjoyed  by  men  who  perhaps  never  mentioned  them  again,  and  probably 
in  describing  their  adventures  scrupulously  avoided  the  danger  of  being 
sentimental. 

Thus  every  traveller  has  occasionally  done  a  sunrise,  and  a  more 
lamentable  proceeding  than  the  ordinary  view  of  a  sunrise  can  hardly 
be  imagined.  You  are  cold,  miserable,  breakfastless,  have  risen  shivering 
from  a  warm  bed,  and  in  your  heart  long  only  to  creep  into  bed  again.  To 
the  mountaineer  all  this  is  changed.  He  is  beginning  a  day  full  of  the 
anticipation  of  a  pleasant  excitement.  He  has,  perhaps,  been  waiting 
anxiously  for  fine  weather  to 'try  conclusions  with  some  huge  giant  not  yet 
scaled.  He  moves  out  with  something  of  the  feeling  with  which  a  soldier 


THE  HEGKETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.          549 

goes  to  the  assault  of  a  fortress,  but  without  the  same  probability  of  coming 
home  in  fragments ;  the  danger  is  trifling  enough  to  be  merely  exhilaratory 
and  to  give  a  pleasant  tension  to  the  nerves ;  his  muscles  feel  firm  and 
springy,  and  his  stomach,  no  small  advantage  to  the  enjoyment  of  scenery, 
is  in  excellent  order.  He  looks  at  the  sparkling  stars  with  keen  satisfac- 
tion, prepared  to  enjoy  a  fine  sunrise  with  all  his  faculties  at  their  best,  and 
with  the  added  pleasure  of  a  good  omen  for  his  day's  work.  Then  a  huge 
dark  mass  begins  to  mould  itself  slowly  out  of  the  darkness  ;  the  sky  begins 
to  form  a  background  of  deep  purple,  against  which  the  outline  becomes 
gradually  more  definite  ;  and  then  the  peaks  catch  the  exquisite  Alpine  glow 
lighting  up  in  rapid  succession  like  a  vast  illumination  ;  when  at  last  the 
steady  ^sunlight  settles  upon  them,  and  shows  every  rock  and  glacier,  with- 
out even  a  delicate  film  of  mist  to  obscure  them,  he  feels  his  heart  bound, 
and  steps  out  gaily  to  the  assault — just  as  the  people  on  the  Eigi  are  giving 
thanks  that  the  show  is  over  and  that  they  may  go  to  bed.  Still  grander 
is  the  sight  when  the  mountaineer  has  already  reached  some  lofty  ridge, 
and,  as  the  sun  rises,  stands  between  the  day  and  the  night — the  valley  still 
in  deep  sleep  with  the  mists  lying  between  the  folds  of  the  hills,  and  the 
snowpeaks  standing  out  clear  and  pale  white  just  before  the  sun  reaches 
them,  whilst  a  broad  band  of  orange  light  runs  all  round  the  vast  horizon. 
The  grandest  of  all  such  sights  that  live  in  my  memory  is  that  of  a  sunset 
from  the  Aiguille  de  Goute.  The  snow  at  our  feet  was  glowing  with  rich 
light,  and  the  shadows  in  our  footsteps  green.  Beneath  us  was  a  vast 
horizontal  floor  of  thin  level  mists,  spreading  over  the  boundless  landscape, 
and  tinged  with  every  hue  of  sunset.  Through  its  rents  and  gaps  we 
could  see  the  lower  mountains,  the  distant  plains,  and  a  fragment  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  lying  in  a  more  sober  purple.  Above  us  rose  the  solemn 
mass  of  Mont  Blanc  in  the  richest  glow  of  an  Alpine  sunset.  The  sense 
of  lonely  sublimity  was  almost  oppressive,  and  although  half  our  party 
was  suffering  from  sickness,  I  believe  even  the  guides  were  moved  to  a 
sense  of  solemn  beauty. 

These  grand  scenic  effects  are  occasionally  seen  by  ordinary  travellers, 
though  the  ordinary  traveller  is  for  the  most  part  out  of  temper  at  3  A.M.. 
The  mountaineer  can  enjoy  them,  both  because  his  frame  of  mind  is 
properly  toned  to  receive  the  natural  beauty,  and  because  he  alone  sees 
them  with  their  best  accessories,  amidst  the  silence  of  the  eternal  snow 
und  the  vast  panoramas  visible  from  the  loftier  summits.  And  he  has  a 
similar  advantage  in  most  of  the  great  natural  phenomena  of  the  cloud 
und  the  sunshine.  No  sight  in  the  Alps  is  more  impressive  than  to  see 
the  huge  rocks  of  a  black  precipice  suddenly  frowning  out  through  the 
chasms  of  a  storm-cloud.  It  is  grand  as  we  see  it  from  the  safe  verandahs 
of  the  inn  at  Grindelwald,  but  far  grander  in  the  silence  of  the  central 
Alps  amongst  the  savage  wilderness  of  rock  and  snow.  Again,  I  have 
been  climbing  for  two  or  three  hours,  with  nothing  in  sight  but  the  varying 
v/reaths  of  mists  that  chased  each  other  monotonously  along  the  rocky 
i  ibs  whose  snow-covered  backbone  we  were  laboriously  climbing.  Suddenly 


550          THE  EEGKETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

there  is  a  puff  of  wind,  and  looking  round  we  find  that  we  have  in  an 
instant  pierced  the  clouds,  and  emerged,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface  of  the 
ocean  of  vapour.  Beneath  us  stretches  for  hundreds  of  miles  the  level 
fleecy  floor,  and  ahove  are  standing  out  clear  in  the  eternal  sunshine  every 
mountain,  from  Mont  Blanc  to  Monte  Rosa  and  the  Jungfrau.  Or, 
again,  I  look  down  from  the  edge  of  a  torn  rocky  parapet  into  an  appa- 
rently fathomless  abyss,  where  nothing  but  what  an  Alpine  traveller 
calls  a  "  strange  formless  wreathing  of  vapour"  indicates  the  storm- wind 
that  is  raging  below  us.  I  might  go  on  indefinitely  recalling  the 
strangely  impressive  scenes  that  frequently  startle  the  traveller  in  the  waste 
upper  world  ;  but  language — even  if  I  had  the  eloquence  of  Mr.  Buskin — • 
is  feeble  indeed  to  convey  even  a  glimmering  of  what  is  to  be  seen  to  those 
who  have  not  seen  it  for  themselves,  and  to  them  it  can  be  little  more  than 
a  peg  upon  which  to  hang  their  own  recollections.  These  glories,  in  which 
the  mountain  Spirit  reveals  himself  to  his  true  worshippers,  are  only  to  be 
gained  by  the  appropriate  service  of  climbing,  at  some  risk,  though  a  very 
trifling  risk  if  he  is  approached  with  due  form  and  ceremony,  into  the 
furthest  recesses  of  his  shrines.  And  without  seeing  them,  I  maintain 
that  no  man  has  really  seen  the  Alps. 

The  difference  between  the  exoteric  and  the  esoteric  school  of  moun- 
taineers may  be  indicated  by  their  different  view  of  glaciers.  At  Grin- 
delwald,  for  example,  it  is  the  fashion  to  go  and  "see  the  glaciers" — 
heaven  save  the  mark !  Ladies  in  costumes,  heavy  German  professors, 
Americans  doing  the  Alps  at  a  gallop,  Cook's  tourists,  and  other  varieties 
of  a  well-known  genus,  go  off  in  shoals  and  see — what  ? — a  gigantic  mass 
of  ice,  strangely  torn  with  a  few  of  the  exquisite  blue  crevasses,  but  defiled 
and  in  dirt  and  ruins.  A  stream  foul  with  mud  oozes  out  from  the  base  : 
the  whole  concern  seems  to  be  melting  fast  away ;  the  summer  sun 
has  evidently  got  the  best  of  it  in  these  lower  regions,  and  nothing  can 
resist  him  but  the  great  masses  of  decaying  rock  that  strew  the  surface  in 
confused  lumps.  It  is  as  much  like  the  glacier  of  the  upper  regions  as  the 
melting  fragments  of  snow  in  a  London  street  are  like  the  surface  of  the 
fresh  snow  that  has  just  fallen  in  a  country  field.  And  by  way  of  improving 
its  attractions,  a  perpetual  picnic  is  going  on,  and  the  ingenious  natives 
have  hewed  a  tunnel  into  the  ice,  for  admission  to  which  they  charge 
certain  centimes.  The  unlucky  glacier  reminds  me  at  his  latter  end  of  a 
wretched  whale  stranded  on  a  beach,  dissolving  into  masses  of  blubber, 
and  hacked  by  remorseless  fishermen,  instead  of  plunging  at  his  ease 
in  the  deep  blue  water.  Far  above,  where  the  glacier  begins  his 
course,  he  is  seen  only  by  the  true  mountaineer.  There  are  vast  amphi- 
theatres of  pure  snow,  of  which  the  glacier  known  to  tourists  is  merely 
the  insignificant  drainage,  but  whose  very  existence  they  do  not  generally 
suspect.  They  are  utterly  ignorant  that  from  the  top  of  the  ice-fall  which 
they  visit  you  may  walk  for  hours  on  the  eternal  ice.  After  a  long  climb 
you  come  to  the  region  where  the  glacier  is  truly  at  its  noblest ;  where  the 
surface  is  a  spotless  white  ;  where  the  crevasses  are  enormous  rents  sinking 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.  551 

:,o  profound  depths,  with  walls  of  the  purest  blue  ;  where  the  glacier  is 
•;orn  and  shattered  by  the  energetic  forces  which  mould  it,  but  has  an 
expression  of  superabundant  power,  like  a  full  stream  fretting  against 
its  banks  and  plunging  through  the  vast  gorges  that  it  has  hewn  for  itself 
:u  the  course  of  centuries.  The  bases  of  the  mountains  are  immersed  in  a 
•loluge  of  cockneyism — fortunately  a  shallow  deluge — whilst  their  summits 
:ise  high  into  the  bracing  air,  where  everything  is  pure  and  poetical. 

The  difference  which  I  have  endeavoured  to  indicate  is  more  or  less 
iraceable  in  a  wider  sense.  The  mountains  are  exquisitely  beautiful, 
indeed,  from  whatever  points  of  view  we  contemplate  them  :  and  the 
mountaineer  would  lose  much  if  he  never  saw, the  beauties  of  the  lower 
valleys,  of  pasturages  deep  in  flowers,  and  dark  pine-forests  with  the  summits 
t -hiiiing  from  far  off  between  the  stems.  Only,  as  it  seems  to  me,  he  has 
the  exclusive  prerogative  of  thoroughly  enjoying  one — and  that  the  most 
characteristic,  though  by  no  means  the  only  element  of  the  scenery. 
r.Jhere  may  be  a  very  good  dinner  spread  before  twenty  people ;  but  if, 
nineteen  of  them  were  teetotallers,  and  the  twentieth  drank  his  wine  like 
t,  man,  he  would  be  the  only  one  to  do  it  full  justice ;  the  others  might 
praise  the  meat  or  the  fruits,  but  he  would  alone  enjoy  the  champagne : 
E  nd  in  the  great  feast  which  Nature  spreads  before  us  (a  stock  metaphor 
vhich  emboldens  me  to  make  the  comparison)  the  high  mountain  scenery 
gets  the  part  of  the  champagne.  Unluckily,  too,  the  teetotallers  are  very 
apt,  in  this  case  also,  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  their  more  adventurous 
r  eighbours.  Especially  are  they  pleased  to  carp  at  the  views  from  high 
summits.  I  have  been  constantly  asked,  with  a  covert  sneer,  Did  it  repay 
3  ou  ? — a  question  which  involves  the  assumption  that  one  wants  to  be 
repaid,  as  though  the  labour  were  not  itself  part  of  the  pleasure,  and 
vhich.  implies  a  doubt  that  the  view  is  really  enjoyable.  People  are  always 
demonstrating  that  the  lower  views  are  the  most  beautiful  ;  and  at  the 
sime  time  complaining  that  mountaineers  frequently  turn  back  without 
looking  at  the  view  from  the  top,  as  though  that  would  necessarily  imply 
t:iat  they  cared  nothing  for  scenery.  In  opposition  to  which  I  must  first 
remark  that,  as  a  rule,  every  step  of  an  ascent  has  a  beauty  of  its  own, 
•which  one  is  quietly  absorbing  even  when  one  is  not  directly  making  it  a 
subject  of  contemplation,  and  that  the  view  from  the  top  is  generally  the 
crowning  glory  of  the  whole. 

It  will  be  enough  if  I  conclude  with  an  attempt  to  illustrate  this  last 
assertion ;  and  I  will  do  it  by  still  referring  to  the  Oberland.  Every 
v  sitor  with  a  soul  for  the  beautiful  admires  the  noble  form  of  the  Wetter- 
hern — the  lofty  snow- crowned  pyramid  rising  in  such  light  and  yet  massive 
li  les  from  its  huge  basement  of  perpendicular  cliffs.  The  Wetterhorn  has, 
however,  a  further  merit.  To  my  mind — and  I  believe  most  connoisseurs 
of  mountain-tops  agree  with  me — it  is  one  of  the  most  impressive  summits 
ii  the  Alps.  It  is  not  a  sharp  pinnacle  like  the  Weisshorn,  or  a  cupola 
li  ie  Mont  Blanc,  or  a  grand  rocky  tooth  like  the  Monte  Rosa,  but  a  long 
a]  id  nearly  horizontal  knife-edge,  which,  as  seen  from  either  end,  has  of 


552  THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

course  the  appearance  of  a  sharp-pointed  cone.  It  is  when  balanced  upon 
this  ridge — sitting  astride  of  the  knife-edge  on  which  one  can  hardly  stand 
without  giddiness — that  one  fully  appreciates  an  Alpine  precipice.  Mr. 
Wills  has  admirably  described  the  first  ascent  and  the  -impression  it  made 
upon  him  in  a  paper  which  has  become  classical  for  succeeding  adven- 
turers. Behind  the  snow-slope  sinks  with  perilous  steepness  towards  the 
wilderness  of  glacier  and  rock  through  which  the  ascent  has  lain.  But  in 
front  the  ice  sinks  with  even  greater  steepness  for  a  few  feet  or  yards. 
Then  it  curves  over  and  disappears,  and  the  next  thing  that  the  eye 
catches  is  the  meadow-land  of  Grindelwald,  some  9,000  feet  below.  I 
have  looked  down  many  precipices,  where  the  eye  can  trace  the  course  of 
every  pebble  that  bounds  down  the  awful  slopes,  and  where  I  have 
shuddered  as  some  dislodged  fragment  showed  the  course  which,  in  case 
of  accident,  my  own  fragments  would  follow.  A  precipice  is  always,  for 
obvious  reasons,  far  more  terrible  from  above  than  from  below.  Tho 
creeping,  tingling  sensation  which  passes  through  one's  limbs — even  when 
one  knows  oneself  to  be  in  perfect  safety — testifies  to  the  thrilling  influ- 
ence of  the  sights.  But  I  have  never  so  realized  the  terrors  of  a  terrific  cliff 
as  when  I  could  not  see  it.  The  awful  gulf  which  intervened  between  me 
and  the  green  meadows  struck  the  imagination  by  its  invisibility.  It  was 
like  the  view  which  may  be  seen  from  the  ridge  of  a  cathedral-roof,  where 
the  eaves  have  for  their  immediate  background  the  pavement  of  the  streets 
below ;  only  this  cathedral  was  9,000  feet  high.  Now,  any  one  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  Wetterhorn  may  admire  their  stupendous  massiveness 
and  steepness ;  but  to  feel  their  influence  enter  into  the  very  marrow  of 
one's  bones,  it  is  necessary  to  stand  at  the  summit,  and  to  fancy  the  one 
little  slide  down  the  short  ice-slope,  to  be  followed  apparently  by  a  bound 
into  clear  ice  and  a  fall  down  to  the  houses,  from  heights  where  the  eagle 
never  ventures  to  soar. 

This  is  one  of  the  Alpine  beauties,  which,  of  course,  it  is 'beyond  the 
power  of  art  to  imitate,  and  which  people  are,  therefore,  apt  to  ignore. 
But  it  is  not  the  only  one  to  be  seen  on  the  high  summits.  It  is  often 
said  that  these  views  are  not  "  beautiful " — apparently  because  they  won't 
go  into  a  picture,  or,  to  put  it  more  fairly,  because  no  picture  can  in  the 
faintest  degree  imitate  them.  But  without  quarrelling  about  words,  I  think 
that  even  if  "  beautiful  "  be  not  the  most  correct  epithet,  they  have  a 
marvellously  stimulating  effect  upon  the  imagination.  Let  us  look  round 
in  imagination  from  this  wonderful  pinnacle  in  mid-air  and  note  one  or 
two  of  the  most  striking  elements  of  the  scenery. 

You  are,  in  the  first  place,  perched  on  a  cliff,  whose  presence  is  the 
more  felt  because  it  is  unseen.  Then  you  are  in  a  region  over  which 
eternal  silence  is  brooding.  Not  a  sound  ever  comes  there  except  the 
occasional  fall  of  a  splintered  fragment  of  rock,  or  a  layer  of  snow ;  no 
stream  is  heard  trickling,  and  the  sounds  of  animal  life  are  left  thousands 
of  feet  below.  The  most  that  you  can  hear  is  some  mysterious  noise  made 
by  the  wind  eddying  round  the  gigantic  rocks  ;  sometimes  a  strange  flapping 


THE  REGKETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.          553 

sound,  as  if  an  unearthly  flag  was  shaking  its  invisible  folds  in  the  air. 
The  enormous  tract  of  country  over  which  your  view  extends — most  of  it 
dim  and  almost  dissolved  into  air  by  distance — intensifies  the  strange 
influence  of  the  silence.  You  feel  the  force  of  the  line  I  have  just  quoted 
from  Wordsworth, — 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  liills. 

None  of  the  travellers  whom  you  can  see  crawling  at  your  feet  have  the 
least  conception  of  what  is  meant  by  the  silent  solitudes  of  the  High  Alps. 
To  you,  it  is  like  a  return  to  the  stir  of  active  life  when,  after  hours  of 
wandering,  you  return  to  hear  the  tinkling  of  the  cowbells  below ;  to 
them  the  same  sound  is  the  ultimate  limit  of  the  habitable  world. 

Whilst  your  mind  is  properly  toned  by  these  influences,  you  become 
conscious  of  another  fact,  to  which  the  common  variety  of  tourists  is 
necessarily  insensible.  You  begin  to  find  out  for  the  first  time  what  the 
mountains  really  are.  On  one  side,  you  look  back  upon  the  "  urns  of  the 
silent  snow,"  upon  the  huge  reservoirs  from  which  the  Oberland  glaciers 
descend.  You  see  the  vast  stores  from  which  the  great  rivers  of  Europe 
are  replenished,  and  the  monstrous  crawling  masses  that  are  carving  the 
mountains  into  shape,  and  the  gigantic  bulwarks  that  separate  two  great 
quarters  of  the  world.  From  below  these  wild  regions  are  half  invisible  ; 
they  are  masked  by  the  outer  line  of  mountains  ;  and  it  is  not  till  you  are 
able  to  command  them  from  some  lofty  point  that  you  can  appreciate  the 
grandeur  of  the  huge  barriers  and  the  snow  that  is  piled  within  their  folds. 
There  is  another  half  of  the  view  equally  striking.  Looking  towards  the 
north,  the  whole  of  Switzerland  is  couched  at  your  feet ;  the  Jura  and 
the  Black  Forest  lie  on  the  far  horizon.  And  then  you  know  what  is  the 
nature  of  a  really  mountainous  country.  From  below  everything  is  seen 
in  a  kind  of  distorted  perspective.  The  people  of  the  valley  naturally 
think  that  the  valley  is  everything — that  the  country  resembles  old- 
fashioned  maps,  where  a  few  sporadic  lumps  are  distributed  amongst 
towns  and  plains.  The  true  proportions  reveal  themselves  as  you  ascend. 
The  valleys,  you  can  now  see,  are  nothing  but  narrow  trenches  scooped 
out  amidst  a  tossing  waste  of  mountain,  just  "to  carry  off  the  drainage. 
The  great  ridges  run  hither  and  thither,  having  it  all  their  own  way, 
and  wild  and  untameable  regions  of  rock  or  open  grass  or  forest,  at 
whose  feet  the  valleys  exist  on  sufferance.  Creeping  about  amongst  the 
roots  of  the  hills,  you  half  miss  the  hills  themselves  ;  you  quite  fail  to 
understand  the  massiveness  of  the  mountain  chains,  and,  therefore,  the 
wonderful  energy  of  the  forces  that  have  heaved  the  surface  of  the  world 
into  these  distorted  shapes.  And  it  is  to  a  half-conscious  sense  of  the 
powers  that  must  have  been  at  work  that  a  great  part  of  the  influence  of 
mountain  scenery  is  due.  Geologists  tell  us  that  a  theory  of  catastrophes 
is  unphilosophical ;  but  whatever  may  be  the  scientific  truth,  our  minds 
are  impressed  as  though  we  were  witnessing  the  results  of  some  incredible 
convulsion.  At  Stonehenge,  we  ask  what  human  beings  could  have 


554  THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER. 

erected  these  strange  grey  monuments,  and  in  the  mountains  we  instinc- 
tively ask  what  force  can  have  carved  out  the  Matterhorn  and  placed  the 
Wetterhom  on  its  gigantic  pedestal.  Now,  it  is  not  till  we  reach  some 
commanding  point  that  we  realize  the  amazing  extent  of  country  over 
which  the  solid  ground  has  been  shaking  and  heaving  itself  in  irresistible 
tumult. 

Something,  it  is  true,  of  this  last  effect  may  be  seen  from  such  moun- 
tains as  the  Eigi  or  the  Faulhom.  There,  too,  one  seems  to  be  at  the 
centre  of  a  vast  sphere,  the  earth  bending  up  in  Alp-like  form  to  meet  the 
sky,  and  the  blue  vault  above  stretching  in  an  arch  majestical  by  its 
enormous  extent.  There  you  seem  to  see  a  sensible  fraction  of  the  world 
at  your  feet.  But  the  effect  is  far  less  striking  when  other  mountains 
obviously  look  down  upon  you,  when,  as  it  were,  you  are  looking  at  the 
waves  of  the  great  ocean  of  hills  merely  from  the  crest  of  one  of  the  waves 
themselves,  and  not  from  some  lighthouse  that  rises  far  over  their  heads  ; 
for  the  Wetterhom,  like  the  Eiger,  Mo'nc'h,  and  Jungfrau,  owes  one  great 
beauty  to  the  fact  that  it  is  on  the  edge  of  the  lower  country,  and  stands 
between  the  real  giants  and  the  crowd  of  inferior,  though  stili  enormous, 
masses  in  attendance  upon  them.  And,  in  the  next  place,  your  mind  is 
far  better  adapted  to  receive  impressions  of  sublimity  when  you  are  alone, 
in  a  silent  region,  with  a  black  sky  above  and  giant  cliffs  all  round,  with 
a  sense  still  in  your  mind,  if  not  of  actual  danger,  still  of  danger  that 
would  become  real  with  the  slightest  relaxation  of  caution,  and  with  the 
world  divided  from  you  by  hours  of  snow  and  rock. 

I  will  go  no  further,  not  because  I  have  no  more  to  say,  but  because 
descriptions  of  scenery  soon  become  wearisome,  and  because  I  have,  I 
hope,  said  enough  to  show  that  the  mountaineer  may  boast  of  some  intel- 
lectual pleasures  ;  that  he  is  not  a  mere  scrambler,  but  that  he  looks  for 
poetical  impressions,  as  well  as  for  such  small  glory  as  his  achievements 
may  gain  in  a  very  small  circle.  Something  of  what  he  gains  fortunately 
sticks  by  him :  he  does  not  quite  forget  the  mountain  language ;  his  eye 
still  recognizes  the  space  and  the  height  and  the  glory  of  the  lofty  moun- 
tains. And  yet  there  is  some  pain  in  wandering  ghostlike  among  the 
scenes  of  his  earlier  pleasures.  For  my  part,  I  try  in  vain  to  hug  myself 
in  a  sense  of  comfort ;  I  turn  over  in  bed  when  I  hear  the  stamping  of 
heavily-nailed  shoes  along  the  passage  of  an  inn  about  two  A.M.  I  feel  the 
skin  of  my  nose  complacently  when  I  see  others  returning  with  a  glistening 
tight  aspect  about  that  unluckily  prominent  feature,  and  know  that  in  a 
day  or  two  they  will  be  raw  and  blistered  and  burning.  I  think,  in 
a  comfortable  inn  at  night,  of  the  miseries  of  those  who  are  trying  to 
sleep  in  damp  hay,  or  on  hard  boards  of  chalets,  at  once  cold  and  stiffy 
and  haunted  by  innumerable  fleas.  I  congratulate  myself  on  having  a 
whole  skin  and  unfractured  bones,  and  on  the  small  danger  of  ever 
breaking  them  over  an  Alpine  precipice.  But  yet  I  secretly  know  that 
these  consolations  are  feeble.  It  is  little  use  to  avoid  early  rising  and 
discomfort  and  even  fleas,  if  he  also  loses  the  pleasures  to  which  they 


THE  REGRETS  OF  A  MOUNTAINEER.  555 

were  the  sauce, — rather  too  plquante  a  sauce  occasionally,  it  must  be 
admitted.  The  philosophy  is  all  very  well  which  recommends  moderate 
enjoyment,  regular  exercise,  and  a  careful  avoidance  of  risk  and  over- 
excitement.  That  is,  it  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  risk  and  excitement  and 
immoderate  enjoyment  are  out  of  your  power ;  but  it  docs  not  stand  the  test 
of  looking  on  and  seeing  them  just  beyond  your  reach.  In  time,  no 
cloubt,  a  man  may  grow  calm ;  he  may  learn  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  and 
the  exquisite  beauties  of  the  lower  regions, — though  they,  too,  are  most 
fully  enjoyed  when  they  have  a  contrast  with  beauties  of  a  different  and 
pleasures  of  a  keener  excitement.  When  first  debarred,  at  any  rate,  one 
feels  like  a  balloon  full  of  gas,  and  fixed  by  immovable  ropes  to  the 
prosaic  ground.  It  is  pleasant  to  lie  on  one's  back  in  a  bed  of  rhodo- 
lendrons,  and  look  up  to  a  mountain  top  peering  at  one  from  above  a 
jank  of  cloud  ;  but  it  is  pleasantest  when  one  has  qualified  oneself  for 
•epose  by  climbing  the  peak  the  day  before  and  becoming  familiar  with  its 
errors  and  its  beauties.  In  time,  doubtless,  one  may  get  reconciled  to 
anything ;  one  may  settle  down  to  be  a  caterpillar,  even  after  one  has 
."mown  the  pleasures  of  being  a  butterfly ;  one  may  become  philosophical, 
;ind  have  one's  clothes  let  out;  and  even  in  time,  perhaps,  though  it  is 
jilmost  too  terrible  to  contemplate,  be  content  with  a  mule  or  a  carriage, 
or  that  lowest  depth  to  which  human  beings  can  sink,  and  for  which  the 
] English  language  happily  affords  no  name,  a  chaise  a  porteurs :  and  even 
i  n  such  degradation  the  memory  of  better  times  may  be  pleasant ;  for  I 
doubt  much  whether  it  is  truth  the  poet  sings, — 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

< 'ertamly  to  a  philosophical  mind  the  sentiment  is  doubtful.  For  niy 
j>ai't,  the  fate  which  has  cut  me  off,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  in  the 
Lower  of  my  youth,  and  doomed  me  to  be  a  non-climbing  animal  in 
future,  is  one  which  ought  to  exclude  grumbling.  I  cannot  indicate  it 
i  tore  plainly,  for  I  might  so  make  even  the  grumbling  in  which  I  have 
i  Iready  indulged  look  like  a  sin.  I  can  only  say  that  there  are  some  very 
cclightful  things  in  which  it  is  possible  to  discover  an  infinitesimal  drop  of 
litterness,  and  that  the  mountaineer  who  undertakes  to  cut  himself  off 
f  -om  his  favourite  pastime,  even  for  reasons  which  he  will  admit  in  his 
v  ildest  moods  to  be  more  than  amply  sufficient,  must  expect  at  times  to 
f  el  certain  pangs  of  regret,  however  quickly  they  may  be  smothered. 


556 


,  mtir  ^erolitts, 

ON  a  cairn,  clear  night,  when 

All  the  stars 

Shine,  ami  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest, 

the  contemplation  of  the  celestial  vault  raises  in  the  least  thoughtful  mind 
vague  suggestions  of  infinity,  eternity,  and  omnipotence.  A  knowledge  of 
the  wonders  which  have  been  revealed  by  modern  astronomical  investiga- 
tions, largely  enhances  these  emotions.  Looking  into  the  starlit  depths 
of  heaven,  the  astronomer  knows  that  the  objects  presented  to  him  shine 
from  distances  so  great,  that  not  only  are  they  inconceivable  themselves, 
but  that  the  very  unit  by  which  he  attempts  to  gauge  them  is  incon- 
ceivable. He  knows  that  what  he  sees  is  not  that  which  is,  but  that  which 
was, — years  ago  as  respects  the  nearer  parts  of  the  heaven- scape,  but  long 
ages  ago,  he  doubts  not,  as  respects  faintly  shining  stars  visible  only  by 
momentary  scintillations.  He  has  good  reasons,  indeed,  for  surmising 
that  the  diffused  illumination,  which,  on  the  darkest  night  lights  up  the 
background  of  the  view",  had  been  travelling  towards  the  earth  myriads  of 
ages  before  she  had  assumed  her  present  state,  or  had  been  inhabited  by 
the  races  now  subsisting  upon  her  surface.  So  long,  he  believes,  has 
light, — which  would  eight  times  girdle  the  earth  in  a  second,  —  been 
occupied  in  journeying  towards  us  from  the  depths  into  which  he  is  gazing. 
Thus  the  same  view  exhibits  to  him  eternity  of  time  and  infinity  of  space. 
He  sees  also  omnipotence  in  the  operation  of  those  laws — the  impress  of 
the  Almighty  mind — under  whose  action  all  that  he  sees  is  undergoing  a 
process  of  change,  vast,  resistless,  unending,  yet  so  solemn  in  its  grand 
progress  that  man  knows  no  apter  type  for  immutability. 

To  an  observer  impressed  with  these  emotions,  the  contrast  is  startling 
when  there  is  a  sudden  exhibition  of  life  and  motion  in  the  calm  realms 
of  night.  We  cannot,  however,  look  for  any  long  interval  of  time  towards 
any  quarter  of  the  sky,  without  perceiving  indications  more  or  less  distinct 
of  objects  other  than  the  fixed  stars.  Now  on  one  side,  now  on  another 
we  seem  to  catch  momentary  glimpses  of  moving  light,  disappearing  too 
rapidly  to  be  detected.  But  before  many  minutes  have  elapsed  we 
receive  less  doubtful  evidence.  There  sweeps  silently  and  swiftly  across 
the  starlit  depths  a  palely  gleaming  light,  which  disappears  after  traversing 
an  arc  of  greater  or  less  extent.  We  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others, 
but  to  ourselves  the  impression  conveyed  by  the  apparition  of  a  shooting- 
star,  is  that  no  apter  emblem  can  be  conceived  of  the  finite  and  the 


SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND  AEROLITES.  557 

feeble.*  The  suddenness  with  which  these  objects  appear,  their  hasty 
movements,  and  their  short  duration,  alike  conduce  to  render  as  marked 
a?  possible  the  contrast  they  present  to  the  fixed  stars.  • 

But  though  shooting- stars  are  short-lived,  and  apparently  insignificant, 
y-?t  we  shall  presently  see  that  the  relations  they  present  to  other  celestial 
objects  are  not  unimportant.  We  are  brought  by  means'  of  them  into 
contact,  so  to  speak,  with  external  space.  "  Accustomed  to  know  non- 
t(  lluric  bodies  solely  by  measurement,  by  calculation,  and  by  the  inferences 
of  our  reason,"  writes  Humboldt,  "it  is  with  a  kind  of  astonishment 
that  we  touch,  weigh,  and  submit  to  chemical  analysis,  metallic  and  earthy 
masses  appertaining  to  the  world  without."  The  vulgar  sense  sees,  in 
shooting- stars,  nothing  but  "  dying  sparks  in  the  clear  vault  of  heaven  ;  " 
tLe  reflecting  mind  will  find  much  to  arouse  interest,  and  much  that  is 
worthy  of  close  study  and  investigation. 

We  proceed  to  present  the  results  of  observations — (i.)  casual  and 
(ii.)  particular — which  have  been  made  on  shooting- stars,  meteors,  and 
aerolites. 

A  careful  observer  directing  his  attention  towards  any  quarter  of  the 
sky  on  a  clear  night,  will  see  on  an  average  six  shooting- stars  per  hour. 
We  may  assume  therefore  that  about  fifteen  appear  above  the  horizon  of 
any  place  during  each  hour.  More  appear  after  than  before  midnight,  the 
most  favourable  time  for  observation  being  from  one  o'clock  to  three. 
In  tropical  climates  shooting- stars  are  seen  oftener,  and  shine  far  more 
brilliantly  than  in  our  northern  climates.  This  peculiarity  is  due  no  doubt 
to  the  superior  purity  and  serenity  of  the  air  within  and  near  the  tropics, 
not  to  any  real  superiority  in  the  number  of  falling- stars.  Sir  Alexander 
Burnes,  speaking  of  the  transparency  of  the  dry  atmosphere  of  Bokhara, 
a  place  not  farther  south  than  Madrid,  but  raised  1,200  feet  above  the 
sea-level,  says — "  The  stars  have  uncommon  lustre,  and  the  Milky  Way 
shines  gloriously  in  the  firmament.  There  is  also  a  never-ceasing  display 
of  the  most  brilliant  meteors,  which  dart  like  rockets  in  the  sky  ;  ten  or 
twelve  of  them  are  sometimes  seen  in  an  hour,  assuming  every  colour ; 
fiery-red,  blue,  pale,  and  faint."  In  our  climate  about  two-thirds  of  all 
the  shooting-stars  seen  are  white  ;  next  in  frequency  come  yellow  stars, 
one  yellow  star  being  seen  for  about  five  white  stars ;  there  are  about 
twice  as  many  yellow  as  orange  stars,  and  more  than  twice  as  many  orange 
as  green  or  blue  stars. 

Meteors  or  fire-balls  are  far  less  common  than  shooting- stars.  They 
arc  magnificent  objects,  their  brilliancy  often  exceeding  that  of  the  full 
moon.  Some,  even,  have  been  so  brilliant  as  to  cast  a  shadow  in  full 
daylight.  They  are  generally  followed  by  a  brilliant  luminous  train, 


*  "  The  spinstress  Werpeja,"  says  a  Lithuanian  myth,  "  spins  the  thread  of  the 
ne-vy-born  child,  and  each  thread  ends  in  a  star.  When  death  approaches,  the  thread 
breaks,  and  the  star  falls,  quenching  its  light,  to  the  earth." — Grimm  :  Deutsche 
Mythologie. 


558  SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND  AEROLITES. 

•which  seems  to  be  drawn  out  of  the  substance  of  the  fire-ball  itself. 
Their  motion  is  not  commonly  uniform,  but  (so  to  speak)  impulsive  ;  they 
often  seem  to  follow  a  waved  or  contorted  path ;  their  form  changes 
visibly,  and  in  general  they  disappear  with  a  loud  explosion.  Occasionally, 
however,  a  meteor  will  be  seen  to  separate  without  explosion  into  a  number 
of  distinct  globes,  accompanying  each  other  in  parallel  courses^  and  each 
followed  by  a  train.  "  Sometimes,"  says  Kaemtz,  "  a  fire-ball  is  divided 
into  fragments,  each  of  which  forms  a  luminous  globe,  which  then  bursts 
in  its  turn  ;  in  others  the  mass,  after  having  given  vent  to  the  interior 
gases,  closes  in  upon  itself,  and  then  swells  out  anew  .to  burst  a  second 
time."  Meteors  which  move  impulsively,  generally  burst  at  each  bound, 
giving  forth  smoke  and  vapours,  and  shining  afterwards  with  a  new  lustre. 
In  some  instances  the  crash  of  the  explosion  is  so  great  that  ' '  houses 
tremble,  doors  and  windows  open,  and  men  imagine  that  there  is  an 
earthquake." 

Aerolites,  or  meteoric  stones,  are  bodies  which  fall  from  the  sky  upon 
the  earth.  They  are  less  common  than  meteors,  but  that  they  are  far 
from  being  uncommon  is  shown  by  this,  that  in  the  British  Museum  alone 
there  are  preserved  several  hundreds  of  these  bodies.  They  vary  greatly 
in  size  and  form  ;  some  being  no  larger  than  a  man's  fist,  while  others 
weigh  many  hundreds  of  pounds.  Marshal  Bazaine  has  lately  brought 
from  Mexico  a  meteorite  weighing  more  than  three-quarters  of  a  ton  ;  but 
this  weight  has  been  far  exceeded  in  several  cases.  Thus  a  meteorite  was 
presented  to  the  British  Museum  in  1865,  which  weighs  no  less  than 
three  and  a  half  tons.  It  had  been  found  near  Melbourne,  and  one  half 
of  the  mass  had  been  promised  to  the  Melbourne  Museum.  But  fortu- 
nately it  was  saved  from  injury.  A  meteorite  weighing  one  and  a  quarter 
tons,  which  had  been  found  close  to  the  greater  one,  was  transferred 
from  the  British  to  the  Melbourne  Museum,  and  the  great  meteorite 
forwarded  unbroken  to  our  national  collection.  A  yet  larger  meteorite 
lies  on  the  plain  of  Tucuman  in  South  America ;  it  has  not  been  weighed, 
but  measurement  shows  that  its  weight  cannot  fall  short  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen  tons.  It  is  from  seven  to  seven  and  a  half  feet  in  length. 

There  have  been  twenty  well  authenticated  instances  of  stone-falls  in 
the  British  Isles  since  1620.  One  of  these  took  place  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  London,  on  May  18th,  1680.  Besides  these,  two 
meteoric  stones,  not  seen  to  fall,  have  been  found  in  Scotland. 

The  Chinese,  who  recorded  everything,  give  the  most  ancient  records 
of  stone-falls.*  Their  accounts  of  these  phenomena  extend  to  644  years 
before  our  era,  their  accounts  of  shooting- stars  to  687  B.C.  We  need 
not  remind  our  classical  readers  of  the  stone  which  fell  at  /Egos  Potamos, 


*  The  fall  of  stones  eaid  by  Livy  to  have  taken  place  on  the  Alban  Hill,  can 
hardly  be  accepted  as  an  historical  fact.  There  are,  however,  indubitable  records, 
not  due  to  human  agency,  of  much  more  ancient  stone-falls  ;  since  fossil  meteorites 
are  found  imbedded  in  the  secondary  and  tertiary  formations. 


SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND   AEROLITES.  559 

B.C.  465,  and  which  was  as  large  as  two  millstones.  In  the  year  921, 
there  fell  at  Narni  a  mass  which  projected  four  feet  above  the  river, 
into  which  it  was  seen  to  fall.  There  is  a  Mongolian  tradition  that  there 
fell  from  heaven  upon  a  plain  near  the  source  of  the  Yellow  River,  in 
Western  China,  a  black  rocky  mass  forty  feet  high.  In  1620,  there  fell 
at  Jahlinder  a  mass  of  meteoric  iron,  from  which  the  Emperor  Jehangire 
had  a  sword  forged. 

These  traditions  had  long  been  known,  but  men  were  not  verv  ready 
to  accept,  without  question,  the  fact  that  stones  and  mineral  masses 
actually  fall  upon  the  earth  from  the  sky.  In  1803,  however,  a  fall  of 
aerolites  occurred  which  admitted  of  no  cavil.  On  the  26th  of  April,  in 
that  year,  a  fiery  globe  was  seen  to  burst  into  fragments,  nearly  over  the 
town  of  L'Aigle,  in  Normandy.  By  this  explosion  thousands  of  stones 
were  scattered  over  an  elliptical  area  seven  or  eight  miles  long,  and 
about  four  miles  broad.  The  stones  were  hot  (but  not  red-hot)  and 
smoking  ;  the  heaviest  weighed  about  seventeen  and  a  half  pounds.  The 
sky  had  been  perfectly  clear  a  few  moments  before  the  explosion.  With 
a  laudable  desire  to  profit  by  so  favourable  an  opportunity,  the  French 
Government  sent  M.  Biot  to  the  scene  of  the  fall.  His  systematic 
inquiries  and  report  sufficed  to  overcome  the  unbelief  which  had  prevailed 
on  the  subject  of  stone- showers. 

Another  very  remarkable  fall  is  that  which  took  place  on  October  1st, 
1857,  in  the  department  of  Yonne.  Baron  Seguier  was  with  some  work- 
men in  an  avenue  of  the  grounds  of  Hautefeuille  near  Charny,  when  they 
were  startled  by  several  explosions  quite  unlike  thunder,  and  by  strong 
atmospheric  disturbances.  Several  windows  of  the  chateau  were  found  to  be 
broken.  At  the  same  time  a  proprietor  of  Chateau- Renard  saw  a  globe  of 
fire  "travelling  rapidly  through  the  air  towards  Yernisson."  Baron  Seguier 
heard  shortly  after  that  at  the  same  hour  a  shower  of  aerolites  had  fallen  a 
few  leagues  from  Hautefeuille,  and  in  a  locality  lying  precisely  in  the  direc- 
tion towards  which  the  proprietor  of  Chateau-Renard  had  seen  the  meteor 
travelling.  A  mason  had  seen  the  fall,  and  narrowly  escaped  being  struck 
by  one  of  the  fragments.  This  piece,  which  was  found  buried  deep  in  the 
earth,  near  the  foot  of  the  mason's  ladder,  was  presented  to  the  Academy 
of  Sciences  by  Baron  Seguier. 

Aerolites  often  fall  from  a  clear  sky.  More  commonly,  however,  a 
dark  cloud  is  observed  to  form,  and  the  stony  shower  is  seen  to  be  pro- 
jected from  its  bosom.  It  is  probable  that  what  appears  as  a  bright  train 
by  night  is  seen  as  a  cloud  by  day.  Something  seems  to  depend  on  the 
position  of  the  observer.  The  meteor  which  burst  over  L'Aigle  appeared 
wholly  free  from  cloud  or  smoke  to  those  who  saw  it  from  Alen9on,  while 
to  observers  in  L'Aigle  the  phenomenon  was  presented  of  a  dark  cloud 
forming  suddenly  in  a  clear  sky.  In  a  fall  which  took  place  near  Klein- 
winden  (not  far  from  Miihlhausen),  on  September  16th,  1843,  a  large 
aerolite  descended  with  a  noise  like  thunder,  in  a  clear  sky,  and  without 
the  formation  cf  any  cloud. 


560  SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND  AEROLITES. 

The  length  of  time  during  which  fire-balls,  which  produce  aerolites,  are 
visible,  has  been  variously  stated ;  but  we  have  no  evidence  which  would 
lead  us  to  accept  the  story  of  Daimachos,  that  the  fiery  cloud  from  which 
the  stone  of  ^Egos  Potamos  was  projected  had  been  visible  for  seventy 
days  in  succession.  The  story  seems  to  identify  the  author  with  a  certain 
Daimachos  of  Platasa  described  by  Strabo  as  a  "vendor  of  lies." 

There  is  another  singular  fiction  respecting  fire-balls.  It  was  said 
that  shooting- stars  and  meteors  were  in  reality  fibrous  gelatinous  bodies, 
and  that  such  bodies  had  been  found  where  meteors  had  been  seen  to  fall. 
Keference  is  not  unfrequently  made  to  this  fable  by  writers  ancient  and 
modern.  Thus  Dryden,  in  his  dedication  to  The  Spanish  Friar 
speaking  of  Chapman's  Bussy  d'Ambois  says, — "I  have  sometimes 
wondered  in  the  reading,  what  was  become  of  those  glaring  colours  which 
amazed  me  in  Bussy  d'Ambois  upon  the  theatre ;  but  when  I  had  taken 
up  what  I  supposed  a  fallen  star,  I  found  I  had  been  cozened  with  a  jelly ; 
nothing  but  a  cold  dull  mass,  which  glittered  no  longer  than  it  was 
shooting." 

One  circumstance  remains  to  be  mentioned  among  the  results  of  casual 
observation.  On  certain  occasions  shooting- stars  have  been  observed  to 
fall  in  much  greater  numbers  than  on  ordinary  nights.  Among  the  earliest 
records  of  such  a  phenomenon  is  the  statement  by  Theophanes,  the  Byzan- 
tine historian,  that  in  November,  472,  at  Constantinople,  the  sky  seemed 
to  be  alive  with  flying  meteors.  In  the  month  of  October,  902,  again,  so 
many  falling- stars  were  seen  that  the  year  was  afterwards  called  the 
"  year  of  stars."  Conde  relates  that  the  Arabs  connected  this  fall  with 
the  death  of  King  Ibrahim  Ben- Ahmed,  which  took  place  on  the  night  of 
the  star-shower.  The  year  1029  was  also  remarkable  for  a  great  star-fall, 
and  in  the  annals  of  Cairo  it  is  related  that,  "  In  the  year  599,  in  the  last 
Moharrun  (October  19, 1202),  the  stars  appeared  like  waves  upon  the  sky, 
towards  the  east  and  west ;  they  flew  about  like  locusts,  and  were  dispersed 
from  left  to  right."  A  shower  of  stars,  accompanied  by  the  fall  of  several 
aerolites,  took  place  over  England  and  France  on  April  4th,  1095.  This 
was  considered  by  many  as  a  token  of  God's  displeasure  with  King 
William  II.  :  "  Therefore  the  kynge  was  tolde  by  divers  of  his  familiars 
that  God  was  not  content  with  his  lyvying ;  but  he  was  so  wilful  and 
proud  of  mind  that  he  regarded  little  their  saying." 

In  modern  times,  also,  some  very  remarkable  star- showers  have  been 
observed.  Amongst  these  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  was  that  seen  by 
Humboldt,  when  travelling  withM.  Bonpland  in  South  America.  He  writes  : 
— "  On  the  morning  of  the  13th  of  November  we  saw  a  most  extraordinary 
display  of  shooting- stars.  Thousands  of  bolides  and  stars  succeeded  each 
other  during  four  hours.  Their  motion  was  very  regular  from  north  to 
south.  From  the  beginning  of  the  phenomenon  there  was  not  a  space 
equal  in  extent  to  three  diameters  of  the  moon,  which  was  not  filled  each 
instant  with  shooting- stars.  All  the  meteors  left  phosphorescent  traces 
behind  them," 


SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND   AEROLITES.  561 

In  1833,  also,  there  was  a  magnificent  display  of  meteoric  fireworks. 
It  was  accompanied  by  a  brilliant  exhibition  of  the  aurora  borealis.  The 
same  phenomenon  was  seen  also  at  Bremen,  in  1838,  during  a  fall  of 
meteors  and  shooting- stars. 

Before  proceeding  to  detail  some  of  the  singular  results  which  have 
rewarded  the  modern  examination  of  this  interesting  subject,  it  may  be 
well  to  exhibit  the  guesses  and  theories  which  were  suggested  of  old,  to 
explain  the  observed  phenomena. 

The  Greeks,  as  usual  with  them,  guessed  boldly,  sometimes  acutely. 
Among  the  earliest  of  their  theories  we  find  the  view  that  shooting- stars 
are  generated  by  vapours  ascending  from  the  earth, — an  hypothesis  that 
has  been  sustained  quite  recently  by  Egen,  Fischer,  and  Ideler.  Aristotle 
supposed  that  aerolites  were  masses  of  stone  which  had  been  raised  by 
tempests  from  the  earth's  surface.  He  explained  in  this  way  the  appear- 
ance even  of  the  gigantic  mass  which  fell  at  ^gos  Potamos.  Others 
again,  seeing  that  meteorites  fell  in  full  sunlight,  conceived  the  notion 
that  they  were  projected  to  us  from  the  sun.  Amongst  those  who  held 
this  opinion  was  Anaxagoras  of  Clazomene.  This  philosopher,  we  are  told, 
predicted  the  fall  of  aerolites  from  the  sun, — a  tradition  registered  and 
ridiculed  by  Pliny.  But  some  among  the  Greeks  held  opinions  which, 
though  somewhat  vaguely  expressed,  may  be  looked  upon  as  (at  the  least) 
very  good  guesses.  We  may  cite,  for  instance,  the  following  remarkable 
passage  in  Plutarch's  life  of  Lysander  : — 

"  The  opinion  held  by  those  who  thought  that  shooting-stars  are  not 
mere  emanations  from  ethereal  fire,  becoming  extinguished  quickly  after 
being  kindled,  is  a  probable  one ;  nor  are  falling  stars  produced  by  the 
inflammation  and  combustion  of  a  mass  of  air  which  had  moved  away 
towards  the  higher  regions ;  rather  they  are  celestial  bodies  which  are  pre- 
cipitated through  an  intermission  of  the  centrifugal  force,  and  fall,  not 
only  on  inhabited  places,  but  in  even  larger  numbers  into  the  great  sea, 
where  they  are  never  seen."  We  find  in  this  passage  a  tacit  reference 
to  the  opinion  of  Anaxagoras  that  the  heavenly  bodies  are  masses  of  rock 
torn  from  the  earth  by  the  centrifugal  force  of  the  surrounding  ether,  and 
set  on  fire  in  the  heavens.  The  opinion  of  Diogenes  of  Apollonia  is  not 
dissimilar ;  he  says,  "  Together  with  the  visible  stars  there  move  other 
invisible  ones,  which  are  therefore  without  names.  These  sometimes  fall 
on  the  earth  and  are  extinguished,  as  took  place  with  the  star  of  stone 
•vhich  fell  at  JEgos  Potamos." 

In  the  Middle  Ages  the  phenomena  presented  by  shooting- stars  were 
explained  in  a  somewhat  authoritative,  but  not  very  satisfactory,  manner. 
The  judicious  use  of  a  few  set  phrases  sufficed  to  clear  up  all  difficulties. 
We  hear  of  humours  and  exhalations  attracted  by  affinity  to  the  upper 
regions  of  air ;  of  condensation,  concretion,  ultimate  repulsion,  and  so  on ; 
and  all  this  not  in  a  doubtful  hypothetical  tone,  but  in  the  authoritative 
manner  of  men  possessing  all  knowledge.  On  one  point  especially  the 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  95.  27 


562       SHOOTING-STABS,  METEORS,  AND  AEROLITES. 

writers  of  those  days  are  very  positive, — meteors  are  in  no  way  to  be 
regarded  as  astronomical  phenomena.  They  marked  out  peremptorily  the 
bodies  they  consented  to  look  upon  as  celestial.  Their  knowledge  of  the 
laws  regulating  these  bodies  was  far  too  exact,  in  their  opinion,  for  any 
doubt  to  exist  that  a  number  of  erratic,  short-lived  bodies,  moving  in  a 
hasty  and  undignified  manner  across  the  sky,  were  not  to  be  admitted  as 
members  of  the  stately  family  of  planets,  still  less  as  copartners  with  the 
stars  of  the  crystalline.  One,  even,  who  saw  opening  out  before  him  a 
new  system,  who  aided  to  overturn  the  old,  and  to  lay  the  foundation  of 
modern  astronomy — the  ingenious  Kepler — yielded  to  the  old  idea  on  this 
point — to  the  fascinating  phantasy  that  things  are  to  be  seen  as  men  would 
have  them,  not  as  indeed  they  are.  In  his  case,  perhaps,  this  is  hardly 
to  be  wondered  at.  He  had  discovered  and  rejoiced  in  the  "  harmonies 
of  the  planets  ; "  he  had  written  in  his  enthusiasm, — "  Nothing  holds  me ; 
I  will  indulge  my  sacred  fury ;  I  will  triumph  over  mankind,  for  I  have 
stolen  the  golden  vases  of  the  Egyptians."  And  it  would  doubtless  have 
seemed  as  a  strange  thing  to  him  to  conceive  that  he  had  heard  but  a 
few  stray  notes  of  the  music  of  the  spheres,  that  he  had  not  yet — as  he 
had  hoped — • 

Come  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

JEonian  music  measuring  out 
The  steps  of  Time. 

We  turn  to  the  investigations  of  modern  scientific  men, — of  men 
whose  principle  it  is,  or  ought  to  be,  that  theory-framing  should  be 
preceded  by  systematic  observation,  by  careful  calculation  and  examina- 
tion, and,  if  possible,  by  experiment.  They  have  successfully  attacked 
problems  which  seem  to  the  uninitiated  wholly  insoluble, — determining 
the  heights  at  which  shooting- stars  appear  and  disappear,  the  velocity 
with  which  they  move,  their  size  and  weight,  nay,  the  very  substances  of 
which  they  are  composed ;  they  have  discovered  laws  regulating  the 
numbers  and  paths  of  those  visitors ;  they  have  analysed  aerolites  chemi- 
cally and  microscopically ;  and,  lastly,  they  have  sought  to  determine 
whether  it  is  possible  to  construct  artificial  meteorites. 

The  determination  of  the  height  of  shooting- stars  is  a  problem  which 
has  been  successfully  attacked  by  Brandes,  Heis,  Schmidt,  Olbers,  and 
others.  From  the  results  of  observations  made  by  these  astronomers, 
Professor  Newton  and  Mr.  Alexander  Herschel  have  calculated  that 
shooting-stars  appear,  on  an  average,  at  a  height  of  seventy-two  miles, 
and  disappear  at  a  height  of  fifty-two  miles.  The  Padre  Secchi,  at  Eome, 
on  the  nights  of  5th-10th  August,  carried  on  a  series  of  simultaneous 
observations,  by  telegraphic  communication  between  Eome  and  Civita 
Vecchia.  The  result  obtained  by  him  was  that  shooting-stars  appear  at  a 
height  of  seventy-four  and  a  half  miles,  and  disappear  at  a  height  of 
fifty  miles, — a  result  almost  coincident  with  the  former.  It  appears, 


SHOOTING-STABS,   METEORS,   AND   AEROLITES.  563 

then,  that  shooting- stars  are  some  twenty  miles  nearer  when  they  are  just 
disappearing  than  at  their  first  appearance. 

When  the  distance  of  a  shooting- star  is  known,  it  is  easy  to  determine 
the  velocity  of  the  star's  motion.  It  appears  from  a  careful  series  of 
observations  that  shooting- stars  describe  a  visible  arc  many  miles  in 
length,  with  an  average  velocity  of  about  thirty-four  miles  per  second. 
This  velocity  is  nearly  twice  as  great  as  that  wherewith  the  earth  describes 
her  orbit  about  the  sun.  .  Moving  with  such  a  velocity,  a  body  would  pass 
from  the  earth  to  the  moon  in  about  a  couple  of  hours,  or  from  London 
to  Edinburgh  in  about  ten  seconds. 

Meteors,  as  might  be  expected,  approach  nearer  to  the  earth  than 
shooting- stars.  They  do  not  in  general  move  quite  so  rapidly.  A 
remarkable  meteor  which  appeared  on  April  29th,  was  seen  by  two 
practised  observers,  Messrs.  Baxendell  and  Wood,  at  Liverpool  and 
Weston- super-Mare  respectively.  From  a  careful  examination  of  their 
observations  it  results  that  the  meteor  appeared  when  at  a  height  of  fifty- 
two  miles  vertically  over  Lichfield,  that  it  travelled  in  a  southerly  direction 
at  the  rate  of  about  twenty  miles  per  second,  and  disappeared  when  over 
Oxford  at  a  height  of  thirty-seven  miles,  having  travelled  over  a  course  of 
nearly  seventy-five  miles.  The  meteor  appears  to  having  belonged  to  the 
detonating  class.  Eight  minutes  after  its  appearance  Mr.  Wood  heard  a 
sound  "  which  resembled  the  momentary  roar  of  a  railway-train,  at  some 
distance,  crossing  over  a  bridge."  It  is  worth  noticing  that  Mr.  Wood 
must  have  heard  the  roar  of  the  meteor  inversely,  that  is,  the  first  part 
of  the  sound  he  heard  was  the  part  generated  last,  and  vice  versa.  A 
detonation  was  also  heard  at  Stony  Stratford,  a  place  lying  nearly  under 
the  path  of  the  meteor. 

To  determine  the  actual  size  of  a  meteor  is  not  easy,  nor  indeed  can 
much  weight  be  attached  to  such  determinations.  From  observations  of 
the  apparent  dimensions  of  several  meteors  which  have  travelled  at  known 
distances,  it  would  seem  that  these  bodies  vary  in  diameter  from  100  to 
13,000  feet. 

Singularly  enough,  it  is  easier  to  determine  the  weight  of  a  meteor  or 
shooting- star  than  its  size.  The  method  of  doing  so  could  not  be  very 
well  explained  in  these  pages  ;  it  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  it  depends 
on  the  observation  of  the  amount  of  light  received  from  a  body  travelling 
with  known  velocity  through  a  resisting  atmosphere.  From  such  observa- 
tions it  appears  that  shooting- stars  weigh  on  an  average  but  a  few  ounces, 
while  some  meteors  weigh  hundreds  of  pounds.  We  have  seen  that 
aerolites  of  much  greater  weight  occasionally  reach  the  earth. 

Still  more  strange  is  the  fact  that  we  are  able  to  determine  the 
substances,  or  some  of  them,  which  enter  into  the  composition  of  meteors  or 
shooting- stars.  This  is  done  by  means  of  a  spectroscope  so  constructed 
as  to  take  in  a  large  part  of  the  heavens.  For  instance,  when  an  instru- 
ment of  this  sort  is  turned  towards  the  Great  Bear, the  spectra  of 

27—2 


561       SHOOTING-STARS,  METEORS  AND  AEROLITES. 

the  seven  principal  stars  of  that  constellation  are  seen  at  one  view. 
Mr.  Herschel  observed  with  such  an  instrument  the  spectra  of  many  of  the 
shooting- stars  which  appeared  on  the  nights  9th-llth  August.  He 
found  that  some  of«  these  bodies  exhibit  a  continuous  spectrum,  showing 
that  they  are  probably  solid  bodies,  heated  to  ignition.  Others  exhibit  a 
greyish,  white  spectrum,  indicating  (probably)  a  nucleus  and  train  of 
heated  sparks.  But  the  greater  number  of  meteors  give  a  spectrum 
consisting  of  one  or  more  lines,  showing  that  during  apparition  most  of 
these  bodies  are  gaseous.  The  gaseous  meteors  exhibit  with  remarkable 
distinctness  a  strong  yellow  line,  perfectly  agreeing  in  position  with  the 
well-known  line  given  by  the  ignited  vapour  of  the  metal  sodium.  Other 
lines,  due  to  the  presence  either  of  potassium,  sulphur,  or  phosphorus, 
are  also  frequently  seen:  It  is  noteworthy  that  the  sodium  line  is 
exhibited  in  the  spectrum  of  lightning,  so  that  it  is  not  quite  certain  that 
this  line  in  the  meteor- spectrum  is  due  to  the  presence  of  sodium  in  the 
chemical  composition  of  meteors.  However,  it  cannot  but  be  considered 
as  highly  improbable  that  any  traces  of  sodium  exist  in  the  atmosphere  at 
the  great  height  at  which  meteors  travel ;  still  less  probable  is  it  that  such 
considerable  quantities  of  sodium  exist  as  would  account  for  the  strongly- 
marked  character  of  the  yellow  line  shown  in  meteor-spectra.  Mr.  Herschel 
notes  especially  of  those  trains  which  fade  most  slowly  that  they  consist  of 
nothing  else  but  soda-flames  during  the  latter  portion  of  the  time  that  they 
continue  visible.  "Their  condition  is  then  exactly  that  of  the  flame  of 
a  spirit-lamp,  newly  trimmed,  and  largely  dosed  with  a  supply  of 
moistened  salt." 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  facts  which  observation  has  revealed 
respecting  shooting-stars,  is  the  recurrence  of  star-showers  of  greater  or 
less  intensity  on  certain  days  of  the  year.  It  was  observed  long  ago  that 
on  the  nights  of  August  9-11  stars  fell  in  much  greater  numbers  than 
usual.  For  instance,  there  is  a  legend  in  parts  of  Thessaly,  that  near 
the  time  of  the  festival  of  St.  Laurence,  the  heavens  open  and  exhibit 
shining  lights  (icavor]\ia) ',  and  in  an  ancient  English  church  calendar,  the 
August  star-showers  are  described  as  "  fiery  tears."  We  find  the  10th  of 
August  also  characterized  by  the  word  metcorodes,  in  a  MS.  called  Epliemc- 
rides  rerum  naturalium,  preserved  in  Christ's  College,  Cambridge.  The 
great  November  shower  was  not  recognized  so  soon.  This  shower  is 
characterized  by  an  alternate  increase  and  decrease  of  intensity,  the 
interval  between  successive  maxima  being  thirty-three  or  thirty-four  years. 
For  several  years  before  and  after  the  true  year  of  maximum  intensity  the 
shower  is  in  general  distinctly  exhibited.  Our  readers  will  not  need  to 
be  reminded  of  the  recurrence  of  this  shower  last  November,  as  predicted 
by  astronomers.  Last  year  was  spoken  of  in  these  predictions  as  the 
year  in  which  the  November  shower  would  exhibit  its  maximum  of 
splendour.  Our  own  opinion  is  that  1867  will  turn  out  to  be  the  true 
year  of  maximum  intensity,  and  that  fine  showers  will  be  seen  during  the 


SHOOTING-STARS  METEORS,   AND  AEROLITES.  565 

years  1868  and  1869.  Whether,  however,  such  showers,  should  they 
occur,  will  be  as  well  seen  in  England  as  that  of  November  13th  last, 
is  problematical,  since  it  has  frequently  happened  that  magnificent 
showers  are  seen  in  certain  longitudes,  and  but  a  moderate  display  in 
others.  Besides  the  August  and  November  showers,  there  are  the  showers 
of  October  16-23,  of  December  6-13,  of  April  9-10,  of  July  25-30,  and 
others.  There  are  in  fact  no  less  than  "  fifty-six  recognized  star- showers, 
as  well  determined  in  the  majority  of  cases  as  are  the  older  and  better 
known  showers  of  August  and  November."  While  on  this  point,  we  may 
note,  as  evidence,  that  aerolites  have  their  favourite  seasons  for  visiting 
the  earth,  that  of  the  twenty  which  are  known  to  have  fallen  on  the 
British  Isles  three  fell  on  May  17-18,  four  on  August  4-9,  two  on 
July  3-4,  and  two  on  April  1-5.  Of  the  other  nine,  three  are  undated. 

Another  singular  law  has  been  detected  in  the  motions  of  shooting- 
stars  which  appear  at  the  same  season.  It  is  found  that  when  their  paths 
are  produced  backwards  they  pass  through  or  near  one  point  on  the 
celestial  sphere,"  and  that  this  point  has  no  fixed  relation  to  the  horizon 
of  the  observer,  but  is  fixed  among  the  stars.  Sometimes  the  shooting- 
stars  which  appear  on  the  same  night  may  be  divided  into  two  sets,  each 
having  a  distinct  radiant  point, — as  astronomers  have  named  these  centres 
of  divergence.  Each  of  the  fifty- six  star- showers  spoken  of  above  has  its 
radiant  point.  Humboldt  states  that  the  radiant  points  of  the  November 
and  August  showers  are  those  points  precisely  towards  which  the  earth  is 
travelling  at  those  seasons  respectively.  He  has  been  followed  in  this 
statement  by  many  writers  on  astronomy.  But  the  statement  is  not  true. 
In  fact,  these  radiant  points  do  not  lie  on  the  ecliptic,  whereas  the  point 
towards  which  the  earth  is  travelling  at  any  moment,  necessarily  lies  upon 
the  ecliptic. 

Aerolites  have  been  analysed,  and  it  is  found  that  they  contain  many 
elements  known  on  earth.  These  usually  appear  combined  in  the 
following  types : — metallic  iron,  magnetic  iron,  sulphuret  of  iron,  oxide  of 
tin,  silicates,  olivine,  &c.  In  one  aerolite  only,  namely,  in  a  stone  which 
fell  on  April  15th,  1857,  near  Kaba-Debreczin — "a  small  quantity  of 
organic  matter  akin  to  parafine  "  has  been  detected, — a  very  noteworthy 
circumstance.  It  is  also  remarkable  that  no  new  element,  and  only 
one  or  two  new  compounds  (compounds,  at  least,  which  have  not  yet 
been  recognized  among  terrestrial  formations)  have  ever  been  detected 
in  meteorites. 

The  microscopical  examination  of  aerolites  has  also  revealed  much 
that  is  interesting  and  instructive.  The  crystals  of  the  mixed  minerals* 
which  appear  in  aerolites  are  found  to  differ  in  some  important  respects 
from  those  of  volcanic  rocks,  "  but  their  consolidation  must  have  taken 
place  from  fusion  in  masses  of  mountain  size."  The  alloy  of  metallic 

*  The  Greeks  had  already  noted  something  of  this  sort,  which  they  attributed  to 
the  prevalence  of  strong  winds  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  air. 


566  SHOOTING-STABS,   METECES,    AND    AEEOLITES. 

iron  and  nickel  which  is  a  principal  component  of  meteorites  is  often 
found  to  be  as  regularly  crystallized  as  a  mass  of  spar. 

M.  Daubree  has  attempted  to  produce  artificial  meteorites  by  com- 
bining together  suitable  elements  and  compounds.  In  doing  so  he  has 
discovered  a  very  singular  fact.  The  crystals  he  obtained  resembled  the 
long  needles  which  are  seen  to  form  on  water  when  it  is  slowly  frozen ; 
whereas  the  black  crystalline  crust  with  which  all  meteorites  are  covered 
has  a  granular  structure  resembling  snow  or  hoar-frost,  which  we  know  to 
be  formed  by  the  sudden  passage  of  water  from  the  vaporous  to  the  solid 
state.  This  phenomenon  shows  that  meteoric  masses  have  been  subjected 
to  actions  altogether  different  to  those  which  the  chemist  is  able  to  bring 
into  operation. 

The  result  of  the  series  of  observations  which  we  have  here  recorded 
is  that  we  are  able  to  attempt  the  formation  of  a  theory  of  shooting- stars 
with  some  confidence.  And,  in  the  first  place,  we  are  able  to  reject 
decisively  certain  theories  which  have  found  favour  at  different  times. 

The  immense  height  at  which  shooting- stars  appear  enables  us  to 
reject  the  atmospheric  origin  which  has  been  suggested,  for  we  have  every 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  air  at  a  height  of  seventy  miles  above  the 
earth  is  of  extreme  tenuity,  and  therefore  quite  incapable  of  supporting  in 
sufficient  quantity  those  vapours  from  which  shooting-stars,  on  this  theory, 
are  assumed  to  be  generated. 

Two  other  theories,  which  have  not  hitherto  been  mentioned,  are  also 
overthrown  by  the  results  of  modern  observation.  Both  may  be  called 
volcanic,  but  one  assumes  that  shooting- stars  are  bodies  which  have  been 
projected  from  volcanoes  on  the  earth,  while  the  other  assumes  that  they 
have  come  from  volcanoes  on  the  moon.  Observation  has  shown  that 
when  Mount  Etna  is  in  full  activity,  the  masses  of  stone  thrown  from  its 
crater  have  a  velocity  of  less  than  1,600  feet  per  second,  which  is  but 
one-112th  part  of  the  mean  velocity  with  which  shooting- stars  are  observed 
to  move.  The  theory  that  falling-stars  come  from  the  moon  was  first 
propounded  by  Terzago,  an  Italian,  in  the  seventeenth  century.  It  appears, 
however,  to  have  been  not  unknown  in  ancient  times,  since  we  learn  that 
the  Syrian  astronomers  were  in  the  habit  of  looking  for  shooting- stars 
when  the  moon  was  full ;  while  Greek  astronomers  considered  the  most 
favourable  season  to  be  at  the  time  of  lunar  eclipse,  that  is  when  the  moon 
is  full  but  the  sky  dark.  Bizarre  as  it  may  seem,  this  fanciful  explanation 
has  been  thought  worthy  of  strict  mathematical  examination  by  such 
astronomers  as  Laplace,  Olbers,  and  Poisson.  It  appears,  from  their 
calculations,  that  the  velocity  with  which  stone-showers  should  be  pro- 
pelled from  the  moon  in  order  to  reach  our  earth  with  the  velocities 
observed  among  shooting- stars  may  be  considered  to  be  utterly  beyond 
the  powers  we  could  concede  to  lunar  volcanoes,  even  if  it  were  proved 
(which  is  far  from  being  the  case)  that  any  active  volcanoes  now  exist  on 
the  moon's  surface. 


•SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,  AND  AEROLITES.  567 

The  three  theories  just  considered  have  been  effectually  overthrown  by 
the  simple  observation  of  the  height  and  velocities  of  shooting- stars. 
"When  we  add  to  this  consideration  the  recurrence  of  star-showers,  not  in 
particular  states  of  the  earth's  atmosphere,  not  connected  in  any  way 
with  the  activity  of  terrestrial  volcanoes,  nor  conceivably  with  the  action 
of  assumed  lunar  volcanoes,  these  theories  appear  yet  more  inadequate  to 
explain  observed  phenomena.  The  phenomenon  of  radiant  points,  lastly, 
is  so  wholly  inexplicable  on  any  of  these  theories,  that  we  may  dismiss 
them  finally,  as  utterly  untenable. 

We  must,  therefore,  turn  to  the  theory  which  had  already  been 
suggested  by  Greek  philosophers — that  shooting-stars  and  meteors  are 
extraneous  bodies  dragged  towards  the  earth  by  the  force  of  her  attractive 
influence.  But  modern  scientific  discoveries  enable  us  to  exhibit  this 
theory  in  a  more  inviting  form,  and  at  the  same  time  to  offer  analogues 
obviously  tending  to  confirm  the  hypothesis.  The  discovery  of  a  zone  of 
planetoids,  the  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  the  zodiacal  light,  and  the 
mathematical  examination  of  the  "  stability  "  of  the  Saturnian  ring-system, 
have  led  astronomers  to  recognize  the  existence  in  the  solar  s}7stem  of 
minute  bodies  travelling  in  zones  or  clusters  around  a  central  orb.  There 
is,  therefore,  nothing  unreasonable  in  the  supposition  that  there  are  zones 
and  clusters  of  such  bodies  travelling  round  the  sun  in  orbits  which 
intersect  the  earth's  path.  When  in  her  course  around  the  sun  she 
encounters  any  of  the  bodies  forming  such  zones  and  clusters,  they  are 
ignited  by  friction  as  they  pass  through  the  upper  layers  of  the  air,  and 
become  visible  as  shooting- stars  or  meteors  according  to  their  dimensions ; 
or  they  may  even  fall  upon  her  surface  as  aerolites. 

The  recurrence  of  star-showers  is  a  necessary  consequence  of  the 
hypothesis  we  are  considering.  For,  if  we  suppose  the  zones  of  meteors,  or 
the  orbits  of  meteor-clusters,  to  have  a  fixed  position  in  the  solar  system, 
or  to  be  subject  to  those  slow  progressive  or  retrogressive  shiftings  with 
which  the  study  of  the  solar  system  familiarizes  us,  there  will  neces- 
sarily result  a  regular  recurrence  of  showers  either  on  fixed  days,  or  on 
days  uniformly  shifting  round  among  the  seasons.  This  is  precisely  what 
is  observed  with  the  fifty-six  recognized  star-showers. 

The  earth  does  not  necessarily  (or  probably)  pass  centrally  through  a 
meteor- cluster  every  year,  nor  probably  are  the  meteor-zones  uniformly 
rich  throughout.  Thus  we  can  readily  understand  periodic  undulations 
in  the  intensity  of  star-showers,  or  even  periodic  intemiittances. 

The  phenomenon  of  radiant  points  also  is  not  merely  reconcilable 
with,  but  obviously  indicates  the  hypothesis  we  are  considering.  For 
during  the  brief  ^interval  occupied  by  the  earth  in  passing  through  a 
well-marked  zone  or  cluster,  the  bodies  composing  such  zone  or  cluster 
may  be  considered  to  be  moving  (relatively  to  the  moving  earth)  in 
parallel  lines.  Therefore  by  a  well-known  law  in  perspective  their 
apparent  paths,  viewed  from  the  earth,  must  have  a  "  vanishing  point " 


568  SHOOTING-STARS,   METEORS,   AND  AEROLITES. 

on  the  celestial  sphere, — that   is,   a  "  radiant  point "  among  the  fixed 
stars. 

The  remarkable  velocity  with  which  shooting- stars  travel  is  satisfac- 
torily accounted  for  by  the  modem  theory.  If  we  suppose  zones  and 
clusters  of  cosmical  bodies  (pocket-planets  we  may  term  them  with 
Humboldt)  to  be  travelling  in  different  directions  around  the  sun,  it  is 
clear  that  the  members  of  those  zones  which  travel  in  the  same  direction  as 
the  earth,  will  overtake,  or  be  overtaken  by  her,  with  the  difference  of  their 
respective  velocities,  while  those  which  travel  in  the  contrary  direction 
will  encounter  the  earth  with  the  sum  of  their  own  and  the  earth's  velocity. 
Now,  just  as,  in  walking  along  a  crowded  road,  we  meet  many  more  people 
than  we  overtake,  or  are  overtaken  by ;  so,  clearly,  by  far  the  larger 
number  of  observed  shooting- stars  must  belong  to  the  latter  class  named 
above,  and  therefore  the  average  observed  velocity  will  not  fall  very 
far  short  of  the  sum  of  the  velocities  of  the  earth  and  the  shooting- star 
system. 

Fairly  considered,  the  modem  theory  may  be  looked  upon  as  estab- 
lished ;  for,  first,  all  other  available  hypotheses  have  been  shown  to  be 
untenable ;  and,  secondly,  the  most  remarkable  shooting- star  phenomena 
are  shown  to  be  consistent  with,  or  rather  to  point  directly  to,  the  modern 
hypothesis.  It  remains  only  that  some  minor  peculiarities  should  be 
noticed. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  shooting- stars  are  much  more  commonly 
seen  in  the  months  from  July  to  December,  than  in  those  from  January 
to  June.  Kemembecing  that  this  remark  refers  to  observations  made  in 
our  northern  hemisphere,  it  is  easily  reconciled  with  the  modern  theory, 
when  we  consider  that  the  north  pole  is  on  the  forward  hemisphere  of1 
the  earth  (considered  with  reference  to  her  orbital  motion)  during  the 
first-named  period,  and  on  the  rear  (or  sheltered)  hemisphere  during  the 
second. 

Again,  it  has  been  remarked  that  shooting- stars  are  seen  more  com- 
monly in  the  hours  after  midnight,  and  that  aerolites  fall  more  commonly 
before  noon.  In  other  words,  these  extraneous  bodies  reach  the  earth  (or 
her  atmosphere)  more  frequently  in  the  hours  from  midnight  to  noon  than 
in  those  from  noon  to  midnight.  Humboldt  suggests  in  explanation  we 
know  not  what  theory  of  variation  in  the  ignition-powers  of  different 
hours.  But  it  is  clear  that  the  true  explanation  is  founded  on  the  prin- 
ciple presented  in  the  preceding  paragraph,  since  the  forward  hemisphere 
contains  places  whose  local  time  lies,  roughly  speaking,  between  midnight 
and  noon,  while  places  whose  local  hour  lies  between  noon  and  midnight 
lie  on  the  sheltered  hemisphere. 

If  we  remember  that  the  earth  is  but  a  point  in  space,  we  may  fairly 
conclude  that  the  number  of  bodies  composing  meteor-zones  is  all  but 
infinite.  Large,  therefore,  as  the  numbers  of  these  bodies  which  fell  on 
the  earth  may  be,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  (perhaps  if  we  knew  the 


SHOOTING-STARS,  METEORS,  AND  AEROLITES.       569 

true  functions  of  these  bodies,  we  might  say — there  is  no  reason  to  fear) 
that  the  supply  of  meteors  will  ever  be  perceptibly  diminished.  Although 
the  contrary  opinion  is  often  expressed,  it  is  demonstrable  that  a  very 
small  proportion  only  of  the  shooting-stars  which  become  visible  to  us, 
can  escape  from  the  earth's  atmosphere.  The  result  is  of  course  that 
they  must  reach  the  earth,  probably  in  a  dispersed  and  divided  state.  It 
seems  to  us  indeed  not  wholly  improbable  that  some  of  those  elements 
which  the  lightning- spectrum  shows  to  exist  in  the  atmosphere,  may  be 
due  to  the  perpetual  dissipation  and  precipitation  of  the  substance  of 
shooting- stars. 

The  remarkable  discovery  lately  made,  that  the  great  November  star- 
stream  travels  in  the  track  of  a  telescopic  comet  (whose  period  is  33 J 
years),  that  the  August  stream,  in  like  manner,  follows  the  track  of  the 
great  comet  of  1862  (whose  period  is  142  years),  and  that  other  noted 
shooting-star  systems  show  a  similar  relation  to  the  paths  of  other  comets, 
opens  out  the  most  startling  views  of  the  manner  in  which  cosmical  space 
— or  at  least  that  part  of  space  over  which  the  sun's  attractive  power 
bears  sway — is  occupied  by  myriads  on  myriads  of  bodies  more  or  less 
minute.  If  those  comets — not  one  in  fifty  even  of  discovered  comets — 
whose  orbits  approach  that  of  the  earth,  are  attended  by  such  important 
streams  of  cosmic  matter :  if,  for  instance,  the  minute  telescopic  comet 
(known  as  I.,  1866),  in  whose  track  the  November  meteors  travel,  is 
attended  by  a  train  capable  of  producing  magnificent  star- showers  for  nine 
hundred  centuries — what  multitudes  of  minute  planets  must  be  supposed 
to  exist  in  the  complete  cometary  system !  This  discovery  has  been  made 
too  recently,  however  (though  it  appears  to  be  thoroughly  established), 
to  admit  of  our  here  discussing  in  full  the  results  which  seem  to  flow 
from  it. 


70 


ftm  the  goic-iaolt  of  an  liwtmlcptf  (Etolfedor* 


PAKT  in. 

WHEN  2Elian  tells  us  that  even  the  poorest  of  the  people  of  Gyrene  wore 
rings  worth  10  minsB  (something  over  40Z.  a  piece),  we  may  suppose  him, 
without  any  great  incivility,  to  be  using  a  figure  of  speech.  There  is, 
however,  no  doubt  that  the  wearing  of  rings  was  much  more  common 
with  the  ancients  than  with  ourselves.  In  those  days  when  writing  was 
as  rare  an  accomplishment  as  it  was  in  England  before  Kichard  II., 
when  even  kings  could  do  no  more  than  affix  their  "  mark,"  they  were 
worn  not  so  much  for  ornament  as  for  use  :  they  served  the  purposes 
of  a  seal.  Among  the  Greeks  every  freeman  had  his  ring,  whilst  there 
were  some  lazy  long-haired  onyx-ring-wearers,  as  Aristophanes  calls  them, 
who  seem  to  have  been  almost  as  demented  as  Pope  Paul  II.,  who, 
Mr.  King  says,  died  (some,  however,  tell  us  a  very  different  story)  of  a 
chill  caught  from  the  number  of  rings  with  which  he  had  loaded  his  fingers. 
Martial  declares  that  one  gentleman  of  his  acquaintance  wore  as  many  as 
sixty ;  and  Juvenal  tells  us  of  some  dandies  who  had  two  sets  of  rings,  one 
for  summer,  the  other  for  winter  use. 

Spartan  rings  were  of  iron.  Amongst  the  Komans  also  this  was,  at 
first,  the  usual  metal  employed ;  and  some  men  who  kept  up  or  aped  the 
ancient  simplicity  never  used  any  more  precious  metal. 

The  right  of  wearing  gold  rings  was  only  given  in  the  early  days  of  the 
Republic  to  ambassadors,  and  then  they  were  only  worn  on  state 
occasions.  Afterwards  the  privilege  was  extended  to  members  of  the 
senate,  magistrates,  and  knights.  The  emperors  were  not  so  particular. 
Severus  and  Aurelian  gave  permission  to  Koman  soldiers  to  wear  them, 
and  finally  Justinian  extended  it  to  all  citizens. 

No  mention  of  rings  is  made  in  Homer,  although  the  art  of  engraving 
gems  had  reached  no  slight  degree  of  excellence  in  the  East  many 
centuries  before  his  time.  The  Chaldaean  and  Assyrian  signets  were 
cylinders  of  various  metals  and  precious  stones,  such  as  lapis-lazuli, 
amethyst,  quartz,  haematite,  &c.,  varying  in  size  from  three  inches  to 
a  quarter  of  an  inch  in  length.  The  most  ancient  known  signet  has 
unfortunately  been  lost.  It  was  found  by  Sir  R.  Ker  Porter,  and  he 
has  luckily  given  us  an  engraving  of  it  in  his  Travels.  From  the  in- 
scription upon  it — in  very  ancient  cuneiform  characters — we  find  that  it 
belonged  to  Urukh  or  Urkham  (Orchamus,  as  Ovid  calls  him  in  the 
Metamorphoses),  who  founded  the  most  ancient  of  the  buildings  at 
Mugheir,  Warka,  Senkareh.  and  Niffer.  . "  There  can  be  little  doubt," 


JOTTING-S  OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  571 

Professor  Rawlinson  tells  us,  *'  that  lie  stands  at  the  head  of  the  present 
series  of  monumental  kings,  one  of  whom  certainly  reigned  as  early  as 
B.C.  1860.  If  we  may  trust  the  statement  of  Ovid  that  he  was  the  seventh 
monarch  of  his  dynasty,  we  are  entitled  to  place  his  reign  in  the  twenty- 
first  century  before  our  era,  from  about  B.C.  2093  to  B.C.  2070."  Of  the 
cylinder  itself  "it  is  possible  that  the  artist  employed  by  Sir  R.  Porter 
has  given  a  nattering  representation  of  his  original ;  otherwise  the  con- 
clusion must  be  that  both  mechanical  and  artistic  skill  had  reached  a  very 
surprising  degree  of  excellence  at  the  most  remote  period  to  which  Chaldasan 
records  carry  us  back."  Another  Chaldaean  signet,  found  at  Baghdad, 
belonged  to  Durri-galazu,  who  reigned  about  B.C.  1600. 

Besides  cylinders  there  have  been  found  impressions  from  seals  that 
must  have  been  like  ordinary  gems  in  rings,  round  or  oval.  One  most 
interesting  example  is  in  the  British  Museum.  On  a  piece  of  clay, 
appended,  probably,  to  some  treaty  of  peace,  are  two  impressions  of 
seals,  one  of  which  certainly  is  that  of  Sabaco,  the  ^Ethiopian — the  So, 
probably,  mentioned  in  the  Second  Book  of  Kings — and  the  other  most 
likely  that  of  Sennacherib.  In  the  same  collection  is  the  cylinder  of  that 
king.  He  is  represented  adoring  a  winged  figure  in  a  circle.  Before  him 
is  the  Sacred  Tree  and  an  eunuch,  the  rest  of  the  cylinder  being  occupied 
with  a  flower  resembling  the  lotus,  upon  which  is  standing  an  ibex  or  wild 
goat.  Mr.  King  tells  us  in  his  valuable  book  on  ancient  gems  that  the 
material  of  the  cylinder  is  translucent  green  felspar  or  amazon- stone,  one 
of  the  hardest  substances  known  to  the  lapidary.  The  special  excellence 
of  the  gem  is  the  fineness  and  distinctness  of  the  execution.  "  The  details 
are  so  minute  that  a  magnifying  glass  is  almost  required  to  perceive 
them." 

The  Museum  collection  contains  also  the  signet  of  Darius,  though  to 
which  of  the  Persian  monarchs  of  that  name  it  is  to  be  assigned  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  The  finest  known  Etruscan  ring — the  Canino  one — is 
in  the  same  collection.  Alexander  the  Great  was  very  particular  about 
his  signet  rings ;  as  he  would  allow  no  one  but  Apelles  to  paint  him, 
no  one  but  Lysippus  to  make  his  statue,  so  he  would  allow  no  one  but 
Pyrgoteles  to  engrave  his  signets.  Apparently  the  stone  employed  was 
ie  emerald. 

When  Marcellus  had  fallen  into  the  ambuscade  which  Hannibal  laid 
or  him  near  Yenusium,  the  Carthaginian  having  got  possession  of  his 
signet,  made  good  use  of  it  by  attaching  it  to  some  forged  letters.  Mr. 
Xving  thinks  that  a  ring  still  in  existence  may  be  this  identical  ring. 
Another  may  have  belonged  to  that  princely  patron  of  literature,  Mecasnas, 
— it  certainly  belongs  to  his  clan;  and* another  to  that  accomplished 
scoundrel  and  plunderer  of  Sicily,  Verres.  Of  later  times,  we  have  the 
:ing  of  the  first  of  the  barbarian  chiefs  who  entered  and  sacked  the  city 
of  Borne — a  curious  carnelian,  inscribed  "Alaricus  rex  Gothorum;"  and 
there  was  at  Paris — but  it  has  been  stolen — the  signet  found  on  opening 
the  tomb  of  the  Merovingian  king,  Childeric,  at  Tournay,  in  1654. 


572  JOTTINGS   FR03I   THE   NOTE-ECOK 

Tlie  signet  of  Michel  Angelo,  now  at  Paris,  was  formerly  believed  to 
be  the  work  of  Pyrgoteles,  and  the  design  upon  it  the  birth  of  Alexander. 
It  was  accordingly  valued  at  2,OOOZ.  It  is  really  an  Italian  work  by  P.  M. 
da  Peschia,  the  intimate  friend  of  the  great  painter.  Mr.  King  gives  an 
amusing  incident  connected  with  this  ring  from  BrosseCs  Letters  on  Italy. 
"Early  in  the  century,  as  the  academician,  J.  Harduin,  was  exhibiting 
the  treasures  of  the  Bibliotheque  to  that  celebrated  amateur,  the  Baron  de 
Stosch,  he  all  at  once  missed  this  very  ring ;  whereupon,  without  expressing 
his  suspicions,  he  privately  despatched  a  servant  for  a  strong  emetic, 
which,  when  brought,  he  insisted  upon  the  baron's  swallowing  then  and 
there.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  the  ring 
tinkle  into  the  basin  held  before  the  unlucky  and  unscrupulous  gem- 
collector." 

One  of  the  most  famous  rings  in  English  history  was  that  given  by 
Queen  Elizabeth  to  her  favourite,  the  Earl  of  Essex.  Everybody  remembers 
how  Essex  entrusted  this  ring,  which  the  Queen  had  told  him  would 
ensure  his  pardon  if  he  ever  fell  into  disgrace,  to  the  Countess  of  Not- 
tingham, who  confessed,  on  her  death-bed,  that  she  had  purposely  failed 
to  deliver  it.  This  ring  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Lord  John  Thynne. 
It  is  a  fine  sardonyx,  containing  an  exquisitely  engraved  bust  of  the 
Queen. 

Though  our  National  Collection  falls  far  short  of  some  of  the  Continental 
ones  in  the  number  of  engraved  Gems,  still  it  contains  some  very  fine 
specimens,  the  extent  and  value  of  which  has  been  considerably  increased 
by  the  recent  acquisition  of  the  famous  Blacas  collection.  It  contains 
also,  I  believe,  a  smaller  quantity  of  forgeries  than  any  of  the  Continental 
collections.  Very  luckily,  as  I  shall  show  presently,  it  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  Poniatowski  gems,  when  their  purchase  was 
pressed  upon  the  authorities. 

Many  gems  had,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  a  very  fictitious  value  from  the 
traditional  history  connected  with  them.  In  the  Tresor  de  S.  Denys  was 
a  gem  with  the  inscription,  "Hie  lapis  fuit  Davidis  regis  et  prophetae." 
It  is  not  a  precious  stone  at  all,  but  a  lump  of  antique  schmelze  paste. 
The  Imperial  Cabinet  at  St.  Petersburg  has  the  ring  that  was  formerly 
believed  to  be  the  espousal  ring  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  with  portraits  of  herself 
and  Joseph.  They  are  really  portraits  of  two  freedmen,  Alpheus  and 
Aretho,  as  the  inscription  informs  us.  The  agate  of  St.  Capelle,  Paris — 
with  the  exception  of  the  Campegna  in  the  Vatican,  the  largest  -cameo 
knovvTL — was  imagined  to  represent  the  triumph  of  Joseph  in  Egypt.  It 
was  pawned  on  one  occasion  to  St.  Louis,  by  Baldwin,  the  last  Frankish 
Emperor  of  Constantinople,  with  some  other  relics,  for  10,000  marks  of 
silver.  It  really  represents  the  return  of  Germanicus  from  his  German 
campaign,  and  his  adoption  b}7  Tiberius  and  Li  via.  The  '  *  emerald  of 
the  Vatican  "  was  held  to  be  a  portrait  of  Christ,  taken  by  order  of  Pilate, 
and  by  him  presented  to  Tiberius.  Afterwards  it  is  said  to  have  been 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  573 

given  by  the  Sultan  Bajazet  to  Pope  Innocent  VIII.,  as  a  ransom  for  his 
brother,  who  had  fallen  into  the  Pope's  hands.  It  is  really  of  the  Italian 
revival  period,  the  face  being  a  copy  of  the  head  of  the  Saviour  in  Raffaelle's 
cartoon  of  the  "  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes."  The  apotheosis  of  Ger- 
manicus,  in  the  French  collection,  was  long  considered  to  be  the  portrait 
of  St.  John  the  Evangelist.  When  Bishop  Humbert  returned  from 
Constantinople,  where  he  had  been  sent  in  1049,  by  Pope  Leo  IX.,  he 
brought  back  this  fine  cameo  and  presented  it  to  the  monks  of  Evre  de 
Toul.  Louis  XIV.  begged  it  from  the  monks,  making  them  in  return  a 
present  of  7,000  crowns. 

In  1855  the  British  Museum  obtained  at  the  Bernal  sale  a  most 
interesting  example  of  very  early  mediaeval  art.  It  was  the  "morse/'  or 
brooch,  which  from  time  immemorial  had  served  to  fasten  the  robes  of  the 
Abbot  of  Vezor  on  the  Meuse,  when  in  full  pontificals.  It  is  a  circular 
piece  of  crystal,  on  which  is  represented  the  history  of  Susanna  and  the 
Elders.  In  the  centre  is  the  inscription,  "  Lotharius  rex  Franc,  fieri 
jussit."  Mr.  Bernal  purchased  it  for  Wl. :  at  his  sale  the  British  Museum 
outbid  Lord  Londesborough,  and  secured  it  for  267?. 

Mr.  King  gives  us  some  startling  instances  of  the  prices  at  which  gems 
have  been  sold.  "  Gem  collections  had  now  (eighteenth  century)  grown 
into  a  perfect  mania  with  the  noble  and  the  rich ;  the  first  great  impetus 
being  imparted  by  the  arch-charlatan,  Baron  Stosch  (a  Hanoverian  spy 
over  the  Pretender's  motions),  by  the  formation  of  his  enormous  cabinet, 
and  its  illustration  by  the  labours  of  the  erudite  Winckelmann,  with  its 
final  purchase  at  the  enormous  price  of  30,000  ducats,  by  the  reputed 
model  of  the  prince-philosopher,  Frederick  of  Prussia.  The  Due 
d'Orleans,  grandson  of  the  Regent,  followed  his  example.  Our  own  Dukes 
of  Devonshire  and  Marlborough  were,  concurrently  with  the  French  prince, 
zealously  at  work  in  forming  their  present  magnificent  cabinets,  pa}ring 
incredible  sums  for  gems  of  any  celebrity.  The  former  acquired  from 
Stosch,  for  the  equivalent  of  1,000^.,  the  cow  of  Apollonides,  and  from 
Sevin  at  Paris,  at  the  same  rate,  the  Diomed  with  the  Palladium.  The 
latter  nobleman,  says  La  Chaux,  purchased  from  Zanetti  of  Venice  (1763) 
four  gems  for  the  sum  of  1,200Z. :  they  are  the  Phocion  of  Alessandro  il 
Greco,  the  Horatius  Codes  (a  miniature  cinquecento  cameo),  the  Anti- 
nous,  and  the  Matidea — all  still  adorning  the  cabinet  at  Blenheim.  The 
large  cameo  of  Vespasian  cost  the  same  amateur  (according  to  Easpe)  300 
guineas.  The  same  portrait  in  cameo,  but  re-styled  a  Mecamas,  cost 
Mr.  Yorke  250  guineas.  The  fine  intaglio,  Hercules  and  the  Dying 
Amazon,  was  bought  by  Mr.  Boyd  for  800Z. :  and  to  conclude  this 
list  of  extravagances,  the  Hercules  and  Lion  intaglio  on  sardonyx,  in 
its  antique  silver  mounting  (found  at  Aleppo),  was  considered  cheap  by 
Mr.  Locke  at  the  figure  of  200  guineas." 

But  royal  personages  long  ago  would  have  thought  little  of  such  prices 
as  these,  if  we  are  to  believe  that  the  rings  of  Faustina  and  Domitia  cost 
respectively  what  would  be  in  our  money  40,000/.  and  60,000/.  A  former 


574  JOTTINGS  FKOM   THE  NOTE-BOOK 

Elector  of  Mayence  is  said  to  have  offered  the  whole  village  of  Anemone- 
burg  for  a  cameo  formerly  in  the  shrine  constructed  at  Marburg  to  contain 
the  bones  of  the  saintly  Elizabeth  of  Thiiringen  :  and  Rudolf  II.  gave 
12,000  gold  ducats  for  the  famous  "  Gemma  Augustea,"  now  at  Vienna. 
It  is  superior  in  point  of  art  to  the  Paris  cameo  already  mentioned,  but 
falls  short  in  point  of  size,  being  9  inches  by  8,  whilst  the  Paris  one 
measures  13  by  11.  The  Campegna  is  16  by  12. 

The  excessive  prices  gems  used  to  fetch  gave  rise  of  course  to  num- 
berless forgeries.  An  amusing  story  is  told  of  how  Payne  Knight,  the 
great  connoisseur  in  that  branch  of  art,  was  taken  in.  He  was  one  day 
exhibiting  his  collection  to  a  foreigner,  and  had  nearly  displayed  all  his 
treasures,  when  he  opened  a  drawer  and  said,  "  Now,  sir,  let  me  show  you 
one  of  the  gems  of  my  collection."  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you," 
said  his  visitor,  "that  I  engraved  that  gem  myself."  It  was  Pistrucchi, 
afterwards  engraver  to  the  English  Mint.  The  gem  was  the  Flora,  now  in 
the  British  Museum ;  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  King,  it  is  but  a  poor  perform- 
ance. It  was  the  same  artist's  Greek  hero  on  horseback  which,  aiter 
some  little  alterations  had  been  made  in  it,  was  chosen  by  Lord  Mary- 
borough to  represent  St.  George,  on  the  reverse  of  the  sovereign  of  1816. 
Pistrucchi  must  have  found  gem- cutting  a  very  profitable  employment,  if  it 
be  true  that  he  got  as  much  as  800£.  for  a  single  cameo. 

The  most  gigantic  fraud  ever  perpetrated  was  the  Poniatowski  gems — 
3,000  in  number — which  were  all  forgeries.  The  British  Museum  luckily 
declined  to  purchase  them  when  they  were  offered  for  sale.  So  highly 
were  they  esteemed  at  one  period  that  a  gentleman  who  had  got  1,200 
of  them,  actually  refused  60,OOOZ.  for  his  treasures.  But  at  Lord  Monson's 
sale  in  1854,  though  some  of  the  choicest  specimens  were  put  up,  they 
fetched  no  more,  gold- setting  and  all,  than  from  25  to  30  shillings  each. 
The  prince  had  inherited  a  genuine  collection  from  his  uncle  Stanislaus, 
the  last  King  of  Poland.  When  these  were  sold  in  1839  the  gems  had 
got  such  a  bad  name  that  the  masterpiece  of  Dioscorides,  lo,  instead  of 
fetching,  as  it  would  have  fetched  some  time  before,  1,000  guineas,  was 
actually  knocked  down  for  III.  It  was  bought  by  Mr.  Cowie,  who,  though 
an  Englishman,  left  it,  I  regret  to  add,  with  his  other  collection,  to  the 
Florence  Gallery. 

"We  have  but  to  glance  at  the  collection  of  casts  displayed  in  the  South 
Kensington  Museum  to  be  aware  how  very  unimportant  as  yet  is  the 
national  collection  of  Ivories,  whether  there  or  at  the  British  Museum. 
But  in  the  latter  museum  are  some  fine  and  valuable  ivories,  derived 
principally  from  the  Maskell  collection.  Their  oldest,  and  in  one  way 
most  interesting  specimens  were  brought  from  Nineveh  by  Mr.  Layard. 
The  influence  of  Egyptian  art  is  very  plainly  to  be  seen  in  them,  but  one 
cannot  help  being  surprised  at  the  expression  the  artists  have  put  into 
some  of  their  figures,  notwithstanding  that  the  general  drawing  is  deficient 
in  freedom. 


OF  AN   UNDE\7ELOPED   COLLECTOR  575 

But  the  Museum  cases  would  have  be&n.  more  worthily  filled  if  the 
authorities  had  taken  advantage  of  the  rare  opportunity  which  presented 
itself  in  1855,  when  the  Fejervary  Collection  was  offered  to  them.  Some 
most  precious  examples  were  contained  in  it.  When  the  purchase  had 
been  declined  by  the  trustees,  it  was  secured  by  Mr.  Joseph  Mayer,  of 
Liverpool,  who  has  generously  transferred  it  with  the  rest  of  his  choice 
museum  to  the  Brown  Free  Library,  at  Liverpool.  There  too,  thanks  to 
the  same  munificent  donor,  is  the  Faussett  Collection  of  Anglo-Saxon 
antiquities,  which  the  British  Museum  refused  to  purchase  in  1854.  It 
is  almost,  if  not  quite,  the  most  authentic  and  valuable  collection  in 
existence,  and  contains,  with  very  few  exceptions,  specimens  (some  of 
them  very  beautiful)  of  every  known  article  ever  found  in  Anglo-Saxon 
graves.  Mr.  Wylie  would  have  added  to  it  his  collection  of  objects  from 
Fairford — all  the  antiquarian  societies  in  the  kingdom  exerted  them- 
selves in  the  matter — it  was  only  a  question  of  some  600Z.  or  7001. — but 
the  trustees  in  their  wisdom  decided  that  it  could  find  no  place  in  the 
Museum. 

Of  more  modern  ivories,  by  far  the  most  important  are  the  Diptychs — 
a  pair  of  tablets,  like  the  cover  of  a  book,  with  wax  on  the  inner  surface 
for  writing  on.  Of  one  species,  the  "  mythological " — of  which  no  more 
than  half-a-dozen  specimens,  if  so  many,  are  known — a  very  fine  one, 
which  has  been  engraved  by  Eaphael  Morghen,  is  in  the  Fejervary  collec- 
tion. It  was  executed  in  the  second  century.  On  one  tablet  is  ^Esculapius 
and  Telesphorus ;  on  the  other  Hygeia  and  Cupid :  each  figure  being 
seven  inches  high,  and  beautifully  carved.  The  same  collection  has  a 
specimen  of  another  kind,  the  "  imperial,"  also  of  extreme  rarity.  This 
diptych  is  supposed  to  be  that  of  the  Emperor  Philip  the  Arab  (A.  D.  248). 
Other  diptychs  were  consular.  Under  the  empire  it  was  the  custom  for 
consuls,  and  other  of  the  chief  magistrates,  on  the  day  upon  which  they 
entered  on  their  office,  to  make  presents  to  their  friends  of  diptychs 
inscribed  with  their  names  and  containing  their  portraits.  Though  consuls 
only  were  allowed  to  have  them  in  ivory,  we  find,  from  the  letters  of 
Q.  Aurelius  Symmachus,  that  the  law  was  not  strictly  observed :  for  in  the 
case  of  his  son  ivory  diptychs  were  distributed,  though  he  was  only  a 
quaestor.  One  of  these  consular  diptychs  in  the  Fejervary  collection  is 
that  of  Constantinus,  Consul  of  the  East  (A.  D.  513).  He  holds  the  "  mappa 
circensis,"  the  throwing  down  of  which  was  the  signal  for  commencing  the 
games.  Underneath  are  persons  distributing  diptychs,  purses,  &c.  In 
another  the  name  of  the  consul  has  been  removed  and  that  of  Bishop 
Baldric,  who  accompanied  Godfrey  of  Bouillon  to  the  Holy  Land,  put  in 
its  stead.  Some  idea  of  the  value  of  this  collection  may  be  formed  from 
the  fact  that  when  the  Arundel  Society  published  a  select  series  of  ivories 
from  various  collections,  the  Fejervary  supplied  no  less  than  ten  speci- 
mens. The  Bibliotheque  Imperial  of  Paris  supplied  eleven,  and  the 
Berlin  Museum  the  same  number. 

One  or  two  fine  diptychs  are  in  the  British  Museum,  and  at  South 


576  JOTTINGS  FE03I   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

.Kensington  is  a  leaf  of  the  Diptychon  Meleretense,  of  4th-century  work, 
and  formerly  in  the  convent  at  Moutiers,  in  France.  It  belonged  to  the 
family  of  Symmachus,  and  was  bought  for  420L  Another  very  beautiful 
diptych,  of  Byzantine  work,  belonged  to  Eufinus  Gennadius  Probus 
Orestes,  Consul  of  the  East  under  Justinian,  A.D.  521.  It  was  purchased 
for  620/.  Other  diptychs  were  ecclesiastical ;  some  of  them  containing 
the  names  of  living  patriarchs  and  bishops  of  important  sees ;  others  of 
those  who  had  died  in  the  peace  and  communion  of  the  church.  One 
very  fine  one  of  this  kind  was  formerly  in  the  treasury  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Soissons.  The  subjects  represented  are  the  Passion,  Resurrection  and 
Ascension  of  our  Lord,  and  the  descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  It  is  a  little 
more  than  a  foot  in  height,  and  its  date  about  the  end  of  the  13th  century. 
It  cost  308Z.  Of  other  ecclesiastical  ivories  I  may  mention  three  Trip- 
tychs;  one  of  Italian  work  of  the  14th  century,  purchased  for  350^.  ;  another 
of  German  work  of  the  same  date,  for  448?.  ;  and  the  third  French,  of 
the  latter  half  of  the  15th  century,  for  210Z.  Another  very  important 
triptych,  by  Andrea  Pisano,  came  from  the  Campana  collection.  Besides 
these  is  a  beautiful  book  cover  of  German  work,  of  the  7th  or  8th  century, 
fifteen  inches  by  eleven,  which  cost  588Z.  And,  lastly,  there  are  two 
heads  of  crosiers,  one  4|  inches  long,  for  which  140L  was  paid ;  the 
other  6f,  which  cost  168Z.  Many  of  the  prices  given  for  these  and 
similar  objects  by  the  Museum  may  seem  excessive,  but  if  we  have 
waited  till  the  market-prices  were  exorbitant,  we  have  only  ourselves 
to  blame.  And  good  prices  must  be  given,  if  we  want  to  secure  any 
thing  worth  having,  when  we  have  such  competitors  as  the  Louvre, 
which  can  acquire  the  Campana  Museum — exclusive  of  one  very  valu- 
able portion,  which  was  secured  for  South  Kensington — for  4,800,000 
francs ;  and  is  not  ashamed  to  purchase,  at  the  Soltikoff  sale,  for  32,000 
francs,  a  diptych  that  had  been  offered  to  it  only  five  or  six  years  before 
for  4,500. 

Whether  Herodotus  is  right  in  attributing  the  invention  of  coined 
money  to  the  Lydians,  is  perhaps  somewhat  open  to  question.  It  is, 
however,  very  remarkable  that  the  ancient  Assyrians  and  Egyptians,  with 
all  their  wonderful  advance  in  civilization,  should  never  have  invented 
anything  better  than  lumps  and  bars  of  metal  as  a  medium  for  exchange. 
The  earliest  money  mentioned  in  the  Bible — as,  for  instance,  that  carried 
by  Joseph's  brethren  into  Egypt — was  "in  weight."  The  first  Hebrew 
coinage  is  no  older  than  the  Maccabees.  The  first  Egyptian  began  with 
the  successors  of  Alexander.  Examples  of  Lydian  coins  have  come 
down  to  us,  but  as  they  have  no  inscriptions  their  dates  can  only  be 
guessed  at.  Some  of  them  are  of  the  rudest  description,  being  merely  a 
lump  of  electrum — three  parts  gold  to  one  of  silver — upon  one  surface 
of  which  was  impressed  a  lion's  head  or  other  device — the  other  surface, 
like  that  of  the  old  silver  coins  of  2Egina,  being  merely  flattened  by  the 
block  upon  which  the  metal  was  struck.  A  method,  equally  simple,  is 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOE.  577 

mentioned  in  the  Asiatic  Transactions  as  having  been  lately  practised  in 
India.  "A  piece  of  mango-tree,  about  four  feet  in  length,  was  half- buried 
in  the  ground,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  inserted  a  die :  upon  the  die 
was  placed  a  circular  piece  of  gold,  and  over  that  another  die.  The  upper 
die  was  then  struck  with  a  sledge  hammer,  and  the  mohur  dropped  on  one 
side  complete." 

We  find  curious  peculiarities  now  and  then  about  some  ancient 
coins — as  for  example,  those  of  M.  Mascilius  Tullus,  triumvir  of  the  mint 
under  Augustus,  which  have  a  superscription  on  the  reverse  and  nothing 
more,  and  one  still  more  strange  bronze  medal  of  Nemausus  (Nismes), 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Pied  de  Biche,  from  the  extraordinary  projection 
it  has  from  the  lower  part  of  it.  There  is  in  the  British  Museum  a  coin  of 
Attalus,  who  was  for  one  year  Emperor  of  the  West,  which  is  remarkable  as 
the  heaviest  silver  coin  known;  it  weighs  2J  ounces.  The  Roman  copper 
coins,  the  asses,  were  originally  much  heavier  than  this,  weighing  in  fact 
12  ounces  (the  coins  of  Adria  in  the  Abruzzi  were  heavier  still),  but  in  the 
time  of  the  first  Punic  war  the  asses,  though  the  nominal  value  remained 
the  same,  were  reduced  in  weight  to  a  couple  of  ounces,  and  so  paid  off  the 
national  debt.  Pausanias,  one  of  the  Macedonian  Kings,  practised  another 
device.  His  silver  coins  were  only  plated  copper :  just  as  much  a  cheat 
as  the  ll  black  money  "  coined  by  French  nobles  some  600  years  ago,  or 
the  base  coinage  of  our  own  Queen  Mary. 

"  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention."  So  it  proved  in  the  civil  wars 
when  Charles  had  to  issue  "  siege  pieces,"  which  were  nothing  more  than 
portions  of  cups  or  salvers,  with  the  chasing  sometimes  still  visible.  The 
money  of  James  II.  coined  just  before  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  got  its  name, 
"  gun  money,"  from  the  substance  of  which  it  was  mostly  composed,  old 
brass  guns.  Pieces  not  worth  intrinsically  more  than  a  halfpenny  or  a 
penny  were  made  to  pass  as  shillings  and  half-crowns. 

The  first  coins  to  which  a  date  can  be  positively  given  are  those  of 
Alexander  I.  of  Macedonia.  It  is  not,  however,  till  the  time  of  Philip  II. 
that  the  Macedonian  coins  approach  that  degree  of  beauty  and  artistic  skill 
for  which  they  are  so  famous.  He  issued  a  large  coinage  which  was  very 
extensively  circulated  throughout  Greece,  and  we  have  a  very  curious  proof 
of  its  still  wider  diffusion. 

Among  the  ancient  Helvetii,  the  money  most  in  circulation  seems  to 
have  been  a  quarter- stater  of  gold — a  bad  imitation  of  this  very  Macedonian 
coinage.  It  has  upon  it  some  letters  which  no  doubt  are  intended  for 
<j>iAinnoY.  The  use  of  Greek  letters,  however,  in  Helvetia  is  mentioned 
by  Cffisar.  The  gold  of  these  coins  was  collected,  as  Dr.  Keller  tells  us  in 
his  very  interesting  work  on  the  Lake  Dwellings  of  Switzerland,  in  the  Aar 
and  its  tributaries,  and  the  money  coined  at  Aventicum,  the  modern 
Avenches,  in  the  Pays  de  Yaud. 

There  is  however  a  still  more  remarkable  instance  of  such  imitation. 
In  the  year  1783  there  was  discovered,  about  ten  miles  from  Calcutta,  a 
quantity  of  money  which  had  been  coined  by  Chandra,  a  king  of  upper 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  95.  28. 


578  JOTTINGS  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

and  central  India,  in  the  6th  century  A.D.  These  pieces  were  declared 
by  Payne  Knight  to  have  been  attempts  at  imitating  some  coinage  of 
Greece. 

It  would  be  impossible  within  any  reasonable  limit  to  give  an 
account  of  the  coins  that  are  remarkable  either  for  their  beauty,  such  as 
those  of  the  cities  of  Sicily,  &c.,  or  their  rarity.  An  example  or  two  must 
suffice.  One  very  exquisite  instance  is  the  tetradrachm  of  Syracuse  with  the 
head  of  the  nymph  Arethusa.  The  artist,  Cimon,  has  put  his  name  on  the 
coin — a  very  unusual  proceeding.  Lord  Northwick's  specimen  sold  for  60 
guineas.  Another  is  that  of  Lysimachus,  one  of  Alexander's  generals,  with 
a  head  of  his  master — a  perfect  gem ;  another  a  coin  of  Magnesia  ad 
Masandrum,  with  a  draped  statue  of  Diana  on  the  obverse,  and  on  the 
reverse  a  naked  statue  of  Apollo — a  fine  example  of  which  brought  265Z.  at 
the  Northwick  sale  :  one  of  Samos  which  Mionnet  calls  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  coins  he  ever  saw — on  it  is  the  infant  Hercules ;  it  brought  100/. 
at  the  same  sale  ;  and  two  of  the  city  of  Thurii  with  the  head  of  Pallas  on 
the  obverse,  of  wonderful  beauty. 

The  number  and  variety  of  ancient  coins  is  almost  incredible. 
Mionnet  gives  us  a  list  of  no  less  than  three  hundred  kings  and  one 
thousand  cities,  and  to  one  of  these  latter — Tarentum — there  are 
assigned  no  less  than  five  hundred  distinct  types.  One  curious,  and 
at  first  sight,  inexplicable  circumstance  is  that,  whereas  the  coins  of 
such  an  out-of-the-way  place  as  Tyras  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dneister 
are  remarkable  for  their  beauty,  those  of  Athens  are  so  rude  and 
unartistic.  "  The  true  cause  was  commercial  policy.  The  reputation  of 
the  Athenian  tetradrachm  stood  high  in  the  commercial  world,  and  its  cir- 
culation, like  that  of  the  Venetian  sequin  and  the  Spanish  dollar  in  modern 
times,  was  almost  universal.  Even  now  it  is  found  in  some  of  the  most 
distant  parts  of  the  map.  The  Athenians  abstained  from  any  improvement 
upon  the  ancient  type,  fearing  lest  the  confidence  of  foreigners  in  the  purity 
and  weight  of  the  coin  should  be  lessened  thereby.  So  in  China  and  the 
east  during  the  late  war,  Spanish  pillar  dollars  were  current,  but  those  of 
Ferdinand  VII.  and  King  Joseph,  coined  without  the  pillars,  were  refused. 
The  Venetian  ducat  and  the  Maria  Theresa  dollar  continued  to  be  struck 
in  Italy,  for  foreign  circulation,  long  after  the  extinction  of  the  Eepublic 
and  the  death  of  that  Empress.  The  old  Athenian  coinage  enjoyed  the 
same  pre-eminence." 

Some  coins  are  very  interesting  as  bearing  portraits  of  famous  histori- 
cal personages.  Alexander  the  Great  has  been  mentioned  already ;  then 
we  have  Hannibal's  friend,  Mithridates  :  a  gold  coin  of  his,  for  which 
Mr.  Edmonds  had  given  1151.  in  1838,  was  secured  in  1854  by  General  Fox 
for  his  fine  collection  for  60Z.  Then  there  is  an  unique  medal  of  Corn- 
modus,  with  the  figure  of  Britannia  (the  present  figure  on  our  copper  coinage 
is  said  to  have  been  taken  from  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  when  halfpennies 
and  farthings  were  first  issued  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.),  which  the  British 
Museum  purchased  for  75?. ;  and  more  than  all,  the  tetradrachm  of  that 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  579 

marvellous  woman,  Cleopatra.     The  British  Museum  secured  a  specimen 
at  the  Northwick  sale  for  240£. 

Among  English  coins  are  some  that  fetch  very  large  prices.  A  gold 
penny  of  Henry  III.,  for  instance,  sold  in  1859,  for  130?. ;  a  quarter 
florin  of  Edward  III.,  almost  unique,  for  145L  ;  and  a  crown  piece  of 
Henry  VHL,  at  Mr.  Cuff's  sale  in  1854,  brought  140Z.  Probably  the 
largest  price  ever  paid  for  an  English  coin  was  at  the  same  sale  for 
the  51.  piece  presented  by  Charles  I.  on  the  scaffold  to  Bishop  Juxon, 
bearing  the  motto  "Florent  concordia  regna."  It  was  a  pattern  piece 
never  published.  From  the  bishop  it  passed  through  various  hands,  till 
it  was  purchased  from  Lieutenant- Colonel  Drummond,  by  Mr.  Till,  the 
coin-dealer,  for  50Z.  He  offered  it  to  the  British  Museum  for  80L,  but  the 
purchase  was  declined,  and  finally  Mr.  Cuff  became  the  possessor  at  60L 
At  his  sale  it  brought  200Z. ;  the  purchaser  being  Mr.  Brown,  one  of  the 
partners  of  the  house  of  Longmans. 

Another  very  interesting  piece  is  the  "  petition  crown"  of  Thomas 
Simon.  Jealous  that  all  the  dies  of  the  English  mint  were  being  engraved 
by  foreigners,  he  executed  this  piece  to  show  Charles'  II.  that  native  artists 
could  do  the  work  quite  as  well.  On  the  obverse  is  the  king's  head  crowned 
with  laurel — on  the  reverse,  a  small  figure  of  St.  George  on  horseback, 
surrounded  with  the  garter  and  motto  "Honi  soit  qui  mal-y-pense,"  out- 
side which  are  the  four  escutcheons  of  England,  Scotland,  France  and 
Ireland,  with  two  C's  interlaced  at  the  angles.  The  inscription  is  "  Mag. 
Brit.  Fr.'  et  Hib.  Eex.  1663;"  on  the  edge  "  Reddite  quaa  Caesaris 
Cassari,"  &c.  Dr.  Waageri  tells  us,  that  Mr.  Bale  ga^e  154Z.  for  his 
specimen ;  Sir  W.  Baynes's,  last  August,  brought  SQL  10s. 

About  one  English  coin  there  exists  a  very  singular  delusion — Queen 
Anne's  farthing.  Often  and  often  have  the  officers  of  the  British  Museum 
received  letters  asking  whether,  as  the  writer  was  in  possession  of  the  third 
of  the  farthings,  of  which  the  Museum  had  the  other  two,  he  was  not 
entitled  to  some  1,000/.  or  so  ;  and  grievous  no  doubt  has  been  his  disap- 
pointment at  being  told  that  his  fancied  treasure  might  possibly  be  worth 
some  four  or  five  shillings.  How  the  delusion  ever  originated,  it  is 
impossible  to  say ;  but  one  account  tells  us  that  a  lady  in  Yorkshire,  having 
lost  one  of  these  farthings,  which  she  valued  as  the  bequest  of  a  dear 
friend,  offered  a  very  large  sum  for  its  recovery,  and  this  gave  rise  to  a 
false  impression  of  the  value  of  any  specimen.  It  is  commonly  believed 
that  only  three  examples  of  the  farthings  were  struck  off,  because  it  was 
found  that  there  was  a  flaw  near  the  bridge  of  the  Queen's  nose  ;  another 
account  says  the  die  broke  in  two.  There  are  really  no  less  than  five  or 
six  different  patterns  of  the  farthing,  but  most  of  them  were  struck  for 
approval  only  and  never  issued.  The  genuine  farthing  has  the  inscription 
"  Anna  Dei  gratia,"  surrounding  the  Queen's  bust;  on  the  reverse  the 
figure  of,  and  the  inscription,  "Britannia."  It  is  dated  1714.  Another, 
vvhich  was  also  perhaps  in  circulation,  exactly  resembles  the  one  just 
mentioned,  but  has  the  date  1713.  They  have  broad  milled  edges,  like  the 

28-2 


580  JOTTINGS  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

farthings  of  George  III.  Of  the  patterns,  the  rarest  seems  to  be  one  like 
the  genuine  farthing,  but  with  the  inscription  "Anna  Eegina."  In  1823 
there  was  a  trial  at  Dublin  about  a  Queen  Anne's  farthing,  which  it  was 
stated  had  actually  been  sold  for  800/. 

The  British  Museum  collection  of  coins  is  already  taking  nearly,  if  not 
quite,  the  foremost  place  of  all  such  collections.  It  is  no  wonder,  how- 
ever, that  its  treasures  should  multiply,  when  we  can  point  to  such 
instances  of  liberality  as  that  of  Mr.  Wigan,  of  Highbury  Terrace,  who  a 
few  years  since  allowed  the  officers  of  the  Museum  to  take  any  specimens 
they  pleased  from  his  collection  of  Koman  gold  coins.  They  took  200 — 
many  of  them  unique,  all  of  the  greatest  rarity  and  beauty.  They  were 
valued  at  3,000£.  How  much  more  noble  than  that  narrow-minded 
liberality,  that  will  not  let  its  treasures  mix  with  those  of  its  neighbours, 
but  must  have  rooms,  cabinets,  and  special  curators,  for  its  display  and 
glorification. 

As  might  be  naturally  expected,  forgeries  in  coins  are  by  no  means 
rare.  Many  of  these  are  clumsy  enough,  but  there  are  two  exceptions 
that  must  be  mentioned.  Two  men,  John  Carino  and  Alexander  Bassiano, 
both  of  Padua,  produced  more  than  100  medals  and  coins  ;  some  of  them 
imitations  of  antiques,  others  pure  fabrications.  These  "  Paduans,"  as 
they  are  called,  are  beautifully  executed,  and  are  in  great  request  as  tests. 
But  the  greatest  forger  was  Becker,  who  died  at  Frankfort  in  1830.  He 
produced  nearly  350  forgeries,  some  of  which  he  contrived  to  have  "  found," 
like  Dousterswivel  and  Simonides,  in  places  where  he  had  hidden  them. 

Besides  the  interest  coins  have,  either  from  their  rarity  or  their 
beauty,  they  have  now  and  then  no  small  degree  of  historical  value  and 
importance.  One  instance  will  be  familiar  no  doubt  to  many.  In  the 
account  of  Philippi  given  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  St.  Luke  caused 
no  small  difficulty  by  describing  it  as  a  colony.  From  coins,  however, 
as  well  as  from  inscriptions,  we  find  that  the  sacred  historian  was  right, 
and  that  Augustus  gave  it  the  privilege  of  a  colony,  with  the  name, 
"  Colonia  Julia  Augusta  Philippensis." 

The  art  of  Glass-making  is  of  very  high  antiquity.  The  oldest  known 
specimen  of  transparent  glass  is  a  bottle  about  3|  inches  high,  discovered 
by  Mr.  Layard  in  the  ruins  of  the  N.W.  palace  at  Nineveh,  and  now  in 
the  British  Museum.  It  was  blown  in  one  solid  piece,  and  then  hollowed 
out  by  a  machine.  It  has  engraved  upon  it  the  name  and  title  of  Sargon, 
accompanied  with  the  figure  of  a  lion.  Its  date,  therefore,  is  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventh  century  B.C.  The  art,  however,  had  been  practised 
in  Egypt  many  centuries  before  this.  There  was  discovered  at  Thebes  a 
glass  head,  bearing  the  name  of  a  king  who  lived  about  1450  B.C.  The 
monuments  carry  us  back  much  further  even  than  this.  On  the  paintings 
at  Beni  Hassan,  which  belong  to  the  reign  of  Osirtasen  I.,  who  reigned 
B.C.  2000,  we  have  figures  of  glass-blowers  at  work,  and  on  the  monuments 
of  the  tenth  dynasty,  some  two  centuries  earlier  still,  are  drawings  of 


OP  AN  UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  581 

bottles  of  transparent  glass  containing  a  red  wine.  The  skill  shown  by 
the  ancient  Egyptian  glass-blowers  is  almost  incredible.  Except  perhaps  in 
point  of  brilliancy — and  the  evidence  here  must  necessarily  be  wanting,  in 
consequence  of  the  chemical  changes  which  time  causes  in  the  substance 
of  the  glass — they  seem  to  have  equalled,  and  in  some  instances,  surpassed 
any  productions  of  more  modern  times.  Their  art  in  introducing  different 
colours  into  the  same  vase  has,  I  believe,  as  }Tet  found  no  imitators.  One 
very  curious  specimen  of  their  skill  has  been  preserved.  It  is  not  quite 
an  inch  in  length,  by  J  in  breadth,  and  ^  in  thickness,  and  contains  a 
figure  of  a  bird  resembling  a  duck  in  very  bright  and  varied  colours.  "  The 
most  delicate  pencil  of  a  miniature  painter  could  not  have  traced  with 
greater  sharpness  the  circle  of  the  eyeball  or  the  plumage  of  the  neck  and 
wings."  The  most  wonderful  thing,  however,  is  that  the  picture  goes  all 
through  the  glass,  so  that  both  sides  show  the  same  figure.  The  way  in 
which  it  must  have  been  made  was  by  arranging  threads  of  coloured  and 
uncoloured  glass  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  the  required  figure  at  each 
end  of  the  mass.  The  threads  were  then  united  by  heat,  each  thread 
being  adjusted  separately.  The  bar  of  glass  thus  made  would  be  cut  into 
horizontal  sections,  each  section  of  course  containing  the  figure.  In  some 
cases  of  similar  work  the  details  are  so  fine  as  only  to  be  made  out  with  a 
lens,  which  accordingly  must  have  been  used  in  its  manufacture.  It  is 
extremely  interesting  to  find  that  Mr.  Layard  did  discover  a  magnifying 
lens  at  Nineveh. 

Many  specimens  of  Greek  glass  have  come  down  to  us,  Mr.  Webb 
exhibiting  no  fewer  than  thirty-three  specimens  in  the  Loan  Collection  at 
South  Kensington.  Of  Koman  glass,  examples  are  much  more  numerous  ; 
the  Museo  Borbonico  alone  has  2,000.  The  Eomans  themselves  considered 
a  colourless  glass  as  the  most  precious  kind.  Nero  gave  as  much  as  6,000 
sestertia  (nearly  50,OOOZ.)  for  two  cups  with  handles  on  each  side.  The 
most  valuable  example  of  Roman  glass  that  has  come  down  to  us  is  the 
famous  Portland  or  Barberini  vase — "Portland's  mystic  urn,"  as  Darwin 
calls  it — now  deposited  in  the  British  Museum.  In  1845  it  was  wantonly 
broken  into  fragments,  but  has  been  most  admirably  restored  by  Mr. 
Doubleday,  only  one  very  small  piece  being  wanting.  This  vase,  which 
was  found  in  a  tomb  supposed  to  be  that  of  the  Emperor  Alexander 
Severus,  who  was  murdered  A.D.  235,  is  composed  of  two  strata  of  glass, 
blue  and  white.  The  white  surface  was  then  carved  like  a  cameo,  leaving 
white  figures  on  a  dark  background.  It  was  purchased  from  Sir  William 
Hamilton  by  the  Duchess  of  Portland.  At  her  sale  the  Duke  of  Portland, 
after  a  private  understanding,  it  seems,  with  Wedgwood,  bought  it  in  at 
1,029/.  10s. 

Another  very  beautiful  specimen  belongs  to  the  Trivulzi  family.  It  is 
a  cup,  resembling  opal,  surrounded  by  a  network  of  blue  glass,  attached 
by  several  small  and  very  fine  props.  Round  the  rim  is  an  inscription  in 
green  glass,  attached  like  the  network,  Bibe,  vivas  multos  annos.  It  was 


582  JOTTINGS  FROM   THE   NOTE-BOOK 

evidently  carved  out  of  a  solid  piece  of  glass,  made  of  two  differently  coloured 
strata.  Another  specimen  of  similar  workmanship  was  exhibited  by  Baron 
Rothschild  at  the  Loan  Exhibition,  1862. 

In  the  South  Kensington  Museum  there  is  a  very  valuable  and  inter- 
esting collection  of  early  Christian  glass,  the  property  of  Mr.  C.  W. 
Wilshere.  They  are  the  centres  of  paterae  or  bowls,  the  rest  of  the  bowls 
having  perished.  These  fragments  are  ornamented  with  figures  of  animals 
and  other  objects,  cut  out  in  gold  leaf,  the  details  being  graved  with  a  steel 
point.  Sometimes  a  red  background  is  added,  and  the  whole  picture  then 
inserted  between  two  folds  of  glass.  The  process  itself  seems  to  have  been 
known  to  the  ancient  Egyptians.  One  beautiful  specimen,  about  3|  inches 
in  diameter,  bears  half-length  portraits  of  a  Roman  lady  and  gentleman, 
and  above,  a  bilingual  inscription,  PIE  PESES.  Around  them  are  some 
Scriptural  subjects.  It  was  probably  a  wedding  present.  Mr.  Wilshere 
was  fortunate  -enough  to  secure  these  precious  examples  some  few  years 
ago  for  a  comparatively  small  price.  Other  specimens  are  in  the  British 
Museum. 

Of  more  modern  glass  the  most  valuable  is  the  Venetian.  A  very 
fictitious  value  was  in  many  cases  put  upon  it,  because  it  was  considered  a 
certain  preservation  against  poison,  the  glass  breaking  when  any  noxious 
drug  was  put  within  it.  The  glass -makers  at  Venice  were  provided  with 
houses  on  the  island  of  Murano,  and  were  forbidden,  on  pain  of  death,  to 
carry  their  art  elsewhere.  The  glass  itself  is  coarse  in  quality  and  with 
very  little  lustre  as  compared  with  some  recent  specimens  of  English 
manufacture  ;  but  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  forms,  and  the  marvellous 
skill  in  manipulation  which  is  displayed,  will  always  secure  Venetian  glass 
a  foremost  place  in  collections. 

Many  specimens  of  their  art  are  no  little  puzzle  to  the  uninitiated, 
who  are  as  much  at  a  loss  at  a  filigree  glass  as  King  George  was  at  the 
apple- dumpling.  The  process,  however,  is  simple  enough.  A  bundle  of 
glass  threads,  coloured  or  otherwise,  is  plunged  into  a  pot  of  colourless 
fused  glass,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  take  up  a  sufficient  quantity  of  it  to 
envelop  it  with  a  transparent  coating.  In  this  way  a  stick  of  solid  glass  is 
made,  about  three  inches  in  diameter,  the  pattern  being  now  in  the  centre. 
This  stick  is  then  reheated  and  drawn  out  into  a  long  cane,  the  operator 
meanwhile  twisting  the  rod  so  as  to  give  the  enclosed  threads  a  spiral 
pattern.  It  is  then  cut  into  such  lengths  as  may  be  required.  In  order 
to  form  with  these  a  filigree  glass — vasi  a  retorti  as  they  are  called — a 
number  of  these  canes — from  twenty  to  forty — are  placed  side  by  side 
round  the  interior  of  an  open  mould,  and  then  a  quantity  of  fused  glass 
blown  in,  enough  to  join  .them  all  together.  It  is  then  treated  like  an 
ordinary  ball  of  glass  and  blown  into  shape,  the  workman  again  twisting 
the  glass  according  to  the  required  pattern,.  For  the  process  of  making  a 
more  complicated  kind  of  glass — the  vasi  a  reticelli — where  two  folds  of  glass 
are  employed,  so  arranged  that  the  threads  cross  each  other  like  network,  I 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  583 

must  refer  my  readers  to  Mr.  Apsley  Pellatt's  excellent  work,  Curiosities  of 
Glass-making.  There  also  will  be  found  an  explanation  of  the  millifiore 
glass,  which  at  first  sight  seems  so  inexplicable. 

We  shall  know  more  of  the  rich  treasures  which  England  possesses 
in  the  shape  of  glass,  when  Mr.  Felix  Slade  is  kind  enough  to  give 
to  the  world  the  catalogue  of  his  matchless  collection  upon  which  he 
has  been  so  long  engaged.  Mr.  Slade  does  not  shrink  from  giving  large 
prices  for  good  and  rare  specimens.  One  instance  may  be  quoted  as  an 
example.  At  the  Soltikoff  sale  there  was  a  goblet  of  rich  emerald  green 
colour,  with  a  bulbed  and  fluted  stem  powdered  with  gold.  The  top  and 
bottom  of  the  bowl  were  ornamented  with  gold  and  jewelled  bands,  and 
between  these  were  two  medallions  supported  by  cupids  and  surrounded 
by  garlands,  and  containing  portraits  of  a  lady  and  gentleman,  in  the 
costume  of  the  latter  part  of  the  fifteenth  century.  On  a  scroll  before  the 
male  figure  was  the  inscription,  "  Amor  vol  fee."  Mr.  Slade  secured  this 
fine  specimen,  after  a  spirited  bidding  against  the  agents  of  the  Louvre, 
for  6,000  francs. 

No  specimens  of  glass  in  the  Bernal  collection  fetched  prices  at  all 
approaching  to  this.  We  find,  however,  Mr.  N.  T.  Smith  giving  50/.  for 
one  fine  specimen ;  Baron  Eothschild,  54L  for  a  tazza ;  and  Mr.  Slade, 
the  highest  price  at  that  sale  for  such  works,  551.  The  same  sale  had 
some  wonderful  instances  of  the  manner  in  which  objects  of  natural  history 
were  pressed  into  service.  Bunches  of  grapes,  tulips,  rampant  horses 
carrying  tazzas,  serpents,"  pelicans,  dolphins,  and  other  creatures,  are 
proofs  and  memorials  of  the  skill  of  artists  in  glass  in  the  Venice  of 
former  days. 


584 


of  3, re* 


Und  biiszen  will  ich's  mit  der  strengsten  Buszc 
Das  ich  mich  eitel  iiber  euch  erhob. — SCHILLES. 


I  read  or  dreamed,  one  sultry  summer  time, 
How,  at  the  last,  France's  knightly  maiden  Jled, 
And  lived  in  silent  honour,  nobly  wed, 
Leaving  her  heritage  of  deathless  fame 
To  the  chance  partner  of  her  mortal  shame, 
Who  should  have  aied  with  her,  and  died  instead. 
Then,  with  two  lines  of  German  in  my  head, 
I  shaped  her  after-life  in  moody  rhyme. 


A  MOSSY  battlemented  wall  went  round 
A  rosy  space  of  odorous  garden  ground, 
Where  the  blue  brooding  sky  hung  very  low, 
Above  the  quaint-peaked  shadow  of  the  towers, 
Above  the  sunny  marge  of  ordered  flowers, 
Among  the  which  I  saw  a  lady  go, 
Telling  her  beads,  with  steady  pace  and  slow ; 
These  done,  she  lifted  half  her  cypress  veil 
With  marble  hands  which  might  have  held  a  sword, 
And  I  beheld  her  face,  sweet,  still,  and  pale, 
With  tearless  eyes,  bent  on  the  dewless  sward. 
Then  raising  her  calm  brow,  but  not  her  eyes, 
To  woo  the  sweetness  of  the  summer  skies, 
Of  her  own  desolate  estate  she  sang, 
Not  sadly  ;  but  her  patient  singing  rang 
So  heavily  upon  her  silver  tongue, 
A  tale  of  peace  and  patience  worse  than  pain, 
That,  as  I  heard,  I  knew  her  youth  was  slain  ; 
And  yet  her  rounded  face  might  still  be  young, 
Who,  making  music  neither  high  nor  low, 
But  borne  along  a  level  stream  of  woe, 
Bang  words  like  these  as  nearly  as  I  know : — 
"  The  banners  of  the  battle  are  gone  by, 
The  flowers  are  fallen  from  my  maiden  crown, 
Thorns  choke  the  tender  seed  of  my  renown, 
Bleeding  in  sick  astonishment  I  lie, 
Where  He  who  set  me  up  hath  cast  me  down. 
If  only  I  could  hear  the  clarion  cry, 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 


JOAN   OF   ARC.  585 

Nay,  only  feel  the  chain,  and  eye  the  stake  ; 

But  it  is  over  now,  I  cannot  wake, 

My  sun  is  set,  and  dreams  are  of  the  night ; 

Dreams  ?  one  long,  leaden  dream,  which  will  not  break, 

Lies  on  my  aching  eyelids  till  I  die. 

Dreaming  I  walk  between  the  earth  and  heaven  ; 

And  heaven  is  sealed,  and  earth  is  out  of  sight : 

No  cries,  no  threats,  no  heavenly  voices  now ; 

Only  the  memory  of  a  broken  vow ; 

Only  the  thought  of  having  vainly  striven  ; 

And  France  is  still  in  bonds,  and  so  am  I : 

I  chose  my  bonds,  and  shall  I  be  forgiven  ? 

Nay,  therefore,  I  am  cast  away  from  God ; 

For  He  hath  made  me  like  a  broken  rod 

Not  worth  the  burning  when  its  work  is  done, 

That  bleaches  idly  in  the  summer  sun, 

Then  rots  as  idly  in  the  autumn  rain, 

Nor  wonders  why  it  left  the  root  in  vain. 

I  am  God's  broken  rod ;  shall  I  complain  ? 

I  wake  from  dreams  at  best  but  bitter  sweet, 

Dreams  chilled  with  danger,  flushed  with  self-conceit ; 

Only  the  waking  seems  so  like  a  cheat ; 

And  yet  I  would  not  dream  the  dream  again. 

I  was  so  blind,  so  fierce,  so  cruel  then, 

When,  foremost  hi  the  press  of  fighting  men, 

I  panted  with  my  banner  and  my  sword, 

And  fought,  me  seemed,  the  battles  of  my  Lord. 

Alas  !  His  poor  are  always  full  of  pain, 

"Whether  our  Charles  or  English  Henry  reign. 

My  sisters  still  are  happy  the  old  way, 

Their  lives  have  taken  root  in  soft  deep  clay, 

In  peace  they  grow,  in  peace  they  shall  decay, 

Seeing  their  fruit  before  they  fade  away ; 

But  all  my  barren  flower  of  life  is  shed 

In  gusts  of  idle  rumour  overhead. 

They  have  their  wish  :  I  would  not  be  as  they. 

I  have  my  wish — to  rest — I  rest  in  pain  ; 

My  wishes  kill  each  other,  and  the  dead 

Buzz  still  with  ghostly  stings  about  my  head, 

Not  to  be  caught,  and  never  to  be  slain. 

0  God !  is  there  worse  pain  in  hell  than  this, — 

To  taste  and  loathe  the  quietness  of  bliss, 

To  shudder  from  the  very  sins  we  miss, 

To  long  for  any  change,  and  yet  to  know 

That  any  change  must  bring  a  bitterer  woe  ! 

God !  do  the  lost  in  torment  praise  Thee  so  ? 


586  JOAN  OF  ABO. 

Counting  Thy  curse  the  lightest  curse  like  me, 
When  loathing  their  sick  selves,  from  self  they  flee 
To  hang  with  lesser  loathing  upon  Thee  ?  " 

Her  parched  tongue  ceased  ;  but  still  her  feverish  face 
Seemed  speaking,  but  no  words  found  way  again, 
Till  she  stood  quivering  in  her  lord's  embrace, 
As  chill  reeds  quiver  in  the  warm  spring  rain. 
For  it  was  but  a  screen  of  thick  pleached  yew 
Had  kept  him  hidden  from  her  heedless  view, 
In  whose  kind  ears  she  cared  not  to  complain ; 
Because  his  ever  ready  eyes,  she  knew, 
Would  water  her  dry  heart  with  barren  dew. 
He  was  a  courteous  knight  of  thirty  years, 
With  that  wise  look  that  comes  of  early  cares 
And  pondering  long  to  have  life  over  soon ; 
His  life  was  over,  and  he  was  content : 
Peril,  he  thought,  made  ease  a  double  boon, 
As  Easter  comes  the  blither  after  Lent ; 
So  all  men  knew  him,  wheresoe'er  he  went, 
By  the  grave  leisure  of  his  open  brow, 
That  frankly  seemed  to  ruminate  on  naught, 
And  gloat  upon  a  vacancy  of  thought, — 
For  one  of  those  who  sleep  of  afternoons, 
And  hum  the  listless  ends  of  lusty  tunes. 
But  he  had  saved  her  from  the  flame  for  this, 
The  cruel  flame,  where  one  not  two  had  died, 
And  she  had  ridden  unsleeping  at  his  side, 
To  that  far  castle,  still  and  hardly  won, 
For  which  his  early  feats  of  arms  were  done, 
And  often  bent  her  head  to  meet  his  kiss, 
And  whispered  willingness  to  be  his  bride  : 
So  she  was  walking  in  his  garden  now, 
His  quiet  garden,  where  no  rough  wind  blew, 
Which  seemed  to  sleep  for  ever  in  the  sun 
Of  harvest,  as  its  comely  lord  slept  too ; 
For  he  had  land  enough,  and  naught  to  do 
But  keep  the  rust  from  idle  helm  and  glaive, 
And  whiten  for  the  garner  of  the  grave 
At  leisure,  with  his  tale  of  years  half  run. 
She  paid  him  duteous,  lingering  kisses  still, 
She  worked,  she  spoke,  she  rested  at  his  will ; 
And  only  now  and  then  took  leave  to  sigh, 
When  he,  who  loved  her  dearly,  was  not  by. 
But  with  the  growing  years  a  dull  pain  grew 
That  made  her  cower  from  his  slumbrous  eye. 
And  wonder  when  it  would  be  time  to  die, 


. 
JOAN   OF  ARC.  587 

. 

And  wonder  why  her  head  would  not  grow  grey  : 

But  she  had  cheated  him  until  that  day, 

With  petty  feints  of  woes  she  did  not  feel, 

To  hide  what  words  were  wanting  to  reveal. 

Her  skill  grew  with  her  trouble  :  even  then, 

Unwatched  of  serving  maids  or  serving  men, 

She  kept  her  passionate  speech  below  her  breath, 

And  let  the  blind  tears  burn  her  eyes  unshed, 

Only  her  marble  cheek  was  pale  as  death, 

As,  finding  voice  before  her  lord,  she  said : 

"  The  sun  beats  hotly,  friend,  on  your  bare  head." 

But  he,  "I  heard  you  sobbing,  did  I  not  ? 

No  ?  let  me  turn  with  you,  the  sun  is  hot." 

Thereat  they  turned,  where  matted  yew-trees  made 

A  sudden  cool  of  black  undazzling  shade, 

Then  half  appeased  the  knight  "  All  well,  my  sweet  ? 

You  tremble  now  so  often  when  we  meet." 

"  Yea,  well,  love  ;  "  and  she  braved  his  eager  look, 

That  sought  to  read  her  pale  face  like  a  book, 

And  noted  sallow  cheek  and  swollen  eye, 

Whence  he  opined  she  suffered  from  the  heat, 

And  felt  her  hand,  the  skin  was  hot  and  dry ; 

He  asked  what  ailed  her,  and  how  long,  and  whence, 

And  shyly  muttered  hints  of  pestilence. 

Laughing  almost,  she  sware  she  ailed  no  part. 

Then  far  more  tedious  than  a  perfect  fool, 

Quoth  her  wise  lord,  "  What,  lady,  sick  at  heart  ? 

Tell  me  ?  "     "I  cannot,  nothing  troubles  me, 

My  heart  is  not  your  heart  to  beat  by  rule." 

"  Your  feet  still  stagger  from  the  stormy  sea  ;  " 

"  At  least  the  sea  was  living ;  now  I  stand 

On  dead  waste  flats  of  sultry,  stagnant  land." 

"  You  kissed  that  safe  shore,  and  my  helping  hand 

Once,  when  I  think  you  did  not  care  to  die." 

"  Saint  Katherine  and  Saint  Margaret  did  not  faint, 

But  saw  their  crowns,  and  put  deliverance  by, 

Following  the  Bridegroom  :  I  am  not  a  saint." 

"  Thank  God,  not  quite  too  high  for  me  to  wed." 

With  a  meek  kiss  she  paid  her  thanks,  and  said, 

"  You  do  not  think  the  saints  will  judge  the  world  ?  " 

"  They  will  judge  you  did  well  in  saving  France." 

"  As  well  say  that  the  pennon  of  your  lance 

Slays  all  whom  those  that  ride  behind  it  slay ; 

Yet  the  torn  pennon  shall  be  nicely  furled, 

When  men  at  arms  are  trampled  into  clay." 

"  Yea,  and  the  brightest  banner  wins  the  fray. 


588  JOAN   OF  ARC. 

You  were  the  banner,  nay,  the  soul  of  France  : 

Her  mighty  men  were  nothing  but  for  you." 

"  Nay,  but  I  needed  others  to  work  through.'1 

"  You  grudge  that  others  share  your  earthly  fame  ; 

Trust  me,  heaven's  harps  ring  only  to  your  name." 

"  You  flatter  me  ;  heaven's  harps  ring  only  true." 

She  paused.     "  Not  fame,  but  famous  deeds  to  do ! 

Why  am  I  kept  idle  ?     If  I  only  knew  !  " 

"  Because  God  gives  you  early  of  His  best : 

I  thank  Him  for  this  harvest  of  rich  rest, 

I  thank  Him,  who  did  so  much  less  by  me, 

And  yet  not  less,  because  he  set  you  free." 

"  The  cowards,  for  they  dared  not  let  me  go 

Themselves,  had  need  of  a  good  knight  for  show 

Of  rescue."     Her  good  knight  made  answer,  "Nay, 

Doomed  by  the  Church,  why  let  you  slip  away  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  must  I  teach  you  kings  of  France  are  men  ? 

Why  ?  the  whole  world  cried  shame  on  him,  and  then 

His  conscience  might  have  woke  to  cry  Amen." 

"  Wife,  if  God  reckoned  with  you  he  might  miss 

Something  of  gratitude  for  all  your  bliss." 

With  sunken  eyelids  and  with  folded  hands, 

She  stood,  as  a  meek  guardian  angel  stands, 

Who  sees  a  sinner  wandering  out  of  reach. 

He,  stung  to  answer  her  unspoken  speech, 

Said  hotly,  "  Three  things  are  insatiable, — 

Our  God,  and  any  woman's  heart,  and  hell." 

Then  lifting  for  a  parting  kiss  her  head, 

With  half  a  smile  wrung  out  from  somewhere,  "  Well ! 

I  go  to  give  our  maids  fresh  work,"  she  said, 

"  They  are  insatiable  of  spinning  wool." 

I  dreamed :  her  saints  were  far  more  merciful. 

G.  A.  SIMCOX. 


589 


f  ircli  ife  fiiant-plfer. 


CHAPTER  I. 
ON  MOXSTERS,   ETC. 

MOST  of  us  have  read  at  one  time  or  another  in  our  lives  the  article 
entitled  Gigantes,  which  is  to  be  found  in  a  certain  well-known  dictionary. 
It  tells  of  that  terrible  warfare  in  which  gods  and  giants,  fighting  in  fury, 
hrrled  burning  woods  and  rocks  through  the  air,  piled  mountains  upon 
mountains,  brought  seas  from  their  boundaries,  thundering,  to  overwhelm 
thair  adversaries ; — it  tells  how  the  gods  fled  in  their  terror  into  Egypt, 
and  hid  themselves  in  the  shapes  of  animals,  until  Hercules,  the  giant- 
killer  of  those  strange  times,  sprang  up  to  rescue  and  deliver  the  world 
from  the  dire  storm  and  confusion  into  which  it  had  fallen.  Hercules 
laid  about  him  with  his  club.  Others  since  then,  our  Jack  among  the  rest, 
have  fought  with  gallant  courage  and  devotion,  and  given  their  might  and 
thoir  strength  and  their  lives  to  the  battle.  That  battle  which  has  no  end, 
air  s !  and  which  rages  from  sunrise  to  sundown, — although  hero  after  hero 
comes  forward,  full  of  hope,  of  courage,  of  divine  fire  and  indignation. 

Who  shall  gainsay  .us,  if  now-a-days  some  of  us  may  perhaps  be 
ter  rpted  to  think  that  the  tides  of  victory  flow,  not  with  the  heroes,  but 
with  the  giants ;  that  the  gods  of  our  own  land  are  hiding  in  strange 
disguises ;  that  the  heroes  battling  against  such  unequal  odds  are  weary 
and  sad  at  heart ;  while  the  giants,  unconquered  still,  go  roaming  about 
the  country,  oppressing  the  poor,  devouring  the  children,  laying  homes 
bare  and  desolate  ? 

Here  is  The  Times  of  to-day,*  full  of  a  strange  medley  and  record 
of  the  things  which  are  in  the  world  together — Jacks  and  giants,  and 
chf.mpion-belts  and  testimonials ;  kings  and  queens,  knights  and  castles 
and  ladies,  screams  of  horror,  and  shouts  of  laughter,  and  of  encourage- 
meit  or  anger.  Feelings  and  prejudices  and  events, — all  vibrating, 
urging,  retarding,  influencing  one  another. 

And  we  read  that  some  emperors  are  feasting  in  company  at  their 
spL  ndid  revels,  while  another  is  torn  from  his  throne  and  carried  away  by 
a  furious  and  angry  foe,  by  a  giant  of  the  race  which  has  filled  the  world 
wi€i  such  terror  in  its  time.  Of  late  a  young  giant  of  that  very  tribe  has 
marched  through  our  own  streets ;  a  giant  at  play,  it  is  true,  and  feeding 
his  morbid  appetite  with  purses,  chains  and  watches,  and  iron  park  railings  ; 

*  May,  1867. 


590  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLEE. 

but  who  shall  say  that  he  may  not  perhaps  grow  impatient  as  time  goes 
on,  and  cry  for  other  food. 

And  meanwhile  people  are  lying  dying  in  hospitals,  victims  of  one 
or  more  of  the  cruel  monsters,  whose  ill  deeds  we  all  have  witnessed.- 
In  St.  Bartholomew's  wards,  for  instance,  are  recorded  twenty-three 
cases  of  victims  dying  from  what  doctors  call  delirium  tremcns.  Which 
Jack  is  there  among  us  strong  enough -to  overcome  the  giant  with  his 
cruel  fierce  fangs,  and  force  him  to  abandon  his  prey  ?  Here  is  the  history 
of  two  men  suffocated  in  a  vat  at  Bristol  by  the  deadly  gas  from  spent 
hops.  One  of  them,  Ambrose,  is  hurrying  V>  the  other  one's  help,  and 
gives  up  his  life  for  his  companion.  It  seems  hard  that  such  men  should 
be  sent  unarmed  into  the  clutch  of  such  pitiable  monsters  as  this ;  and  one 
grudges  these  two  lives,  and  the  tears  of  the  widows  and  children.  I  might 
go  on  for  many  pages  fitting  the  parable  to  the  commonest  facts  of  life. 
The  great  parochial  Blunderbore  still  holds  his  own ;  some  of  his  castles 
have  been  seized,  but  others  are  impregnable ; — their  doors  are  kept  closed, 
their  secrets  are  undiscovered. 

Other  giants,  of  the  race  of  Cormoran,  that  "  dwell  in  gloomy  caverns, 
and  wade  over  to  the  mainland  to  steal  cattle,"  are  at  this  instant  beginning 
to  creep  from  their  foul  dens,  by  sewers  and  stagnant  waters,  spreading 
death  and  dismay  along  their  path.  In  the  autumn  their  raids  are  widest 
and  most  deadly.  Last  spring  I  heard  two  women  telling  one  another  of 
a  giant  of  the  tribe  of  Cormoran  camping  down  at  Dorking  in  Surrey. 
A  giant  with  a  poisoned  breath  and  hungry  jaws,  attacking  not  only  cattle, 
but  the  harmless  country  people  all  about ;  children,  and  men,  and  women, 
whom  he  seized  with  his  deadly  gripe,  and  choked  and  devoured.  Giant 
Blunderbore,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  had  many  a  hard  blow  dealt  him 
of  late  from  one  Jack  and  another.  There  is  one  gallant  giant-killer  at 
Fulham  hard  by,  waging  war  with  many  monsters,  the  great  blind  giant 
Ignorance  among  the  rest.  Some  valiant  women,  too,  there  are  who  have 
armed  themselves,  and  gone  forth  with  weak  hands  and  tender  strong 
hearts  to  do  their  best.  I  have  seen  some  lately  who  are  living  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  dreary  labyrinth  where  one  of  the  great  Minotaurs  of 
the  city  is  lurking.  They  stand  at  the  dark  mouth  of  the  poisonous 
caverns,  warning  and  entreating  those  who,  in  their  blindness  and  infatua- 
tion, are  rushing  thither,  to  beware.  "  I  took  a  house  and  came," 

said  one  of  them  simply  to  my  friend  Mrs.  K when  she  asked  her 

how  it  happened  that  sha  was  established  there  in  the  black  heart  of  the 
city.  All  round  her  feet  a  little  ragged  tribe  was  squatting  on  the  floor, 
and  chirping,  and  spelling,  and  learning  a  lesson  which,  pray  heaven,  will 
last  them  their  lives  ;  and  across  the  road,  with  pretty  little  crumpled  mob- 
caps  all  awry  on  their  brown  heads,  other  children  were  sewing  and  at 
work  under  the  quiet  rule  of  their  good  teachers.  The  great  business  of  the 
city  was  going  on  outside.  The  swarming  docks  were  piled  with  bales  and 
crowded  with  workmen ;  the  main  thoroughfares  streaming  and  teeming  with 
a  struggling  life  ;  the  side  streets  silent,  deserted,  and  strangely  still.  A 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  591 

b]eak  north-east  wind  was  blowing  down  some  of  these  grey  streets.  I  have 
a  vision  before  me  now  of  one  of  them  :  a  black  deserted  alley  or  passage, 
h  mg  with  some  of  those  rags  that  seem  to  be  like  the  banners  of  this  reign 

0  '  sorrow  and  sin.     The  wind  swooped  up  over  the  stones,  the  rags  waved 
a:  id  fell,  and  a  colourless  figure  passing  up  the  middle  of  the  dirty  gutter 
p  illed  at  its  grimy  shawl  and  crouched  as  it  slid  along. 

We  may  well  say,  we  Londoners,  see  how  far  the  east  is  from  the  west. 

1  myself,   coming  home  at  night  to  the  crowded  cheerful   station  and 
travelling  back  to  the  light  of  love,  of  warmth,  of  comfort,  find  myself 
dimly  wondering  whether  those  are  not  indeed  our  sins  out  yonder  set 
a^ay  from  us,  in  that  dreary  East  of  London  district ;  our  sins  alive  and 
standing  along  the  roadside  in  rags  and  crying  out  to  us  as  we  pass. 

Here  in  our  country  cottage  the  long  summer  is  coming  to  an  end,  in 
falling  leaves  and  setting  suns,  and  gold  and  russet,  where  green  shoots 
ware  twinkling  a  little  time  ago.  The  banks  of  the  river  have  shifted  their 
colours,  and  the  water,  too,  has  changed.  The  song  of  the  birds  is  over; 
but  there  are  great  flights  in  the  air,  rapid,  mysterious.  For  weeks  past 
wa  have  been  living  in  a  gracious  glamour  and  dazzle  of  light  and  warmth  ; 
ai  id  now,  as  we  see  it  go,  H.  and  I  make  plans,  not  unwillingly,  for  a 
winter  to  be  passed  between  the  comfortable  walls  of  our  winter  home. 
Tae  children,  hearing  our  talk,  begin  to  prattle  of  the  treasures  they  will 
find  in  the  nursery  at  London  as  they  call  it.  Dolly's  head,  which  was 
unfortunately  forgotten  when  we  came  away,  and  the  panniers  off  the  wooden 
donkey's  back,  and  little  neighbour  Joan,  who  will  come  to  tea  again,  in 
the  doll's  tea-things.  Yesterday,  when  I  came  home  from  the  railway- 
station  across  the  bridge,  little  Anne,  who  had  never  in  her  short  life  seen 
tie-lamps  of  the  distant  town  alight,  came  toddling  up,  chattering  about "  de 
pooty  tandles,"  and  pulling  my  dress  to  make  me  turn  and  see  them  too. 

To-night  other  lights  have  been  blazing.  The  west  has  been  shining 
al  Dng  the  hills  with  a  gorgeous  autumnal  fire.  From  our  ten-ace  we  have 
w;  itched  the  lights  and  the  mists  as  they  succeed  one  another,  streaming 
mysteriously  before  yonder  great  high  altar.  It  has  been  blazing  as  if  for 
a  solemn  ceremonial  and  burnt  sacrifice.  As  we  watch  it  other  people 
lo  )k  on  in  the  fields,  on  the  hills,  and  from  the  windows  of  the  town. 
E  ,-ening  incense  rises  from  the  valley,  and  mounts  up  through  the  still- 
nt  ss.  The  waters  catch  the  light,  and  repeat  it ;  the  illumination  falls 
uj  on  us,  too,  as  we  look  and  see  how  high  the  heavens  are  in  comparison 
with  the  earth;  and  suddenly,  as  we  are  waiting  still,  and  looking  and 
admiring,  it  is  over — the  glory  has  changed  into  peaceful  twilight. 

And  so  we  come  away,  closing  shutters  and  doors  and  curtains,  and 
se  tling  down  to  our  common  occupations  and  thoughts  again ;  but  outside 
another  high  service  is  beginning,  and  the  lights  of  the  great  northern 
alt  ar  are  burning  faintly  in  their  turn. 

People  say  that  extremes  meet ;  and  in  the  same  way  that  fancy  worlds 
an!  dreams  do  not  seem  meant  for  the  dreary  stone  streets  and  smoky 


592  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

highways  of  life,  neither  do  they  belong  to  summer  and  holiday  time,  when 
reality  is  so  vivid,  so  sweet,  and  so  near,  that  it  is  but  a  waste  to  dream  of 
fairies  dancing  in  rings,  or  peeping  from  the  woods,  when  the  singing  and 
shining  is  in  all  the  air,  and  the  living  sunshiny  children  are  running  on 
the  lawn,  and  pulling  at  the  flowers  with  their  determined  little  fingers. 
And  there  are  butterflies  and  cuckoos  and  flowing  streams  and  the  sounds  of 
flocks  and  the  vibrations  of  summer  everywhere.  Little  Anne  comes 
trotting  up  with  a  rose-head  tight  crushed  in  her  hand  ;  little  Margery  has 
got  a  fern-leaf  stuck  into  her  hat ;  Puck,  Peas-blossom,  Cobweb,  Moth, 
Mustard-seed,  themselves,  are  all  invisible  in  this  great  day-shine.  The 
gracious  fancy  kingdom  vanishes  at  cock-crow,  we  know.  It  is  not  among 
realities  so  wonderful  and  beautiful  that  we  can  scarce  realize  them  that  we 
must  look  for  it.  Its  greatest  triumphs  are  where  no  other  light  shines 
to  brighten — by  weary  sick  beds  ;  when  distance  and  loneliness  oppress. 
Who  cannot  remember  days  and  hours  when  a  foolish  conceit  has  come 
now  and  again,  like  a  "  flower  growing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,"  to 
distract  the  dizzy  thoughts  from  the  dark  depths  below  ? 

Certainly  it  was  through  no  fancy  world  that  poor  John  Trevithic's 
path  led  him  wandering  in  life,  but  amid  realities  so  stern  and  so  pitiful  at 
times  that  even  his  courage  failed  him  now  and  then.  He  was  no  celebrated 
hero,  though  I  have  ventured  to  christen  him  after  the  great  type  of  our 
childhood ;  he  was  an  honest,  outspoken  young  fellow,  with  a  stubborn 
temper  and  a  tender  heart,  impressionable  to  outer  things,  although  from 
within  it  was  not  often  that  anything  seemed  to  affect  his  even  moods  and 
cheerful  temper.  He  was  a  bright-faced,  broad-set  }roung  fellow,  about 
six-and-twenty,  with  thick  light  hair,  and  eagleish  eyes,  and  lips  and 
white  teeth  like  a  girl.  His  hands  were  like  himself,  broad  and  strong, 
with  wide  competent  fingers,  that  could  fight  and  hold  fast,  if  need  be ; 
and  yet  they  were  so  clever  and  gentle  withal,  that  children  felt  safe  in 
his  grasp  and  did  not  think  of  crying,  and  people  in  trouble  would  clutch 
at  them  when  he  put  them  out.  Perhaps  Jack  did  not  always  understand 
the  extent  of  the  griefs  for  which  his  cheerful  sympathy  was  better  medicine 
after  all  than  any  mere  morbid  investigations  into  their  depths  could  have 
proved. 


CHAPTER  II. 
CORMORAN. 

THE  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  the  Eev.  John  Trevithic  was  at  Sandsea 
one  morning,  when  my  maid  brought  in  two  cards,  upon  which  were 
inscribed  the  respective  names  of  Miss  Moineaux  and  Miss  Triquett.  I 
had  taken  a  small  furnished  house  at  the  seaside  (for  H.  was  ailing  in 
those  days,  and  had  been  ordered  salt  air  by  the  doctors)  ;  we  knew 
nobody  and  nothing  of  the  people  of  the  place,  so  that  I  was  at  first  a 
little  bewildered  by  the  visit ;  but  I  gathered  from  a  few  indescribable 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  59B 

indications  that  the  small  fluttering  lady  who  came  in  sideways  was  Miss 
Moineaux,  and  the  bony,  curty,  scanty  personage  with  the  big  hook-nose 
,vho  accompanied  her  Miss  Triquett.  They  both  sat  down  very  politely, 
as  people  do  who  are  utter  strangers  to  you  and  about  to  ask  you  for 
money.  Miss  Moineaux  fixed  a  little  pair  of  clear  meek  imploring  eyes 
upon  me.  Miss  Triquett  took  in  the  apartment  with  a  quick  uncomfort- 
able swoop  or  ball-like  glance.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant 
us  she  cleared  her  throat. 

She  need  not  have  been  at  any  great  pains  in  her  investigations  ;  the 
ntory  told  itself.  Two  middle-aged  women,  with  their  desks  and  work- 
baskets  open  before  them,  and  The  Times  and  some  Indian  letters  just 
come  in,  on  the  table,  the  lodging-house  mats,  screens,  Windsor  chairs, 
und  druggets,  a  fire  burning  for  H.'s  benefit,  an  open  window  for  mine, 
ihe  pleasant  morning  wash  and  rush  of  the  sea  against  the  terrace  upon 
>vhich  the  windows  opened,  and  the  voices  of  H.'s  grandchildren  playing 
outside.  I  can  see  all  the  cheerful  glitter  now  as  I  write.  I  loved  the 
little  place  that  strikes  me  so  quaintly  and  kindly  as  I  think  of  it.  The 
frun  shone  all  the  time  we  were  there  ;  day  by  day  I  saw  health  and 
strength  coming  into  my  H.'s  pale  face.  The  house  was  comfortable,  the 
walks  were  pleasant,  good  news  came  to  us  of  those  we  loved.  In  short, 
1  was  happy  there,  and  one  cannot  always  give  a  reason  for  being  happy. 
]n  the  meantime,  Miss  Triquett  had  made  her  observations  with  her 
wandering  ball  eyes. 

t  "  We  called,"  she  said,  in  a  melancholy  clerical  voice,  "  thinking  that 
you  ladies  might  possibly  be  glad  to  avail  yourselves  of  an  opportunity  for 
subscribing  to  a  testimonial  which  we  are  about  to  present  to  our  friend 
end  pastor,  the  Eeverend  John  Trevithic,  M.A.,  and  for  which  my  friend 
Miss  Moineaux  and  myself  are  fully  prepared  to  receive  subscriptions. 
You  are  perhaps  not  aware  that  we  lose  him  on  Tuesday  week  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  I,  and  I  am  afraid  my  cap-strings  began  to  rustle, 
p.  s  they  have  a  way  of  doing  when  I  am  annoyed.' 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  afraid  you  must  think  it  a  great  liberty  of  us  to  call," 
I  urst  in  little  Miss  Moineaux,  flurriedly,  in  short  disconnected  sentences. 
'  I  trust  you  will  pardon  us.  They  say  it  is  quite  certain  he  is  going. 
We  have  had  a  suspicion — perhaps  ..."  Poor  Miss  Moineaux  stopped 
short,  and  turned  very  red,  for  Triquett's  eye  was  upon  her.  She  con- 
t  nued,  falteringly,  "  Miss  Triquett  kindly  suggested  collecting  a  teapot 
and  strainer  if  possible, — it  depends,  of  course,  upon  friends  and  admirers. 
You  know  how  one  longs  to  show  one's  gratitude  ;  and  I'm  sure  in  our  hope- 
L',ss  state  of  apathy we  had  so  neglected  the  commonest  pre- 
cautions  '' 

Here  Miss  Triquett  interposed.  "The  authorities  were  greatly  to 
Hame.  Mr.  Trevithic  did  his  part,  no  more;  but  it  is  peculiarly  as  a 
pastor  and  teacher  that  we  shall  miss  him.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  have  not 
baen  aware  of  his  ministry."  (A  roll  of  the  eyes.)  A  little  rustle  and 
c'lirrup  from  Miss  Moineaux. 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  95.  29. 


594  JACK   THE    GIANT-KILLER. 

"  If  the  ladies  had  only  heard  him  last  Sunday  afternoon, — no,  I  mean 
the  morning  before." 

"  The  evening  appeal  was  still  more  impressive,"  said  Miss  TriquetL 
"  I  am  looking  forward  anxiously  to  his  farewell  next  Sunday." 

It  was  really  too  bad.  Were  these  two  strange  women  who  had  come 
to  take  forcible  possession  of  our  morning-room  about  to  discuss  at  any 
length  the  various  merits  of  Mr.  Trevithic's  last  sermon  but  two,  but 
three,  next  but  one,  taking  up  my  time,  my  room,  asking  for  my  money  ? 
I  was  fairly  out  of  temper  when,  to  my  horror,  H.,  in  her  flute  voice  from 
the  sofa,  where  she  had  been  lying  under  her  soft  silk  quilt,  said, — 

"  Mary,  will  you  give  these  ladies  a  sovereign  for  me  towards  the 
teapot.  Mr.  Trevithic  was  at  school  with  my  Frank,  and  this  is  not,  I 
think,  the  first  sovereign  he  has  had  from  me." 

Miss  Triquett's  eyes  roved  over  to  the  sofa.  It  must  have  seemed 
almost  sacrilege  to  her  to  speak  of  Mr.  Trevithic  as  a  schoolboy,  or  even 
to  have  known  him  in  jackets.  "  It  is  as  a  tribute  to  the  pastor  that 
these  subscriptions  are  collected,"  said  she,  with  some  dignity,  "not  on 
any  lower " 

But  it  was  too  late,  for  little  Miss  Moineaux  had  already  sprang 
forward  with  a  grateful  "  Oh,  thank  you !  "  and  clasped  H.'s  thin  hand. 

And  so  at  last  we  got  rid  of  the  poor  little  women.  They  fluttered  off 
with  their  prize,  their  thin  silk  dresses  catching  the  wind  as  they  skimmed 
along  the  sands,  their  little  faded  mants  and  veils  and  curls  and  petticoats 
flapping  feebly  after  them,  their  poor  little  well-worn  feet  patting  off  in 
search  of  fresh  tribute  to  Trevithic. 

"  I  declare  they  were  both  in  love  with  him,  ridiculous  old  gooses," 
said  I.  "  How  could  you  give  them  that  sovereign  ?  " 

"He  was  a  delightful  boy,"  said  H.  (She  melts  to  all  schoolboys 
still,  though  her  own  are  grown  men  and  out  in  the  world.)  "  I  used  to 
he  very  angry  with  him ;  he  and  Frank  were  always  getting  into  scrapes 
together,"  said  H.,  with  a  smiling  sigh,  for  Major  Frank  was  on  his  way 
home  from  India,  and  the  poor  mother  could  trust  herself  to  speak  of  him 
in  her  happiness.  "  I  hope  it  is  the  right  man,"  H.  went  on,  laughing. 
"  You  must  go  and  hear  the  farewell  oration,  Mary,  and  tell  me  how  many 
of  these  little  ladies  are  carried  out  of  church." 

They  behaved  like  heroines.  They  never  faltered  or  fainted,  they  gave 
no  outward  sign  (except,  indeed,  a  stifled  sob  here  and  there).  I  think 
the  prospect  of  the  teapot  buoyed  them  up ;  for  after  the  service  two  or 
three  of  them  assembled  in  the  churchyard,  and  eagerly  discussed  some 
measure  of  extreme  emphasis.  They  were  joined  by  the  gentleman  who 
had  held  the  plate  at  the  door,  and  then  their  voices  died  away  into 
whispers,  as  the  rector  and  Mr.  Trevithic  himself  came  out  of  the  little 
side  door,  where  Miss  Bellingham,  the  rector's  daughter,  had  been  standing 
waiting.  The  rector  was  a  smug  old  gentleman  in  a  nice  Sunday  tie.  He 
gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  trotted  along,  saying,  "  How  do  ?  how 
do  ?"  to  the  various  personages  he  passed. 


JACK   THE   GIANT-KILLER.  595 

The  curate  followed  :  a  straight  and  active  young  fellow,  with  a  bright 
lace,  a  face  that  looked  right  and  left  as  he  canie  along.  He  didn't  seein 
embarrassed  by  the  notice  he  excited.  The  four  little  girls  from  Coote  Court 
(so  somebody  called  them)  rushed  forward  to  meet  him,  saying,  "  Good- 
]>y,  dear  Mr.  Trevithic,  good-by."  Mrs.  Myles  herself,  sliding  off  to  her 
pony  carriage,  carrying  her  satin  train  all  over  her  arms,  stopped  to  smile, 
;ind  to  put  out  a  slender  hand,  letting  the  satin  stuff  fall  into  the  dust. 
Young  Lord  and  Lady  Wargrave  were  hurrying  away  with  their  various 
quests,  but  they  turned  and  came  back  to  say  a  friendly  word  to  this 
popular  young  curate ;  and  Colonel  Hambledon,  Lord  Wargrave's  brother, 
(;ave  him  a  friendly  nod,  and  said,  "I  shall  look  in  one  day  before  you 
{jo."  I  happened  to  know  the  names  of  all  these  people,  because  I  had 
f  at  in  Mrs.  Myles's  pew  at  church,  and  I  had  seen  the  Wargraves  in 
London. 

The  subscribers  to  the  teapot  were  invited  to  visit  it  at  Mr.  Phillips's, 
in  Cockspur  Street,  to  whom  the  design  had  been  entrusted.  It  was  a 
very  handsome  teapot,  as  ugly  as  other  teapots  of  the  florid  order,  and 
Ihe  chief  peculiarity  was  that  a  snake  grasped  by  a  clenched  hand  formed 
ihe  handle,  and  a  figure  with  bandages  on  its  head  was  sitting  on  the 
melon  on  the  lid.  This  was  intended  to  represent  an  invalid  recovering 
from  illness.  Upon  one  side  was  the  following  inscription  : — 

TO 
THE   REV.   JOHN  TREVITHIC,  M.A., 

FROM    HIS    PARISHIONERS   AT    SANDSEA, 
IN    GRATEFUL   REMEMBRANCE    OF   HIS   EXERTIONS   DURING   THE 

CHOLERA   SEASON   OF    18 — , 

jyV    HIS    SUCCESSFUL   AND   ENTERPRISING   EFFORTS   FOR    THE    IMPROVED   DRAINAGE 

OF    HIGH    STREET   AND    THE   NEIGHBOURING   ALLEYS, 

ESPECIALLY   THOSE 

KNOWN  AS  "ST.  MICHAEL'S  BUILDINGS." 
Upon  the  other, 

TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  TREVITHIC,  M.A. 

I'-oth  these  inscriptions  were  composed  ty  Major  Coote,  of  Coote  Court,  a 
J .  P.  for  the  county.  Several  other  magistrates  had  subscribed,  and  the 
presentation  paper  was  signed  by  most  of  the  ladies  of  the  town.  I  recog- 
nized the  bold  autograph  of  Louisa  Triquett,  and  the  lady-like  quill  of 
Sarah  Moineaux,  among  the  rest.  H.  figured  as  "Anon."  down  at  the 
bottom. 

Jack  had  honestly  earned  his  teapot,  the  pride  of  his  mother's  old  heart. 
I'e  had  worked  hard  during  that  unfortunate  outbreak  of  cholera,  and 
v.hen  the  summer  came  round  again,  the  young  man  had  written  quires, 
rdden  miles,  talked  himself  hoarse,  about  this  neglected  sewer  in  St. 
Michael's  Buildings.  The  town  council,  finding  that  the  whole  of  High 
Street  would  have  to  be  taken  up,  and  what  a  very  serious  undertaking  it 
was  likely  to  be,  were  anxious  to  compromise  matters,  and  they  might 

29—2 


596  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

have  succeeded  in  doing  so  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  young  man's  deter- 
mination.    Old  Mr.  Bellingham,  who  had  survived  some  seventy  cholera 
seasons,  was  not  likely  to  be  very  active  in  the  matter.     Everybody  was 
away,  as  it  happened,  at  that  time  except  Major  Coote,  who  was  easily 
talked  over  by  anybody ;  Jobsen,  the  mayor,  had  got  hold  of  him,  and 
Trevithic  had  to  fight  the  battle  alone.    One  person  sympathized  with  him 
from  the  beginning,  and  talked  to  her  father,  and  insisted,  very  persis- 
tently, that  he  should  see  the  necessity  of  the  measure.     This  was  Anne 
Bellingham,  who,  with  her  soft  pink  eyes  fixed  on  Trevithic's  face,  listened 
to  every  word  he  said  with  interest — an  interest  which  quite  touched  and 
gratified  the  young  man,  breathless  and  weary  of  persuading  fishmongers, 
of  trying  to  influence  the  sleek  obstinate  butcher,  and  the  careworn  baker 
with  his  ten  dusty  children,  and  the  stolid  oil  and  colourman,  who  happened 
to  be  the  mayor  that  year.    It  seemed,  indeed,  a  hopeless  case  to  persuade 
these  worthy  people  to  increase  the  rates,  to  dig  up  the  High  Street  under 
their  very  windows,  to  poison  themselves  and  their  families,  and  drive  away 
custom  just  as  the  season  was  beginning.     John  confessed  humbly  that  he 
had  been  wrong,  that  he  should  have  pressed  the  matter  more  urgently 
upon  them  in  the  spring,  but  he  had  been  ill  and  away,  if  they  remem- 
bered, and  others  had  promised  to  see  to  it.     It  would  be  all  over  in  a 
week,  before  their  regular  customers  arrived. 

Jack's  eloquence  succeeded  in  the  end.     How  it  came  about  I  can 
scarcely  tell — he  himself  scarcely  knew.    He  had  raised  the  funds,  written 
to  Lord  Wargrave,  and  brought  Colonel  Hambledon  himself  down  from 
town ;  between  them  they  arranged  with  the  contractors,  and  it  was  all 
settled   almost   without   anybody's   leave    or   authority.      One  morning, 
Trevithic   hearing   a  distant  rumbling  of  wheels,   jumped  up  from  his 
breakfast   and   ran  to  his  window.     A  file  of  carts  and  workmen  were 
passing   the   end  of  the  street,   men  with  pickaxes  and  shovels ;    carts 
laden  with  strange -looking  pipes  and  iron  bars.     Mr.  Moffat,  the  indig- 
nant butcher,  found  a  pit  of  ten  feet  deep  at  his  shop-door  that  evening  ; 
and  Smutt,  the  baker,  in  a  fury,  had  to  send  his  wife  and  children  to  her 
mother,  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  mess.     In  a  week,  however,  the  whole 
thing  was  done,  the  pit  was  covered  over,  the  foul  stream  they  dreaded 
was  buried  down  deep  in  the  earth,  and  then  in  a  little  while  the  tide  of 
opinion  began  to  turn.     "When  all  the  coast  was  in  a  terror  and  confu- 
sion, when  cholera  had  broken  out  in  one  place  and  in  another,  and 
the  lodging-houses  were  empty,  the   shopkeepers  loud  in  complaints,  at 
Sandsea,  thanks  to  the  well-timed  exertions,  as  people  call  draining,  not  a 
single  case  was  reported,  and  though  the  season  was  not  a  good  one  for 
ordinary  times,   compared   to   other   neighbouring   places,    Sandsea  was 
triumphant.      Smutt  was  apologetic,  Moffat  was  radiant,  and  so  was  Anne 
Bellingham  in  her  quiet  way.     As  for  Miss  Triquett,  that  devoted  adherent, 
she  nearly  jumped   for  joy,    hearing   that   the  mayor  of  the  adjoining 
watering-place  was  ill  of  the  prevailing  epidemic  and  not  expected  to  live. 
And  then  the  winter  went  by,  and  this  time  of  excitement  passed  over 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  597 

f  .iid  the  spring-time  came,  and  Jolm  began  to  look  about  and  ask  questions 
{.bout  other  men's  doings  and  ways  of  life.  It  did  not  come  upon  him  all 
in  one  day  that  he  wanted  a  change,  but  little  by  little  he  realized  that 
something  was  amiss.  He  himself  could  hardly  tell  what  it  was  when 
Colonel  Hambledon  asked  him  one  day.  For  one  thing  I  think  his  own 
popularity  oppressed  him.  He  was  too  good-humoured  and  good-natured 
rot  to  respond  to  the  advances  which  met  him  from  one  side  and  another, 
lut  there  were  but  few  of  the  people,  except  Miss  Bellingham,  with 
v  horn  he  felt  any  very  real  sympathy,  beyond  that  of  gratitude  and  good- 
fHlowship.  Colonel  Hambledon  was  his  friend,  but  he  was  almost  con- 
stantly away,  and  the  Wargraves  too  only  came  down  from  time  to  time. 
Jack  would  have  liked  to  see  more  of  Mrs.  Myles,  the  pretty  widow,  but 
s  le  was  the  only  person  in  the  place  who  seemed  to  avoid  him.  Colonel 
C  oote  was  a  silly  good-natured  old  man ;  Miss  Triquett  and  Miss  Moineaux 
^ere  scarcely  companions.  Talking  to  these  ladies,  who  agreed  with 
e  /ery  word  he  said,  was  something  like  looking  at  his  own  face  reflected  in 
a  spoon. 

Poor  Trevithic  used  to  long  to  fly  when  they  began  to  quote  his  own 
sisrmons  to  him ;  but  his  practice  was  better  than  his  preaching,  and  too 
k  nd-hearted  to  wound  their  feelings  by  any  expression  of  impatience,  he 
would  wait  patiently  while  Miss  Moineaux  nervously  tried  to  remember 
what  it  was  that  had  made  such  an  impression  upon  her  the  last  time  she 
h<  :ard  him  ;  or  Miss  Triquett  expressed  her  views  on  the  management  of 
tie  poor-kitchen,  and  read  out  portions  of  her  correspondence,  such  as  : 

"  MY  DEAREST  MAEIA, — I  have  delayed  answering  your  very  kind 
letter  until  the  return  of  the  warmer  weather.  Deeply  as  I  sympathize 
with  your  well-meant  efforts  for  the  welfare  of  your  poorer  neighbours,  I 
an  sorry  that  I  cannot  subscribe  to  the  fund  you  are  raising  for  the 
benefit  of  your  curate." 

"  My  aunt  is  blunt,  very  blunt,"  said  Miss  Triquett,  explaining  away  any 
lit  lie  awkwardness,  "but  she  is  very  good,  Mr.  Trevithic,  and  you  have 
sometimes  said  that  we  must  not  expect  too  much  from  our  relations  ;  I 
try  to  remember  that." 

It  was  impossible  to  be  seriously  angry.  Jack  looked  at  her  oddly  as 
she  stood  there  by  the  pump  in  the  market-place  where  she  had  caught 
hi  n.  How  familiar  the  whole  scene  was  to  him ;  the  village  street,  the 
gable  of  the  rectory  on  the  hill  up  above,  Miss  Triquett's  immovable  glare  ; 
—  a  stern  vision  of  her  used  to  rise  before  him  long  after  and  make  him 
almost  laugh,  looking  back  from  a  different  place  and  world,  with  strange 
eyos  that  had  seen  so  many  things  that  did  not  exist  for  him  in  those  dear 
tiresome  old  days. 

Jack  and  Miss  Triquett  were  on  their  way  to  the  soup-kitchen,  where  the 
district  meeting  was  held  once  a  month.  Seeing  Colonel  Hambledon  across 
tho  street,  Trevithic  escaped  for  a  minute  to  speak  to  him,  while  Triquett 
went  on.  The  ladies  came  dropping  in  one  by  one.  It  was  a  low  room  with  a 


598  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER, 

bow  window  on  the  street,  and  through  an  open  door  came  a  smell  of 
roast-mutton  from  the  kitchen,  where  a  fire  was  burning ;  and  a  glimpse 
of  a  poultry-yard  beyond  the  kitchen  itself.  There  were  little  mottos  hung 
up  all  about  in  antique  spelling,  such  as  "  Caste  thy  bredde  upon  ye 
watteres,"  the  fancy  and  design  of  Mrs.  Yickers,  the  present  manager. 
She  was  very  languid,  and  high-church,  and  opposed  to  Miss  Triquett  and 
her  friend  Miss  Hutchetts,  who  had  reigned  there  before  Mrs.  Yickers' 
accession.  This  housekeeping  was  a  serious  business.  It  was  a  labour 
of  love,  and  of  jealousy  too  :  each  district  lady  took  the  appointment  in 
turn,  while  the  others  looked  on  and  ratified  her  measures.  There  was  a 
sort  of  house  of  commons  composed  of  Miss  Sirnmonds,  who  enjoyed  a 
certain  consideration  because  she  was  so  very  fat ;  good  old  Mrs.  Fox,  with 
her  white  hair  ;  and  Mrs.  Champion,  a  sort  of  lord  chancellor  in  petticoats  ; 
and  when  everybody  made  objections  the  housekeeper  sometimes  resigned. 
Mrs.  Yickers  had  held  firm  for  some  months,  and  here  she  is  sorting  out 
little  tickets,  writing  little  bills  into  a  book,  and  comparing  notes  with  tho 
paper  lists  which  the  ladies  have  brought  in." 

"  Two-and-sixpence  a  week  for  her  lodging,  three  children,  two 
deformed  ;  owes  fifteen  shillings,  deserted  wife,  can  get  no  relief  from  the 
parent,"  Miss  Moineaux  reads  out  from  her  slip. 

"That  is  a  hopeless  case,"  says  Mrs.  Champion;  "let  her  go  into 
the  workhouse." 

"  They  have  been  there  for  months,"  says  Miss  Moineaux,  perhaps. 

"It  is  no  use  trying  to  help  such  people,"  says  Miss  Triquett, 
decidedly. 

"Here  is  a  pretty  doctrine,"  cried  Miss  Simmonds;  "  the  worse  off 
folks  are  the  less  help  they  may  expect." 

"  When  people  are  hopelessly  lazy,  dirty,  and  diseased,"  said  Miss 
Triquett,  with  some  asperity,  "the  money  is  only  wasted  which  might  be 
invaluable  to  the  deserving.  As  long  as  I  am  entrusted  with  funds  from 
this  charity,  I  shall  take  care  they  are  well  bestowed." 

"  I — I  have  promised  Gummers  some  assistance,"  faltered  Miss 
Moineaux. 

Miss  Simmonds.  "And  she  Ought  to  have  it,  my  dear." 

Miss  T.  "I  think  you  forget  that  it  is  for  Mr.  Trevithic  to  decide." 

Miss  8.  "I  think  you  are  forgetting  your  duty  as  a  Christian  woman." 

Miss  T.  "I  choose  to  overlook  this  insult.  I  will  appeal  to  Mr. 
Trevithic." 

Miss  8.  "  Pray  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  forgive  me,  Miss  Triquett, 
or  to  appeal  to  any  one.  Never  since  Miss  Hutchetts  went  away 

Miss  T.  "  Miss  Hutchetts  is  my  friend,  and  I  will  not  allow  her  namo 
to  be " 

Exit  Miss  Moineaux  in  alarm  to  call  for  assistance.  Miss  Hutchetts, 
as  they  all  know,  is  the  string  of  the  shower-bath,  the  war-cry  of  the 
Amazons. 

The  battle  was  raging  furiously  when  Miss  Moineaux  came  back  and 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  599 

:lung  herself  devotedly  into  the  melee.  Miss  Triquett  was  charging  right 
;ind  left,  shells  were  flying,  artillery  rattling.  It  was  a  wonder  the  windows 
~,?ere  not  broken. 

Mrs.  Champion  was  engaged  with  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  Miss 
Simmonds.  Mrs.  Vickers  was  laughing,  Miss  Moineaux  was  trembling  ; 
out  of  the  window  poured  such  a  clamorous  mob  of  words  and  swell  of 
iroices  that  John  and  the  Colonel  stopped  to  listen  instead  of  going  in. 
A  dog  and  a  puppy,  attracted  by  the  noise,  stood  wagging  their  tails  in 
ihe  sun." 

"  Hutchetts — Christian  dooty — dirty  children — statistics — gammon," 
that  was  Miss  Simmonds'  voice,  there  was  no  mistaking.  "  Ladies,  I 
beg,"  from  Mrs.  Vickers ;  and  here  the  alarm-bell  began  to  ring  ten 
minutes  before  the  children's  dinner,  and  the  sun  shone,  and  the  heads 
bobbed  at  the  window,  and  all  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  lull. 

Trevithic,  who  like  a  coward  had  stopped  outside  while  the  battle  was 
i  aging,  ran  up  the  low  flight  of  steps  to  see  what  had  been  going  on 
now  that  the  danger  was  over,  the  guns  silent,  and  the  field,  perhaps, 
strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying.  No  harm  was  done,  he  found, 
A /hen  he  walked  into  the  room,  only  Miss  Triquett  was  hurt,  her  feelings 
1  ad  been  wounded  in  the  engagement,  and  she  was  murmuring  that  her 
fiend  Miss  Hutchetts'  character  as  a  gentlewoman  had  been  attacked, 
but  no  one  was  listening  to  her.  Mrs.  Vickers  was  talking  to  a  smiling 
and  pleasant-looking  lady,  who  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
I  don't  know  by  what  natural  art  Mary  Myles  had  quieted  all  the  turmoil 
vhich  had  been  raging  a  minute  before,  but  her  pretty  winsome  ways 
tad  an  interest  and  fascination  for  them  all ;  for  old  Miss  Triquett  herself, 
v  ho  had  not  very  much  that  was  pleasant  or  pretty  to  look  at,  and  who 
ty  degrees  seemed  to  be  won  over  too  to  forget  Miss  Hutchetts,  in  her 
interest  in  what  this  pretty  widow  was  saying, — it  was  only  something 
about  a  school-treat  in  her  garden.  She  stopped  short  and  blushed  as 
Trevithic  came  in.  "  Oh,  here  is  Mr.  Trevithic,"  she  said;  "I  will  wait 
till  he  has  finished  his  business." 

Jack  would  rather  not  have  entered  into  it  in  her  presence,  but  he 
b  3gan  as  usual,  and  plodded  on  methodically,  and  entered  into ,  the 
niysteries  of  soup  meat,  and  flannelling,  and  rheumatics,  and  the  various 
ills  and  remedies  of  life,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  certain  scorn  for 
h  mself,  and  embarrassment  and  contempt  for  the  shame  he  was  feeling ; 
a:  id  as  he  caught  Mary  Myles'  bright  still  eyes  curiously  fixed  upon  him, 
J;ick  wondered  whether  anywhere  else  in  the  world,  away  from  these 
ci  rious  glances,  he  might  not  find  work  to  do  more  congenial  and  worthy  of 
tl  e  name.  It  was  not  Mrs.  Myles'  presence  which  affected  him  so  greatly, 
bi  it  it  seemed  like  the  last  grain  in  the  balance  against  this  chirrupping 
tc  i-drinking  life  he  had  been  leading  so  long.  It  was  an  impossibility  any 
lo  ager.  He  was  tired  of  it.  There  was  not  one  of  these  old  women  who 
was  not  doing  her  part  more  completely  than  he  was,  with  more  heart  and 
gc  od  spirit  than  himself. 


600  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

Some  one  had  spoken  to  him  of  a  workhouse  chaplaincy  going  begging 
at  Hammersley,  a  great  inland  town  on  the  borders  of  Wales.  Jack  was 
like  a  clock  which  begins  to  strike  as  soon  as  the  hands  point  to  the  hour. 
That  very  night  he  determined  to  go  over  and  see  the  place  ;  and  he  wrote 
to  a  friend  of  his  at  Hammersley  to  get  him  permission,  and  to  tell  the 
authorities  of  the  intention  with  which  he  came. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AN    OGRESS. 

WHEN  John  Trevithie,  with  his  radiant  cheerful  face,  marched  for  the  first 
time  through  the  wards  of  St.  Magdalene's,  the  old  creatures  propped  up  on 
their  pillows  to  see  him  pass,  both  the  master  and  mistress  went  with  him, 
duly  impressed  with  his  possible  importance,  and  pointed  out  one  person 
and  another ;  and  as  the  mighty  trio  advanced  the  poor  souls  cringed,  and 
sighed,  and  greeted  them  with  strange  nods,  and  gasps,  and  contortions. 
John  trudged  along,  saying  little,  but  glancing  right  and  left  with  his 
bright  eyes.  He  was  very  much  struck,  and  somewhat  overcome  by  the 
sight  of  so  much  that  was  sad,  and  in  orderly  rows,  and  a  blue  cotton 
uniform.  Was  this  to  be  his  charge  ?  all  these  hundreds  of  weary  years, 
all  these  aching  limbs  and  desolate  waifs  from  stranded  homes,  this 
afflicted  multitude  of  past  sufferings.  He  said  nothing  but  walked  along 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  in  vain  to  see  some  face  brighten  at 
the  master's  approach.  The  faces  worked,  twitched,  woke  up  eagerly,  but 
not  one  caught  the  light  which  is  reflected  from  the  heart.  What  endless 
wards,  what  a  labyrinth  of  woes  enclosed  in  the  whitewashed  walls.  A 
few  poor  prints  of  royal  personages,  and  of  hop -gathering,  and  Christmas 
out  of  the  London  News,  were  hanging  on  them.  Whitewash  and  blue 
cotton,  and  weary  faces  in  the  women's  wards ;  whitewash  and  brown  fustian, 
and  sullen,  stupid  looks  in  the  men's :  this  was  all  Trevithie  carried  away 
in  his  brain  that  first  day  ; — misery  and  whitewash,  and  a  dull  choking 
atmosphere,  from  which  he  was  ashamed  almost  to  escape  out  into  the 
street,  into  the  square,  into  the  open  fields  outside  the  town,  across  which 
his  way  led  back  to  the  station. 

Man  proposes,  and  if  ever  a  man  honestly  proposed  and  determined  to 
do  his  duty,  it  was  John  Trevithie,  stretched  out  in  his  railway  corner, 
young  and  stout  of  heart  and  of  limb,  eager  for  change  and  for  work.  He 
was  not  very  particular  ;  troubles  did  not  oppose  him  morbidly.  He  had 
not  been  bred  up  in  so  refined  a  school  that  poverty  and  suffering  frightened 
him ;  but  the  sight  of  all  this  hopelessness,  age,  failure,  all  neatly  stowed 
away,  and  whitewashed  over  in  those  stony  wards,  haunted  him  all  the  way 
home.  They  haunted  him  all  the  way  up  to  the  rectory,  where  he  was  to  dine 
that  evening,  and  between  the  intervals  of  talk,  which  were  pretty  frequent 
after  Miss  Bellingham  had  left  the  room  and  the  two  gentlemen  to  their 
claret.  Jack  had  almost  made  up  his  mind,  and  indeed  he  felt  like  a 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER.  601 

traitor  as  he  came  into  the  drawing-room,  and  he  saw  how  Anne  brightened 
up  as  she  beckoned  him  across  the  room  and  made  him  sit  down  beside 
her.  A  great  full  harvest-moon  was  shining  in  at  the  window,  a  nightingale 
was  singing  its  melancholy  song,  a  little  wind  blew  in  and  rustled  round 
the  room,  and  Anne,  in  her  muslins  and  laces,  looked  like  a  beautiful  pale 
pensive  dream-lady  by  his  side.  Perhaps  he  might  not  see  her  again, 
he  thought  rather  sentimentally,  and  that  henceforth  their  ways  would  lie 
asunder.  But  how  kind  she  had  been  to  him.  How  pretty  she  was.  What 
graceful  womanly  ways  she  had.  How  sorry  he  should  be  to  part  from 
her.  He  came  away  and  said  good-by  quite  sadly,  looking  in  her  face 
with  a  sort  of  apology,  as  if  to  beg  her  pardon  for  what  he  was  going  to 
do.  He  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  be  sorry  that  he  should  leave  her — 
a  little  sorry,  although  she  was  far  removed  from  him.  •  The  nightingale 
sang  to  him  all  the  way  home  along  the  lane,  and  Jack  slept  very  sound, 
and  awoke  in  the  morning  quite  determined  in  his  mind.  As  his  landlady 
brought  in  his  breakfast-tray  he  said  to  himself  that  there  was  nothing 
more  to  keep  him  at  Sandsea,  and  then  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Mr.  Bellingham  that  instant,  and  sent  up  the  note  by  Mrs.  Bazley's  boy. 

A  little  later  in  the  day  Trevithic  went  over  to  the  rectory  himself.  He 
\vanted  to  get  the  matter  quite  settled,  for  he  could  not  help  feeling  sorry 
is  he  came  along  and  wondering  whether  he  had  been  right  after  all.  He 
asked  for  the  rector  and  the  man  showed  him  into  the  study,  and  in  a 
ninute  more  the  door  opened,  but  it  was  Miss  Bellingham,  not  her  father, 
who  came  in. 

She  looked  very  strange  and  pale,  and  put  out  two  trembling  hands,  in 
one  of  which  she  was  holding  John's  letter. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Trevithic,  what  is  this  ?  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  she  said. 

What  indeed  ?  he  need  never  have  written  the  words,  for  in  another 
ninute,  suddenly  Miss  Bellingham  burst  into  tears. 

They  were  very  ill-timed  tears  as  far  as  her  own  happiness  was 
concerned,  as  well  as  that  of  poor  John  Trevithic,  who  stood  by  full 
of  compassion,  of  secret  terror  at  ,his  own  weakness,  of  which  for  the 
nrst  time  he  began  to  suspect  the  extent.  He  was  touched  and  greatly 
Affected.  He  walked  away  to  the  fireplace  and  came  back  and  stood 
before  her,  an  honest,  single-hearted  young  fellow,  with  an  immense 
Compassion  for  weak  things,  such  as  women  and  children,  and  a  great 
confidence  in  himself;  and  as  he  stood  there  he  flushed  in  a  struggle 
of  compassion,  attraction,  revulsion,  pity,  and  cruel  disappointment. 
'Chose  tears  coming  just  then  relieved  Anne  Bellingham's  heavy  heart 
:.s  they  flowed  in  a  passionate  stream,  and  at  the  same  time  they 
iiuenched  many  a  youthful  fire,  destroyed  in  their  track  many  a  dream 
of  battle  and  victory,  of  persevering  struggle  and  courageous  efforts 
lor  the  rights  of  the  wronged  upon  earth.  They  changed  the  course  of 
Trevithic's  life  at  the  time,  though  in  the  end,  perhaps,  who  shall  say 
that  it  was  greatly  altered  by  the  complainings  and  foolish  fondness  of  this 
}  >oor  soul  whom  he  was  now  trying  to  quiet  and  comfort  ?  I,  for  my  part, 

29—5 


602  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

don't  believe  that  people  are  so  much  affected  by  circumstance  in  the 
long  run  as  some  people  would  have  it.  We  think  it  a  great  matter  that 
we  turned  to  the  right  or  the  left ;  but  both  paths  go  over  the  hill.  Jack, 
as  his  friends  called  him,  had  determined  to  leave  a  certain  little  beaten 
track  of  which  he  was  getting  weary,  and  he  had  come  up  to  say  good-by  to 
a  friend  of  his,  and  to  tell  her  that  he  was  going,  and  this  was  the  result. 

-  She  went  on  crying — she  could  not  help  herself  now.  She  was  a 
fragile -looking  little  thing,  a  year  or  so  younger  than  Jack,  her  spiritual 
curate  and  future  husband,  whom  she  had  now  known  for  two  years. 

"  You  see  there  is  nothing  particular  for  me  to  do  here,"  he  stammered, 
blushing.  "  A  great  strong  fellow  like  myself  ought  to  be  putting  his 
shoulder  to  the  wheel." 

"  I — I  had  so  hoped  that  you  had  been  happy  here  with  us,"  said 
Miss  Bellingham. 

"  Of  course  I  have  been  happy — happier  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my 
life,"  said  Jack,  with  some  feeling  ;  "  and  I  shall  never  forget  your  kind- 
ness ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  have  been  too  happy.  This  is  a  little  haven 
where  some  worn-out  old  veteran  might  recruit  and  grow  young  again  in 
your  kind  keeping.  It's  no  place  for  a  raw  recruit  like  myself." 

"  Oh,  think — oh,  think  of  it  again,"  faltered  Anne.  ''Please  change 
your  mind.  We  would  try  and  make  it  less — less  worldly — more  like 
what  you  wish." 

"  No,  dear  lady,"  said  Trevithic,  half  smiling,  half  sighing.  "  You 
are  goodness  and  kindness  itself,  but  I  must  be  consistent,  I'm  afraid. 
Nobody  wants  me  here ;  I  may  be  of  use  elsewhere,  and  ....  Oh  ! 
Miss  Bellingham,  don't — don't — pray  don't " 

"  You  know — you  know  you  are  wanted  here,"  cried  Miss  Bellingham  ; 
and  the  momentous  tears  began  to  flow  again  down  her  cheeks  all 
unchecked,  though  she  put  up  her  fingers  to  hide  them.  She  was 
standing  by  a  table,  a  slim  creature,  in  a  white  dress.  "  Oh,  forgive 
me !  "  she  sobbed,  and  she  put  out  one  tear- washed  hand  to  him,  and  then 
she  pushed  him  away  with  her  weak  violence,  and  went  and  flung  herself 
down  into  her  father's  big  chair,  and  leant  against  the  old  red  cushion  in 
an  agony  of  grief,  and  shame,  and  despair.  Her  little  dog  began  barking 
furiously  at  John,  and  her  bird  began  to  sing,  and  all  the  afternoon  sun 
was  streaming  and  blinding  into  the  room. 

"  Oh',  don't,  don't  despise  me,"  moaned  the  poor  thing,  putting  up  her 
weary  hand  to  her  head.  The  action  was  so  helpless,  the  voice  so  pathetic, 
that  Trevithic  resisted  no  longer. 

"  Despise  you,  my  poor  darling,"  said  John,  utterly  melted  and  over- 
come, and  he  stooped  over,  and  took  the  poor  little  soul  into  his  arms. 
"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  that  we  two  must  never  be  parted  again,  and  if  I  go, 
you  must  come  with  me."  .... 

It  was  done.  It  was  over.  When  Jack  dashed  back  to  his  lodging 
it  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  so  great  that  he  had  hardly  time  to  ask 
himself  whether  it  was  for  the  best  or  the  worst.  The  tears  of  the  trembling 


THE   GIANT-KILLER,  603 

appealing  little  quivering  figure  had  so  unnerved  him,  so  touched  and 
affected  him,  that  he  had  hardly  known  what  he  said  or  what  he  did  not 
say,  his  pity  and  innate  tenderness  of  heart  had  carried  him  away  ;  it  was 
more  like  a  mother  than  a  lover  that  he  took  this  poor  little  fluttering  bird 
into  his  keeping,  and  vowed  and  prayed  to  keep  it  safe.  But  everything  was 
vague,  and  new,  and  unlifelike  as  yet.  The  future  seemed  floating  with 
shadows  and  vibrations,  and  waving  and  settling  into  the  present.  He 
had  left  home  a  free  man,  with  a  career  before  him,  without  ties  to  check 
him  or  to  hold  him  back  (except,  indeed,  the  poor  old  mother  in  her  little 
house  at  Barfleet,  but  that  clasp  was  so  slight,  so  gentle,  so  unselfish,  that 
it  could  scarcely  be  counted  one  now).  And  now,  *  Chained  and  bound  by 
the  ties  of  our  sins,'  something  kept  dinning  in  his  bewildered  brain. 

Mrs.  Bazley  opened  the  door  with  her  usual  grin  of  welcome,  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  lunched,  or  if  she  should  bring  up  the  tray.  Trevithic 
shook  his  head,  and  brushed  past  her  up  the  stairs,  leaping  three  or  four 
at  a  time,  and  he  dashed  into  his  own  room,  and  banged  the  door,  and 
went  and  leant  up  against  the  wall,  with  his  hand  to  his  head,  in  a  dizzy, 
sickened,  miserable  bewilderment,  at  which  he  himself  was  shocked  and 
frightened.  What  had  he  done,  what  would  this  lead  to  ?  He  paced  up 
and  down  his  room  until  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  then  he  went 
back  to  the  rectory.  Anne  had  been  watching  for  him,  and  came  out  to 
meet  him,  and^slid  her  jealous  hand  in  his  arm. 

"  Come  away,"  she  whispered.  "  There  are  some  people  in  the 
house.  Mary  Myles  is  there  talking  to  papa.  I  have  not  told  him  yet. 
I  can't  believe  it  enough  to  tell  any  one." 

John  could  hardly  believe  it  either,  or  that  this  was  the  Miss  Bel- 
lingham  he  had  known  hitherto.  She  seemed  so  dear,  so  changed,  this 
indolent  county  beauty,  this  calm  young  mistress  of  the  house,  now 
bright,  quick,  excited,  moved  to  laughter  :  a  hundred  sweet  tints  and 
colours  seemed  awakened  and  brought  to  light  which  he  had  never 'noticed 
or  suspected  before. 

"  I  have  a  reason,"  Anne  went  on.  "I  want  you  to  speak  of  this  to 
no  one  but  me  and  papa.  I  will  tell  you  very  soon,  perhaps  to-morrow. 
Here,  come  and  sit  under  the  lilac-tree,  and  then  they  cannot  see  us  from 
the  drawing-room." 

Anne's  reason  was  this,  tjiat  the  rector  of  a  living  in  her  father's  gift 
was  dying,  but  she  was  not  sure  that  Jack  would  be  content  to  wait  for  a 
dead  man's  shoes,  and  she  gave  him  no  hint  of  a  scheme  she  had  made. 

The  news  of  John's  departure  spread  very  quickly,  but  that  of  his 
engagement  was  only  suspected  ;  and  no  allusion  to  his  approaching 
marriage  was  made  when  the  teapot  was  presented  to  him  in  state. 

I  have  ventured  to  christen  my  hero  Jack,  after  a  celebrated  champion 
of  that  name ;  but  we  all  know  how  the  giant-killer  himself  fell  asleep  in 
the  forest  soon  after  he  received  the  badge  of  honour  and  distinction  to 
which  he  was  so  fairly  entitled.  Did  poor  John  Trevithic,  now  the 
possessor  of  the  teapot  of  honour,  fall  asleep  thus  early  on  his  travels 


604  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

and  forget  all  his  hopes  and  his  schemes  ?  At  first,  in  the  natural  excite- 
ment of  his  engagement,  he  put  off  one  plan  and  another,  and  wrote  to 
delay  his  application  for  the  chaplaincy  of  the  workhouse.  He  had  made  a 
great  sacrifice  for  Anne  :  for  he  was  not  in  love  with  her,  as  he  knew  from 
the  very  beginning  :  but  he  soon  fell  into  the  habit  of  caring  for  her  and 
petting  her,  and,  little  by  little,  her  devotion  and  blind  partiality  seemed 
to  draw  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  new  ways  he  had  accepted.  The 
engagement  gave  great  satisfaction.  Hambledon  shook  him  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  said  something  about  a  better  vocation  than  Bumbledom  and 
workhouses.  Jack  bit  his  lips.  It  was  a  sore  point  with  him,  and  he  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  it. 

How  Anne  had  begged  and  prayed  and  insisted,  and  put  up  her  gentle 
hands  in  entreaty,  when  he  had  proposed  to  take  her  to  live  there. 

"  It  would  kill  me,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  John,  there  is  something  much 
better,  much  more  useful  for  you  coming  in  a  very  little  while.  I  wanted 
people  to  hear  of  our  marriage  and  of  our  new  home  together.  Poor  old 
Mr.  Yorken  is  dead.  Papa  is  going  to  give  us  his  Lincolnshire  living ;  it 
is  his  very  own.  Are  you  too  proud  to  take  anything  from  me,  to  whom 
you  have  given  your  life  ? ' '  And  her  wistful  entreaties  were  not  without 
their  effect,  as  she  clung  to  him  with  her  strange  jealous  eagerness.  The 
determined  young  fellow  gave  in  again  and  again.  He  had  fallen  into  one 
of  those  moods  of  weakness  and  irresolution  of  which  one  has  heard  even 
among  the  fiercest  and  boldest  of  heroes.  It  was  so  great  a  sacrifice  to 
him  to  give  up  his  dreams  that  it  never  occurred  to  him  for  a  moment 
that  he  was  deserting  his  flag.  It  w^as  a  strange  transformation  which  had 
come  over  this  young  fellow,  of  which  the  least  part  was  being  married. 

I  don't  know  whether  the  old  ladies  were  disappointed  or  not  that  he 
did  not  actually  go  away  as  soon  as  was  expected.  The  announcement  of 
his  marriage,  however,  made  up  for  everything  else,  and  they  all  attended 
the  ceremony.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trevithic  went  away  for  their  honeymoon, 
and  to  see  old  Mrs.  Trevithic  at  Barfleet,  and  then  they  came  back  to  the 
rectory  until  the  house  in  Lincolnshire  should  be  ready  to  receive  them. 

For  some  time  after  his  marriage,  Jack  could  hardly  believe  that  so 
great  an  event  had  come  about  so  easily.  Nothing  was  much  changed  ; 
the  port- wine  twinkled  in  the  same  decanters,  the  old  rector  dozed  off  in 
his  chair  after  dinner,  the  sunset  streamed  into  the  dining-room  from  the 
same  gap  in  the  trees  which  skirted  the  churchyard.  Anne,  in  the 
drawing-room  in  her  muslins  and  lilac  ribbons,  sewed  her  worsted  work 
in  her  corner  by  the  window,  or  strummed  her  variations  on  the  pianoforte. 
Tumty  tinkle  tumty — no — tinkle  tumty  tumty,  as  she  corrected  herself  at 
the  same  place  in  the  same  song.  "Do  you  know  the  songs  without 
words  ?  "  she  used  to  say  to  him  when  he  first  came.  Know  them  !  At 
the  end  of  six  weeks  poor  Jack  could  have  told  you  every  note  of  the 
half-dozen  songs  which  Anne  had  twittered  out  so  often,  only  she  put 
neither  song  nor  words  -to  the  notes,  nor  time,  nor  anything  but  pedals 
and  fingers.  One  of  these  she  was  specially  fond  of  playing.  It  begins 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  605 

with,  a  few  tramping  chords  and  climbs  on  to  a  solemn  blast  that  might 
be  sonnded  in  a  cathedral  or  at  the  triumphant  funeral  of  a  warrior  dying 
in  victory.  Anne  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to  play  this  with  expression, 
anc.  to  drag  out  the  crisp  chords — some  of  them  she  thought  sounded 
prettier  in  a  higher  octave — and  then  she  would  look  up  with  an  archly 
affectionate  smile  as  she  finished.  Jack  used  to  respond  with  a  kind 
little  nod  of  the  head  at  first,  but  he  could  not  admire  his  wife's  playing, 
and  he  wished  she  would  mind  her  music  and  not  be  thinking  of  herself 
and  nodding  at  him  all  the  time.  Had  he  promised  to  stuff  up  his  ears 
with  cotton-wool  and  to  act  fibs  at  the  altar  ?  He  didn't  know ;  he  rather 
thoMght  he  had — he — psha  !  Where  was  that  number  of  the  North  British 
Eeiiew  ?  and  the  young  man  went  off  into  his  study  to  look  for  it  and 
to  e  scape  from  himself. 

Poor  Jack !  He  dimly  felt  now  and  then  that  all  his  life  he  should  have 
to  listen  to  tunes  such  as  these,  and  be  expected  to  beat  time  to  them. 
Like  others  before  and  since,  he  began  to  feel  that  what  one  expects  and 
whfrt  is  expected  of  one,  are  among  the  many  impossible  conditions  of  life. 
Yoi  don't  get  it  and  you  don't  give  it,  and  you  never  will  as  long  as  you 
live,  except,  indeed,  when  Heaven's  sacred  fire  of  love  comes  to  inspire  and 
teach  you  to  do  unconsciously  and  gladly  what  is  clearer  and  nearer  and 
more  grateful  than  the  result  of  hours  of  straining  effort  and  self-denial.  ' 

But  these  hours  were  a  long  way  off  as  yet,  and  Jack  was  still  asking 
himself  how  much  longer  it  would  all  last,  and  how  could  it  be  that  he 
was  here  settled  for  life  and  a  married  man,  and  that  that  pale  little 
woman  with  the  straight  smooth  light  hair  was  his  wife,  and  that  fat  old 
gentleman  fast  asleep,  who  had  been  his  rector  a  few  weeks  ago,  was  his 
father-in*law  now,  while  all  the  world  went  on  as  usual,  and  nothing  had 
changed  except  the  relations  of  these  three  people  to  each  other  ? 

Poor  Jack  !  He  had  got  a  treasure  of  a  wife,  I  suppose.  Anne 
Bellingham  had  ruled  at  the  rectory  for  twenty-four  years  with  a  calm, 
despotic  sway  that  old  Mr.  Bellingham  never  attempted  to  dispute.  Gentle, 
obstinate,  ladylike,  graceful,  with  a  clear  complexion,  and  one  of  those 
thin  transparent  noses  which  some  people  admire,  she  glided  about  in  her 
full  flitting  skirts,  feeling  herself  the  prop  and  elegant  comforter  of  her 
father's  declining  years.  She  used  to  put  rosebuds  into  his  study ;  and 
thorgh  old  Mr.  Bellingham  didn't  care  for  flowers,  and  disliked  anything 
upon  his  table,  he  never  thought  of  removing  the  slender  glass  fabric  his 
daughter's  white  fingers  had  so  carefully  ornamented.  She  took  care  that 
clean  muslin  covers,  with  neat  little  bows  at  each  corner,  should  duly 
succeed  one  another  over  the  back  of  the  big  study  chair.  It  is  time  the 
muslin  scratched  Mr.  Bellingham' s  bald  head,  and  he  once  ventured  to 
remove  the  objectionable  pinafore  with  his  careful,  clumsy  old  fingers  ;  but 
next  day  he  found  it  was  firmly  and  neatly  stretched  down  in  its  place 
again,  and  it  was  beyond  his  skill  to  unpick  the  threads.  Anne  also  took 
care  that  her  father's  dressing  things  should  be  put  oitt  for  dinner ;  and  if 
the  poor  old  gentleman  delayed  or  tried  to  evade  the  ceremony,  the  startled 


606  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER, 

man  who  cleaned  the  plate  and  waited  upon  them  was  instructed  to  tell 
his  master  that  the  dressing-hell  had  rung  :  housemaids  came  in  to  tidy 
the  room ;  windows  were  opened  to  renew  the  air :  the  poor  rector  could 
only  retire  and  do  as  he  was  hid.  How  Anne  had  managed  all  her  life  to 
get  her  own  way  in  everything  is  more  than  I  can  explain.  It  was  a  very 
calm,  persistent,  commonplace  way,  but  every  one  gave  in  to  it.  And  so 
it  happened  that  as  soon  as  Jack  was  her  hushand,  Anne  expected 
that  he  was  to  change  altogether ;  see  with  her  pink,  watery  eyes ;  care 
for  the  things  she  cared  for  ;  and  he  content  henceforth  with  her  mild 
aspirations  after  county  society  in  this  world,  and  a  good  position  in  the 
next.  Anne  imagined,  in  some  vague  manner,  that  these  were  both  good 
things  to  be  worked  out  together  by  punctuality  on  Sundays,  family 
prayer,  a  certain  amount  of  attention  to  their  neighbours  (varying,  of 
course,  with  the  position  of  the  persons  in  question),  and  due  regard  for 
the  decencies  of  life.  To  see  her  rustling  into  church  in  her  long  silk 
dress  and  French  bonnet,  with  her  smooth  bands  of  hair,  the  slender 
hands  neatly  gloved,  and  the  prayer-book,  hymn-book,  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and  smelling-bottle,  all  her  little  phylacteries  in  their  places, 
was  an  example  to  the  neighbourhood.  To  the  vulgar  Christians  straggling 
in  from  the  lodging-houses  and  the  town,  and  displaying  their  flyaway  hats 
or  highly-pomatumed  heads  of  hair  ;  to  the  little  charity  children,  gaping 
at  her  over  the  wooden  gallery ;  to  St.  Mary  Magdalene  up  in  the  window, 
with  her  tangled  locks  ;  to  Mrs.  Coote  herself,  who  always  came  in  late,  with 
her  four  little  girls  tumbling  over  her  dress  and  shuffling  after  her  ;  not  to 
mention  Trevithic  himself,  up  in  his  reading  desk,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 
For  the  last  six  months,  in  the  excitement  of  his  presence,  in  the  disturbance 
of  her  usual  equable  frame  of  mind,  it  was  scarcely  the  real  Anne  B^lingham 
he  had  known,  or,  maybe  perhaps,  it  was  the  real  woman  stirred  out  of  her 
Philistinism  by  the  great  tender  hand  of  nature  and  the  wonderful  inspi- 
ration of  love.  Now,  day  by  day  her  old  ways  began  to  grow  upon  her. 
Jack  had  not  been  married  three  weeks  before  a  sort  of  terror  began  quietly 
to  overwhelm  him,  a  terror  of  his  wife's  genteel  infallibility.  As  for  Anne, 
she  had  got  what  she  wanted ;  she  had  cried  for  the  moon,  and  it  was 
hers ;  and  she,  too,  began  almost  immediately  to  feel  that  now  she  had 
got  it  she  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it  exactly.  She  wanted  it  to 
turn  the  other  way,  and  it  wouldn't  go,  and  to  rise  at  the  same  hour,  and 
it  seemed  to  change  day  by  day  on  purpose  to  vex  her. 

And  then  she  cried  again,  poor  woman  ;  but  her  tears  were  of  little 
avail.  I  suppose  Jack  was  very  much  to  blame,  and  certainly  at  this 
time  his  popularity  declined  a  little,  and  people  shrugged  their  shoulders 
and  said  he  was  a  lucky  young  fellow  to  get  a  pretty  girl  and  a  good 
living  and  fifteen  thousand  pounds  in  one  morning,  and  that  he  had 
feathered  his  nest  well.  And  so  he  had,  poor  fellow,  only  too  well,  for 
to  be  sunk  in  a  moral  feather-bed  is  not  the  most  enviable  of  fates  to  an 
active -minded  man  of  six  or  seven  and  twenty. 

The  second  morning  after  their  return  Anne  had  dragged  him  out  to 


JACK  THE   (HANT-KILLEB.  607 

he;  favourite  lilac-tree  bench  upon  the  height  in  the  garden,  from  whence 
yo'i  can  see  all  the  freshness  of  the  morning  brightening  from  bay  to  bay 
groen,  close  at  hand,  salt  wave  and  more  green  down  below,  busy  life  on 
land,  and  a  flitting,  drifting,  white-sailed  life  upon  the  water.  As 
Tr  ovithic  looked  at  it  all  with  a  momentary  admiration,  his  wife  said, — 

"  Isn't  it  much  nicer  to  be  up  here  with  me,  John,  than  down  in 
those  horrid  lodgings  in  the  town  ?  " 

And  John  laughed,  and  said,  Yes,  the  air  was  very  delicious." 

"  You  needn't  have  worked  so  hard  at  that  draining  if  you  had  been 
living  up  here,"  Anne  went  on,  quite  unconsciously.  "I  do  believe  one 
mij^ht  live  for  ever  in  this  place  and  never  get  any  harm,  from  those 
miserable  places.  I  hear  there  is  small-pox  in  Mark's  Alley.  Promise 
me,  dear,  that  you  will  not  go  near  them." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  go  if  they  want  me,"  said  John. 

"  No,  dearest,"  Anne  said  gently.  <l  You  have  to  think  of  me  first 
now.  It  would  be  wrong  of  you  to  go.  Papa  and  I  have  never  had  the 
sm;  ill-pox." 

Trevithic  didn't  answer.  As  his  wife  spoke,  something  else  spoke 
too.  The  little  boats  glittered  and  scudded  on;  the  whole  sight  was  as 
swt  et  and  prosperous  as  it  had  been  a  minute  before  ;  but  he  was  not 
loojdng  at  it  any  more ;  a  strange  new  feeling  had  seized  hold  of  him,  a 
devil  of  sudden  growth,  and  Trevithic  was  so  little  used  to  self- con- 
ten  plation  and  inner  experience,  that  it  shocked  him  and  frightened  him 
to  and  himself  standing  there  calmly  talking  to  his  wife,  without  any 
quarrel  angry  in  his  heart,  without  any  separation  parted  from  her. 
"  Anne  and  I  could  not  be  farther  apart  at  this  instant,"  thought  John, 
"if  I  were  at  the  other  side  of  that  sea,  and  she  standing  here  all 
alone." 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  said  poor  Anne,  affectionately,  brushing  a 
little  thread  off  his  coat. 

"  Can't  you  understand  ?  "  said  he,  drawing  away. 

"  Understand  ?  "  Anne  repeated.  "  I  know  that  you  are  naughty,  and 
wart  to  do  what  you  must  not  think  of." 

"  I  thought  that  when  I  married  you,  you  cared  for  the  things  that  I 
care  about,"  cried  poor  John,  exasperated  by  her  playfulness,  "  and  under- 
stood that  a  man  must  do  his  business  in  life,  and  that  marriage  does  not 
absolve  him  from  every  other  duty.  I  thought  you  cared — you  said  you 
did-— for  the  poor  people  in  trouble  down  there.  Don't  make  it  difficult 
for  me  to  go  to  them,  dear." 

•'  No,  dear  John.  I  could  not  possibly  allow  it,"  said  his  wife, 
decidedly.  "You  are  not  a  doctor;  it  is  not  your  business  to  nurse 
sma[l-pox  patients.  Papa  never  thinks  of  going  where  there  is  infection." 

•'  My  dear  Anne,"  said  John,  fairly  out  of  temper,  "  nobody  ever 
thought  your  father  had  done  his  duty  by  the  place,  and  you  must  allow 
your  husband  to  go  his  own  way,  and  not  interfere  any  more." 

'  It  is  very,  very  wrong  of  you,  John,  to  say  such  things,"  said  Anne, 


608  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER, 

flushing,  and  speaking  very  slowly  and  gentry.  "  You  forget  yourself  and 
me  too,  I  think,  when  you  speak  so  coarsely.  You  should  begin  your 
reforms  at  home,  and  learn  to  control  your  temper  before  you  go  and 
preach  to  people  with  dreadful  illnesses.  They  cannot  possibly  want  you, 
or  be  in  a  fit  state  to  be  visited." 

If  Anne  had  only  lost  her  temper,  flared  up  at  him,  talked  nonsense, 
he  could  have  borne  it  better,  but  there  she  stood,  quiet,  composed, 
infinitely  his  superior  in  her  perfect  self-possession.  Jack  left  her  all 
ashamed  of  himself,  in  a  fume  and  a  fury,  as  he  strode  down  into  the 
town. 

The  small-pox  turned  out  to  be  a  false  alarm,  spread  by  some  ingenious 
parishioners  who  wished  for  relief  and  who  greatly  disliked  the  visits  of 
the  excellent  district  ladies,  and  the  matter  was  compromised.  But  that 
afternoon  Miss  Triquett,  meeting  John  in  the  street,  gave  a  penetrating 
and  searching  glance  into  his  face.  He  looked  out  of  spirits.  Miss 
Triquett  noticed  it  directly,  and  her  heart,  which  had  been  somewlat 
hardened  against  him,  melted  at  once. 

Jack  and  his  wife  made  it  up.  Anne  relented,  and  something  of  her 
better  self  brought  her  to  meet  him  half-way.  Once  more  the  strange 
accustomed  feeling  came  to  him,  on  Sundays  especially.  Old  Billy  Hunsden 
came  cloppetting  into  church  just  as  usual.  There  was  the  clerk,  with  his 
toothless  old  warble  joining  in  with  the  chirp  of  the  charity-school  children. 
The  three  rows  of  grinning  little  faces  were  peering  at  him  from  the  organ- 
loft.  There  was  the  empty  bench  at  the  top,  where  the  mistress  sat 
throned  in  state  ;  the  marble  rolled  down  in  the  middle  of  the  second 
lesson,  with  all  the  children  looking  preternaturally  innocent  and  as  if  they 
did  not  hear  the  noise  ;  the  old  patches  of  colour  were  darting  upon  the 
pulpit  cushion  from  St.  Mary  Magdalene's  red  scarf  in  the  east  window. 
These  are  all  small  things,  but  they  had  taken  possession  of  my  hero,  John, 
one  afternoon,  who  was  preaching  away  the  first  Sunday  after  he  had  come 
back  from  his  wedding-trip,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said,  but  conscious 
of  Anne's  wistful  gaze  from  the  rectory  pew,  and  of  the  curious  eyes  of  all 
the  old  women  in  the  free- seats,  who  dearly  love  a  timely  word,  and  who 
had  made  up  their  minds  to  be  stirred  up  that  Sunday.  It  was  not  a  bad 
sermon,  but  it  was  of  things  neither  the  preacher  nor  his  congregation 
cared  to  hear  veiy  much. 


609 


Sattriste  xrf  % 


SCJIE  difference  of  opinion  has  always  existed  amongst  men  of  letters  as 
to  the  importance  which  ought  to  be  attached  to  the  work  done  by  satire 
in  the  world's  history.  Mr.  Hallam  was  inclined,  we  think,  to  underrate 
it  ;  which  is  the  more  remarkable  since  his  own  generation  afforded  a 
memorable  instance  of  its  influence.  Not  men  of  literature  only,  but  the 
gravest  politicians  of  both  sides,  were  agreed  that  Beranger  did  more  to 
overthrow  the  Bourbons  than  any  other  single  Frenchman.  And  Beranger' s 
siriple  instrument  was,  as  he  says  himself,  satire  chantee ;  he  did  his  work 
soJely  by  satirical  song.  The  poet  to  whom  he  is  oftenest  compared, 
Burns,  had  not  the  stimulant  of  a  revolution  to  give  his  wit  a  direction 
so  thoroughly  political.  Nevertheless,  Burns  too  produced  a  distinct 
social  effect  by  a  similar  exercise  of  his  talent.  He  helped  to  make  Scotch 
fanaticism  weak,  by  making  it  ludicrous  ;  and  consigned  "  Holy  Willie  " 
anl  his  comrades  to  the  same  ridiculous  list  in  which  Beranger  placed 
the  Jesuits  of  Charles  Dix.  Satire,  it  would  seem,  supplies  an  element 
which  is  necessary  to  the  complete  success  of  any  historical  movement. 
It  enlists  the  worldly  part  of  mankind  in  a  cause,  and  makes  them 
co  operate  with  the,  enthusiasts.  It  carries  great  questions  into  people's 
hours  of  amusement,  and  associates  them  with  fun  and  hilarity.  It 
represents,  essentially,  the  common-sense  view  of  affairs  ;  and  thus  acts 
as  a  check  even  on  the  extravagances  of  its  own  side.  Accordingly,  we 
hai'dly  know  a  period  of  importance  in  the  records  of  the  race  which  has 
nou  left  us  some  specimens  of  the  satirical  art.  Dig  where  we  will,  satirical 
weapons  are  found  ;  and  their  shape  and  make  throw  a  valuable  light  on 
the  generations  which  used  them.  The  loss  of  Aristophanes  would  have 
im  olved  the  loss  of  some  of  the  most  striking  qualities  of  the  Greek  lan- 
guage, and  of  a  thousand  instructive  details  of  Athenian  life.  The  loss  of 
Be  ••anger  would  involve  the  loss  of  some  of  the  most  classic  French  that  has 
be(  n  written  since  the  days  of  La  Fontaine  and  Racine  ;  and  would  blot  out 
a  chapter  in  the  history  of  Parisian  opinion  and  Parisian  manners. 

The  satirists  of  whom  we  are  now  to  speak  are  less  known  than  any. 
Fo;.1  the  most  part  they  wrote  in  Latin,  and  the  modern  Latin  writers  of 
En  rope  hang  suspended  between  the  ancient  and  modern  worlds  without 
belonging  to  either.  Nevertheless,  there  are  symptoms  that  the  literary 
character  of  the  Reformation  is  now  recognized  more  amply  than  it  used 
to  be,  of  which  Mr.  Seebohm's  late  volume  is  one.  The  popular  books  on 
the  subject  make  little  account  except  of  the  preachers, — who,  indeed, 
are  usually  spoken  of  as  the  Reformers  proper.  But  before  the  preachers 
covld  do  their  work  at  all,  the  way  had  been  prepared  for  them  by  scholars 


610  THE   SATIRISTS  OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

and  men  of  letters,  humorists  and  wits.  Reuchlin,  Erasmus,  Ulric  von 
Hutten,  Rabelais,  Sir  David  Lindsay,  and  Buchanan, — these  men  and 
their  friends  were  earlier  in  the  field  than  the  Luthers,  Calvins,  and 
Knoxes,  and  were  of  no  less  value  in  their  own  part  of  the  fight.  They 
supplied  the  ideas  of  the  great  revolution,  and  disseminated  them  amongst 
the  middle  and  upper  classes  by  whom  it  was  made.  They  prevented  it 
from  becoming  a  mere  mob  movement,  which  must  have  destroyed 
civilization,  and  led  to  a  reaction  tenfold  worse  than  that  which  actually 
took  place.  Nor  do  we  think  it  of  vital  consequence  that  some  of  them, 
like  Erasmus  and  our  own  More,  never  left  the  ancient  Church  at  all. 
Their  spirit  did  not  the  less  work  whether  in  the  modification  of  the  old 
institution,  or  the  formation  of  the  new.  Rabelais,  for  instance,  did  his 
share  of.  the  business  through  the  agency  of  successive  generations.  He 
was  an  ancestor  of  Moliere,  who  was  an  ancestor  of  Beranger ;  and  though 
France  remains  nominally  Roman  Catholic,  its  Catholicism  is  very 
different  from  what  it  would  have  been  but  for  the  wholesome  Rabelaisian 
inspiration.  And  so  with  the  good  Erasmus.  He  detested  schism,  and 
every  other  kind  of  disorder.  He  was  elderly  and  gouty  when  the 
stormy  part  of  the  Reformation  began.  He  died  in  unity  with  the  Holy 
See,  and  very  much  in  bad  odour  with  Luther  and  his  friends.  But  not 
a  grain  of  his  Attic  salt  was  lost  to  the  cause  of  improvement ;  and  the 
'memory  of  his  priestly  character  in  the  Church  has  long  been  merged  in 
that  of  his  higher  character  as  a  priest  of  letters.  He  was  a  scholar  by 
nature ;  he  was  a  priest  only  by  accident.  His  tonsure  is  altogether 
hidden  by  his  laurel. 

Of  the  life  of  Erasmus  a  sketch  wTas  given  in  this  Magazine  some 
time  ago,  but  our  notice  of  his  works  was  necessarily  casual  and  brief. 
We  do  not  disparage  him  by  calling  him  a  satirist,  for  comedy  was  one 
of  the  elements  in  which  he  lived ;  and  a  thousand  jets  of  playful  satire 
break  out  through  the  voluminous  pages  of  his  stately  folios.  His  satire 
is  of  the  Horatian  rather  than  the  Juvenalian  school ;  pleasant,  mirthful, 
pungent,  rather  than  ferocious  and  biting.  His  predominant  idea  is  to 
draw  a  contrast  between  the  simple  holiness  of  primitive  Christianity  and 
the  coiTupt  fabric  of  his  own  time ;  and  he  points  the  contrast  by 
humorous  little  delineations  of  contemporary  theologians  and  monks,  and 
humorous  little  hits  at  their  pedantry,  ignorance,  and  vices.  It  is 
characteristic  of  Erasmus  that  he  did  not  write  professed  satires.  He 
mixed  his  satire,  like  a  leaven,  with  serious  discussion  or  apparently 
harmless  comedy.  Thus,  in  the  dedication  of  his  edition  of  Jerome,  he 
says: — "We  kiss  the  old  shoes  and  dirty  handkerchiefs  of  the  saints, 
and  we  neglect  their  books,  which  are  the  more  holy  and  valuable  relics. 
We  lock  up  their  shirts  and  clothes  in  cabinets  adorned  with  jewels  .  .  . 
and  leave  their  writings  to  mouldiness  and  vermin."  And  in  the  Enco- 
mium Moria,  or  Praise  of  Folly,  which  he  wrote  in  London  after  his  visit 
to  Italy — about  1508 — he  does  not  come  to  ecclesiastical  abuses  until  he 
has  run  over  many  other  kinds  of  human  absurdity.  It  is  then,  with  a 


THE   SATIRISTS  OF   THE  REFORMATION.  Gil 

Tory  quiet  and  sly  irony — not  the  irony  of  a  Swift — that  he  shows  at  what 
a  disadvantage  the  Apostles  would  be  for  want  of  scholastic  knowledge  if 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  Scotists,  Thomists,  Albertists,  &c.  of  his 
time.  They  piously  consecrated  the  Eucharist,  he  says,  but  if  inter- 
rogated as  to  the  terminus  a  quo,  and  the  terminus  ad  quern,  or  as  to  the 
moment  of  time  when  transubstantiation  takes  place — seeing  that  the 
M  ords  effecting  it  are  in  flux-u — they  would  never  be  able  to  answer  with 
the  acumen  of  "the  Scotists.  Paul,  he  observes,  defines  faith  and  charity 
p  mini  mar/istraliter.  He  and  his  brother  Apostles  care  much  more  for 
these,  and  for  good  works,  than  for  the  opus  operans  and  the  opus 
o^eratum.  Nor  do  they  tell  us  whether  charity  be  a  substance  or  an 
accident,  a  created  or  an  uncreated  thing.  It  would  be  a  good  thing, 
Erasmus  thinks,  if  all  these  scholastic  sects  could  be  put  to  use — by 
bDing  sent  out  to  fight  the  Turks.  This  branch  of  his  satire  is  levelled  at 
the  old  educational  system,  which  was  a  vital  part  of  the  antique  state  of 
tilings,  and  which  he  and  his  friends,  such  as  Buda3us  in  France,  and 
Peuchlin  in  Germany,  were  labouring  to  supersede  by  the  classical 
li  orature, — the  chief  agent  in  the  intellectual  work  of  the  Reformation. 
But  he  deals  with  less  abstract  matters  presently,  and  complains  that 
p  -actical  piety  is  left  by  the  lay  rulers  of  the  world  to  the  plebs.  The 
p'ebs,  he  says,  hand  it  over  to  the  clergy  as  their  business  ;  the  secular 
clergy  hand  it  over  to  the  regulars  ;  the  laxer  regulars  to  the  stricter 
ones  ;  all  of  them  together  to  the  mendicants  ;  and  the  mendicants  to  the 
Carthusians, — amongst  whom  alone  piety  lies  buried,  and  so  buried  that 
it  is  scarcely  ever  to  be  seen  !  A  happy  illustration  of  the  true  Christian 
humility  follows,  where  Erasmus  reminds  his  readers  that  the  Holy  Spirit 
descended  in  the  form  of  a  dove,  and  not  of  an  eagle  or  a  kite.  Such  are 
a  few  of  the  most  characteristic  touches  of  the  Encomium  Moria,  written 
when  Erasmus  was  the  guest  of  More  (it  is  pleasant  to  remember  that 
h  s  very  best  friends  were  Englishmen),  and  illustrated  by  the  pencil  of 
1-1  olbein  with  satirical  engravings,  which  are  repeated  in  the  great  edition 
oi'  Le  Clerc. 

The  Colloquia  belong  to  a  later  period  of  the  scholar's  career ;  and 
besides  their  dramatic  liveliness  and  literature,  contain  many  amusing 
ssiirical  passages, — especially  against  the  monks,  who  were  the  favourite 
b  itts  of  the  men  of  letters,  or  "humanists,"  of  that  important  age.  It 
was  they  who  hated  the  new  literature  with  the  deadliest  hate — a  hate 
which  their  ignorance  of  it  well  matched.  It  was  their  declamatory 
p  -eaching  that  worked  on  the  superstitious  feelings  of  women  and  of  the 
rrbble.  So  their  greasy  gluttony,  their  brutal  illiterateness,  their  greed 
f(  r  money,  their  secret  riotousness  in  sin,  were  fair  game  for  satirists  of 
every  kind ;  and  Erasmus  loved  to  handle  them  with  the  playful  and 
elegant  mockery  which  Horace  had  brought  to  bear  on  the  sham  Stoics  of 
the  Roman  Empire.  Opening  the  Colloquia  at  the  dialogue  Funus,  we 
find  mendicants  of  four  orders  assembled  round  the  bed  of  a  dying  man. 
"  "What,"  exclaims  Marcolphus,  hearing  this,  "  so  many  vultures  to  one 


612  THE   SATIEISTS   OP  THE  REFORMATION. 

carcass  !  "  The  mendicants,  however,  have  a  squabble  in  the  hall,  while 
the  master  of  the  house  is  in  his  last  agony ;  and  representatives  of  a 
fifth  order,  the  Cruciferi,  having  come  in,  they  all  set  upon  them  unani- 
mously. The  superstitious  old  gentleman  is  finally  laid  on  ashes  in  the 
habit  of  a  Franciscan,  and  dies  with  a  Dominican  shouting  consolation 
into  one  ear,  and  a  Franciscan  into  the  other.  The  description  is  too 
picturesque  as  a  whole  to  be  capable  of  being  done  justice  to  in  such 
extracts  as  our  limits  permit.  We  wish  only  to  illustrate  the  character  of 
the  satire  of  Erasmus,  which  ranged  over  a  wide  field  of  obsolete  nuisances, 
• — foolish  pilgrimages,  hypocritical  funeral  pomp,  the  extravagant  adornment 
of  saintly  shrines,  the  superstitious  locking-up  of  poor  girls  in  convents, 
the  scandalous  brutalities  of  wars,  and  many  more.  Erasmus  did  not 
spare  the  dignitaries  of  the  Church  any  more  than  the  monks ;  though 
among  them  were  found  some  like  our  own  Archbishop  Warham,  who 
were  the  steadiest  friends  of  learning.  "  If  there  is  any  labour  to  be 
undertaken,"  says  he,  "  they  leave  it  to  Peter  and  Paul  who  have  plenty 
of  leisure  ;  but  the  splendour  and  pleasure  they  take  to  themselves."  One 
of  the  liveliest  ecclesiastical  sarcasms  in  the  Cotloquia  occurs  in  the  Charon, 
where  he  makes  the  old  ferryman  tell  Alastor  that  the  groves  in  the 
Elysian  Fields  have  all  been  used  up  for  burning  the  shades  of  the  heretics 
— exurendis  hcureticorum  umbris !  "We  have  been  obliged,"  Charon  adds, 
"to  go  to  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  coals."  The  whole  dialogue  is  a 
happy  adaptation  of  one  of  the  classical  traditions  to  modern  ideas. 
Another  and  still  more  exquisite  instance  of  this  occurs  in  the  Convivium 
Relifjiosum,  where  Erasmus  says  that  he  can  never  read  such  works  as  the 
Phado  of  Plato  without  longing  to  say  Sancte  Socrates,  ora  pro  nobis ! 
Few  men  have  owed  more  to  the  ancients  than  the  Sage  of  Kotterdam ; 
but  assuredly  still  fewer  have  paid  them  so  much  back. 

The  wit  of  Erasmus  was  not  confined  to  his  writings.  He  shot  out 
many  pleasant  bons  mcts  which  flew  over  Europe  ;  and  some  of  which 
stuck  like  barbs  in  the  fat  ribs  of  the  bigots.  "  The  fire  of  Purgatory," 
said  he,  "  is  very  useful  to  these  fellows'  kitchens."  "  Luther  has  done  two 
bad  things,"  he  told  the  Elector  Frederick  ;  "he  has  attacked  the  crown  of 
the  pope  and  the  bellies  of  the  monks."  He  expressed  his  wonder  that 
the  images  did  not  work  miracles  when  the  mobs  began  to  destroy  them  ; 
they  had  done  so  many  when  there  was  no  need  for  it.  The  Lutherans 
themselves  came  in  for  their  share  of  banter  from  the  old  humorist, 
whose  care  it  was  to  keep  an  "  honest  mean,"  as  Pope  says,  between  the 
parties.  It  was  observed  that  the  first  thing  an  ardent  Reformer  did  on 
breaking  with  the  Church  was  to  get  a  wife  ;  so  when  people  were  speak- 
ing of  the  movement  as  "  a  tragedy,"  "Nay,"  said  Erasmus,  "a  comedy, 
— where  the  end  is  generally  a  wedding."  Such  were  some  of  the  bubbles 
which  rose  to  the  surface  of  the  veteran's  favourite  burgundy  as  he  sat  in 
his  latter  years  in  Basle,  looking  out  on  the  world  with  the  solid  sagacious 
face,  and  the  large  mouth,  the  delicate  lines  of  which  suggest  sensibility 
and  humour,  so  familiar  to  us  all  on  the  canvas  of  Holbein. 


THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION.  G13 

That  Erasmus  was  the  greatest  of  all  the  satirists  of  the  Reformation, 
ar  d  the  one  who  had  most  influence  on  Europe,  no  competent  student  of 
this  branch  of  literature  will  deny.  The  place  of  honour  next  him  belongs 
to  another  scion  of  the  Teutonic  race,  the  knightly  wit,  the  daring  adven- 
turer, the  free-living  champion  of  the  Gospel  and  of  letters,  Ulric  von 
Huttcn.  Hutten  was  twenty-three  years  younger  than  Erasmus,  having 
been  born — at  his  ancestral  chateau  of  Stekelberg,  on  the  Maine,  of  one 
of  the  noblest  Franconian  families — in  1488.  He  was  sent  to  school  as  a 
boy  at  the  Abbey  of  Fulda,  from  which  he  ran  away  to  Cologne ;  and  this 
WLS  a  characteristic  commencement  of  his  wandering  existence.  From 
Cologne  he  went  to  Frankfort-on-the-Oder,  where  he  took  his  master's 
degree  in  arts.  He  is  next  found  in  the  north  of  Germany,  sustained  by 
tho  aid  of  the  Margrave  of  Brandenburg  ;  and  appears  at  Wittenberg  in 
1510.  Here  he  composed  his  Ars  Versificatoria,  after  which  he  wintered 
at  Vienna,  and  proceeded  in  1512  to  study  law  at  Pavia.  But  Pavia  was 
besieged  by  the  Swiss,  and  being  ill-treated  both  by  them  and  their  French 
enemies,  Hutten  made  for  Bologna.  About  this  period  he  was  so  poor 
that  he  enlisted  for  a  time  as  a  soldier  in  the  Austrian  army.  Returning 
to  Germany  in  1514,  he  vainly  paid  his  addresses  to  the  Emperor  Maxi- 
milian ;  but  was  received  into  the  service  of  De  Stein,  Chancellor  to  the 
Elactor  of  Mayence.  After  a  second  visit  to  Italy,  he  was  laureated  by 
tho  Emperor,  and  taken  into  the  employment  of  the  Elector  of  Mayence, 
who  sent  him  on  a  mission  to  Paris.  Soon  after,  he  joined  the  con- 
federates who  had  leagued  themselves  against  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg, 
tho  murderer  of  John  von  Hutten,  his  cousin ;  and  with  them  he  served  a 
campaign.  In  1519,  he  was  again  in  Mayence,  from  which  he  was 
expelled  for  his  violent  writings  against  Rome  ;  and  he  attached  himself 
to  Franz  von  Sickingen,  a  kindred  spirit,  who  perished  in  the  German 
fends  of  1523.  Hutten  fled  to  Switzerland,  and  died  in  the  island  of 
Ufaau,  on  the  Lake  of  Zurich,  in  1525. 

Such  is  a  brief  summary  of  the  career  of  a  man  whose  life  was  at  once 
a  romance  and  a  comedy ;  who,  half  soldier  of  fortune  and  half  literary 
adventurer,  and  living,  it  would  seem,  much  in  the  fashion  of  both  classes, 
joined  the  Lutherans  from  a  point  of  view  of  his  own,  and  did  essential 
service  to  their  cause.  He  was  a  reformer,  partly  as  a  humanist,  in  the 
interest  of  letters ;  and  partly  as  a  German,  who  disdained  to  be  governed 
in  spiritual  matters  from  the  other  side  of  the  Alps.  His  talent  was 
essentially  a  satirical  one,  ranging  from  pungent  eloquence,  in  such  works 
as  his  dialogue,  Vadiscus  or  Trias,  fiomana,  to  dramatic  invention  and 
rich  ludicrous  unctuous  humour,  in  the  famous  Epistola  Obscurorum 
Virorum,  the  appearance  of  which  makes  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the 
Reformation. 

The  fate  of  this  celebrated  satire  ("  the  great  national  satire  of 
Gei-many,"  as  Sir  William  Hamilton  has  called  it)  in  our  own  literature 
ha^  been  curious.  Wlienever  it  has  not  been  neglected,  it  has  been  the 
sulject  of  the  most  singular  blunders — the  last,  though  perhaps  the  least 


614  THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

surprising,  being  those  of  the  bookmakers  of  our  own  day.  "When  it  was 
reprinted  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  Steele  made  precisely  the  same  mistake  about 
it  which  had  been  made  by  British  Dominicans  and  Franciscans,  two  cen- 
turies before,  to  the  vast  amusement  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  He  took  the 
Epistles,  in  which  the  theologians  of  that  age  are  made  most  inimitably  to 
expose  themselves,  for  genuine  and  serious  ;  and  laughed  at  the  block- 
heads in  perfect  good  faith.  Our  other  English  humorists  seem  generally 
to  have  passed  them  over ;  and  it  was  reserved  for  Sir  William  Hamilton, 
whose  mighty  erudition  embraced  literature  and  philosophy  indifferently, 
to  do  them  full  justice  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  March,  1831.  Since 
then  the  Germans  have  bestirred  themselves  in  the  cause  of  Ulric  von 
Hutten's  memory ;  an  elaborate  edition  of  his  works  has  appeared  at 
Leipsic ;  and  the  EpistolcB  Obscurorum  Virorum  are  easily  accessible,  in 
good  forms,  to  all  who  wish  to  acquaint  themselves  with  one  of  the  memor- 
able satires  of  that  day.* 

The  Epistola  Obscurorum  Virorum  first  saw  the  light  in  1515-17,  eventful 
years,  when  the  war  between  the  old  and  the  new  filled  every  university 
town  in  Europe  with  clamour,  and  when  Luther  was  gradually  warming 
himself  up  to  the  pitch  at  which  he  broke  finally  with  the  Holy  See.  The 
immediate  cause  of  their  appearance  was  the  persecution  of  the  celebrated 
scholar,  Reuchlin,  by  the  theologians  of  Cologne,  which  disputed  with 
Louvain  the  dubious  honour  of  being  the  head- quarters  of  all  that  was 
obsolete,  narrow,  and  obscurantist  in  European  thought.  Among  Reuch- 
lin's  many  claims  to  respect  his  Hebrew  scholarship  was  one  of  the  chief ; 
and  it  was  on  this  side  that  he  was  attacked  by  the  authorities  of  the 
university  viz.  Tungern,  dean  of  the  faculty  of  theology;  Hoogstraten, 
the  prior  of  the  Dominican  convent ;  and  Ortuinus  Gratius  (Ortuin  von 
Graes),  the  hero  of  the  Epistola,  whose  name  will  live  in  comic  literature 
as  long  as  that  of  the  sausage-seller  of  Aristophanes,  the  Pantilius 
of  Horace,  the  Og  of  Dryden,  the  Sporus  of  Pope,  the  Tartuffe  of 
Moliere,  or  the  Marquis  de  Carabas  of  Beranger.  The  tool  used  by  these 
bigots  against  the  illustrious  Reuchlin  was  one  John  Pfeiferkorn,  of  whom 
Erasmus  says  that  from  a  wicked  Jew  he  had  become  a  most  wicked 
Christian  —  ex  scelerato  Judao  sceleratissimwn  Christianum.}  Four 
treatises  were  issued  against  the  Jewish  religion  in  the  name  of  this 
renegade ;  and  an  edict  was  obtained  from  the  Emperor  condemning  to 
the  flames  every  Hebrew  book  existing,  with  the  sole  exception  of  the 
Bible.  Reuchlin,  whose  opinion  had  been  asked  as  to  the  policy  of  this 
measure,  condemned  it,  and  was  immediately  attacked  by  Pfefferkorn. 
Reuchlin  replied ;  when  forty-three  propositions  extracted  from  his  answer 
were  condemned  by  the  dean,  and  he  was  summoned  to  recant.  The 
controversy  immediately  assumed  European  importance.  "Not  orjly  in 

*  The  edition  of  the  Epistolce  before  us  is  a  very  handy  little  volume,  printed 
by  Teubner  of  Leipsic  in  1858,  and  issued  here  by  Messrs.  Williams  and  Norgate 
that  year. 

f  ERASMUS:  Op.  iii.  1641. 


THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION.  615 

Germany,"  says  Sir  William  Hamilton,  "but  in  Italy,  France,  and  Eng- 
lanl,  a  confederation  was  organized  between  the  friends  of  humane 
learning.  The  cause  of  Beuchlin  became  the  cause  of  letters :  Europe 
was  divided  into  two  hostile  parties  ;  the  powers  of  light  stood  marshalled 
against  the  powers  of  darkness."  Hoogstraten  cited  Reuchlin  before  the 
Court  of  Inquisition  at  Metz,  and  in  spite  of  his  appeal  to  the  Pope, 
burned  his  books.  The  Pope  appointed  the  Bishop  of  Spires  to  settle  the 
matter,  and  he  settled  it  in  favour  of  the  scholar.  Hoogstraten  and  his 
frie  ids  now  appealed  in  their  turn  to  the  Pope ;  and  it  was  at  this  stage 
of  the  dispute,  before  Borne  finally  decided  against  Reuchlin's  persecutors, 
tha"  the  first  series  of. the  Epistola  Obscurorum  Virorum  burst  upon  the  world. 
The  plan  of  the  satire  is  simple,  but  dramatic  and  effective.  There 
had  been  recently  published  a  collection  of  the  letters  of  "illustrious" 
men  to  Reuchlin  ;  and  Ortuinus  Gratius  is  supposed  to  publish  those  of 
his  own  friends,  whom  he  modestly  calls  "  obscure  "  men,  in  his  turn. 
The  obscure  ones,  accordingly,  speak  for  themselves  in  all  the  freedom  of 
conidential  communication;  and  never  did  such  a  curious  set  of  marion- 
ette? gambol  before  the  world  as  those  of  which  Ulric  von  Hutten  and  his 
colleagues  in  the  task  pull  the  strings.  Now  it  is  Magister  Bernhardus 
Phrnilegus  writing  from  Leipsic  ;  now  it  is  Magister  Petrus  Hafenmusius 
writing  from  Niirenberg  ;  or  Magister  Hiltbrandus  Mammaceus  from 
Tiilingen  ;  or  Magister  Gerhardus  Schirruglius,  from  Mayence.  But  a 
family  likeness  runs  through  the  whole  of  them.  A  stolid  brutal  igno- 
rance, enlivened  by  the  most  unaffected  self-conceit;  a  bigotry  never 
modified  by  the  shadow  of  a  doubt ;  a  sly,  oily  sensualism,  to  which  the 
very  hypocrisy  accompanying  it  seems  to  lend  additional  piquancy — these 
are  he  common  features  of  the  race.  Their  mere  Latin  is  delicious  by 
its  homely  barbarism  ;  and  this  is  one  chief  charm  of  the  letters  to  which 
no  iranslation  can  do  justice.  It  is  especially  effective  when  the  writer 
com  nunicates  any  of  the  poems  produced  on  his  side  of  the  Reuchlin 
controversy,  such  as  the  following,  suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  Uni- 
vers  ty  of  Paris  had  declared  for  Cologne  : — 

Qui  vult  legcre  hereticas  pravitates 

Et  cum  hoc  discere  bonas  latinitates, 

Hie  debet  emere  Parrhisiensium  acta 

Et  scripta  de  Parrhisia  nuper  facta, 

Quomodo  Reuchlin  in  fide  erravit, 

Sicut  magister  noster  Tungarus  doctrinaliter  probavit. 

Ilia  vult  magister  Ortuinus  legere 

Gratis,  in  hac  alma  universitate, 

Et  cum  hoc  textum  ubique  glosare 

Nccnon  quaedam  notabilia  in  margine  notare, 

Et  vult  arguere  pro  et  contra, 

Sicut  fecerunt  Theologi  in  Parrhisia, 

*  *  *  * 

17 1  sciunt  fratres  Carmelite 
Et  alii  qui  vocantur  Jacobite.* 

*  Epist.  Ob.  Vir.  vol.i,  p.  22. 


616  THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

The  perfect  contentment  of  the  crew  at  once  with  their  dog-Latin  and 
their  ignorance  of  the  humanities  generally,  is  a  favourite  point  with  Hutten 
and  his  friends.  "  He  writes  Greek,  too,"  says  one  of  them  about  Erasmus, 
' 'which  he  ought  not  to  do,  because  we  are  Latins  and  not  Greeks.  If 
he  wants  to  write  what  nobody  can  understand,  why  does  he  not  write 
Italian,  and  Bohemian,  and  Hungarian?"*  "  These  poets,"  another 
writer  says,  "  are  truly  reprehensible  ;  and  when  anybody  writes  anything, 
they  say — '  See  there,  see  there,  that  is  not  good  Latin  ! '  and  they  come 
here  with  their  new  terms,  and  confound  the  ancient  grammar."  f  "  Our 
masters  ought  to  issue  a  mandate,"  observes  Petrus  Lapp,  licentiate, 
"  that  no  jurist  or  poet  shall  write  anything  in  theology,  and  shall  not 
introduce  that  new  Latinity  into  sacred  theology,  as  John  Reuchlin  has 
done,  and  a  certain  person,  as  I  hear,  who  is  called  the  Proverbia 
Erasmi  (!)  .  .  If  they  say  that  they  know  Greek  and  Hebrew  learning, 
you  have  the  answer  that  such  learning  is  not  cared  for  by  theologians, 
because  Sacred  Scripture  is  sufficiently  translated,  and  we  do  not  need 
other  translations.  The  Greeks  have  gone  away  from  the  Church  :  there- 
fore, also,  they  ought  to  be  held  as  enemies,  and  their  knowledge  ought  not 
to  be  practised  (practicari)  by  Christians."  |  Another  worthy,  Magister 
Bartholomeus  Kuckuck,  confirms  the  erudite  Lapp's  view  by  insisting  that 
"Greek  is  not  of  the  essence  of  Sacred  Scripture;"  while  Dominus 
Volwinius  de  Monteflascon  remarks,  for  his  part,  that  Paul  having  said 
that  the  Greeks  were  always  liars,  their  literature  was  necessarily  nothing 
but  a  lie.  Virgil  having  been  mentioned  in  the  presence  of  one  of  the 
correspondents  of  Ortuinus  Gratius,  he  tells,  with  much  complacency, 
how  he  exclaimed — "  What  do  I  care  for  that  pagan  ?"  That  so  much 
of  the  fun  of  the  Epistolce  should  be  derived  from  the  illiterate  character 
of  the  Popish  theologians,  shows  how  essential  a  part  learning  was  of  the 
whole  movement  of  the  Reformation.  Europe  was,  in  fact,  deodorised  by 
the  free  dispersion  of  the  delightful  essences  long  hidden  in  the  buried 
caskets  of  classical  literature. 

As  may  be  supposed,  the  Epistola  Obscurorum  Virorum  throw  a  good 
deal  of  light  on  the  social  habits  of  the  clergy  and  monks  of  the  old  days. 
There  seems  to  have  been  no  little  beer  and  wine  swilling  amongst  them, 
— the  Greek  wine  being  held  in  an  esteem  which  (as  we  have  just  seen) 
they  did  not  by  any  means  extend  to  the  Greek  language.  In  one  of  the 
letters  §  occurs  the  famous  ecclesiastical  story  of  the  divine  who  on  first 
tasting  "  lachryma  Christi,"  breathed  a  pious  wish  that  our  Lord  had  wept 
in  his  native  land.  With  regard  to  the  morality  attributed  to  the  body  in 
other  respects,  it  is  as  bad  as  bad  can  be ;  and  it  is  exposed  with  the 
freedom  of  Rabelais,  and  with  hardly  less  than  his  gross  jolly  humour. 
The  satire  of  the  E2mtola  is  indeed  perfectly  unrestrained.  That  Ortuinus 

*  Ep.  Ob.  Vir.  i.  148.  f  Ib.  ii.  265.  J  Ep.  Ob.  Vir.  ii.  270-1. 

§  Vol.  ii.  p.  211.  We  always  quote  from  the  edition  of  1858,  referred  to  in  a 
previous  note. 


THE    SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION.  617 

Gratius  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  priest,  and  the  nephew  of  a  hangman, 
is  evidently  thought  an  excellent  jest ;  while  an  intimate  relation  between 
him  and  the  wife  of  the  renegade  Jew,  Pfefferkorn,  is  assumed  as  a 
biown  fact,  and  made  the  subject  of  a  score  of  playful  allusions.  Plainer 
speaking  on  all  this  side  of  life  than  that  of  the  Epislola  Obscurontm 
V'.romm  is  not  to  be  found  in  satirical  literature  from  Aristophanes  down- 
wards ;  while  Erasmus,  though  still  too  free  for  our  modern  tastes,  is 
reserved,  and  even  prudish  in  comparison.  The  exact  amount  of  truth  in 
all  these  charges  of  licentiousness  cannot,  we  suppose,  be  determined  ;  but 
they  come  from  so  many  different  countries,  and  such  different  men,  that 
it  is  impossible  to  suppose  them  mere  libels.  The  very  fact  that  the 
Epistola  were  ever  mistaken  by  the  Romish  party  for  a  bond  fich  body  of 
correspondence  shows  that  the  immorality  which  they  assume  in  their 
writers  did  not  necessarily  prove  their  fictitious  character  in  the  eyes  of 
the  orthodox.  Yet  the  orthodox  were  ready  to  admit  their  barbarism  in 
pcint  of  style.  "  It  is  well  worth  seeing,"  Sir  Thomas  More  writes  to 
Erasmus,  in  October,  1516,  "how  much  the  Epistolcs  Obscurorum  Virorum 
please  everybody, — the  learned  in  sport,  but  the  unlearned  in  earnest,  who, 
while  we  laugh,  think  that  we  are  laughing  only  at  the  style,  which  they  do 
not  defend,  but  say  that  it  is  compensated  by  the  weight  of  the  thoughts, 
and  that  a  most  beautiful  sword  lies  hidden  in  the  rude  scabbard."  * 
Erasmus  himself,  in  a  letter  to  Martinus  Lipsius,  not  only  corroborates 
this,  but  adds  an  almost  incredible  anecdote  about  the  delusion.  "  A 
Dominican  prior  in  Brabant,"  he  relates,  "  wishing  to  make  himself  known 
to  the  patricians,  bought  a  heap  of  these  books,  and  sent  them  to  the  chiefs 
of  the  order,  never  doubting  that  they  were  written  in  its  honour." 

"  Yet  these  are  they,"  adds  Erasmus,  "  who  are  the  Atlases,  as  they 
think  themselves,  of  the  tottering  church,  .  .  .  these  pronounce  on  the 
books  of  Erasmus,  and  according  to  their  good  will,  we  are  Christians  or 
heretics."  f 

Erasmus,  like  the  rest  of  the  cultivated  world,  had  been  mightily 
amused  by  the  fun  of  the  Epislola ;  and  there  is  an  old  story  that  he 
laughed  so  heartily  in  reading  them  as  to  break  an  imposthume  from  which 
he  was  suffering  at  the  time.  But  Erasmus  did  not  approve  the  famous 
satire,  the  scathing  severity  of  which,  its  riotous  freedom,  and  its  daring 
liberties  with  living  names,  were  quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  tone  of  his 
own  Horatian  and  Addisonian  pleasantry.  He  was  particularly  annoyed 
that  his  name  should  be  used  so  freely  in  the  second  volume  ;  and  he 
must  have  winced  at  the  pungent  little  sentence  in  one  of  the  letters, — 
Erasmus  cst  homo  pro  se  !  It  is  painful  to  remember  that  the  gallant  and 
brilliant  Ulric  von  Hutten  died  his  enemy ;  one  of  the  latest  pieces  of 
work  he  did  in  the  world  having  been  to  write  an  attack  upon  Erasmus. 
Though  never  very  intimate  or  much  together,  they  had  been  friends  ; 
and  perhaps  the  most  valuable  portrait  of  Sir  Thomas  More  that  we  have 


*  ERASMUS  :  Op.  iii.  1575.    f  Ib.  p.  1110. 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  95.  80. 


618  THE    SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

is  in  one  of  the  letters  of  Erasmus  to  Hutten.  The  old  scholar  found 
himself  obliged  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  self-defence  against  his  quondam 
friendly  acquaintance ;  and  his  Sx>onfjia  is  a  document  of  much  value  to 
all  who  are  interested  in  his  biography. 

When  the  Epistola  Obscurorum  Virorum  were  amusing  the  world 
in  1516-1517,  there  was  a  young  Franciscan  friar  in  Fontenay-le-Comte 
in  Lower  Poitou,  who,  we  may  be  certain,  watched  the  dispute  with 
eagerness,  and  read  the  letters  with  sympathy  and  enjoyment.  He  had 
been  born  in  the  fair  Touraine,  which  he  loved  to  call  "  the  garden  of 
France,"  a  few  years  before  Ulric  von  Hutten  saw  the  light  in  Franconia. 
He  had  the  deep-rooted  literary  instincts  of  the  Eeforming  party ;  and  his 
brother  Cordeliers  looked  askance  at  a  man  who  spent  days  and  nights 
on  the  heretical  study  of  Greek ;  and  who  combined  with  the  most  solid 
sagacity  a  satirical  humour  that  has  been  rarely  equalled  in  the  annals  of 
mankind.  Francis  Rabelais  has  not  left  us  in  doubt  what  his  feelings 
were  about  the  persecution  of  Reuchlin.  In  his  queer  catalogue  of  the 
books  which  Pantagruel  found  in  the  library  of  St.  Victor,  we  have : 
Tarrabalationes  Doctorum  Colonimsium  adversus  Reuchlin;  and  Ars  honeste 

in  societate,  per   Marcum   Ortuimtm.      These   are   hints    only ; 

but  a  hint  from  Rabelais  is  worth  a  chapter  from  other  men.  He 
had  to  do  his  work  by  hints ;  by  buffoonery ;  in  masquerade.  As, 
according  to  an  old  story,  Aristophanes  apppeared  in  one  of  his 
own  comedies  with  his  face  disguised  with  wine-lees,  so  Rabelais 
disguised  himself  through  his  whole  comic  romance  in  a  curiously 
similar  way.  He  is  a  wine-bibber,  a  Shakspearian  fool  of  literature, 
a  droll  without  decency  or  morals,  and  whose  filth  is  only  kept  from 
fetidity  by  the  clear  stream  of  humour  running  through  it.  He  is  all 
this,  we  say — to  the  vulgar  eye.  But  his  filth  is  manure  which  helps 
to  make  crops  grow.  "  I  could  write  a  treatise  in  praise  of  the  moral 
elevation  of  Rabelais'  work,"  says  Coleridge,  "  which  would  make  the 
Church  stare  and  the  conventicle  groan,  and  yet  would  be  truth  and 
nothing  but  the  truth."  Doubtless,  this  view  of  the  great  poet's  is  often 
applied  with  exaggeration  to  the  lesser  humorists.  A  Dutch  commen- 
tator once  described  Petronius  as  sanctissimus  vir.  And,  not  to  see  in 
the  roystering  animalism  and  gross  humour  of  Rabelais  the  effect  of  a 
temperament  to  which  these  qualities  were  natural,  and  to  which  they 
gave  pleasure,  as  well  as  a  comic  mask  put  on  to  conceal  the  real  face 
from  inquisitors  and  heresy-hunters,  would  be,  we  think,  to  show  igno- 
rance of  human  nature.  Disguises  are  numerous,  and  he  who  takes  a 
ludicrous  and  obscene  one,  takes  it  because  he  has  a  relish  for  the 
ludicrous  and  the  obscene.  But  still  Coleridge's  doctrine  abcut  Rabelais 
is  substantially  right.  Look  steadily  at  his  eyes,  in  spite  of  the  mask, 
and  you  see  in  them  the  depth  of  a  wise,  earnest,  and  kindly  soul.  Thus, 
the  letter  of  Gargantua  to  Pantagruel  (book  2nd,  chap.  8)  is  a  model  of 
sense  and  piety ;  and  every  now  and  then  such  grave  passages  occur 
through  the  whole  work — to  be  silenced  immediately  afterwards  by  the 


THE   SATIRISTS  OF  THE   REFORMATION.  6l9 

gros  rire  Touraugean,  which  has  made  so  many  hearts  merry  during  the 
last  three  hundred  years.  Not  even  the  wisdom  or  the  object  of  Rabelais, 
however,  do  so  much  to  make  the  reader  forgive  what  must  be  called  his 
n:istiness,  as  the  essential  kindness  and  geniality  of  his  jolly  fun.  This 
element  belongs  rather  to  the  early  than  to  the  later  periods  of  French 
literature.  The  satire  of  Voltaire,  for  instance,  is  generally  a  sneer — not, 
like  that  of  Rabelais,  a  laugh. 

We  make  little  account  of  the  various  theories  by  which  some  com- 
m3ntators  have  attempted  to  give  real  historical  names  to  the  persons  and 
pi  ices  of  Rabelais'  comic  fiction.  He,  no  doubt,  made  references  to  his 
contemporaries,  now  and  then,  just  as  Swift  did  to  the  statesmen  of  his 
time  in  dealing  with  Lilliput  and  Blefuscu.  But  to  expect  exactitude  in 
such  details  is  to  take  a  narrow  view  of  the  scope  of  the  work.  The 
general  object  of  Rabelais  seems  to  have  been  to  forward  the  progress  of 
France,  by  a  broadly  comic  satire  of  all  that  retarded  it,  not  in  the  eccle- 
siastical world  only,  but  in  the  worlds  of  education,  of  law,  medicine,  and 
social  life.  The  Reformation,  we  must  remember,  was  not  only  a  religious 
re  solution,  but  involved  changes  of  every  other  kind ;  and  produced  not 
m  ;rely  new  churches,  but  new  states  of  society.  Rabelais,  thus,  did  a 
gi'Bat  deal  for  the  modern  world,  in  spite  of  his  never  having — like  the 
satirists  of  Germany — helped  to  bring  about  a  "reformation"  of  the 
French  Church,  in  the  technical  sense  which  that  word  has  acquired. 
Nny,  we  do  not  even  know  that  he  had  any  such  wish  ;  and  he  may,  like 
th  3  often  misunderstood  Erasmus,  have  had  no  ambition  beyond  that  of 
improving  the  religious  system  of  Europe,  without  breaking  its  unity. 
Bi-t  he  was  less  fortunate  than  the  German  satirists,  for  his  spirit  did  not 
re;  illy  achieve  its  full  triumph  till  '89 — a  triumph  accompanied  by 
horrors  which  the  good  old  patriotic  humorist  could  not  but  have 
deplored. 

Like  the  author  of  the  Epistola  Obscnrorum  Virorum,  Rabelais  loved 
well  to  flesh  his  satire  in  the  members  of  the  monastic  orders.  Nowhere 
is  Uis  satire  so  direct  and  intelligible  as  when  he  is  dealing  with  monks — 
the  peculiar  enemies  of  scholars  then,  as  they  had  been  of  the  minstrels  in 
earlier  ages.  A  passage  or  two  shall  illustrate  this.  We  quote  from  the 
in(  omparable  translation  of  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart,  one  of  the  best  trans- 
lations ever  done  of  any  book.*  Sir  Thomas  was  a  Pantagruelist  himself, 
of  no  mean  magnitude,  in  life  and  in  death  too.  For  one  of  his  treatises 
contains  a  pedigree  of  the  Urquharts  of  Cromarty,  without  a  break  from 
Ac  am ;  and  he  died  in  a  fit  of  laughter  on  hearing  of  the  Restoration  of 
Charles  II. — overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  the  absurdity  and  uncertainty  of 
hu  nan  affairs  : — 

"  But  if  you  conceive  how  an  ape  in  a  family  is  always  mocked  and 
pr('vokingly  incensed,  you  shall  easily  apprehend  how  monks  are  shunned 
of  all  men  both  young  and  old.  The  ape  keeps  not  the  house,  as  a  dog 

*  Yet  it  has  been  often  maintained  that  the  Scotch  hare  no  humour. 

30—2 


620  THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

doth ;  he  draws  not  in  the  plough,  as  the  ox ;  he  yields  neither  milk  nor 
wool,  as  the  sheep  ;  he  carrieth  no  burthen,  as  a  horse  doth.  That  which 
he  doth  is  only  to  ....  spoil  and  defile  all,  which  is  the  cause  where- 
fore he  hath  of  all  men  mocks,  frumperies,  and  bastinadoes. 

"  After  the  same  manner  a  monk — I  mean  those  lither,  idle,  lazy 
monks — doth  not  labour  and  work,  as  do  the  peasant  and  artificer  ;  doth 
not  ward  and  defend  the  country,  as  doth  the  man  of  war ;  cureth  not  the 
sick  and  diseased,  as  the  physician  doth ;  doth  neither  preach  nor  teach, 
as  do  the  Evangelical  doctors  and  schoolmasters  ;  doth  not  import  com- 
modities and  things  necessary  for  the  commonwealth,  as  the  merchant 
doth.  Therefore  is  it  that  by  and  of  all  men  they  are  hooted  at,  hated, 
and  abhorred.  '  Yea,  but,'  said  Grangousier,  '  they  pray  to  God  for  us.' 
'  Nothing  less,'  answered  Gargantua.  '  True  it  is  that  with  a  tingle  tangle 
jangling  of  bells  they  trouble  and  disgust  all  their  neighbours  about  them.' 
'Right,'  said  the  monk;  'a  mass,  a  matin,  a  vesper  well  rung  are  half 
said.  They  mumble  out  great  store  of  legends  and  psalms,  by  them  not 
at  all  understood ;  they  say  many  paternosters,  interlarded  with  Ave- 
Marias,  without  thinking  upon  or  apprehending  the  meaning  of  what  it 
is  they  say,  which  truly  I  call  mocking  of  God,  and  not  prayers.  But  so 
help  them  God,  as  they  pray  for  us,  and  not  for  being  afraid  to  lose  their 
victuals,  their  manchets,  and  good  fat  pottage.'  " — Gargantua,  book  i. 
chap.  xl. 

"  A  woman  that  is  neither  fair  nor  good,  to  what  use  serves  she  ?"  is 
a  question  put  in  a  subsequent  chapter.  "To  make  a  nun  of,"  says 
Gargantua  ;  and  soon  after  we  have  the  inscription  upon  the  great  gate  of 
the  famous  Rabelaisian  abbey,  the  Abbey  of  Theleme  : — 

Here  enter  not  vile  bigots,  hypocrites, 

Externally  devoted  apes,  base  snites, 

Puft  up,  wry-necked  beasts,  worse  than  the  Huns, 

Or  Ostrogots,  forerunners  of  baboons : 

Cursed  snakes,  dissembled  varlets,  seeming  sancts, 

Slipshod  caffards,  beggars  pretending  wants, 

Fat  chuff-cats,  smell-feast  knockers,  doltist  gulls. 

Out-strouting  cluster-fists,  contentious  bulls, 

Eomenters  of  divisions  and  debates, 

Elsewhere,  not  here,  make  sale  of  your  deceit.''. 

Another  instance  of  plain-speaking  in  this  First  Book  is  the  account 
of  Grangousier's  interview  with  the  Pilgrims  in  the  forty-fifth  chapter. 

"  '  What  went  you  to  do  at  St.  Sebastian  ?  '   Grangousier  asks. 

"  '  We  went,'  said  Sweer-to-go,  '  to  offer  up  unto  that  saint  our  vows 
against  the  plague.'- 

"'Ah,  poor  men,"  said  Grangousier,  'do  you  think  that  the  plague 
comes  from  St.  Sebastian  ?  ' 

"'Yes,  truly,'  answered  Sweer-to-go;  'our  preachers  tell  us  so, 
indeed.' 

"  'But  is  it  so  ?  '  said  Grangousier  ;  '  do  the  false  prophets  teach  you 
such  abuses  ?  Do  they  thus  blaspheme  the  saints  and  holy-men  of  God  a  3 


THE   SATIRISTS   OF  THE   REFORMATION.  621 

to  make  them  like  unto  the  devils  who  do  nothing  but  hurt  unto  man- 
kind,— as  Homer  writeth  that  the  plague  was  sent  into  the  camp  of  the 
G  reeks  by  Apollo,  and  as  the  poets  feign  a  great  rabble  of  Vejoves  and 
mischievous  gods.'  " 

Before  the  Pilgrims  are  dismissed,  comes  a  passage  which  cannot  be 
transcribed,  on  the  probable  consequences  of  their  absence  from  home ;  for 
"  the  very  shadow  of  the  steeple  of  an  Abbey,"  we  are  told,  "  is  fruitful." 
Rabelais  seems,  here,  to  have  been  thinking  of  a  celebrated  epigram  by 
Beza,  who  was  a  wit  as  well  as  a  reformer,  and  not  the  least  free-spoken 
wit  of  those  free-spoken  times.  Toleno,  a  rich  old  man  who  is  childless, 
goes  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Loretto,  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  to  Mount 
Sinai,  to  pray  heaven  for  offspring.  He  is  away  from  home  three 
yoars  ;  and  on  returning,  finds  that  his  petition  has  been  heard,  and  that 
h<3  is  the  father  of  three  fine  children.  There  were  grave  and  good  men 
enough  to  keep  the  freedom  of  Eabelais  in  countenance  ;  and  doubtless  it 
might  have  been  said  of  Beza,  as  Johnson  said  cf  Prior,  that  his  Epigrams 
wore  "a  lady's  book." — "No,  sir,  Prior  is  a  lady's  book.  No  lady  is 
ashamed  to  have  it  standing  in  her  library." 

The  greater  vagueness  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  books  of  Eabelais  makes 
tLem,  we  cannot  but  think,  less  delightful  than  the  first  three.  They 
have  the  sort  of  inferiority  to  them  which  the  Laputa  of  Swift  has  to  his 
Lilliput  and  Brobdingnag.  The  wit  of  the  great  master  plays  through 
tbick  vapours  of  allegory  in  which  it  is  almost  lost.  This  is  especially 
true  'of  Book  Fifth.  The  Einging  Island  may  well  be  the  Church  of 
Eome  ;  and  the  Popehawk,  Cardinhawks,  Bishawks,  &c.,  are  readily  to 
be  recognized.  But  as  the  voyage  of  Pantagruel  and  his  companions 
proceeds,  clouds  gather  more  and  more  round  Eabelais'  meaning,  and 
his  satire  flashes  in  transient  lightning  gleams,  which  are  gone  before  one 
hits  time  to  enjoy  them.  Indeed,  though  essentially  a  satirist,  and  of  the 
class  to  which  this  essay  is  devoted,  he  is  less  read,  now  that  the  changes 
which  he  helped  to  bring  about  in  Europe  have  become  familiar  posses- 
sions, for  his  satire  than  for  his  humour.  It  is  the  clear  cutting  French 
sease,  and  the  rich  oily  comedy  of  his  pictures  of  human  life,  so  grotesque 
but  so  real,  for  which  his  countrymen  love  him.  How  he  stands  with  the 
mass  of  the  French  now  it  is  not  in  our  power  to  say ;  but  we  think  that 
thore  has  been  an  increased  interest  in  him  amongst  their  men  of  letters 
sii  ice  the  great  burst  of  literary  activity  which  followed  on  the  fall  of  the 
First  Empire.  The  vivid  and  potent  Balzac,  so  much  less  known  on  this 
side  of  the  Channel  than  he  deserves  to  be,  loved  to  speak  of  Eabelais  as 
his  master ;  and  in  his  joyous  moods,  Balzac,  with  his  childlike  hilarity, 
ofien  recalled  to  his  friends  the  traditional  image  of  his  compatriot  of 
Touraine. 

It  is  a  somewhat  strange  fact  that  England  should  not  have  contributed 
a  dassic  name  to  the  list  of  satirists  of  the  Eeformation.  The  Utopia  is 
a  philosophical  rather  than  a  satirical  romance  ;  and  the  attacks  of  Skelton 
on  Wolscy  were  personal  rather  than  religious  or  critical.  There  were. 


622  THE   SATIRISTS  OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

no  doubt,  casual  ballads  and  pasquils  written  on  both  sides  of  the 
btruggling  powers ;  but  our  business  is  not  with  this  small  change  of  wit, 
this  pistol-shooting  of  war,  on  the  present  occasion.  For  British  satirists 
in  the  cause  of  the  great  revolution  of  the  sixteenth  century,  who  have 
left  lasting  names  in  the  history  of  letters,  we  must  go  to  the  north  of  the 
Tweed.  The  Scotch  can  boast  as  their  share  of  the  band  of  writers  who, 
like  the  band  of  the  Constable  Bourbon,  scaled  the  walls  of  Home,  a 
satirist  who  was  a  poet,  and  a  satirist  who  was  a  scholar. 

Unluckily  for  the  fame  of  the  older  Scottish  writers,  they  have  come 
down  in  two  dead  languages — Scots  and  Latin ;  and  the  satirists  of  whom 
we  are  now  to  speak  represent  each  one  of  them.  Sir  David  Lindsay,  of 
the  Mount, — whom,  by  a  deliberate  anachronism,  Sir  Walter,  in  Harmion, 
has  made  Lyon  King  of  Arms  at  the  time  of  Flodden, — is  perhaps  the 
most  readable  of  the  old  Scots  poets  still.  He  is  fresh  and  naif,  with  a 
keen  pictorial  wit,  a  genuine  good  nature,  and  a  wholesome  contempt  for 
all  baseness,  cruelty,  and  pretence.  Born  the  representative  of  a  Fifeshire 
branch  of  the  Lords  Lindsay  of  the  Byres,  at  some  unknown  date  towards 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century,  he  was  employed  young  in  the  household 
of  the  Stewart  kings.  He  was  usher  to  James  V.  during  that  prince's 
childish  years  ;  and  having  been  dismissed  that  employment  with  a  pension, 
was  afterwards  made  Lyon  ; — it  is  supposed  about  1527.  As  chief  of  the 
Scottish  heralds,  he  was  connected  with  several  embassies,  of  which  one 
was  a  mission  to  Charles  V.,  in  1531,  on  the  subject  of  the  Scottish  trade 
with  the  Netherlands  ;  and  he  was  also  a  member  of  the  Scottish  Par- 
liament. Our  business,  however,  is  not  with  his  public  life,  nor  even 
with  his  poetry  proper,  which  has  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  sweetness  about 
it ;  but  with  the  satires  by  which  he  aided  the  growing  spirit  of  revolt 
against  the  old  Church.  A  satirist  was  wanted  in  this  cause,  in  Scotland, 
if  anywhere  ;  for  in  no  country  had  the  Romish  clergy  a  larger  share  of  the 
national  wealth,  and  in  none  were  they  more  bigoted  in  belief,  or  dissolute 
in  morals.  The  historian  Robertson  calculates  that  they  possessed  "  little 
less  than  one  half  of  the  property  of  the  nation  ;"  and  observes,  from  the 
public  records,  that  "  a  greater  number  of  letters  of  legitimation  was 
granted  during  the  first  thirty  years  after  the  Reformation  than  during 
the  whole  period  that  has  elapsed  since  that  time."  These  were  procured 
by  the  sons  of  the  clergy,  who,  having  inherited  benefices  which  their 
fathers  were  allowed  to  retain,  were  anxious  to  escape  from  the  stain  of 
bastardy.  The  folood  of  the  prelates  of  old  days  flows  in  the  veins  of  the 
best  Scottish  families ;  for  instance,  it  is  an  interesting  little  fact  that 
Byron  was  descended,  through  his  mother's  house — the  Gordons — from 
the  famous'  Cardinal  Beatoun.  Knox's  account  of  the  last  hours  of  that 
grandee's  life,  in  which  a  certain  "Mistress  Marion  Ogilvy"  figures,  will 
never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  have  read  his  singularly  quaint  and 
powerful  History. 

The  satire  of  Sir  David  Lindsay,  like  that  of  Erasmus,  is  of  the  playful 
kind.  It  is  not  the  satire  of  indignation,  but  of  merriment.  It  is  as  free 


THE   SATIRISTS  OF   THE  REFORMATION.  623 

at  the  satire  of  the  Epistola  in  some  respects,  but  is  less  personal  and  less 
gioss.  There  is  a  real  vein  of  natural  fun  in  his  little  poem,  "  Kittie's 
Confession,"  where  the  gravity  of  the  confessor  is  a  touch  in  the  spirit  of 
the  Tartuffe.  Kittie  narrates  that  the  good  man  did  not  direct  her  to  lead 
a  pure  life,  or  to  trust  in  the  merits  of  Christ,  but  solely  to  follow  certain 
ol'servances : — 

Bot  gave  me  penance  ilk  ane  day, 

Ane  Ave  Maria  for  to  say, 

And  Frydayis  fyve  na  fishce  to  eit, — 

Bot  butter  and  eggis  are  better  meit ; 

And  with  ane  plak  to  by  ane  messe 

Fra  drunken  Schir  Jhone  Latynless. 
*  *  *  * 

Quhen  scho  was  telland  as  scho  wist, 
The  curate  Kittie  wald  have  kist ; 
But  yit  ane  countenance  he  bure 
Degeist,  devote,  daign  and  demure. 
Said  he,  have  you  any  wrongous  gear, 
Said  she,  I  stole  a  peck  of  beir, 
Said  he,  that  should  restored  be, 
Therefore  deliver  it  to  me  ! 
*  *  *  * 

And  mekil  Latyne  he  did  mummill, 
I  heard  nothing  but  hummill  bummill. 

The  chief  satirical  work  of  Sir  David  Lindsay  was  a  drama  called,  Ane 
Pleasant  Satire  of  the  Three  Estaitis,  which  was  performed  before  the  Court 
in  1535,  and  in  1539.  This  drama  took  nine  hours  in  the  acting ;  but  there 
was  an  interval  allowed  for  refreshment  during  the  course  of  it,  which  the 
Scots  of  that  generation  were  by  no  manner  of  means  likely  to  neglect  availing 
thomselves  of.  Some  of  the  characters  are  real,  and  some  allegorical,  and 
both  are  made  instruments  for  exposing  ecclesiastical  abuses,  particularly 
th3  dilatory  proceedings  of  the  Consistory  Court.  A  poor  fellow  "  Pauper" 
who  had  lent  his  mare  to  an  acquaintance  who  drowned  her,  seeks  redress 
from  this  Court ;  "  bot,"  complains  he — 

Bot,  or  they  came  half  way  to  concludendum, 
The  feind  ane  plak  was  left  for  to  defend  him. 

***** 
Of  pronunciandum  they  made  me  wondrous  fain, 
Bot  I  got  never  my  gude  gray  mare  again  ! 

One  of  the  chief  complaints  against  the  Scots  prelates  was  that  they 
never  preached,  and  "the  dumb  dog  the  bishop  "  became  a  favourite  term 
of  abuse  among  the  Protestant  clergy.  Sir  David  notices  this  neglect  after 
his  own  fashion  in  a  dialogue  in  his  play  between  the  allegorical  personages, 
Gude-Counsall  and  Spiritualise  : — 

GUDE-COUNSALL. 

Ane  bishop's  office  is  to  be  ane  preacher. 
And  of  the  law  of  God  ane  public  teacher. 

SPIRITUALITIE. 
Friend,  quhare  find  ye  that  we  suld  prechouris  be  ? 


624  THE    SATIRISTS   OF  THE   REFORMATION. 

GUDE-COUNSALL. 

Luke  what  St.  Paul  writes  unto  Timothie, — 
Tak  thare  the  buke,  let  see  gif  ye  can  spell. 

SPIRITUALITIE. 
I  never  red  that,  therefore  rcicl  it  yoursell. 

A  pardoner,  with  relics  to  sell,  is  also  a  figure  of  some  prominence  in 
the  Satire  of  the  Three  Estaitis.  He  comes  on  the  stage  complaining  that 
the  sale  of  his  goods  is  much  interfered  with  by  the  circulation  of  the 
English  New  Testament ;  but  proceeds  to  solicit  purchases  for  some 
sufficiently  remarkable  wares  : — 

My  patent  parclouns  ye  may  see, 
Cam  fra  the  Can  of  Tartaric, 

Weill  seald  with  oster-schellis. 
Thocht  ye  haif  na  contritioun, 
Ye  sail  haif  full  remissioun, 

With  help  of  bukes  and  bellis. 

*  $  #  * 

Heir  is  ane  cord,  baith  gret  and  Jang, 
Quhilk  hangit  Johne  the  Armistrang, 

Of  gude  hemp  soft  and  sound  : 
Gude  haly  pepill,  I  stand  for'd 
Quhavcr  beis  hangit  with  this  cord 

Neidis  never  to  be  dround. 
The  culum  of  Sanct  Bryd's  kow, 
The  gruntill  of  Sanct  Antonis  so\v, 

Quhilk  bure  his  haly  bell  : 
Quha  e.ver  he  be  heiris  this  bell  clink, 
Giff  me  ane  ducat  for  till  drink, 

He  sail  never  gang  to  hell, 
Without  he  be  of  Beliall  borne  : — 
Maisters,  trow  ye  that  this  be  scorne  ? 

Cum  win  this  pardoun,  cum. 

In  spite  of  all  obsoleteness  of  language  and  subject,  the  true  spirit  of 
comedy  makes  its  presence  felt  here.  Sir  David  Lindsay  is  a  rude 
Scottish  Aristophanes ;  but  the  genius  for  dramatic  creation  which 
budded  in  him  never  came  to  flower  in  the  cold  air  of  Northern  Pro- 
testantism. Scotland  has  never  had  a  dramatic  literature,  for  we  suppose 
nobody  now  believes  in  the  frigid  and  unnatural  trash  of  Home's  Douylas. 
This  is  partly  due  to  the  fanaticism  of  the  country ;  and  partly  to  its 
poverty  ;  but  another  element  must  be  taken  into  account  in  these  matters, 
— the  almost  constant  want  of  literary  attainments  and  literary  sympathy 
among  the  modern  Scottish  clergy.  Much  as  literature  did  for  the 
Keformation  in  Scotland  as  elsewhere,  the  clergy  have  done  astonishingly 
little  to  repay  the  debt.  Yet  among  Scotch  men  of  letters  the  memory  of 
Sir  David  Lindsay  of  the  Mount  holds  its  own : 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account, 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms, 
Sir  David  Lindsay  of  the  Mount 
Lord  Lyon  King  at  Arms  ! 


THE   SATIRISTS  OF  THE  REFORMATION.  625 

The  reforming  war  was  also  carried  on  in  Scotland  by  satirical  ballads. 
We  should  much  like  to  quote  one  which  the  curious  reader  will  find  in 
Dr.  Irving's  excellent  History  of  Scottish  Poetry,  and  of  which  the 
ry'rain  or  "ower-word"  is  : — 

Hay  trix,  trim  goe  trix  under  the  greene-wode  tree. 

But  this  ballad  is  too  long, — and  we  may  add  that  it  is  also  too  broad, 
for  quotation  here,  even  supposing  that  such  ballads  came,  as  they  do  not, 
wi  hin  our  present  plan.  That  their  sting  and  danger,  as  well  as  that  of 
other  satire,  was  felt  by  the  orthodox,  is  proved  by  an  order  of  the 
provincial  council  convoked  by  Archbishop  Hamilton  in  1549.  The 
council  directed  every  ordinary  to  make  strict  inquiry  within  his  diocese, 
"  whether  any  person  had  in  his  possession  certain  books  of  rhymes  of 
vulgar  songs,  containing  scandalous  reflections  on  the  clergy,  together  with 
other  heretical  matter  ;  "  and  to  read  or  keep  them  was  an  offence  to  be 
punished  by  Act  of  Parliament.  But  it  was  now  too  late  to  effect  the 
object  for  which  such  Acts  were  passed ;  and  twenty  years  afterwards, 
tho  Archbishop  was  hanged  on  a  gibbet  and  embalmed  in  an  epigram. 

The  only  Scot  of  that  age  entitled  to  figure  in  our  list  by  the  side  of 
Lindsay  was  one  who  first  made  the  literary  genius  of  his  country  known 
to  Europe,  and  who  in  modern  times  has  been  persistently  and  inexcusably 
neglected, — so  much  so,  that  he  lies,  without  even  a  tombstone  to  mark 
the  spot,  in  the  churchyard  of  the  Greyfriars  in  Edinburgh.  George 
Buchanan — poetarum  sui  scculi  facile  princeps,  as  a  long  list  of  scholars 
recognized  him  to  be,  from  Scaliger  to  Ruddiman — was  younger  than 
Lindsay,  but  had  reached  his  thirtieth  year  before  the  death  of  Erasmus. 
His  youth  in  St.  Andrews  and  in  Paris  was  a  period  of  hard  study  and 
hard  struggling  with  poverty,  after  which  he  became  tutor  to  a  natural  son 
of  James  V. — about  1534.  Already — he  was  now  twenty-eight — he  had 
written  a  poem  against  the  Franciscans  ;  and  a  few  years  afterwards, 
James,  having  formed  an  ill  opinion  of  their  sincerity  towards  him  in  the 
matter  of  a  certain  rumoured  conspiracy,  requested  Buchanan  to  compose 
a  satire  against  the  order.  Buchanan  knew  his  men,  and  hesitating 
between  offending  either  them  or  the  king,  produced  a  brief  and  ambiguous 
composition.  James  was  not  satisfied  with  this,  and  demanded  something 
sharp  and  pointed — acre  et  aculeatum.  The  result  was  the  Franciscanus, 
ont  of  the  most  vigorous  Latin  satires  of  the  century.  Soon  after, 
Buchanan  learned  that  his  life  was  sought  by  Cardinal  Beatoun,  who  had 
offered  the  king  money  for  it.  He  was  sentenced  to  exile  and  imprisoned, 
but  escaped  while  his  jailers  were  asleep,  and  got  away  to  England  and 
the  Continent.  This  was  in  1539.  He  remained  abroad  more  than 
twenty  years,  leading  a  life  of  much  variety.  Suspicion  of  heresy  drove 
him  from  Paris  ;  the  plague  drove  him  from  Bordeaux.  He  went  away 
to  Lisbon  to  teach  the  classics  ;  but  there,  too,  the  fatal  odour  of 
heterodoxy  clung  to  him.  He  was  imprisoned  in  a  monastery,  where 
he  F.pent  his  time  on  his,  immortal  Latin  version  of  the  Psalms.  Quitting 

30—5 


626  THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

the  Tagus  in  a  vessel  that  had  put  in  there  on  her  way  to  England 
from  Crete,  he  landed  in  London,  which  he  left  for  his  favourite  Paris. 
He  was  now  for  the  next  five  years  tutor  to  a  son  of  Marshal  Brissac, 
with  whom  he  resided  a  good  deal  in  Italy.  He  returned  to  Scotland 
about  the  time  that  Queen  Mary  did,  in  1560 ;  joined  the  party  of  the 
Regent  Murray ;  was  tutor  to  young  James  VI.,  and  held  other  important 
appointments;  and  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1582,  in  his  seventy- seventh 
year. 

The  most  valuable  books  of  Buchanan  are  his  version  of  the  Psalms, 
and  his  Rerum  Scoticarum  Historia ;  but  his  satires  are  very  excellent, 
and  must  have  helped  to  bring  the  men  of  the  ancient  system  into  a  whole- 
some and  desirable  contempt.  The  Franciscanus  holds  the  first  place 
amongst  them.  It  is  a  Juvenalian  satire  in  sonorous  hexameters  of  great 
swing  and  flow ;  for  Buchanan  was  almost  equally  at  home  in  every  form 
of  Latin  composition,  from  the  sweet  ripple  of  elegiacs  to  the  stormy  roll 
of  indignant  heroics.  He  places  himself  in  the  position  of  one  who  is 
dissuading  a  friend  from  entering  the  Franciscans,  and  proceeds  to  lay 
bare  their  character  and  habits.  They  are  recruited,  he  says,  from  those 
who  have  no  means  at  home  ;  or  who  have  angry  stepmothers,  and  severe 
fathers  and  masters  ;  or  who  are  lazy,  and  cold  to  all  the  attractions  of  the 
muses.  The  order  to  such  is  a  harbour  of  refuge  and  of  ignoble  ease.  Some 
look  after  the  door,  and  some  after  the  kitchen.  One  digs  in  the  garden  ; 
another  is  employed  to  trick  widows.  The  duller  sort  are  sent  to  dupe  the 
rural  vulgar ;  to  give  apples  to  the  boys,  and  amulets  to  the  girls,  whose 
heads  they  fill  with  the  most  superstitious  fancies.  The  dullest  blockhead 
assumes  the  appearance  of  wisdom  when  he  has  become  one  of  these 
friars,  and  learns  to  humbug  the  world  ;  and  in  his  old  age  may  proceed 
to  teach  the  art  to  young  beginners.  He  will  teach  him  how  to  make  a 
judicious  use  of  confession,  and  to  plunder  well  those  whose  secret  thoughts 
and  deeds  have  become  his  property ;  how  to  lure  innocent  virgins  into 
sin ;  and  how,  if  any  one  resolutely  declines  communication  with  the 
sect,  to  earwig  his  servants,  and  try  to  get  up  accusations  against  him, — 
especially  if  his  life  should  prove  irreproachable,  the  accusation  of  heresy. 
A  great  deal  more  advice  of  the  kind  is  given,  and  a  story  told  of  an 
adventure  which  had  evidently  befallen  Buchanan  himself  on  the  Garonne. 
One  of  the  brothers  was  travelling  in  company  with  a  woman  who  fell  into 
labour  in  the  vessel ;  and  he  abandoned  her  to  her  fate,  running  away 
amidst  the  confusion  caused  by  the  event  at  the  landing-place.  Buchanan 
tells  the  story  in  the  person  of  an  old  Franciscan ;  and,  with  admirable 
irony,  makes  him  conclude  by  saying: — "Young  and  strong  as  I  then 
was,  I  could  hardly  silence  the  murmurs  of  the  people,  often  though  I 
execrated  the  deed,  and  swore  that  the  offender  was  some  Lutheran  lying 
hidden  under  the  name  of  our  holy  sect ! " 

We  do  not  find  in  the  satirical  portions  of  Buchanan's  writings  the 
Erasmian  vein  of  Sir  David  Lindsay,  or  the  rollicking  humour  of  Rabelais, 
nor  even  the  intermediate  kind  of  pleasantry,  smacking  of  both,  of  the 


THE   SATIEISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION.  627 

Ejristola  Obscurorum  Virorum.  His  fun  is  grim ;  and  his  abuse  hearty. 
Ho  is  of  the  Juvenalian  and  Swiftian  school  of  satire ;  a  good  hard  proud 
Scots  gentleman,  whose  keen  feeling  for  classical  beauty  has  given  him 
elegance  but  not  gentleness.  There  was  nothing  of  what  is  now  called 
"gushing"  about  George,  any  more  than  about  those  similar  types  of 
Scot,  Smollett  and  Lockhart.  He  had  much  love  for  his  own  friends  ; 
nrich  humour  and  feeling  at  bottom  ;  but  very  little  compassion  for  fools, 
ra  seals,  or  personal  enemies.  Many  of  his  epigrams  are  bitter  enough ; 
and  we  shall  transcribe  a  couple  of  them  from  a  recent  translation  : — 

ON  THE  MONKS   OF  ST.   ANTONY. 

When  living,  them,  St.  Antony, 

As  swine-herd  kept  thy  swine  ; 
Now,  dead,  thou  keep'st,  St.  Antony, 

This  herd  of  monks  of  thine. 

The  monks  as  stupid  are  as  they, 

As  fond  of  dirt  and  prog  ; 
.     In  dumbness,  torpor,  ugliness, 
Each  monk  is  like  each  hog. 

So  much  agrees  'tween  herd  and  herd, 

One  point  would  make  all  good, — 
If  but  thy  monks,  St.  Antony, 

Had  acorns  for  their  food  1 

ON  PONTIFF  PIUS. 

Heaven  he  had  sold  for  money  ;  earth  he  left  in  death  as  well ; 
What  remains  to  Pontiff  Pius  ?— nothing  that  I  see  but  hell  ! 

Buchanan  the  latest,  is  also  the  last  of  the  satirists  on  whom  we 
have  undertaken  to  offer  some  criticisms  in  this  paper.  It  has  been 
seen  that  the  Low  Countries,  Germany,  France,  and  Scotland,  each 
produced  within  the  compass  of  about  a  century  satirists  whose  names 
have  become  classical,  and  whose  powers  were  exerted  in  the  same 
direction.  The  exact  value  of  their  services  to  the  cause  of  divine 
truth  and  human  enlightenment  cannot  be  estimated  ;  but  it  was 
undoubtedly  great.  The  friends  of  the  cause  valued  them ;  its  foes 
feared  them.  They  were  nearly  all  persecuted;  they  were  all,  without 
ex(  option,  we  think,  libelled.  Two  of  them  were,  in  ignorance  how- 
ever, grossly  misrepresented  by  succeeding  generations  of  their  own 
friends  and  countrymen.  Francis  Rabelais  was  made  the  traditional 
hero  of  a  score  of  foolish  anecdotes,  apocryphal,  obscene,  and  pro- 
fane. George  Buchanan  became,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Scottish  peasantry, 
the  king's  fool  of  a  past  age ;  and  chap-books,  filled  with  the  dirtiest 
sto'ies  about  him,  circulated  by  thousands  among  the  cottages  of  his 
native  land. 

The  last  historical  fact  is  only  amusing.  But  there  were  other  condi- 
tions common  to  these  men  of  great  importance,  which  may  be  well 
commended  to  the  attention  of  those  who  are  inclined  to  underrate 


628  THE   SATIRISTS   OF   THE   REFORMATION. 

satirists  generally,  and  to  that  of  the  ordinary  comic  writers  of  our  own 
time.  These  satirists  of  the  Reformation  were  all  scholars  and  thinkers  to 
a  man :  not  wits  only,  still  less  buffoons,  but  invariably  among  the  best- 
read  men,  and  the  most  vigorous  manly  intellects  of  their  generation. 
Erasmus  towered  over  the  whole  century  ;  and  by  universal  admission, 
Buchanan  did  more  skilfully  than  any  writer  what  every  writer  of  the 
period  was  trying  to  do ;  while  Hutten  was  recognized  along  the  whole 
length  of  the  Rhine  as  one  of  the  most  accomplished  men  in  Germany ;  and 
Rabelais  ranked  from  the  first  among  the  most  learned  men  in  France. 
What  is  equally  worthy  of  notice,  no  solid  charge  has  ever  been  proved 
against  the  characters  of  any  of  the  satirists  of  the  Reformation.  Hutten 
was  probably  not  the  soberest  man  in  Europe,  but  he  was  generous,  and 
faithful,  and  brave,  and  true.  Erasmus  was  loved  by  the  best  men  then 
living ;  and  Rabelais  and  Lindsay  trusted  by  the  chief  personages  of  their 
respective  kingdoms.  As  for  the  silly  lies  which  were  once  disseminated 
against  Buchanan  by  such  writers  as  Father  Garasse,  they  are  no  longer 
repeated  even  by  Popish  malignity.  The  lies  and  the  liars  have  passed 
into  a  common  obscurity. 

The  study  of  such  writers  would  seem,  we  may  say  in  conclusion,  to 
have  a  practical  value,  as  well  as  a  merely  antiquarian  interest.  The  last 
man  who  did  any  political  work  of  European  importance  by  the  use  of 
satire — Beranger — felt  strongly  on  this  subject.  He  had  been  often  urged 
to  come  forward  for  the  Academy,  but  always  persistently  declined  ;  and 
he  gave  a  remarkable  explanation  of  his  reasons  for  this  decision.  The 
chanson,  he  said,  may  be  again  needed  as  a  political  instrument ;  and  I 
could  not,  as  a  chansonnicr,  set  an  example  which  might  lead  to  its  being 
prostituted  by  ambitious  men  to  the  service  of  power.  The  sentiment  is 
noble  ;  and  it  is  instructive.  Satire  may  again  be  necessary  in  politics  and 
other  fields  ;  and  if  the  reaction  against  modern  knowledge  and  thought, 
which  seems  to  be  gaining  ground  in  some  quarters,  should  become  really 
formidable  to  intellectual  freedom,  we  may  some  of  us  be  none  the  less 
useful  for  having  studied  the  satirical  masters  of  the  great  sixteenth 
century. 


629 


%  Ska-Site  m  Smttjr-fet  Africa. 


ALONG  the  whole  Natal  coast-line  there  is,  so  far  as  I  know,  but  one 
spot  which  can  fairly  be  called  a  watering-place.  To  that  length  of  south- 
east African  shore  might  also  be  added  two  hundred  miles  to  the  south, 
a: id  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north  of  our  colonial  frontiers,  and  then  we 
shall  have  nearly  six  hundred  miles  of  glorious  sea-frontage  utterly  unused 
for  purposes  of  enjoyment  by  man.  The  sole  rival  of  Brighton  or  Biarritz 
in  this  part  of  the  world  is  the  place  I  refer  to.  A  smaller  can  hardly 
exist,  for  it  contains  only  one  house.  And  even  that  house  would,  in  the 
eves  of  all  my  English  readers,  be  deemed  little  better  than  a  hovel.  Such 
as  it  is,  I  am  its  tenant  for  the  time  being,  and  a  vast  fund  of  true  and 
hoalthful  enjoyment  does  the  tenancy  of  my  hovel  confer  upon  me. 

Few  shores  can  present  less  variety  of  outline  than  that  of  South-East 
Africa.  No  navigable  rivers  empty  themselves  into  the  sea ;  thus  there 
are  no  estuaries.  Scores  of  narrow,  rocky,  shallow  streams  do  fall  into 
the  ocean,  after  devious  courses  from  the  ever-visible  uplands,  but  all  of 
them  have  sand-bars  across  their  mouths,  and  during  the  dry  mid-year 
months  of  winter  these  bars  can  often  be  traversed  dryshod.  Nor  are 
tbere  any  creeks,  harbours,  or  indentations  of  any  kind,  except  where, 
here  and  there,  some  river-guarding  bluff  advances  a  little  further  than 
usual  into  the  sea,  and  thus  affords,  on  one  side  at  least,  a  small  measure 
of  shelter.  Between  Delagoa  Bay  on  the  north,  and  Algoa  Bay  on  the 
south — and  there  are,  say,  seven  hundred  miles  between  them — only  one 
port  worth  the  name  is  found,  and  that  is  Durban,  the  leading  commercial 
centre  of  Natal.  There  an  all  but  landlocked  basin,  about  five  miles  long, 
affords  a  safe  haven  for  vessels  of  moderate  tonnage. 

My  watering-place,  which  is  what  I  have  to  do  with  now,  is  about 
fifteen  miles  south  of  Durban.  Africa  is  but  a  beginner  in  civilization  as 
yc  t ;  and  although  six  miles  of  railway  are  in  operation  near  the  town, 
they  do  not  come  in  this  direction.  Nor,  indeed,  do  public  vehicles  of 
any  kind  offer  facilities  for  travel.  In  Natal,  when  we  want  to  go  about, 
but  one  way  is  possible  to  those  who  are  burdened  with  baggage  or  other 
impedimenta.  We  have  to  post  to  our  watering-place.  But  our  chariot 
is  a  clumsy,  big,  and  springless  waggon,  and  our  team  consists  of  fourteen 
gigantic  oxen,  whose  vast-spreading  horns  never  fail  to  strike  the  stranger 
with  surprise.  This  cumbrous  vehicle  is  as  slow  as  it  is  uncomfortable. 
Moving  at  the  rate  of  about  two  miles  an  hour,  we  hope  to  reach  our 
destination  ere  dusk.  The  road,  though  flat,  is  sandy.  Long  hills, 
shaggy  with  tropical  bush-growth,  and  enlivened  by  the  gardens  and 


630  BY  THE    SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA. 

cottages  of  suburban  residents,  skirt  our  way.  On  the  other  side  the 
mangrove  swamp,  which  lines  the  bay,  hems  us  in.  Groups  of  Kaffirs  and 
coolies,  laden  with  fruit  and  vegetables  for  sale  in  town,  pass  us.  Solitary 
horsemen,  devoid  of  knightly  trappings,  are  seen  ambling  along  such  sylvan 
and  shady  by-paths  as  Mr.  Gr.  P.  R.  James  would  have  delighted  in.  Here 
we  plunge  through  a  narrow,  bridgeless  stream,  where,  at  high  tide,  the 
oxen  might  have  to  swim.  Here  we  come  to  a  tree  of  untold  antiquity, 
under  whose  spreading  branches  many  a  picnic  party  has  disported,  and 
many  a  belated  traveller  encamped  for  the  night.  After  three  hours' 
"  trekking,"  or  crawling,  the  panting  oxen  are  set  free,  to  depasture  them- 
selves for  an  hour  or  two.  No  inn  is  near  ;  but  waggon  travellers  csorn 
hotel  accommodation,  being,  of  all  classes  of  wayfarers,  the  most  self- 
reliant.  Brushwood  is  gathered  in  the  neighbouring  bush  by  our  attendant 
Kaffirs,  a  fire  is  lit,  the  kettle  is  boiled,  and,  seated  on  the  ground,  our 
party  take  their  midday  meal. 

A  few  words  about  that  party  may  not  be  out  of  place.  I  am  the  only 
man  amongst  them. — a  fact  portending  serious  responsibilities.  The 
costume  of  my  fair  fellow-travellers  would  give  a  serious  shock  to  the 
proprieties  of  Scarborough  or  Deauville.  Hats  that  are  nearly  two  feet  in 
diameter  shield  the  feminine  visages  from  the  scorching  sun.  Crinoline 
was  never  in  less  demand.  At  my  watering-place  the  utility  of  apparel  is 
estimated  according  to  its  age  and  strength.  The  total  absence  of  all 
curious  eyes  enables  the  laws  of  Nature  and  the  dictates  of  comfort  to 
be  consistently  followed. 

In  the  month  of  May  with  us  the  shadows  begin 'to  lengthen  early,  and 
our  journey's  end  draws  near.  After  crossing  the  Umlazi  by  a  wooden 
bridge,  we  pass  sugar-mills  in  quick  succession.  For  this  long,  narrow 
plain,  stretching  out  from  the  head  of  the  bay,  is  almost  covered  with 
plantations,  whose  thick,  ribbon-like  leaves  make  a  cheery  rustle  as  we 
pass  them.  The  chessboard-like  divisions  of  coffee-estates  may  also  be 
seen  on  the  wooded  hillsides.  A  little  further  and  we  cross  a  wide,  shallow 
stream,  in  the  quicksands  of  whose  bottom,  waggons  often  stick  for  hours, 
and  which  is  sometimes  so  flooded  in  the  summer  as  to  be  impassable  by 
horsemen.  Now  we  leave  all  traces  of  a  road  behind  us,  and  follow  the  bed 
of  the  river  for  half  a  mile  or  more,  until  a  narrow  path,  cut  out  of  the  side 
of  a  steep  hill,  shows  us  that  our  seaside  retreat  has  at  last  been  reached. 

I  have  ridden  on  ahead,  meanwhile,  to  "  prospect "  the  place,  and  see 
how  we  could  get  into  the  house  ;  for  when  too  late  to  return  to  Durban  it 
is  discovered  that  the  one  key  which  serves  for  all  the  doors  has  been  left 
behind.  A  narrow  path  cut  out  of  the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  rising  at  an 
angle  of  about  forty-five  degrees,  brings  me  to  an  opening  of  the  bush  on 
the  top  of  a  shoulder  of  the  hill,  about  a  hundred  feet  above  the  plain. 
Just  through  this,  in  a  small  shelf-like  nook,  surrounded  on  three  sides 
by  bush,  stands  our  home  for  the  ensuing  month.  My  enthusiasm  about 
the  attractions  of  the  spot  somewhat  abated  when  I  saw  our  residence.  It 


BY   THE    SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA.  631 

is  a  small  building  of  a  construction  peculiar  to  South  Africa,  and  known 
locally  as  "  wattle  and  dab."  Its  walls  are  simply  made  of  poles,  with 
Battles  interlaced  between  them,  the  whole  being  daubed  over  with  rough 
plaster,  and  then  limewashed.  In  an  inclement  climate,  where  the  winds 
j:re  violent  and  rains  are  frequent,  such  a  style  of  architecture  would  never 
keep  out  the  weather.  But  in  our  mild  latitude  it  gives  capital  shelter 
i  nd  lasts  for  many  a  long  year.  In  this  case  the  structure  consists  of  one 
centre  room,  twenty  feet  long  and  fourteen  wide,  into  which  open  four 
fcinall  rooms,  two  on  either  side,  each  being  respectively  fourteen  by  eight, 
'j.he  first  serves  us  as  parlour,  dining-room,  reception-room,  and  room  of 
1 11- work,  the  others  are  all  bedrooms.  Overhead  there  is  nothing  but  the 
bare  sheets  of  iron  that  form  the  roof.  As  the  walls  are  only  about  ten 
foei  high,  and  whitewashed  inside  as  well  as  out,  the  reader  will  form 
^ome  idea  of  the  charming  simplicity  which  distinguishes  this,  our  marine 
i  image. 

Locks  in  Natal  are  superfluities.  Until  within  the  last  year  burglars 
fnd  robbers  were  never  heard  of  except  as  plaguing  foreign  lands.  As 
often  as  not  in  our  country  districts  doors  are  left  unlocked,  windows 
i  nfastened,  and  our  houses  generally  accessible  to  any  evil-disposed  per- 
sons. Our  primitive  state  hitherto  has  been  our  great  security.  As 
c  ivilization  grows  and  spreads  all  this  will  pass  away ;  and  there  are  such 
evidences  latterly,  that,  as  a  colony,  we  are  civilizing  and  degenerating 
concurrently.  This  is  by  way  of  explaining  how  it  was  that  I  managed  so 
readily,  with  the  aid  of  a  large  nail,  to  force  open  the  lock,  and  thus 
obtain  ingress.  Although  no  other  house  is  to  be  found  at  a  less  distance 
than  a  mile  the  lock  was  a  formality — a  deference  to  usage  and  nothing 
more. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  the  waggon  drew  up  for  the  night  at  the  bottom, 
and  weary  work  we  had  dragging  all  our  household  goods  up  that  ladder- 
Ike  path  before  darkness  set  in.  Although  the  house  was  let  as  "fur- 
rished"  we  had  a  host  of  moveables  to  bring  with  us,  the  furniture 
leing  simply  confined  to  a  table,  two  closets,  one  large  and  four  small 
bedsteads,  some  shelves,  a  cracked  toilet  glass,  and  a  dozen  chairs.  It 
r -squired  some  exertion,  therefore,  to  put  our  house  in  order  and  appease 
oar  hunger,  but  both  were  duly  accomplished  within  two  or  three  hours. 
Our  Kaffirs  picked  up  a  large  pile  of  drift-wood  from  the  beach  in  a  few 
i:  tinutes,  and  soon  a  roaring  fire  filled  our  bare  and  curtainless  apartment 
Y  ith  a  blaze  of  light. 

Once  shaken  down  into  something  like  order,  the  everlasting  boom 
c  f  the  breakers  tempts  me  out.  From  the  verandah  in  front  I  can  see 
E  othing  but  the  vast,  mystic  blank  of  the  ocean,  stretching  from  my  feet 
a  >vay  into  dim  obscurity,  and  streaked  along  the  shore,  as  far  as  the  eye 
c  in  penetrate  the  gloom,  with  white  lathery  bars  of  foam.  Every  few 
s)conds,  as  some  new  roller  rises  darkly  out  of  the  sea,  and  plunges 
clown  upon  the  rocks  in  a  crashing  cataract  of  surge,  a  strange  flash 


632  BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA. 

of  veiled  phosphorescent  light  shoots  along  the  breaker,  as  though  some 
sudden  blaze  had  burst  out  beneath  it.  This  effect  is  quite  different  from 
the  more  sparkling  displays  of  ocean  phosphorescence  one  sees  on  a  smaller 
scale  when  on  the  water  at  night.  Only  once  have  I  seen  anything 
like  it,  and  that  was  off  the  coast  of  South  America,  one  dark  night  when 
the  ocean  was  crossed  by  broad  bands  of  the  same  sort  of  light,  emitted  as 
we  afterwards  found,  by  a  large  species  of  jelly-fish,  whose  scientific 
denomination  I  am  not  naturalist  enough  to  remember  correctly. 

Although  I  have  been  accustomed  all  my  life  to  live  near  the  sea,  the 
constant  roar  of  the  waves  only  some  hundred  feet  below  produces  at  first 
an  unpleasant  and  irritating  sensation.  On  this  first  night  I  said  that  the 
din  would  certainly  drive  me  mad  if  I  continued  there  ;  but  next  night 
the  noise  was  as  great,  and  my  reason  seemed  unimpaired  ;  the  night 
after  that  I  concluded  that  the  ocean  might  rave  far  more  loudly  than  it 
did  without  affecting  my  sanity.  The  sea,  indeed,  became  companionable 
in  its  vocal  efforts  before  many  days  were  over.  Those  grand  tones,  so 
unquenchably  impressive,  are,  after  all,  the  most  eloquent  of  Nature's 
voices.  For  four  weeks  they  have  never  ceased,  and  when,  in  the  calmest 
weather,  their  fury  abates,  they  only  sink  into  a  milder  cadence.  At 
night  we  have  never  got  rid  of  the  notion  that  a  storm  is  raging.  We  wake, 
and  fancy  that  rain  is  pouring  down  in  torrents,  and  that  a  gale  is  howling 
round  the  house.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  Go  out,  and  the  air  is  deliciously 
still,  the  stars  shine  peacefully,  and  all  the  elements  are  hushed  except 
the  sleepless  ocean. 

About  seven  in  the  morning  the  red  dull  blaze  of  the  sun  as  it  rises 
above  the  sea-line  and  looks  in  at  our  curtainless  windows  (there  are  no 
prying  eyes  to  fear)  wakes  us  all.  From  my  pillow  I  look  down  upon  the 
broad  sea  now,  and  usually  at  this  time  in  a  state  of  oily  calm.  No 
horizon  is  clearly  visible  in  the  mists  of  morning.  It  is  not  here  as  it  is 
at  sea,  where  the  early  riser  enjoys  the  grandest  aspect  of  the  changeful 
ocean.  The  sea  looks  its  worst  at  this  time.  Except  on  rare  occasions 
when  gales  arise,  these  southern  winter  mornings  are  still,  and  the  waves 
that  may  have  tossed  and  tumbled  in  the  sunlight  of  the  preceding 
evening  have  generally  subsided  ere  midnight.  Thick  vapours  hang  over 
the  waters  and  contract  the  distance,  the  sun  rises  red  and  big,  the  sea 
looks  torpid  and  dull ;  but  it  is  not  silent.  Loud  as  ever  roar  the  crash- 
ing breakers  ;  and  if  the  tide  be  flowing  in,  the  din  they  make  will  be  your 
first  disturbance  on  awaking. 

Short  time  does  one  take  in  dressing  at  so  primitive  a  retreat.  Having 
loosed  the  bit  of  string  by  which  the  door  is  temporarily  fastened,  I  begin 
to  do  what  all  masters  of  South  African  households  are  compelled  to  do, 
namely,  to  set  the  wheels  of  the  domestic  machinery,  in  the  shape  of 
Kaffir  and  coolie  servants,  at  work.  The  easy  natures  of  these  people 
forbid  any  exertion  on  their  part  that  is  not  absolutely  necessary.  There 
they  are,  seated  round  the  old  grate  in  the  reed  hut,  windowless,  door- 


BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFEICA.  633 

less,  and  floorless,  which  acts  as  kitchen  and  servants'  quarters  to  the 
establishment.  A  large  pot  of  maize  porridge  gurgles  pleasantly  on 
the  fire,  and  their  simple  hearts  arc  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  a 
speedy  meal.  Happily,  they  are  a  docile,  albeit  a  lazy,  people,  and  they 
skip  about  their  several  duties  with  a  song  on  their  lips  and  a  smile 
in  their  eyes.  Not  so,  however,  our  Indian  cook.  He  is  in  great  straits. 
He  can't  keep  the  draughts  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  he  is  distressed  by 
the  utter  lack  of  all  facilities  for  cooking.  He  mutters  that  he  can't 
understand  why  his  master  should  desert  home  comforts  for  such  a 
place.  Nature  has  few  charms  for  Sambo  anywhere ;  to  love  her  is  to 
acquire  a  taste.  My  cook  falls  into  a  yet  lower  state  of  despondency  on 
finding  that  both  teapot  and  coffee-pot  have  been  forgotten,  and  with 
a  sigh  he  proceeds  to  make  an  earthenware  pitcher  without  a  handle  do 
duty  for  those  utensils,  as  well  as,  at  a  later  stage,  act  as  deputy  for  a 
soup  tureen. 

The  order  of  the  day  at  our  watering-place  is  about  as  regular  and 
systematic  as  it  is  at  more  pretentious  resorts.  Breakfast  being  over, 
down  all  the  party  sallies  to  the  beach.  That  is  the  beginning  and  the 
er.d  of  our  enjoyments  ;  the  shore  in  one  phase  or  another  engrosses  all 
our  attention.  Now  the  tide  happens  to  be  out.  Smooth  and  hard  the 
sands  stretch  bare  on  either  hand.  Beyond  them  the  dark  rocks  are  left 
uncovered  by  the  falling  tide.  An  almost  perpendicular  bound  of  about 
a  hundred  feet  carries  us  to  the  top  of  a  pile  of  boulders,  by  which  the 
beach  just  here  is  buttressed.  Below  these,  on  one  side  a  platform  of 
rock  stretches  out  to  the  sea.  This  slab  of  sandstone  is  worn  into 
numberless  little  basins  and  channels,  in  which  lovely  striped  fish  of  tiny 
si/.e  and  delicate  proportions  flit  about.  Further  on,  the  pools  are  deeper 
and  larger ;  the  rocks  are  undermined  by  the  sea,  which  you  can  hear 
champing  and  chafing  beneath  you.  Now  and  then,  an  incoming  wave  fills 
these  pools  to  overflowing,  and  through  countless  unsuspected  holes  and 
chinks  the  water  spurts  up  like  a  fountain  into  your  face.  To  the  further 
rocks  the  mussels  cling  in  black  masses,  tons  on  tons,  small  and  great, 
from  the  delicate  green-tinted  youngster  to  the  big,  hoary,  and  bearded 
patriarch. 

It  is  here  that  we  fish.  On  the  first  morning  of  our  arrival  a  Kaffir  put 
hi  i  hook  down  a  deep  hole  not  more  than  a  foot  in  diameter,  and  in  a 
minute's  time  he  hauled  up  a  huge  rock-cod,  dark-brown  and  spotted, 
with  broad  greedy  mouth,  and  ugly  fins.  These  insignificant-looking 
pools,  crannies  though  they  be,  give  access  to  the  still  depths  of  sea  under- 
neath, where  these  fish,  which  are  delicious  eating,  love  to  lie.  But  there 
aro  fish  of  all  kinds  to  be  had  for  the  hauling.  Come  to  this  rock — a 
daily  haunt  of  ours.  Down  in  the  clear  depths  you  may  see  hundreds 
of  beautiful  creatures — some  darting  quickly  from  rock  to  rock,  and 
pool  to  pool,  others  gliding  slowly  nearer  the  bottom,  now  poking  at  a 
bunch  of  seaweed,  or  putting  to  flight  a  shoal  of  smaller  fry.  Here  are 


634  BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFEICA. 

the  narrow,  deep-bodied,  silvery  bream  ;  the  codlike,  broad-backed  mullet ; 
the  deep,  fleshy-coloured,  Cape  salmon.  Here,  too,  are  fish,  flashing  to 
and  fro,  which  in  truth  may  be  said  to  "  bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious 
things."  I  have  seen  the  fish-markets  of  Mauritius  and  other  Eastern 
places,  but  never  have  I  seen  fish  so  brilliantly  and  beautifully  coloured 
as  some  that  are  common  here.  Two  kinds  in  particular  may  be  named  ; 
one  being  striped  with  jagged  bands  of  the  brightest  blue  and  orange ;  the 
other  being  crossed  by  bars  of  the  richest  green  and  gold.  Both  are  good 
biters  and  capital  eating,  and  as  they  retain  their  colours  after  cooking, 
they  are  pleasant  objects  on  the  table. 

But  there  are  ugly  fellows  too.  One  little  wretch  in  particular,  from 
his  extreme  and  unparalleled  hideousness,  we  dubbed  a  sea-devil.  In  all 
respects  he  is  hateful.  This  pariah  of  the  fish  race  is  cowardly  but  greedy, 
never  swimming  forth  into  the  open  water,  but  crouching  in  holes  of  the 
rock,  or  among  the  seaweed,  not  far  from  the  surface.  He  has  a  detestable 
knack  of  seizing  the  bait  when  it  gets  within  reach,  and  holding  it  tenaciously 
while  you  tug  and  tug  in  the  belief  that  the  hook  has  caught.  The  first  fish 
of  this  kind  which  I  brought  up  offered  so  much  resistance  that  I  reckoned 
upon  a  prize  of  magnificent  proportions,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  wriggling, 
uncanny  creature  three  or  four  inches  long.  This  toad  of  the  ocean  is  dark- 
brown  and  mottled,  is  scaleless,  and  protrudes  large  vicious  eyes.  Its 
mouth  is  far  too  large  for  its  body,  and  overhung  by  masses  of  fleshy  skin 
not  unlike  lips.  Two  large  prickly  fins,  just  like  the  wings  of  harpies,  are 
placed  close  to  the  head,  and  a  long  row  of  similar  ones  runs  down  the 
back.  Small  yellow  teeth,  which  have  a  proneness  to  bite,  complete  the 
picture. 

But  the  most  companionable  and  interesting  fishes  we  have  here  are 
the  porpoises.  They  are  our  daily  visitors.  A  school  of  about  a  hundred 
appear  to  have  their  abiding  place  somewhere  along  the  coast.  Shortly 
after  sunrise  they  come  plunging  and  leaping  up  from  the  southward, 
returning  again  ere  the  day  be  out.  They  are  not  the  uncouth  creatures 
they  appear  and  are  reputed  to  be.  We  have  excellent  opportunities  of 
observation,  as  these  lively  creatures  keep  close  inshore,  just  outside  the 
rocks,  but  within  and  amongst  the  breakers,  which  have  no  terrors  for 
them.  It  is  a  rare  sight  to  see  a  troop  of  porpoises  coming  head  on 
towards  the  land  on  the  crest  of  a  roller.  When  caught  by  such  a  wave 
they  turn  with  it,  and  as  the  great  heave  of  water  gathers  itself  up,  wall- 
like,  and  then  curls  over  and  darts  down,  smooth,  green,  and  crushing,  the 
line  of  porpoises  may  be  clearly  seen,  at  full  length,  regular  as  a  squadron 
of  cavalry,  diving  or  rather  rushing  with  the  force  of  the  wave  into  the 
stiller  depths  beneath  the  swirling  foam. 

Pleasant  is  it,  too,  to  watch  the  porpoises  leap,  as  I  often  have  seen 
them  do,  clear  over  a  breaker,  or  turn  head  over  tail  in  their  gambols, 
or  catch  at  some  roving  fish,  for  which  they  are  ever  looking  out.  Sad 
havoc,  indeed,  do  these  voracious  creatures  make  among  their  smaller 


BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AF1UCA.  G35 

fellows,  and  a  morning  when  no  porpoises  appear — a   rare  event — is  a 
ce  'tain  prelude  to  good  sport. 

At  spring-tides,  when  the  far-receding  waves  leave  the  rocks  bare,  a 
perfect  paradise  of  seaside  "wonders"  is  disclosed.  The  first  day  when 
wn  could  get  such  a  glimpse  of  the  beauties  which  the  sea  hides  happened 
to  be  Sunday,  and  our  party  were,  I  believe,  none  the  worse  for  being 
compelled  to  wander  in  rapturous  admiration,  not  amidst  the  fretted  aisles 
of  church  or  cathedral,  but  amidst  these — the  humblest,  and  yet  the  most 
mysterious,  of  Nature's  works.  The  rocks  were  found  to  contain  pool 
af.er  pool,  in  bewildering  numbers,  each  being  in  itself  a  most  perfect 
and  amply-furnished  aquarium.  Words  cannot  describe  the  purity  of 
th-3  water  in  these  wave-worn  cavities,  but  it  will  be  understood  perhaps 
when  I  say  that  on  more  than  one  occasion  I  have  got  a  wetting  by 
wi Iking  into  one,  under  the  delusion  that  it  was  dry.  These  pools  are 
sometimes  carpeted  with  sea-weed  of  vivid  tints,  with  sponges,  with 
fu  igi,  or  perhaps  with  sparkling  and  shell-strewn  sand.  All  round  the 
sides  is  a  shaggy  growth  of  sea- weed,  while  under  tiny  overhanging 
cliffs  sea  anemones  nestle,  or  the  starlike  species  of  the  sea  urchin  move 
curiously  about.  Multitudes  of  delicate  and  graceful  little  fish,  with 
silvery,  striped,  golden,  or  speckled  bodies,  glide  peacefully,  hither  and 
thither,  or,  when  disturbed,  dart  into  some  smaller  out-pool — a  sort  of 
inner  chamber,  where  the  sea-weed  grows  thicker,  the  rock  overhangs 
more,  and  a  comfortable  hiding-place  can  be  found.  The  beautiful  shells 
we  pick  up  on  the  sands  above  are  here  seen  animated,  moving  about 
th ..)  bottom,  and  taking  an  active  part  in  the  wonderful  economy  of  the 
uriverse. 

But  time  would  fail  me  were  I  to  write  of  these  sub-aqueous  glories  as 
I  should  like  to  do.  Their  types  and  forms  are  so  varied  and  new, 
their  habits  are  so  interesting  and  suggestive,  their  colours  are  so  rich  and 
ni'  How,  and  they,  in  their  native  loveliness,  seem  so  confidently  to  defy 
thj  power  of  man  to  imitate  or  to  match  their  beauties,  that  one  could 
never  tire  of  trying  to  do  justice  to  such  a  theme.  But  there  are 
other  features  of  our  watering-place  yet  to  be  described  ere  this  rapid 
skatch  ends.  Not  far  up  the  coast  the  sea  has  scooped  out  of  a 
muss  of  sandstone  rocks  three  or  four  picturesque  arches  and  caves, 
neb  large,  but  infinitely  beautiful,  as  the  afternoon  sun  glints  through 
th-iir  chinks  and  crannies,  and  throws  a  glow  upon  the  big  boulders 
piJed  up  in  the  background.  Half-a-mile  further  we  come  to  a  little  bay, 
he  aimed  in  by  tall  rocks,  but  skirted  by  a  delicious  strip  of  hard  firm 
sa  id.  Behind  and  around  rises,  sheer  from  the  water's  edge  to  the  height 
of  300  feet,  an  almost  perpendicular  hill,  clothed  with  thick  vegetation — 
rustling  bananas,  spiral  aloes,  and  hanging  creepers,  whose  evergreen 
tii  ts  are  reflected,  when  the  tide  is  up  and  the  air  is  calm,  in  the  waters 
be  low. 

The  vegetation  of  our  shores  would  seem  strange  even  to  eyes  accus- 


636  BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA. 

tomcd  to  the  leafage  and  bush-growth  of  southern  Europe.  All  along  the 
beach,  just  above  high  water  mark,  are  rows  of  tall  grim  aloes,  a  plant 
whose  leaves  are  as  large  as,  though  their  arrangement  differs  from,  those 
of  the  Mexican  agave.  These  veterans  rise  in  some  places  to  a  height  of 
twenty  feet.  Around  their  stems  cluster  thickly  the  dead  leaves  of  many 
long  seasons,  and  at  the  top  the  fresh  living  leaves  spread  out  umbrella- 
wise.  Standing  thus,  they  look  like  gaunt  sentries  stationed  along  the 
beach.  They  are  scattered  singly  amidst  the  bush,  clothing  the  hills, 
steep  and  high,  that  rise  abruptly  from  the  sands  along  the  whole  length 
of  the  Natal  coast.  But  dense  groves  of  the  wild  banana,  and  closely- 
matted  jungle  of  stunted  growth,  give  freshness  throughout  the  year  to  the 
aspect  of  the  shore. 

Not  many  birds  are  to  be  seen  hereabout.  Occasionally  a  gull  will  fly 
over  the  sea  to  some  unseen  resting  place.  Now  and  then  that  toothsome 
delicacy,  the  "  Oddidore,"  will  alight  on  the  beach  in  quest  of  insects  or  crabs. 
About  ten  miles  to  the  southward  a  stream  called  in  the  expressive  language 
of  the  natives,  Amanzimtote,  or  River  of  Sweet  Water,  enters  the  sea. 
Near  the  mouth  it  spreads  out,  as  many  of  our  African  rivers  do,  into  a 
lagoon,  surrounded  by  bushy  hills,  whose  environing  trees  spring  nearly  out 
of  the  water.  Here  these  beautiful  birds  may  be  found  in  large  numbers, 
for  in  this  sequestered  retreat  few  sportsmen,  as  yet,  have  found  them  out. 
At  the  mouth  of  our  river,  the  Umbogontwini,  there  are  several  large 
boulders  overlooking  the  stream,  and  on  the  top  of  these  a  pair  of  speckled 
kingfishers,  the  largest  and  rarest  of  that  beautiful  species,  are  often 
distinctly  perched.  We  have  seen,  too,  more  than  one  flock  of  pelicans 
pass  over  us,  their  number  being  preceded,  as  usual,  by  a  leader,  and  their 
harsh  cries  distinctly  reaching  us  from  a  vast  altitude.  Black- winged, 
white-headed  sea-eagles  sometimes,  though  not  often,  sail  pass  majes- 
tically, while  silver-winged  snipe  may  be  met  with  on  the  beach  in  the 
early  morning.  The  bush  at  the  back  of  us  is  thronged  with  smaller 
birds,  emerald- winged,  golden-breasted,  scarlet-collared,  or  black-crested, 
and  by  no  means  destitute  of  vocal  capacity. 

There  are  other  forms  of  life  about  us  of  which  the  reader  may  like  to 
hear  something.  Our  house  is  situated  in  the  comer  of  what  is  known 
as  a  Kafiir  location.  The  cautious  foresight  of  the  English  government  has 
set  apart  for,  and  the  liberality  of  the  colonial  legislature  has  secured  to,  the 
mass  of  Kaffirs,  refugees,  and  others,  living  within  the  colony,  certain  large 
spaces  of  land,  comprising  in  all  about  a  million  and  a  half  acres,  which  are 
inalienably  assigned  for  their  occupation  and  benefit.  All  the  country 
southward  of  us  for  twenty  miles  is  one  of  these  locations.  Some  of  the 
natives  resident  in  it  are  among  the  oldest  coloured  inhabitants  of  the 
colony.  Of  late  years  the  location  has  become  partly  depopulated,  owing 
to  that  instinct,  or  necessity,  of  savage  races  which  leads  them  to  retire 
before  the  advances  of  civilization.  This  location  consists  of  some  of  the 
finest  land  on  the  coast.  It  is  close  to  town,  and  therefore  near  a  market. 


BY  THE    SEA-SIDE   IN    SOUTH-EAST   AFRICA.  637 

Many  a  white  settler  would  be  only  too  thankful  to  have  a  home  here. 
But  its  very  proximity  to  the  more  thickly  colonized  districts  constitutes  its 
chief  drawback  in  the  eyes  of  the  natives.  They  begin  to  feel  cramped  and 
overlooked  ;  and  latterly  many  large  tribes  have,  for  no  other  apparent 
reason,  moved  away  nearly  a  hundred  miles  to  the  southward,  near  the 
frontier  of  the  colony.  The  consequence  is  that  this  beautiful  tract  of 
country  is  scarcely  peopled  at  all,  and  it  is  hoped  that  the  home  government 
will  allow  it  to  be  exchanged  for  the  lands  voluntarily  selected  by  its 
former  inhabitants. 

But  there  are  many  Kaffirs  residing  here  nevertheless.  Two  kraals 
are  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  as  we  are  largely  dependent 
upon  them  for  our  daily  supplies,  they  are  regarded  as  part  of  our  esta- 
blishment. Butcheries  and  shops  are  at  some  distance,  and  fish  forms 
a  large  feature  in  one's  daily  menu.  These  black  neighbours  of  ours  are 
sin,ple,  primitive  people,  who  regard  this  rough  and  rude  shanty  as  a  sort 
of  manor-house,  from  whence  they  have  a  prescriptive  right  to  draw  as 
much  custom  as  possible.  We  had  not  been  here  two  days  before  the 
head  and  lord  of  the  nearest  kraal  came  to  pay  his  respects.  He  was 
a  t;ill,  fine  old  man,  of  about  sixty-five,  as  far  as  one  could  judge,  and  a 
Kaffir's  age  is  one  of  those  mysteries  which  baffle  the  sharpest  intel- 
ligence and  the  most  prolonged  observation.  He  was  in  the  garb  of 
his  people,  that  is  the  garb  of  nature,  wholly  unassisted  save  in  the 
girdle  of  skin  and  a  feather  or  two  stuck  in  his  hair.  A  young  wife 
accompanied  him,  apparently  regarding  her  patriarchal  husband  as  an 
excellent  joke.  Having  squatted  on  his  knees  in  the  verandah  he  began 
to  take  snuff,  as  a  preface  to  farther  diplomatic  intercourse,  and  then 
proceeded  with  inflexible  candour  to  express  his  opinion  regarding  the 
personal  appearance  of  every  member  of  our  party,  to  the  great  confusion 
of  {ill.  Having  asked  for  a  drink,  and  obtained  it,  he  gave  the  best  part 
of  the  beverage  to  his  young  wife,  who  told  him  that  it  would  certainly 
do  him  harm  were  he  to  imbibe  it  all.  Having  then  arranged  to  supply  us 
with  milk  and  corn  daily,  he  saluted  us  as  his  rulers  and  benefactors,  and 
went  his  way.  The  next  morning  the  head  of  another  kraal,  about  two 
miles  off,  came  to  see  us,  bringing  with  him  baskets  containing  noble  fish, 
large  active  crayfish,  oysters  and  mussels,  for  all  of  which  excellent  prices 
were  demanded.  It  is  a  singular  circumstance  that  while  Zulus  generally 
will  not  touch  fish,  looking  upon  it  as  well  as  upon  pork  as  unclean,  these 
Kalfirs  have  no  such  scruples,  and  almost  subsist  on  fish.  The  children  come 
dov-n  in  shoals,  pick  a  quantity  of  mussels  off  the  rocks,  light  a  fire  upon 
the  beach,  and  roast  them  over  it ;  and  capital  eating  they  are  when  thus 
cooked.  More  expert  fishermen  than  the  Kaffirs  are  I  have  rarely  seen. 
Their  lines  are  of  great  strength,  twisted  out  of  strips  of  bark.  Baiting 
the^e  with  crayfish  they  will  pull  out  of  small  holes,  with  surprising  quick- 
ness, fish  after  fish — great  struggling  fellows  which  require  a  hard  blow  or 
two  before  they  are  got  off  the  line. 


638  BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST   AFRICA. 

The  other  clay  we  made  a  state  visit  to  the  nearest  kraal.  After 
following  some  winding  paths,  darkened  by  the  overhanging  hush,  we  came 
to  a  group  of  ahout  half-a-dozen  beehive-shaped  huts  placed  round  an 
enclosure  for  cattle,  at  the  top  of  a  hill.  A  chorus  of  many  dogs  greeted 
our  approach.  Curs,  of  no  breed  in  particular,  always  infest  the  kraals 
of  Kaffirs,  and  bark  much  without  biting  at  all.  Several  womon  crawled 
out  of  the  apertures,  two  feet  high,  through  which  alone  daylight  finds 
ingress  into  these  straw  huts.  Presently  the  whole  seraglio  was  around 
us,  and  in  due  time  the  old  chief  himself  toddled  up  from  a  midday 
siesta  under  a  leafy  tree.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  how  thoroughly  fond  and 
fearless  of  him  his  wives  seemed  to  be.  There  were  six  of  them,  one  for 
each  hut.  All  had  babies  of  tender  age  on  their  backs  or  in  their  arms. 
He  was  no  Bluebeard,  this  aged  polygamist,  and  fondled  his  youngest  infant 
— a  bead-eyed  little  urchin  wholly  naked,  as  all  Kaffir  children  are — with 
more  manifest  affection  than  I  ever  saw  a  native  exhibit  before.  Presently 
a  woman  much  older  than  the  rest  came  up  and  squatted  down  on  all 
fours  beside  him,  as  though  the  place  were  hers  by  right.  He  looked 
pleased  to  .see  her.  She  put  her  head  down,  very  much  as  a  cat  does 
when  it  wants  stroking,  and  he  fondly  rubbed  and  scratched  it  for  a  while. 
The  action  was  so  simple,  yet  so  funny,  that  we  could  not  resist  a  laugh. 
He  looked  up  rather  wonderingly  and  asked  us  if  we  were  smiling  at  his 
doing  that.  "  You  white  men  have  particular  ways  of  caressing  those  you 
love,  and  this  is  our  way."  The  justice  of  this  remark  we  had  to  admit, 
whether  we  liked  it  or  not ;  and  though  the  lesson  came  unpleasantly,  wo 
confessed  to  ourselves  that  the  self-sufficiency  of  people  y/ho  ridicule  others 
for  habits  and  customs  that  differ  from  their  own,  often  deserve  such  a 
rebuke  as  we  received  from  this  Zulu  philosopher.  The  old  lady  herself 
was  evidently  delighted  with  the  attention  of  her  husband,  and  proudly 
told  us  that  she  was  his  oldest  wife.  "And  I  love  her  the  best,"  said  he, 
an  assurance  by  no  means  resented  by  the  others. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  story  told  by  a  medical  friend,  who  many  years 
resided  in  the  upper  districts.  The  wife  of  a  powerful  chief  living  in  the 
vicinity  was  bitten  by  a  snake,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  cure  her  the  chief  at 
once  sent  for  the  European  doctor.  Some  considerable  time  necessarily 
elapsed  before  the  latter  could  possibly  reach  the  place,  and  his  arrival  was 
too  late  to  effect  a  cure  ;  the  wife  died.  The  chief  was  wildly  inconsolable. 
"  But  you  have  plenty  more  wives,"  suggested  my  friend,  anxious  to  cheer 
the  painful  distress  of  the  bereaved  chieftain,  who  could  number  his  wives 
by  tens,  if  not  by  twenties.  "  Ah,"  said  he,  with  an  expression  of  real  and 
deep  feeling,  "but  the  heart  loves  but  one." 

Before  we  left  the  kraal  a  fine  young  man,  himself  married,  came  up. 
"  That  is  my  eldest  son,"  said  the  old  wife,  "  and  the  best  of  them  all." 
The  heir,  despite  his  importance  and  superiority,  seemed  a  modest, 
unassuming  fellow.  When  his  father  dies,  he  will  inherit  not  only  his 
station  and  property,  but  his  wives  too,  who  will  then  be  his  slaves,  and 


BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA.  639 

bound  to  work  for  him,  as  they  now  are  for  his  parent.  This  is  one  of 
th«?  provisions  of  Kaffir  law,  which  it  is  an  anomaly  of  our  social  condition 
to  have  in  operation  here. 

Small  things  please  these  simple-minded  people.  The  girls  of  our 
paiiy  had  brought  several  strips  of  coloured  rags,  and  these  were  accepted 
wi  h  boundless  gratitude  by  the  women,  who  forthwith  began  bedecking 
tho  brows,  the  arms,  and  the  person  of  their  lord  and  master  with  them, 
reserving  only  one  bit  apiece  for  themselves.  The  old  man  was  as  proud 
of  these  decorations  as  a  gartered  knight  may  be  with  his  ribbon,  and  the 
whole  party  at  once  burst  into  a  jubilant  chorus,  keeping  time  with  their 
hands  and  shoulders.  Vanity  is  no  less  a  foible  with  Kaffirs  than  with 
Europeans.  Not  long  since  a  party  of  the  girls  at  this  kraal  came  to  see 
us,  each  having  a  baby  strapped  to  her  back.  Happening  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  swing  looking-glass  of  fair  size,  an  object  they  had  never 
seen  before,  their  delight  was  most  extravagant  and  vociferous.  Screams 
of  astonishment  and  admiration  filled  the  room.  Huddling  up  together  so 
that  all  might  get  a  glimpse  of  themselves  in  the  mirror,  they  began 
dancing,  singing,  and  rolling  their  eyes  and  heads  about  after  a  fashion 
known  only  to  such  barbarians.  Since  that  time  they  have  brought  fish 
and  wild-fruit  as  bribes  for  permission  to  gaze  into  and  dance  before  the 
ma^ic  mirror. 

But  I  must  stop,  for  my  pen  is  running  away  with  me.  There  are 
other  aspects  of  our  watering-place  as  novel,  if  not  as  interesting,  as  those 
I  Lave  described.  Much  might  be  said  of  the  luxury  of  bathing  as  we 
ha^  e  it  here,  with  no  prying  eyes  to  care  for,  and  the  rock-bound  but 
turbulent  breakers  to  bound  amongst.  To  be  knocked  about  by  these 
waves,  lifted  off  your  feet  by  an  advancing  breaker,  and  tossed  up  high,  if 
not  dry,  upon  the  sands,  to  be  scrubbed  by  the  coarse  clean  sand,  or 
whirled  amidst  the  lather  of  some  seething  "  cross-jobble,"  is  to  enjoy  sea- 
bat  ling  in  its  best  and  truest  form.  Then,  when  you  have  had  enough 
of  the  salt  water,  a  dozen  paces  across  the  river-bar  takes  you  to  the 
shallow  stream,  where  you  can  have  a  cool  fresh  bath,  and  feel  in  all 
respects  renovated.  This  last  facility  to  my  mind  makes  our  bathing 
perfection. 

Or  go  to  the  top  of  that  little  hill  near  the  cottage,  crowned  by  a  flag- 
staff, and  see  what  a  glorious  prespect  spreads  out  inland.  At  our  feet 
stretches  northward  a  long  narrow  plain,  green  with  nestling  cane  leaves, 
and  humanized  by  many  sugar-mills.  All  round  it  rise  bold  hills,  dark 
wit]  i  the  primeval  bush  which  covers  all  our  coast  lands.  On  the  other 
side  the  valley  winds  westward,  disclosing  an  ever-undulating  woodland 
country,  rising  and  sinking  in  pleasant  continuity  of  softest  vallies,  where 
babbling  brooks  or  sleepy  rivers  are  flowing;  while  further  yet  the  rolling 
uplands  dilate  in  huge  swelling  heights,  here  and  there  rent  by  some 
sudlen  chasm,  but  following  each  'other  in  their  upward  march  to  our 
mountain  frontier,  like  the  rolling  billows  of  the  sea. 


C40  BY  THE   SEA-SIDE   IN   SOUTH-EAST  AFRICA. 

And  back  to  that  sea  our  eye  instinctively  turns,  for  it  fills  more  than 
half  the  horizon,  and  unquestionably  predominates.  It  is  in  one  sense  a 
strangely  silent  sea ;  rarely,  indeed,  is  a  sail  seen  upon  it.  During  our 
month  of  residence  we  have  seen  but  four  steamers  and  three  sailing 
vessels.  Coleridge  might  fitly  have  written  here  : — 

Alone,  alone, — all,  all  alone  ; 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea. 

A  wide  sea  truly.  The  crested  waves  that  come  trooping  up  in  serried 
order  may  have  travelled,  for  aught  I  know,  from  that  mysterious  antarctic 
land  investing  the  south  pole  yonder ;  there  is  naught  to  stop  their 
march  betwixt  this  shore  and  that  far-off  strand.  They  are  the  pure, 
deep  ocean;  they  are  in  no  degree  of  the  earth,  earthy.  Unlike  the 
waters  of  the  German  Ocean  or  the  British  Channel,  they  are  the  true 
aqua  pura  of  the  sea  gods.  Agencies  invisible  to  us,  operating  at  remote 
distances,  gales  and  storms  of  which  we  are  insensible,  move  them.  In 
the  calmest  weather  they  break  and  roar  incessantly,  and  there  are  few 
ears  to  hear  them.  Commerce  has  yet  to  stretch  her  wings  this  way,  and 
to  make  these  waters  lively  with  the  presence  of  ships  and  steamers. 
When  the  avenues  of  human  industiy  in  the  northern  world  are  filled  to 
overflowing,  then  we  may  hope  to  see  this  sea  lit  with  many  a  white  sail, 
and  all  the  latent  goodness  of  the  land  developed ;  and  may  that  day  be 
nigh. 


THE  VILLA  ALTIERI. 


THE 


COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 


DECEMBER,  1867. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DOUBTS  AND  FEARS. 

ND  here  is  the  letter,  Julia,"  said 
L'Estrange,  as  they  sat  at  tea 
together  that  same  evening.  "  Here 
is  the  letter  ;  and  if  I  were  as  clever 
a  casuist  as  Colonel  Bramleigh 
thought  me,  I  should  perhaps  know 
whether  I  have  the  right  to  read  it 
or  not." 

"  Once  I  have  begun  to  discuss 
such  a  point,  I  distrust  my  judg- 
ment ;  but  when  I  pronounce 
promptly,  suddenly,  out  of  mere 
woman's  instinct,  I  have  great  faith 
in  myself." 

"  And  how  does  your  woman's 
instinct  incline  here  ?  " 

tf  Not  to  read  it.     It  may  or  may 
not  have  been  the  writer's  intention 
to    have    sealed   it ;   the   omission 
was  possibly  a  mere  accident.     At 
all  .  3 vents,  to  have  shown  you  the  contents  would  have  been  a  courtesy  at 

the  writer's  option.     He  was  not  so  inclined " 

"  Stop  a  bit,  Julia,"  cried  he,  laughing.  "  Here  you  are  arguing  the 
case,  after  having  given  me  the  instinctive  impulse  that  would  not  wait 
for  logic.  Now,  I'll  not  stand  '  floggee  and  preachee  '  too." 

•'Don't  you  see,  sir,"  said  she,  with  a  mock  air  of  being  offended, 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  96.  31. 


612  THE   BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  that  tlie  very  essence  of  this  female  instinct  is  its  being  the  perception 
of  an  inspired  process  of  reasoning,  an  instinctive  sense  of  right,  that 
did  not  require  a  mental  effort  to  arrive  at." 

"  And  this  instinctive  sense  of  right  says,  Don't  read  ?  " 

"Exactly  so." 

"Well,  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh.  "I  don't 
know,  and  I  want  to  know,  in  what  light  Colonel  Bramleigh  puts  me 
forward.  Am  I  a  friend  ?  am  I  a  dependant  ?  am  I  a  man  worth  taking 
some  trouble  about  ?  or  am  I  merely,  as  I  overheard  him  saying  to  Lord 
Culduff,  '  a  young  fellow  my  boys  are  very  fond  of  ?  '  " 

"  Oh,  George.     You  never  told  me  this." 

"  Because  it's  not  safe  to  tell  you  anything.  You  are  sure  to  resent 
things  you  ought  never  to  show  you  have  known.  I'd  lay  my  life  on  it 
that  had  you  heard  that  speech,  you'd  have  contrived  to  introduce  it  into 
some  narrative  or  some  description  before  a  week  went  over." 

"  Well,  it's  a  rule  of  war,  if  the  enemy  fire  unfair  ammunition,  you 
may  send  it  back  to  him." 

"  And  then,"  said  L'Estrange,  reverting  to  his  own  channel  of  thought, 
"  and  then  it's  not  impossible  that  it  might  be  such  a  letter  as  I  would  not 
have  stooped  to  present." 

"  If  I  were  a  man,  nothing  would  induce  me  to  accept  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  any  one,"  said  she,  boldly.  "  It  puts  every  one  concerned 
in  a  false  position.  '  Give  the  bearer  ten  pounds  '  is  intelligible ;  but 
when  the  request  is,  '  Be  polite  to  the  gentleman  who  shall  deliver  this  ; 
invite  him  to  dine ;  present  him  to  your  wife  and  daughters  ;  give  him 
currency  amongst  your  friends ; '  all  because  of  certain  qualities  which 
have  met  favour  with  some  one  else ;  why,  this  subverts  every  principle 
of  social  intercourse  ;  this  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  that  lends  a  charm  to 
intimacy.  I  want  to  find  out  the  people  -who  suit  me  in  life,  just  as  I 
want  to  display  the  traits  that  may  attract  others  to  me" 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what's  inside  this,"  said  L'Estrange,  who  only  half 
followed  what  she  was  saying. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  she,  gravely. 

"  Do,  if  you  can." 

"  Here  it  is  : — <  The  bearer  of  this  is  a  young  fellow  who  has  been  our 
parson  for  some  time  back,  and  now  wants  to  be  yours  at  Albano.  There's 
not  much  harm  in  him ;  he  is  well-born,  well-mannered,  preaches  but 
twelve  minutes,  and  rides  admirably  to  hounds.  Do  what  you  can  for 
him  ;  and  believe  me  yours  truly.'  " 

"If  I  thought " 

"  Of  course  you'd  put  it  in  the  fire,"  said  she,  finishing  his  speech  ; 
"  and  I'd  have  put  it  there  though  it  should  contain  something  exactly 
the  reverse  of  all  this." 

"  The  doctor  told  me  that  Bramleigh  said  something  about  a  repara- 
tion that  he  owed  me  ;  and  although  the  phrase,  coming  from  a  man  in 
his  state,  might  mean  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  it  still  keeps  recurring 


THE   BBAHLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  648 

to  my  mind,  and  suggesting  an  eager  desire  to  know  what  lie  could 
point  to." 

"  Perhaps  his  conscience  pricked  him,  George,  for  not  having  made 
more  of  you  while  here.  I'd  almost  say  it  might  with  some  justice." 

"  I  think  they  have  shown  us  great  attention — have  been  most 
hospitable  and  courteous  to  us." 

"  I'm  not  a  fair  witness,  for  I  have  no  sort  of  gratitude  for  social 
civilities.  I  think  it's  always  the  host  is  the  obliged  person." 

"  I  know  you  do,"  said  he,  smiling. 

"  Who  knows,"  said  she  warmly,  "if  he  has  not  found  out  that  the 
«  young  fellow  the  boys  were  so  fond  of '  was  worthy  of  favour  in  higher 
qu  irters  ?  Eh,  George,  might  not  this  give  the  clue  to  the  reparation  he 
speaks  of?" 

"  I  can  make  nothing  of  it,"  said  he,  as  he  tossed  the  letter  on  the 
talle  with  an  impatient  movement.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Julia," 
criid  he,  after  a  pause.  "I'll  take  the  letter  over  to  Castello  to-morrow, 
and  ask  Augustus  if  he  feels  at  liberty  to  read  it  to  me  ;  if  he  opine  not, 
IT  get  him  to  seal  it  then  and  there." 

"  But  suppose  he  consents  to  read  it,  and  suppose  it  should  contain 
something,  I'll  not  say  offensive,  but  something  disagreeable,  something 
thf  t  you  certainly  would  not  wish  to  have  said  ;  will  you  be  satisfied  at 
being  the  listener  while  he  reads  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  risk  that  than  bear  my  present  uncertainty." 

"  And  if  you'll  let  me,  George,  I'll  go  with  you.  I'll  loiter  about  the 
grounds,  and  you  can  tell  Nelly  where  to  find  me,  if  she  wishes  to  see  me." 

"  By  the  way,  she  asked  me  why  you  had  not  been  to  Castello  ;  but 
my  head  being  very  full  of  other  things,  I  forgot  to  tell  you ;  and  then 
there  was  something  else  I  was  to  say." 

"  Try  and  remember  it,  George,"  said  she,  coaxingly.  *j 

"What  was  it?  Was  it? — no — it  couldn't  have  been  about  Lord 
Cu  duff  carrying  away  the  doctor  to  his  own  room,  and  having  him  there 
full  half-an-hour  in  consultation  before  he  saw  Colonel  Bramleigh." 

"Did  he  do  that?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  some  redness,  or  some  heat,  or  something  or  other  that 
he  remarked  about  his  ears  after  eating.  No,  no;  it  wasn't  that.  I 
ren  .ember  all  about  it  now.  It  was  a  row  that  Jack  got  into  with  his 
Ad:  mral ;  he  didn't  report  himself,  or  he  reported  to  the  wrong  man,  or  he 
wei  t  on  board  when  he  oughtn't ;  in  fact,  he  did  something  irregular,  and 
the  Admiral  used  some  very  hard  language,  and  Jack  rejoined,  and  the 
npsliot  is  he's  to  be  brought  before  a  court  martial ;  at  least  he  fears  so." 

"  Poor  fellow  ;  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  Nelly  says  that  there  is  yet  time  to  apologize ;  that  the  Admiral  will 
per:  ait  him  to  retract  or  recall  what  he  said,  and  that  his  brother  officers 
say  he  ought — some  of  them  at  least." 

"  And  it  was  this  you  forgot  to  tell  me  ?"  said  she,  reproachfully. 

' '  No.  It  was  all  in  my  head,  but  along  with  so  many  things ;  and  then 

81—2 


644  THE  BKAMLEIGUS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

I  was  so  badgered  and  bullied  by  the  cross-examination  they  submitted 
me  to  ;  and  so  anxious  and  uneasy,  that  it  escaped  me  till  now." 

"  Oh,  George,  let  us  do  a  good-natured  thing  ;  let  us  go  over  and  see 
Nelly ;  she'll  have  so  many  troubles  on  her  heart,  she'll  want  a  word  of 
advice  and  kindness.  Let  us  walk  over  there  now." 

"  It's  past  ten  o'clock,  Julia." 

"Yes;  but  they're  always  late  at  Castello." 

"  And  raining  heavily  besides  ; — listen  to  that !  " 

"  What  do  we  care  for  rain  ?  did  bad  weather  ever  keep  either  of  us  at 
home  when  we  wished  to  be  abroad  ?  " 

"  "We  can  go  to-morrow.  I  shall  have  to  go  to-morrow  about  this 
letter." 

"  But  if  we  wait  we  shall  lose  a  post.  Come,  George,  get  your  coat  and 
hat,  and  I'll  be  ready  in  an  instant." 

"  After  all,  it  will  seem  so  strange  in  us  presenting  ourselves  at  such 
an  hour,  and  in  such  a  trim.  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  do  it." 

"Easily  enough.  I'll  go  to  Mrs.  Eady  the  housekeeper's  room,  and 
you'll  say  nothing  about  me,  except  to  Nelly ;  and  as  for  yourself,  it  will 
be  only  a  very  natural  anxiety  on  your  part  to  learn  how  the  Colonel  is 
doing.  There,  now,  don't  delay.  Let  us  be  off  at  once."  • 

"  I  declare  I  think  it  a  very  mad  excursion,  and  the  only  thing  certain 
to  come  of  it  will  be  a  heavy  cold  or  a  fever." 

"And  we  face  the  same  risks  every  day  for  nothing.  I'm  sure  wet 
weather  never  kept  you  from  joining  the  hounds." 

This  home-thrust  about  the  very  point  on  which  he  was  then  smarting 
decided  the  matter,  and  he  arose  and  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

"  Yes,"  muttered  he,  as  he  mounted  the  stairs,  "there  it  is !  That's 
the  reproach  I  can  never  make  head  against.  The  moment  they  say,  *  You 
were  out  hunting,'  I  stand  convicted  at  once." 

There  was  little  opportunity  for  talk  as  they  breasted  the  beating  rain 
on  their  way  to  Castello ;  great  sheets  of  water  came  down  with  a  sweeping 
wind,  which  at  times  compelled  them  to  halt  and  seek  shelter  ere  they 
could  recover  breath  to  go  on. 

"What  a  night,"  muttered  he.  "I  don't  think  I  was  ever  out  in  a 
worse." 

"  Isn't  it  rare  fun,  George  ?  "  said  she,  laughingly.  "  It's  as  good  as 
swim Tii ing  in  a  rough  sea." 

"  Which  I  always  hated." 

"  And  which  I  delighted  in !  WTiatever  taxes  one's  strength  to  its 
limits,  and  exacts  all  one's  courage  besides,  is  the  most  glorious  of  excite- 
ments. There's  a  splash;  that  was  hail,  George." 

He  muttered  something  that  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  storm-;  and 
though  from  time  to  time  she  tried  to  provoke  him  to  speak,  now,  by  some 
lively  taunt,  now  by  some  jesting  remark  on  his  sullen  humour,  he  main- 
tained his  silence  till  he  reached  the  terrace,  when  he  said, — 

"  Here  we  are,  and  I  declare,  Julia,  I'd  rather  go  back  than  go  forward." 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  645 

11  You  shan't  have  the  choice,"  said  she  laughing,  as  she  rang  the 
bell.  "  How  is  your  master,  William  ? "  asked  she,  as  the  servant 
admitted  them. 

"  No  better,  miss;  the  Dublin  doctor's  upstairs  now  in  consultation, 
anc'l  I  believe  there's  another  to  be  sent  for." 

"  Mind  that  you  don't  say  I'm  here.  I'm  going  to  Mrs.  Eady's  room 
to  dry  my  cloak,  and  I  don't  wish  the  young  ladies  to  be  disturbed,"  said 
she,  passing  hastily  on  to  the  housekeeper's  room,  while  L'Estrange  made 
his  way  to  the  drawing-room.  The  only  person  here,  however,  was  Mr. 
Harding,  who,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  his  head  bowed  forward, 
wa^  slowly  pacing  the  room  in  melancholy  fashion. 

"Brain  fever,  sir,"  muttered  he,  in  reply  to  the  curate's  inquiry. 
"  Brain  fever,  and  of  a  severe  kind.  Too  much  application  to  business — 
did  not  give  up  in  time,  they  say." 

"  But  he  looked  so  well ;  seemed  always  so  hearty  and  so  cheerful." 

"  Very  true,  sir,  very  true ;  but  as  you  told  us  on  Sunday,  in  that 
impressive  discourse  of  yours,  we  are  only  whited  sepulchres." 

L'Estrange  blushed.  It  was  so  rare  an  event  for  him  to  be  compli- 
mented on  his  talents  as  a  preacher  that  he  half  mistrusted  the  eulogy. 

"•And  what  else,  indeed,  are  we  ?  "  sighed  the  little  man.  "Here's 
our  dear  friend,  with  all  that  the  world  calls  prosperity ;  he  has  fortune, 
station,  a  fine  family,  and " 

The  enumeration  of  the  gifts  that  made  up  this  lucky  man's  measure  of 
prosperity  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Ellen  Bramleigh,  who 
came  in  abruptly  and  eagerly. 

"  Where's  Julia  ?  "  cried  she ;   "  my  maid  told  me  she  was  here." 
•     L'Estrange  answered  in  a  low  tone.    Ellen,  in  a  subdued  voice,  said, — 

"  I'll  take  her  up  to  my  room.  I  have  much  to  say  to  her.  Will  you 
let  her  remain  here  to-night  ? — you  can't  refuse.  It  is  impossible  she 
could  go  back  in  such  weather."  And  without  waiting  for  his  reply,  she 
hurried  away. 

"  I  suppose  they  sent  for  you,  sir  ?  "  resumed  Harding.  "  They  wished 
you  to  see  him  ?"  and  he  made  a  slight  gesture,  to  point  out  that  he  meant 
the  sick  man. 

"  No  ;  I  came  up  to  see  if  I  could  say  a  few  words  to  Augustus — on  a 
niatoer  purely  my  own." 

"  Ha  !  indeed  !  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  likely  to  have  the  opportunity 
This  is  a  trying  moment,  sir.  Dr.  B.,  though  only  a  country  practitioner, 
is  a  man  of  much  experience,  and  he  opines  that  the  membranes  are 
affected." 

•'  Indeed!" 

' '  Yes  ;  he  thinks  it's  the  membranes ;  and  he  derives  his  opinion  from 
the  aature  of  the  mental  disturbance,  for  there  are  distinct  intervals  of 
perf  ;ct  sanity — indeed,  of  great  mental  power.  The  Colonel  was  a  remark- 
able man,  Mr.  L'Estrange  ;  a  very  remarkable  man." 

"I've  always  heard  so." 


646  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  All,  sir,  he  had  great  projects — I  might  call  them  grand  projects,  for 
Ireland,  had  he  been  spared  to  cany  them  out." 

"  Let  us  still  hope  that  he  may." 

"  No,  no,  sir,  that  is  not  to  be  ;  and  if  Belton  be  correct,  it  is  as  well, 
perhaps,  it  should  not  be."  Here  he  touched  his  forehead  with  the  top  of 
his  finger,  and  gave  a  glance  of  most  significant  meaning. 

"  Does  he  apprehend  permanent  injury  to  the  brain  ?" 

The  other  pursed  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head  slowly,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"  That's  very  dreadful,"  said  L'Estrange,  sadly. 

"Indeed  it  is,  sir ;  take  this  from  us,"  and  here  he  touched  his  head, 
' '  and  what  are  we  ?  What  are  we  better  than  the  beasts  of  the  field  ? 
But  why  do  I  say  this  to  you,  sir  ?  Who  knows  these  things  better  than 
yourself?" 

The  curate  was  half  inclined  to  smile  at  the  ambiguity  of  the  speech, 
but  he  kept  his  gravity,  and  nodded  assent. 

"  Nobody  had  the  slightest  conception  of  his  wealth,"  said  Harding, 
coming  up,  and  actually  whispering  the  words  into  the  other's  ear.  "  We 
knew  all  about  the  estated  property ;  I  did  at  least,  I  knew  every  acre 
of  it,  and  how  it  was  let ;  but  of  his  money  in  shares,  in  foreign  securities, 
on  mortgages,  and  in  various  investments ;  what  he  had  out  at  venture  in 
Assam  and  Japan,  and  what  he  drew  twenty-five  per  cent,  from  in  Peru ; 
—of  these,  sir,  none  of  us  had  any  conception ;  and  would  you  believe  it, 
Mr.  L'Estrange,  that  he  can  talk  of  all  these  things  at  some  moments  as 
collectedly  as  if  he  was  in  perfect  health  ?  He  was  giving  directions  to 
Simcox  about  his  will,  and  he  said,  '  Half  a  sheet  of  note-paper  will  do  it, 
Simcox.  I'll  make  my  intentions  very  clear,  and  there  will  be  nobody 
to  dispute  them.  And  as  to  details  of  what  little — he  called  it  little  ! — 
I  possess  in  the  world,  I  want  no  notes  to  aid  my  memory.'  The  doctor, 
however,  positively  prevented  anything  being  done  to-day,  and  strictly 
interdicted  him  from  hearing  any  matters  of  business  whatsoever.  And  it 
is  strange  enough,  that  if  not  brought  up  before  him,  he  will  not  advert 
to  these  topics  at  all,  but  continue  to  wander  on  about  his  past  life,  and 
whether  he  had  done  wisely  in  this,  or  that,  or  the  other,  mixing  very 
worldly  thoughts  and  motives  very  oddly  at  times  with  those  that  belong 
to  more  serious  considerations.  Poor  Mr.  Augustus,"  continued  he,  after 
a  short  breathing  moment.  "  He  does  not  know  what  to  do  !  He  was 
never  permitted  to  take  any  part  in  business,  and  he  knows  no  more  of 
Bramleigh  and  Underwood  than  you  do.  And  now  he  is  obliged  to  open  all 
letters  marked  immediate  or  urgent,  and  to  make  the  best  replies  he  can, 
to  give  directions,  and  to  come  to  decisions,  in  fact,  on  things  he  never 
so  much  as  heard  of.  And  all  this  while  he  is  well  aware  that  if  his  father 
should  recover,  he'll  not  forgive  him  the  liberty  he  has  taken  to  open  his 
correspondence.  Can  you  imagine  a  more  difficult  or  painful  situation  ?" 

"  I  think  much  of  the  embarrassment  might  be  diminished,  Mr.  Harding, 
by  his  taking  you  into  his  counsels." 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  647 

"  Ah !  and  that's  the  very  thing  I'll  not  suffer  him  to  do.  No,  no, 
s..r,  I  know  the  Colonel  tot)  well  for  that.  He  may,  when  he  is  well  and 
about  again,  he  may  forgive  his  son,  his  son  and  heir,  for  having  pos- 
sjssed  himself  with  a  knowledge  of  many  important  details  ;  but  he'd  not 
forgive  the  agent,  Mr.  Harding.  I  think  I  can  hear  the  very  words  he'd 
use.  He  said  once  on  a  time  to  me,  'I  want  no  Grand  Yizier,  Harding ; 
I'm  Sultan  and  Grand  Yizier  too.'  So  I  said  to  Mr.  Augustus,  '  I've  no 
head  for  business  after  dinner,  and  particularly  when  I  have  tasted  your 
father's  prime  Madeira.'  And  it  was  true,  sir ;  true  as  you  stand  there. 
The  doctor  and  I  had  finished  the  second  decanter  before  we  took  our 
coffee." 

L'Estrange  now  looked  the  speaker  fully  in  the  face  ;  and  to  his 
astonishment  saw  that  signs  of  his  having  drank  freely — which,  strangely 
enough,  had  hitherto  escaped  his  notice — were  now  plainly  to  be  seen  there. 

"  No,  sir,  not  a  bit  tipsy,"  said  Harding,  interpreting  his  glance ;  "not 
even  what  Mr.  Cutbill  calls  '  tight ! '  I  won't  go  so  far  as  to  say  I'd  like 
t3  make  up  a  complicated  account;  but  for  an  off-hand  question  as  to  the' 
\alue  of  a  standing  crop,  or  an  allowance  for  improvements  in  the  case  of 
g  tenant-at-will,  I'm  as  good  as  ever  I  felt.  What's  more,  sir,  it's  three- 
c-nd-twenty  years  since  I  took  so  much  wine  before.  It  was  the  day  I  got 
riy  appointment  to  the  agency,  Mr.  L'Estrange.  I  was  weak  enough  to 
i  idulge  on  that  occasion,  and  the  Colonel  said  to  me, '  As  much  wine  as  you 
Lke,  Harding — a  pipe  of  it,  if  you  please  ;  but  don't  be  garrulous.'  The 
vord  sobered  me,  sir — sobered  me  at  once.  I  was  offended,  I'll  not  deny 
i  j ;  but  I  couldn't  afford  to  show  that  I  felt  it.  I  shut  up ;  and  from  that 
lour  to  this  I  never  was  'garrulous'  again.  Is  it  boasting  to  say,  sir, 
that  it's  not  every  man  who  could  do  as  much  ?  " 
-  The  curate  bowed  politely,  as  if  in  concurrence. 

"  You  never  thought  me  garrulous,  sir  ?" 

"  Never,  indeed,  Mr.  Harding." 

"No,  sir,  it  was  not  the  judgment  the  world  passed  on  me.  Men 
Lave  often  said  Harding  is  cautious,  Harding  is  reserved,  Harding  is 
guarded  in  what  he  says ;  but  none  have  presumed  to  say  I  was  garrulous." 

"  I  must  say  I  think  you  dwell  too  much  on  a  mere  passing  expression. 
]  t  was  not  exactly  polite ;  but  I'm  sure  it  was  not  intended  to  convey 
( ither  a  grave  censure  or  a  fixed  opinion." 

li  I  hope  so  ;  I  hope  so,  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  said  he  pathetically. 
!'3ut  his  drooping  head  and  depressed  look  showed  how  little  of  encourage- 
]  aent  the  speech  gave  him. 

"  Mr.  Augustus  begs  you'll  come  to  him  in  the  library,  sir,"  said  a 
iootman,  entering,  and  to  L'Estrange's  great  relief,  coding  to  his  rescue 
i  rom  his  tiresome  companion. 

"  I  think  I'd  not  mention  the  matter  now,"  said  Harding,  with  a  sigh. 
1 '  They've  trouble  and  sickness  in  the  house,  and  the  moment  would  be 
i  infavourable ;  but  you'll  not  forget  it,  sir,  you'll  not  forget  that  I  want  the 
4  xpression  recalled,  or  at  least  the  admission  that  it  was  used  inadvertently." 


648  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

L'E strange  nodded  assent,  and  hurried  away  to  the  library. 

"  The  man  of  all  others  I  wanted  to  see,"  said  Augustus,  meeting  him 
with  an  outstretched  hand.  "  What  on  earth  has  kept  you  away  from  us 
of  late?" 

"  I  fancied  you  were  all  a  little  cold  towards  me,"  said  the  curate, 
blushing  deeply  as  he  spoke  ;  "  but  if  I  thought  you  wanted  me,  I'd  not 
have  suffered  my  suspicion  to  interfere.  I'd  have  come  up  at  once." 

' '  You're  a  good  fellow,  and  I  believe  you  thoroughly.  There  has  been 
no  coldness ;  at  least,  I  can  swear,  none  on  my  part,  nor  any  that  I  know  of 
elsewhere.  We  are  in  great  trouble.  You've  heard  about  my  poor  father's 
seizure — indeed  you  saw  him  when  it  was  impending,  and  now  here  am  I  in 
a  position  of  no  common  difficulty.  The  doctors  have  declared  that  they 
will  not  answer  for  his  life,  or,  if  he  lives,  for  his  reason,  if  he  be  disturbed 
or  agitated  by  questions  relating  to  business.  They  have,  for  greater 
impressiveness,  given  this  opinion  in  writing,  and  signed  it.  I  have  tele- 
graphed the  decision  to  the  Firm,  and  have  received  this  reply,  '  Open  all 
marked  urgent,  and  answer.'  Now,  you  don't  know  my  father  very  long, 
or  very  intimately,  but  I  think  you  know  enough  of  him  to  be  aware  what 
a  dangerous  step  is  this  they  now  press  me  to  take.  First  of  all,  I  know 
no  more  of  his  affairs  than  you  do.  It  is  not  only  that  he  never  confided 
anything  to  me,  but  he  made  it  a  rule  never  to  advert  to  a  matter  of 
business  before  any  of  us.  And  to  such  an  extent  did  he  carry  his  jealousy 
— if  it  was  jealousy — in  this  respect,  that  he  would  immediately  interpose 
if  Underwood  or  the  senior  clerk  said  anything  about  money  matters,  and 
remark,  '  These  young  gentlemen  take  no  interest  in  such  subjects ;  let  us 
talk  of  something  they  can  take  their  share  in.'  Nor  was  this  abstention 
on  his  part  without  a  touch  of  sarcasm,  for  he  would  occasionally  talk  a 
little  to  my  sister  Marion  on  bank  matters,  and  constantly  said,  *  Why 
weren't  you  a  boy,  Marion  ?  You  could  have  taken  the  helm  when  it  was 
my  watch  below.'  This  showed  what  was  the  estimate  he  had  formed  of 
myself  and  my  brothers.  I  mention  all  these  things  to  you  now,  that  you 
may  see  the  exact  danger  of  the  position  I  am  forced  to  occupy.  If  I 
refuse  to  act,  if  I  decline  to  open  the  letters  on  pressing  topics,  and  by  my 
refusal  lead  to  all  sorts  of  complication  and  difficulties,  I  shall  but  confirm 
him,  whenever  he  recovers,  in  his  depreciatory  opinion  of  me ;  and  if,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  engage  in  the  correspondence,  who  is  to  say  that  I  may 
not  be  possessing  myself  of  knowledge  that  he  never  intended  I  should 
acquire,  and  which  might  produce  a  fatal  estrangement  between  us  in 
future  ?  And  this  is  the  doubt  and  difficulty  in  which  you  now  find  me. 
Here  I  stand  surrounded  with  these  letters — look  at  that  pile  yonder — and 
I  have  not  corn-age  to  decide  what  course  to  take." 

"  And  he  is  too  ill  to  consult  with  ?  " 

"  The  doctors  have  distinctly  forbidden  one  syllable  on  any  business 
matter." 

"  It's  strange  enough  that  it  was  a  question  which  bore  upon  all 
this  brought  me  up  here  to-night.  Your  father  had  promised  me  a  letter 


THE   BKAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  649 

to  Lady  Augusta  at  Rome,  with  reference  to  a  chaplaincy  I  was  looking  for, 
and  he  told  Belton  to  inform  me  that  he  had  written  the  letter  and  sealed 
it,  and  left  it  on  the  table  in  the  library.  We  found  it  there,  as  he  said, 
only  not  sealed;  and  though  that  point  was  not  important,  it  suggested 
a  d.scussion  between  Julia  and  myself  whether  I  had  or  had  not  the  right 
to  read  it,  being  a  letter  of  presentation,  and  regarding  myself  alone.  We 
could  not  agree  as  to  what  ought  to  be  $one,  and  resolved  at  last  to  take 
the  letter  over  to  you,  and  say,  If  you  feel  at  liberty  to  let  me  hear  what 
is  in  this,  read  it  for  me  ;  if  you  have  any  scruples  on  the  score  of  reading, 
seal  it,  and  the  matter  is  ended  at  once.  This  is  the  letter." 

Augustus  took  it,  and  regarded  it  leisurely  for  a  moment. 

"  I  think  I  need  have  no  hesitation  here,"  said  he.  "  I  break  no  seal, 
at  least." 

He  withdrew  the  letter  carefully  from  the  envelope,  and  opened  it. 

"  '  Dear  Sedley,'  "  read  he,  and  stopped.  "  Why,  this  is  surely  a  mis- 
take ;  this  was  not  intended  for  Lady  Augusta ; "  and  he  turned  to  the 
adcress,  which  ran,  "  The  Lady  Augusta  Bramleigh,  Yilla  Altieri,  Rome." 
"  What  can  this  mean  ?  " 

"  He  has  put  it  in  a  wrong  envelope." 

"  Exactly  so,  and  probably  sealed  the  other,  which  led  to  his  remark 
to  Belton.  I  suppose  it  may  be  read  now.  '  Dear  Sedley — Have  no  fears 
about  the  registry.  First  of  all,  I  do  not  believe  any  exists  of  the  date 
required ;  and  secondly,  there  will  be  neither  church,  nor  parson,  nor 
register  here  in  three  months  hence.'  "  Augustus  stopped  and  looked  at 
L'E strange.  Each  face  seemed  the  reflex  of  the  other,  and  the  look  of 
puzzled  horror  was  the  same  on  both.  "  I  must  go  on,  I  can't  help  it,'* 
muttered  Augustus,  and  continued  :  "  '  I  have  spoken  to  the  dean,  who 
agrees  with  me  that  Portshandon  need  not  be  retained  as  a  parish.  Some- 
thing, of  course,  must  be  done  for  the  curate  here.  You  will  probably  be 
able  to  obtain  one  of  the  smaller  livings  for  him  in  the  Chancellor's 
palronage.  So  much  for  the  registry  difficulty,  which  indeed  was  never  a 
difficulty  at  all  till  it  occurred  to  your  legal  acuteness  to  make  it  such.' 

"  There  is  more  here,  but  I  am  unwilling  to  read  on,"  said  Augustus, 
whose  face  was  now  crimson,  "  and  yet,  L'Estrange,"  added  he,  "  it  may 
be  that  I  shall  want  your  counsel  in  this  very  matter.  I'll  finish  it." 
And  he  read,  "  '  The  more  I  reflect  on  the  plan  of  a  compromise  the  less  I 
liko  it,  and  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  see  how  it  secures  finality.  If  this 
charge  is  to  be  revived  in  my  son's  time,  it  will  certainly  not  be  met  with 
more  vigour  or  more  knowledge  than  I  can  myself  contribute  to  it. 
Evary  impostor  gains  by  the  lapse  of  years — bear  that  in  mind.  The 
difficulties  which  environ  explanations  are  invariably  in  favour  of  the  rogue, 
just  because  fiction  is  more  plausible  often  ton  truth.  It  is  not  pleasant 
to  admit,  but  I  am  forced  to  own  that  there  is  not  one  amongst  my  sons 
who  has  either  the  stamina  or  the  energy  to  confront  such  a  peril ;  so  that, 
if  ohe  battle  be  really  to  be  fought,  let  it  come  on  while  I  am  yet  here, 
and  in  health  and  vigour  to  engage  in  it. 


650  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OP  BISHOP'S  POLLY. 

"  *  There  are  abundant  reasons  why  I  cannot  confide  the  matter  to  any 
of  my  family — one  will  suffice  :  there  is  not  one  of  them  except  my  eldest 
daughter  who  would  not  be  crushed  by  the  tidings,  and  though  she  has  head 
enough,  she  has  not  the  temper  for  a  very  exciting  and  critical  struggle. 

" '  What  you  tell  me  of  Jack  and  his  indiscretion  will  serve  to  show  you 
how  safe  I  should  be  in  the  hands  of  my  sons,  and  he  is  possibly  about  as 
wise  as  his  brothers,  though  less  pretentious  than  the  diplomatist ;  and  as 
for  Augustus,  I  have  great  misgivings.  If  the  time  should  ever  come  when 
he  should  have  convinced  himself  that  this  claim  was  good, — and  sentimental 
reasons  would  always  have  more  weight  with  him  than  either  law  or  logic, 
— I  say,  if  such  a  time  should  arrive,  he's  just  the  sort  of  nature  that  would 
prefer  the  martyrdom  of  utter  beggary  to  the  assertion  of  his  right,  and 
the  vanity  of  being  equal  to  the  sacrifice  would  repay  him  for  the  ruin. 
There  are  fellows  of  this  stamp,  and  I  have  terrible  fears  that  I  have  one 
of  them  for  a  son.'  " 

Augustus  laid  down  the  letter  and  tried  to  smile,  but  his  lip  trembled 
hysterically,  and  his  voice  was  broken  and  uncertain  as  he  said  :  "  This 
is  a  hard  sentence,  George, — I  wish  I  had  never  read  it.  What  can  it  all 
mean  ?  "  cried  he,  after  a  minute  or  more  of  what  seemed  cruel  suffering. 
"  What  is  this  claim  ?  Who  is  this  rogue  ?  and  what  is  this  charge  that 
can  be  revived  and  pressed  in  another  generation  ?  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  this  before  ?  or  can  you  make  anything  out  of  it  now  ?  Tell  me,  for 
mercy's  sake,  and  do  not  keep  me  longer  in  this  agony  of  doubt  and 
uncertainty."  \ 

"  I  have  not  the  faintest  clue  to  the  meaning  of  all  this.  It  reads  as 
if  some  one  was  about  to  prefer  a  claim  to  your  father's  estate,  and  that 
your  lawyer  had  been  advising  a  compromise  with  him." 

"  But  a  compromise  is  a  sort  of  admission  that  the  claimant  was  not  an 
impostor, — that  he  had  his  rights  ?  " 

' (  There  are  rights,  and  rights!  There  are  demands,  too,  that  it  is 
often  better  to  conciliate  than  to  defy, — even  though  defiance  would  be 
successful." 

"And  how  is  it  that  I  never  hear~d  of  this  before?"  burst  he  out 
indignantly.  "  Has  a  man  the  right  to  treat  his  son  in  this  fashion  ?  to 
bring  him  up  in  the  unbroken  security  of  succeeding  to  an  inheritance  that 
the  law  may  decide  he  has  no  title  to  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  is  natural  enough.  Your  father  evidently  did  not 
recognize  this  man's  right,  and  felt  there  was  no  need  to  impart  the  matter 
to  his  family." 

"  But  why  should  my  father  be  the  judge  in  his  own  cause  ?  " 

L'Estrange  smiled  faintly :  the  line  in  the  Colonel's  letter,  in  which  ho 
spoke  of  his  son's  sensitiveness,  occurred  to  him  at  once. 

"  I  see  how  you  treat  my  question,"  said  Augustus.  "  It  reminds  you  of 
the  character  my  father  gave  me.  What  do  you  say  then  to  that  passage 
about  the  registry  ?  Why,  if  we  be  clean-handed  in  this  business,  do 
we  want  to  make  short  work  of  all  records  ?  " 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  651 

"  I  simply  say  I  can  mako  nothing  of  it." 

"  Is  it  possible,  tliink  you,  that  Marion  knows  this  story  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  by  no  means  unlikely." 

"  It  would  account  for  much  that  has  often  puzzled  me,"  said  Augustus, 
int. sing  as  he  spoke.  "A  certain  self-assertion  that  she  has,  and  a  habit, 
toe,  of  separating  her  own  interests  from  those  of  the  rest  of  us,  as  though 
sp  ;culating  on  a  time  when  she  should  walk  alone.  Have  you  remarked 
that?" 

"I!  I,"  said  L'Estrange,  smiling,  "remark  nothing!  there  is  not  a 
less  observant  fellow  breathing." 

"  If  it  were  not  for  those  words  about  the  parish  registry,  George," 
sa.d  the  other,  in  a  grave  tone,  "  I'd  carry  a  light  heart  about  all  this  ;  I'd 
ta.ie  my  father's  version  of  this  fellow,  whoever  he  is,  and  believe  him  to 
be  an  impostor ;  but  I  don't  like  the  notion  of  foul  play,  and  it  does  mean 
foil  play." 

L'Estrange  was  silent,  and  for  some  minutes  neither  spoke. 

"  When  my  father,"  said  Augustus — and  there  was  a  tone  of  bitterness 
now  in  his  voice — "  When  my  father  drew  that  comparison  between  him- 
self and  his  sons,  he  may  have  been  flattering  his  superior  intellect  at 
tie  expense  of  some  other  quality." 

Another  and  a  longer  pause  succeeded. 

At  last  L'Estrange  spoke  : — 

' '  I  have  been  running  over  in  my  head  all  that  could  bear  upon  this 
matter,  and  now  I  remember  a  couple  of  weeks  ago  that  Longworth,  who 
c;  me  with  a  French  friend  of  his  to  pass  an  evening  at  the  cottage, 
led  me  to  talk  of  the  parish  church  and  its  history :  he  asked  me  if  it  had 
nDtbeen  burnt  by  the  rebels  in  '98,  and  seemed  surprised  when  I  said 
it  was  only  the  vestry-room  and  the  books  that  had  been  destroyed. 
'  Was  not  that  strange  ?  '  asked  he  ;  *  did  the  insurgents  usually  interest 
themselves  about  parochial  records  ?  '  I  felt  a  something  like  a  sneer  in 
tie  question,  and  made  him  no  reply." 

"  And  who  was  the  Frenchman  ?  " 

"A  certain  Count  Pracontal,  whom  Longworth  met  in  Upper  Egypt. 
I  >y  the  way,  he  was  the  man  Jack  led  over  the  high  bank,  where  the  poor 
fallow's  leg  was  broken." 

"I  remember;  he  of  course  has  no  part  in  the  story  we  are  now 
c  iscussing.  Longworth  may  possibly  know  something.  Are  you  intimate 
vith  him?" 

"  No,  we  are  barely  acquainted.  I  believe  he  was  rather  flattered  by 
t  ae  very  slight  attention  we  showed  himself  and  his  friend ;  but  his  manner 
vas  shy,  and  he  is  a  diffident,  bashful  sort  of  man,  not  easy  to 
understand." 

"  Look  here,  L'Estrange,"   said  Augustus,  laying  his  hand  on  the 

other's  shoulder.    "  All  that  has  passed  between  us  here  to-night  is  strictly 

,onndential,  to  be  divulged  to  no  one,  not  even  your  sister.     As  for  this 

etter,  I'll  forward  it  to  Sedley,  for  whom  it  was  intended.     I'll  tell  him 


652  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

how  it  chanced  that  I  read  it ;  and  then — and  then — the  rest  will  take  its 
own  course." 

"  I  wonder  if  Julia  intends  to  come  back  with  me  ?  "  said  L'Estrange 
after  a  pause. 

"  No.  Nelly  has  persuaded  her  to  stay  here,  and  I  think  there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  not  also." 

"  No.  I'm  always  uncomfortable  away  from  my  own  den ;  but  I'll  be 
with  you  early  to-morrow  ;  good-night." 

Nelly  and  Julia  did  not  go  to  bed  till  day-break.  They  passed  the 
night  writing  a  long  letter  to  Jack — the  greater  part  being  dictated  by 
Julia  while  Nelly  wrote.  It  was  an  urgent  entreaty  to  him  to  yield  to 
the  advice  of  his  brother  officers,  and  withdraw  the  offensive  words  he  had 
used  to  the  Admiral.  It  was  not  alone  his  station,  his  character,  and  his 
future  in  life  were  pressed  into  the  service,  but  the  happiness  of  all  who 
loved  him  and  wished  him  well,  with  a  touching  allusion  to  his  poor 
father's  condition,  and  the  impossibility  of  asking  any  aid  or  counsel  from 
him.  Nelly  went  on — "  Remember,  dear  Jack,  how  friendless  and  deserted  I 
shall  be  if  I  lose  you ;  and  it  would  be  next  to  losing  you  to  know  you  had 
quitted  the  service,  and  gone  heaven  knows  where,  to  do  heaven  knows 
what."  She  then  adverted  to  home,  and  said,  "You  know  how  happy  and 
united  we  were  all  here,  once  on  a  time.  This  has  all  gone  :  Marion  and 
Temple  hold  themselves  quite  apart,  and  Augustus,  evidently  endeavouring 
to  be  neutral,  is  isolated.  I  only  say  this  to  show  you  how,  more  than 
ever,  I  need  your  friendship  and  affection  ;  nor  is  it  the  least  sad  of  all  my 
tidings,  the  L'Estranges  are  going  to  leave  this.  There  is  to  be  some  new 
arrangement  by  which  Portshandon  is  to  be  united  to  Lisconnor,  and  one 
church  to  serve  for  the  two  parishes.  George  and  Julia  think  of  going  to 
Italy.  I  can  scarcely  tell  you  how  I  feel  this  desertion  of  me  now,  dearest 
Jack.  I'd  bear  up  against  all  these  and  worse — if  worse  there  be — were  I 
only  to  feel  that  you  were  following  out  your  road  to  station  and  success, 
and  that  the  day  was  coming  when  I  should  be  as  proud  as  I  am  fond  of 
.you.  You  hate  writing,  I  know,  but  you  will,  I'm  sure,  not  fail  to  send  me 
half-a-dozen  lines  to  say  that  I  have  not  pleaded  in  vain.  I  fear  I  shall 
not  soon  be  able  to  send  you  pleasant  news  from  this,  the  gloom  thickens 
every  day  around  us,  but  you  shall  hear  constantly."  The  letter  ended 
with  a  renewed  entreaty  to  him  to  place  himself  in  the  hands  and  under 
the  guidance  of  such  of  his  brother  officers  as  he  could  rely  on  for  sound 
judgment  and  moderation.  "  Remember,  Jack,  I  ask  you  to  do  nothing  that 
shall  peril  honour ;  but  also  nothing  in  anger,  nothing  out  of  wounded 
self-love." 

"  Add  one  line,  only  one,  Julia,"  said  she,  handing  the  pen  to  her  and 
pushing  the  letter  before  her;  and  without  a  word  Julia  wrote  : — "  A  certain 
coquette  of  your  acquaintance — heartless  of  course  as  all  her  tribe — is  very 
sony  for  your  trouble,  and  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  lessen  it.  To  this 
end  she  begs  you  to  listen  patiently  to  the  counsels  of  the  present  letter, 
every  line  of  which  she  has  read,  and  to  believe  that  in  yielding  something 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  653 

— if  it  should  be  so — to  the  opinion  of  those  who  care  for  you,  you  acquire 
a  new  right  to  their  affection,  and  a  stronger  title  to  their  love." 

Nelly  threw  her  arm  round  Julia's  neck  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  Yes,  darling,  these  dear  words  will  sink  into  his  heart,  and  he  will 
not  refuse  our  prayer." 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

MARION'S   AMBITIONS. 

COLONEL  BRAMLEIGH'S  malady  took  a  strange  form,  and  one  which  much 
puzzled  his  physicians  :  his  feverish  symptoms  gradually  disappeared,  and 
to  his  paroxysms  of  passion  and  excitement  there  now  succeeded  a  sort  of 
draary  apathy,  in  which  he  scarcely  uttered  a  word,  nor  was  it  easy  to  say 
whether  he  heard  or  heeded  the  remarks  around  him.  This  state  was 
accompanied  by  a  daily  increasing  debility,  as  though  the  powers  of  life 
were  being  gradually  exhausted,  and  that,  having  no  more  to  strive  for  or 
desire,  he  cared  no  more  to  live. 

The  whole  interest  of  his  existence  now  seemed  to  centre  around  the 
hour  when  the  post  arrived.  He  had  ordered  that  the  letter-bag  should 
be  opened  in  his  presence,  and  as  the  letters  were  shown  him  one  by  one, 
he  locked  them,  unopened  and  unread,  in  a  despatch-box,  so  far  strictly 
obedient  to  the  dictates  of  the  doctor,  who  had  forbidden  him  all  species 
of  excitement.  His  family  had  been  too  long  accustomed  to  the  reserve 
and  distance  he  observed  towards  them  to  feel  surprised  that  none  were  in 
this  critical  hour  admitted  to  his  confidence,  and  that  it  was  in  presence 
of  his  valet,  Dorose,  the  letters  were  sorted  and  separated,  and  such 
as  had  no  bearing  on  matters  of  business  sent  down  to  be  read  by  the 
family. 

It  was  while  he  continued  in  this  extraordinary  state,  intermediate  as 
it  seemed  between  sleeping  and  waking,  a  telegram  came  from  Sedley  to 
Augustus,  saying, — "  Highly  important  to  see  your  father.  Could  he 
confer  with  me  if  I  go  over  ?  Reply  at  once."  The  answer  was, — 
"  Unlikely  that  you  can  see  him  ;  but  come  on  the  chance." 

Before  sending  off  this  reply,  Augustus  had  taken  the  telegram  up  to 
lLarion's  room,  to  ask  her  advice  in  the  matter.  "  You  are  quite  right, 
Custy,"  said  she,  "for  if  Sedley  cannot  see  papa,  he  can  certainly  see 
Lord  Culduff." 

"  Lord  Culduff,"  cried  he,  in  amazement.  "Why,  what  could  Lord 
Culduff  possibly  know  about  my  father's  affairs  ?  How  could  he  be  quali- 
fied to  give  an  opinion  upon  them  ?  " 

"  Simply  on  the  grounds  of  his  great  discrimination,  his  great  acute- 
ress,  joined  to  a  general  knowledge  of  life,  in  which  he  has  admittedly  few 
r  vals." 

"  Grant  all  that ;  bat  here  are  special  questions,   here  are  matters 


654  THE  BKAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

essentially  personal ;  and  with  all  his  lordship's  tact  and  readiness,  yet  he 
is  not  one  of  us." 

"  He  may  be,  though,  and  very  soon  too,"  replied  she,  promptly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  he,  in  a  voice  of  almost  dismay. 

"  Just  what  I  say,  Augustus  ;  and  I  am  not  aware  it  is  a  speech  that 
need  excite  either  the  amazement  or  the  terror  I  see  in  your  face  at  this 
moment." 

"I  am  amazed ;  and  if  I  understand  you  aright,  I  have  grounds  to  be 
shocked  besides." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  passion, 
"  I  have  reason  to  congratulate  myself  on  the  score  of  brotherly  affection. 
Almost  the  last  words  Jack  spoke  to  me  at  parting  were,  '  For  God's 
sake,  shake  off  that  old  scamp ; '  and  now  you — that  hold  a  very  different 
position  amongst  us — you,  who  will  one  day  be  the  head  of  the  family, 
deliberately  tell  me  you  are  shocked  at  the  prospect  of  my  being  allied  to 
one  of  the  first  names  in  the  peerage." 

<«  My  dear  Marion,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "it  is  not  the  name,  it  is  not 
the  rank,  I  object  to." 

"  Is  it  his  fortune,  then  ?     I'm  sure  it  can't  be  his  abilities." 

"  It  is  neither.  It  is  simply  that  the  man  might  be  your  grand- 
father." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  she,  drawing  herself  up,  and  assuming  a  manner  of 
intense  hauteur,  "  and  if  I — I  conclude  I  am  the  person  most  to  be  con- 
sulted— if  I  do  not  regard  this  disparity  of  years  as  an  insurmountable 
obstacle,  by  what  right  can  one  of  my  family  presume  to  call  it  such  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sister,"  said  he,  "  can  you  not  imagine  the  right  of  a 
brother  to  consult  for  your  happiness  ?  " 

"  Happiness  is  a  very  large  word.  If  it  were  for  Nelly  that  you  were 
interesting  yourself,  I've  no  doubt  your  advice  and  counsel  ought  to  have 
great  weight ;  but  I  am  not  one  of  your  love-in-a-cottage  young  ladies, 
Gusty.  I  am,  I  must  own  it,  excessively  worldly.  Whatever  happiness 
I  could  propose  to  myself  in  life  is  essentially  united  to  a  certain  ambition. 
We  have  as  many  of  the  advantages  of  mere  wealth  as  most  people  :  as  fine 
equipage,  as  many  footmen,  as  good  a  cook,  and  as  costly  silver ;  and  what 
do  they  do  for  us  ?  They  permit  us  simply  to  enter  the  lists  with  a  set  of 
people  who  have  high-stepping  horses  and  powdered  lacqueys  like  ourselves, 
but  who  are  no  more  the  world,  no  more  society,  than  one  of  papa's  Indiamen 
is  a  ship  of  the  Royal  Navy.  Why  do  I  say  this  to  you,  who  were  at 
Oxford,  who  saw  it  all, — ay,  and  felt  it  all, — in  those  fresh  years  of  youth 
when  these  are  sharp  sufferings  ?  You  know  well — you  told  me  your  griefs 
at  the  time — that  you  were  in  a  set  without  being  '  of  it ; '  that  the  stamp 
of  inequality  was  as  indelibly  fixed  upon  you  as  though  you  were  a 
corporal  and  wore  coarse  cloth.  Now,  these  things  are  hard  to  bear  for 
a  man,  for  a  woman  they  are  intolerable.  She  has  not  the  hundred  and 
one  careers  in  life  in  which  individual  distinction  can  obliterate  the  claims 
of  station.  She  has  but  one  stage — the  salon ;  but,  to  her,  this  narrow 


THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  655 

world,  soft-carpeted  and  damask- curtained,  is  a  veiy  universe,  and 
without  the  recognized  stamp  of  a  certain  rank  in  it,  she  is  absolutely 
not  ling." 

"  And  may  not  all  these  things  be  bought  too  dearly,  Marion  ?  " 

"  I 'don't  know  the  price  I'd  call  too  high  for  them." 

"  What !  Not  your  daily  happiness  ?  not  your  self-esteem  ?  not  the 
want  of  the  love  of  one  who  would  have  your  whole  heart  in  his 
keeping  ?  " 

"  So  he  may,  if  he  can  give  me  the  rank  I  care  for." 

"  Oh,  Marion  !  I  cannot  think  this  of  you,"  cried  he,  bitterly. 

"  That  is  to  say,  that  you  want  me  to  deceive  you  with  false  assurances 
of  anbought  affection  and  the  like  ;  and  you  are  angry  because  I  will  not 
play  the  hypocrite.  Lord  Culduff  has  made  me  an  offer  of  his  hand,  and 
I  Lave  accepted  it.  You  are  aware  that  I  am  my  own  mistress.  What- 
evf  r  I  possess,  it  is  absolutely  my  own ;  and  though  I  intend  to  speak 
wiih  my  father,  and,  if  it  may  be,  obtain  his  sanction,  I  will  not  say  that 
his  refusal  would  induce  me  to  break  off  my  engagement." 

"  At  all  events,  you  are  not  yet  this  man's  wife,  Marion,"  said  he,  with 
mere  determination  than  he  had  yet  shown;  " and  I  forbid  you  positively 
to  impart  to  Lord  Culduff  anything  regarding  this  telegram." 

"  I  make  no  promises." 

"  You  may  have  no  regard  for  the  interests  of  your  family,  but  possibly 
yoa  will  care  for  some  of  your  own,"  said  he,  fiercely.  "  Now,  I  tell  you 
distinctly,  there  are  very  grave  perils  hanging  over  us  at  this  moment — perils 
of  which  I  cannot  measure  the  amount  nor  the  consequences.  I  can  only 
dimly  perceive  the  direction  from  which  they  come  ;  and  I  warn  you,  for  your 
ovu  sake,  make  no  confidences  beyond  the  bounds  of  your  own  family."  ^ 

"You  are  superbly  mysterious,  Gusty;  and  if  I  were  impressionable 
or  this  kind  of  matter,  I  half  suspect  you  might  terrify  me.  Papa  ought 
to  have  committed  a  forgery,  at  least,  to  justify  your  dark  insinuations." 

' '  There  is  no  question  of  a  forgery ;  but  there  may  be  that  which,  in 
tha  end,  will  lead  to  a  ruin  as  complete  as  any  forgery." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  she,  in  a  careless,  easy  tone  ;  "the 
brnk  has  made  use  of  private  securities  and  title-deeds,  just  as  those 
otiier  people  did — I  forget  their  names — a  couple  of  years  ago." 

"It  is  not  even  that ;  but  I  repeat  the  consequences  may  be  to  the 
fall  as  disastrous." 

"You  allude  to  this  unhappy  scrape  of  Jack's." 

"  I  do  not.     I  was  not  then  thinking  of  it." 

"  Because  as  to  that,  Lord  Culduff  said  there  never  yet  grew  a  tree 
w  lere  there  wasn't  a  branch  or  two  might  be  lopped  off  with  advantage. 
If  Jack  doesn't  think  his  station  in  life  worth  preserving,  all  the  teaching 
ir  the  world  won't  persuade  him  to  maintain  it." 

"  Poor  Jack  ! "  said  he,  bitterly. 

"  Yes,  I  say,  poor  Jack  !  too.  I  think  it's  exactly  the  epithet  to  apply 
tc  one  whose  spirit  is  so  much  beneath  his  condition." 


G56  THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  You  are  terribly  changed,  Marion.  I  do  not  know  if  you  are  aware 
of  it?" 

"  I  hope  I  am.  I  trust  that  I  look  at  the  events  around  me  from  a 
higher  level  than  I  have  been  accustomed  to  hitherto." 

"  And  is  my  father  in  a  state  to  be  consulted  on  a  matter  of  this 
importance  ?  "  asked  he,  half  indignantly. 

"  Papa  has  already  been  spoken  to  about  it;  and  it  is  by  his  own 
desire  we  are  both  to  see  him  this  evening." 

"  Am  I  the  only  one  here  who  knew  nothing  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  You  should  have  been  told  formally  this  morning,  Augustus.  Lord 
Culduff  only  waited  for  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Cutbill  to  announce  to  you 
his  intentions  and  his — hopes."  A  slight  hesitation  delayed  the  word. 

"  These  things  I  can't  help,"  said  he  bitterly,  and  as  if  speaking  to  him- 
self. "  They  have  been  done  without  my  knowledge,  and  regardless  of  me 
in  every  way ;  but  I  do  protest,  strongly  protest,  against  Lord  Culduff 
being  introduced  into  matters  which  are  purely  our  own." 

"  I  never  knew  till  now  that  we  had  family  secrets,"  said  she,  with  an 
insolent  air. 

"  You  may  learn  it  later  on,  perhaps,  and  without  pleasure." 

"  So,  then,  these  are  the  grave  perils  you  tried  to  terrify  me  with  a 
while  ago.  You  forget,  Augustus,  that  I  have  secured  my  passage  in 
another  ship.  Personally,  at  least,  I  am  in  no  danger." 

"  I  did  forget  that.  I  did  indeed  forget  how  completely  you  could 
disassociate  yourself  from  the  troubles  of  your  family." 

"  But  what  is  going  to  happen  to  us  ?  They  can't  shoot  Jack  because 
he  called  his  commanding  officer  an  ugly  name.  They  can't  indite  papa 
because  he  refused  to  be  high- sheriff.  And  if  the  world  is  angry  with  you, 
Gusty,  it  is  not  certainly  because  you  like  the  company  of  men  of  higher 
station  than  your  own." 

He  flushed  at  the  sarcasm  that  her  speech  half  revealed,  and  turned 
away  to  hide  .his  irritation. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  frankly,  Gusty,"  continued  she,  "  that  I  believe 
nothing — absolutely  nothing — of  these  impending  calamities  ?  There  is 
no  sword  suspended  over  us  ;  or  if  there  be,  it  is  by  a  good  strong  cord, 
which  will  last  our  time.  There  are  always  plenty  of  dark  stories  in  the 
City.  Shares  fall  and  great  houses  tumble ;  but  papa  told  me  scores  of 
times  that  he  never  put  all  his  eggs  into  one  basket :  and  Bramleigh 
and  Underwood  will  be  good  names  for  many  a  day  to  come.  Shall  I 
tell  you,  my  dear  Augustus,  what  I  suspect  to  be  the  greatest  danger 
that  now  hangs  over  us  ?  And  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit  it  is  a 
heavy  one." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  peril  I  mean  is,  that  your  sister  Nelly  will  marry  the  curate. 
Oh,  you  may  look  shocked  and  incredulous,  and  cry  impossible,  if  you  like ; 
but  we  girls  are  very  shrewd  detectives  over  each  other,  and  what  I  tell  you 
is  only  short  of  certainty." 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S   FOLLY.  657 

"  He  has  not  a  shilling  in  the  world ;  nor  has  she,  independently  of 
iny  father." 

''That's  the  reason.  That's  the  reason !  These  are  the  troths  that 
are  never  broken.  There  is  nothing  aids  fidelity  like  beggary." 

* '  He  has  neither  friends  nor  patrons  ;  he  told  me  himself  he  has  not 
the  vaguest  hope  of  advancement." 

"  Exactly  so  ;  and  just  for  that  they  will  be  married  !  Now  it  reminds 
me."  said  she,  aloud,  "  of  what  papa  once  said  to  me.  The  man  who 
wants  to  build  up  a  name  and  a  family,  ought  to  have  few  children.  With  a 
large  household,  some  one  or  other  will  make  an  unhappy  alliance,  and 
one  deserter  disgraces  the  army." 

"  A  grave  consideration  for  Lord  Culduff  at  this  moment,"  said  he,  with 
a  humourous  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

"  We  have  talked  it  over  already,"  said  she. 

"  Once  for  all,  Marion,  no  confidences  about  what  I  have  been  talking 
of."  And  so1  saying  he  went  his  way. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
MR.   CUTBILL  ARRIVES  AT  CASTELLO. 

ON  the  eve  of  that  day  on  which  the  conversation  in  the  last  chapter 
occurred,  Mr.  Cutbill  arrived  at  Castello.  He  came  full  of  town  news  :  he 
brought  with  him  the  latest  scandals  of  society,  and  the  last  events  in 
politics  ;  he  could  tell  of  what  was  doing  in  Downing  Street,  and  what  was 
about  to  be  done  in  the  City.  In  fact,  he  had  the  sort  of  budget  that  was 
sure  to  amuse  a  country  audience,  and  yet,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found 
none  to  question,  none  even  to  listen  to  him.  Colonel  Bramleigh's  illness 
had  thrown  a  gloom  over  all.  The  girls  relieved  each  other  in  watches 
beside  their  father,  and  Augustus  and  Temple  dined  together  alone,  as  Lord 
CuldufFs  gout  still  detained  him  in  his  room.  It  was  as  the  dinner  drew 
to  its  close  that  Mr.  Cutbill  was  announced. 

"It  ain't  serious,  I  hope?  I  mean,  they  don't  think  the  case 
dangerous  ?  "  said  he,  as  he  arranged  his  napkin  on  his  knee. 

Augustus  only  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"  Why,  what  age  is  he  ?  not  sixty  ?  " 

"  Fifty-one— fifty-two  in  June." 

"  That's  not  old  ;  that's  the  prime  of  life,  especially  when  a  man  has 
taken  nothing  out  of  himself." 

"  He  was  always  temperate ;  most  temperate." 

"  Just  so  :  even  his  own  choice  Mouton  didn't  tempt  him  into  the 
second  bottle.  I  remember  that  well.  I  said  to  myself,  ( Tom  Cutbill, 
that  green  seal  wouldn't  fare  so  well  in  your  keeping.'  I  had  such  a  bag 
of  news  for  him  !  All  the  rogueries  on  'Change,  fresh  and  fresh.  I 
suppose  it  is  quite  hopeless  to  think  of  telling  him  now  ?  " 

"  Not  to  be  thought  of." 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  96.  82- 


658  THE  BIUMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  How  he'd  have  liked  to  have  heard  about  Hewlett  and  Bell !  They're 
gone  for  close  on  two  millions ;  they'll  not  pay  over  sixpence  in  the  pound, 
and  Einker,  the  Bombay  fellow  that  went  in  for  cotton,  has  caught  it  too  ! 
Cotton  and  indigo  have  ruined  more  men  than  famine  and  pestilence.  I'd 
be  shot,  if  I  was  a  Lord  of  the  Council,  if  I  wouldn't  have  a  special  prayer  for 
them  in  the  Litany.  Well,  Temple,  and  how  are  you,  all  this  while  ?  " 
said  he,  turning  abruptly  to  the  diplomatist,  Who  sat  evidently  inattentive 
to  the  dialogue. 

"  What,  sir;  did  you  address  me  ?  "  cried  he,  with  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment and  indignation. 

"  I  should  think  I  did  ;  and  I  never  heard  you  were  Premier  Earl,  or 
that  other  thing  of  England,  that  you  need  look  so  shocked  at  the  liberty ! 
You  Foreign  Office  swells  are  very  grand  folk  to  each  other  ;  but  take  my 
word  for  it,  the  world,  the  real  world,  thinks  very  little  of  you." 

Temple  arose  slowly  from  his  place,  threw  his  napkin  on  the  table,  and 
turning  to  Augustus,  said,  "You'll  find  me  in  the  library,"  and  withdrew. 

"  That's  dignified,  I  take  it,"  said  Cutbill ;  "  but  to  my  poor  apprecia- 
tion, it's  not  the  way  to  treat  a  guest  under  his  father's  roof." 

"  A  guest  has  duties,  Mr.  Cutbill,  as  well  as  rights  ;  my  brother  is  not 
accustomed  to  the  sort  of  language  you  address  to  him,  nor  is  he  at  all  to 
blame  if  he  decline  to  hear  more  of  it." 

"  So  that  I  am  to  gather  you  think  he  was  right  ?  " 

Augustus  bowed  coldly. 

"  It  just  comes  to  what  I  said  one  day  to  Harding  :  the  sailor  is  the 
only  fellow  in  the  house  a  man  can  get  on  with.  I'm  sorry,  heartily  sorry 
for  him."  The  last  words  were  in  a  tone  of  sincere  feeling,  and  Augustus 
asked, — "  What  do  you  mean  by  sorry  ?  what  has  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  seen  it  in  The  Times — no,  you  couldn't,  though — it  was 
only  in  this  morning's  edition,  and  I  have  it  somewhere.  There's  to  be  a 
court-martial  on  him ;  he's  to  be  tried  on  board  the  Ramsay,  at  Portsmouth, 
for  disobedience  and  indiscipline,  and  using  to  his  superior  officer — old 
Colthurst — words  unbecoming  the  dignity  of  the  service  and  the  character 
of  an  officer,  or  the  dignity  of  an  officer  and  the  character  of  the  service — 
it!s  all  the  one  gauge,  but  he'll  be  broke  and  cashiered  all  the  same." 

"  I  thought  that  if  he  were  to  recall  something,  if  he  would  make  some 
explanation,  which  he  might  without  any  peril  to  honour " 

"  That's  exactly  how  it  was,  and  when  I  heard  he  was  in  a  scrape  I 
started  off  to  Portsmouth  to  see  him." 

"  You  did?  "  exclaimed  Augustus,  looking  now  with  a  very  different 
expression  at  the  other. 

"  To  be  sure  I  did  ;  I  went  down  by  the  mail-train,  and  stayed  with 
him  till  the  one-forty  express  started  next  day,  and  I  might  have  saved 
myself  the  trouble." 

"  You  could  make  no  impression  upon  him  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit — as  well  talk  to  that  oak  sideboard  there ;  he'd  sit  and 
smoke  and  chat  very  pleasantly  too,  about  anything,  I  believe ;  he'd  tell 


THE  BBAMLETGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  659 

about  his  life  up  in  town, -and  what  he  lost  at  the  races,  and  how  near  he 
was  to  a  good  thing  on  the  Eiddlesworth ;  but  not  a  word,  not  so  much  as 
a  sellable  would  he  say  about  his  own  hobble.  It  was  growing  late  ;  we  had 
had  a  regular  bang-up  breakfast — turtle  steaks  and  a  devilled  lobster,  and 
pier  ty  of  good  champagne — not  the  sweet  stuff  your  father  gives  us  down 
]ier(; — kut  dry  '  Mum,'  that  had  a  flavour'  of  Marcobrunner  about  it.  He's 
a  rare  fellow  to  treat  a  man,  is  Jack ;  and  so  I  said — not  going  about  the 
busli,  but  bang  into  the  thicket  at  once — *  "What's  this  stupid  row  you've 
got  into  with  your  Admiral  ?  what's  it  all  about  ? ' " 

:<  'It's  about  a  service  regulation,  Master  Cutbill,'  said  he,  with  a  stiff 
loot  on  him.  '  A  service  regulation  that  you  wouldn't  understand  if  you 
heai-d  it.' 

"  'You  think,'  said  I,  *  that  out  of  culverts  and  cuttings,  Tom  Cutbill's 
opiiion  is  not  worth  much  ? ' 

"  '  No,  no,  not  that,  Cutbill ;  I  never  said  that,'  said  he,  laughing ;  *  but 
you  see  that  we  sailors  not  only  have  all  sorts  of  technicals  for  the  parts 
of  i  ship,  but  we  have  technical  meanings  for  even  the  words  of  common 
life,  so  that  though  I  might  call  you  a  consummate  humbug,  I  couldn't  say 
as  nuch  to  a  Yice-Admiral  without  the  risk  of  being  judged  by  professional 
etiqiette.' 

"  '  But  you  didn't  call  him  that,  did  you  ?  '  said  I. 

"  l  I'll  call  you  worse,  Cutty,'  says  he,  laughing,  « if  you  don't  take  your 
wino.' 

"  '  And  now  Jack,'  said  I, '  it's  on  the  stroke  of  one ;  I  must  start  with 
the  express  at  one-forty,  and  as  I  came  down  here  for  nothing  on  earth 
but  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  use  to  you,  don't  let  me  go  away  only  as 
wist:  as  I  came ;  be  frank,  and  tell  me  all  about  this  business,  and  when  I 
go  oack  to  town  it  will  push  me  hard  if  I  can't  do  something  with  the 
Somerset  House  fellows  to  pull  you  through.' 

"  *  You  are  a  good-hearted  dog,  Cutty,'  said  he,  '  and  I  thought  so  the 
first  day  I  saw  you ;  but  my  scrape,  as  you  call  it,  is  just  one  of  those  things 
youd  only  blunder  in.  My  fine  brother  Temple,  or  that  much  finer 
gen  leinan  Lord  Culduff,  who  can  split  words  into  the  thinnest  of  veneers, 
mig  it  possibly  make  such  a  confusion  that  it  would  be  hard  to  see  who 
was  right  or  who  was  wrong  in  the  whole  affair ;  but  you,  Cutty,  with 
you :  honest  intentions  and  your  vulgar  good  sense,  would  be  sure  to  offend 
evei  y  one.  There,  don't  lose  your  train ;  don't  forget  the  cheroots  and  the 
pun^h,  and  some  pleasant  books,  if  they  be  writing  any  such  just  now.' 

"  '  If  you  want  money,'  said  I — '  I  mean  for  the  defence.' 

:<  <  Not  sixpence  for  the  lawyers,  Cutty ;  of  that  you  may  take  your  oath/ 
said  he,  as  he  shook  my  hand.    *  I'd  as  soon  think  of  sending  the  wardroom  , 
dinner  overboard  to  the  sharks.'     We  parted,  and  the  next  thing  I  saw  of 
him  was  that  paragraph  in  TJie  Times." 

i(  How  misfortunes  thicken  around  us.  About  a  month  or  six  weeks 
ago  when  you  came  down  here  first,  I  suppose  there  wasn't  a  family  in  the 
kingdom  could  call  itself  happier." 

82—2 


660  THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

"  You  did  look  jolly,  that  I  will  say ;  but  somehow — you'll  not  take  the 
remark  ill — I  saw  that,  as  we  rail-folk  say,  it  was  a  capital  line  for  ordinary 
regular  traffic,  but  would  be  sure  to  break  down  if  you  had  a  press  of 
business." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  mean  that,  so  long  as  it  was  only  a  life  of  daily  pleasure  and 
enjoyment  was  before  you, — that  the  gravest  question  of  the  day  was  what 
horse  you'd  ride,  or  whom  you'd  invite  to  dinner, — so  long  as  that  lasted, 
the  machine  would  work  well, — no  jar,  no  friction  anywhere ;  but  if  once 
trouble — and  I  mean  real  trouble — was  to  come  down  upon  you,  it  would 
find  you  all  at  sixes  and  sevens, — no  order,  no  discipline  anywhere,  and, 
what's  worse,  no  union.  But  you  know  it  better  than  I  do.  You  see 
yourself  that  no  two  of  you  pull  together  ;  ain't  that  a  fact  ?  " 

Augustus  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  was  silent. 

"  I  like  to  see  people  jolly,  because  they  understand  each  other  and  are 
fond  of  each  other,  because  they  take  pleasure  in  the  same  things,  and 
feel  that  the  success  of  one  is  the  success  of  all.  There's  no  merit  in 
being  jolly  over  ten  thousand  a  year  and  a  house  like  Windsor  Castle. 
Now,  just  look  at  what  is  going  on,  I  may  call  it,  under  our  noses  here :  does 
your  sister  Marion  care  a  brass  farthing  for  Jack's  misfortunes,  or  does  he 
feel  a  bit  elated  about  her  going  to  many  a  viscount  ?  Are  you  fretting 
your  heart  to  ribbons  because  that  fine  young  gent  that  left  us  a  while 
ago  is  about  to  be  sent  envoy  to  Bogota  ?  And  that's  fact,  though  he  don't 
know  it  yet,"  added  he,  in  a  chuckling  whisper.  "  It's  a  regular  fair- 
weather  family,  and  if  it  comes  on  to  blow,  you'll  see  if  there's  a  storm- 
sail  amongst  you." 

"  Apparently,  then,  you  were  aware  of  what  was  only  divulged  to  mo 
this  evening  ?  "  said  Augustus.  "  I  mean  the  intended  marriage  of  Lord 
Culduff  to  my  sister." 

"  I  should  say  I  was  aware  of  it.  I  was,  so  to  say,  promoter  and 
projector.  It  was  I  started  the  enterprise.  It  was  that  took  me  over  to 
town.  I  went  to  square  that  business  of  old  Culduff.  There  was  a 
question  to  be  asked  in  the  House  about  his  appointment  that  would  have 
led  to  a  debate,  or  what  they  call  a  conversation — about  the  freest  kind 
of  after-dinner  talk  imaginable — and  they'd  have  ripped  up  the  old 
reprobate's  whole  life — and  I  assure  you  there  are  passages  in  it  wouldn't 
do  for  the  Methodists1  Magazine — so  I  went  over  to  negotiate  a  little 
matter  with  Joel,  who  had,  as  I  well  knew,  a  small  sheaf  of  Kepton's  bills. 
I  took  Joel  down  to  Greenwich  to  give  him  a  fish- dinner  and  talk  the 
thing  over,  and  we  were  right  comfortable  and  happy  over  some  red 
Hermitage — thirty  shillings  a  bottle,  mind  you — when  we  heard  a  yell, 
just  a  yell,  from  the  next  room,  and  in  walks — whom  do  you  think  ? — 
Repton  himself,  with  his  napkin  in  his  hand — he  was  dining  with  a  set 
of  fellows  from  the  Garrick,  and  he  swaggered  in  and  sat  down  at  our 
table.  *  What  infernal  robbery  are  you  two  concocting  here  ? '  said  he. 
'  When  the  waiter  told  me  who  were  the  fellows  at  dinner  together,  I 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  661 

said,  "  These  rascals  are  like  the  witches  in  Macbeth,  and  they  never  meet 
without  there's  mischief  in  the  wind."  ' 

"  The  way  he  put  it  was  so  strong,  there  was  something  so  home  in  it, 
that  I  burst  out  and  told  him  the  whole  story,  and  that  it  was  exactly 
himself,  and  no  other,  was  the  man  we  were  discussing." 

"  *  And  you  thought,'  said  he,  *  you  thought  that,  if  you  had  a  hold 
of  my  acceptances,  you'd  put  the  screw  on  me  and  squeeze  me  as  flat  as 
yo^i  pleased.  Oh,  generation  of  silkworms,  ain't  you  soft ! '  cried  he, 
laughing.  '  Order  up  another  bottle  of  this,  for  I  want  to  drink  your 
healths.  You've  actually  made  my  fortune  !  The  thing  will  now  be  first- 
rate.  The  Culduff  inquiry  was  a  mere  matter  of  public  morals,  but  here, 
here  is  a  direct  attempt  to  coerce  or  influence  a  Member  of  Parliament. 
I' LI  have  you  both  at  the  Bar  of  the  House  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Repton.' 

"  He  then  arose  and  began  to  rehearse  the  speech  he'd  make  when 
we  were  arraigned,  and  a  spicier  piece  of  abuse  I  never  listened  to.  The 
noise  he  made  brought  the  other  fellows  in  from  the  next  room,  and  he 
ordered  them  to  make  a  house,  and  one  was  named  speaker  and  another 
bhick  rod,  and  we  were  taken  into  custody  and  duly  purged  of  our  con- 
tempt by  paying  for  all  the  wine  drank  by  the  entire  company,  a  trifle  of 
fiva-and-thirty  pounds  odd.  The  only  piece  of  comfort  I  got  at  all  was 
getting  into  the  rail  to  go  back  to  town,  when  Eepton  whispered  me,  '  It's 
all  right  about  Culduff.  Parliament  is  dissolved ;  the  House  rises  on 
Tuesday,  and  he'll  not  be  mentioned.'  " 

"  But  does  all  this  bear  upon  the  question  of  marriage  ?" 

'  *  Quite  naturally.  Your  father  pulls  Culduff  out  of  the  mire,  and  the 
viscount  proposes  for  your  sister.  It's  all  contract  business  the  whole 
world  over.  By  the  way,  where  is  our  noble  friend  ?  I  suppose,  all 
things  considered,  I  owe  him  a  visit." 

"  You'll  find  him  in  his  room.  He  usually  dines  alone,  and  I  believe 
Temple  is  the  only  one  admitted." 

"  I'll  send  up  my  name,"  said  he,  rising  to  ring  the  bell  for  the 
servant ;  "  and  I'll  call  myself  lucky  if  he'll  refuse  to  see  me." 

"  His  lordship  will  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Cutbill  as  soon  as  convenient  to 
him,"  replied  the  servant  on  his  return. 

"  All  my  news  for  him  is  not  so  favourable  as  this,"  whispered  Cutbill, 
as  he  moved  away.  "  They  won't  touch  the  mine  in  the  City.  That  last 
in-irder,  though  it  was  down  in  Tipperary,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away 
from  this,  has  frightened  them  all ;  and  they  say  they're  quite  ready  to  do 
something  at  Lagos,  or  the  Gaboon,  but  nothing  here.  '  You  see,'  say 
thoy,  <  if  they  cut  one  or  two  of  our  people's  heads  off  in  Africa,  we  get 
up  a  gun-brig,  and  burn  the  barracoons  and  slaughter  a  whole  village  for 
it,  and  this  restores  confidence  ;  but  in  Ireland  it  always  ends  with  a 
debate  in  the  House,  that  shows  the  people  to  have  great  wrongs  and 
groat  patience,  and  that  their  wild  justice,  as  some  one  called  it,  was  all 
ri^rht ;  and  that,  sir,  that  does  not  restore  confidence.'  Good-night." 


662  THE   BRAMLEIGHS   OF   BISHOPS'  FOLLY. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    YILLA  .ALTIEEI. 

THEEE  is  a  short  season  in  which  a  villa  within  the  walls  of  old  Rome 
realizes  all  that  is  positive  ecstasy  in  the  life  of  Italy.  This  season  begins 
usually  towards  the  end  of  February  and  continues  through  the  month  of 
March.  This  interval — which  in  less  favoured  lands  is  dedicated  to 
storms  of  rain  and  sleet,  east  winds  and  equinoctial  gales,  tumbling 
chimney-pots  and  bronchitis — is  here  signalized  by  all  that  Spring,  in  its 
most  voluptuous  abundance,  can  pour  forth :  vegetation  comes  out,  not 
with  the  laggard  step  of  northern  climes — slow,  cautious,  and  distrustful — 
but  bursting  at  once  from  bud  to  blossom  as  though  impatient  for  the  fresh 
air  of  life  and  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun.  The  very  atmosphere  laughs 
and  trembles  with  vitality,  from  the  panting  lizard  on  the  urn  to  the 
myriad  of  insects  on  the  grass  :  it  is  life  everywhere,  and  over  all  sweeps 
the  delicious  odour  of  the  verbena  and  the  violet,  almost  overpowering 
with  perfume,  so  that  one  feels,  in  such  a  land,  the  highest  ecstasy  of 
existence  is  that  same  dreamy  state  begotten  of  sensations,  derived  from 
blended  sense,  where  tone  and  tint  and  odour  mingle  almost  into  one. 

Perhaps  the  loveliest  spot  of  Rome  in  this  loveliest  of  seasons  was  the 
Yilla  Altieri.  It  stood  on  a  slope  of  the  Pincian,  defended  from  north 
and  east,  and  looking  westward  over  the  Campagna  towards  the  hills  of 
Albano.  A  thick  ilex  grove,  too  thick  and  dark  for  Italian,  though  perfect 
to  English  taste,  surrounded  the  house,  offering  alleys  of  shade  that  even 
the  noonday's  sun  found  impenetrable  ;  while  beneath  the  slope,  and  under 
shelter  of  the  hill,  lay  a  delicious  garden,  memorable  by  a  fountain  designed 
by  Thorwaldsen,  where  four  Na'ides  splash  the  water  at  each  other  under 
the  fall  of  a  cataract ;  this  being  the  costly  caprice  of  the  Cardinal  Altieri, 
to  complete  which  he  had  to  conduct  the  water  from  the  Lake  of  Albano. 
Unlike  most  Italian  gardens  the  plants  and  shrubs  were  not  merely  those 
of  the  south,  but  all  that  the  culture  of  Holland  and  England  could 
contribute  to  fragrance  and  colour  were  also  there,  and  the  gorgeous  tulips 
of  the  Hague,  the  golden  ranunculus  and  crimson  carnation,  which  attain 
the  highest  beauty  in  moister  climates,  here  were  varied  with  chrysanthe- 
mums and  carnelias.  Gorgeous  creepers  trailed  from  tree  to  tree  or  grace- 
fully trained  themselves  around  the  marble  groups,  and  clusters  of  orange- 
trees,  glittering  with  golden  fruit,  relieved  in  their  darker  green  the  almost 
too  glaring  brilliancy  of  colour. 

At  a  window  which  opened  to  the  ground — and  from  which  a  view  of 
the  garden,  and  beyond  the  garden  the  rich  woods  of  the  Borghese  villa, 
and  beyond  these  again,  the  massive  Dome  of  St.  Peter's,  extended — sat 
two  ladies,  so  wonderfully  alike  that  a  mere  glance  would  have  proclaimed 
them  to  be  sisters.  It  is  true  the  Countess  Balderoni  was  several  years 
older  than  Lady  Augusta  Bramleigh,  but  whether  from  temperament  or 
the  easier  flow  of  an  Italian  life  in  comparison  with  the  more  wearing 


THE  BEAMLE1GHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY.  663 

excitement  of  an  English  existence,  she  certainly  looked  little,  if  anything, 
her  senior. 

They  were  both  handsome, — at  least  they  had  that  character  of  good 
lool.s  which  in  Italy  is  deemed  beauty, — they  were  singularly  fair,  with 
largo  deep-set  blue-grey  eyes,  and  light  brown  hair  of  a  marvellous 
abundance  and  silkiest  fibre.  They  were  alike  soft- voiced  and  gentle- 
mannered,  and  alike  strong-willed  and  obstinate,  of  an  intense  selfishness, 
and  very  capricious. 

"  His  eminence  is  late  this  evening,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  looking  at 
her  watch.  "  It  is  nigh  eight  o'clock." 

"I  fancy,  *  Gusta,'  he  was  not  quite  pleased  with  you  last  night.  On 
going  away  he  said  something,  I  didn't  exactly  catch  it,  but  it  sounded 
like  '  leggierezza  ; '  he  thought  you  had  not  treated  his  legends  of 
St.  Francis  with  becoming  seriousness." 

"  If  he  wanted  me  to  be  grave  he  oughtn't  to  tell  me  funny  stories." 

"  The  lives  of  the  saints,  Gusta  !  " 

"  Well,  dearest,  that  scene  in  the  forest  where  St.  Francis  asked  the 
dcA  il  to  flog  him  and  not  to  desist  even  though  he  should  be  weak  enough 
to  implore  it — wasn't  that  dialogue  as  droll  as  anything  in  Boccaccio  ?  " 

"It's  not  decent,  it's  not  decorous,  to  laugh  at  any  incident  in  the 
lives,  of  holy  men." 

"Holy  men  then  should  never  be  funny,  at  least  when  they  are 
presented  to  me,  for  it's  always  the  absurd  side  of  everything  has  the 
greatest  attraction  for  me." 

"  This  is  certainly  not  the  spirit  which  will  lead  you  to  the  Church  !  " 

"  But  I  thought  I  told  you  already,  dearest,  that  it's  the  road  I  like,  not 
the  end  of  the  journey.  Courtship  is  confessedly  better  than  marriage,  and 
the  being  converted  is  infinitely  nicer  than  the  state  of  conversion." 

"Oh,  Gusta !  what  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"  Saying  what  I  most  fervently  feel  to  be  true.  Don't  you  know  better 
ev(  n  than  myself,  that  it  is  the  zeal  to  rescue  me  from  the  fold  of  the  heretics, 
sui  rounds  me  every  evening  with  monsignori  and  vescovi,  and  attracts  to 
the  sofa  where  I  happen  to  sit,  purple  stockings,  and  red,  a  class  of  adorers, 
I  j  m  free  to  own,  there  is  nothing  in  the  lay  world  to  compare  with ; 
and  don't  you  know  too,  that  the  work  of  conversion  accomplished,  these 
sec  uctive  saints  will  be  on  the  look-out  for  a  new  sinner  ?  " 

"  And  is  this  the  sincerity  in  which  you  profess  your  new  faith  ?  is  it 
thi  .s  that  you  mean  to  endow  a  new  edifice  to  the  honour  of  the  Holy 
Beigion?  " 

"  Cara  mia  !  I  want  worship,  homage,  and  adoration  myself,  and  it  is 
as  absolute  a  necessity  of  my  being,  as  if  I  had  been  born  up  there,  and  knew 
no  hing  of  this  base  earth  and  its  belongings.  Be  just,  my  dearest  sister, 
an  I  see  for  once  the  difference  between  us.  You  have  a  charming  husband, 
wl  o  never  plagues,  never  bores  you,  whom  you  see  when  it  is  pleasant  to 
BO i ,  and  dismiss  when  you  are  weary  of  him.  He  never  worries  you  about 
rn<  ney,  he  has  no  especial  extravagance,  and  does  not  much  trouble  himself 


664  THE  BEAMLEIGHS  OP  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

about  anything, — I  have  none  of  these.  I  am  married  to  a  man  almost 
double  my  age,  taken  from  another  class,  and  imbued  with  a  whole  set  of 
notions  different  from  my  own.  I  can't  live  with  his  people  ;  my  own 
won't  have  me.  What  then  is  left  but  the  refuge  of  that  emotional 
existence  which  the  Church  offers, — a  sort  of  pious  flirtation  with  a  run- 
away match  in  the  distance,  only  it  is  to  be  Heaven,  not  Gretna  Green." 

"  So  that  all  this  while  you  have  never  been  serious,  Gusta  ?  " 

"  Most  serious  !  I  have  actually  written  to  my  husband — you.  read 
the  letter — acquainting  him  with  my  intended  change  of  religion,  and  my 
desire  to  mark  the  sincerity  of  my  profession  by  that  most  signal  of  all 
proofs — a  monied  one.  As  I  told  the  Cardinal  last  night,  Heaven  is  never 
so  sure  of  us  as  when  we  draw  on  our  banker  to  go  there  !  " 

"  How  you  must  shock  his  eminence  when  you  speak  in  this  way." 

"So  he  told  me,  but  I  must  own  he  looked  very  tenderly  into  my  eyes 
as  he  said  so.  Isn't  it  provoking  ?  "  said  she,  as  she  arose  and  moved 
out  into  the  garden.  "  No  post  yet !  It  is  always  so,  when  one  is  on  thorns 
for  a  letter.  Now  when  one  thinks  that  the  mail  arrives  at  daybreak, 
what  can  they  possibly  mean  by  not  distributing  the  letters  till  evening  ? 
Did  I  tell  you  what  I  said  to  Monsignore  Bicci,  who  has  some  function  at 
the  Post  Office?" 

"  No,  but  I  trust  it  was  not  a  rude  speech  ;  he  is  always  so  polite." 

"  I  said  that  as  I  was  ever  very  impatient  for  my  letters  I  had  requested 
all  my  correspondents  to  write  in  a  great  round  legible  hand,  which  would 
give  the  authorities  no  pretext  for  delay,  while  deciphering  their  contents." 

"  I  declare,  Gusta,  I  am  amazed  at  you.  I  cannot  imagine  how  you 
can  venture  to  say  such  things  to  persons  in  office." 

"  My  dear  sister,  it  is  the  only  way  they  could  ever  hear  them.  There 
is  no  freedom  of  the  press  here ;  in  society  nobody  speaks  out.  What 
would  become  of  those  people  if  they  only  heard  the  sort  of  stories  they 
tell  each  other  ;  besides,  I'm  going  to  be  one  of  them.  They  must  bear 
with  a  little  indiscipline.  The  sergeant  always  pardons  the  recruit  for 
being  drunk  on  the  day  of  enlistment." 

The  countess  shook  her  head  disapprovingly  and  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  ! "  sighed  Lady  Augusta.  "  I  wonder  what  tidings 
will  the  post  bring  me.  Will  my  affectionate  and  afflicted  husband  comply 
with  my  prayer,  and  be  willing  to  endow  the  Church,  and  secure  his  own 
freedom ;  or  will  he  be  sordid,  and  declare  that  he  can't  live  without  me  ? 
I  know  you'd  laugh,  dear,  or  I'd  tell  you  that  the  man  is  actually  violently 
in  love  with  me.  You've  no  notion  of  the  difficulty  I  have  to  prevent  him 
writing  tender  letters  to  me." 

"  You  are  too,  too  bad,  I  declare,"  said  the  other,  smothering  a  rising 
laugh. 

"  Of  course  I'd  not  permit  such  a  thing.  I  stand  on  my  dignity,  and 
say,  « Have  a  care,  sir.'  Oh,  here  it  comes !  here's  the  post !  What ! 
only  two  letters  after  all?  She's  a  dun!  Madame  La  Ruelle,  I  lace 
Yendome — the  cruellest  creature  that  ever  made  a  ball-dress.  It  is  to  tell 


THE  BRAMLEIGHS  OF  BISHOP'S  TOLLY.  665 

ino  she  can't  wait ;  and  I'm  so  sick  of  saying  she  must,  that  I'll  not  write 
anymore.  And  who  is  this?  The  postmark  is  'Portshandon.'  Oh  !  I 
seo  ;  here's  the  name  in  the  corner.  This  is  from  our  eldest  son,  the 
future  head  of  the  house.  Mr.  Augustus  Brarnleigh  is  a  bashful  creature 
of  about  my  own  age,  who  was  full  of  going  to  New  Zealand  and  turning 
sheep-farmer.  True,  I  assure  you  ;  he  is  an  enthusiast  about  independence. 
"\\hich  means  he  has  a  grand  vocation  for  the  workhouse." 

"By  what  strange  turn  of  events  has  he  become  your  correspondent  ? 

"  I  should  say,  Dora,  it  looks  ill  as  regards  the  money.  I'm  afraid 
that  this  bodes  a  refusal." 

"  Would  not  the  shorter  way  be  to  read  it  ?  "  said  the  other  simply. 

"  Yes,  the  shorter,  but  perhaps  not  the  sweeter.  There  are  little 
e^  ents  in  life  which  are  worse  than  even  uncertainties ;  but  here  goes  : — 

' '  *  MY  DEAR  LADY  AUGUSTA, —  "  Castello. 

("A  very  pretty  beginning  from  my  son — I  mean  my  husband's  son ; 
and  yet  he  could  not  have  commenced  '  Dearest  Mamma.'  ") 

" '  I  WRITE  my  first  letter  to  you  in  a  very  painful  moment. 
My  poor  father  was  seized  on  Tuesday  last  with  a  most  serious  and  sudden 
illness,  to  which  the  physician  as  yet  hesitates  to  give  a  name.  It  is, 
however,  on  the  brain  or  the  membranes,  and  deprives  him  of  all 
inclination,  though  not  entirely  of  all  power,  to  use  his  faculties.  He  is, 
moreover,  enjoined  to  avoid  every  source  of  excitement,  and  even  forbid 
to  converse.  Of  course,  under  these  afflicting  circumstances,  everything 
which  relates  to  business  in  any  way  is  imperatively  excluded  from  his 
knowledge  ;  and  must  continue  to  be  so  till  some  change  occurs. 

"  '  It  is  not  at  such  a  moment  you  would  expect  to  hear  of  a  marriage 
iii  the  family,  and  yet  yesterday  my  sister  Marion  was  married  to  Lord 
"Viscount  CulduflV  " 

Here  she  laid  down  the  letter,  and  stared  with  an  expression  of  almost 
overwhelmed  amazement  at  her  sister.  "Lord  Culduff!  Where's  the 
Peerage,  Dora?  Surely  it  must  be  the  same  who  was  at  Dresden  when 
we  were  children  ;  he  wasn't  married — there  can  be  no  son.  Oh,  here  he 
IF  :  '  Henry  Plantaganet  de  Lacey,  fourteenth  Yiscount  Culduff ;  born 
9th  February,  17 — '  Last  century.  Why,  he's  the  patriarch  of  the 
peers,  and  she's  twenty-four  !  What  can  the  girl  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  read  on ;  I'm  impatient  for  more." 

"  '  The  imperative  necessity  for  Lord  Culduff  to  hold  himself  in  readi- 
D3SS  for  whatever  post  in  the  diplomatic  service  the  Minister  might  desire 
him  to  occupy,  was  the  chief  reason  for  the  marriage  taking  place  at  this 
conjuncture.  My  father,  however,  himself  was  very  anxious  on  the  subject; 
aid,  indeed,  insisted  strongly  on  being  present.  The  ceremony  was 
accordingly  performed  in  his  own  room,  and  I  rejoice  to  say  that,  though 
naturally  much  excited,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  sustained  any  increase 


CG6  THE   BEAMLEIGHS   OF  BISHOP'S  FOLLY. 

of  malady  from  this  trying  event.  I  need  not  tell  you  the  great  disparity 
of  age  between  my  sister  and  her  husband  :  a  disparity  which  I  own 
enlisted  me  amongst  those  who  opposed  the  match.  Marion,  however,  so 
firmly  insisted  on  her  right  to  choose  for  herself,  and  -her  fortune  being 
completely  at  her  own  disposal,  that  all  continued  opposition  would  have 
been  not  alone  unavailing  for  the  present,  but  a  source  of  .coldness  and 
estrangement  for  the  future. 

"  '  The  Culduffs  "—(how  sweetly  familiar) — "  the  Culduffs  left  this  for 
Paris  this- day,  where  I  believe  they  intend  to  remain  till  the  question  of 
Lord  CuldufFs  post  is  determined  on.  My  sister  ardently  hopes  it  may 
be  in  Italy,  as  she  is  most  desirous  to  be  near  you.'  " 

"  Can  you  imagine  such  a  horror  as  this  woman  playing  daughter  to 
me  and  yet  going  into  dinner  before  me,  and  making  me  feel  her  rank  on 
every  possible  occasion  !  All  this  here  I  see  is  business,  nothing  but 
business.  The  Colonel,  it  would  seem,  must  have  been  breaking  before 
they  suspected,  for  all  his  late  speculations  have  turned  out  ill.  .  Penstyddiu 
Copper  Mine  is  an  utter  failure;  the  New -Caledonia -Packet  Line  a 
smash !  and  there's  a  whole  list  of  crippled  enterprises.  It's  very  nice 
of  Augustus,  however,  to  say  that  though  he  mentions  these  circum- 
stances, which  might  possibly  reach  me  through  other  channels,  no  event 
that  he  could  contemplate  should  in '  any  way... affect  my  income,  or  any 
increase  of  it  that  I  deem  essential  to  my  comfort  or  convenience ;  and 
although  in  total  ignorance  as  he  is  of  all.  transactions  of  the  house,  he 
begs  me  to  write  to  himself  directly  when  any  question  of  increased  expense 
should  arise— which  I  certainly  will.  He's  a  luon  figliualo,  Dolly — that 
must  be  said — and  it  would  be  shameful  not  to  develope  such  generous 
instincts." 

"  t  If  my  father's  illness  should  be  unhappily  protracted,  means  must  be 
taken,  I  believe,  to  devolve  his  share  in  business  matters  upon  some  other. 
I  regret  that  it  cannot  possibly  be  upon  myself ;  but  I  am  totally  unequal  to 
the  charge,  and  have  not,  besides,  courage  .for  the  ligy  responsibility.'  " 

"  That's  the  whole  of  it,"  said  she,  with  a  sigh ;  "'and  ah1  things  con- 
sidered, it  might  have  been  worse." 


667 


m 


READING  a  short  time  since  some  account  of  the  Irish  constabulary,  I  was 
nruc-h  struck  with  one  item  of  the  regulations — to  the  effect  that  the 
members  of  that  admirable  force  must  belong  to  no  secret  society  whatever, 
with  the  sole  exception  of  the  order  of  Freemasons.  The  exception  appeared 
to  me  remarkable,  as  I  know  that  in  Austria  every  officer  in  the  army 
is,  on  appointment,  obliged  to  sign  a  declaration  "that  he  does  not 
bo]  ong  to  any  secret  society  whatever,  or  that  if  he  had  previously  done 
so,  he  will  sever  his  connection  with  it;"  and  it  is,  I  believe,  under- 
stood that  the  prohibition  applies  more  especially  to  Freemasonry,  which 
Austria,  like  Spain,  Naples,  Bavaria — in  fact,  all  strictly  Eornan  Catholic 
Governments — seems  to  consider  highly  dangerous.  And  it  really  seems 
thf.t  secret  political  societies  are  more  easily  formed  and  developed 
an  ongst  Eoman  Catholic  populations  than  elsewhere.  Even  in  the  ages 
prior  to  the  Reformation  the  same  love  of  secret  organizations  was 
conspicuous  in  certain  districts  :  the  Sacred  Vehme,  as  it  was  called, 
ha  7ing  flourished  especially  in  the  ultra- clerical  circle  of  Westphalia ; 
anl  even  up  to  the  present  day  there  exists  a  somewhat  similar  secret 
organization  in  a  certain  ultra- Catholic  district  of  Upper  Bavaria.  This 
Hi^berfeld  Treiben  (literally,  "  Oatfield  Driving"),  as  it  is  called,  I  pro- 
pose to  give  some  account  of,  having  had  personal  opportunity  of  seeing 
its  working. 

It  will  be,  perhaps,  well,  in  the  first  place,  to  say  a  word  or  two 
ab^ut  the  Westphalian  Yehme,  "or  Fehm,  because  there  is  an  evident 
fa]  aily  likeness  between  that  now  obsolete  institution  and  the  still  exist- 
ing Haberfeld  Treiben.  It  is  probable — although  by  no  means  certain 
—  that  both  were  instituted  about  the  same  period ;  and  although  each 
degenerated  in  the,  course  of  time  and  became  an  intolerable  nuisance, 
th  yy  were  originally  called  into  life  for  the  purpose  of  attaining  laudable 
objects  —  which,  as  things  then  stood,  would  have  been  otherwise 
ui  attainable. 

The  Westphalian  Yehme  dates  its  origin  from  the  first  half  of  the  thir- 
te<  ;nth  century,  although  some  historians  have  endeavoured  to  represent  it 
as  having  been  first  instituted  by  Charlemagne.  But  there  is  no  trace 
whatever  of  its  existence  at  an  earlier  period  than  that  mentioned  above. 
Moreover,  its  laws  and  method  of  procedure  were  altogether  different, 
be  th  in  spirit  and  letter,  from  those  introduced  by  that  great  monarch ; 
whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  its  organization  and  procedure  resembled,  in 
m  my  respects,  that  of  the  Inquisition,  founded  in  1204,  from  which  it  was 
probably  copied. 


668        HABEEFELD  TBEIBEN  IN  UPPEK  BAYAKIA. 

Westphalia,  the  sole  seat  of  the  Vehme,*  extended  somewhat  further 
south  than  the  province  which  now  bears  that  name,  and  embraced 
also  a  large  portion,  if  not  the  whole,  of  Friesland  and  Oldenburg  — 
forming,  in  fact,  the  bulk  of  the  great  Duchy  of  Lower  Saxony,  under 
Henry  the  Lion.  This  prince  was,  as  we  all  know,  attainted  and 
deprived  of  both  his  duchies  (Saxony  and  Bavaria)  by  the  Emperor  Barba- 
rossa  in  1181,  Westphalia  being  divided  between  the  Archbishop  of 
Cologne,  a  member  of  the  Anhalt  family,  and  a  great  number  of  petty 
feudal  chiefs.  The  conseqijence  of  this  was  that  the  whole  district  fell 
into  a  state  of  anarchy  and  confusion,  every  man's  hand  was  against  his 
neighbour,  the  land  was  devastated  by  rapine  and  deluged  with  blood. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  the  inhabitants  combined 
together  to  protect  their  lives  and  properties  against  the  freebooters, 
Bockreiter,  and  other  vagabonds;  and  no  single  authority  being  found 
strong  enough  for  the  purpose,  the  secret  organization  of  the  Vehme  was 
resorted  to — which  multiplied  the  agents  without  exposing  individuals  to 
danger. 

But  although  the  organization  was  secret,  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  the  procedure  was  also  the  same.  With  the  exception  of  offenders 
taken  red-handed,  who  were  summarily  executed — as  was  the  practice  in 
Hungary  in  proclaimed  districts  up  to  the  year  1848 — all  others  who  were 
denounced  to  the  Vehme  were  cited  to  appear  and  answer  for  themselves 
at  open  courts,  held  usually  on  Tuesday  mornings,  in  daylight,  in  towns 
like  Dortmund,  Paderborn,  &c.  It  was  only  when  the  citation  was  disre- 
garded that  the  secret  procedure  took  place,  the  court  meeting  at  some 
place  known  only  to  the  initiated,  and  the  sentence,  if  pronounced,  being 
carried  out,  without  any  further  ceremony,  when  and  wherever  the  doomed 
man  could  be  laid  hold  on.  And  almost  every  respectable  member  of 
society  being  a  Wissender — that  is,  initiated — it  was  no  easy  matter  for  a 
criminal  to  escape. 

The  Haberfeld  Treiben,  like  the  Vehme,  is,  and  always  has  been, 
confined  to  one  particular  district  in  Upper  Bavaria,  bounded  on  the  south 
by  the  Tyrolese  frontier,  on  the  west  by  the  Isar,  and  on  the  east  by  the 
Chiemsee  and  the  rivers  which  flow  into  and  out  of  it.  How  far  that 
association  developed  itself  in  a  northerly  direction  is  more  difficult  to  deter- 
mine, and  appears  to  have  varied  at  different  times,  but  for  a  long  series  of 
years  it  has  never  acted  north  of  the  line.  Wasserburg,  Munich,  Tolz, 
Holzkirchen,  Miesbacch,  Tegernsee,  Aibling,  Eosenheim,  and  Priem,  have 
been  of  late  years  frequently  the  scenes  of  the  exploits  of  this  society,  and 
the  country  surrounding  these  towns  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  genuine 
Haberfeld  district. 

It  is  nearly  certain  that,  like  its  Westphalian  counterpart,  this 
Bavarian  society  must  have  been  originally  organized  for  the  purpose 

*  In  Anne  of  Geirstein  Sir  "W.  Scott  transplants  the  Vehme  into  a  part  of  Ger- 
many where  it  never  existed. 


HABERFELD  TKEIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA.        669 

of  eradicating,  or  at  least  counteracting,  an  evil  for  which  no  other  remedy 
could  be  found,  and  against  which  no  recognized  authority  could  be 
brought  to  bear.  But  it  is  impossible  now  to  ascertain  how  and 
when  this  first  took  place.  We  shall  see  presently  that  there  are 
striking  resemblances  between  the  Vehme  and  the  Haberfeld  Treiben; 
but  whilst  the  Vehme  attacked  all  branches  of  the  common  criminal 
laAY,  and  in  process  of  time  extended  its  operations  even  to  civil 
cases  and  disputes  about  property,  the  Haberfeld  Treiben  applied  itself 
almost  exclusively  to  the  preservation  of  female  purity  and  the  punish- 
ment of  incontinence — especially  that  of  unmarried  girls.  The  Yehme 
exempted  from  its  jurisdiction  all  ecclesiastics,  and  also  excluded  them 
frojn  initiation ;  women  and  children  were  also  exempted ;  and,  further, 
Jews,  Heathens,*  as  being  too  low,  and,  finally,  the  higher  nobles,  for  the 
opposite  reason.  The  Haberfeld  Treiben,  on  the  contrary,  left  male  pec- 
cadilloes untouched,  except  in  so  far  as  the  exposure  of  the  female  sinner 
necessarily  led  to  that  of  her  male  accomplice ;  and  there  is,  as  I  shall 
presently  show,  good  reason  to  believe  that  ecclesiastics  were  not  wholly 
excluded  from  membership ;  whilst  it  is  quite  certain  that  the  amours 
of  the  Eoman  Catholic  clergy  were  exposed  with  equal  freedom  as  those 
of  the  laity. 

I  cannot  pretend  to  offer  as  simple  and  satisfactory  an  explanation  of 
the  causes  which  led  immediately  to  the  organization  of  this  very  singular 
institution,  as  I  have  been  enabled  to  do  with  respect  to  the  Yehme, 
where  the  motives  were  very  patent ;  nevertheless,  as  they  must  have 
arisen  out  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  population  itself  and  its 
geographical  position,  some  light  may  be  thrown  on  the  subject  by  an 
inquiry  into  these  particulars. 

Frederick  the  Great  is  reported  to  have  once  said  that  "  Bavaria  was 
a  paradise  inhabited  by  human  beasts,"  and,  as  regards  general  beauty  of 
scenery,  the  saying  is  correct  enough;  but  the  Bavarians  proper, — 
although  certainly  very  different  in  many  respects  from  all  the  other 
inhabitants  of  Germany,  and  usually  very  rough  in  their  manners,  at 
times  very  excitable,  nay,  almost  ferocious,  and  given  to  voies  de  fait, 
— do  not  deserve  so  harsh  a  sentence.  Some  thirty  years  ago  learned 
books  were  written  to  prove  that  the  Bavarians  proper  are  not  a  Teutonic 
race,  but  Celts.  At  a  somewhat  later  period,  in  1848,  when  the  great 
German  movement  was  inaugurated,  this  theory  was  scouted,  and  its  having 
ever  been  started  attributed  to  a  marotte  of  old  King  Louis  I.,  who  had 
meanwhile  fallen  into  a  certain  degree  of  unpopularity.  Still  one  must 
acknowledge  that  there  is  something  very  Celtic  both  in  the  external 
appearance  and  in  the  proclivities  of  these  Bavarians,  especially  in  the 
Haberfeld  country  ;  and  of  late  years  very  remarkable  and  extensive 
regains  of  ancient  "  Pfahlbauten,"  or  dwellings  built  on  piles,  generally 
attributed  to  the  Celts,  have  been  discovered  in  this  district,  especially  in 

*  In  those  days  the  Prussians  were  heathens. 


670        HABERFELD  TREIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA. 

the  Chiemsee.  A  modern  philologist,  too,  Wilhelm  Obermiiller,  has 
shown  that  a  great  number  of  local  names  in  this  very  district,  and  other 
parts  of  Southern  Germany,  are  more  easily  derivable  from  Celtic  roots 
than  those  of  any  other  language. 

But  it  may  be  asked,  "  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  Haber- 
field  Treiben?"  Simply  this:  we  find  the  inhabitants  of  a  certain 
small  district  adopting  a  very  curious  mode  of  preventing  the  admixture 
and  contamination  of  their  race,  and  of  ensuring  its  perpetuation  ;  for  in 
fact  the  exposure  and  punishment  of  incontinence,  in  the  manner  described, 
is  scarcely  traceable  to  any  other  motive ;  and  it  naturally  suggests  itself 
that  this  was  a  distinct  race — in  fact  it  is  so  to  the  present  day  in  many 
respects. 

But  it  may  seem  strange  that  precautions  against  admixture  of  race 
should  have  been  found  necessary  or  desirable  in  so  remote  and  apparently 
secluded  a  corner  of  Europe  as  Upper  Bavaria.  The  topography  of  the 
Haberfeld  district  will,  I  think,  throw  some  light  on  this  point.  One  of 
the  great  lines  of  communication  between  Rome  and  its  colonies  on  the 
Rhine  was  up  the  valley  of  the  Adige,  over  the  Brenner,  down  the  Inn  to 
Rosenheim,  and  thence  precisely  through  the  heart  of  the  district  in 
question  to  Augsburg  (Augusta),  and  so  forth ;  the  remains  of  the  old 
Roman  road  are  still  visible,  and  indeed  partially  in  use  on  the  line 
Aibling-Helfendorf  and  up  to  the  Isar  above  Munich.  Of  course  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  the  Haberfeld  Treiben  dates  from  the  Roman  period,  but 
before  the  discovery  of  the  passage  round  the  Cape  a  great  deal  of  the 
trade  with  the  East  followed  precisely  this  same  route  on  its  way  from 
Venice  to  Augsburg,  which  was  a  great  commercial  place  and  the  emporium 
of  the  oriental  trade  in  Southern  Germany.  This  must  necessarily  have 
brought  a  great  number  of  strangers  of  various  nationalities  into  contact 
with  the  local  population ;  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  a  tribe  jealous 
of  the  honour  of  its  women,  and  struggling  for  its  own  existence  on  the 
great  highway  of  the  world,  taking  measures  for  the  preservation  of  both ; 
and  perhaps  for  the  want  of  a  better  explanation  of  the  origin  of  this  very 
peculiar  secret  society,  we  may  accept  the  one  offered  here.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  Haberfeld  Treiben  has  been  practised  from  time  immemorial 
precisely  along  this  line  of  route  and  to  a  short  distance  to  the  right  and 
left  of  it,  and  nowhere  else.  ^ 

But  it  is  time  to  descend  to  particulars  and  inform  the  reader  as  to 
the  constitution  and  mode  of  operation  adopted  by  this  singular  body, 
which  projects  as  it  were  from  the  Middle  Ages  into  our  own  utilitarian 
times.  Of  course  nothing  authentic  in  the  way  of  documentary  evidence 
can  be  expected  as  to  the  laws  and  rules  of  a  secret  society  ;  but  having 
conversed  with  many  inhabitants  of  the  district,  some  of  them  either 
actually  or  at  some  former  period  members,  I  can  offer  a  certain  amount 
of  reliable  detail. 

The  members  of  the  Haberfeld  body  have  been  always  selected  from 
one  particular  class,  married  men  mostly,  the  richest  and  most  respectable 


HABERFELD  TREIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA.        671 

peasants  of  their  respective  districts,  together  with  a  certain  proportion 
of  "  Burger  " — that  is,  townspeople,  without  whose  aid  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  get  at  the  intelligence  required  or  carry  out  the  proceedings. 
Thjre  seem  to  have  been  local  chiefs,  and  a  general  committee  of  direction 
with  a  president  at  its  head ;  but  there  is  no  reliable  information  on  this  point. 
Unlike  the  practice  of  the  Vehme,  no  public  meetings  were  ever  held,  nor 
we  :e  written  or  oral  citations  to  appear  before  the  tribunal  issued.  The 
Hcberfeld  society  acted  always  secretly,  as  the  Yehme  did  when  its 
citations  or  decrees  had  been  disregarded.  Throughout  the  summer 
certain  fairs  and  public  markets  were  taken  advantage  of  for  the  purpose 
of  bringing  the  local  members  together  in  the  public-houses  and  other 
plr-ce's  of  entertainment ;  and  in  these  resorts,  whilst  sitting  over  their 
be  3r,  all  the  information  required  was  collected  and  imparted  to  the 
leading  men  in  quiet  little  knots  without  attracting  observation.  Of  course 
all  the  members  were  known  to  each  other,  either  personally  or  by  means 
of  secret  signs. 

As  in  the  Inquisition  and  the  Vehme,  secret  denunciation  is  the 
lending  feature  of  the  organization.  The  members  being  distributed  in 
all  directions  and  in  every  locality,  nothing  escaped  their  observation, 
ar  d«  things  that  were  done  in  secret  places  were  in  due  time  denounced 
ard  proclaimed  publicly.  In  autumn  a  general  meeting  of  the  chiefs 
se  3ms  to  have  been  regularly  held  at  a  particular  fair  or  market,  and  it  is 
said  that  a  secret  conclave  was  arranged  at  an  inn  in  the  town  on  a 
certain  day  each  year,  and  on  this  occasion  the  whole  plan  of  operation 
fo:  the  "  season  " — that  is  for  the  months  of  November  and  December — 
w;is  matured.  The  whole  of  these  proceedings  were,  however,  conducted 
w:th  so  much  caution  and  cleverness,  that  although  they  have. been  very 
frequently  investigated  judicially  and  with  great  care,  no  positive  clue 
c(  uld  ever  be  discovered. 

Of  course,  all  the  members  were  sworn  to  secrecy,  and  no  instance  is 
known  of  the  oath  having  been  broken;  nevertheless,  when  the  harvest 
w'nd  began  to  blow  chill  over  the  stubble,  that  is,  at  the  end  of  October 
cr  beginning  of  November,  a  vague  rumour  would  arise  that  such  and 
si  .ch  a  place  was  threatened  with  a  Haberfeld  Treiben  :  people  would  talk 
a:  >out  it  for  a  day  or  so,  and  then  forget  it  again,  till  all  of  a  sudden  it 
t(  ok  place  either  in  the  village  named,  or  perhaps  a  neighbouring  one, 
fi  Ise  alarms  being  sometimes  resorted  to  in  order  to  distract  attention  and 
perplex  the  authorities. 

A  potter — a  married  man,  formerly  himself  a  member — with  whom  I 
^  as  well  acquainted,  told  me  he  would  some  fine  morning  find  in  his 
workshop,  either  written  on  paper  or  chalked  on  a  board,  an  order  to 
s  ipply  a  certain  number  of  the  gigantic  earthenware  trumpets  used  by  the 
Ireiber,*  and  an  indication  of  the  place  where  they  were  to  be  deposited  at 
r>  ight  in  secresy.  These  hiding-places  were  usually  some  miles  from  his  resi- 

*  Made  in  the  shape  of  an  English  hunting-horn,  but  five  or  six  feet  long  or  more. 


672        HABERFELD  TEEIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA. 

denee.  Subsequently  he  would  find  money  in  payment  for  these  wonderful 
instruments  somewhere  on  his  premises  or  in  his  pocket.  Naturally, 
these  and  similar  business  orders  of  the  confraternity  would  get  wind 
occasionally. 

At  length  the  great  day,  or  rather  night,  arrived, — for  the  Haberfeld 
Treiben  is  essentially  nightwork, — and  about  eleven  o'clock  P.M.,  when  all 
the  inhabitants  are  snugly  rolled  up  in  their  feather-beds  and  blankets,  a 
frightful  yell,  accompanied  by  an  irregular  discharge  of  fire-arms,  and  a 
dire  clang  of  the  aforesaid  trumpets  of  pottery,  old  kettles,  and  such  like 
musical  instruments,  announces  the  fact,  and  makes  many  a  male  and 
female  sinner's  cheeks  turn  pale. 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  Oatfield  Driving,  or  how  came  this  name 
to  be  adopted  ?  It  is  not  easy  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the  latter 
part  of  this  question.  It  is  asserted  that  in  former  times  the  delinquent 
females  were  punished  by  being  forced  to  run  barefooted,  and  with  no 
other  garment  than  their  chemise,  over  the  oat-stubble  of  the  village, 
whilst  they  were  pursued  by  the  "  drivers,"  armed  with  birch  or  hazel  rods, 
which  were  applied  very  freely.  But  there  is  no  evidence  that  so  bar- 
barous a  punishment  was  ever  inflicted — and  nothing  of  the  sort  has  ever 
been  attempted  within  the  last  hundred  years  certainly.  I  think  it 
quite  possible — nay,  highly  probable — that  the  initial  letters  (H.  F.  T.) 
of  the  three  words  Haber  Feld  Treiben,  form  simply  a  nucleus  to 
which  the  remaining  ones  were  superadded  merely  to  veil  the  true 
designation  from  the  uninitiated;  and  I  would  suggest  that  this  might 
have  been  Heiliger-Fehm-Ting  or  Ding,  one  of  the  names  by  which  that 
other  secret  tribunal  was  known.  This,  however,  I  offer  merely  as  a 
conjecture. 

But  to  return  to  the  Haberfeld  Treiben.  At  about  half-past  ten  or 
eleven  o'clock  at  night  the  members  of  the  society  may  be  seen  making 
their  way  swiftly  but  silently  across  the  fields  and  through  the  woods,  by 
twos  and  threes,  which,  as  they  approach  the  scene  of  execution,  increase 
gradually  into  groups  of  tens  and  twenties,  each  man  carrying  a  loaded  gun, 
pistol,  or  some  other  arm,  in  addition  to  the  trumpets,  &c.,  as  also  mate- 
rials for  constructing  a  temporary  platform,  and  torches.  The  whole  body 
is  evidently  previously  told  off  in  the  most  regular  and  methodical  manner 
for  the  various  duties  to  be  performed,  as  the  town  or  village  is  imme- 
diately surrounded  by  a  double  chain  of  vedettes,  with  regular  supports, 
one  set  fronting  the  surrounding  country,  and  preventing  effectually  all 
ingress  except  to  the  initiated ;  whilst  the  second  fronts  the  place  itself, 
and  prevents  any  person  from  leaving  to  give  the  alarm.  This  done,  well- 
armed  guards,  all  having  their  faces  blackened  or  otherwise  disguised, 
march  silently  to  the  houses  of  the  magistrates  and  other  authorities,  as 
also  to  the  barracks  of  the  gendarmes,  if  there  be  such  in  the  place,  and 
effectually  prevent  their  action.  The  church  tower  and  belfry  is  also  at 
once  secured,  and  the  bell-ropes  cut  off.  The  secret  connivance  of  the 
clergy  has  been  occasionally  proved  by  its  having  transpired  that  the 


EABERFELD  TREIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA.        673 

sexton  was  ordered,  as  if  casually,  to  leave  the  church  keys  at  the  parish 
clergyman's  house  the  preceding  evening,  after  curfew. 

Meanwhile  the  main  body  takes  possession  of  the  market-place,  or 
perhaps  some  hillock  which  co'mmands  the  whole  town  or  village,  numerous 
patrols  being  in  readiness  to  keep  the  inhabitants  in  their  houses,  and 
compel  the  appearance,  either  at  their  own  doors  or  at  the  immediate 
scene  of  action,  of  the  delinquents.  The  platform  is  erected  whilst  all 
this  is  going  on,  and  at  a  given  signal  the  torches  are  lighted,  fire-arms 
discharged,  horns  blown,  kettles  beaten,  and  the  opening  of  the  tribunal 
proclaimed  through  a  huge  speaking-trumpet.  This  is  usually  the  very 
first  intimation  the  inhabitants  receive ;  the  whole  of  the  above  preliminaries 
being  carried  out  with  astonishing  rapidity,  order,  and  in  perfect  silence. 
Should  here  and  there  a  solitary  watchman  or  other  individual  happen  to 
be  out  of  doors,  such  are  pounced  upon  by  the  patrols,  and  kept  under  strict 
guard  as  long  as  is  necessary.  Any  attempt  at  resistance  is  perfectly 
useless,  and  would  be  met  by  coercive  measures,  extending  even  to  the 
use  of  fire-arms. 

I  have  never  myself  witnessed  one  of  these  scenes,  although  several 
took  place  within  a  very  short  distance  of  the  town  in  which  I  resided  for 
a  time,  and  which  was  itself  threatened,  or  supposed  to  be ;  but  persons 
who  had  done  so  described  to  me  the  noise  as  being  perfectly  terrific,  and, 
combined  with  the  flitting  light  of  the  torches  falling  on  the  disguised 
"  drivers,"  almost  demoniacal.  In  that  part  of  Bavaria,  especially,  all  the 
cattle  are  permanently  housed,  and  there  are  frequently  some  twenty  to 
thirty  oxen  and  cows  in  one  stable  ;  and  these,  on  being  suddenly  roused 
from  their  peaceful  rumination  by  the  glare  of  light  and  the  noise,  become 
terrified,  and  make  wild  efforts  to  break  loose,  filling  the  air  with  their 
lowings,  the  numerous  dogs  joining  at  the  same  time  in  a  chorus  of 
bowlings. 

The  "act  of  accusation"  is  meanwhile  read  aloud  by  some  loud- 
voiced  peasant.  This  document  is  composed  of  rudely  rhymed  verses — 
what  are  called  Knittel- verse,  that  is  to  say,  bludgeon- verses,  in  the 
broad  patois  of  the  district — for  the  secret  tribunal  disdains  the  use  of 
prose,  eschews  all  legal  terminology,  and  has  its  own  poet-laureate.  A 
great  deal  of  broad  humour,  sometimes  blended  with  really  genial  ideas, 
and  mostly  with  a  large  admixture  of  coarseness  and  obscenity,  is  con- 
tained in  these  rhymes,  which  are  sure  to  provoke  numerous  improvisations 
of  a  corresponding  character  from  the  assessors  and  assistants  of  the 
court. 

But  what  else  can  be  expected  from  descriptions  of  intrigues  and 
amorous  scenes  in  which  the  very  words  that  passed  between  the  parties, 
and  the  details  of  the  artifices  used  to  avoid  detection,  are  repeated,  from 
the  retentive  memories  of  the  secret  spies,  to  the  great  horror  and  confusion 
of  the  delinquents  and  the  disagreeable  surprise  of  injured  wives,  hus- 
bands, and  lovers  ?  One  of  the  most  striking  and  successful  hits  is  when 
some  one  of  the  inhabitants  shows  marks  of  delight  and  satisfaction  at 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  f)6.  38 


674        HABERFELD  TREIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA. 

his  or  her  neighbour's  and  dear  friend's  secret  sins  being  thus  openly 
exposed,  meanwhile  blessing  their  stars  at  having  been  more  circumspect 
themselves — till  their  own  catalogue  is  brought  before  the  public  at  a 
sudden  turn  in  the  versification.  A 'man  was  once  pointed  out  to  me  who 
had  come  out  on  the  balcony  of  his  house  to  enjoy  the  sport,  and  been 
there  suddenly  hit  in  this  way. 

The  terrorism  exercised  by  an  armed  band  of  this  sort  is  quite  sufficient 
to  ensure  the  appearance — either  at  their  own  house-doors,  as  I  have  said, 
or,  if  these  be  too  remote,  on  the  scene  of  action  itself — of  the  culprits, 
who,  when  their  delinquencies  have  been  published,  are  mercifully  per- 
mitted to  withdraw  and  hide  themselves. 

Thus,  one  by  one  the  marked  individuals  are  brought  forward,  and 
when  the  long  scroll  has  been  read  right  through,  at  a  preconcerted  signal 
the  torches  are  extinguished  and  thrown  away,  the  earthenware  trumpets 
broken,  the  platform  pulled  in  pieces,  and  the  whole  band  disperses  as 
rapidly  and  secretly  as  it  had  assembled.  It  would  be  a  dangerous  matter 
to  attempt  pursuit,  for  the  "  drivers  "  are  all  well  armed,  and  defend  them- 
selves and  fellows  without  hesitation. 

There  was  a  Haberfeld  Treiben  at  the  village  of  Tegernsee,  close  to  the 
residence  of  Prince  Charles  of  Bavaria,  in  the  year  1862,  as  well  as  I  can 
recollect,  and  a  patrol  of  two  gendarmes  quartered  in  another  village,  on 
hearing  the  tumult  and  noise,  hastened  to  the  scene  of  action,  in  order  to 
endeavour  to  arrest  some  of  the  "  drivers."  But  on  making  their  appear- 
ance they  were  immediately  fired  on,  after  a  previous  challenge  to  stand, 
and  one  gendarme  was  killed  on  the  spot.  As  may  be  supposed,  the 
Government  instituted  a  rigorous  inquiry  into  the  matter,  but  no  evidence 
of  any  kind  whatever  could  be  obtained.  Sometimes  considerable  damage 
is  done  in  the  village  by  fences  being  broken  down,  cattle  getting  loose  in 
the  stables,  or  forcing  their  way  out  and  running  wild  over  the  country. 
The  one  redeeming  feature  in  the  proceedings  of  this  secret  society  is, 
that  all  such  damages  are  compensated  liberally  and  promptly :  tho 
amount  of  loss  incurred  by  each  individual  is  easily  ascertained  by  the 
initiated,  who  live  in  the  place  itself,  and  by  them  transmitted  to  the  chiefs ; 
and  then  the  person  in  question  finds  some  morning — in  his  jacket  pocket, 
or  in  the  churn  or  on  his  table — a  parcel  containing,  in  hard  cash,  a  fair 
and  ample  remuneration ;  the  certainty  of  receiving  which  prevents  all 
recourse  to  the  law  and  stops  people's  mouths  effectually. 

In  1863,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  there  was  a  great  Haberfeld 
Treiben  at  Eosenheim ;  and  the  telegraph  and  railroad  being  put  in  requisi- 
tion, troops  were  brought  from  Munich.  However,  they  arrived  too  late, 
and  nothing  was  discovered  but  one  or  two  strangers,  who,  overcome  with 
fatigue,  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  barn  several  miles  distant.  No  evidence 
beyond  the  fire-arms  found  with  them  could  be  procured  to  connect  them 
with  the  affair. 

Aibling  was  then  threatened,  or  supposed  to  be,  and  troops  were  sent 
down — who,  in  conjunction  with  the  local  militia,  patrolled  every  night 


HABERFELD  TREIBEN  IN  UPPER  BAVARIA.        675 

for  several  weeks.  Of  course  the  "  drivers  "  did  not  make  their  appearance 
thfre,  but  they  pounced  on  a  small  village  called  Pang,  a  few  English 
nii  es  distant,  on  the  direct  road  to  Kufstein.  The  parish  priest  was  said 
to  have  been  unpleasantly  brought  before  the  public  on  that  occasion  ;  but 
it  was  not  easy  to  ascertain  particulars,  as  the  people  are  very  reticent 
on  matters  that  affect  the  clergy. 

Rosenheim,  a  tolerably  large  town  on  the  Inn,  just  where  the  railroads 
frcm  Munich,  Innspruck,  and  Salzburg  form  their  junction,  had  been  long 
threatened  with  a  visitation;  but  it  would  seem  that  the  "  drivers  "  were 
de&erred  from  time  to  time,  and  as  the  inhabitants  were  supposed  to  be 
fully  determined  to  oppose  force  to  force,  the  issue  was  looked  upon  with 
so:ne  anxiety.  The  Archbishop  of  Munich  had  at  various  periods  issued 
wrrnings  against  the  Haberfeld  Treiben  :  amongst  others,  on  the  16th 
February,  1866,  a  pastoral  letter  threatening  excommunication.  But  all 
those  documents  were  totally  disregarded.  Towards  the  middle  of 
October,  1866,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  commencement  of  the  season, 
there  was  pretty  strong  evidence  that  this  secret  society  was  preparing 
to  carry  on  operations  with  unusual  vigour;  and  on  the  night  of  the 
20th  a  grand  Haberfeld  Treiben  was  performed  at  Rosenheim,  or 
rather  attempted  to  be  performed,  for  the  gendarmerie  of  the  district 
hrd  been  secretly  brought  into  the  town,  and  aided  by  a  company  of 
the  local  militia,  which  was  kept  in  readiness  to  turn  out  at  a  moment's 
warning,  they  attacked  the  "drivers"  immediately  they  appeared.  A 
desperate  fight  ensued,  lasting  an  hour  and  a  half.  One  of  the  drivers 
was  killed,  several  wounded,  and  seven  taken  prisoners,  upon  which  the 
whole  band  dispersed  and  fled.  Fortunately,  there  were  no  casualties 
on  the  side  of  the  militia  and  gendarmes.  A  considerable  quantity  of 
ammunition  was  also  seized,  and  this  was  the  first  severe  blow  these 
people  ever  met  with. 

As  might  be  expected,  they  were  dreadfully  enraged,  and  letters  were 
sont  to  several  of  the  Rosenheim  people  threatening  to  set  the  whole  town, 
on  fire,  so  that  much  alarm  prevailed  till  the  Government  took  active 
measures  to  prevent  a  recurrence  of  similar  outrages.  It  would  also 
appear  that  there  is  a  strong  revulsion  in  the  public  feeling  as  regards 
this  singular  society.  Hitherto  the  great  majority  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  district  were  either  indifferent,  or  regarded  the  Haberfeld  Treiben  with 
s  ocret  favour ;  but  of  late  years,  instead  of  adhering  to  the  original  plan 
of  admitting  only  respectable  married  men  and  a  few  younger  ones  of 
established  character  and  credit  to  the  membership  of  the  society,  the 
majority  came  to  consist  of  dare-devil  youths  and  farm-labourers,  so  that, 
a  3  an  old  peasant  said, — 

"  Formerly  the  decent  people  used  to  '  drive  '  the  scamps  and  vaga- 
bonds, and  now  the  respectable  people  are  driven  by  the  ruffians." 

The  truth  is,  that  the  social  and  moral  condition  of  the  peasantry — 
cf  which  they  were  hitherto  proud  as  a  class — has  been  gradually  changed 
ly  a  variety  of  enactments.  Land  has  been  rendered  purchasable  by 

83—2 


676        HABEEFELD  TEEIBEN  I»  UPPER  BAVARIA. 

every  one  in  any  quantity,  and  the  old  peasant  farms  having  become 
absolutely  the  property  of  the  former  holders,  are  being  gradually  split 
up  and  subdivided ;  and  thus  the  elements  of  which  this  ancient  society 
formerly  consisted  are  gradually  disappearing,  and  their  place  is  being 
taken  by  other  and  less  reputable  ones. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  rude  manner  in  which  the  Haberfeld 
Treiben  was  carried  out,  its  ends  and  objects  were  laudable  enough.  The 
existence  of  secret  societies  is,  however,  in  itself  a  great  evil,  if  only 
because  they  are  apt  to  degenerate  into  the  worst  and  most  oppressive 
kind  of  tyranny,  that  of  secret  denunciation,  followed  by  execution  inflicted 
by  invisible  agents. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  the  Bavarian  law  could  only  touch  the  Haber- 
feld prisoners  taken  at  Eosenheim  for  the  unlawful  bearing  of  arms ;  and 
this  being  only  an  offence,  and  not  a  crime  or  misdemeanor,  they  were 
all  necessarily  set  free  on  bail  within  a  day  or  two,  and  I  have  never 
ascertained  what  punishment  was  ultimately  inflicted  on  them.  We  shall 
see  whether  the  society  will  dare  to  repeat  its  meetings  this  year.  The 
Archbishop  of  Munich  thought  it  necessary,  on  the  2nd  November,  a  few 
days  after  the  great  Eosenheim  affair,  to  issue  a  new  pastoral,  actually 
pronouncing  the  ban  of  the  church,  or  tne  greater  excommunication, 
against  all  persons  taking  part  in  or  favouring  the  Haberfeld  Treiben,  and 
forbidding  all  the  priests  of  the  archdiocese  to  grant  absolution  to  such, 
except  in  articulo  mortis  or  by  his  own  express  permission.  Probably  this 
measure  will  have  some  effect ;  however,  it  is  just  possible  that  it  may  be 
disregarded,  for  my  good  friends  in  the  Eaberfeld  district  of  Upper 
Bavaria  are  very  obstinate  and  self-willed,  and  have  a  great  regard  for 
their  ancient  institutions. 


677 


'  from  the  $tot*-2Mh  of  mt  Indmlopd  (Holtotor, 


CONCLUSION. 

IF  we  may  judge  by  the  prices  paid  by  the  Marquis  of  Hertford  for  some 
of  liis  specimens  of  Sevres,  and  other  chef-d'ceitvres  of  the  Ceramic  art,  we 
may  consider  him  to  be  somewhat  of  the  opinion  of  Charles  Lamb, — "  I 
have  an  almost  feminine  partiality  for  old  China.  When  I  go  to  see  any 
great  house,  I  inquire  for  the  China  closet,  and  then  for  the  picture- 
gallery." 

The  taste  for  pottery  and  porcelain  is  of  most  respectable  antiquity. 
Among  Koman  collectors  no  objects  of  virtu  were  more  highly  prized  than 
tho  "  vasa  murrhina."  The  value  set  upon  specimens  of  this  substance  is 
almost  incredible.  Nero,  for  instance,  gave  300  sestertia  (about  2,340Z.)  for 
a  single  drinking-cup.  When  his  friend  Petronius,  director-in- chief  of  his 
wiae-parties,  had  been  accused  of  treason,  and  knew  that  his  property  would 
pass  into  the  possession  of  the  tyrant,  he  smashed  a  ladle,  equally  valuable 
with  Nero's  cup.  What  the  material  of  these  precious  articles  was  is  very 
uncertain.  Perhaps  it  was  some  rare  oriental  pebble  of  onyx  or  agate. 
Sir  Gr.  Wilkinson  suggests  fluor-spar,  Mr.  Marryatt  opal  glass,  which  from 
the  oxides  in  it  has  deliquesced;  but  from  certain  expressions  in  Latin 
writers  it  seems  not  improbable  that  it  was  Chinese  porcelain ;  and  this 
opinion  is  much  strengthened  if  Sir  W.  Gell  is  right  in  saying  that  "  the 
porcelain  of  the  East  was  called  Mirrha  di  Smyrna  to  as  late  a  date  as 
1555."  No  fragments  of  porcelain,  however,  have  been  discovered  amongst 
Roman  antiquities. 

Pottery  dried  in  the  sun,  or  hardened  by  fire,  is  of  extreme  antiquity. 
The  Chinese  ascribe  the  invention  of  their  earthenware  to  the  Emperor 
Hoang-ti,  who  began  to  reign  B.C.  2698.  The  earliest  specimens  of 
pottery  which  possess  any  real  interest  as  works  of  art  are  the  vases,  &c. 
UFually  called  Etruscan.  They  are  for  the  most  part  of  a  deep  red  colour, 
0-vving  to  the  large  proportion — sometimes  as  much  as  twenty-four  per 
cent. — of  oxide  of  iron  contained  in  the  clay.  The  number  of  these 
Etruscan  vessels  in  our  museums  is  most  astonishing.  The  British 
Museum  alone  possesses  about  3,000  ;  and  "  the  total  number  of  vases," 
says  Mr.  Birch,  in  his  valuable  History  of  Ancient  Pottery,  ' '  in  public  and 
private  collections  probably  amounts  to  15,000."  He  gives  us  instances 
of  the  prices  which  some  examples  have  fetched.  A  sum  of  500Z.  was 
paid  for  the  AthenaBum  vases  in  Lord  Elgin's  collection ;  8,400Z.  for  the 
vases  of  the  Hamilton  collection  ;  Baron  Durand's  collection  sold,  in  1836, 
for  12,5242 ;  one  vase  in  this  collection  was  purchased  for  the  Louvre  for 


678  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

264Z. ;  another,  now  in  the  Louvre,  with  the  subject  of  the  youthful 
Hercules  strangling  the  serpent,  was  purchased  for  240Z. ;  another,  with 
the  subject  of  Dejanira,  Hercules,  and  Hyllus,  brought  14:21.  ;  and  a  crater, 
with  the  subject  of  Acamus  and  Demophon  bringing  back  ^Ethra,  17 01.  ; 
a  Bacchic  amphora  of  the  maker  Enecias,  of  the  Archaic  style,  was  bought 
by  the  British  Museum  for  142£.  Some  of  the  finest  vases  belonging  to 
the  Prince  of  Canino,  at  the  sale  in  1837,  obtained  very  high  prices :  an 
cenoclioe,  with  Apollo  and  the  Muses,  and  a  hydria,  with  the  same  subject, 
•were  bought  in  for  801.  each  ;  a  cylix,  with  a  love-scene,  and  another,  with 
Priam  redeeming  Hector's  corpse,  brought  264Z.  ;  an  amphora,  with  the 
subject  of  Dionysus,  and  a  cup  with  that  of  Hercules,  sold  for  320Z.  each ; 
another  brought  2801.  At  Mr.  Beckford's  sale,  the  late  Duke  of  Hamilton 
gave  2001.  for  a  small  vase  with  the  subject  of  the  Indian  Bacchus.  But 
very  much  larger  sums  than  these  have  been  given  at  Naples.  5001.  was 
given  for  the  vase  with  gilded  figures  discovered  at  Cumee ;  only  half  a 
century  back  8,000  ducats,  or  1,5002.,  was  paid  to  Vivenzio  for  the  vase 
in  the  Museo  Borbonico,  representing  the  last  night  of  Troy ;  1,OOOZ.  for 
one  with  a  Dionysiac  feast;  and  800Z.  for  the  vase  with  the  grand 
battle  of  the  Amazons,  published  by  Schulz.  Large  prices  continue  to 
be  given  for  fine  specimens.  At  the  Castellani  sale  last  year,  a  drinking- 
cup,  in  the  form  of  a  horse's  head,  in  black,  with  ornaments  in  red  and 
other  colours,  fetched  1201.  ;  a  very  beautiful  terra-cotta  sarcophagus, 
4001. ;  a  vase  at  the  Pourtales'  sale,  the  year  before,  860Z. 

Leaving  these  Etruscan,  or,  as  they  are  perhaps  more  correctly  called, 
Italo- Greek  vases,  there  is  little  if  anything  worth  noticing,  excepting 
perhaps  the  so-called  "  Samian"  ware — some  beautiful  specimens  of  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  Roach  Smith  collection  now  in  the  British  Museum — 
till  we  come  to  the  lustred  ware,  made  probably  by  the  Moors  in  Spain  in 
the  15th  century.  Several  plateaus  of  this  ware  are  at  South  Kensington  ; 
and  I  may  specially  mention  a  vase,  twenty  inches  high,  with  flat  expanded 
handles,  and  a  bowl  and  ewer  ;  each  of  these  cost  801.  Of  Italian  terra- 
cottas, one  very  pretty  one,  of  the  latter  part  of  the  same  century,  is  in  the 
same  Museum.  It  represents  the  Virgin  and  Child  with  angels,  and  was 
purchased  for  3001.  Early  in  the  succeeding  century  we  come  to  some 
very  fine  examples.  Luca  della  Robbia,  tired  of  his  occupation  as  a  worker 
in  metal,  took  to  modelling  in  clay ;  and  when  he  had  discovered,  about 
1511,  a  new  glaze  for  his  terra-cottas,  containing  tin,  sand,  antimony,  and 
other  materials,  at  first  white,  then  coloured  by  the  addition  of  metallic 
oxides,  he  succeeded  in  producing  works  which  are  deservedly  held  in  high 
estimation.  They  are  generally  of  large  size — altar-pieces  for  churches,  &c. 
A  very  fine  altar-piece  by  him,  representing  the  coronation  of  the  Virgin, 
is  in  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  at  Genoa.  A  series  of  twelve  medallions, 
representing  the  months,  probably  of  his  workmanship,  and  now  at  South 
Kensington,  came  from  the  Campana  collection.  A  bust  of  Christ  was 
purchased  at  the  Piot  sale  for  801.  16s.  Other  members  of  the  same 
family  produced  similar  works,  specimens  of  which  may  be  seen  at  South 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  679 

Kensington.  One,  for  instance,  six  feet  four  by  five  feet  eight,  with  tho 
Adoration  of  the  Magi,  cost  1002. ;  another  somewhat  larger,  with  the 
Virgin  giving  her  girdle  to  St.  Thomas,  120f. ;  and  another,  with  the 
Annunciation  (in  this  instance  the  terra-cotta  is  uncoloured),  150Z.  One 
of  the  most  important  works  executed  by  them  was  the  decoration  of  the 
Chateau  de  Madrid,  the  palace  of  Francis  I.,  on  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
upon -which.  15,OOOL  were  spent.  It  was  destroyed  in  the  Revolution. 

From  the  Delia  Robbia  terra-cottas  is  derived  a  species  of  pottery  which 
is  of  high  repute  among  collectors.  It  is  known  by  a  variety  of  names, — 
Majolica,  Faenza,  Gubbio,  Urbino,  and  Raffaelle  ware.  About  1115, 
Nizaredeck,  the  Moorish  king  of  Majorca,  who  was  said  to  have  had 
20,000  Christians  in  his  dungeons,  was  besieged  by  the  Pisans  and  slain. 
Amongst  other  spoils  were  several  tiles  and  tablets  of  painted  earthenware, 
w'aich  were  brought  back  to  Pisa,  and  are  still  to  be  seen  let  into  the  walls 
oi  some  of  the  churches  there  at  a  great  height  from  the  ground.  The 
Italian  imitations  of  these  are  supposed  to  have  got  their  name  Majolica 
from  the  island  from  which  these  pieces  were  brought.  Faenza,  Gubbio, 
and  Urbino  indicate  some  of  its  chief  places  of  manufacture,  and  the  name 
Eaffaelle  has  been  given  to  the  ware  because  that  great  artist  was  supposed 
to  have  painted  some  of  the  specimens  himself.  At  the  Bernal  sale  was  a 
p  ate,  9|  inches  in  diameter,  which  excited  a  most  lively  competition.  It 
was  described  as  "  a  plate  of  the  most  rare  and  interesting  character,  in 
vory  strong  colours  ;  the  subject  believed  to  be  Raffaelle  himself  and  the 
Fornarina  seated  in  the  studio  of  an  artist,  who  is  occupied  in  painting  a 
plate."  It  was  originally  in  the  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
and  at  the  Stowe  sale  fetched  4Z.  At  the  Bemal  sale,  under  the  impres- 
sion that  it  was  a  plate  painted  by  Raffaelle  himself,  it  fetched  the  very 
lurge  sum  of  120L  It  is,  however,  of  later  date  than  Raffaelle,  and  is 
DOW  ticketed  at  South  Kensington  as  Caffagiolo  ? — a  place  near  Florence, 
v  here  was  a  castle  of  the  Medici. 

It  has  been  often  stated  that  a  letter  of  Raffaelle  to  a  Duchess  of 
Urbino  is  still  extant,  telling  her  that  the  drawings  for  certain  vases  were 
ready.  But  the  writer  of  the  letter  was  either  Raffaelle  dal  Colle  or 
II.  Ciarla,  both  of  whom  are  known  to  have  been  employed  on  majolica. 
The  finest  specimens  were  not  made  till  1540,  twenty  years  after 
Raffaelle's  death.  But  his  drawings  were  eagerly  collected  for  the  deco- 
ration of  pottery,  and  particularly  by  Guidobaldo  II.  This  duke  specially 
employed  two  artists — Battista  Franco  for  making  designs  (one  fine 
F pecimen  by  him,  a  plateau  twenty- one  inches  in  diameter,  belonging  to  the 
Queen,  is  now  at  South  Kensington),  and  Orazio  Fontana  to  paint  them. 

The  Gubbio  ware  has  a  peculiarity  confined  almost  entirely  to  speci- 
mens made  there  and  at  Pesaro.  This  is  an  iridescent  ruby  glaze,  which 
f  nines  through  the  picture  afterwards  painted  on  it,  and  varying  with  the 
j.ngle  at  which  the  light  falls  upon  it.  It  was  the  invention  it  seems  of 
Tvlaestro  Georgio  Andreoli  of  Pavia,  who  settled  at  Gubbio  in  1498.  One 
of  his  finest  works  is  an  altar-piece,  made  for  tho  Dominican  church  at 


680  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

Gubbio  in  1511.  It  is  in  three  compartments,  the  centre  one  representing 
the  coronation  of  the  Virgin.  Altogether  there  are  several  hundred  figures 
in  it.  In  1835  it  was  removed  to  the  Stadel  Museum  at  Frankfort. 

The  manufacture  of  fine  specimens  of  majolica  came  to  an  end 
because  the  Dukes  of  Urbino  became  so  much  involved  they  could  no 
longer  afford  to  keep  it  up.  On  the  death  of  the  last  duke,  Francesco 
Maria  II.,  their  magnificent  collection  of  majolica  passed  into  the  posses- 
sion of  Ferdinando  dei  Medici,  who  carried  it  to  Florence,  and  there  it  is 
still.  One  portion,  however,  the  vases  of  the  Spezieria  (the  medical 
dispensary  and  laboratory),  380  in  number,  were  given  as  an  offering  to 
our  Lady  of  Loretto.  For  these  vases,  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden  is 
said  to  have  offered  then*  weight  in  gold. 

Fine  specimens  of  majolica  fetch  very  large  prices.  The  South 
Kensington  Museum  possesses  a  fine  series  of  the  works  of  Maestro 
Georgio, — several  fruttieras  which  cost  from  SOL  to  501.  a-piece ;  a 
plateau,  eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  representing  a  saint  with  two  dogs, 
one  of  his  largest  and  most  important  works  in  this  branch,  which  cost 
150Z. ;  and  a  vase,  about  fourteen  inches  high,  from  the  Soulages  collec- 
tion, 200L  A  plate,  with  a  very  fine  portrait  of  Pietro  Perugino,  cost  the 
same  sum.  A  beautiful  plateau,  nearly  sixteen  inches  in  diameter,  with 
"  the  Stream  of  Life,"  after  a  very  rare  engraving  by  Robetta,  which 
does  not  appear  to  be  in  the  Print  Room  of  the  British  Museum,  was 
purchased  at  the  Bernal  sale  by  Mr.  Fountaine,  of  Narford  Hall,  Norfolk, 
whose  collection  of  majolica  is  almost  unrivalled,  for  142£.  A  plateau  at 
the  Rattier  sale  produced  195  Z.  Probably  the  largest  price  ever  given 
for  this  ware  was  for  a  plate  with  "  the  Three  Graces,"  after  Marc 
Antonio,  which  Mr.  Marryatt,  in  his  books  on  pottery  and  porcelain 
calls  surpassingly  beautiful.  At  M.  Roussel's  sale,  Mr.  Fountaine 
purchased  it  for  400  guineas.  Of  Pesaro  specimens,  the  British 
Museum  purchased  a  plate  with  St.  Bartholomew  in  the  centre  for  41 1. 
Of  Urbino  ware,  at  the  same  sale,  a  very  fine  dish  with  Pompey  and 
Cleopatra,  now  at  South  Kensington,  sold  for  501. ;  a  salt-cellar,  now 
in  the  British  Museum,  for  61 1. ;  a  plateau,  eighteen  inches  in  diameter, 
with  Moses  striking  the  rock,  after  a  design  by  Battisto  Franco,  cost 
1001. ;  a  very  pretty  group,  an  organ-player  and  boy  blowing  bellows,  the 
same  sum ;  a  dish  at  M.  Rattier' s  sale  fetched  187Z. ;  and  the  pair  of 
flasks,  or  pilgrims'  bottles,  eighteen  inches  high,  of  this  or  Castel  Durante 
•ware — ^ne  palace  built  and  ornamented  by  Francesco  Maria  II. — now  at 
South  Kensington,  250L  There  were  two  vases  of  this  ware  at  the 
Bernal  sale,  both  purchased  by  Mr.  A.  Barker,  one  for  200Z.,  the  other 
for  220L  Of  Faenza  ware,  the  British  Museum  gave  4:31.  Is.  for  a  plate  at 
the  Bernal  sale ;  and  Baron  A.  de  Rothschild  90Z.  for  another  very  fine 
one.  J^fruttlera  at  South  Kensington,  with  the  children  of  Israel  gathering 
manna,  from  an  engraving  of  Agostino  Veneziano  after  Raffaelle,  cost  1001. 

The  manufacture  of  French  faience  was  encouraged  principally  by 
Catherine  dei  Medici.  But  I  must  pass  on  to  a  most  famous  ware — that 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  681 

of  Bernard  Palissy.  There  are  few  autobiographies  so  charming  and 
interesting  as  his.  Of  humble  birth  and  great  talents,  the  sight  of  an 
enamelled  earthen  cup  of  great  value  determined  him  to  discover  the  secret 
of  its  manufacture.  "  Regardless  of  the  fact,"  as  he  tells  us,  "  that  I  had 
no  knowledge  of  clays,  I  began  to  seek  for  enamel  as  a  man  gropes  in  the 
dark."  After  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  indomitable  perseverance,  in 
which  his  money  was  exhausted,  the  palings  of  his  garden,  the  tables,  the 
very  flooring  of  his  house  burnt — even  his  wife's  wedding-ring  consigned 
to  the  crucible — he  met  with  complete  success.  After  all,  he  died  in 
tho  Bastile,  for  his  religion,  at  the  age  of  ninety.  It  is  not  every- 
body that  admires  the  crawling  things  he  decorated  his  plates  with 
• — snails,  toads,  serpents,  and  such  like  creatures — but  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  the  modelling  is  most  admirable.  And  there  are  other  exquisite 
examples  of  his  art  besides  those  he  covered  with  specimens  of  natural 
history.  And  the  prices  his  ware  sells  at  now  would  have  satisfied  Palissy 
himself.  At  the  Bernal  sale  a  dish  originally  purchased,  then  broken,  for 
twelve  francs,  and  when  mended,  bought  by  Mr.  Bernal  for  4/.,  sold  for 
1G2Z. ;  two  specimens  belonging  to  M.  Rattier  produced  200£.  and  245Z. ; 
a  dish  at  South  Kensington,  from  the  Pourtales  collection,  cost  115L  ;  and 
another,  from  the  Soltikoff  collection,  twenty  inches  in  diameter,  with  a 
border  of  arabesques,  193£. 

But  the  Palissy  prices,  large  as  they  are,  are  moderate  in  comparison 
with  those  obtained  now-a-days  for  the  ware  known  to  collectors  as  the 
faience  de  Henri  Deux.  The  total  number  of  known  specimens  of  this 
Wfire  does  not  amount  to  more  than  sixty,  and  about  half  of  these  are  in 
England.  Sir  A.  de  Rothschild,  for  instance,  possesses  no  less  than  seven. 
To  show  the  prices  which  specimens  fetch,  I  need  do  no  more  than  mention 
those  given  for  the  five  examples  at  South  Kensington.  A  dish  cost  140/ ; 
a  tazza,  180Z. ;  a  salt-cellar,  3|  inches  by  4£,  300L ;  a  tazza  and  cover, 
4t'0/. ;  and  a  candlestick,  750Z.  Mr.  Malcolm,  however,  gave  even  a 
larger  sum  for  a  "biberon,"  at  the  Pourtales  sale,  1,100/.  Mr.  Magniac's 
ewer  is  said  by  Mr.  J.  C.  Robinson  to  be  "  in  every  respect  unquestionably 
the  finest  and  most  important  specimen  of  Henri  Deux  ware  now  extant." 
The  price  paid  for  it  at  the  Odiot  sale  was  SQL  ;  in  all  probability  it  would 
now  realize  at  least  2,OOOZ.  The  companion  ewer  to  one  in  the  possession 
of  Sir  A.  de  Rothschild  is  valued  by  M.  Delange  at  30,000  francs  (1,200Z.), 
but  would  probably,  if  brought  to  the  hammer,  as  Mr.  Robinson  assures 
us,  realize  a  much  greater  sum.  There  is  unquestionably  a  certain  degree 
of  prettiness  about  the  ware,  but  I  am  afraid  I  should,  except  for  possible 
mercenary  considerations,  prefer  Minton's  imitations  to  the  originals.  The 
peculiarity  about  the  ware  is  that  the  ornaments  on  it  have  not  been 
painted,  but  inlaid  with  pieces  of  coloured  clays,  in  patterns  previously 
made  in  the  mould,  into  which  the  clay  was  to  be  pressed  by  metal  stamps, 
like  those  used  in  ornamental  bookbindings.  Until  very  lately  nothing  was 
known  of  its  history,  but  M.  Fillon,  of  Poictiers,  has  discovered  that  it  was 
made  at  Oiron,  near  Thouars,  Deux  Sevres,  for  Madame  Helene  de  Han- 

33—5 


682  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

gest-Genlis,  widow  of  Artus  Gouffier,  and  mother  of  Claude  Gouffier, 
Grand  Ecuyer  de  France.  Their  librarian  was  the  Jean  Bernard  already 
mentioned  in  these  "  Jottings  "  as  furnishing  designs  for  ornamental 
bindings.  Specimens  of  an  excellent  imitation  of  this  ware  by  Minton 
can  be  seen  at  South  Kensington. 

The  earliest  specimens  of  English  pottery  that  possess  much  interest 
are  the  stoneware  of  Dr.  Dwight  or  De  Witt,  of  Fulham,  whom  I  shall 
have  to  mention  again,  when  I  come  to  speak  of  porcelain.  Many  speci- 
mens of  his  "  Gres  de  Cologne"  are  to  be  found  in  collections;  but 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  C.  W.  Reynolds, 
with  many  other  heir-looms  of  the  Dwight  family.  It  is  a  half-length 
figure  of  a  child  lying  on  a  pillow,  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  in  her  hand, 
and  a  piece  of  lace  on  her  forehead.  It  is  inscribed  "  Lydia  Dwight,  died 
March  3,  1672." 

Our  fine  pottery  began  with  Wedgwood.  Thanks  to  Miss  Meteyard, 
we  have  a  complete  and  most  interesting  life  of  this  great  artist.  Very 
curiously,  Mr.  Bernal,  who  collected  almost  everything,  from  brown  mugs 
to  the  pate  tendre  of  Sevres,  had  not  a  single  specimen  of  Wedgwood  in 
his  possession.  But  Mr.  Mayer  of  Liverpool  and  Mr.  T.  de  la  Rue  of 
London  neglected  no  opportunities  of  securing  the  works  of  one  of  whom 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  said,  that  "  beginning  from  zero,  and  unaided  by  national 
or  royal  gifts,  he  produced  truer  works  of  art  than  the  works  of  Sevres, 
Dresden,  or  Chelsea."  Perhaps  the  finest  service  he  ever  executed  was 
for  the  Empress  Catherine  of  Russia.  Upon  each  piece  was  a  different 
view  of  the  palaces,  seats  of  the  nobility,  and  other  remarkable  places  in 
England :  1,200  views  were  required,  and  three  years  spent  in  making 
them.  The  service  being  intended  for  the  Grenouillere,  part  of  a  palace 
near  St.  Petersburg,  a  frog  is  painted  on  the  under-surface  of  each  piece. 
A  cup  and  saucer  of  this  pattern,  but  without  the  frog,  is  in  the  Mayer 
collection.  Mrs.  Delany  mentions  the  service  in  her  letter  to  Mrs.  Post, 
1774  : — «  I  am  just  returned  from  viewing  the  Wedgwood  ware  that  is 
to  be  sent  to  the  Empress  of  Russia.  It  consists,  I  believe,  of  as  many 
pieces  as  there  are  days  in  the  year,  if  not  hours.  They  are  displayed  at 
a  house  in  Greek  Street,  Soho,  called  Portland  House.  There  are  three 
rooms  below  and  two  above  filled  with  it,  laid  upon  tables  ;  everything 
that  can  be  wanted  to  serve  a  dinner.  The  ground,  the  common  ware, 
pale  brimstone  ;  the  drawings  in  purple,  the  borders  a  wreath  of  leaves ; 
the  middle  of  each  piece  a  particular  view  of  all  the  remarkable  places  in 
the  King's  dominions,  neatly  executed.  I  suppose  it  will  come  to  a  princely 
price ;  it  is  well  for  the  manufacturer,  which  I  am  glad  of,  as  his  ingenuity 
and  industry  deserve  encouragement."  The  price  paid  is  said  to  have 
been  8,OOOZ.,  but  even  at  that  price  it  was  far  from  remunerative  to 
Wedgwood. 

Several  specimens  of  his  ware  are  at  South  Kensington,  and  among 
them  five  of  his  busts  in  black  jasper — Cato,  Zeno,  Seneca,  Bacon,  and 
Bun  Jouson — purchased  at  various  prices  from  11.  to  15?.  A  still  liner 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  683 

suite  is  in  the  interesting  and  valuable  collection  of  British  pottery  in  the 
Jormyn  Street  Museum. 

Porcelain  differs  from  earthenware  in  many  particulars,  most  obviously 
in  transparency.  The  materials  of  which  it  is  composed  are  principally 
two — infusible  alumina  (clay)  derived  from  decomposed  felspar,  and  a 
fusible  silica  (flint),  which  is  calcined  and  reduced  to  powder.  The 
proportion  of  these  two  substances  is  not  quite  the  same  in  different 
manufactories,  and  in  some  cases  other  substances,  such  as  phosphate  of 
lime,  are  mixed  with  them.  The  best  English  Kaolin,  or  China  clay, 
comes  from  Lee  Moor,  Cornwall,  and  from  the  Isle  of  Burbeck.  The 
best  French  Kaolin  is  found  near  Limoges.  The  Chinese  take  a  long 
t  me  in  preparing  their  materials — a  potter  often  using  what  had  been 
mixed  by  his  grandfather.  This  circumstance  gave  rise  to  the  whimsical 
derivation  of  the  word  porcelain  given  in  Johnson's  Dictionary — pour 
cent  annees.  Porcelain  is  of  very  great  antiquity,  at  least  in  the  East.  If 
us  date  cannot  certainly  be  carried  back  in  China  so  far  as  B.C.  185,  it 
cannot  be  put  later  than  A.  D.  88.  Japanese  porcelain  is  of  nearly  equal 
f  ntiquity.  One  of  the  most  extensive  pieces  of  porcelain  ever  executed 
is  the  far-famed  "  Tower  of  Nankin,"  made  in  1277.  It  is  330  feet  high, 
in  nine  stories,  covered  with  enamelled  tiles  ;  the  colours  employed  being 
white,  red,  blue,  green,  and  brown.  It  is  said  to  have  cost  750.000Z. 

The  varieties  of  China  porcelain  are  very  numerous  :  one  of  the  most 
i'amous  is  the  citron  yellow,  manufactured  only  for  the  use  of  the  Emperor, 
jind  the  exportation  of  which  is  prohibited  on  pain  of  death.  Mr.  Beckford 
had  some  cups  and  saucers  of  this  ware,  which,  at  the  Fonthill  sale  in 
1823,  fetched  such  large  prices  that  Mr.  Bohn  tells  us,  in  his  edition  of 
the  Bernal  Sale  Catalogue,  the  rage  for  it  was  called  the  yellow  fever. 
Bight  guineas,  however,  does  not  seem  such  an  absurd  price  for  specimens 
of  a  ware  of  which  the  Fonthill  examples,  and  those  at  the  Japanese  Palace, 
Dresden,  were  then  and  till  very  lately  the  only  genuine  specimens  in 
Europe. 

The  sacking  of  the  Emperor's  Summer  Palace  at  Pekin  brought  many 
fine  examples  of  China  into  Europe.  In  the  Count  de  Negroni' s  col- 
lection, which  was  exhibited  in  London  in  1865,  were  specimens  of  the 
imperial  yellow  porcelain — the  rare  old  gray  crackle,  which,  though  it  looks 
as  if  the  glaze  had  been  damaged  in  the  process  of  manufacture,  is  really 
produced  by  art,  and  the  still  rarer  dark,  ruby-coloured  crackle,  the  glaze 
of  which  is  said  to  have  been  made  of  pulverized  gems.  Perhaps  the  rarest 
of  all  is  of  a  yellowish  stone-colour,  of  which  Mr.  Fortune  secured  the  only 
specimen  he  had  ever  seen.  Another  favourite  variety  is  the  "  eggshell," 
so  called  from  its  being  usually  of  extreme  thinness,  not,  as  was  long 
believed,  from  the  materials  of  which  it  was  made.  Another  variety  much 
prized  by  the  Chinese  was  the  Ting  porcelain.  A  very  famous  potter,  with 
a  very  long  name,  which  we  may  compromise  by  contracting  into  Tcheau, 
who  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  went  into  the  house 
of  a  collector,  where  he  saw  a  tripod  of  this  porcelain.  He  asked  per- 


684  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

mission  to  examine  it,  took  its  dimensions  accurately,  and  made  a  drawing 
of  the  crackles.  Six  months  afterwards  he  appeared  again  with  his 
imitation.  He  was  honest  enough,  however,  to  confess  that  it  was  an 
imitation  and  parted  with  it  for  about  12Z.  Some  time  after  another 
connoisseur  saw  the  tripod,  worried  till  he  got  permission  to  purchase  it, 
and  it  was  finally  parted  with,  at  a  great  sacrifice,  consented  to  because 
it  was  for  &  friend,  for  300  guineas. 

Porcelain  is  as  much  prized  among  some  of  their  neighbours  as  among 
the  Chinese  themselves.  Sir  Thomas  Roe  tells  us  that  the  Great  Mogul 
had  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  his  court  whipped  for  breaking  a  cup,  and 
then  sent  off  to  China,  at  his  own  expense,  to  buy  another, 

As  specimens  of  the  prices  Chinese  porcelain  has  fetched,  I  may 
mention  an  "  eggshell "  bottle,  13£  inches  high,  which  sold  at  the 
Bernal  sale  for  25/.,  and  a  sea-green  .one  which  brought  63Z.  At 
Mr.  Fortune's  two  sales  in  1856  and  1857,  a  bottle  of  turquoise  crackle 
realized  50L  10s. ;  another  with  the  imperial  dragon  on  rich  crimson 
ground,  56Z. ;  a  vase  of  turquoise  crackle,  18  inches  high,  131Z.  ;  and 
a  pair  of  magnificent  vases  and  covers,  4  feet  high,  200Z.  Lady 
Webster's  pair,  sold  this  year,  produced  485  guineas  ;  and  a  pair  of 
cisterns,  315  guineas.  The  old  crackle  is  so  much  esteemed  in  Japan 
that  a  genuine  specimen  readily  fetches  300L  But  the  most  curious 
price  ever  paid  was  for  a  set  of  china  now  in  the  grand  collection  in  the 
"  Green  Vaults  "  at  Dresden.  The  Elector  Augustus  II.  obtained  it  from 
Frederick  I.  of  Prussia  for  a  company  of  grenadiers. 

The  first  Oriental  porcelain  in  Europe  of  which  we  have  any  certain 
knowledge,  was  brought  by  the  Portuguese  about  the  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  was  long  thought  that  the  earliest  attempts  at 
imitating  it  were  made  in  France,  about  1695.  The  recent  researches, 
however,  of  Dr.  Foresi  of  Florence  have  shown  that  there  was  a  small 
manufactory  of  it  attached  to  the  laboratory  in  the  Boboli  Gardens,  which 
belonged  to  the  Grand  Duke  Francesco  dei  Medici  about  1580-90.  Some 
ten  or  fifteen  specimens  only  of  this  earliest  European  porcelain  have  been 
discovered — some  of  which  it  is  said  have  fetched  300Z.  a-piece.  Besides 
the  gilded  pills  of  the  Medici,  they  bear  a  mark  representing  the  cupola 
of  the  Cathedral  of  Florence,  and  underneath  the  letter  F.  The  ware 
has  a  white  ground  with  blue  flowers ;  but  if  the  specimens  I  saw  at 
South  Kensington  so  marked  a  few  months  ago  were  really  samples  of 
the  duke's  ware,  I  don't  think  his  kindest  friends  could  have  called  it 
beautiful. 

There  is  not  much  Italian  porcelain  worth  noticing  till  we  come  to  the 
Capo  di  Monte  specimens,  produced  about  1780.  There  are  some  very 
good  and  spirited  groups  of  this  ware  exhibited  by  the  Marquis  d'Azeglio, 
at  South  Kensington,  especially  an  Apollo  and  Daphne.  Mr.  Bernal  had 
several  cups  and  saucers,  which  sold  at  prices  varying  from  31Z.  to  371. 
A  compotiere  and  cover,  with  figure  of  Phcebus  and  the  dance  of  the 
Hours,  sold  for  5 1/. 


OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  685 

To  England,  apparently,  belongs  the  honour  of  the  second  earliest 
European  porcelain.  In  1671  Dr.  Dwight  had  a  patent  granted  to  him 
for  having  "  by  his  own  industry,  and  at  his  own  proper  costs  and  charges, 
invented  and  sett  up  at  Fulham  .  .  .  the  mistery  of  transparent  earthen- 
ware, commonly  knowne  by  the  names  of  porcelaine,  or  China  and  Persian 
ware."  He  met,  however,  with  such  poor  encouragement  that  it  is  said 
he  burned  all  his  receipts  and  implements  in  disgust.  No  specimens  of 
his  porcelain  are  at  present  known  to  be  in  existence. 

The  next  European  porcelain  was  made  by  Bottcher,  the  alchemist, 
who  had  fled  from  Berlin  to  Dresden,  and  about  1706  made  the  discovery 
whilst  seeking  for  the  philosopher's  stone.  His  first  productions,  made  of 
an  artificial  paste,  were  of  a  reddish  or  brown  colour,  and  not  true  por- 
celuin ;  but  about  1715,  through  the  accidental  discovery  of  true  kaolin 
in  Saxony,  he  succeeded  in  producing  real  porcelain.  Some  of  his  ware 
wafi  in  the  Bernal  collection  ;  one  specimen,  a  teapot,  fetched  161.  Speci- 
mens of  his  ware  can  be  seen  at  South  Kensington. 

From  this  beginning  sprang  the  famous  manufactory  of  Dresden  china, 
which  has  produced  so  many  beautiful  works  of  art.  To  see  it  in  all  its 
variety  we  should  have  to  visit  the  Green  Vaults  at  Dresden ;  but  for 
fine*  specimens  or  rare  prices  we  need  not  go  out  of  our  own  kingdom.  At 
the  Bernal  sale,  Sir  A.  de  Eothschild  bought  a  pair  of  vases,  each  with 
two  conversations  from  Watteau,  for  99L  15s-. ;  and  a  clock  in  the  form 
of  a  temple,  eighteen  inches  high,  for  120Z. ;  whilst  the  Marquis  of  Bath 
secured  a  pair  of  magnificent  candelabra,  each  with  a  female  figure  bearing 
branches  for  five  lights,  and  two  feet  high,  for  231 1. 

From  the  Dresden  manufactory  sprang  that  of  Vienna.  About  1719 
"ono  of  the  workmen  managed  to  escape  from  Meissen,  and  carried  the 
secret  with  him.  The  manufactory,  however,  at  Vienna  has  never  equalled 
the  parent  one,  th'ough  the  gilding — a  very  delicate  operation — is  most 
brilliant.  The  Berlin  manufactory  owes  its  origin  principally  to  Frederick 
the  Great,  who  on  occupying  Meissen  during  the  Seven  Years'  War,  carried 
oif  from  Meissen  all  the  most  famous  workmen. 

But  I  must  return  to  England.  The  first  of  our  famous  china  establish- 
ments was  that  of  Chelsea.  It  commenced  about  1698,  but  it  was  from 
1750  to  1761  that  its  finest  specimens  were  produced.  Horace  Walpole 
says: — "I  saw  yesterday  (March  8,  1763)  a  magnificent  service  of 
Cholsea  china,  which  the  King  and  Queen  are  sending  to  the  Duke  of 
Mecklenburg.  There  are  dishes  and  plates  without  number,  an  epergne, 
candlestick,  salt-cellars,  sauce-boats,  tea  and  coffee  equipage ;  in  short,  it 
is  complete,  and  cost  1,200Z."  The  Chelsea  gilding  is  very  brilliant,  the 
painting  first-rate;  and  though  sometimes  the  details  are  somewhat  over- 
powering, still  the  ware  is  in  many  respects  equal  to  any  porcelain  in  the 
world.  A  magnificent  vase  of  this  ware,  with  a  beautiful  crimson  morone 
ground — a  colour  peculiar  to  this  ware — and  with  the  raised  ornaments 
riclily  gilded,  was  shown  some  years  ago  at  Marlborough  House.  In  1863, 
Mr.  Llewellyn  Jewitt  remarked,  that  "  at  the  Bernal  sale,  a  pair  of  beau- 


686  JOTTINGS  FBOM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

tiful  globular  scolloped  vases  and  covers,  deep  blue,  painted  with  exotic 
birds,  with  pierced  borders  and  covers  of  the  highest  quality,  fetched 
110Z.  5s.  At  the  sale  of  the  Angerstein  collection,  a  pair  of  bleu-de-roi 
vases,  with  paintings,  were  bought  by  Lord  Kilmory  for  100  guineas. 
Another  pair,  pink  and  gold  ground,  with  paintings,  and  with  open-work 
lips,  realized  142  guineas.  A  single  vase  and  cover,  from  Queen  Char- 
lotte's collection,  sold  for  106  guineas ;  and  a  pair  of  splendid  globular 
vases  and  covers,  with  paintings  of  Bathsheba  and  Susannah,  realized  the 
enormous  sum  of  203  guineas."  But  these  "  enormous  sums  "  have  been 
far  exceeded.  At  Mr.  Bernal's  sale,  a  vase,  exquisitely  painted  with 
groups  of  figures  after  Greuze,  fetched  219L  ;  whilst  a  vase  and  cover, 
with  Venus  attired  by  the  Graces,  after  Guido,  14  inches  high,  and  a 
pair  of  others,  12^  inches  high,  were  sold  only  a  few  months  since,  by 
Messrs.  Foster,  for  345  guineas.  A  set  of  seven,  Mr.  Bohn  tells  us,  sold 
not  long  since  for  3,000£. 

The  Chelsea  works  were  finally  removed  in  1784,  by  Mr.  Dewsbury, 
and  incorporated  with  his  other  works  at  Derby,  so  famous  for  the  biscuit 
figures  peculiar  to  that  locality.  The  secret  of  making  them  has  been 
lost,  and  it  was  in  trying  to  re-discover  it  that  the  beautiful  material 
"  Parian  "  was  invented.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  productions  of  tho 
Derby  works  was  called  "  cream-ware."  It  is  so  rare  that  but  two  or  three 
specimens  of  it  are  known.  Mr.  Bernal  had  no  good  specimen  of  Derby 
china.  Lady  Webster's  dessert-service  sold  this  year  for  150  guineas. 

About  the  same  date  as  Derby  china  is  that  of  Worcester,  not  con- 
sidered so  good  as  Chelsea,  though  superior  to  Derby.  It  is  at  present 
most  worthily  represented  by  Messrs.  Kerr  and  Binns.  The  dessert-service 
made  for  the  Queen  is  considered  to  be  as  fine  as  anything  that  Sevres  ever 
produced  ;  their  enamel  porcelain,  again,  is  most  beautiful. 

One  more  English  manufactory  must  be  mentioned,  that  of  "  Rocking- 
ham  china,"  named  in  compliment  to  the  celebrated  Marquis  of  Rock- 
ingham.  It  is  a  fine  reddish  brown,  or  chocolate  colour.  It  is  one  of  the 
smoothest  and  most  beautiful  wares  ever  produced.  The  dessert-service, 
consisting  of  144  plates  and  56  large  pieces,  made  for  William  IV.,  is  said 
to  have  cost  5,OOOL 

Nantgarw  must  not  be  altogether  omitted.  Porcelain,  however,  was 
only  made  there  during  1814-17  ;  the  works  then  belonged  to  Mr.  Dillwyn, 
the  naturalist. 

I  must  now  pass  on  to  Sevres.  This  manufactory,  originally  esta- 
blished at  St.  Cloud  about  1695,  was  transferred  to  Sevres  in  1756.  The 
finest  specimens  were  produced  from  1751  to  1800,  Madame  Pompadour 
being  one  of  its  principal  patronesses.  At  first  the  porcelain  was  "  soft." 
"  Soft"  porcelain,  as  distinguished  from  "  hard,"  can  be  scratched  with  a 
knife,  the  other  not.  The  pate  tendre,  however,  of  Sevres  was  an  arti- 
ficial paste,  with  no  clay  at  all  in  its  composition,  and  could  be  entirely 
fused.  It  was  a  composition  of  saltpetre,  sea-salt,  burnt  alum,  soda, 
gypsum,  and  sand.  Owing  to  its  composition  so  much  resembling  glass, 


OF  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOE.  687 

its  firing  was  most  difficult,  but  this  very  circumstance  enabled  the  glaze 
to  unite  more  intimately  with  the  body.  About  1768,  a  chance  discovery 
of  kaolin  at  Limoges  gave  the  manufacturers  the  power  of  making  hard 
porcelain,  and  since  1800  no  other  kind  has  been  attempted. 

Her  Majesty  has  one  of  the  most  splendid  collections  of  Sevres  in 
existence.  A  good  deal  of  it  was  obtained  at  the  time  of  the  Peninsular 
war,  through  Benoit,  a  French  confectioner  in  the  service  of  the  Prince 
Rogent  and  Beau  Brummell.  I  must  specially  mention  a  bleu-de-roi 
dc  ssert-service,  painted  by  D.odin,  with  borders  by  Le  Guay  and  Prevost, 
made  about  1783-1787.  Fifteen  other  pieces  belonging  to  the  same  set, 
and  now  in  private  hands,  were  in  the  Loan  Exhibition,  1862.  In  the 
Royal  collection  are  also  seventy  or  eighty  vases,  many  of  them  of  the 
true  pate  tendre,  and  worth  from  500L  to  1,OOOZ.  a-piece.  Another  very 
magnificent  service  was  made  about  1778,  for  the  Empress  Catherine  II. 
01  Russia :  160  pieces  of  it  were  afterwards  brought  to  England,  but 
re  purchased  (except  a  few  small  pieces  in  the  collections  of  Mr.  Napier  and 
Mr.  Addington)  by  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  shortly  before  the  Crimean  war. 

Fine  specimens  of  Sevres  sell  for  enormous  prices.  At  the  Bernal 
sale,  a  cup  and  saucer  painted  by  Morin  sold  for  160L ;  a  cabaret  by 
Le  Guay,  1775-6,  465?.;  the  Marquis  of  Hertford  gave  8712.  10s.  for 
a  magnificent  gros-bleu  vase,  eighteen  inches  high  ;  Sir  A.  de  Rothschild 
900Z.  for  a  pair  of  vases,  said  to  be  part  of  the  famous  "  Roman  History  " 
sorvice  in  possession  of  her  Majesty  ;  1,417£.  10s.  for  a  pair  of  turquoise 
vases  painted  by  Dodet  and  Draud;  and  a  higher  price  still,  1,942Z.  10s., 
for  another  pair  of  that  lovely  colour,  the  Rose  du  Barry,  14^  inches  high. 
Mr.  Bernal  had  given  200Z.  for  them.  At  Lady  Webster's  sale  this  year 
a  plaque  sold  for  285  guineas,  and  a  dessert-service,  said  to  be  probably 
t-ie  finest  set  on  sale  in  Europe,  of  105  pieces,  for  550  guineas — probably 
tie  set  sold  at  the  Hope  sale  at  Paris  in  1855  for  854Z. ;  and  finally,  at 
tie  Rickett's  sale,  a  single  vase  and  cover,  gros-bleu  ground  with  an 
exquisite  medallion  of  figures  fishing,  after  Boucher,  16£  inches  high, 
vas  purchased  for  the  Marquis  of  Hertford  for  the  astounding  sum  of 
1 ,3bO  guineas. 

High  prices  naturally  lead  to  counterfeits.  Many  instances  might  be 
mentioned ;  but  a  passage  from  an  interesting  account  of  an  English 
"'Workman's  visit  to  the  Paris  Exhibition  which  appeared  in  the  Times  of 
September  13,  is  so  veiy  instructive  that  I  cannot  resist  quoting  it. 
' '  Thirty  years  ago,  when  the  rage  for  old  Sevres  china  was  at  its  highest, 
f  few  London  dealers  in  old  Sevres  china  made  large  fortunes  in  purchasing 
white  specimens,  and  those  slightly  decorated,  and  having  them  repainted 
md  regilt  in  this  country.  Their  agents  in  France  attended  sales  and 
f  ought  every  opportunity  of  buying  it ;  the  slight  sprigs  of  flowers  were 
then  removed  by  fluoric  acid,  and  elaborately-painted  subjects  of  flowers, 
"'>irds,  Cupids  and  figures,  chiefly  from  Boucher  and  Watteau,  were  painted 
in  richly-gilt  shields,  with  turquoise,  green,  and  other  grounds.  White 
•  lessert-plates  were  greedily  bought,  at  prices  varying  from  half-a-guinea 


688  JOTTINGS  FROM  THE  NOTE-BOOK 

to  a  guinea,  which  were  resold  at  from  five  to  ten  guineas.  In  order  to 
deceive  the  purchaser,  the  sharp  touches  of  the  chaser  on  the  gold  were 
rubbed  off  by  the  hand ;  sometimes  a  dirty  greasy  rag  was  employed  to 
make  it  look  as  though  it  had  been  a  long  time  in  use.  To  increase  the 
deception,  the  china  thus  finished  was  sent  off,  redirected  in  London  in 
French,  and  knowing  old  lovers  of  Sevres  china,  with  long  purses,  were 

apprised  that  a  packet  of  choice  articles,  bought  of  Madame or  at  the 

Duke  of 's  sale,  had  arrived,  and  they  flattered  themselves  highly  in 

being  privileged  to  see  the  box  opened The  writer  has  several 

times  seen  specimens  of  his  own  painting  at  noblemen's  houses,  which  he 
was  informed  were  choice  productions  of  the  Royal  Sevres  works  pur- 
chased for  large  sums.  .  .  .  Some  time  ago  one  of  our  first  and  keenest 
manufacturers  purchased  a  pair  of  his  own  vases,  believing  them  to  be 
old  Sevres,  and  introduced  them  as  examples.  They  had  been  bought 
from  his  own  warehouse  in  white,  were  painted  by  the  writer  in  the  old 
Sevres  style,  sold  in  London,  and  bought  some  years  after  by  the 
manufacturer." 

The  prices  of  modern  Sevres  are  by  no  means  inconsiderable.  There 
is  a  fine  specimen  at  South  Kensington — a  vase  with  celadon-green  ground 
two  feet  high — which  cost  200Z.  Some  specimens  of  modern  English 
porcelain  fetch  equally  large  sums.  The  beautiful  vase,  four  feet  six  inches 
high,  with  exquisitely  painted  flowers,  by  Messrs.  Copeland,  was  purchased 
in  1862  for  262Z. ;  and  the  same  sum  was  given  for  another  vase  of  Sevres 
blue  ground,  with  a  broad  band  of  flowers,  double  handles,  and  five  Cupids 
as  supporters,  by  Messrs.  Minton. 

No  one  who  has  visited  the  collection  of  art  treasures  at  South  Ken- 
sington can  have  failed  to  notice  the  splendid  enamels  that  have  been 
secured  for  that  institution. 

Enamelling  is  the  art  of  fixing  upon  any  substance  a  surface  of  vitreous 
matter  by  fusion.  The  term,  however,  is  restricted  now  to  those  cases 
where  the  substance  is  of  metal,  copper,  silver,  or  gold.  Several  methods 
of  enamelling  have  been  practised.  One,  and  perhaps  the  earliest,  was 
the  champleve,  where  the  enamelling  matter  was  deposited  in  cavities  pre- 
viously made  in  the  metal.  It  is  often  stated  that  the  Egyptians  were 
acquainted  with  this  method  :  but  in  the  examples  in  question,  we  really 
only  find  pieces  of  hard  stone  or  coloured  glass  set  in  cement.  The 
Greeks  were  really  acquainted  with  the  art,  but  the  specimens  that  have 
come  down  to  us  are  very  unimportant.  In  the  third  or  fourth  century, 
however,  champleve  enamels  were  made  in  Gaul  and  Britain ;  and  we  find 
them  again  in  the  Rhenish  provinces  of  Germany  about  ten  centuries  later, 
and  at  Limoges.  One  interesting  example  of  German  enamel  of  the  twelfth 
century  is  the  chasse  or  reliquary  at  South  Kensington,  which  came  from 
the  famous  Soltikoff  collection.  A  very  beautiful  triptych  in  the  same 
collection,  of  thirteenth-century  work,  14  inches  by  8£  inches,  representing 
the  Crucifixion,  Resurrection,  and  Deliverance  from  Satan,  formerly  at 
Alton  Towers,  cost  450Z. 


OP  AN   UNDEVELOPED   COLLECTOR.  689 

Another  method  was  the  cloisonne.  In  this  case,  the  metal  having 
been  previously  cut  into  the  required  shape,  a  rim  of  gold  was  put  round 
it,  deep  enough  to  contain  the  enamel.  The  enclosed  surface  was  then 
divided  into  as  many  cells  as  were  necessary  to  separate  the  different 
colours,  by  thin  bands  of  the  same  material.  In  those  cells  was  placed  the 
enamel  in  powder,  which  was  then  fused,  and  finally  polished.  This 
method  was  the  fashionable  one  under  the  Byzantine  Emperors.  The 
finest  specimen  now  remaining  of  this  class  is  the  Pala  d'Oro,  made  at 
Constantinople  for  the  altar  of  St.  Mark's,  Venice,  about  1100.  A  small 
portion  of  this,  containing  the  figure  of  a  saint,  may  be  seen  in  the  Jermyn 
Street  Museum.  The  shrine  at  Cologne,  containing  the  skulls  of  the  three 
kings,  is  of  similar  workmanship  ;  and  at  the  Pourtales'  sale  a  plate, 
originally  the  cover  of  a  missal,  with  a  representation  of  St.  George  and 
the  Dragon,  of  the  eleventh  century,  sold  for  364Z.  The  most  interesting 
example  of  cloisonne  enamel  in  England  is  the  "  Alfred  Jewel,"  in  the 
Ashmolean  Museum,  Oxford.  It  was  found  not  far  from  Athelney  Abbey, 
the  place  to  which  Alfred  retired  during  the  Danish  troubles,  and  where  he 
afterwards  founded  a  monastery.  It  is  somewhat  more  than  two  inches 
long,  faced  with  rock  crystal,  through  which  is  seen  the  figure  of  a  saint, 
holding  a  fleur-de-lys  in  each  hand,  representing,  no  doubt,  St.  Neot, 
the  King's  patron  saint.  On  it  is  an  Anglo-Saxon  inscription,  which  tells 
us  "Alfred  ordered  me  to  be  wrought."  From  some  expressions  in 
monkish  chronicles  there  is  little  doubt  that  it  was  mounted  on  a  staff, 
and  so  carried  into  battle.  The  enamel  itself  may  have  been  made,  not 
in  England,  but  on  the  Continent. 

The  next  method  was  to  engrave  the  subject  on  the  plate,  which  was 
thon  covered  with  translucent  enamel.  A  fine  specimen  of  English  work  of 
this  style  is  the  gold  cup  given  by  King  John  to  the  corporation  of  Lynn. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  there  arose  at  Limoges  a  new  school  of 
enamellers.  The  plate  was  first  of  all  covered  with  a  coating  of  dark- 
coloured  enamel  for  shadows,  and  the  subjects  then  painted  upon  it.  The 
colours  employed  were  metallic  oxides  mixed  with  silica,  which  of  course 
was  fusible  at  a  great  heat.  Until  science  came  to  the  aid  of  the 
enamellers,  they  had  only  a  limited  number  of  colours  at  their  command, 
the  high  degree  of  heat  to  which  the  plate  had  to  be  subjected  rendering 
m;iny  desirable  tints  unavailable.  The  colours  after  firing  are  often  quite 
different  from  what  they  would  be  on  a  painter's  palette  ;  and  as  a  plate 
had  sometimes  to  undergo  as  many  as  twenty-five  or  thirty  firings,  one 
for  each  layer  of  colour,  and  any  under  or  over-firing  spoiled  the  work, 
and  mistakes  in  drawing  could  only  be  corrected  with  immense  difficulty, 
the  process  of  enamelling,  as  may  easily  be  imagined,  was  one  of  very 
groat  tediousness  and  risk.  In  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century  this 
method  had  reached  its  perfection,  and  some  very  beautiful  examples  will 
be  found  at  South  Kensington  and  the  British  Museum. 

Of  early  unsigned  enamels,  we  have,  in  the  former  museum,  an  Adora- 
tion of  the  Shepherds,  executed  about  1520,  which  cost  200Z.    By  Penicaud, 


690  JOTTINGS  FKOM  THE   NOTE-BOOK 

Junior,  is  a  very  magnificent  specimen,  containing  eighteen  plaques,  a 
large  one  in  the  centre  representing  the  Ascension,  and  round  it  seventeen 
of  various  shapes,  containing  other  subjects  from  the  life  of  our  Lord. 
It  measures  altogether  2  feet  5  by  1  foot  10J.  The  price  of  it  was  of 
course  considerable — 800/.  Another  specimen  of  the  same  artist's  work 
is  an  oval  dish,  with  a  representation  of  the  Gathering  of  Manna,  which 
cost  200Z.  By  another  artist  of  the  same  family,  Jean  Penicaud  III.,  is  a 
tablet,  7  inches  by  5£,  with  the  Saviour  in  the  centre  and  the  twelve 
Apostles  in  compartments  around  it,  which  cost  the  same  sum.  Belonging 
to  the  same  school,  but  apparently  by  Jean  Poilleve,  who  was  a  goldsmith 
as  well  as  an  engraver,  there  was  at  the  Bernal  sale  a  silver-gilt  casket, 
4£  inches  high  and  5£  wide,  in  which  were  set  five  plaques  of  enamel, 
representing  the  Sibyls.  Mr.  M.  T.  Smith  purchased  it  for  252Z. 

The  prince  of  enamellers,  however,  was  Leonard  Limousin.  Like 
other  artists  of  the  same  date,  1540-1570,  he  made  use  of  the  designs  of 
Raffaelle,  and  the  exquisite  manner  in  which  they  are  reproduced  by  this 
difficult  process  is  quite  marvellous.  A  set  of  twelve  Sibyls,  half-length 
figures,  of  his  work,  is  in  the  British  Museum.  Several  other  specimens 
are  at  South  Kensington.  A  very  beautiful  tazza,  with  a  representation 
of  Laocoon,  cost  35 1.  Many  of  his  works  are  portraits,  of  which  there 
were  no  less  than  twenty-three  in  the  Loan  collection.  A  plaque  at  South 
Kensington,  six  inches  by  five,  with  portrait  of  Antoine  de  Bourbon,  cost 
50L  A  portrait  of  a  Chancellor  of  France,  somewhat  larger,  from  the 
Soltikoff  collection,  cost  100Z.  But  a  much  more  important  work  of  his, 
at  the  Bernal  sale,  was  a  large  upright  portrait  of  Catherine  dei  Medici, 
of  the  extraordinary  size  of  eighteen  inches  by  twelve.  For  this  Baron 
Gustave  de  Kothschild  gave  420Z.  Large  as  the  plate  is,  it  seems  to 
have  been  a  favourite  size  with  the  artist,  as  seven  others  of  similar 
dimensions  were  shown  at  South  Kensington  in  1862.  In  some  of  his 
later  enamels  he  used  a  white  ground,  the  credit  of  which  has  usually  been 
given  to  Toutin,  who  lived  about  1630. 

By  Pierre  Kaymond,  an  artist  about  the  same  date,  a  tazza  and  cover 
at  the  British  Museum,  representing  Dido's  entertainment  to  JEneas,  from 
the  Bernal  sale,  cost  SOL  A  triptych  at  South  Kensington,  representing 
Christ  bearing  the  Cross,  the  Crucifixion,  and  the  Entombment,  was  pur- 
chased for  350Z.  A  tazza  and  ewer  at  the  Pourtales  sale,  with  the  battle 
of  the  Centaurs  and  Lapithae,  sold  for  448?. ;  and  a  basin,  eighteen  inches 
in  diameter,  with  subjects  from  the  history  of  Adam  and  Eve,  808/. 
'^  I  One  of  the  most  productive  of  the  Limoges  enamellers  was  Jean 
Courtois.  His  works  consist  chiefly  of  articles  for  use  at  table — such  as 
dishes,  plates,  candlesticks,  &c.  They  are  very  showy.  A  fine  ewer — a 
representation  of  an  equestrian  combat  round  the  body,  and  some  portraits 
in  medallions  round  the  neck — was  purchased  at  the  Bemal  sale  by 
Mr.  Addington  for  136L  10s.  A  large  oval  salver,  ornamented  with  gold, 
and  a  picture  of  the  "  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea,"  sold  at  the  Pourtales  sale 
for  1,2002. 


OP  AN  UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR.  691 

By  Jean  Court  dit  Vigier  was  a  work  at  the  same  sale  which  excited 
a  very  lively  competition.  It  was  the  cup  presented  to  Mary  Stuart  when 
sho  became  affianced  to  the  Dauphin.  On  the  cover  was  Diana  in  a  car 
drawn  by  stags,  and  on  the  inside  was  "  The  Festival  of  the  Gods,"  after 
Raffaelle.  It  produced  1,0842. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  a  more  minute  style  of 
enamelling  was  introduced.  Specimens  of  artists  of  this  date  will  be 
found  at  South  Kensington.  An  oval  dish,  by  Francois  Limousin,  with  a 
youth  kneeling  by  the  side  of  a  female,  who  is  pointing  to  Phoebus  in  his 
car,  cost  200?. ;  and  by  Jean  Limousin  a  silver  casket,  with  bacchanalian 
groups  and  mediaeval  figures  dancing,  executed  probably  for  Marguerite 
de  Valois,  cost  1,OOOZ.  The  fashion  for  Limoges  enamels  seems  to  have 
lasted  till  about  1620. 

About  this  time  the  art  was  practised  in  other  places.  Petitot,  for 
instance,  who  was  born  at  Geneva  in  1607,  produced  some  specimens 
w]iich  for  colour  and  finish  are  most  marvellous.  His  plates  are  usually 
snail,  not  more  than  two  or  three  inches  in  diameter ;  but  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  has  a  portrait  of  his,  after  Vandyke,  which  measures  nearly  ten 
inches  by  six. 

Of  modern  enamels  there  are  some  very  fine  examples.  Perhaps  the 
la  rgest  work  ever  executed  in  this  way  upon  metal  is  one  belonging  to  her 
Majesty — the  Holy  Family,  after  Parmegiano,  the  work  of  Charles  Muss, 
wb.0  died  in  1824.  It  measures  about  twenty-one  inches  by  sixteen. 
Another  large  work  is  the  "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  "  of  Titian,  enamelled 
bv  Bone.  It  measures  eighteen  inches  by  sixteen,  and  was  sold  for  2,200 
guineas.  Another  very  beautiful  specimen  of  his  skill  is  the  portrait  of 
Lady  Hamilton,  as  Ariadne.  It  was  painted  for  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  and 
a  "'forwards  bequeathed  to  Nelson.  It  cost  170  guineas,  and  when  sold 
brought  700. 

Fine  specimens  of  medieval  metal-work  fetch  now  and  then  astound- 
ing prices.  Fancy  a  pair  of  "  brass  candlesticks,"  5|  inches  high,  fetching 
232L  !  Yet  this  was  the  price  paid  for  a  pair  at  the  Bernal  sale  by  the 
Puke  of  Hamilton.  Of  course,  they  had  a  history.  They  belonged  to  Sir 
Thomas  More,  knight,  whose  name  and  date,  1552,  are  under  the  foot.  Upon 
t-ie  egg-shaped  stem  are  flowers  and  leaves  enamelled  in  blue  and  white. 
A  portrait,  however,  of  Sir  T.  More,  at  Hampton  Court,  shows  us  that  they 
vere  not  candlesticks  but  flower- vases;  for  in  that  picture  these  identical 
objects  are  represented  standing  on  a  table  near  him,  each  containing  a 
lower.  There  are,  however,  at  South  Kensington,  two  candlesticks  of 
Italian  work,  about  1480-1500,  from  the  Soulages  collection,  which  cost 
j25Z.  each  ;  and  with  them,  I  may  mention,  a  door-knocker,  about  1560, 
vhich  cost  SQL,  and  two  sets  of  bronze  fire-dogs  which  cost  400?. 

In  the  same  rich  collection  will  be  found  a  bronze  mirror  case  7£  inches 
in  diameter,  inlaid  with  gold  and  silver,  the  work  of  Donatello  about  1450, 
made  for  the  Martelli  family,  which  cost  600Z. ;  and  a  toilet  stand  of  iron, 
damascened  with  gold  and  silver,  with  subjects  taken  from  ancient  Roman 


692  JOTTINGS  OF  AN   UNDEVELOPED  COLLECTOR, 

history;  it  measures  three  feet  ten  inches  high,  by  two  feet  one  inch  wide. 
It  has  a  metal  speculum  with  a  damascened  slide,  and  at  the  top  figures  of 
Venus  and  Cupid,  in  bronze  gilt.  It  is  of  Milanese  work,  about  1550, 
made  for  the  royal  family  of  Savoy,  and  was  purchased  at  the  Soltikoff 
sale  for  1,281Z.  As  a  specimen  of  early  English  work,  I  may  mention  a 
beautiful  agate  goblet  mounted  in  silver  gilt,  with  a  carved  stem,  and  with 
the  Bristol  hall-mark,  1567,  which  cost  350/. 

Fine  specimens  of  ecclesiastical  art  are  to  be  found  in  our  National 
collections.  The  British  Museum  secured,  at  the  Bernal  sale,  the  "  Reli- 
quary  of  the  Kings,"  in  copper  gilt,  about  seven  inches  in  length  and 
height,  and  four  inches  wide.  It  was  presented  by  Pope  Eugenius  IV.  to 
Philip  le  Bon,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  contained  the  relics  found  in  the 
Chartreux  at  Dijon  in  1430.  The  price  was  66£.,  Mr.  Bernal  having  given 
281.  for  it.  A  much  more  important  specimen  is  at  South  Kensington. 
This  is  a  Rhenish-Byzantine  work  in  copper  gilt,  decorated  with  champleve 
enamel,  and  carved  ivory,  about  1150.  It  represents  a  cruciform  domed 
church,  and  is  ornamented  with  figures  of  eighteen  Prophets  and  the 
twelve  Apostles.  It  was  purchased  at  the  Soltikoff  sale  for  2,142Z.  A 
ratable  in  gilt  metal,  repousse  and  enamelled  and  set  with  gems,  was  pur- 
chased at  the  same  sale  for  342?.  Above  is  Christ  in  the  act  of  blessing, 
below  are  two  Angels,  and  on  the  shutters  the  twelve  Apostles.  An  altar- 
cross  made  of  plates  of  rock  crystal,  the  plaques  of  the  cross  containing 
engravings  of  the  Crucifixion  and  the  busts  of  the  Evangelists,  whilst  the 
base  has  representations  of  the  events  of  the  Passion,  the  work  of  Valerio 
Vicentino,  who  lived  1466-1546,  cost  210Z. ;  and  another  altar-cross  of 
Rhenish-Byzantine  work,  350L  I  must  also  mention  besides  three 
crosiers — one  of  gilt  metal,  enamelled,  of  fourteenth-century  Italian  work, 
which  cost  241L  ;  another  of  Swiss-German  work,  of  the  same  date,  413Z. ; 
and  another  of  carved  ivory  and  gilt  metal,  of  French  work,  also  the  same 
date,  265 1.  They  all  came  from  the  famous  Soltikoff  collection. 


NOTE. — In  my  last  paper  I  omitted,  by  an  oversight,  all  mention  of  Salviati's  imita- 
tions of  Venetian  glass.  They  are  quite  as  quaint,  and  in  many  instances,  quite  as 
beautiful,  as  the  originals. 

In  a  letter  to  The  Times,  dated  September  21,  Mr.  M.  A.  Shee  controverts  the 
account,  given  in  the  first  part  of  my  Jottings,  of  the  share  his  father  had  in  the 
rejection  of  the  Lawrence  collection  by  the  nation.  In  one  particular  I  have  to  make 
a  correction  :  the  price  at  which  the  collection  was  offered  to  the  British  Museum 
was  not  20,000?.,  but  18,000/.  Mr.  Shee  admits  that  his  father  "  opposed  the  purchase," 
but  justifies  it  on  the  ground  that  it  "  did  not  comprise  the  entire  collection  made  and 
left  at  his  death  by  Sir  T.  Lawrence,"  but  that  "  the  most  valuable  portion  had  been 
previously  withdrawn  for  private  disposal."  It  must  be  known  to  many  people  whether 
any  such  transaction  took  place  ;  but  it  seems  strange  to  talk  of  the  "  most  valuable 
portion  "  being  gone,  when  Oxford  could  get  from  the  refuse  its  matchless  collection, 
except  perhaps  in  the  gallery  of  the  UflSzi,  of  Michel  Angclo  and  Raffaelle  drawings . 
Sir  T.  Lawrence's  will,  however,  is  express — it  was  his  "  collection  of  genuine  draw- 
ings by  the  old  masters  "  that  was  to  be  offered  to  the  nation.  Mr.  Shee's  letter, 
therefore,  would  make  it  no  longer  a  question  of  his  father's  taste,  but  of  the  honesty 
of  Sir  T.  Lawrence's  executors. 


693 


A  BELGIAN  EXPERIMENT. 


IN  what  category  is  speech  to  be  arranged  ?  Amongst  all  the  functions 
anl  energies  of  man  by  what  name  will  it  most  correctly  be  labelled  ? 
Shall  we  call  it  an  endowment,  or  a  faculty,  or  an  art,  or  what  ?  In 
short,  what  is  speech  ?  Certain  very  practical  results  depend  upon  the 
answer.  Without  doing  any  injustice  to  the  character  of  rough-and- 
ready  replies,  it  may  be  said  that  the  rough-and-ready  reply  to  these 
questions  would  be  that  speech  is  a  gift — perhaps  the  most  eminent  of  all 
tho  gifts  bestowed  upon  man  by  his  Creator,  and  one,  therefore,  well 
adapted  for  its  exalted  office  of  determining  the  line  of  severance  between 
tho  brute  creation  and  humanity.  Superficial  as  such  a  conclusion  un- 
questionably is,  it  would  almost  seem  as  though  it  had  dictated  our  mode 
of  procedure  in  the  treatment  of  the  dumb.  Say  that  speech  is  an  endow- 
ment of  human  nature,  and  it  must  at  once  take  rank  with  the  other 
endowments  of  human  nature,  with  sight  and  hearing  and  reason  and  the 
rest.  It  may  have  its  speciality,  it  may  be  conspicuous  amongst  the 
others  for  its  dignity  or  its  usefulness  ;  but  almost  insensibly  we  shall 
conceive  of  it  as  being  regulated  by  the  same  laws  and  associated  with  tho 
same  ideas  as  are  attached  to  the  other  endowments  of  man.  One  of  the 
most  obvious  and  the  most  unassailable  of  such  ideas  is  the  total  in- 
capacity of  man  himself  to  confer  upon  his  fellow-man  even  the  faintest 
semblance  of  such  gifts.  And  with  data  like  these,  it  is  almost  an  axiom 
that,  in  directing  the  education  of  one  who  is  deprived  of  speech,  you  must 
accept  his  dumbness  as  a  fact  which  is  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  hope. 
You  may  invest  him  with  substitutes  for  speech  which  shall  be  more  or 
less  efficient,  but  this  so-called  gift  of  speech  itself  it  is  manifestly  futile  for 
human  skill  to  think  of  bringing  into  exercise.  You  will  give  him  some 
compensation  for  his  loss  by  evoking  some  unusual  power  of  observation  and 
•by  inventing  new  artifices  of  expression ;  you  will  impart  to  him  a  marvel- 
lous aptitude  in  the  languages  of  the  hand  and  of  the  eye;  but  this  spell  of 
an  unalterable  silence  you  will  feel  that  a  creative  power  alone  can  break. 

Such  a  position  seems  not  only  a  natural,  but  almost  an  inevitable, 
deduction  from  the  very  loose  idea  that  speech  is  to  be  classed  amongst 
the  endowments  of  men.  The  fact  that  a  view  of  this  kind  has  met  with 
such  general  acceptance  makes  us  suspect  that  it  probably  represents  a 
certain  amount  of  truth  upon  the  subject.  Yet  we  may  reasonably 
challenge  it,  and  ask  it  whether  it  fairly  embodies  the  whole  truth  of  the 
matter?  whether  it  gives  us  the  best  possible  grasp  of  all  the  leading 
facts,  or  whether  it  is  not  rather  calculated  to  obscure  some  of  the 


694  DUMB  MEN'S   SPEECH. 

principal  avenues  of  thought,  and  consequently  to  bar  some  of  the  most 
effective  lines  of  action  which  another  aspect  would  suggest  ?  There  is 
at  all  events  one  consideration  which  affords  a  presumption,  though  not  a 
proof,  that  the  classification  of  speech  as  a  gift  is  inadequate,  if  not 
absolutely  incorrect ;  for  it  is  undoubted  that  certain  of  the  lower  animals 
are  able  to  acquire  a  mimicry  of  speech  so  perfect  as  to  represent  a 
human  articulation  to  the  very  life.  Now,  such  a  fact,  when  once  esta- 
blished, is  immediately  fatal  to  the  view  in  question.  Take  any  one  of 
these  natural  powers,  which  are  beyond  all  dispute  most  properly  desig- 
nated as  gifts — powers,  that  is,  demanding  no  skill  or  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  individual  exercising  them — and  you  cannot  conceive  the  possibility 
of  a  mimicry  of  them.  You  cannot,  for  instance,  imagine  a  mimicry  of 
sight  or  of  hearing.  I  say  then  that  the  fact  that  speech  can  be 
caricatured  affords  us  a  presumption  that  there  is  something  wrong  in  a 
classification  which  groups  it  with  them.  The  truth  probably  is  that,  in 
the  looseness  of  ordinary  conversation,  speech  has  been  too  often  con- 
founded with  language.  Statements,  that  is  to  say,  which  are  perfectly 
true  of  language,  have  been  carelessly  transferred  to  speech,  and,  as  might 
be  expected,  have  by  the  transfer  been  rendered  hopelessly  false.  Thus, 
it  may  be  quite  true  that  language,  as  the  expression  of  reason,  is  the 
noblest  and  the  most  distinguishing  gift  which  the  Creator  has  bestowed 
upon  man.  But  apply  such  a  statement  to  speech,  and  we  may  not  only 
be  inclined  to  dissent  from  the  opinion  expressed,  but  we  have  some 
grounds  for  asking  whether  it  can  be  accurately  called  a  gift  at  all. 

Following  the  lead,  then,  of  this  presumption,  and  setting  aside  for  the 
moment  the  conception  of  speech  as  one  of  the  distinctive  gifts  of  man, 
let  us  ask  whether  it  would  not  be  more  correctly  catalogued  as  an  art — • 
an  art  which  is  to  be  learned,  of  course,  like  any  other  art,  by  successions 
of  attempt  and  failure.  Through  its  investiture  as  an  art,  it  at  once 
assumes  its  proper  place  as  the  correlative  of  language,  which  everybody 
has  now  learned  to  call  a  science.  In  this  view,  a  correct  description  of 
the  facts  would  be  something  of  this  kind  :  Man  is  supplied  with  a 
mechanism  which  is  capable  of  producing  articulate  speech,  just  as  he  ia 
supplied  with  a  mechanism  which  is  capable  of  producing,  for  example,  a 
performance  on  the  pianoforte ;  but  it  is  for  man  himself  to  learn  to  use 
this  mechanism  with  competent  skill.  The  question  then  arises,  How  does 
he  learn  ?  by  what  agency  is  this  mechanism  to  be  approached  ?  Obviously 
through  the  ear.  The  art  of  speech  is  acquired  by  imitation.  The  pos- 
sessor of  this  vocal  mechanism  becomes  sensible,  through  the  ear,  of  the 
use  to  which  others  are  putting  it,  and  by  continued  attempts  to  produce 
the  same  effects  which  he  hears  from  them  he  gradually  acquires  a  perfect 
command  over  his  instrument,  and  articulates  with  fluency  and  ease. 
Hence  we  are  furnished  with  an  explanation  of  a  well-known  fact  about  the 
dumb.  Most  of  them  are  dumb,  because  they  are  deaf.  They  cannot 
articulate,  not  because  they  are  deprived  of  the  machinery  of  articulation, 
but  because  they  are  deprived  of  the  means  of  learning  to  put  that  machi- 


DUMB  MEN'S   SPEECH.  695 

nery  in  motion.  The  mechanism  is  there,  sometimes  without  a  single 
flaw  in  its  construction ;  but  it  is  doomed  to  stand  eternally  idle,  because 
the  channel  through  which  it  is  commonly  approached  is  closed.  But 
having  got  so  far,  we  are  immediately  confronted  with  a  question  which,  if 
it  can  be  answered  affirmatively,  must  revolutionize  our  procedure  with 
deal-mutism,  must  impose  upon  us  the  necessity  of  a  general,  if  not  a 
universal  abandonment  of  the  language  of  the  fingers,  and  will  enable  us 
effectually  to  rescue  these  wordless  sufferers  from  the  terrible  isolation  of 
their  speechlessness.  Granted  that  a  man  commonly  learns  to  speak 
by  zhe  almost  effortless  process  of  hearing  others  speak  ;  granted  that  the 
machinery  of  speech  is  most  naturally  and  most  easily  set  in  motion 
through  the  intervention  of  the  ear ;  yet,  if  this  be  closed  from  birth,  is 
the  :*e  no  other  channel  through  which  the  latent  mechanism  of  articulation 
can  be  reached  ?  Is  there  no  other  faculty  through  whose  aid  these  slum- 
bering powers  can  be  stirred  into  activity,  and  taught  to  fulfil  the  purpose 
for  which  they  are  so  well  adapted  ?  In  a  word,  is  it  inevitable,  as  the 
conventional  treatment  of  them  assumes  it  is,  that  the  deaf-and-dumb 
should  be  despairingly  abandoned  to  their  speechlessness  ?  or  is  it  possible 
to  teach  the  silent  lips  to  speak  ? 

For  eighty  years  past  such  a  possibility  has  been  eagerly  asserted  by 
Heinicke  and  his  followers  in  Germany.  The  utility  of  it  has  been  as 
eagerly  denied  by  the  Abbe  de  TEpee  in  France.  But  facts  will  speak  for 
themselves.  Through  the  intervention  of  a  Continental  friend  I  was 
recsntly  enabled  to  visit  an  institution  in  Brussels  which  demonstrated 
by  actual  experiment  that  such  a  thing  is  possible,  not  only  in  the  case  of 
a  picked  individual  or  two  gifted  with  extraordinary  intelligence,  but  (it 
seems  safe  to  say)  in  every  case,  provided  that  the  vocal  organs  are  not 
rendered  fatally  imperfect  by  malformation.  Moreover,  even  in  those 
extremely  rare  instances  where  the  mechanism  of  speech  was  incomplete, 
they  succeeded  in  producing  an  approximation  to  clear  utterance,  closer 
or  more  remote,  according  to  the  degree  of  defectiveness  in  the  organs. 
So  that  in  that  house  of  the  dumb,  from  the  best  down  to  the  very  worst, 
every  single  inmate  could  speak.  The  dumb  are  received  there  in  consi- 
derable numbers ;  the  conventional  system  of  teaching  them  to  speak  by 
signs  is  totally  and  unexceptionally  abandoned,  and  each  individual  patient 
is  successfully  taught  to  speak  with  his  lips.  Of  course,  the  labour  and 
pa  ience  expended  in  effecting  these  results  is  stupendous. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  almost  superhuman  self-control  that 
yo  i  must  have,  if  you  would  take  a  boy  who  is  as  deaf  as  the  ground  he 
stands  on,  and  utter  an  articulate  sound  before  him  over  and  over  again,  till 
by  seeing  your  movements  he  learns  to  reproduce  the  sound.  In  practice, 
however,  the  task  is  no  less  stupendous  than  the  imagination  predicts. 
In  leed,  as  I  watched  their  method,  it  several  times  occurred  to  me  that 
those  instructors  must  have  thrown  up  their  work  in  despair  if  they  had 
not  been  doing  it  for  the  sake  of  their  religion.  It  was,  in  truth,  in  the 
name  of  Religion  that  the  whole  of  this  unprecedented  labour  was  under- 


696  DUMB   MEN'S   SPEECH. 

taken.  In  words  of  their  own  framing,  "to  inspire  the  deaf-and-dumb 
with  the  love  of  our  holy  religion,  to  form  their  hearts  to  virtue,  to  develope 
their  intelligence,  in  short,  to  restore  to  God  and  society  this  unhappy 
class — such  is  the  task  which  we  undertake  in  this  house."  Technically, 
moreover,  the  house  was  a  religious  house,  as  being  the  retreat  of  a 
religious  order.  It  was  founded  some  twenty  years  ago  by  an  eminent 
ecclesiastic,  so  distinguished  for  his  self-sacrificing  works  of  benevolence 
and  charity  as  to  have  earned  the  title  of  the  Vincent  de  Paul  of  Belgium. 
True  to  the  reputation  of  the  founder,  a  number  of  clergy  attached  to  a 
religious  brotherhood — Les  Freres  de'  la  Doctrine  Chretienne,  whom  I 
found  by  conversation  to  be  men  of  high  talent  and  culture, — carried  on 
this  work.  It  was  to  one  of  these  brethren  so  engaged — Frere  Cyrille — 
that  my  Brussels  friend  presented  me.  I  found  him  a  bright,  accomplished 
man,  in  the  best  years  of  life,  dressed  in  the  clerical  costume  of  his  country 
— the  long  black  cassock  with  that  interminable  row  of  small  buttons  down 
the  front,  and  his  beads  hung  at  the  girdle,  and  the  little  close-fitting 
black  cap, — known  as  the  Solidee  (Soli  Deo) — just  upon  the  crown  of  the 
head.  Such  is  the  man  who  is  the  leading  spirit  of  this  unique  establishr 
ment.  After  a  little  preliminary  conversation  he  proceeded  to  pilot  me 
through  the  house.  Promising  to  begin  with  the  most  elementary  stage  of 
the  education,  he  led  me  first  into  a  large  airy  room  fitted  with  ordinary 
school-room  desks,  forms,  black-boards,  diagrams,  and  the  usual  apparatus 
of  elementary  education.  That  room  indeed  was  remarkable  for  the 
absence  of  only  one  of  the  attributes  of  a  well-appointed  schoolroom  : 
there  was  none  of  the  familiar  buzz  of  plodding  school-boys.  Here  sat 
some  five-and-twenty  boys,  from  seven  to  twelve  years  old,  in  some  cases 
literally  struggling  to  imitate  the  lip-movements  of  their  teacher,  and 
making  thereby  noises  uncouth  and  various  enough;  but  so  impressive 
was  the  silence  in  the  intervals  of  their  attempts,  that  one  quite  longed  for 
some  of  those  furtive  whispers  which  all  go  to  make  up  that  impalpable 
sort  of  hum  which  is  one  of  the  bugbears  of  the  schoolmaster.  These  boys 
were  acquiring  the  first  rudiments  of  the  art  of  speech  under  the  tuition  of 
another  of  the  brethren — also  a  cassocked  ecclesiastic, — who  seemed 
blessed  with  an  amount  of  forbearance  that  was  quite  angelic.  The 
earliest  lesson,  of  course,  was  the  articulation  of  single  open  syllables, 
that  is  to  say,  of  a  consonant  with  a  vowel  attached.  The  process  by 
which  this  was  attained  was,  I  observed,  twofold.  First,  simply  the  eye 
of  the  pupil  was  used.  The  teacher  articulated  in  a  very  marked  manner 
the  consonant  that  was  under  notice.  By  signs  and  gestures  the  dumb 
boy  was  directed  to  watch  the  movement  minutely  and  to  make  it  himself. 
If  he  succeeded  in  doing  so,  all  well  and  good  ;  the  object  was  achieved. 
But  if  he  failed,  as  was  often  the  case  ;  if,  for  example,  instead  of  ma 
he  articulated  ba,  then  the  sense  of  touch  was  called  in  to  the  rescue.  The 
teacher  felt  about  his  own  organs  to  see  exactly  how  they  were  affected  by 
Jjis  articulation  of  the  particular  consonant  which  caused  the  difficulty. 
He  would  find  that  there  was,  perhaps,  a  movement  in  the  throat,  or  by 


DUMB   MEN'S   SPEECH.  697 

tho  pressure  of  the  fingers  against  the  side  of  the  nose,  that  a  current  of 
air  was  driven  down  the  nostrils  by  the  articulation  in  question.  Having 
discovered  this,  he  took  the  boy's  finger  and  put  it  to  his  own  (the 
teacher's)  organ  and  articulated  the  consonant  distinctly  and  repeatedly, 
so  that  the  boy  should  feel  exactly  what  the  movement  of  the  part  was 
that  was  required  of  him.  The  boy  was  then  directed  to  put  his  finger 
upon  his  own  throat  or  nostril,  and  by  his  own  movements  produce  the 
same  impression  upon  his  finger  as  was  produced  by  the  articulation  of 
tho  teacher.  A  hundred  times  he  would  fail ;  and  a  hundred  times  would 
this  much-enduring  frere,  without  the  faintest  shadow  of  impatience  or 
irritation,  go  through  the  whole  ceremonial  again. 

As  we  entered  the  room  this  method  was  being  applied,  I  remember, 
to  the  syllables  of  the  French  word — all  the  business  was  conducted  in 
French — Solide.  The  frere  had  got  this  word  written  out  upon  the 
black-board,  syllable  by  syllable,  and  he  was  articulating  it,  hissing  and 
biting  off  the  consonants  with  a  most  laborious  emphasis,  and  with  a 
considerable  pause  at  the  end  of  each,  So-li-de.  Most  of  the  loojs  in 
his  class  seemed  to  succeed  tolerably  well  with  this  word ;  but  the  failure 
of  one  poor  lad  served  admirably  the  purpose  of  giving  one  an  insight 
into  the  system  of  instruction.  He  found  no  difficulty  in  catching  the  first 
two  syllables,  but  the  last  syllable  he  misapprehended.  The  frere  was 
quick  enough  to  detect  the  error,  even  amid  the  many  voices,  in  a  moment. 
Ho  singled  the  boy  out  to  devote  some  special  care  to  him.  "  So,  li,  de" 
said  the  frere,  making  quite  an  explosion  with  the  last  syllable.  "  So,  7?','' 
replied  the  anxious  boy,  drawing  out  the  vowels  to  an  inordinate  length  in 
hin  care  to  be  right,  and  then,  as  though  quite  lost,  gazing  about  him  in 
bewilderment  and  dismay :  "  re,"  he  guessed,  after  some  moments.  The 
frere  shook  his  head ;  that  would  not  do.  "  So,  li,  de — de,  de,"  he 
repeated.  "  So,  li,"  said  the  boy,  with  great  deliberation,  and  then  came 
th*>  pause  of  perplexity  again  ;  "  ke,"  at  last  he  tried,  receiving  once  more, 
of  course,  the  shake  of  the  head  in  reply.  That  was  not  right.  "  So,  li,  de, 
de"  reiterated  this  delightfully  patient  frere,  taking  the  lad's  finger  and 
putting  it  upon  the  ball  of  his  own  throat,  that  he  might  feel  the  move- 
xm-nt  caused  by  the  articulation  of  the  troublesome  sound.  The  boy  imme- 
diately nodded  his  head  with  evident  delight,  in  token  of  his  having  grasped 
wbat  was  meant.  Withdrawing  his  hand  from  his  teacher,  he  began,  "  So, 
li,'  then,  feeling  about  over  his  own  throat,  "  de,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pa  use,  with  an  apparent  certitude  that  he  was  saying  the  right  thing.  The 
ta^k  was  accomplished.  "  So,  li,  de — solide"  recapitulated  the  frere. 
"  Solide,"  said  the  boy  at  once,  in  three  distinct  but  connected  syllables. 

This  amiable  an^.  persevering  teacher  went  on  to  explain  to  me  that 
having  achieved  the  pronunciation-  of  the  consonant,  he  should  be  able 
after  some  little  time  to  get  the  lad  to  pronounce  the  word  as  it  should  be 
in  good  French,  with  a  less  emphasis  upon  the  last  syllable.  But  this 
final  e  mute  of  the  French  language  was,  he  said,  one  of  their  chief  diffi- 
culties, inasmuch  as  it  ought  in  correct  speech  to  slip  almost  inaudibly 

VOL.  xvi. — NO.  96.  ^  84. 


698  DUMB  MEN'S  SPEECH, 

off  the  tongue,  whereas  they  were  compelled  to  teach  their  boys  to  give  it 
the  same  power  as  any  other  vowel,  for  the  purpose  of  getting  its  accom- 
panying consonant  articulated.  With  characteristic  enthusiasm,  however, 
he  added,  it  was  only  a  question  of  a  little  more  trouble  afterwards  to 
soften  it  down  when  once  the  consonant  was  acquired.  While  upon  this 
subject  he  told  me  that,  as  a  rule,  certain  consonants  came  much  more 
easily  to  dumb  pupils  than  others  did.  It  appeared  that  r  was  the  easiest 
of  all.  Several  little  fellows,  who  had  only  just  been  admitted  to  the 
house,  had  already  learned  to  roll  the  r  with  a  .rapidity  and  continuity 
that  only  the  Continental  throat  can  accomplish.  And  it  is  no  injustice 
to  them  to  say  that  their  newly- acquired  power  was  one  which  they  never 
seemed  to  be  tired  of  exercising.  In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  four  or 
five  of  these  youngsters  rolled  out  enough  ?-'s  to  supply  all  the  speeches  of 
a  parliamentary  session. 

But  when  the  consonants  were  safely  disposed  of,  the  vowels  were 
sometimes  hardly  less  troublesome  than  these.  In  the  rudimentary  stages 
of  this  novel  education,  mistakes  about  the  vowels  were  frequent ;  for 
example,  do  got  pronounced  da,  me  was  mistaken  for  mi, — making  some- 
times a  curious  jargon  out  of  a  familiar  word.  But  the  same  calm  per- 
severance on  the  part  of  the  frere  which  vanquished  the  consonants, 
seemed  to  make  short  work  of  the  less  formidable  obstinacy  of  a  vowel ; 
and  in  no  case  did  I  see  him  baffled  in  his  endeavour  to  impart  a  correct 
apprehension  of  the  sound.  Indeed  it  was  surprising  to  see  how  quickly 
he  taught  them  to  read  the  motions  of  his  lips  and  to  utter  monosyllables 
in  reply.  Within  a  short  period  from  their  admission  I  found  boys  who 
could  correct  an  error  of  this  kind :  the  frere  would  take  up  a  pen,  and 
with  an  air  of  interrogation  would  say  to  a  boy,  "  C'est  un  porte-crayon," 
and  the  boy  would  smile  and  shake  his  head,  and  say  "  plume." 

The  next  stage  of  this  singular  education  was  the  acquisition  of  short, 
simple  sentences.  With  this  aim,  not  only  the  black-board,  but  pictures 
also  were  freely  used.  The  practice  in  this  department  was  to  select  some 
object  and  teach  the  pupils  to  enumerate  the  leading  qualities  and  attributes 
of  it.  Thus,  for  example,  a  picture  of  an  inkstand  was  under  discussion 
at  the  moment  of  our  visit ;  and  on  the  black-board  were  chalked  such 
sentences  as  these :  L'encrier  est  rond ;  L'encrier  est  noir ;  L'encrier  est 
ouvert.  A  picture  of  a  three-horse  diligence  furnished  material  for  another 
lesson.  In  the  picture  the  leading  horse  was  grey  and  the  two  others  were 
black ;  and  the  relative  positions  of  these  animals  supplied  endless  remarks. 
By  their  answers  and  comments  the  boys  showed  that  they  had  the  clearest 
understanding  of  the  whole  matter.  WTien  they  were  asked  the  colour  of 
the  front  horse,  they  replied  "  gris ;  "  when  the  frere  said  there  were  two 
horses  in  front  of  the  coach  and  one  behind,  they  laughed  and  contradicted 
him ;  while  a  perfect  roar  of  merriment  was  created  by  his  astounding 
assertion  that  the  three  horses  were  seated  on  the  top  of  the  coach. 

After  satisfying  us  upon  the  rudimentary  processes  of  his  establishment, 
Frere  Cyrille  conducted  us  to  the  room  where  his  own  class  of  advanced 


DUMB  MEN'S  SPEECH.  699 

pupils  was  assembled.  Here  we  found  some  twenty  youths  of  all  ages 
from  about  nine  to  eighteen,  who  rose  as  we  entered,  and,  expecting  as 
I  was  to  find  a  room  full  of  halMumb  people,  I  must  say  almost  startled  me 
by  greeting  us  with  a  perfectly  articulate  "  Bonjour,  messieurs."  If  these 
ycung  men  had  formerly  been  dumb  and  were  actually  at  this  moment 
stone-deaf,  here  seemed  to  be  an  unmistakable  triumph  for  the  system  of 
Frere  Cyrille.  We  proceeded  to  test  it.  He  explained  to  his  class  that  we 
wore  simply  visitors,  who,  out  of  sympathy  with  them  and  a  kindly  interest, 
had  come  to  witness  their  progress.  "  Asseyez-vous,  monsieur,"  said  this 
vivacious  little  man,  handing  me  his  chair;  then  turning  to  his  class, 
"  Attention  !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper.  Here  was  the 
thing  which  brought  out  the  fact  of  their  present  deafness.  Whatever 
suspicion  one  might  have  had  before  that  these  pupils  could  after  all, 
pa-haps,  hear  a  little,  if  only  quite  a  little,  just  to  help  things  out,  this  was 
al.  blown  to  the  winds  in  a  moment  by  the  whisper  of  that  one  word  and 
the  visible  effect  it  produced  upon  the  faces  in  all  parts  of  the  room.  Here 
was  demonstration  of  deafness  which  could  not  be  gainsayed.  If  these  people 
should  prove  themselves  able  to  hold  a  conversation,  it  must  be  with  the 
ej  e  alone,  one  could  not  help  admitting,  through  which  they  would  appre- 
h(nd  the  meaning  of  another.  Frere  Cyrille  felt  that  so  unusual  a 
procedure  required  notice.  "  Monsieur  will  understand,"  he  said  to  me 
in  explanation,  "  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  fatigue  myself  by  speaking 
load,  as  ordinary  teachers  must ;  to  them  it  is  indifferent  whether  I  thunder 
or  whisper,  and  for  me  the  latter  is  easier."  He  continued  accordingly  in 
the  same  very  subdued  voice,  which  was  only  just  audible  even  to  me,  sitting, 
as  I  was,  close  to  him,  and  giving  me  thereby  every  moment  accumulating 
pi  oof,  which  I  could  not  help  feeling  was  thoroughly  conclusive,  that  the 
assembly  was  really  deaf.  "  Attention  !  "  once  more.  "  Je  me  propose  de 
v( -yager  jusqu'a  Londres,  et  je  voyagerai  tout  le  long  par  le  chemin  de 
fee."  Some  of  the  young  men  laughed,  some  shrugged  their  shoulders. 
"  Mais  pourquoi  non  ?  "  said  Frere  Cyrille. 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  possible,"  replied  several  voices. 

"Eh  bien,  comment  dois-je  voyager  ?  "  continued  Cyrille,  addressing 
one  of  the  most  eager-looking  of  the  group. 

"  Chemin  de  fer  jusqu'a  Ostende,"  he  rejoined  unhesitatingly. 

"Et  apres  ca?" 

"  Bateau- a- vapeur,"  was  the  immediate  reply. 

Frere  Cyrille  then  undertook  to  go  over  some  of  the  ground  they  had 
traversed  in  the  course  of  that  morning's  lessons.  His  instruction  was 
exceedingly  clever,  but  the  subjects  were  not  of  any  particular  interest. 
There  was  one  question,  however,  which  was  amusingly  illustrative  of  a 
little  piece  of  national  vanity ;  and  when  I  heard  the  cut-and-dried  answer 
to  it,  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  it  did  not  contain  the  very  fact 
to  which  the  French  troops  were  making  a  sarcastic  allusion  at  Waterloo, 
when  they  coupled  the  Belgians  with  the  epithet  which  has  never  left  them, 
— les  braves  Beiges.  Selecting  the  youth  who  was  to  reply, — "  Comment 

84—2 


700  DtiMB  MEN'S  SPEECS. 

Cesar  a-t-il  rcndu  la  justice  a  nos  ancetres  ?  "  Frere  Cyrille  asked.  The 
answer  was  given  with  a  mechanical  precision  which  almost  suggested  that 
both  question  and  answer  had  been  learned  from  a  catechism.  "  II  a  dit  dans 
ses  Commentaires  que  les  Beiges  sont  le  peuple  le  plus  brave  de  la  Gaule." 
So  long,  however,  as  the  questions  were  asked  by  the  teacher  himself, 
there  was  obviously  the  risk  of  a  suspicion  in  the  spectator's  mind  that 
these  dumb  people  had  not  been  really  taught  to  speak  with  the  freedom 
which  is  indispensable  for  speech  being  of  any  practical  use,  but  rather 
that  by  dint  of  an  almost  inconceivable  amount  of  labour  they  had  been 
crammed,  like  parrots,  with  a  few  select  phrases,  which,  upon  occasion,  they 
could  parade  before  a  wondering  stranger.  Frere  Cyrille  was  far  too  acute 
a  man  for  the  liability  of  such  a  suspicion  to  escape  him  ;  and,  by  virtue 
of  his  integrity,  he  could  afford  to  challenge  it.  He  was  polite  enough  to 
offer  me  the  opportunity  of  verifying  his  results. 

"But  monsieur  will  converse  with  them  himself;  his  voice  is  quite 
strange  to  them,  yet  if  he  will  speak  with  only  ordinary  distinctness,  they 
will  understand  him  perfectly  well,  and  will  make  him  replies."  Now 
this  was  very  polite,  but  it  was  rather  a  trial  for  me  as  well  as  for  them. 
The  youth  sitting  at  my  elbow,  to  whom  I  should  most  naturally  address 
any  remark  I  had  to  make,  happened  to  be,  by  a  considerable  difference, 
the  smallest  and  youngest  boy  in  the  room.  One  may  get  on  with  tho 
adult  world  of  the  Continent  pretty  well,  but  it  is  not  always  pleasant  to 
have  to  air  your  French  to  a  youngster  whose  legs  are  dangling  from  his 
chair.  You  are  apt  to  become  sensible  in  the  midst  of  it  that  the  proceed- 
ing is  not  altogether  the  most  dignified  one  in  which  you  might  be 
engaged.  However,  it  had  to  be  done,  so  I  began  at  once  to  the  little 
fellow  next  me,  asking  the  simplest  of  all  possible  questions,  both  for  my 
own  sake  and  for  his.  "  Mon  enfant,  quel  age  avez-vous?"  I  said, 
dividing  the  syllables  carefully  and  distinctly.  I  naturally  was  prepared 
to  find  that  the  utterance  of  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner  might  occasion  him 
some  little  difficulty,  and  should  accordingly  have  been  very  well  satisfied 
with  a  somewhat  hesitating  reply.  My  surprise  was  proportionately  great 
when  he  instantly  tossed  it  off  in  a  clear  and  agreeable  voice,  "  J'ai  neuf 
ans,  monsieur."  But  this  was  not  all.  In  answer  to  my  surprise,  Frere 
Cyrille  assured  me  that  so  complete  was  the  education  of  the  eye  and  the 
responsiveness  of  the  tongue  under  his  system,  that  if  something  were  said 
to  them  in  a  language  which  they  did  not  understand,  these  youths  would 
be  able  to  repeat  the  words  after  the  speaker.  "  For  example,"  he  continued, 
"  you  will  easily  believe  that  they  do  not  know  one  single  word  of  English  ; 
we  have  quite  enough  to  do  to  acquire  our  vernacular  French  and  Nether- 
landish ;  yet  if  you  select  one  of  my  pupils  and  say  something  in  English, 
he  will  be  able  to  say  it  after  you."  Accordingly,  I  selected  one  of  them, 
and  said  to  him,  Cler-gy-man.  Cler-gy-man  immediately  said  the  youth, 
with  a  perfect  articulation,  but  without  having  the  faintest  idea  of  what  he 
was  talking  about. 

The  examples  I  have,  enumerated  here  are  some  only  out  of  many 


DUMB  MEN'S   SPEECH.  701 

similar  tests  which  I  applied  to  ascertain  the  degree  to  which  the  power  of 
speech  had  been  developed  by  human  agency  in  these  dumb  people.  By 
tl.eir  uniform  success  I  was  compelled  to  admit  that  the  fact  of  their  ability 
to  converse  freely  upon  any  given  topic  was  indisputably  established. 
That,  of  course,  was  patent.  But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  believe  that  these 
djimb-born  youths  who  now  were  conversing  with  you  in  this  glib  fashion, 
were  still,  one  and  all,  perfectly  stone-deaf.  The  completeness  of  their 
speech  and  the  readiness  of  their  replies,  almost  prevented  your  believing 
that  they  could  not  hear.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  quite  impossible 
to  believe  this  but  for  the  fact  that  they  were  manifestly  independent  of 
the  sense  of  hearing.  Their  replies,  both  to  Frere  Cyrille  and  to  myself, 
made  it  evident  that  they  understood  us  equally  well,  whether  we  spoke  in 
oar  ordinary  voice  or  whether  we  employed  a  whisper,  moving  the  lips 
only,  but  producing  no  sound  perceptible  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
The  eye  was  evidently  their  organ  of  apprehension.  Frere  Cyrille  could 
toach  them  to  speak,  but  he  could  not  teach  them  to  hear. 

As  for  the  tone  of  the  voices  in  which  they  spoke,  I  remarked  almost 
every  shade  of  quality  amongst  them — from  the  most  natural  and  agree- 
able voice  of  an  ordinary  speaker  down  to  the  most  hideous  parody  of  a 
\oice,  accompanied  with  a  struggling  effort  at  articulation  which  certainly 
vas  generally  intelligible,  but  always  painful  to  a  spectator.  This  latter, 
Lowever,  was  extremely  rare.  I  think  I  saw  only  two  instances  of  it 
through  the  whole  house ;  and  in  both  it  was  the  index  of  malformation. 
In  the  majority  of  cases  the  voices  were  like  ordinary  voices,  varying,  as 
ethers  do,  in  degrees  of  pleasantness,  but  presenting  no  character  which 
would  suggest  that  they  belonged  to  people  who  once  were  dumb. 

One  curious  fact  was  mentioned  to  me  by  Frere  Cyrille.  He  said  that 
lie  found  more  difficulty  with  those  who  had  become  deaf-and-dumb 
{subsequently  to  birth  than  with  those  who  were  so  born.  I  found  also 
1hat,  next  to  the  one  or  two  instances  of  malformation,  the  worst  speakers 
were  those  who  had  lost  their  voice  from  disease.  Possibly  their  memories 
of  sound;  slender  though  they  might  be,  disqualified  them  for  that 
assiduous  and  undivided  attention  to  the  culture  of  the  eye  which  the  rest 
3iad  no  alternative  but  to  give.  Whether  this  be  so  or  otherwise,  Frere 
Cyrille  seemed  to  attach  no  small  importance  to  having  a  monopoly  of  his 
pupils'  entire  energy  for  this  one  aim — speaking  with  the  mouth.  He 
spoke  as  though  a  division  of  their  efforts — part  being  directed  to  this  and 
part  to  learning  the  language  of  signs — would  have  been  fatal  to  his 
prospects  of  success.  Accordingly,  the  ordinary  practice  of  conversing 
with  the  fingers  was  totally  banished  from  the  institution.  There  was  no 
encouragement  of  a  dumb  youth  on  his  first  admission  to  make  use  of  his 
fingers  until  such  time  as  he  could  learn  the  use  of  his  tongue  ;  but  from 
the  very  first  his  instruction  was  entirely  based  upon  articulate  speech, 
and  his  power  of  communicating  with  his  fellows  was  measured  by  his 
success  in  acquiring  it. 

It  was  marvellous  to  see  bow  speedily  this  unity  of  purpose  achieved 


702  DUMB  MEN'S  SPEECH. 

its  end.  In  the  space  of  a  year  and  a  half  these  deaf,  but  no  longer 
dumb,  lads  learned  to  speak  perfectly  well,  after  which  their  newly- 
acquired  art  was  employed  upon  the  usual  branches  of  education.  It 
would  be  almost  too  much,  perhaps,  to  say  that  there  are  absolutely  no 
cases  of  dumbness,  apart  from  malformation,  in  which  an  attempt  to  teach 
the  art  of  speech  would  be  a  failure.  But  Frere  Cyrille  did  not  seem  to 
think  that  there  was  any  case  in  which  it  would  be  impossible.  He  would 
not  despair  even  of  the  most  unpromising.  While  speaking  to  him 
on  this  part  of  the  subject,  he  told  me  a  little  story  which  illustrated  it. 
A  peasant  had  recently  brought  to  him  his  little  son,  a  boy  of  seven  years 
old,  who  never  had  either  heard  or  spoken.  The  poor  fellow  was  in  the 
greatest  distress  at  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  his  son's  case.  His 
coming  to  the  home  of  these  amiable  brethren  was  but  a  forlorn  hope. 
"Ah,  sir,"  he  said  to  Frere  Cyrille,  "I've  been  advised  to  come  and  hear 
what  you  have  to  say,  but  you'll  be  able  to  do  nothing  with  him.  I've  had 
him  with  me  these  seven  years,  and  I  can't  get  a  sound  out  of  him." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  we  can  try,"  was  the  reply ;  "  and  if  you  will 
wait,  we  will  have  the  first  lesson  in  your  presence." 

"  So,"  said  Frere  Cyrille  to  me,  "  I  placed  myself  in  front  of  the  boy, 
directed  his  attention  to  my  lips,  and  articulated  to  him  pe  " — the  e  was 
sounded  as  the  French  e  mute — "  till  at  last  the  boy  began  to  say  pe  too. 
I  advanced  a  step  farther,  and  the  end  was  that,  after  the  patience  of  a 
few  minutes,  the  boy  said  papa  to  his  father  before  he  left  the  room." 
The  latter  was  at  once  amazed  and  delighted  with  such  a  result.  He 
gladly  and  gratefully  confided  his  boy  to  the  protection  of  the  brethren, 
and  at  the  period  of  my  visit  to  them  the  boy  was  in  a  fair  way  of  learning 
to  speak  freely  and  distinctly. 

Incredible  as  such  results  as  these  appear,  the  possibility  of  achieving 
them  was  long  ago  foreseen.  I  have  in  my  possession  an  old  book  in  the 
Latin  language,  printed  in  Germany  so  early  as  1667,  in  which  the  author 
urges  a  priori  arguments  which  led  him  to  expect  that  the  making  a  dumb 
man  speak  was  quite  within  the  limits  of  the  possible,  and  then  adds  the 
etory  of  a  man  in  whose  case  he  actually  realized  the  possibility.  Curiously 
enough,  this  learned  gentleman  goes  on  to  prove  that  the  languages  of  the 
East — and  more  particularly  the  Hebrew  language — are  more  readily 
acquired  by  a  dumb  man  than  the  languages  of  Europe,  our  own  English 
tongue  being  branded  as  notoriously  the  most  unintelligible  of  all.  The 
reasoning  is  singular.  The  whole  position  is,  of  course,  rested  upon  the 
old  exploded  belief  that  square-headed  Hebrew  was  the  one  primaeval 
language  spoken  by  man  in  the  days  of  his  early  innocence.  The  modern 
square-headed  characters  (without  apparently  a  suspicion  that  there  was 
any  earlier  type)  are  derived  from  the  forms  which  the  human  tongue 
assumes  in  articulating  the  several  letters  of  the  Hebrew  language  ;  hence 
the  human  tongue  has  a  natural  aptitude  for  that  language  above  all  others. 
Throw  in  the  consideration  that  the  broad  vowels  of  the  East  cannot  be 
skipped  over  with  that  indecorous  glibness  to  which  the  vowels  of  our  less 


DUMB  MEN'S  SPEECH.  703 

dignified  Western  speech  fall  such  victims,  and  JOTI  have  a  complete  proof 
that  the  dumb  can  be  easily  taught  to  speak  Hebrew  !  So,  at  any  rate, 
this  learned  German  proves  it  to  his  own  satisfaction ,  if  not  to  ours.  But 
though  we  may  be  at  liberty  to  dissent  from  the  details  of  his  conclusion, 
distorted  as  they  were  by  the  cramped  views  of  philological  science  then 
prevalent,  yet  there  is  no  doubt  that,  in  his  prediction  of  the  possibility  of 
teaching  the  dumb  to  articulate  with  the  lips,  and  to  converse  at  will  with 
their  contemporaries,  he  was  entirely  right.  The  receptivity  of  the  taught 
has,  since  his  time,  been  demonstrated  by  experiment  in  numerous  and 
varied  instances.  The  requisite  qualifications  of  the  teacher  it  might  not 
be  so  easy  to  secure.  This  was  the  only  respect  in  which  the  institution 
I  have  been  describing  was  really  exceptional.  Frere  Cyrille  and  his 
confreres  were  not  ordinary  men.  Such  labours  as  theirs  money  could  not 
buy.  No  hireling  services  could  ever  fix  themselves  upon  their  end  with 
that  intensity  of  purpose  which  is  indispensable  to  the  success  of  such  a 
task.  The  earlier  stages  of  it  seem  as  hopeless  as  the  actual  results 
•ire  (it  must  be  confessed)  incredible.  The  patience  which  they  demand  is 
something  quite  beyond  the  reach  of  ordinary  men.  "  Monsieur  will  havo 
to  say  it  fifty  times,"  I  remarked  commiseratingly  to  one  of  these 
brethren  as  he  was  drumming  a  syllable  into  a  speechless  little  creature. 
"  Ah  ma  foi,  often  five  hundred  and  fifty  times,"  was  his  reply.  No  mere 
salaried  labour  would  be  likely  to  face  a  prospect  such  as  that.  Nothing 
but  a  conviction,  nothing  but  a  conscious  self-sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  an 
idea — for  it  is  ideas  and  not  material  expectations  that  are,  after  all,  the 
most  potent  influence  upon  individuals  as  well  as  upon  nations — nothing 
but  the  enthusiasm  of  an  idea,  and  that  too  a  religious  idea,  could  vitalize 
the  energies  of  a  man  under  the  irksomeness  of  a  drudgery  like  that. 
These  men  were  doing  it  for  the  sake  of  their  religion,  and  that  was  the 
secret  of  their  success.  This  work  was  simply  the  particular  expression  of 
religious  devotion  which  they  had  chosen  to  adopt.  It  was  the  one  thing 
they  had  to  think  of,  the  one  object  they  had  to  live  for ;  and  in  this  unity 
of  purpose  lay  their  strength.  The  same  feelings  amongst  ourselves  might 
not  express  themselves  in  precisely  the  same  forms  in  which  theirs  are 
clothed ;  but  this  theory  of  success  we  should  be  obliged  to  learn  from 
them.  An  acquaintance  with  such  results  as  theirs  might  have  the  effect 
of  modifying,  might  even  almost  revolutionize,  our  own  practice  in  the 
treatment  of  the  dumb.  There  can  be  no  reason  why  our  own  dumb 
should  not  be  taught  to  speak  and  so  be  rescued  from  that  terrible  isolation 
which  has  been  hitherto  accepted  as  their  destiny,  just  as  well  as  these 
Continental  mutes.  But  if  they  are  to  be  so  taught,  the  task  will  be 
accomplished,  not  by  the  sort  of  man  who  would  do  well  enough  for  the 
mere  routine  of  keeping  boys  in  order,  giving  a  few  hours'  languid  brain- 
less attendance  in  return  for  a  scanty  maintenance,  but  by  men  of  ability, 
of  enthusiasm,  and,  above  all,  of  self-control ;  by  men  of  large  intellectual 
resources,  who  approach  it  not  as  an  instrument  of  remuneration,  but  as  a 
labour  of  Christian  love. 


704 


IT  is  unquestionable  that  in  many  respects  the  difference  between  town 
and  country  people  which  was  notorious  half  a  century  ago,  has 
been  gradually  rubbed  off  by  the  more  rapid  communication  now  esta- 
blished between  London  and  the  provinces,  as  well  as  by  the  expansion 
of  journalism  and  the  diffusion  of  literature.  It  is  impossible  for 
the  rising  generation  of  the  present  day,  even  in  the  remotest  rural 
districts,  to  grow  up  in  that  contempt  for  city  life  which  was  embodied 
in  the  word  "  cockney,"  and  that  complete  independence  and  self- 
reliance  which  were  common  in  the  reign  of  George  III.  All  peculiarities 
of  dress,  moreover,  have  now  totally  disappeared ;  and  a  majority  of 
the  ancient  customs  are  fast  upon  the  wane.  That  with  these  has  dis- 
appeared, too,  something  of  that  simple  politeness  and  that  natural 
dignity  for  which  the  better  class  of  our  farmers  and  peasantry  were  once 
distinguished,  is  what  few  will  be  surprised  to  hear  who  know  the  effects 
produced  on  unrefined  natures  by  their  first  introduction  to  a  new  and 
more  advanced  civilization.  Moreover,  when  every  man's  place  is  fixed, 
so  that  he  has  no  ambition  to  rise  beyond  it,  his  manners  are  naturally 
easier  and  his  self-respect  and  self-possession  more  complete  than  when  he 
is  agitated  by  doubts  of  his  real  position  in  society,  and  uncertain  whether 
every  individual  who  speaks  to  him  be  not  underrating  his  pretensions. 
That  old  rustic  dignity,  then,  which  was  once  unquestionably  a  fact,  and 
a  mark  of  difference  between  himself  and  the  townsman  which  the 
countryman  was  entitled  to  set  down  to  the  credit  side  of  the  account,  is 
now  almost  extinct — extinct,  like  that  home-brewed  ale,  a  liquor  of  super- 
lative merit  to  be  found  only  in  farm-houses,  which  has  now  given  way 
before  the  mightier  currents  of  Bass  and  Allsopp,  irrigating  both  town  and 
country  with  equal  stream,  and  swamping  local  independence  even  in  the 
matter  of  beer. 

But  notwithstanding  the  obliteration  of  many  personal  peculiarities 
and  provincial  habits  which  formerly  made  town  and  country  people  so 
different  from  each  other  that  you  could  distinguish  them  at  a  moment's 
notice,  there  is  still  left  in  rural  life  enough  character  of  its  own  to  make  it 
an  interesting  study  ;  while  the  moral  differences  which  have  always 
existed  between  the  two  classes  of  the  community  are  probably  far  less 
weakened  than  even  the  physical  and  intellectual  ones. 

Among  old  customs  which  are  gradually  perishing  from  among  the 
•pagani  of  these  islands,  two  of  the  most  pleasing  are  the  harvest-home  and 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  705 

the  village  Feast  or  wake.  What  sort  of  thing  an  old-fashioned  harvest-homo 
really  was  our  readers  may  learn  for  themselves  out  of  Adam  Bede  BO  much 
better  than  we  can  describe  it,  that  we  shall  attempt  no  picture  of  it 
here.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  substitution  for  it  of  one  common 
festival,  celebrated  by  the  whole  village  under  the  auspices  of  the  clergy- 
man, and  preceded  by  service  in  the  church,  is  just  of  a  piece  with  most  of 
tho  other  changes  which  country  life  has  undergone.  It  tends  to  banish  a 
certain  degree  of  coarseness  at  the  expense  of  a  certain  degree  of  heartiness. 
Tbe  personal  relation  between  master  and  man  is  not  so  closely  kept  up 
unler  the  new  system  ;  but  it  has  more  religion  and  less  beer  than  the  old 
ono  ;  while  the  presence  of  the  village  girls,  which  is  facilitated  by  the 
modern  custom,  must  be  allowed  to  add  something  to  its  poetic  and 
picturesque  side.  However,  about  this  modern  harvest-home  there  is 
little  or  nothing  that  is  peculiar.  The  dinner  which  is  eaten,  and  the 
amusements  which  follow  the  dinner  differ  in  no  respect  from  the  dinner 
ani  amusements  which  a  rnillowner  might  provide  for  his  mechanics.  The 
old  racy  Sabine  humour  of  the  feast  has  evaporated  by  exposure  to  im- 
provement; but  the  gain  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  may  be  taken  to 
outweigh  the  loss.  The  wake  or  feast,  however,  where  it  still  flourishes, 
flourishes  externally  unchanged,  though  the  worm  perhaps  is  busy  at  the 
core.  This  festival  is  held  in  honour  of  the  saint  to  whom  the  village  church 
is  dedicated ;  but  few  traces  of  its  origin  survive  in  the  forms  of  its  observ- 
ance. It  is  ushered  in,  indeed,  by  a  more  than  usually  full  attendance  at 
church  on  the  first  day  of  the  week,  but  that  is  owing  partly  to  the  influx 
of  visitors  and  partly  from  a  tradition  which  still  lingers  in  the  country, 
that  going  to  church  is  a  mark  of  being  at  ease  and  at  leisure,  and  is 
befitting  the  season  when  people  get  their  new  clothes  and  are  going  to 
have  meat  every  day.  When  the  church  music  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
village  band,  the  demonstration  upon  "  Feast  Sunday"  was  of  the  most 
imposing  character.  It  was  preceded  by  weeks  of  hard  practice,  and 
culminated  in  a  concert  of  brass  instruments  and  throats  "  more 
brazen  still  than  they,"  which  was  the  admiration  of  the  entire 
parish.  The  bass  fiddle,  the  bugle,  the  bassoon,  the  trombone,  the 
flageolet,  and  even  the  fife  were  in  their  full  glory,  and  the  only  member 
of  the  choir  who  secretly  depreciated  the  performance  was  the  big  drum, 
who  felt  himself  perforce  to  be  a  kind  of  profane  and  irreligious  character 
as  he  listened  on  that  day  to  the  jubilant  bursts  of  melody  in  which 
he  was  deemed  unworthy  to  join.  But  his  revenge  was  at  hand.  By 
five  o'clock  on  Monday  morning,  if  the  time  is  summer,  as  soon  as  it 
is  light  in  winter,  the  band  musters  in  the  village  street,  and  begins  its 
rounds  to  the  neighbouring  villages  and  farmhouses.  In  this  procession 
the  drum — if  we  may  be  allowed  the  bull — is  decidedly  first  fiddle,  as 
he  makes  a  great  deal  more  noise  and  gets  a  larger  share  of  beer  than 
any  of  the  other  performers.  The  band  usually  returns  to  the  scene  of 
rejoicing  towards  "dinnertime,"  i.  e.,  between  twelve  and  one,  and  devotes 

34—5 


706  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

the  afternoon  to  playing  in  front  of  the  principal  houses  in  the  village, 
and  on  the  lawn  before  the  hall,  and  the  parsonage.  It  is  the  invariable 
custom  on  such  occasions  to  reward  them  with  both  drink  and  money ; 
so  that  by  the  time  their  services  are  required  for  the  "ball"  in 
the  club-room  of  the  public-house,  they  are  in  excellent  spirits  for  the 
occasion.  Here  "  dancing  is  kept  up  with  great  spirit "  till  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  favourite  dances  being  somewhat 
unrecognizable  imitations  of  country  dances  and  Scotch  reels.  The  second 
day  is  a  repetition  of  the  first,  and  then  the  revelry  begins  to  slacken. 
The  pulse  of  the  big  drum  becomes  feeble  and  intermittent ;  vacant  spaces 
may  be  observed  in  the  row  of  booths ;  the  children  still  hang  about  them, 
but  with  downcast  looks,  as  conscious  of  having  fallen  greatly  in  the 
estimation  of  the  cake  woman  and  the  showman,  with  the  disappearance 
of  their  last  copper.  By  slow  degrees  the  village  falls  back  into  its  usual 
tranquility,  and  by  the  end  of  the  week  nobody  would  imagine  that  the 
great  saturnalia  of  the  year  had  so  recently  terminated.  The  gaieties  of 
the  season,  however,  are  not  confined  to  music  and  dancing.  We  have 
mentioned  cakes  and  shows — which  are  for  the  children  and  girls,  it  being 
the  fashion  for  the  men  to  affect  a  kind  of  superiority  to  the  attractions  of 
the  van.  These  consist  of  the  usual  sights  on  such  occasions  :  monsters 
with  six  legs,  ladies  with  pigs'  faces,  and  sometimes  a  Scriptooral  animal,  as 
the  unicorn  or  leviathan,  which  we  have  known  to  be  exhibited  to  the  rustics. 
Occasionally,  however^  an  attempt  at  a  panorama  is  produced,  and  even  a 
real  play,  in  which  spangled  robes,  swords,  mustachios,  and  long  words 
quite  supersede  the  necessity  for  anything  in  the  shape  of  plot.  Waxwork, 
too,  is  introduced  every  now  and  then ;  and  for  the  price  of  one  penny 
the  humblest  child  may  make  acquaintance  with  all  our  most  distinguished 
native  murderers. 

There  was  a  time — not  many  years  ago — when  the  Feast  was  really  to 
English  villagers  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  gaiety  and  amusement ;  when  their 
aspirations  were  bounded  by  it ;  and  when,  indeed,  they  had  no  other  way 
of  spending  any  little  savings  they  could  effect  out  of  their  weekly  wages. 
But  the  institution  of  excursion  trains  has  emptied  the  pockets  and 
opened  the  minds  of  the  peasantry.  They,  perhaps,  no  longer  relish 
the  pleasures  of  the  feast  so  keenly,  and  having  less  to  spend  cannot  keep 
them  up  so  well.  The  poorest  family  in  the  village  would  consider  itself 
disgraced  if  there  were  not  a  piece  of  beef  in  the  cupboard  throughout 
the  feast  week,  to  be  produced  to  every  visitor  that  came.  And  how  can 
they  contrive  this  if  the  money  has  been  spent  elsewhere.  The  girls  out 
at  service,  too,  who  come  home  for  their  holiday  at  the  Feast,  cannot 
dress  as  now  becomes  their  station  and  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  society 
without  exhausting  the  resources  once  available  for  home  amusement.  Of 
course  the  time  is  much  further  off  when  the  farmers  of  the  parish  entered 
into  this  festivity.  But  it  is  not  so  long  ago  but  what  the  present 
writer  can  remember  it.  From  twenty -five  to  thirty  years  since  a  few 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  707 

c  Id  farmers  still  remained  who  killed  the  fatted  calf  and  assembled  all 
their  friends  around  them  at  the  village  Feast.  But  this  custom  began 
to  die  out  with  the  grandfathers  of  the  present  generation  ;  and  we  should 
r  Imoet  fear  that  its  grandchildren  will  live  to  see  the  wake  improved  off 
the  face  of  tho  country.  In  some  parts  of  England  already  wakes 
havo  been  extinct  for  many  years,  and  it  is  forgotten  that  they  ever 
Nourished. 

Next  in  importance  to  the  village  feast  is  the  anniversary  of  the  village 
( lub  ;  and  this  is  the  occasion  of  rejoicing,  which  it  is  more  especially  the 
( lergyman's  function  to  endeavour  to  improve.  The  club  goes  to  church 
in  the  morning  with  wands  and  banners,  when  a  sensible  and  experienced 
preacher  has  an  opportunity  of  making  some  impression  on  them.  They 
rfterwards  dine  together  at  the  village  inn,  with  the  clergyman  at  the  head 
of  the  table  and  one  of  the  farmers  at  the  bottom.  As  on  these  occasions 
the  great  men  of  the  village  are  the  guests,  and  not  the  entertainers  of  tho 
people,  they  occasionally  find  it  somewhat  difficult  to  keep  the  wit  of 
the  company  within  decorous  bounds  till  such  time  as  they  can  decently 
i  otire.  On  the  whole,  however,  the  men  are  generally  well  behaved  ;  and 
when  we  consider  that  to  many  of  them  roast  fillets  of  veal  and  batter 
puddings  are  viands  too  delicious  almost  to  be  realised,  which  they  only 
taste  once  a  year,  and  which  they  are  actually  paying  for  with  their  own 
uoney,  we  may  easily  forgive  them  a  little  boisterousness  of  animal 
spirits.  The  feast,  the  club,  the  harvest  home,  and  the  "statties"  are 
the  four  principal  events  of  village  life  in  the  eyes  of  the  poor.  But 
Plough-Monday  and  the  Fifth  of  November  are  still,  in  some  retired  spots, 
days  of  considerable  importance.  Plough-Monday  is,  as  the  name  imparts, 
the  festival  of  the  ploughmen,  and  in  former  times  the  celebration  of  it 
was  confined  to  them.  The  younger  ploughmen  in  the  village,  dressed  as 
Masquers,  went  round  to  all  the  chief  houses  of  the  place,  and  performed 
f  kind  of  mystic  dance,  of  which  the  effect  was  greatly  heightened  by  a 
I  performance  on  the  cow's  horn,  wielded  by  the  most  active  of  the  party, 
end  one  dressed  in  the  most  fantastic  style.  Both  the  dresses,  and  tho 
dances,  and  the  horn  were  probably  symbolical  of  something,  but  of  what 
the  present  writer  knoweth  not.  However,  the  men  have  now  become 
£  shamed  of  joining  in  this  time-honoured  ceremony,  which  has  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  children,  their  seniors  contenting  themselves  with  going 
round  quietly  in  the  evening  for  the  usual  donation  to  their  supper.  On 
the  Fifth  of  November  the  old  song  is  still  sung,  and  a  pile  of  faggots 
still  consumed,  to  commemorate  the  wickedness  of  Popery,  in  a  few  of  our 
l)ss  advanced  districts,  where  the  prevailing  idea  of  the  Pope  would 
cstonish  that  quiet  old  gentleman  not  a  little.  But  the  practice  is  fast 
dying  out ;  and  we  might,  add,  perhaps,  the  faster  the  better.  The 
'•statty,"  as  our  readers,  perhaps,  are  aware,  is  an  abbreviation  of 
statute  fair,  or  the  half-yearly  hiring  of  farm  servants,  which  is  still  kept 
up  in  many  places,  though  the  feeling  of  tho  day  now  sets  decidedly 


708  COUNTBY  LIFE. 

against  it.  On  these  occasions  the  young  men  and  women  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood all  flock  together  to  the  appointed  centre  and  stand  in  tho 
market-place  for  hire,  the  particular  service  which  they  seek  being 
indicated  by  some  badge.  For  instance,  the  youth  who  aspires  to  the 
honourable  situation  of  carter  signifies  his  capabilities  by  wearing  a  piece 
of  whipcord  in  his  cap.  The  votaries  of  Pan  are  known  by  a  bunch  of 
wool.  The  girl  who  would  be  housemaid  decorates  her  bonnet  with  a  sprig 
of  broom.  And  both  sexes  alike,  when  they  have  been  hired,  pin  a  knot 
of  gaily  coloured  ribbons  on  the  breast  or  shoulders,  just  as  if  they  were 
"  a-going  for  soldiers."  When  the  business  of  the  day  is  over  the 
evening  is  devoted  to  rejoicing,  and  sometimes  to  dissipation.  The 
servants  like  this  system  because  it  gives  them  an  additional  "outing" 
in  the  year.  The  farmers  like  it  because  they  say  they  get  a  ''lot 
to  pick  from,"  and  can  compare  the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  great 
many  candidates  for  service  before  finally  engaging  them.  We  do  not 
mean  exactly  that  they  feel  them  over  as  they  would  a  horse,  or  as  their 
wives  would  thumb  a  couple  of  fowls  ;  but  they  scan  them  critically  as  the 
slave  merchant  would  have  scanned  a  batch  of  negroes,  and  naturally 
regard  them  in  no  other  light  than  that  of  animals.  This  somewhat 
degrading  system  is  now  gradually  disappearing ;  and  as  it  presents  no 
redeeming  features  in  the  eyes  of  the  most  enthusiastic  Conservative,  we 
1  trust  to  hear  very  shortly  that  it  has  entirely  vanished  from  among  us. 

It  is,  however,  among  the  class  of  tenant  farmers  that  the  changes 
which  country  life  has  undergone  are  the  most  observable ;  and,  just  in 
their  present  stage,  perhaps  the  least  attractive.  The  farmer  has  lost  a 
good  deal  of  his  ancient  simplicity  of  character,  without  having  acquired 
more  than  a  very  thin  coat  of  that  refinement  which  we  hope  is  one  day  to 
replace  it.  Farmers  no  longer,  as  a  rule,  sit  and  drink  in  the  village 
public-house.  They  no  longer  come  to  afternoon  Church  exhibiting 
unmistakable  signs  of  having  eaten  too  much  dinner.  They  are  no 
longer  entirely  illiterate  :  their  wives  and  daughters  have  pianos  and 
pony-chaises,  and  take  in  magazines.  It  is  now  no  uncommon  thing 
to  hear,  when  you  drop  into  the  village  shop  of  a  morning,  that 
Mr.  Barleycorn  (his  father  was  only  farmer  Barleycorn)  has  got  a  dinner 
party  that  evening,  a  phrase  at  one  tune  appropriated  exclusively  to  the 
"quality."  On  these  occasions,  we  believe,  the  gentlemen  hand  the 
ladies  into  dinner,  just  like  the  real  business,  and  exhibit  towards  them  a 
frank  and  facetious  gallantry,  which  would  throw  into  the  shade  the  arts  of 
the  most  accomplished  guardsman.  But  with  all  these  outer  signs  of 
progress  the  inner  man  of  the  farmer  has  not  quite  kept  pace.  His 
standard  of  morality  is  much  the  same  as  ever.  He  is  too  genteel  to  take 
his  brandy  and  water  in  company  with  the  blacksmith  and  the  carpenter ; 
but  he  is  not  above  taking  a  great  deal  of  it  in  his  own  parlour.  He  reads 
more — a  very  little  more  ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he  thinks  more, 
and  whether  his  views  of  public  questions,  of  his  own  position,  and  of  the 


COUNTBY  LIFE.  709 

relations  of  the  various  classes  of  society  towards  each  other  are  not  quite 
as  narrow  as  his  father's.  His  newspaper  may  give  him  a  little  more 
knowledge  than  he  had  in  other  times ;  but  he  has  not  yet  drunk  deep 
enough  of  the  Pierian  spring  to  acquire  anything  like  taste.  Consult  him 
on  the  building  of  a  church,  on  the  selection  of  a  hymn,  on  the  merits 
of  a  sermon,  and  with  a  little  more  pretence  you  will  find  all  the  old 
"Philistinism"  crop  up.  Hear  him  upon  labourers'  cottages,  or  the 
education  of  the  poor,  and  you  will  not  find  that  pianos,  and  papers,  and 
black  coats,  and  late  dinners  have  made  him  more  liberal  than  his  fore- 
father who,  had  a  piano  been  brought  into  his  house,  would  have  smashed 
it  to  pieces  with  the  poker ;  who  dined  in  his  kitchen  at  one  o'clock, 
had  a  sausage  with  his  tea  at  five,  supped  on  bacon  at  eight,  and  in 
summer  went  to  bed  by  daylight.  Among  the  chief  public  events  which 
give  variety  to  the  farmer's  life  are  the  w-eekly  market,  the  agricultural 
ireeting,  and  the  Visitation.  Modern  effeminacy  has  greatly  relaxed  the 
severity  of  the  conditions  under  which  markets  were  attended  formerly. 
Thirty  years  ago  the  farmer  had  to  be  at  market  by  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  beast  and  sheep  were,  in  the  winter  time,  inspected  by 
candlelight.  He  got  out  his  shambling  old  gig,  or  mounted  his  unclipped 
cob,  by  five  o'clock,  and  jogged  in  steadily  at  the  rate  of  six  miles  an  hour. 
Kow-a-days  he  starts  from  home  in  his  smart  dog-cart  as  late  as  eleven  or 
twelve  o'clock,  and  often  picks  up  the  parson  on  the  road  who  is  walking 
in  about  some  justice  business.  At  the  market  dinner,  which  is  usually 
hold  at  two  o'clock,  he  sits  down  to  a  luxurious  repast,  furnished  out  with 
fish,  game,  and  poultry,  according  to  the  season,  and  not  unfrequently 
washed  down  by  copious  libations  of  champagne.  Here  he  settles  his 
engagements  for  the  ensuing  week ;  gives  and  receives  invitations  to  shoot, 
to  course,  to  sup :  to  come  over  and  look  at  that  cow  and  have  a  bit  of 
dinner  afterwards;  to  drop  in  and  meet  Groggins  the  "Vet,"  one  night, 
and  have  a  round  at  loo  :  and  to  various  other  natural  and  congenial  diver- 
sions. For  farmers,  to  do  them  justice,  in  spite  of  their  complaints  against 
the  bad  fortune  which  has  placed  them  in  that  station  of  life,  will  allow, 
when  pressed,  that  they  do  "  enjoy  themselves."  Their  wives  are  rather 
fond  of  making  this  admission  for  them  behind  their  backs,  perhaps 
because  upon  the  whole  more  of  the  good  things  of  farming  life  fall  to  the 
man's  share  than  to  the  woman's.  But  really  a  farmer's  life  at  the  present 
day,  regarded  in  the  abstract,  is  one  of  the  most  desirable  in  the  world. 
The  class  we  are  now  writing  about  have  not  taste  and  feeling  to  appreciate 
it  properly.  But  as  far  as  the  eating  and  drinking,  riding  and  driving, 
hunting  and  shooting,  are  concerned,  they  will,  we  say,  sometimes  acknow- 
ledge that  their  lot  in  life  is  not  contemptible.  Their  complaints  are 
simply  founded  on  that  most  diverting  of  all  fallacies,  the  possibility  of 
having  one's  cake  and  eating  it.  "  If  I  had  gone  into  business  in  London," 
siid  a  young  farmer  to  us  the  other  day,  "  I  should  have  made  my  for- 
tune." "  Yes,"  we  replied,  "  but  do  not  you  perceive  that  you  are  now  in 


710  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

the  enjoyment  of  those  very  things  for  the  sake  of  which  people  want  to 
make  fortunes — a  country-house,  a  couple  of  hunters,  a  good  cellar,  a  nica 
wife,  work  which  just  sufficiently  employs  without  fatiguing  you,  and  a  lif  j 
spent  in  fresh  country  air  instead  of  the  close  atmosphere  of  towns  ? " 
Our  friend  shook  his  head,  modestly  confessing  that  he  was  not  our  equal- 
in  argument,  but  remaining  unconvinced  as  ever.  The  sua  si  bona  norint 
of  Virgil  seems  to  be  an  imperishable  truth. 

At  the  agricultural  meeting  the  farmer  goes  to  hear  his  county  member 
much  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  Hannibal  listened  to  the  Lecturer. 
This  critical  mood,  however,  extends  only  to  the  nature  of  .wurzels,  the 
quality  of  tiles,  and  the  prospects  of  wool  and  corn.  When  politics  are 
introduced,  he  listens  to  the  orator,  not,  indeed,  with  that  defferential 
faith  or  that  keen  party  spirit  which  he  once  possessed,  but  with  curiosity, 
as  he  might  listen  to  a  traveller  who  had  just  returned  from  foreign  coun- 
tries. In  matters  of  pure  politics  the  farmer  of  the  present  day  is  some- 
what of  a  Gallio.  His  moral  system  has  never  recovered  from  the  shock 
which  it  experienced  in  1846  ;  and  even  on  questions  that  more  intimately 
concern  himself  he  exhibits  but  a  languid  interest.  The  malt-tax  rouses 
him  to  only  an  ephemeral  excitement ;  he  has  but  little  faith  in  those  tha  • 
promise  its  repeal,  and  if  he  nourishes  any  strong  opinions  about  anything, 
they  are  usually  of  such  a  nature  that  he  thinks  it  better  to  keep  them  to 
himself.  He  now,  accordingly,  sits  down  at  the  town  hall  or  the  new 
exchange,  or  the  Plantagenet  Arms,  or  wherever  the  dinner  may  be  held, 
prepared  to  hear  a  political  speech  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  not  caring 
very  much  about  it.  Like  the  northern  farmer  and  his  clergyman,  so  with 
the  farmer  and  his  member.  He  supposes  he  says  what  he  is  obliged  to 
say,  and  he  listens  and  takes  his  leave. 

Bu^  probably  at  no  very  distant  date  a  different  class  of  men  -may  be 
returned  by  the  counties  from  those  which  have  been  returned  the  last  fifty 
years,  and  a  different  class  of  questions  springing  up  may  inspire  the  old 
blues  and  yellows  with  something  of  their  former  vitality.  The  Visitation, 
however,  is  the  ceremony  which  after  all,  perhaps,  is  the  most  imposing 
to  the  rural  mind.  A  general  gathering  of  churchwardens  to  pay  fees  anil 
hear  advice  is  of  course  concluded  with  a  dinner,  at  which,  in  all  probability, 
some  very  remarkable  and  striking  theories  of  the  episcopal  office  are  occa- 
sionally broached.  A  bishop  is  a  potentate  whom  the  farmer  has  not  fully 
"  reckoned  up,"  to  use  his  own  pithy  phraseology.  It  is  always  under- 
stood that  he  could  do  a  great  many  things  which  he  doesn't  do.  In  the 
bucolic  conception  of  him  lurk  a  host  of  indefinite  possibilities,  which,  though 
they  may  not  inspire  reverence,  create  a  general  feeling  that  he  is  the  sort 
of  person  whom  it  is  better  to  leave  alone.  Of  course  we  have  among  the 
race  of 'farmers  both  the  "  thoughtful  Whig  "  and  the  profane  scoffer  which 
are  peculiar  to  no  class  in  society.  But  we  are  referring  to  the  farmer  in 
his  natural  state,  unembittered  by  conflicts  with  ritualism,  and  uncorrupted 
by  his  dissenting  brother-in-law  the  grocer  in  the  county  town.  Apart 


COUNTRY  LIFE,  711 

from  such  influences  as  these,  the  farmer  is,  on  religions  questions,  like 
!3nceladus  before  the  Gigantomachia — 

As  tame  and  mild 
As  ox  umvorried  in  the  grazing  meads  ; 

and  conceives  of  a  bishop  that  he  is  a  cross,  peculiar  to  Christianity, 
between  a  clergyman  and  a  nobleman,  which  he  doesn't  entirely  under- 
tstand,  yet  hardly  cares  to  investigate.  He  has  heard  that  his  spiritual 
powers  exceed  those  of  an  ordinary  vicar,  but  how  far  he  couldn't  justly 
say.  He  supposes  that  they  couldn't  make  clergymen  without  him  some- 
;io\v — not,  at  least,  regular  ones  ;  but  he  doesn't  know  why.  He  thinks 
•;here  must  be  something  dignified  in  being  a  successor  of  the  Apostles, 
ind  that  one  who  is  must  be  a  bigger  man  than  one  who  isn't.  He  can't 
;>*et  no  further  than  that,  he  would  perhaps  add.  But,  on  the  whole,  the 
presence  of  the  prelate,  his  impressive  charge,  his  lawn  sleeves,  and  in  the 
background,  his  mysterious  attributes,  have  worked  both  on  his  sense  and 
}iis  imagination  ;  and  he  would  rather  let  the  bishops  "  bide." 

Ascending  from  the  farmers  to  the  "  clergy  and  gentry,"  we  find  the 
oountry  life  of  these  last  not  much  altered  in  its  essence.  They  keep 
perhaps,  rather  later  hours  ;  more  of  them  drink  claret ;  and  not  so  many 
clergymen  hunt.  But  all  the  old  institutions  of  country  life  still  flourish 
.imong  them,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  the  county  ball,  which  has 
jost  much  of  its  pristine  glory.  But  the  country  dinner  party  still 
survives  in  all  its  ancient  dignity,  and  has  certainly  now  become  one  of  the 
most  incomprehensible  modes  of  giving  and  receiving  pleasure  which  man- 
kind have  yet  invented.  A  man  comes  in  tired  from  hunting  or  shooting, 
or  from  working  in  his  parish,  at  five  o'clock;  and  instead  of  refreshing 
himself  with  all  those  comforts  which  no  man  can  find  out  of  his  own 
house,  he  is  hurried  upstairs  to  dress,  is  dragged  down  shivering  to  the 
hall  door,  and  bundled  into  a  damp  carriage,  to  be  jostled  some  eight  or 
ten  miles  across  country,  there  to  swallow  salt  soup,  clammy  cutlets,  and 
cheap  claret  at  a  neighbour's  house,  in  deference  to  conventions  from 
which  the  whole  spirit  has  departed.  In  former  days,  when  the  dinner 
was  at  half-past  five  or  six,  when  the  men  did  really  and  seriously  drink 
port  wine  together  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  when  a  round  game  and  a 
<%ubber  were  permitted  to  carry  on  the  evening  till  eleven  or  twelve  o'clock, 
ihe  arrival  of  the  carriages  being  preceded  by  "  a  tray  " — then,  indeed, 
ihere  was  some  meaning  in  a  country  dinner  party.  People  met  together 
to  do  something  which  they  could  not  do  so  well  in  any  other  way.  The 
conversation  might  not  be  metaphysical,  the  scandal  might  not  be 
netropolitan ;  but  the  port  wine,  the  whist,  and  the  Pope  Joan  were 
jound  realities  on  which  people  looked  back  with  satisfaction,  as  on  so 
many  more  good  things  got  out  of  life,  and  stored  away  beyond  the  reach 
of  fortune.  But  the  dinner  at  seven,  the  coffee  after  two  glasses,  tea  and 
photographs  at  half-past  nine,  and  the  carriages  at  the  door  at  ten — these 


712  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

things  are  an  unsubstantial  pageant.  At  all  events,  there  is  no  valid 
reason  for  going  ten  miles  on  a  winter's  night  to  do  what  you  can  do 
equally  well  without  crossing  your  own  threshold.  We  can  do  that  much 
in  Epirus.  As  for  seeing  your  friends,  that  is  all  hypocrisy.  Half  the 
people  who  meet  each  other  at  these  parties  do  not  care  the  least  whether 
they  meet  or  not ;  and  of  the  other  half  which  does  care  the  majority  have 
easier  and  pleasanter  ways  of  meeting  than  this  one.  No  doubt  dinner 
parties  in  London  are  often  just  as  unsatisfactory.  But  then  you  are  not 
put  to  the  same  inconvenience  in  attending  them  ;  while  there  is  always  a 
chance  of  novelty,  of  meeting  some  one  whom  it  is  really  desirable  to  meet, 
or  of  hearing  something  which  it  is  really  a  pleasure  to  hear.  We  don't 
mean  to  say  that  such  treats  occur  very  often ;  but  they  are  within  the 
region  of  possibilities,  like  a  woodcock  in  a  day's  shooting.  Whereas  at  a 
country  entertainment  you  know  that  such  an  idea  is  ludicrous.  No — 
country  people  ought  to  meet  together  for  what  seems  natural  in  the  country 
— real  conviviality,  and  fun  and  merriment  of  all  sorts.  Then  the  rural 
dinner  party,  consisting  of  two  squires,  four  parsons,  a  local  barrister,  and 
an  officer  from  the  nearest  barracks,  with  ladies  young  and  old  to  match, 
may  make  a  very  jolly  evening.  But  the  painful  gentility  of  country 
banquets  as  practised  at  the  present  day  is  a  total  mistake.  It  is  out  of 
place,  and  suited  to  conditions  of  life  which  prevail  only  in  cities. 
Probably  the  farmer's  "dinner  party"  is,  in  spirit  at  least,  nearer  to 
what  a  country  party  ought  to  be  than  the  respectable  assemblage  which 
looks  down  upon  it  from  the  neighbouring  Hall. 

There  is  a  certain  amount  of  tolerably  pleasant  visiting  still  kept  up 
among  people  who  do  not  aspire  to  give  dinners.  But  this  can  only  bo 
developed  under  exceptionally  favourable  circumstances.  In  a  large 
village  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  people  there  may  happen  to  be 
several  houses  tenanted  by  families  who  belong  to  the  condition  of  gentry, 
but  are  not  rich  enough  for  county  hospitalities.  Or  sometimes  in  some 
favoured  district  will  have  accumulated,  apparently  by  accident,  a  little 
cluster  of  such  establishments,  a  mile  or  two  distant  from  each  other,  and 
admitting  of  easy  pedestrian  communication.  There  the  ladies  of  the 
families  go  and  lunch  or  drink  tea  with  each  other,  and  the  men  can  make 
up  card-parties  without  taking  thought  beforehand.  But  such  exceptions 
are  few  and  far  between,  and  must  of  necessity  continue  so. 

What  market  is  to  the  farmer,  the  "  Bench  "  is  to  the  squire.  There 
he  not  only  transacts  business,  but  hears  the  news  and  makes  up  his 
social  engagements.  But,  after  all,  the  country  life  of  a  country  gentle- 
man has  changed  so  little  during  the  last  thirty  years,  that  we  have  no 
power  of  adding  much  to  what  has  been  of  late  so  copiously  written  on  the 
subject.  The  closer  intercourse  between  town  and  country,  of  which  we 
have  already  spoken,  would  of  course  affect  the  upper  stratum  of  country 
society  first ;  and  at  the  present  day  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  dis- 
tinction which  once  existed  between  town  gentleman  and  country  gentleman 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  718 

ha?  totally  disappeared,  as  far,  at  least,  as  manners  and  habits  are  con- 
cerned. Differences  of  another  kind,  however,  are  still  to  be  observed 
between  the  country  gentleman  who  lives  wholly  in  the  countiy,  and  the 
coi  ntry  gentleman  who  spends  the  season  in  town.  The  country  clergy, 
perhaps,  retain  more  of  their  earlier  peculiarities ;  but  that  is  owing  simply 
to  '^he  fact  that  they  are  a  much  more  mixed  class,  consisting  of  men  who 
are  on  a  level  with  the  highest  aristocracy,  down  to  men  whose  tastes  and 
practices  are  akin  to  those  of  farmers  and  tradesmen.  The  clergyman's 
life,  however,  is  now  a  much  more  active  one  than  it  used  to  be.  Even 
the  most  sluggish  divine  is  now  more  or  less  goaded  on  by  a  certain  esprit 
de  corps  to  do  something  to  make  the  Church  popular.  Clerical  meetings 
of  rJl  sorts  now-a-days  generally  contain  a  sufficient  proportion  of  energetic 
and  cultivated  men  to  put  laziness  and  ignorance  to  shame.  The  clergy- 
ma  a's  school  is  a  necessity  which  he  cannot  evade  even  if  he  would.  A 
very  disorderly  parish  will  give  him  more  annoyance  than  the  exertion 
required  to  amend  it.  He  must  pay  rather  more  attention  to  his  sermons  : 
while  if  we  quit  these  rudimentary  and  indispensable  branches  of  labour, 
we  find  custom  sanctioning  a  variety  of  extra  good  works,  which  to  the 
clergyman  of  a  bygone  generation  would  have  been  simply  unintelligible. 
However,  we  are  now  bordering  upon  ground  where  we  feel  that  we  have 
no  business.  And  the  only  recent  innovation  in  clerical  country  life  to 
which  we  shall  devote  a  few  words  is  that  of  penny  readings,  which  have 
become  so  fashionable  that  we  may  almost  exclaim  with  Juvenal, 

De  conducendo  loquitur  jam  rhctore  Thule. 

The  anxiety  of  country  people  to  promote  this  species  of  entertainment 
contrasts  oddly  enough  with  the  difficulty  which  they  experience  in  finding 
suitable  materials.  An  audience  of  town  working  men,  however  superficially 
educated,  have  minds  more  on  the  alert  than  their  agricultural  brethren,  and 
more  capable  of  grasping  any  clue  which  is  afforded  them  towards  under- 
standing subjects  with  which  they  were  previously  unacquainted.  The 
ordinary  talk  of  town  life,  even  among  quite  the  lower  orders,  is  a  species 
of  education  in  itself ;  and  their  habits  are  so  much  more  gregarious  that 
the  play  of  mind  is  more  active,  and  keeps  their  faculties  so  much  the  further 
from  stagnation  But  with  audiences  of  which  so  large  a  part  consists 
of  peasantry,  for  whose  sake  the  penny  reading  is  chiefly  carried  on  the 
difficulty  is  immense.  They  dislike  and  resent  anything  which  they 
consider  childish  ;  they  cannot  understand  anything  which  approaches  the 
argumentative  ;  their  imaginations  are  too  inert  to  enter  with  much 
interest  into  the  higher  kinds  of  poetry  and  fiction.  The  English  peasant 
is  a  shrewd,  observant  fellow,  very  often ;  and  his  remarks  upon  life  in 
general  would  often  shame  the  philosophers  of  cities.  But  the  literary 
faculty  is  as  yet  wholly  undeveloped  in  him.  And  penny  readers  are 
sometimes  driven  by  despair  to  plunge  into  the  wildest  extremes  in  the 
forlorn  hope  of  a  success.  We  were  lately  staying  with  a  clerical  friend 


714  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

•who  was  with  difficulty  dissuaded  from  reading  to  his  flock  a  portion  of  a 
translation  of  Tacitus  which  he  had  recently  completed.  And  we  have 
heard  more  than  once  of  Tennyson's  Vision  of  Sin  heing  selected  for  a 
similar  purpose.  However,  whether  the  particular  reading  chosen  be 
understanded  of  the  people  or  not,  the  effect  perhaps  is  equally  good. 
The  poor  unquestionably  like  the  system.  And  as  the  clergyman  or  the 
ambitious  young  farmer  walks  up  to  his  desk  at  the  end  of  the  ill-lighted 
school-room,  you  see  a  crowd  of  interested  faces  rising  above  a  tier  of 
smock-frocks,  or  shining  out  of  village  bonnets,  which  might  elsewhere 
have  been  glowing  with  some  less  innocent  excitement.  The  public  house 
is  thinned  at  all  events  of  its  votaries  of  both  sexes.  And  when  Miss 
Flamborough  plays  them  a  lively  piece  on  the  harmonium,  which  they 
presume  to  be  "  out  of  her  own  head,"  as  it  is  neither  a  psalm  nor  a 
hymn,  their  satisfaction  verges  on  enthusiasm.  As  we  desire  above  all 
things  to  be  truthful,  we  would  have  our  readers  to  understand  that  our 
own  personal  experience  of  penny  readings  has  been  limited ;  that  we 
have  described  them  partially  from  an  a  priori  point  of  view  ;  and  that 
on  some  occasions  when  our  host  has  left  his  dessert  to  take  his  place  at 
the  village  rostrum,  we  have  been  guilty  of  remaining  behind  in  com- 
pany with  the  port  and  filberts.  We  have  always  ourselves  steadily 
declined  to  trifle  with  the  dignity  of  literature,  and  to  read  anything  for 
a  penny. 

The  allusion  in  the  last  paragraph  to  the  thinning  of  the  public-houses 
brings  us  at  last  to  that  topic  which  no  essayist  upon  country-life  could  be 
pardoned  for  evading  ;  need  we  say  we  mean  the  festive  cup  ?  It  may  bo 
said  very  truly  now  that  "  people  don't  drink ;  "  just,  as  it  once  used  to  be 
said,  "  the  Guards  don't  dance."  But  if  any  one  imagines  that  a  general 
national  reformation  has  yet  taken  place  in  this  respect,  we  can  tell  him  he 
is  very  much  mistaken.  Drinking  has  subsided,  but  it  is  not  yet  nearly 
submerged.  Wine  and  spirits  still  keep  their  heads  above  water  in  many 
a  snug  corner  of  Great  Britain.  We  will  say  this  much,  indeed,  of  the 
better  specimens  of  the  peasantry,  that  they  are  beginning  to  see  the  folly 
and  wickedness  of  gross  intoxication.  But  the  old  tradition,  according  to 
which  "  something  to  drink  "  expresses  the  highest  conception  of  pleasure 
to  which  the  rustic  imagination  is  capable  of  soaring,  is  still  in  full  force. 
"  What  should  you  do,  James,  if  you  suddenly  had  a  large  sum  of  money 
left  you  ? "  said  a  lady  of  our  acquaintance  to  her  gardener,  a  most 
respectable  married  man,  a  labourer  in  the  village.  "  I  dun  no,  miss," 
was  the  answer  ;  "  but  I  think  I  should  have  summut  to  drink."  In  a 
very  different  part  of  England  we  know  another  most  respectable  character 
who  is  sometimes  engaged  to  go  out  with  shooting-parties,  and  who,  exhi- 
biting on  his  return  from  one  such  expedition  a  moody  and  dissatisfied  cast 
of  countenance  was  questioned  as  to  the  reason  of  it.  "  When  I  goes  out 
a  shootin'  I  likes  a  skinful,"  was  the  forcible  and  ingenuous  answer.  Now 
this  man  was  no  drunkard  ;  he  had  no  extra  work  to  do  on  such  occasions. 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  715 

His  chief  occupation  was  lying  down  under  a  hedge  and  pretending 
to  mark.  But  an  enormous  quantity  of  beer  was  in  his  eyes  the  coping- 
stone  of  all  human  undertakings,  and  therefore  the  legitimate  object  of  a 
man  who  wished  to  see  everything  done  as  well  as  possible,  and  who  con- 
ceived that  shooting  without  much  malt  was  a  crude  and  imperfect  form  of 
art.  We  were  visiting  the  other  day — in  rather  a  retired  neighbourhood, 
it  must  be  confessed — where  it  is  still  recorded  with  pride  that  a  farmer, 
lately  dead,  used  to  drink  twenty-six  glasses  of  gin-and-water  every 
Saturday  night,  in  this  wise :  he  wore  a  long  single-breasted  waistcoat 
with  thirteen  buttons,  and  for  every  glass  that  he  drank,  he  undid  one ; 
when  he  got  to  the  bottom  he  buttoned  it  up  again  upon  the  same  prin- 
ciple, after  which  process  he  was,  doubtless,  as  a  London  jester,  when 
he  heard  the  story,  observed,  "tight  in  both  senses  of  the  word."  A 
clergyman  to  whom  we  lately  described  by  what  a  curious  train  of  cir- 
cumstances a  lost  post-office  order  for  six  shillings  had  recently  found 
its  way  back  to  us,  observed,  after  a  few  minutes  reflection,  that  there  was 
'•'a  sight  o'  beer  in  six  shillings,  mind  yer."  These  anecdotes  are  but 
straws  ;  but  they  show  this,  that  with  the  humours  of  country-life  Bacchus 
in  still  mingled,  and  that  even  among  the  higher  classes 

The  prints  of  his  departing  steps  appear. 

I'-,  is,  however,  in  the  habits  of  mind  by  which  the  citizen  and  the  villager 
are  distinguished  from  each  other,  that  the  least  changeable  phenomena  of 
country  life  are  to  be  sought.  Among  these  are  one  or  two  which  descend 
fr:>m  quite  the  dark  ages.  The  rustic  still  retains  an  inveterate  suspicion 
ol  people  who  live  in  towns.  A  village  carpenter  thinks  that  all  town 
carpenters  use  bad  wood,  and  flimsy  materials  in  general.  He  is  fond  of 
saying  that  town  work  "  won't  stan'  to  it  like  country  work."  A  farmer  is 
ui  der  the  impression  that  you  must  be  very  sharp  to  avoid  being  cheated 
if  you  dine  at  a  coffee-house  in  London.  The  waiters,  he  has  heard,  will 
abvays  ask  monstrous  sums  for  attendance,  if  they  have  reason  to  think 
you  know  no  better.  If  he  asks  his  way  in  the  streets,  he  is  very  much 
inclined  to  treat  the  answers  he  receives  with  the  kind  of  cunning  recom- 
mended by  Meg  Merrilies  to  Dandie  Dinmont,  and  to  take  the  turning 
he  is  not  told ;  a  Puck-like  tendency  to  mislead  strangers  being,  as  he 
understands,  very  general  among  "  London  chaps."  These  ideas  are 
derived  from  a  time  when  "  cocknies "  and  "clodhoppers"  formed 
really  two  hostile  social  armies,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
am  oying  or  ridiculing  each  other.  But  we  must  say  for  Londoners 
now  that  they  have  quite  worn  out  this  ancient  prejudice,  and  its  reten- 
tion by  country  people  is  one  of  the  silliest  surviving  oddities  which  still 
betray  them. 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  bond  fide  moral  temperament — the  tem- 
per; tment  of  men  who  are  not  merely  in  the  country,  but  of  it — is  that 
easy-going  laissez  faire  view  of  life  and  life's  business  which  approaches 


716  COUNTEY  LIFE. 

very  closely  to  the  quietude  of  perfect  good-breeding.  Your  true  coun- 
tryman's creed  is  very  like  the  late  Lord  Melbourne's, — that  if  you 
will  only  let  things  alone,  they  are  sure  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
He  is  not  fond  of  fixed  appointments,  or  much  letter-writing.  The 
first  are  encroachments  upon  liberty ;  and  the  second  leads  to  the 
first.  If  he  has  business  to  settle,  or  amusements  to  arrange  with  a 
neighbour,  he  waits  till  he  meets  him  accidentally.  He  doesn't  con- 
sider that  any  one  can  ever  be  engaged.  The  idea  of  giving  you  notice 
long  beforehand  if  he  wants  you  at  a  particular  time,  never  enters  his 
head.  If  you  are  engaged,  so  much  the  worse  for  both ;  but  to  have  pre- 
vented the  misfortune  was  not  worth  the  trouble  it  would  have  cost.  He 
is  of  opinion  that  if  anything  important  happens  you  are  sure  to  hear  of 
it  without  his  writing  to  inform  you,  though  he  may  be  the  very  person 
on  whom  you  rely  for  information.  Such  a  man  is  generally  good- 
humoured  and  agreeable,  and  possesses  much  of  that  repose  which  is 
erroneously  imagined  to  be  peculiar  to  the  Vere  de  Veres.  But  he  is 
often  singularly  provoking ;  and  not  the  less  so  that  he  opposes  a  kind 
of  passive  surprise  to  your  reproaches  which  drives  an  irritable  man  mad. 
One  cannot  help  feeling,  at  the  same  time,  that  in  this  peculiar  frame  of 
mind  there  is  something  to  be  admired ;  and  much  that  is  natural  and 
even  generous.  It  is  due  to  causes  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that 
the  effects  were  not  foreseen,  and  consequently  approved  of.  The  very 
succession  of  the  seasons  and  the  operations  of  Nature  are  perpetually 
teaching  the  countryman  to  see  the  certainty  which  underlies  variation, 
and  to  have  confidence  in  the  right  result,  however  unseasonable  the  sky. 
Spring  is  sure  to  come.  It  doesn't  very  much  matter  whether  it  is  this 
week  or  next.  The  corn  is  sure  to  grow — not  so  good  perhaps  this  year 
as  last,  but  then  next  year  will  redress  the  balance.  And  so,  generally 
speaking,  it  does.  Thus  there  is  far  less  speculation  in  the  business  of  a 
labourer,  a  farmer,  or  a  squire,  than  in  that  of  a  merchant.  They  are 
obliged  to  leave  a  great  deal  in  the  hands  of  Nature ;  and  in  the  long 
run  she  .is  a  faithful  stewardess.  It  is  thus  that  they  acquire  the  habit 
of  leaving  things  alone  a  good  deal,  and  of  supposing  that  some  occult 
social  force  will  propagate  news,  arrange  interviews,  and  settle  disputes, 
as  Nature  makes  the  trees  to  bud,  the  birds  to  pair,  and  the  streams 
to  thaw. 

It  is  likewise  to  be  remembered  that  in  purely  country  occupations 
there  are  few  things  to  be  done  to-day  which  cannot  equally  well  be  done 
to-morrow.  The  farmer  wants  to  get  his  wheat  in — he  ought  to  lose  no 
time  about  it,  that  is  certain.  But  after  all  it  makes  no  great  difference 
whether  he  begins  it  on  a  Tuesday  or  a  Wednesday.  His  harvest  is  gathered 
sometimes  at  one  time  and  sometimes  at  another.  He  has  no  contracts 
to  fulfill :  he  has  no  bills  to  meet  (they  are  not  of  the  essence  of  his 
business,  that  is) ;  if  he  is  an  ordinarily  prosperous  man  in  his  calling  he 
need  never  have  an  hours'  anxiety  about  business  in  the  course  of  the 


COUNTRY  LIFE.  717 

whole  year,  comparable  to  what  the  City  man  experiences  probably  at  least 
once  a  month.  The  natural  result  of  this  is  that  the  countryman  par 
excellence  doesn't  understand  bustle.  He  disbelieves  in  the  necessity  for 
haste.  He  has,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  who  ought  to  have  known  better,  a 
contempt  for  men  who  are  always  "  obliged  to  go  at  a  certain  hour,"  and 
has  a  secret  idea  that  they  only  do  so  in  order  to  magnify  their  own 
importance.  In  a  word,  he  is  the  very  opposite  of  what  the  Americans 
mean  by  "  smart."  But  the  defect,  if  it  be  a  real  defect,  is  a  very 
amiable  and  a  very  aristocratic  fault,  and  it  has  this  one  great  merit — that 
if  it  often  provokes,  it  is  certain  never  to  disgust,  one. 

The  difference  between  town  and  country  life  as  it  affects  ladies  is 
perhaps  as  striking  as  in  any  of  its  other  aspects.  The  contrast  between 
a  lady  in  the  London  season,  surrounded  by  London  influences,  in  the 
full  swing  of  town  gaiety,  and  the  same  fair  being  in  her  flower  garden, 
her  poultry  yard,  or  perhaps  her  farm,  a  hundred*  miles  away  from  the 
capital,  cannot  fail  to  have  impressed  every  careful  observer  of  modern 
manners.  The  lady  farmer,  indeed,  who  will  discuss  the  last  new  poem  or 
novel,  the  last  opera  or  the  last  heresy  with  you  one  moment,  and  will 
be  equally  animated  the  next  upon  the  composition  of  manure  and  the 
breed  of  pigs,  is  a  product  perhaps  peculiar  to  Great  Britain.  The 
combination  is  one  that  we  rather  like.  It  imparts  a  pleasant  kind  of 
freedom  to  conversation,  and  has  the  invaluable  property  of  making  every 
body  feel  quite  at  home.  To  ladies  who  do  not  care  much  about  the  pursuits 
of  country  life,  country  life  is  naturally  dull.  A  very  great  lady  who  can 
always  have  a  houseful  of  guests,  may  turn  country  into  town,  all  but  the 
shopping,  just  as  well  as  night  into  day.  But  ladies  of  smaller  incomes 
who  have  no  taste  for  the  sweet  and  homely  pleasures  of  the  country, 
to  whom  domestic  pets  are  a  bore,  and  whose  sole  thought  after  a  picnic, 
an  archery,  or  a  dinner  party,  is  how  to  kill  time  till  the  nest  one ;  of 
such  we  say  the  sooner  they  exchange  into  town  the  better.  But 
commend  us  to  those  members  of  the  fair  sex  who  are  English 
enough  to  enjoy  both;  who  bring  to  moral  amusements  and  occupation 
all  the  refinement  of  the  town,  and  carry  into  the  pleasures  of  the 
town  the  simplicity  and  freshness  of  the  country.  There  is  some- 
thing peculiarly  piquant  in  the  spectacle  of  a  London  beauty  going  round 
the  farmyard,  looking  at  the  new  calf,  or  searching  for  the  strayed  hen's 
nest,  attended  by  dogs  great  and  small,  and  looking  happier  than  she  ever 
did  in  St.  James's.  It  is  like  seeing  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  drink 
a  pint  of  porter.  Far  be  it  from  us  to  fall  into  the  vulgar  error  of 
attributing  any  higher  degree  of  happiness  or  innocence  to  the  country, 
or  to  suggest  that  its  inhabitants  enjoy,  by  virtue  of  merely  being  in  it, 
any  immunity  from  care.  But  the  contrast  is  as  we  have  given  it ;  and 
it  is  a  feature  of  moral  life  on  which  Englishmen  may  justly  congratulate 
themselves. 

There  is,  in  conclusion,  this  much  to  be  said  of  the  careless,  happy- 


718  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

go-lucky  style  of  life  which  either  does  prevail  or  seems  to  prevail  in  so 
many  country  houses  :  it  affords  an  invaluable  distraction  for  the  town 
man.  Consider  the  relief  which  he  experiences  to  whom  for  the  last  six 
months  every  hour  in  the  day  has  brought  its  appointed  task,  every  day 
in  the  week  its  appointed  liability,  when  he  wakes  up  and  finds  himself- 
a  resident  in  the  happy  valley, 

Where  come  not  posts,  nor  proofs,  nor  any  bills 
Nor  ever  dun  knocks  loudly. 

(We  beg  Mr.  Tennyson's  pardon.)  Consider  this,  we  say,  and  then  tell 
us  whether  even  what  have  been  thought  the  shortcomings  of  the  bucolic 
life  do  not  play  a  most  useful  and  honourable  part  in  the  economy  of 
society.  Going  down  into  the  country  after  a  long  spell  of  London  work, 
is  like  going  to  dinner  after  a  single  day's  work.  Care  is  thrown  aside.  The 
busy  man  associates  with  idlers,  and  for  the  time  being  is  one  of  them. 
"  If  it  were  not,"  says  De  Quincey,  "  for  the  modern  institution  of  dinner, 
the  modern  brain-working  man  must  inevitably  go  mad."  And  what 
dinner  is  to  one  day,  country  life  is  to  the  whole  year.  Alas !  it  is  over 
for  the  present  with  most  of  us.  "  We  cannot  dine  again  till  to-morrow," 
as  Guloseton  says  in  Pelham.  It  is  a  painful  thought — but  we  can  at  all 
events  go  to  bed  and  dream  about  a  Country  Life. 


719 


§&aw  Cfrfcgfcra  mi 


I. — OF   THE   DESCRIPTIVE   TALKER. 

TALK  is  a  necessity  of  civilized  life — so  much  may  be  safely  assumed  to 
start  with.  And  by  the  "  Talk  "  here  spoken  of  is  not  meant  merely  that 
bare  utterance  of  intelligible  sounds  which  is  required  for  the  expression 
of  our  wants,  but  rather  that  peculiar  use  of  speech  by  means  of  which  we 
convey  one  to  another,  either  information  of  various  kinds  which  we  desire 
to  impart,  or  opinions  upon  various  subjects  which  we  wish  to  communi- 
cate, and  which  use  of  speech  is  commonly  called  conversation.  To  define 
speech  as  a  power  of  uttering  certain  articulate  sounds,  hy  means  of  which 
we  are  able  to  make  known  our  urgent  wants,  or  our  irrepressible  ideas,  to 
those  who  hear  them,  is  to  adopt  a  merely  savage  view  of  this  great  gift. 
Persons  imbued  with  such  convictions  meeting  at  a  feast  would  not  have 
much  to  say  to  each  other.  Their  wants  they  would  make  known  to  the 
servants  ;  while  as  to  ideas,  it  is  certain  that  some  of  us  go  into  the  world 
but  poorly  endowed  with  them.  Our  civilized  creed  with  regard  to  the 
use  of  speech  is  widely  different  from  that  first,  bare,  crude  conception  which 
assigns  to  it  a  merely  utilitarian  limit.  I  hold  that  there  are  certain 
occasions,  by  no  means  of  unfrequent  recurrence,  when  talking  must  be 
engaged  in  for  talking's  sake.  I  hold  that  there  arrive  continually, 
during  the  course  of  ordinary  nineteenth-century  life,  seasons  when  various 
persons,  more  or  less  known  to  each  other,  meet  together  for  the  purpose 
of  celebrating  certain  social  rites  and  ceremonies,  and  when,  if  the  cere- 
monies in  question  are  to  be  successfully  conducted,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  the  celebrants  should  engage  in  what  is  sometimes  called 
conversation,  but  more  frequently  and  more  familiarly  "  Talk." 

Of  the  importance  of  this  element  in  our  social  life  it  is  hardly  possible 
to  speak  too  highly.  Which  of  those  rites  and  ceremonies  mentioned 
above — what  dinner,  what  wedding-breakfast,  what  garden-party,  what 
picnic,  what  evening  assembly — can  be  got  through  without  its  aid  ?  Has 
the  reader,  who  is  in  the  habit  of  attending  such  social  gatherings,  ever 
observed  how  entirely  these  entertainments  are  spoiled  by  any  tendency  to 
taciturnity  on  the  part  of  the  assembled  company  ?  What  a  dreadful 
thing  is  a  dinner-party  when  the  guests  will  not  talk.  The  feelings  of 
the  host,  or  hostess,  who  presides  on  such  an  occasion,  and  who  is 
responsible  for  the  success  or  failure  of  the  entertainment,  are  really 
pitiable  ;  and  the  glance  of  gratitude  with  which  he  or  she  rewards  the 
person  who  will  start  a  remark  which  seems  likely  to  have  conversational 
consequences  is  almost  pathetic. 


720  SOME   CHAPTERS  ON   TALK. 

This  talk,  then,  being  a  thing  of  such  prodigious  value,  and  so  much 
of  our  happiness,  as  members  of  a  social  system,  depending  upon  our 
proficiency  in  it,  it  seems  wonderful  that  so  little  has  hitherto  been 
written  upon  the  subject,  and  that  as  an  art  capable  of  cultivation,  and 
having  certain  fixed  principles,  to  be  got  at  by  means  of  diligent  study, 
it  has  not  been  treated  of  at  all.  It  is  under  this  last-mentioned  phase 
that  it  is  proposed  now  to  consider  this  subject.  There  are  many  persons 
who,  though  fully  convinced  that  a  certain  amount  of  conversational 
readiness  is  indispensable  to  any  man  who  intends  to  set  up  in  business 
socially,  are  yet  at  the  same  time  painfully  conscious  of  their  own  inability 
to  start  a  conversation,  or  having  started  it,  to  keep  it  going.  To  such 
persons  a  course  of  study,  having  for  its  object  the  attainment  of  a  certain 
amount  of  conversational  prowess,  maybe  of  essential  service,  and  although 
there  is  no  doubt  that,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  talker,  like  the  poet,  is 
born,  not  made,  and  has  the  garrulous  element  specially  developed  in  his 
nature  from  the  very  beginning,  yet  is  it  not  too  much  to  suppose  that,  by 
well-directed  labour,  even  those,  who  are  not  gifted  conversationally  by 
nature,  may  be  able  greatly  to  improve  themselves,  and  may  learn,  if  not 
to  be  brilliant  talkers,  at  least  to  have  enough  to  say  for  themselves  to 
enable  them  to  pass  muster  in  general  society. 

And  now,  what  shall  be  our  first  act  in  pursuance  of  this  determination 
to  master,  as  far  as  may  be,  this  great  art  of  conversation  ?  Our  first  pro- 
ceeding must  be  to  examine  minutely  and  carefully,  as  all  conscientious 
and  laborious  students  should  do,  the  performances  of  the  masters,  of  those 
great  men,  that  is  to  say,  who  may  certainly  be  regarded  as  excelling  in 
this  art  which  we  propose  to  cultivate.  The  great  talkers — let  us  inquire 
— what  is  their  manner  of  proceeding  ?  What  methods  do  they  favour  ? 
What,  in  a  word,  do  they  talk  about  ? 

After  a  prolonged  and  elaborate  consideration  of  this  subject,  I  have 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  your  great  talker  wiD,  in  his  ordinary 
practice,  generally  have  recourse  to  one  of  four  expedients.  He  will  either 
describe  experiences,  his  own  or  another's  ;  or  he  will  entertain  his 
company  with  small  gossip  and  scandal ;  or  else  he  will  express  opinions 
which  are  sometimes  original,  and  sometimes  borrowed ;  or  he  will  be — and 
this  is  the  commonest  phase  of  all — a  professed  raconteur,  and  teller  of 
anecdotes.  These  are  the  four  principal  phases  under  which  the  pheno- 
menon which  we  are  considering  is  ordinarily  exhibited.  There  are  others 
of  minor  importance,  which  may  perhaps  be  found  deserving  of  after  con- 
sideration, but  these  are  the  principal ;  let  us  deal  with  them  in  order,  and 
with  a  gravity  becoming  the  importance  of  our  subject.  And  first  with  the 
conversationalist,  who  is  great  as  a  describer. 

This  particular  talker — the  man  who  describes — has  perhaps,  speaking 
in  mercantile  fashion,  a  larger  stock-in-trade  to  depend  upon  than  any 
other.  There  is  positively  no  limit  to  his  resources.  New  subject-matter 
for  treatment  is  furnished  by  every  act  of  his  life.  Has  he  just  returned 
from  a  journey  to  the  Pyramids,  or  has  he  newly  come  from  a  flower-show 


SOilE   CHAPTERS   ON   TALK.  721 

at  the  Horticultural  Gardens,  it  is  all  the  same.     He  lias  passed  through 
an  experience,  and  he  will  describe  it. 

"Where  do  you  think  I've  been  all  the  afternoon?"  he  will  ask, 
selecting  a  suitable  moment  for  his  question,  and  addressing  his  hostess, 
or  some  person  who  occupies  a  good  central  position  at  the  dinner-table 
before  which  he  is  seated.  "  I  have  been  *  doing  '  the  athletic  sports  down 
at  Stoke  Pogis.  Two  of  my  nephews  are  at  the  school  there,  you  know — 
very  good  school  I'm  told,  two  hundred  boys,  almost  like  a  public  school, 
only  the  boys  get  better  looked  after.  Well,  these  young  rascals  my 
nephews  must  needs  send  me  an  invitation  to  their  annual  athletic 
sports,  or  whatever  they  call  'em,  and  as  I  had  nothing  particular  to  do 
I  went  down — drove  down  with  Mrs.  Talboys,  who's  got  a  son  there — 
uncommon  fine  boy  he  is,  carried  away  half  the  prizes."  The  conversa- 
tionalist will  break  off  here.  Mrs.  Talboys  is  seated  at  table.  "  She'll 
tell  you  all  about  it,"  says  this  great  master.  The  lady  declines,  however: 
"You  will  describe  it  better  than  I  can,"  she  says.  "  Oh,  there's  nothing 
to  describe,"  the  professor  continues,  depreciating  his  own  art;  "there 
were  the  usual  things,  as  I'm  told.  I  never  saw  anything  of  the  kind 
before,  but  I'm  told  it's  always  the  same.  Running,  you  know,  and  high 
jumps,  and  long  jumps,  and  water-jumps — water  the  colour  of  peas-soup 
— and  racing  in  sacks,  and  all  the  rest  of  it."  And  so  once  fairly  started, 
and  with  a  good  audience,  comprising  at  least  all  the  guests  at  his  own 
ond  of  the  table,  our  talker  goes  off  into  a  long  and  brilliant  account  of  the 
Stoke  Pogis  athletics,  describing  the  "little  men  in  their  straw  hats, 
you  know,  and  with  their  bright- coloured  scarves  and  ribbons,  and 
their  eager  little  faces,  and  taking  jumps  as  high  as  themselves ;  "  and 
it  is  ten  to  one  that  he  will  give  one  particular  instance  of 
a  "youngster,"  somewhat  older  than  most  of  the  others,  who 
vvas  evidently  very  much  smitten  with  an  uncommonly  pretty  girl  who 
was  there  with  some  members  of  the  }'oung  fellow's  family.  The 
professor  will  narrate  how  he  had  his  eye  on  this  youngster,  who  had  a 
most  resolute  expression  of  countenance,  and  who  was  evidently  determined 
to  win  the  great  stake  of  the  day — "  silver-gilt  cup,  really  a  handsome 
thing  " — in  order  that  he  might  appear  to  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  the 
beloved  object.  "I  kept  my  eye  upon  the  lad,"  our  talker  goes  on,  "and 
'.L  do  assure  you  I  was  never,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  more  power- 
fully interested.  It  was  a  long  race — longest  of  the  day.  The  starting 
-point  was  exactly  where  I  place  this  salt-cellar  ;  the  course  went  round  in 
ihis  fashion,  and  the  winning-post  was  here,  where  I  will  put  MissFlickster's 
ian,  if  she  will  allow  me.  The  position  of  the  beloved  object  is  indicated 
!>y  this  piece  of  roll — I'm  sorry  I've  nothing  better  to  represent  her  with — 
j.  don't  know  what  my  young  friend  would  say  ;  but  at  any  rate  there  she 
i  tood."  Then  he  goes  on  to  describe  the  race ;  how  the  "  young  fellow  " 
r>yas  at  first  rather  behind  than  otherwise,  how  he  gradually  drew  on,  and 
managed,  by  the  time  that  half  the  distance  was  done,  to  get  into  a  better 
place ;  how  at  last  he  distanced  all  except  a  single  competitor ;  how  these 
VOL.  xvi. — NO.  90.  35. 


722  BOilE   CHAPTERS  ON   TALK. 

two  ran,  neck  and  neck,  till  they  came  to  the  piece  of  rising  ground  where 
the  young  lady,  represented  by  the  roll,  was  stationed  ;  how  the  youngster 
cast  one  glance  at  her  as  he  flew  past,  and  how  he  seemed,  in  that  moment 
of  time,  to  receive  a  new  impetus,  snatching  the  race  away  from  his  rival, 
at  the  very  last  moment,  and  to  the  bewilderment  and  rapture  of  all 
beholders. 

Our  conversationalist  does  not  stop  here.  He  finds  that  he  is  making 
a  good  thing  out  of  the  Stoke  Pogis  athletics,  and  he  wisely  determines  to 
get  all  he  can  out  of  them.  He  describes  the  racing  in  sacks,  the 
"  putting  "  the  stone,  the  throwing  the  cricket-ball,  and,  at  last,  the  great 
water-jump.  "  The  best  fun  of  all,  I  do  assure  you.  Half  the  young 
fellows  fell  in,  and  got  thoroughly  drenched.  I  was  standing  close  to  the 
water,  and  so  were  you,  by-the-by,  Mrs.  Talboys.  And  didn't  you  get 
most  horribly  splashed  ?  " 

Here,  then,  is  a  specimen  of  the  art  of  talking,  as  practised  by  the 
descriptive  talker.  There  is  much  to  be  learned  from  him.  He  furnishes 
us  with  an  example  of  courage  and  of  perseverance.  Courage  it  certainly 
requires  to  commence  such  an  undertaking  as  this  which  we  have  just  seen 
him  through,  and  perseverance  to  carry  that  undertaking  on,  when  inter- 
rupted, as  a  man  continually  must  be,  in  making  so  long  a  statement  at  a 
dinner-table,  by  the  handing  of  dishes,  the  pouring  out  of  wines,  and  the 
desperate  attempts  of  certain  envious  gentlemen  amongst  the  audience 
to  break  the  thread  of  his  narrative.  I  would  particularly  direct  the 
attention  of  all  talk-students  to  these  indications  of  the  nerve  and 
energy  possessed  by  our  friend,  also  to  the  very  able  manner  in  which  he 
contrives  to  bring  certain  members  of  the  company  into  his  story,  and 
to  his  skilful  management  of  parenthesis. 

Nor  let  it  be  for  a  moment  supposed  that  this  artist  only  excels  in  the 
treatment  of  subjects  of  this  almost  trifling  description.  He  is  quite  as 
strong  in  the  impressive  line,  and  in  treating  the  serious  and  poetical  as 
in  dealing  with  this  sort  of  light  comedy  of  "  Athletic  Sports."  He  can — • 
alas  !  say  some  people — describe  anything  and  everything.  His  choice  of 
subject  depends  entirely  upon  the  nature  of  the  experiences  which  he  has 
most  recently  gone  through.  Whether  he  has  been  in  Norway,  salmon- 
fishing,  or  hunting  lions  in  South  Africa,  he  is  sure  to  return  as  full  of 
matter  as  we  have  seen  him  to  be  after  the  Stoke  Pogis  entertainment. 
He  is  a  man  whose  peculiar  talent  is  differently  regarded  by  his  different 
listeners.  He  affords  entertainment  to  some  few  who  are  easily  amused  ; 
he  furnishes  an  excuse  for  silence  to  other  few  who  are  too  stupid,  or  too 
idle,  to  talk  ;  and  he  drives  the  members  of  that  small  class  who  are  easily 
bored  to  the  confines  of  desperation.  This,  indeed,  is  the  worst  part  of 
the  descriptive  talker :  the  risk  of  his  becoming  a  bore  is  so  exceedingly 
imminent.  Descriptions,  by  word  of  mouth,  of  scenery,  of  an  Alpine 
sunset,  of  a  journey  across  the  desert,  of  a  naval  review,  of  gun  experi- 
ments at  Shoeburyness,  of  a  chamois-hunt,  of  a  match  at  Lord's,  or  even, 
as  we  have  seen,  of  athletic  sports  at  Stoke  Pogis,  are  so  dreadfully  apt  to 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  728 

lead  to  the  boring  of  those  to  whom  they  are  addressed  that  we  get  at 
last  to  feel  alarmed  when  the  first  warning  notes  of  the  describer's  voice 
b  igin  to  make  themselves  heard,  when  the  sunset  reminds  him  of  "an 
evening  scene — which,  indeed,  he  will  never  forget — on  the  Lake  of  Como," 
o  •  when  the  shape  taken  by  the  coals  in  the  fire  recall  to  him  the  profile 
o:'  a  guide  he  once  had  in  Calabria — "the  merriest,  heartiest  fellow  you 
c-er  saw." 

Still,  in  spite  of  all,  this  man  is  generally  well  received.  His  talk,  at 
a:iy  rate,  is  incessant  in  its  flow ;  and  he  may  be  depended  upon  to  go  on 
with  it  for  any  length  of  time.  So  that,  upon  the  whole,  he  is  welcome  in 
n.ost  societies,  and  is  much  asked  out  to  dinner. 


II.— OF  THE  TALKER  WHO  RETAILS  GOSSIP. 

IHIS  is  &  talker  of  a  very  exalted  quality  indeed.  For  the  perfect 
envelopment  of  this  species,  moral  and  mental  qualifications  of  an  elevated 
o'der  are  imperatively  needed.  The  retailer  of  small  gossip  must  be 
possessed  of  a  fine  memory,  and  he  should  also  be  exceedingly  diligent 
aid  industrious.  Consider,  in  proof  of  his  diligence,  how  hard  and 
how  continuously  he  has  to  work.  He  is  for  ever  on  the  move.  There 
ii  scarcely  such  a  thing  as  a  friendly  gathering  of  any  kind,  or  an 
?mfriendly  one  either,  from  which  he  may  safely  be  absent.  Wherever 
men  and  women  assemble  together  with  any  social  object  in  view,  there 
ho  is  obliged  to  be  on  duty.  He  must  frequent  flower-shows,  garden- 
parties,  exhibitions,  musical  entertainments,  balls,  and  evening-parties, 
lie  must  haunt  clubs,  and  hang  about  ladies'  drawing-rooms.  Nor  is  the 
Lirge  amount  of  bodily  activity,  which  is  necessary  that  he  may  be  thus 
ubiquitous,  all.  It  is  needful,  wherever  he  is,  that  he  should  have  all 
bis  mental  faculties  about  him,  that  he  should  constantly  be  listening  with 
ail  his  ears,  and  watching  with  all  his  eyes,  lest  something  important 
should  escape  him.  He  has  a  reputation  to  keep  up,  and  keep  it  up  he 
rmst  at  any  cost.  He  is  supposed  to  know  everything.  Is  some  love- 
affair  attracting  the  attention  of  that  small  section  of  the  world  which 
cills  itself  society?  He  must  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  that  love- 
affair,  be  acquainted  with  the  exact  nature  of  the  settlements,  and  the 
•v  iews  of  the  parents  on  both  sides  ;  in  fact,  he  must  be  thoroughly  up  in 
a  il  the  particulars  connected  with  it  from  beginning  to  end,  must  know 
v  hat  the  lovers  said  to  each  other  when  they  were  under  the  trees 
in  Richmond  Park,  and  what  it  was  that  they  quarrelled  about  at  the 
"Woolwich  ball. 

Or  is  it  some  less  romantic  subject  with  which  society  is  busying 
i  self  ?  Does  it  want  to  know  the  particulars  of  that  break-up  of  the 
( hiildersquash  establishment  which  is  exciting  so  much  attention  ?  How 
r  mch  money  has  the  house  failed  for  ?  was  there  anything  settled  on 
I  trs.  Guilders  quash  ?  what  do  they  mean  to  do  next  ?  On  all  these  points 

35 — 2 


724  SOME  CHAPTEES  ON  TALK. 

our  friend  must  be  informed,  and  well  informed.  He  must  be  in  a  position 
to  state  with  precision  what  men,  who  knew  about  money,  were  saying  on 
this  subject  a  fortnight  ago,  a  month  ago,  six  months  ago — what  was  said, 
if  you  come  to  that,  from  the  moment  when  Guildersquash  made  that 
magnificent  present  of  diamonds  to  Mrs.  G.  The  financial  men  at  the 
clubs  were  talking  even  then,  and  none  of  them  were  taken  by  surprise 
when  the  failure  took  place. 

This  retailer  of  small  gossip  is  a  restless  personage.  He  prowls 
about  a  room,  working  his  way  from  one  group  of  talkers  to  another, 
generally  setting  them  right  with  his  facts.  "  Oh,  don't  you  know  how 
she  got  him  ?  "  he  says,  coming  upon  a  small  colony  of  gossips,  who  are 
speculating  on  the  recent  matrimonial  capture  of  a  wary  gentleman  of 
their  acquaintance.  "  I  happen  to  know  all  about  it.  She  was  determined 
to  carry  her  point,  and  finding  our  friend  rather  backward  in  corning 
forward,  she  fell  dangerously  ill,  pretended  to  be  dying,  and  did  it  all  so 
well  that  she  actually  managed  to  take  in  the  doctor,  and  got  him  to 
pronounce  her  in  extremis.  Of  course  the  family  sent  for  Sir  John,  told 
him  that  the  girl  was  in  love  with  him,  and  entreated  him,  as  a  kind  of 
melancholy  satisfaction,  to  consent  to  a  death-bed  union.  What  could 
he  do  ?  Of  course  he  consented,  when  lo,  and  behold  !  from  that  moment 
my  young  lady  begins  to  pick  up,  and  in  a  fortnight  is  as  well  as  you  or 
I."  Our  gossipmonger  will  sometimes  make  an  effective  exit  at  the 
conclusion  of  an  anecdote  of  this  sort,  or  perhaps  will  only  bustle  away 
and  join  another  set  of  talkers,  for  whom  he  has  got  something  else  ready 
in  his  budget.  In  this  case  it  is  the  latest  intelligence  concerning  a 
certain  matrimonial  squabble  of  a  highly  interesting  nature.  "  You've 
heard  of  the  row  up  at  the  Dovecot,"  he  begins  this  time.  "  Oh,  a  most 
serious  business,  I  can  tell  you.  Began  in  her  getting  hold  of  a  note-book 
— note-book  of  her  husband's — in  which  she  found  some  entries  of  a  most 
compromising  kind.  What  were  they  ?  Well,  I'm  just  going  to  tell  you. 
Turning  over  the  leaves, — jealous,  inquisitive  woman,  as  you  know, — she 
reads  to  her  horror,  '  Great  sweetness  of  character  in  Laura — noble  girl — 
she  consents — meeting  at  the  witch  elm,  midnight.'  Well,  you  may 
conceive  what  a  row  there  was.  My  lady  seals  up  the  book,  encloses  it 
in  a  letter  to  her  husband,  who  happens  to  be  absent,  and  rushes  off  to  her 
father's  house  in  a  condition  more  easily  conceived  than  described. 
Husband  returns,  reads  her  letter,  rushes  after  her,  and  an  explanation 
ensues.  What  do  you  think  it  was  ?  Notes — notes  for  a  tale  he  was 
writing.  He  thinks  he  has  a  gift  for  novel-writing,  as  you  know,  and 
these  were  some  memoranda  which  he  had  made  for  his  plot,  or  whatever 
you  call  it."  It  is  ten  to  one  that  our  gossip  concludes  a  story  of  this 
kind  with  the  words  :  "  Fact,  I  assure  you  ;  "  or,  "  That's  a  fact,  I  pledge 
you  my  honour."  He  is  in  truth  a  man  much  given  to  the  use  of  little 
set  forms  of  speech — is  fond  of  such  phrases  as  "  Lo,  and  behold  !  "  and 
will  gladly  speak  of  certain  situations  as  "more  easily  imagined  than 
described." 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  725 

The  field  of  our  friend's  operations,  it  must  be  admitted,  is  a  very 
extensive  one.  Matrimonial  squabbles,  pecuniary  disasters,  and  anecdotes 
of  lovers,  are  by  no  means  the  only  wares  that  he  deals  in.  Nothing  is 
loo  great  or  too  small  for  him.  When,  on  the  occasion  of  Mrs.  Buskin- 
cock's  private  theatricals,  the  part  of  Rosalind,  which  was  to  have  been 
<  nacted  by  Miss  Freshfield — her  first  season  out — was  suddenly  transferred 
1.0  the  Honourable  Eva  Brownwigge,  who  but  our  gifted  friend  was  in  a 
-position  to  enlighten  the  world  as  to  how  that  change  in  Mrs.  Buskinsock's 
; arrangements  came  to  be  effected  ?  "  It  was  at  one  of  the  final  rehearsals," 
:io  happens  to  know,  "  that  the  thing  was  done.  Our  dear  Brownwigge," 
i  ays  Gossip,  "was  present,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third  act  of  the  play — 
•  his  happened,  mind,  in  the  hearing  of  a  friend  of  mine — she  called  Mrs. 
Bpskinsoek  aside,  and  told  her,  in  so  many  words,  that  the  bold  way  in 
•vhich  Miss  Freshfield  acted  the  part  was  the  most  shocking — that  was  the 
very  word  she  used — the  most  shocking  thing  she  had  ever  seen,  and  that, 
unless  some  other  arrangement  were  made,  she  (Brownwigge)  firmly  believed 
,hat  all  Mrs.  Buskinsock's  guests  would  walk  out  of  the  room  on  the  night 
>f  performance.  *  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  '  says  Mrs.  B.  '  The  invitations 
are  all  out  for  the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  Miss  Freshfield  doesn't 
perform  the  part,  who  will  ?  '  'I  will,'  says  Brownwigge  ;  '  and  I  would 
lo  a  great  deal  more  rather  than  see  disgrace  brought  upon  you  by  such  a 
performance  as  that  taking  place  under  your  roof.  Why,  I  would  do  it,' 
-she  added,  '  even  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  girl  herself ;  and  she  will  live  to 
ihank  me  one  day  for  having  stepped  in  to  her  rescue.'  And  she  did  it," 
idds  our  gossipmonger.  "  She  always  intended  to  do  it — had  got  the 
words  by  heart  long  before  she  made  her  great  move  at  this  final  rehearsal. 
A.S  for  Mrs.  Buskinsock,  she  is  so  afraid  of  Brownwigge,  on  account  of 
her  influence  with  her  relations  the  Delacremes,  that  if  the  old  girl  had 
proposed  to  act  the  part  of  Rosalind  in  top-boots,  I  believe  poor  Mrs.  B. 
would  have  let  her." 

The  reader  is  now  in  a  condition  to  understand  of  what  varied  elements 
the  conversation  of  this  particular  talker  is  made  up.  And  let  no  one 
suppose  that  it  is  possible  to  get  together  all  the  information  of  different 
kinds  which  is  required  to  set  up  a  conversationalist  of  this  sort  in  business 
\vithout  much  and  continuous  labour.  There  is  something  almost  respect- 
able in  the  diligence  with  which  an  efficient  gossipmonger  pursues  his 
studies.  He  has  a  reputation  to  keep  up.  "  Here  comes  So-and-so,"  his 
friends  say ;  "  he  will- tell  us  all  about  it."  WTiat  if  he  can't  tell  them  all 
about  it  ?  He  is  simply  ruined.  And  so  for  the  sake  of  this  reputation 
of  excessive  knowingness,  he  is  ready  to  work,  ready  to  sacrifice  his  ease 
and  comfort,  ready  to  encounter — and  this  is  the  worst  part  of  it  all — 
every  kind  of  rebuff  and  humiliation  which  it  is  in  the  power  of  society  to 
inflict.  Of  these,  indeed,  he  cannot  choose  but  meet  with  a  very  large 
allowance.  His  profession  that  he  has  taken  up  requires  that  he  should 
be  everywhere,  and  there  are  some  houses  which  are  included  under  that 
denomination  "everywhere"  to  which  it  is  not  always  easy  to  get  an 


726  SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK. 

entrance.  To  those  very  theatricals  of  Mrs.  Buskinsock's  of  which  we 
have  heard  Gossip  talking  so  lightly,  he  only  gained  admission  by  dint  of 
the  most  incessant  exertion,  and  the  most  unwearying  perseverance,  by 
morning  calls,  by  assiduous  attentions  to  Mrs.  B.  whenever  he  met  her, 
by  looking  after  her  carriage,  by  plying  her  at  evening-parties  with  choice 
refreshments,  by  boasting  continually  of  his  influence  with  the  great  and 
powerful.  Between  the  time  of  his  first  hearing  that  those  theatricals 
were  to  be,  and  the  moment  when  at  last  his  machinations  were  crowned 
with  success,  and  the  long- wished- for  invitation  arrived,  this  little  man 
lived  a  life  of  real  misery,  and  it  was  observed  by  his  friends  that  he  was 
getting  thinner  every  day. 

"  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief."  This  is  the  man  of  all  others,  if  the 
reader  will  believe  it,  who  is  the  most  pitilessly  severe  upon  those  persons 
who  have  recourse  to  any  of  the  small  intrigues  and  stratagems  which  some 
people  practise  when  endeavouring,  as  the  phrase  goes,  to  "get  on  in 
society."  He  has  no  mercy  on  people  of  this  sort,  and  some  of  his  most 
favourite  and  best-received  anecdotes  are  based  upon  the  proceedings  of 
that  particular  class  whose  war-cry  as  they  enter  the  social  battle-field  is 
Parvenir  !  "  You  don't  know  how  she  gets  such  invitations  as  do  come 
in  her  way,"  he  says,  speaking  of  a  certain  lady  whose  path  through 
social  life  is  not  an  easy  one.  "  You  think  it  is  owing  to  her  having  a 
French  cook  and  a  fine  house  furnished  by  Gillow.  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  for  I  happen  to  know.  When  that  woman  was  in 
Paris  " — it  is  generally  observed  that  about  this  time  our  Gossip's  audience 
closes  round  him  very  attentively — "  When  that  woman  was  in  Paris,  she 
had  the  luck  to  get  hold  of  a  chiropodist,  a  pedicure,  or  whatever  you  call 
it — in  plain  English  a  corn- doctor — who  sold  her,  I  believe  at  an  enormous 
price,  a  recipe  for  destroying  corns.  One  or  two  people*,  afflicted  with 
excrescences  of  this  nature,  found  it  out,  made  it  known  that  my  lady  was 
in  possession  of  the  secret,  and  tried  to  get  it  from  her.  She  was  far  too 
cunning,  however,  to  let  it  out  for  nothing,  and  it  was  very  soon  discovered 
that  the  only  way  to  get  the  Frenchman's  recipe  from  her  was  to  ask  her 
to  dinner.  Fact,  I  assure  you,"  says  Gossip,  in  conclusion;  "  and  you 
may  feel  quite  sure,  whenever  you  meet  the  lady  in  question  at  any  house, 
that  some  one  at  least  of  its  inhabitants  is  troubled  with  corns." 


III. — OF  THE  TALKER  WHO  RELATES  ANECDOTES. 

ALL  talkers  must  be  possessed  of  a  certain  amount  of  moral  courage,  but 
the  teller  of  stories  needs  more  of  this  quality  than  the  rest.  When  a 
man  has  once  commenced  a  story  he  is  in  for  it.  He  must — positively 
must — go  on  till  it  is  finished.  Now,  this  is  not  so  much  the  case  with 
other  talkers.  The  narrator  of  experiences  can  cut  his  statement  short  if 
he  finds  that  it  is  not  relished  by  those  who  are  listening  to  it ;  the  dis- 
cusser of  topics  can  drop  his  subject  at  a  moment's  notice,  if  it  should 


SOME   CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  727 

become  desirable  to  do  so ;  but  the  story-teller  once  embarked  must  go 
on,  and  finish  his  anecdote,  even  if  his  audience  show  obvious  signs  of 
disgust,  or  if— which  is  still  worse — he  himself  has  lost  all  confidence  in 
the  virtues  of  his  own  narrative.  Among  the  many  qualifications  abso- 
lutely indispensable  to  the  anecdotist  this  of  courage — some  will  call  it 
brass — is  the  most  indispensable.  There  are  not  wanting  others.  The 
story-teller  should  be  middle-aged.  The  writer  of  these  chapters  has 
never  come  across  a  young  man  who  could  tell  a  story  even  tolerably. 
When  a  young  man  attempts  to  tell  a  story,  he  is  always,  to  begin  with,  in. 
too  great  a  hurry.  He  always  seems  conscious  that  his  audience  mistrusts 
him,  and  so  he  rattles  on  at  a  prodigious  pace,  in  order  that  he  may  get 
to  the  point,  and  show  you  that  it  really  is  not  such  a  bad  story  as  you 
suppose.  Or,  if  he  does  not  fall  into  the  error  of  hurrying  his  narrative, 
he  is  sure  to  be  betrayed  into  another  which  is  worse,  and  to  become 
prolix  and  long-winded.  He  takes  his  time,  refusing  to  be  hurried,  but 
restraining  himself  by  a  violent  and  obvious  effort,  of  which  every  one  is 
conscious.  He  can't  do  it.  It  is  against  nature.  There  are  a  great  many 
things  which  a  young  man  can  do,  and  of  which  his  elders  are  incapable. 
He  can  waltz  without  altogether  losing  his  breath  ;  he  can  wear  a  waist- 
coat the  circumference  of  which  is  larger  round  the  chest  than  round  the 
waist ;  he  can  eat  lobster-salad  for  supper,  and  wash  it  down  with  cham- 
pagne. All  these  things,  and  many  more,  he  can  do ;  but  tell  a  story  ho 
cannot,  though  his  life  should  depend  upon  it.  The  story-teller,  then, 
should  be  middle-aged — forty  is  too  young — and  he  should  be  prosperous. 
In  saying  that  the  story-teller  should  be  prosperous,  it  is  not  meant, 
in  this  case,  that  he  should  be  rich — though  there  is  no  harm  in  that,  far 
from  it.  It  is  merely  meant,  here,  to  proclaim  that  he  should  be  a  man 
whom  people  know  something  about,  a  man  who  has  succeeded  in  his 
undertakings,  whatever  they  may  have  been.  A  lawyer  in  good  practice, 
or  a  popular  preacher,  or  a  well-known  artist,  will  do.  A  nobody  will 
not  do.  When  a  stout  capitalist,  hearing  our  story-teller  for  the  first 
time,  turns  to  his  neighbour,  and  asks,  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  it  is  necessary 
that  the  neighbour  shall  be  able  to  make  a  satisfactory  reply,  or  may- 
be the  capitalist  will  not  like  the  story.  A  teller  of  anecdotes, 
perhaps  more  than  any  other  kind  of  talker,  requires  to  be  backed  up — to 
be  backed  up  by  a  sense  of  position,  a  conviction  that  he  is  somebody. 
This  is  one  thing  which  is  indispensable  to  him,  and  there  is  another 
which,  if  ho  is  to  be  very  successful,  is  equally  so — the  knowledge  that 
his  audience  is  disposed  to  be  friendly.  This  last  certainty — unless  tho 
story-teller  is  a  very  old  hand  indeed,  and  made  of  very  tough  material 
— is  indeed  most  important.  The  feeling  that  there  is  an  enemy  in  the 
camp,  a  sneering,  unbelieving  listener  present,  is  mighty  discouraging. 
The  career  of  a  habitual  story-teller  is  of  course  full  of  vicissitude.  He 
has  his  days  of  triumph  and  his  days  of  comparative  failure.  The  day  to 
be  marked  with  a  white  stone  is  the  day  when  he  finds  himself  among 
persons  who  know  all  about  him,  who  are  friendly  disposed,  and  to  whom 


728  S031E   CHAPTERS   ON   TALK. 

the  story  which  he  is  about  to  relate  is  not  already  Jcnmcn.  All  proud 
distinctions  have  their  drawbacks,  and  one  of  the  worst  drawbacks  which 
the  professed  raconteur  has  to  encounter  is  the  probable  presence,  in  almost 
every  company  which  he  addresses,  of  some  one  or  more  individuals  to 
whom  the  story  which  he  is  committed  to  tell  is  not  entirely  new.  It  is 
disconcerting  to  an  anecdotist  to  be  conscious  that  such  persons  are  arnon^ 
his  audience,  and  he  will  sometimes  try  to  disarm  them  by  a  prefatory 
word:  "I  am  afraid,  Staleybridge,  that  you've  heard  this  before;"  or, 
"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Macstinger,  you  must  bear  the  infliction  as  well  as 
you  can." 

And  this  consideration  of  the  importance  to  the  story-teller  of  fresh- 
ness on  the  part  of  his  audience,  brings  us  to  another  qualification  for  this 
office  which  must  not  be  overlooked.  It  is  desirable — not  indispensable, 
but  certainly,  on  the  whole,  desirable — that  the  anecdotist  should  be  a 
single  man.  The  wife  of  a  professed  story-teller  must  be  subject  to  many 
sorrows.  It  must  be  wearisome  for  her,  for  instance,  to  hear  the  same 
story  twenty  times,  as  it  is  related  to  twenty  different  audiences.  However 
well  and  affectionately  disposed  she  may  be,  she  must  surely  quail  a  little 
when  she  hears  the  preliminary  strains,  the  first  few  words,  "I  was  once 
staying  at  a  little  inn  in  North  Wales  ;"  or,  "  My  little  boy  was  out  with 
his  nurse  the  other  day."  How  she  must  suffer  too  when  the  story  does 
not  go  well ;  when  the  audience  is  not  sympathetic ;  when  the  story-teller 
is  not  in  cue  ;  or  when,  as  will  sometimes  happen,  he  omits  some  important 
element  in  his  narrative.  I  have  seen  a  wife  prompt  her  husband  under 
such  circumstances, — "  You  have  forgotten,  George,  about  the  little  boy 
and  the  pump;"  or,  reproachfully,  " You've  left  out  about  the  frying- 
pan," — Jmt  it  does  not  answer.  If  a  man  once  begins  to  go  wrong  in 
telling  a  story,  it  is  all  up  with  him ;  he  is  best  let  alone.  The  flounder- 
ings  of  a  story-teller  who  has  got  into  difficulties  are  beyond  measure 
painful  to  witness.  It  is  so  easy  for  him  to  get  into  trouble.  There  are 
so  many  pitfalls  and  snares  in  his  way.  He  may,  as  has  been  said  above, 
perceive  among  his  listeners  one  or  more  to  whom  his  story  is  already 
known  ;  or,  he  may  lose  faith  in  his  own  narrative,  and  may  feel  as  the 
crisis  draws  near  that  it  is  weak  and  will  not  give  general  satisfaction  ;  or, 
still  worse,  from  having  begun  to  narrate  without  having  sufficient  social 
standing  to  secure  him  listeners,  or  from  some  other  cause,  he  may  get  to 
be  deserted  by  his  audience  as  he  goes  on.  This  is  a  terrible  situation. 
A  man  in  such  a  case  will  try  different  listeners  one  after  another.  He 
will  generally  fly  high  at  first,  endeavouring  to  secure  the  attention  of  his 
host  or  hostess,  or  at  least  of  a  chief  guest,  some  person  distinguished  by 
high  rank  or  great  achievement ;  these  failing  him  at  starting,  or  dropping 
him  in  disgust  as  his  tale  advances,  he  will  descend  a  little  lower,  to  some 
successful  professional  man,  perhaps,  or  a  prosperous  artist.  But  these 
deserting  him,  his  descent  is  rapid  indeed,  and  it  is  not  long  before  he  is 
found  addressing  the  concluding  portion  of  a  story,  which  he  has  clipped 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  729 

and  pared  in  all  directions,  to  a  poor  relation,  or  to  a  youth  of  tender  years 
just  home  for  the  holidays.  This  is  a  very  distressing  exhibition  to 
witness,  and  one  which  we  might  be  spared,  if  only  men  would  diligently 
examine  before  taking  up  this  role  whether  they  possess  the  numerous 
qualifications  necessary  to  the  successful  performing  of  the  part.  Some  of 
these, — middle-age,  namely,  and  a  certain  social  position, — have  been 
already  spoken  of,  but  there  are  others,  of  less  moment,  perhaps,  than 
these,  but  still  of  considerable  importance.  There  are,  for  instance,  certain 
personal  qualifications  which  it  is  highly  desirable  for  a  story-teller  to 
possess.  He  should  be  a  man  of  solid  build ;  he  should  have  a  powerful 
voice,  a  steady  eye,  with  great  command  of  countenance.  This  last  quali- 
fication is  very  'essential.  There  are  stories, — and  those  of  the  most 
comic  sort, — the  success  of  which  is  endangered  if  the  narrator  should 
happen  to  look  foolish  or  to  smile  feebly  while  they  are  being  developed  ; 
while  if  he  should  chance  to  burst  out  into  a  guffaw,  he  might  as  well 
break  his  story  off  at  once,  for  any  success  that  it  is  likely  to  have.  A  face 
under  control  is  indeed  indispensable  to  the  story-teller.  It  need  not  be 
what  is  called  an  expressive  face ;  far  from  it.  There  are  a  great  many 
stones  the  effect  of  which  is  enhanced  by  their  being  told  by  a  person  with 
a  perfectly  unmoveable  countenance.  To  the  actor  a  face  capable  of  dis- 
playing numerous  variations  of  expression  is  invaluable,  but  not  to  the 
story-teller  of  the  highest  class.  The  right  face  for  this  last  is  one  with 
something  queer  about  it,  that  sets  people  speculating.  A  grave  face  is 
best,  with  perhaps  the  faintest  twinkle  in  the  eyes,  or  the  least  twitch  in 
the  world  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 

In  considering  the  personal  qualifications  here  set  forth  as  so  indispen- 
sably necessary  to  a  habitual  anecdotist  or  raconteur,  it  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  we  are  speaking  only  of  the  professors  of  one  particular  school 
of  story-telling.  This  is  the  severe  school,  which  requires  of  its  disciples 
that  they  should  maintain  an  imperturbable  gravity  while  narrating  even 
the  most  ludicrous  incidents,  and  which  forbids  the  narrator  of  a  comic 
story  to  give  even  the  very  least  indication  of  being  himself  amused  by 
what  amuses  his  audience.  There  are  different  opinions  as  to  the  merits 
of  this  school.  To  some  persons  they  appear  very  great :  whilst  others 
will  affirm  that  an  observation  of  its  precepts  conduces  to  affectation,  that 
a  story  told  in  accordance  with  them  always  gives  too  much  evidence  of 
effort  and  study  to  be  agreeable,  and  that  they  like  to  see  a  man  lindis- 
guisedly  amused  by  the  funny  parts  of  his  own  narration.  The  fact  is 
that  there  is  something  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  this  very  momentous 
question. 

There  are  some  stories  which  imperatively  demand  what  may  be  called 
a  dry  treatment,  and  some  story-tellers  who  can  only  make  their  effects  by 
having  recourse  to  a  somewhat  studied  and  artificial  mode  of  narrating ; 
while  to  other  stories,  and  other  story-tellers,  the  more  florid  style  is 
infinitely  better  adapted.  The  disciples  of  this  last  school  may  at  least  be 

35—5 


730  SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK. 

said  to  work  harder  than  the  professors  of  the  more  undemonstrative  method. 
They  are  given  to  changes  of  expression  and  different  modulations  of  voice  ; 
they  will  introduce  imitations  into  the  course  of  their  narrative,  and  will 
at  all  times  indulge  very  freely  in  action.  If  a  practitioner  of  this  school 
tells  you  a  story  of  a  barber  who  says  something  exceedingly  funny  while 
engaged  in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  the  narrator  will  probably  imitate 
the  act  of  shaving  while  telling  the  story,  or  if  a  lady  should  happen  to 
figure  in  the  facetious  incident  which  he  is  relating,  he  will  very  likely 
feign  to  arrange  the  folds  of  a  dress,  or  flourish  a  fan  in  the  most  approved 
method.  That  the  achievements  of  the  best  masters  in  this  florid  school 
are  exceedingly  entertaining  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  writer  of  these 
words  has  heard,  before  now,  stories  of  Highland  sport,  stirring  incidents 
of  flood  and  field,  told  by  a  great  professor  of  the  florid  school,  with  such 
subtle  accompaniment  of  gesture  and  action,  that  those  who  listened  have 
at  last  thought  that  they  saw  the  struggling  deer-hounds  held  back  with 
difficulty  by  the  gillies,  and  the  keepers  crouching  out  of  sight  among  the 
rocks  and  heather. 

To  set  before  his  audience  what  he  describes,  thus  distinctly  and  vividly, 
is  the  special  and  peculiar  gift  of  the  best  and  most  distinguished  among 
these  demonstrative  story-tellers.  But  it  is  only  for  narratives  of  adventure 
or  anecdotes  of  a  broadly  comic  description  that  this  treatment  is  good. 
When  the  story  to  be  told  is  of  a  witty  rather  than  a  humorous  sort,  a 
story  of  quick  answer  or  epigrammatic  retort,  whose  crisis  is,  so  to  speak, 
of  a  spiritual  rather  than  a  corporeal  nature,  then,  unquestionably,  tho 
value  of  a  dry  and  undemonstrative  treatment  makes  itself  felt  very 
strongly,  and  we  are  constrained  to  admit  that  no  other  can  bring  out  the 
full  flavour  of  this  particular  kind  of  mental  food,  which  the  story-teller 
provides  for  us. 


IV. — OF  THE  TALKER  \YHO  DISCUSSES  TOPICS. 

BETWEEN  the  talker  whose  practice  it  is  simply  to  describe  his  experiences, 
and  that  other  talker  whose  conversation  is  of  abstract  subjects,  there 
exists  no  doubt  a  considerable  moral  and  intellectual  difference.  They  are 
looked  upon,  by  their  respective  audiences,  with  entirely  different  feelings. 
Although  the  first  of  these  is  certainly  the  more  valuable  man  at  a  dinner- 
table,  making  more  noise,  and  being  capable  of  a  more  sustained  effort 
than  the  other,  he  is  yet,  upon  the  whole,  less  respected.  ''It  is  all  very 
well,"  says  society,  "  to  give  us  descriptions  of  English  athletic  sports  or 
Arab  prayer- meetings,  but  in  doing  this  a  man  after  all  only  speaks  of 
what  he  has  seen  with  his  eyes,  or  heard  with  his  ears.  It  must  require 
a  much  more  profound  mind,  and  much  greater  power  of  thought,  to  take 
a  subject,  such  as  the  imperfection  of  all  things  human,  or  the  fitness  of 
woman  to  exercise  the  elective  franchise, — and  discuss  it  thoroughly,  as 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  731 

the  great  Mr.  Surface  does,  for  instance."  And  no  doubt  if  the  great 
Mr.  Surface  did  examine  these  matters  thoroughly,  and  did  manage  to 
arrive  at  some  distinct  and  practical  conclusions  in  connection  with  the 
subjects  which  it  is  his  habit  to  discuss,  he  would  be  entitled  to  some 
amount  of  consideration,  x  But  this  is  not  his  mode  of  proceeding ;  his 
practice  being  to  stir  up  a  subject,  to  start  it,  and  worry  it  a  little,  and 
then  let  it  go  rather  than  to  pursue  it,  to  hold  it  tight,  and  get  the  life 
out  of  it  at  last. 

This  particular  talker,  whose  speciality  it  is  to  discuss  topics,  is,  as  has 
been  said,  not  comparable  in  value  at  a  dinner-table  to  the  conversa- 
tionalist whose  performances  have  been  spoken  of  in  a  previous  chapter ; 
but  he  has  his  qualities,  nevertheless.  He  is  great  in  a  country-house  after 
luncheon,  at  a  garden-party,  or  at  afternoon  tea.  He  is  not  afraid  of  the 
clever  ladies  of  a  party.  Indeed,  to  get  hold  of  a  little  clique  of  such 
persons  is  what  he  likes.  "  Ah,  Lady  Anne,"  he  will  say,  addressing  one 
of  them  in  rather  a  tone  of  sadness  ;  "  does  it  not  sometimes  strike  you 
that  the  world's  getting  very  old  ?  or,  at  any  rate,  that  England  is  ?  "  The 
lady  addressed  replies  that  she  hardly  knows,  that  it  was  always  called 
"  Old  England,"  and  then  she  smiles,  and  hesitates.  "  That  is  not  exactly 
the  sense  in  which  I  mean  that  England  is  old,"  Mr.  Surface  goes  on. 
"  What  I  mean  is  that,  supposing  a  nation  to  have  a  term  of  life,  as  a  man 
has, — to  have,  in  short,  its  Seven  Ages, — one  would  certainly  not  be  inclined 
to  regard  England  as  having  got  no  farther  than  the  schoolboy  or  the 
lover  stage."  "  Do  you  think  she  is  '  sans  eyes,  sans  teeth,'  then,  Mr. 
Surface?"  inquires  one  of  his  audience.  And  so  he  is  fairly  launched, 
and  in  a  position  to  give  his  reasons  for  thinking  that  his  native  country  is 
no  longer  young.  A  sort  of  thing  this  that  does  very  well  at  certain  times, 
such  as  those  mentioned  above.  We  are  a  little  too  apt  to  suppose  that  when 
a  talker  is  spoken  of,  a  dinner-table  talker  only  is  meant ;  but  there  are 
other  occasions  when  talk  is  wanted  nearly  as  much  as  when  a  company 
assembles  to  partake  of  the  principal  meal  of  the  day.  No  doubt  it  is  then 
chiefly  that  talkers  are  wanted — chiefly,  but  not  exclusively.  In  country- 
house  life  the  necessity  of  talk  is  felt  at  every  hour  of  the  day.  When 
some  of  the  guests,  for  instance,  are  amusing  themselves  with  croquet,  there 
are  always  present  others  who  become  rabid  at  the  mere  mention  of  the 
game,  and  these  require  to  be  kept  amused  with  conversation.  Conversa- 
tion is  needed,  too,when  a  large  walking-party  is  organized  ;  or  again,  when 
a  drive  is  to  constitute  the  afternoon's  amusement,  and  a  gentleman  is 
wanted  who  will  sit  with  his  back  to  the  horses,  and  will  hold  forth  for  the 
benefit  of  the  three  ladies  with  whom  he  shares  the  vehicle.  Here  the  dis- 
cusser of  topics  is  distinctly  valuable.  He  is  not  so  valuable,  perhaps,  as 
the  retailer  of  small  personal  gossip  and  petty  scandal,  but  still  he  is  of  use 
on  such  occasions,  and  his  merits  must  not  be  overlooked.  And,  once 
more,  at  a  picnic,  when  the  scramble  for  food  and  drink  is  over,  and  the 
partakers  dispersed  in  little  groups  under  the  trees,  in  that  state  of  semi- 


732  SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK. 

intoxication  which  results  from  even  the  most  moderate  indulgence  at 
2  P.M.,  is  there  not  a  chance  for  our  professor  at  such  a  time  as  this  ?  At 
a  picnic,  or  perhaps  even  more  during  the  drive  home,  his  services  aro 
priceless.  A  long  drive  is  sometimes  a  rather  tedious  business,  and  it  is  a 
well-known  fact  that  some  persons,  after  being  conveyed  through  the  air  in 
an  open  carriage  for  an  hour  or  two,  are  apt  to  become  depressed  and 
absent,  not  to  say  morose.  They  get  bored,  in  fact ;  and  this  is  more 
especially  the  case  when  the  drive  partakes  of  the  nature  of  a  return  journey 
— when  we  are  coming  back  from  a  picnic,  or  a  launch,  or  a  laying  of 
foundation  stones,  or  other  similar  celebration.  At  such  times  all  the 
less  satisfactory  ingredients  in  our  cup  become  conspicuous  in  flavour,  and 
unpleasantly  self-assertive.  We  reflect  upon  the  fact  that  the  house  in  the 
country,  which  we  have  just  taken,  is  on  a  clay  soil,  and  that  the  situation 
is  low ;  or  we  ponder  as  to  where  the  money  is  to  come  from  to  supply  that 
dreadful  boy  at  college.  Why  we  should  think  of  such  things  at  such 
times  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  but  that  there  is  a  tendency  in  the  mind  to  busy 
itself  with  what  are  vulgarly  called  "bothers,"  on  the  occasions  referred 
to,  is  a  matter  which  no  one  can  doubt  who  will  carefully  study  the  faces 
of  homeward-bound  excursionists  in  general,  and  of  those  who  make  their 
return  journey  in  open  carriages  in  particular.  This,  then,  is  the  moment 
when  a  talker — and  as  I  venture  to  maintain,  the  especial  talker  whose 
nature  and  habits  we  are  just  now  considering — is  precious,  more  than 
words  can  say.  For  this  is  the  time  when  topic,  and  nothing  but  topic 
will  do.  A  story  would  not  get  listened  to,  and  a  description  of  anything 
under  the  sun,  from  a  coronation  to  a  cock-fight,  would  be  an  intolerable 
bore.  Even  that  prince  of  conversationalists,  the  scandal  and  gossip- 
monger,  would  not  be  able  to  compete  with  the  practised  and  skilful  dis- 
cusser of  topic  on  this  particular  occasion.  This  last-mentioned  talker,  by 
the  very  nature  of  his  conversation,  compels  his  associates  to  join  in  it 
themselves ;  and  herein  lies  his  especial  value  at  such  a  moment  as  this 
with  which  we  have  now  to  do.  There  is  but  one  way  of  alleviating  the 
unhappiness  of  persons  coming  back  from  a  junket,  and  that  is  to  stimulate 
them  in  some  way  into  action — to  make  them,  in  short,  exert  themselves  ; 
and  this  the  man,  who  can  artfully  start  a  subject  in  whieh  his  audience  is 
interested,  will  be  able  to  do.  "  Who  can  look,"  he  asks,  "  at  a  building 
like  that  " — the  travellers  are  passing  an  old  village  church  entirely  devoid 
of  all  ornament  or  decoration — "  and  not  feel  that  the  extremist  sim- 
plicity in  all  matters  connected  with  the  outward  forms  of  religion  is  really 
the  most  beautiful,  and  certainly  the  most  consistent  with  the  spirit  of  true 
Protestantism  ?  "  By  such  a  remark  as  this  the  object  of  our  conversationalist 
is  fulfilled  in  one  moment.  One  of  the  ladies  by  whom  he  is  accompanied 
is — as  perhaps  he  knows — ritualistically  disposed,  while  another  is  a 
frequenter  of  Exeter  Hall,  and  altogether  of  the  Low  Church  persuasion. 
Of  course,  these  two  get  together  instantly  by  the  ears,  each  sustaining 
her  own  views  with  many  potential,  if  illogical  arguments,  and  both 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  733 

referring  to  the  original  introducer  of  the  subject  under  discussion  for 
encouragement.  But  our  professor  is  more  a  man  to  start  a  discussion 
than  to  bring  it  to  an  end,  better  at  enunciating  sentiments  than  at  deciding 
disputes,  and  so  he  temporizes,  and — which  is  just  what  he  wanted  to  do 
• — prolongs  the  discussion,  so  that  the  milestones  fly  by  unheeded. 

WOMAN  and  her  Mission  is  another  topic  which  this  great  conversation- 
artist  often  finds  to  answer  his  purpose  particularly  well.  The  subject 
may  be  brought  in  in  the  easiest  way  :  a  gleaner  at  work  in  the  fields,  or 
a  girl  wheeling  a  barrow  by  the  wayside,  will  do, — and  it  will  suit  some 
companies  as  well  as  ritualism  or  church  decoration  does  others.  "  There 
is  something,"  remarks  our  gentleman,  looking  absently  at  a  market-girl 
trudging  along  the  road  with  a  basket  of  live  poultry  on  her  head — "  There 
is  something  about  the  peculiar  construction  of  the  female  form  which 
always  seems  to  me  to  preclude  the  idea  that  Nature  intended  it  for  work. 
Work  is  for  us,"  he  continues,  settling  himself  more  at  ease  on  the 
carriage  cushions ;  "  work  is  for  men,  with  their  strong  sinews  and  their 
active  brain.  The  prevailing  idea  of  WOMAN,  as  she  should  be,  is  the  idea 
of  a  creature  at  leisure ;  and  although  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  practical 
truth  has  been,  in  most  countries  and  under  most  circumstances,  widely 
at  variance  with  this  idea,  yet,  in  referring  back  to  any  period,  how 
remote  so  ever,  of  the  world's  history,  we  shall  most  certainly  find  that 
the  idea  itself  remains,  and  that  the  WOMAN  whom  men  have  always  wor- 
shipped, whom  our  poets  -have  sung,  whom  our  painters  have  painted,  and 
our  sculptors  have  hewn  out  of  the  marble,  is  a  woman  with  '  nothing  to 
do.'  "  A  good  beginning  this  surely.  It  is  pretty  certain  to  be  said,  by 
somebody  or  other,  of  a  man  like  this,  that  he  "  talks  well."  The  fact  is, 
that  in  dealing  with  a  subject  of  this  sort  the  special  talker  whose 
habits  we  are  now  considering  is  entirely  at  home.  A  topic  which 
lends  itself  to  a  little  display  of  fine  language  and  sentiment,  is  what 
he  really  likes.  He  is  great,  for  instance,  on  questions  of  love  and  matri- 
mony, sympathy  and  antipathy.  It  is  a  common  proceeding  with  him  to 
look  round  about  upon  his  audience,  having  first  got  the  talk  into  the 
proper  groove,  and  to  ask  which  is,  in  their  opinion,  the  greater  happiness, 
loving  or  being  loved  ?  For  his  part,  he  will  say,  the  last  seems  to  him  by 
far  the  most  delightful.  He  is  of  opinion  that  the  knowledge  that  you 
are  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  some  one  else,  is  far  more  glorious  "than 
the  feeling  that  some  one  else  is  necessary  to  yours.  This  is,  indeed,  a 
first-rate  subject,  and  one  which  is  hereby  strongly  recommended  to  the 
attention  of  any  person  who  contemplates  setting  up  in  business  as  a 
topic-talker.  It  is  one  of  those  questions  which  has  two  sides  to  it,  both 
capable  of  being  sustained  by  many  admirable  arguments.  The  talker  can 
either  take  up  the  passive  theory,  as  we  have  just  seen,  with  a  fair  show 
of  reason,  or  he  can  go  exactly  the  other  way,  and  assert  strongly  that  in 
the  pleasure  of  being  loved,  there  is,  as  it  seems  to  him,  a  certain  amount 
of  selfishness  mixed  up  ;  while  in  the  act  of  loving,  on  the  contrary,  a 


734  SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK. 

man  goes  out  of  himself  and  (so  to  speak)  merges  his  existence  in  another's. 
"It  is  of  loving,  not  of  being  loved,"  he  will  add,  "  that  the  poet  speaks 
when  he  says — 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  mnsic  out  of  sight." 

Our  topicist  is  never  averse  to  the  introduction  of  an  occasional  line  or 
two  of  poetry  into  his  disquisitions  ;  but  he  must  not,  because  of  this 
practice,  be  confounded  with  the  "  talker  who  quotes  poetry."  That  indi- 
vidual belongs  to  a  separate  species,  closely  allied,  indeed,  to  that  of  which 
the  topic-talker  is  a  member,  but  yet  in  many  respects  distinct.  The 
difficulty  of  keeping  apart  individuals  belonging  undoubtedly  to  different 
species,  yet  having  many  points  in  common,  is  one  which  any  students, 
the  nature  of  whose  labours  is  of  the  classifying  sort,  will  readily 
appreciate. 

We  must  take  our  leave  now  of  our  eloquent  friend.  But  in  doing  so 
it  seems  worth  while  to  remark  concerning  this  form  of  talk  which  he 
favours,  that  it  is  of  all  others  the  best  suited  to  persons  of  lazy  and 
inactive  habits.  Those  other  conversationalists,  whose  manners  and  customs 
we  have  been  examining,  the  talkers  who  respectively  describe  experiences, 
relate  anecdotes,  or  retail  gossip,  must  each  and  all  work  hard  in  order  to 
come  by  the  material  which  they  are  obliged  to  make  use  of.  But  it  is  not 
so  with  the  gentleman  who  devotes  himself,  conversationally,  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  topics.  Profound  as  his  studies  may  be,  they  at  least  do  not 
involve  him  in  any  physical  exertion.  He  can  cultivate  his  art  without 
sacrificing  his  ease.  He  is  not  obliged  to  run  hither  and  thither  in  search 
of  raw  material  required  for  the  manufacture  of  the  article  in  which  he 
deals,  but  is  able,  on  the  contrary,  to  prepare  those  commodities  in  the 
retirement  of  his  own  chamber,  or  while  strolling  about  under  the  troes  in 
his  friend's  pleasure-grounds. 


V. — OF  VARIOUS  MINOR  TALKERS. 

I  HAVE  now  advanced  so  far  with  my  subject  as  to  have  examined  with 
some  degree  of  attention,  the  four  principal  specimens  of  the  class  whose 
habits  we  are  studying.  I  come  now  to  a  consideration  of  some  of  the 
less  distinguished  members  of  the  family  of  talkers  ;  and  just  as  the  great 
writer  on  natural  history,  in  dealing  with  some  particular  tribe, — say,  for 
instance,  the  feline, — will  first  describe  the  Felis  leo,  or  lion,  and  will 
then  descend  to  the  ounce,  and  the  panther,  and  ultimately  to  the  FelU 
domesticus,  or  tom-cat  of  our  kitchen-hearths,  so  must  I,  having  said  my 
say  about  the  great  conversational  lions  and  tigers  who  discuss  topics 
or  relate  anecdotes,  come  down  to  some  of  the  lower  members  of  the 
species  Talker,  and  study  awhile  their  peculiarities  and  habits. 


SOME   CHAPTERS   ON   TALK.  '735 

Occupying  a  foremost  position  among  these,  I  find  a  small,  but  for 
its  size  exceedingly  vigorous  and  active  member  of  the  garrulous  species, 
to  which  the  name  "  Perpetual-Drop  Talker  "  may  perhaps  be  given  with 
some  degree  of  propriety.  In  dealing  with  a  new  branch  of  science,  as  I 
am  now  doing,  the  use  of  new  terms  is  inevitable,  and  it  is  hoped  that 
this  one,  and  such  other  technical  expressions  as  have  been  introduced  in 
the  course  of  these  chapters,  will  be  favourably  received  by  talk-students 
generally.  The  Perpetual-Drop  Talker  then, — I  will  venture  to  consider 
the  term  as  accepted, — is  a  conversationalist  of  a  species  easily  recognizable 
by  all  persons  possessed  of  even  moderate  acuteness  of  perception.  The 
chief  and  most  remarkable  characteristic  of  him  is  that  his  chatter  is 
incessant,  and  that  there  issues  from  his  mouth  a  perpetual  dribble  of 
words  which  convey  to  those  who  hoar  them  no  sort  of  information  worth 
having,  no  new  thing  worth  knowing,  no  idea  worth  listening  to.  These 
talkers  are  found  in  the  British  Islands  in  great  numbers.  There  is  no 
difficulty  in  meeting  with  specimens.  If  you  live  in  a  street,  and  will  only 
eit  at  your  window  for  a  sufficient  length  of  time,  one  of  them  is  sure  to 
pass.  He  has  a  companion  with  him,  the  recipient  of  that  small  dropping 
talk.  Perpetual  Drop  points  with  his  stick,  calling  his  friend's  attention  to 
a  baker's  shop — what  is  he  saying?  He  is  saying,  "Ah,  German,  you 
see  ;  Frantzmann,  German  name.  Great  many  German  bakers  in  London  : 
Germans  and  Scotch.  Nearly  all  the  bakers  are  either  one  or  the  other." 
You  continue  to  watch,  and  you  observe  that  this  loquacious  gentleman  is 
again  pointing. 

"  Where  you  see  those  houses,"  he  is  saying  now,  "  there  were 
nothing  but  green  fields  when  I  was  a  boy.  Not  a  brick  to  be  seen 
anywhere."  And  so  he  goes  on  commenting  on  everything.  Whatever 
his  senses  inform  him  of  he  seems  obliged  to  put  on  record.  "  Piebald 
horse,"  he  says,  as  one  goes  by  him  in  an  omnibus  ;  or  "  Curious  smell," 
as  he  passes  the  fried-fish  stall.  This  is  the  man  with  whom  we  have  all 
travelled  in  railway  trains.  He  proclaims  to  his  companion — a  person 
much  to  be  pitied — the  names  of  the  stations  as  the  train  arrives  at  each. 
"  Ah,  Croydon,"  he  says  ;  or,  "  Ah,  Redhill, — going  to  stop,  I  see."  He 
makes  his  comments  when  they  do  stop.  "Little  girl  with  fruit,"  he 
says ;  or  "  Boy  with  papers."  Very  likely  he  will  imitate  the  peculiar  cry 
of  this  last,  "  Mornin'  papaw,"  for  his  friend's  benefit.  This  kind  of 
talker  may  be  studied  very  advantageously  in  railway  trains.  He  is 
familiar  with  technical  terms.  He  remarks,  when  there  is  a  stoppage,  that 
we  are  "being  shunted  on  to  the  up -line  till  the  express  goes  by." 
Presently  there  is  a  shriek,  and  a  shake,  and  a  whirl,  and  then  our  friend 
looks  round  with  triumph.  "  That  was  it,"  he  says,  "  Dover  express, — 
down-line."  This  is  a  very  wearying  personage.  He  cannot  be  quiet.  If 
he  is  positively  run  out  and  without  a  remark  to  make,  he  will  ask  a 
question.  Instead  of  telling  you  what  the  station  is,  he  will  in  this  case 
ask  you  to  tell  him.  "  What  station  is  this  ?  "  is  a  favourite  inquiry  with 


786  SOME   CHAPTERS   ON   TALK. 

him.  He  doesn't  want  to  know  ;  he  is  not  going  to  stop  at  it :  lie  merely 
asks  because  his  mouth  is  full  of  words,  and  they  must  needs  dribble  out 
in  some  form  or  other.  In  this  case  it  takes  an  interrogative  form.  A 
tiresome  individual  this  :  one  cannot  help  speculating  as  to  how  many 
times  in  the  course  of  his  life  he  has  thought  it  necessary  to  inform  his 
fellow-creatures  that  the  morning  has  been  fine,  or  cold,  as  the  case  might 
bo,  and  the  weather,  generally,  seasonable  or  the  reverse. 

I  am  dealing  with  the  minor  talkers.  Among  these  a  conspicuous 
place  is  held  by  one  whom,  for  want  of  a  better  designation,  I  must  call 
the  Startling  Talker.  This  is  a  conversationalist  who  goes  in  for  being  an 
original  thinker,  a  character,  a  despiser  of  conventionalities.  He  is  not  a 
man  who  is  going  to  be  bound  down  by  forms.  He  will  not  discourse  of 
the  weather,  or  the  opera,  or  the  exhibitions,  as  other  people  do.  "  Why 
should  he  ?  "  he  will  ask.  He  is  fond  of  asserting  his  contempt  for  the 
stereotyped  talk  of  the  drawing-room  or  the  dinner-table.  When  he  is 
introduced  to  a  partner  for  a  quadrille,  or  to  the  young  person  who  is  to 
be  his  neighbour  at  dinner,  it  is  as  likely  as  not  that  he  will  begin  by  a 
sort  of  confession  of  his  conversational  faith.  "  I'm  not  going  to  ask 
you,"  he  will  say,  "whether  you  have  seen  Lucca  in  L? Africaine,  or 
whether  you've  read  The  Last  Chronicle  of  Bar  set.  Nor  shall  I  expect  you 
to  question  me  on  such  subjects.  Why  should  you  ?  What  is  it  to  you 
whether  I  have  passed  through  either  of  these  experiences  ?  What  do  you 
care  for  my  opinion  of  '  Jephthah's  Daughter,'  by  Millais  ?  Is  it  of  the 
slightest  importance  to  you  whether  I  have  seen  the  Paris  Exhibition,  or 
whether  I  rode  in  the  Park  this  morning,  and  found  it  hot  ?  "  This  is  a 
favourite  kind  of  beginning  with  the  subject  of  our  present  studies,  and, 
for  the  most  part,  answers  his  purpose  indifferently  well,  such  talk  eliciting 
in  general,  from  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed,  some  amount  of  that 
amazement  which  it  has  been  the  object  of  the  speaker  to  excite.  He  has 
other  ways  of  stimulating  this  same  emotion  of  surprise  in  those  whose 
privilege  it  is  to  listen  to  his  conversation.  "  I  wonder,"  he  will  say,  for 
instance,  addressing  a  total  stranger,  "  I  wonder  how  many  of  the  people 
sitting  round  the  table  will  be  alive  in  ten  years  from  this  time."  Or 
perhaps  he  will  moralize,  by  way  of  showing  his  originality  of  character. 
"  I  never  make  one  of  an  assemblage  of  this  sort  without  speculating  as  to  the 
amount  of  care  which  each  member  of  the  company  has  brought  out  along 
with  him.  Did  it  ever,"  he  will  ask  his  companion  abruptly,  for  sudden 
inquiries  are  much  in  his  way — "  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  occupy  yourself 
with  such  a  question  ?  "  These  sudden  and  bewildering  inquiries  are  indeed 
an  important  part  of  the  stock-in-trade  of  the  genuine  Startler.  "Did  you 
ever  consider,"  he  will  demand  of  some  timid  young  lady,  "what  death 
you  would  like  to  die  ?  "  or,  "  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  it  would  be  a 
very  pleasant  thing  to  be  thrown  ashore  on  a  desert  island  ?  "  The  well- 
known  gentleman — surely  his  name  must  have  been  Joseph  Miller — who 
asked  his  partner  in  a  quadrille  whether  she  wore  flannel  next  her  skin, 


SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK.  737 

must  certainly  have  belonged  to  this  tribe  of  startlers  whose  habits  we  are 
considering. 

The  position  occupied  by  the  members  of  this  species,  even  among  the 
minor  talkers,  is  not  a  high  one.  The  startler,  with  all  his  assumption  of 
originality  and  profundity  is,  after  all,  but  a  poor  creature.  He  counts  on 
great  submission  and  docility  in  those  whom  he  engages  in  conversation. 
He  pre}Ts  upon  timid  women  and  young  girls,  who  make  convenient  replies 
to  his  observations.  "  What  a  singular  remark,"  or  "  What  a  strange 
person  you  are,"  they  will  say.  So  long  as  his  startling  sayings  are 
received  in  this  way  he  does  very  well,  but  he  cannot  carry  out  his  own 
arguments,  or  support  the  paradoxes  which  he  delights  to  start.  If 
anybody  stands  up  to  him  he  is  quickly  at  the  end  of  his  resources,  and 
whenever  he  is  requested  to  explain  his  meaning,  floundering  invariably 
ensues. 

There  is  a  variety  of  this  species  which  may  prove  interesting  to  the 
talk-student,  and  which  must,  therefore,  be  noticed,  though  very  briefly. 
This  is  the  talker  who  deals  in  paradox,  and  whose  greatest  pleasure  it  is 
to  controvert,  as  often  as  possible,  the  maxims  which  have  been  hitherto 
received  by  all  mankind  as  indubitably  and  incontestably  true.  "  Honesty 
the  best  policy,"  this  gentleman  will  say  in  a  scoffing  tone  ;  "  there  was 
never  a  greater  mistake."  And  then  he  will  go  on  to  relate  how  he  once 
knew  a  doctor  who  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  tell  one  of  his  patients,  a  rich 
old  lady,  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  and  how  the  medical 
gentleman  in  question  not  only  thereby  lost  a  patient  who  was  a  source  of 
regular  income  to  him,  but  also  got  cut  out  of  the  old  lady's  will,  in  which 
he  had  originally  been  down  for  a  thumping  legacy.  "  Honesty  the  best 
policy  ! "  says  this  sceptic,  derisively.  "  I  believe  it  to  be — in  the  present 
state  of  society — the  very  worst  policy  which  can  be  made  use  of."  "  And 
who  is  it,"  this  same  personage  will  ask,  "  who  says  that  man  wants  but 
little  here  below  ?  Goldsmith,  isn't  it  ?  Well,  I'm  ashamed  of  him.  How 
could  he  display  such  gross  ignorance  ?  Little  !  Wants  little  !  A  man 
wants  enormously  much,  as  it  seems  to  me.  He  wants  a  house  in  town, 
and  an  estate  in  the  country,  and  a  shooting-box  in  Scotland,  and  a  pied- 
a-terre  in  Paris.  He  wants  two  comfortable  carriages  at  the  very  lowest 
computation,  and  at  least  three  coach-horses,  and  a  hack  for  riding.  He 
wants  a  coachman  and  grooms,  and  indoor  servants  and  outdoor  servants 
without  number.  He  wants  five  great-coats  of  different  thicknesses  ;  but 
there  is  no  end — positively  no  end — to  his  wants  ;  and  to  make  out  even 
an  incomplete  list  of  them  would  occupy  us  from  lunch  till  dinner-time  at 
the  very  least."  It  is  to  sentiments  of  this  sort  that  the  paradoxical 
talker  is  in  the  habit  of  giving  utterance.  He  will  ask  you  in  the  gravest 
manner  if  you  don't  delight  in  an  east-wind,  and  will  tell  you  that  he 
always  feels  in  better  health  and  in  higher  spirits  when  the  wind  blows 
from  the  east  than  at  any  other  time.  This  is  a  very  tiresome  variety  of 
talker ;  and  being  spasmodic  in  his  utterances,  and  incapable  of  sustained 


738  SOME  CHAPTERS  ON  TALK. 

effort,  he  is  of  little  value  at  the  dinner-table,  or  indeed  anywhere  else. 
I  think  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  learnt  by  further  consideration  of  his 
habits,  so  we  may  as  well  dismiss  him  at  once. 

There  is  a  curious  little  personage  of  whom  mention  may  fitly  be  made 
just  now,  and  without  some  notice  of  whom  no  list  of  talkers  would  be 
complete.  This  is  the  phraseologist,  an  imitative  talker  who  continually 
introduces  conventional  phrases  into  his  unmeaning,  harmless  chatter. 
This  is  the  individual  who  calls  a  horse  "a  steed,"  and  a  letter  "an 
epistle."  He  talks  about  "festive  boards"  and  "graphic  descriptions," 
and  when  he  goes  to  see  a  picture  in  the  artist's  studio  will,  ten  to  one, 
inform  the  painter  that  he  has  made  "  a  great  stride  "  since  last  year.  I 
am  afraid  that  this  variety  of  the  talking  tribe  is  capable  of  calling  a 
physician  "  a  son  of  Esculapius  ;"  and  I  know  for  certain  that  when  he 
tells  you  a  story  in  which  what  somebody  said  to  him  on  a  particular 
occasion  has  to  be  repeated,  he  always  says,  "  He  addressed  mo  as 
follows." 

This  little  gentleman  is  extraordinarily  polite  to  ladies.  He  jumps 
about  like  a  parched-pea  when  a  member  of  what  he  of  course  calls  "  the 
fair  sex"  enters  the  room.  "Nay,"  he  says,  "  if  there  are  to  be  ladies  of 
the  party,"  and  straightway  he  hugs  to  him,  so  to  speak,  every  sort  of  dis- 
comfort, revelling  in  unnecessary  and  unappreciated  self-sacrifice,  and 
seeming  to  enjoy  it.  It  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  he  calls  fire  the 
"devouring  element ;"  and  that  when  any  one  is  drowned,  he  is  spoken 
of  as  having  found  a  "  watery  grave."  He  says  of  many  things  that  they 
"manage  this  matter  better  in  France,"  and  Lord  Macaulay's  detestable 
New  Zealander  is  seldom  out  of  his  mouth. 


739 


lath  ifo  (Simit-fullcr. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JACK  GOES  TO  SLEEP  IN  THE  WOOD. 

^_X.OC:EATHERSTON    VICARAGE    was 

a  quaint,  dreary,  silent  old  baked 
block  of  bricks  and  stucco,  standing 
on  one  of  those  low  Lincolnshire 
hillocks — I  do  not  know  the  name 
for  them.  They  are  not  hills,  but 
mounds ;  they  have  no  shape  or 
individuality,  but  they  roll  in  on 
every  side  ;  they  enclose  the  hori- 
zon ;  they  stop  the  currents  of  fresh 
air ;  they  give  no  feature  to  the 
foreground.  There  was  no  reason 
why  the  vicarage  should  have  been 
built  upon  this  one,  more  than 
upon  any  other,  of  the  monotonous 
waves  of  the  dry  ocean  of  land 
which  spreads  and  spreads  about 
Featherston,  unchanging  in  its 
monotonous  line.  To  look  from 
the  upper  windows  of  the  vicarage  is  like  looking  out  at  sea,  with  nothing 
but  the  horizon  to  watch — a  dull  sand  and  dust  horizon,  with  monotonous 
waves  and  lines  that  do  not  even  change  or  blend  like  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
Anne  was  delighted  with  the  place  when  she  first  came.  Of  course  it 
was  not  to  compare  with  Sandsea  for  pleasantness  and  freshness,  but  the 
society  was  infinitely  better.  Not  all  the  lodging-houses  at  Sandsea  could 
supply  such  an  eligible  circle  of  acquaintances  as  that  which  came  driving 
up  day  after  day  to  the  vicarage  door.  The  carriages,  after  depositing 
their  owners,  would  go  champing  up  the  road  to  the  little  tavern  of  "The 
Five  Horseshoes,"  at  the  entrance  of  the  village,  in  search  of  hay  and 
beer  for  the  horses  and  men.  Anne  in  one  afternoon  entertained  two 
honourables,  a  countess,  and  two  Lady  Louisas.  The  countess  was  Lady 
Kidderminster  and  one  of  the  Lady  Louisas  was  her  daughter.  The  other 
was  a  nice  old  maid,  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Myles,  and  she  told  Mrs.  Trevithic 
something  more  of  poor  Mary  Myles'  married  life  than  Anne  had  ever 
known  before. 


740  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

"  It  is  very  distressing,"  said  Anne,  with  a  lady-like  volubility,  as  she 
vralked  across  the  lawn  with  her  guest  to  the  carriage,  "  when  married 
people  do  not  get  on  comfortably  together.  Depend  upon  it,  there  are 
generally  faults  on  both  sides.  I  daresay  it  is  very  uncharitable  of  me, 
but  I  generally  think  the  woman  is  to  blame  when  things  go  wrong,"  said 
Anne,  with  a  little  conscious  smirk.  "  Of  course  we  must  be  content  to 
give  up  some  things  when  we  many.  Sandsea  was  far  pleasanter  than 
this  as  a  residence  ;  but  where  my  husband's  interests  were  concerned, 
Lady  Louisa,  I  did  not  hesitate.  I  hope  to  get  this  into  some  order  in 
time,  as  soon  as  I  can  persuade  Mr.  Trevithic." 

"  You  were  quite  right,  quite  right,"  said  Lady  Louisa,  looking  round 
approvingly  at  the  grass-grown  walks  and  straggling  hedges.  "  Although 
Mary  is  my  own  cousin,  I  always  felt  that  she  did  not  understand  poor 
Tom.  Of  course  he  had  hi£  little  fidgety  ways,  like  the  rest  of  us." 

(Mary  had  never  described  her  husband's  little  fidgety  ways  to  any- 
body at  much  length,  and  if  brandy  and  blows  and  oaths  were  among 
them,  these  trifles  were  forgotten  now  that  Tom  was  respectably  interred 
in  the  family  vault  and  beyond  reproaches.) 

Lady  Louisa  went  away  favourably  impressed  by  young  Mrs. 
Trevithic's  good  sense  and  high-mindedness.  Anne,  too,  was  very 
much  pleased  with  her  afternoon.  She  went  and  took  a  complacent  turn 
in  her  garden  after  the  old  lady's  departure.  She  hardly  knew  where  the 
little  paths  led  to  as  yet,  nor  the  look  of  the  fruit-walls  and  of  the  twigs 
against  the  sky,  as  people  do  who  have  well  paced  their  garden-walks  in 
rain,  wind,  and  sunshine,  in  spirits  and  disquiet,  at  odd  times  and  sad 
times  and  happy  ones.  It  was  all  new  to  Mrs.  Trevithic,  and  she  glanced 
about  as  she  went,  planning  a  rose-tree  here,  a  creeper  there,  a  clearance 
among  the  laurels.  "I  must  let  in  a  peep  of  the  church  through 
that  elm-clump,  and  plant  some  fuchsias  along  that  bank,"  she  thought. 
(Anne  was  fond  of  fuchsias.)  And  John  must  give  me  a  hen-house. 
The  cook  can  attend  to  it.  The  place  looks  melancholy  and  neglected 
without  any  animals  about ;  we  must  certainly  buy  a  pig.  What  a  very 
delightful  person  Lady  Kidderminster  is ;  she  asked  me  what  sort  of  carriage 
we  meant  to  keep — I  should  think  with  economy  we  might  manage  a  pair. 
I  shall  get  John  to  leave  everything  of  that  sort  to  me.  I  shall  give  him 
so  much  for  his  pocket-money  and  charities,  and  do  the  very  best  I  can 
with  the  rest.  And  Anne  sincerely  meant  it  when  she  made  this  determina- 
tion, and  walked  along  better  pleased  than  ever,  feeling  that  with  her  hand 
to  pilot  it  along  the  tortuous  way  their  ship  could  not  run  aground,  but 
would  come  straight  and  swift  into  the  haven  of  country  society,  for  which 
they  were  making,  drawn  by  a  couple  of  prancing  horses,  and  a  riding 
horse  possibly  for  John.  And  seeing  her  husband  coming  through  the 
gate  and  crossing  the  sloping  lawn,  Anne  hurried  to  meet  him  with  glowing 
pink  cheeks  and  tips  to  her  eyelids  and  nose,  eager  to  tell  him  her  schemes 
and  adventures. 

Trevithic  himself  had  come  homo  tired  and  dispirited,  and  he  could 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLEH.  741 

scarcely  listen  to  his  wife's  chirrups  with  very  great  sympathy  or 
encouragement. 

"  Lady  Kidderminster  wishes  us  to  set  up  a  carriage  and  a  pair  of 
horses  !  "  Poor  Trevithic  cried  out  aghast,  "  Why,  my  dear  Anne,  you 
must  be — must  be  ....  What  do  you  imagine  our  income  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  well  what  it  is,"  Anne  said  with  a  nod  ;  "  better  than 
you  do,  sir.  With  care  and  economy  a  very  great  deal  is  to  be  done. 
Leave  everything  to  me  and  don't  trouble  your  foolish  old  head." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  must  listen  for  one  minute,"  Trevithic  said.  "  One 
thousand  a  year  is  not  limitless.  There  are  calls  and  drains  upon  our 
incomings " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about,  John,"  said 
his  wife,  gravely.  "  For  one  thing,  I  have  been  thinking  that  your  mother 
has  a  very  comfortable  income  of  her  own,"  Anne  said,  "  and  I  ain 
sure  she  would  gladly  .  .  .  .  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  would,"  Trevithic  interrupted,  looking  full  in 
his  wife's  face,  "  and  that  is  the  reason  that  I  desire  that  the  subject  may 
never  be  alluded  to  again,  either  to  her  or  to  me.  He  looked  so  decided 
and  stern,  and  his  grey  eagle  eyes  opened  wide  in  a  way  his  wife  knew 
that  meant  no  denial.  Vexed  as  she  was,  she  could  not  help  a  momentaiy 
womanly  feeling  of  admiration  for  the  undaunted  and  decided  rule  of  the 
governor  of  this  small  kingdom  in  which  she  was  vicegerent ;  she  felt 
a  certain  pride  in  her  husband,  not  in  what  was  best  in  his  temper  and 
heart,  but  in  the  outward  signs  that  any  one  might  read.  His  good  looks, 
his  manly  bearing,  his  determination  before  which  she  had  to  give  way 
again  and  again,  impressed  her  oddly  :  she  followed  him  with  her  eyes  as 
he  walked  away  into  the  house,  and  went  on  with  her  calculations  as  she 
still  paced  the  gravel  path,  determining  to  come  back  secretly  to  the 
charge,  as  was  her  way,  from  another  direction,  and  failing  again,  only  to 
ponder  upon  a  fresh  attack. 

And  meanwhile  Anne  was  tolerably  happy  trimming  her  rose-trees,  and 
arranging  and  rearranging  the  furniture,  visiting  at  the  big  houses,  and 
corresponding  with  her  Mends,  and  playing  on  the  piano,  and,  with  her 
baby,  in  time,  when  it  came  to  live  with  them  in  the  vicarage.  Trevithic 
was  tolerably  miserable,  fuming  and  consuming  his  days  in  a  restless, 
impatient  search  for  the  treasures  which  did  not  exist  in  the  arid  fields 
and  lanes  round  about  the  vicarage.  He  certainly  discovered  a  few  well- 
to-do  farmers  riding  about  their  enclosures  on  their  rough  horses,  and 
responding  with  surly  nods  to  his  good-humoured  advances  ;  a  few  old 
women  selling  lollipops  in  their  tidy  front  kitchens,  shining  pots  and  pans, 
starch  caps,  the  very  pictures  of  respectability  ;  little  tidy  children  trotting 
to  school  along  the  lanes,  hand  in  hand,  with  all  the  strings  on  their  pina- 
fores, and  hard-working  mothers  scrubbing  their  parlours,  or  hanging  out 
their  linen  to  dry.  The  cottages  were  few  and  far  between,  for  the  farmers 
farmed  immense  territories ;  the  labourers  were  out  in  the  fields  at  sunrise, 
and  toiled  all  clay,  and  staggered  home  worn-out  and  stupefied  at  night ; 


742  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

the  little  pinafores  released  from  school  at  midday,  would  trot  along  the 
furrows  with  their  fathers'  and  brothers'  dinners  tied  up  in  bundles,  and 
drop  little  frightened  curtseys  along  the  hedges  when  they  met  the  vicar 
on  his  rounds.  Dreary,  dusty  rounds  they  were — illimitable  circles.  The 
country-folks  did  not  want  his  sermons,  they  were  too  stupid  to  under- 
stand what  he  said,  they  were  too  aimless  and  dispirited.  Jack  the  Giant- 
Killer's  sleep  lasted  exactly  three  years  in  Trevithic's  case,  during  which 
the  time  did  not  pass,  it  only  ceased  to  be.  Once  old  Mr.  Bellingham 
paid  them  a  visit,  and  once  Mrs.  Trevithic,  senior,  arrived  with  her 
cap-boxes,  and  then  every  thing  again  went  on  as  usual,  until  Dulcie 
came  to  live  with  her  father  and  mother  in  the  old  sun-baked,  wasp- 
haunted  place. 

Dulcie  was  a  little  portable  almanac  to  mark  the  time  for  both  of 
them,  and  the  seasons  and  the  hour  of  the  day,  something  in  this 
fashion : — 

Six  months  and  Dulcie  began  to  crawl  across  the  druggeted  floor  of 
her  father's  study ;  nine  months  to  crow  and  hold  out  her  arms ;  a  year 
must  have  gone  by,  for  Dulcie  was  making  sweet  inarticulate  chatterings 
and  warblings,  which  changed  into  words  by  degrees — wonderful  words  of 
love  and  content  and  recognition,  after  her  tiny  life-long  silence.  Dulcie's 
clock  marked  the  time  of  day  something  in  this  fashion  : — 

Dulcie's  breakfast  o'clock. 

Dulcie's  walk  in  the  garden  o'clock. 

Dulcie's  dinner  o'clock. 

Dulcie's  bedtime  o'clock,  &c. 

All  the  tenderness  of  Jack's  heart  was  Dulcie's.  Her  little  fat  fingers 
would  come  tapping  and  scratching  at  his  study-door  long  before  she  could 
walk.  She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him,  as  her  mother  was  some- 
times. She  did  not  care  for  his  sad  moods,  nor  sympathize  with  his 
ambitions,  or  understand  the  pangs  and  pains  he  suffered,  the  regrets  and 
wounded  vanities  and  aspirations.  "Was  time  passing,  was  he  wasting  his 
youth  and  strength  in  that  forlorn  and  stagnant  Lincolnshire  fen  ?  "WTiat 
was  it  to  her  ?  Little  Dulcie  thought  that  when  he  crossed  his  legs  and 
danced  her  on  his  foot,  her  papa  was  fulfilling  all  the  highest  duties  of 
life  ;  and  when  she  let  him  kiss  her  soft  cheek,  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that 
every  wish  of  her  heart  was  not  gratified.  Hard-hearted,  unsympathetic, 
trustful,  and  appealing  little  comforter  and  companion !  Whatever  it 
might  be  to  Anne,  not  even  Lady  Kidderminster's  society  soothed  and 
comforted  Jack  as  Dulcie's  did.  This  small  Egyptian  was  a  hard  task- 
mistress,  for  she  gave  him  bricks  to  make  without  any  straw,  and  kept 
him  a  prisoner  in  a  land  of  bondage ;  but  for  her  he  would  have  thrown  up 
the  work  that  was  so  insufficient  for  him,  and  crossed  the  Red  Sea,  and 
chanced  the  fortunes  of  life ;  but  with  Dulcie  and  her  mother  hanging 
to  the  skirts  of  his  long  black  clerical  coat,  how  could  he  go  ?  Ought 
he  to  go  ?  400/.  a  year  is  a  large  sum  to  get  together,  but  a  small  one 
to  provide  for  three  people — so  long  as  a  leg  of  mutton  costs  seven 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER,  743 

shillings  and  there  are  but  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound  and  3C5  days 
in  the  year. 

It  was  a  hot,  sultry  afternoon,  the  dust  was  lying  thick  upon  the  lanes, 
on  the  country  roads,  that  went  creeping  away  white  in  the  glare  to  this 
and  that  distant  sleepy  hollow.  The  leaves  in  the  hedges  were  hanging 
upon  their  stalks ;  the  convolvuluses  and  blackberries  drooped  their  heads 
beneath  the  clouds  that  rose  from  the  wreaths  and  piles  of  dust  along  the 
way.  Four  o'clock  was  striking  from  the  steeple,  and  echoing  through 
the  hot  still  air ;  nobody  was  to  be  seen,  except  one  distant  figure  crossing 
a  stubble-field ;  the  vicarage  windows  were  close  shuttered,  but  the  gate 
was  on  the  latch,  and  the  big  dog  had  just  sauntered  lazily  through.  Anne 
heard  the  clock  strike  from  her  darkened  bed-room,  where  she  was  lying 
upon  the  sofa  resting.  Dulcie  playing  in  her  nursery  counted  the  strokes. 
"  Tebben,  two,  one  ;  nonner  one,"  that  was  how  she  counted.  John  heard 
the  clock  strike  as  he  was  crossing  the  dismal  stubble-field  ;  everything 
alse  was  silent.  Two  butterflies  went  flitting  before  him  in  the  desolate 
^lare.  It  was  all  so  still,  so  dreary,  and  feverish,  that  he  tried  to  escape 
into  a  shadier  field,  and  to  force  his  way  through  a  gap  in  the  parched 
hedge  regardless  of  Farmer  Burr's  fences  and  restrictions. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  there  was  a  smaller  field,  a  hollow  with 
long  grasses  and  nut  hedges  and  a  little  shade,  and  a  ditch  over  which 
Trevithic  sprang  with  some  remnant  of  youthful  spirit.  He  sprang, 
breaking  through  the  briars  and  countless  twigs  and  limp  wreathed  leaves, 
making  a  foot- standing  for  himself  among  the  lank  grasses  and  dull  autumn 
lowers  on  the  other  side,  and  as  he  sprang  he  caught  a  sight  of  something 
lying  in  the  ditch,  something  with  half-open  lips  and  dim  glazed  eyes, 
turned  upwards  under  the  crossing  diamond  network  of  the  shadow  and 
light  of  the  briars. 

What  was  this  that  was  quite  still,  quite  inanimate,  lying  in  the  sultry 
?low  of  the  autumn  day  ?  Jack  turned  a  little  sick,  and  leapt  back  down 
imong  the  dead  leaves,  and  stooped  over  a  wan  helpless  figure  lying  there 
motionless  and  ghastly,  with  its  head  sunk  back  in  the  dust  and  tangled 
weeds.  It  was  only  a  worn  and  miserable-looking  old  man,  whose  meek, 
starved,  weary  face  was  upturned  to  the  sky,  whose  wan  lips  were  drawn 
apart,  and  whose  thin  hands  were  clutching  at  the  weeds.  Jack  gently 
.ried  to  loosen  the  clutch,  and  the  poor  fingers  gave  way  in  an  instant  and 
•'ell  helplessly  among  the  grasses,  frightening  a  field-mouse  back  into  its 
hole.  But  this  helpless,  loose  fall  first  gave  Trevithic  some  idea  of  life 
in  the  hopeless  figure,  for  all  its  wan,  rigid  lines.  He  put  his  hand  under 
he  rags  which  covered  the  breast.  There  was  no  pulse  at  first,  but  pre- 
sently the  heart  just  fluttered,  and  a  little  colour  came  into  the  pale  face, 
ind  there  was  a  long  sigh,  and  then  the  glazed  eyes  closed. 

John  set  to  work  to  rub  the  cold  hands  and  the  stiff  body.  It  was  all 
he  could  do,  for  people  don't  walk  about  with  boltles  of  brandy  and  blankets 
:n  their  pockets ;  but  he  rubbed  and  rubbed,  and  some  of  the  magnetism  of 


744  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLEIt. 

his  own  vigorous  existence  seemed  to  enter  into  the  poor  soul  at  his  knees, 
and  another  faint  flush  of  life  came  into  the  face,  and  the  eyes  opened  this 
time  naturally  and  bright,  and  the  figure  pointed  faintly  to  its  lips.  Jack 
understood,  and  he  nodded  ;  gave  a  tug  to  the  man's  shoulders,  and 
propped  him  up  a  little  higher  against  the  bank.  Then  he  tied  his  hand- 
kerchief round  the  poor  old  bald  head  to  protect  it  from  the  sun,  and 
sprang  up  the  side  of  the  ditch.  He  had  remembered  a  turnpike  upon  the 
highway,  two  or  three  hundred  yards  beyond  the  boundary  of -the  next  field. 

Lady  Kidderminster,  who  happened  to  be  driving  along  that  afternoon 
on  her  way  to  the  Potlington  flower-show,  and  who  was  leaning  back 
comfortably  under  the  hood  of  her  great  yellow  barouche,  was  surprised  to 
see  from  under  the  fringe  of  her  parasol  the  figure  of  a  man  suddenly 
bursting  through  a  hedge  on  the  roadside,  and  waving  a  hat  and  shouting, 
red,  heated,  disordered,  frantically  signing  to  the  coachman  to  stop. 

"  It's  a  Fenian,"  screamed  her  ladyship. 

"  I  think  ; — yes,  it's  Mr.  Trevithic,"  said  her  companion. 

The  coachman,  too,  had  recognized  Jack  and  began  to  draw  up  ;  but 
the  young  man,  who  had  now  reached  the  side  of  the  carriage,  signed  to 
him  to  go  on. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  lift  ?  "  he  said,  gasping  and  springing  on  to  the 
step.  "  How  d'ye  do,  Lady  Kidderminster  ?  I  heard  your  wheels  and 
made  an  effort,"  and  Jack  turned  rather  pale.  "  There  is  a  poor  fellow 
dying  in  a  ditch.  I  want  some  brandy  for  him  and  some  help  ;  stop  at  the 
turnpike,"  he  shouted  to  the  coachman,  and  then  he  turned  with  very  good 
grace  to  Lady  Kidderminster,  aghast  and  not  over-pleased.  "  Pray  forgive 
me,"  he  said.  "It  was  such  a  chance  catching  you.  I  never  thought  I 
should  have  done  it.  I  was  two  fields  off.  Why,  how  d'ye  do,  Mrs. 
Myles  ?  "  And  still  holding  on  to  the  yellow  barouche  by  one  hand,  he  put 
out  the  other  to  his  old  acquaintance,  Mary  Myles,  with  the  still  kind  eyes, 
who  was  sitting  in  state  by  the  countess. 

"  You  will  take  me  back,  and  the  brandy,  I  know  ?  "  said  Trevithic. 

"  Is  it  anybody  one  knows  ?  "  said  the  countess. 

"  Only  some  tramp,"  said  Jack :  "but  it's  a  mercy  I  met  you."  And 
before  they  reached  the  turnpike,  he  had  jumped  down,  and  was  explaining 
his  wants  to  the  bewildered  old  chip  of  a  woman  who  collected  the  tolls. 

"  Your  husband  not  here  ?  a  pity,"  said  John.  "  Give  me  his  brandy- 
bottle  ;  it  will  be  of  some  good  for  once."  And  he  disappeared  into  the 
lodge,  saying, — "  Would  you  please  have  the  horses'  heads  turned,  Lady 
Kidderminster  ?  In  a  minute  he  was  out  again.  Here,  put  this  in  "  (to 
the  powdered  footman),  and  John  thrust  a  blanket  off  the  bed,  an  old 
three-legged  chair,  a  vrash-jug  full  of  water,  and  one  or  two  more  miscel- 
laneous objects  into  the  man's  arms.  "Now  back  again,"  he  said,  "as 
quick  as  you  can  !  "  And  he  jumped  in  with  his  brandy;  and  the  great 
barouche  groaned,  and  at  his  command  actually  sped  off  once  more  along 
the  road.  "  Make  haste,"  said  Trevithic  ;  "the  man  is  dying  for  want 
of  a  dram." 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  745 

The  sun  blazed  hot  in  their  faces.  The  footman  sat  puzzled  and  dis- 
gusted on  his  perch,  clasping  the  blanket  and  the  water-jug.  Lady  Kidder- 
minster was  not  sure  that  she  was  not  ofiended  by  all  the  orders 
Mr.  Trevithic  was  giving  her  servants ;  Mrs.  Myles  held  the  three-legged 
chair  up  on  the  seat  opposite  with  her  slender  wrist,  and  looked  kind  and 
sympathetic ;  John  hardly  spoke, — he  was  thinking  what  would  be  best 
to  do  next. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  afraid  you  must  wait  for  us, 
Lady  Kidderminster.  I'll  bring  him  up  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  we  will 
drop  him  at  the  first  cottage.  You  see  nobody  else  may  pass  for  hours." 

"  We  shall  be  very  late  for  our  fl — ,"  Lady  Kidderminster  began, 
faintly,  and  then  stopped  ashamed  at  the  look  in  Trevithic' s  honest  face 
which  she  saw  reflected  in  Mrs.  Myles'  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Kidderminster,"  cried  Mrs.  Myles,  bending 
forward  from  her  nest  of  white  muslins.  "  We  must  wait." 

"Of  course  we  will  wait,"  said  Lady  Kidderminster  hastily,  as  the 
coachman  stopped  at  the  gap  through  which  Jack  had  first  made  his 
appearance.  Trevithic  was  out  in  an  instant. 

"  Bring  those  things  quick,"  said  Jack  to  the  magnificent  powder- and- 
plush  man ;  and  he  set  off  running  himself  as  hard  as  he  could  go,  with 
his  brandy-flask  in  one  hand  and  the  water-jug  in  the  other. 

For  an  instant  the  man  hesitated  and  looked  at  his  mistress,  but  Lady 
Kidderminster  had  now  caught  something  of  Mr.  Trevithic' s  energy :  she 
imperiously  pointed  to  the  three-legged  chair,  and  Tomlins,  who  was* 
good-natured  in  the  main,  seeing  Jack's  figure  rapidly  disappearing  in  the 
distance,  began  to  ran  too,  with  his  silken  legs  plunging  wildly,  for 
pumps  and  stubble  are  not  the  most  comfortable  of  combinations.  When 
Tomlins  reached  the  ditch  at  last,  Jack  was  pouring  old  Glossop's 
treacle -like  brandy  down  the  poor  gasping  tramp's  throat,  dashing  water 
into  his  face  and  gradually  bringing  him  to  life  again ;  the  sun  was 
streaming  upon  the  two,  the  insects  buzzing,  and  the  church  clock  striking 
the  half-hour. 

There  are  combinations  in  life  more  extraordinary  than  pumps  and 
ploughed  fields.  When  Trevithic  and  Tomlins  staggered  up  to  the 
carriage  carrying  the  poor  old  ragged,  half-lifeless  creature  on  the  chair 
between  them,  the  two  be-satined  and  be -feathered  ladies  made  way  and 
helped  them  to  put  poor  helpless  old  Davy  Hopkins  with  all  his  rags  into 
the  soft-cushioned  corner,  and  drove  off  with  him  in  triumph  to  the  little 
public  at  the  entrance  of  Featherston,  where  they  left  him. 

"  You  have  saved  that  man's  life,"  said  Jack,  as  he  said  good-by  to 
the  two  ladies.  They  left  him  standing,  glad  and  excited,  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  with  bright  eyes  and  more  animation  and  interest  in  his  face 
than  there  had  been  for  many  a  day. 

"  My  dear  Jack,  what  is  this  I  hear  ?  "  said  Anne,  when  he  got  home. 
"  Have  you  been  to  the  flower-show  with  Lady  Kidderminster  ?  Who  was 
that  in  the  carriage  with  her  ?  What  a  state  you  are  in." 

VOL,  xvi. — NO.  96.  86. 


746  JACK   THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

Jack  told  her  his  story,  but  Mrs.  Trevithic  scarcely  listened.  "  Oh," 
said  she,  "  I  thought  you  had  been  doing  something  pleasant.  Mrs. 
Myles  was  very  kind.  It  seeins  to  me  rather  a  fuss  about  nothing,  but 
of  course  you  know  best." 

Little  Dulcie  saw  her  father  looking  vexed  :  she  climbed  up  his  leg  and 
got  on  his  knee,  and  put  her  round  soft  cheek  against  his.  "  Sail  I 
luboo  ?  "  said  she. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BLUNDERBORE  AND  ms  TWO  HEADS. 
• 

WHEN  Jack  went  to  see  his  protege  next  day,  he  found  the  old  man  sitting 
up  in  the  bar  warming  his  toes,  and  finishing  off  a  basin  of  gruel  and  a 
tumbler  of  porter  with  which  the  landlady  had  supplied  him.  Mrs.  Penfold 
was  a  frozen  sort  of  woman,  difficult  to  deal  with,  but  kind-hearted  when 
the  thaw  once  set  in,  and  though  at  first  she  had  all  but  refused  to  receive 
poor  old  Davy  into  her  house,  once  having  relented  and  opened  her  door 
to  him  she  had  warmed  and  comforted  him,  and  brought  him  to  life  in 
triumph,  and  now  looked  upon  him  with  a  certain  self-contained  pride  and 
satisfaction  as  a  favourable  specimen  of  her  art. 

"  He's  right  eno',"  said  Mrs.  Penfold,  with  a  jerk  of  the  head.  "  Ye 
can  go  in  and  see  him  in  the  bar."  And  Jack  went  in. 

The  bar  was  a  comfortable  little  oaken  refuge  and  haven  for  Miles  and 
Hodge,  where  they  stretched  their  stiff  legs  safe  from  the  scoldings  of  their 
wives  and  the  shrill  cries  of  their  children.  The  shadows  of  the  sunny- 
latticed  window  struck  upon  the  wooden  floor,  the  fire  burnt  most  part  of 
the  year  on  the  stone  hearth,  where  the  dry  branches  and  logs  were  crackling 
cheerfully,  with  a  huge  black  kettle  hissing  upon  the  bars.  Some  one 
had  christened  it  "  Tom,"  and  from  its  crooked  old  spout  at  any  hour  of 
the  day  a  hot  and  sparkling  stream  went  flowing  into  the  smoking  grog- 
glasses,  and  into  Penfold's  punch-pots  and  Mrs.  Penfold's  teacups  and 
soup-pans. 

Davy's  story  was  a  common  one  enough, — a  travelling  umbrella- 
mender — hard  times — fine  weather,  no  umbrellas  to  mend,  and  "  parasols 
ain't  no  good ;  so  cheap  they  are,"  he  said,  with  a  shake  of  the  head ; 
"  they  ain't  worth  the  mendin'."  Then  an  illness,  and  then  the  work- 
house, and  that  was  all  his  history. 

"  I  ain't  sorry  I  come  out  of  the  'ouse  ;  the  ditch  was  the  best  place  of 
the  two,"  said  Davy.  "  You  picked  me  out  of  the  ditch ;  you'd  have  left 
me  in  the  'ouse,  sir,  all  along  with  the  ruck.  I  don't  blame  ye,"  Davy 
said  ;  "  I  see'd  ye  there  for  the  first  time  when  I  was  wuss  off  than  I  ever 
hope  to  be  in  this  life  again  ;  ye  looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  talked  on 
with  them  two  after  ye — devil  take  them,  and  he  will." 

"  I  don't  remember  you,"  said  John.     "  Where  was  it  ?  " 

"  Hamrnersley  workus,"  said   Davy.     "  Don't  TOU  remember  Ham- 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLEB.  747 

merslcy  Union  ?  I  was  in  the  bed  under  the  winder,  and  I  says  to  my 
pardner  (there  were  two  on  us),  says  I, — '  That  chap  looks  as  if  he  might 
do  us  a  turn.'  «  Not  he,'  says  my  pardner.  '  They  are  werry  charitable, 
and  come  and  stare  at  us  ;  that's  all,'  says  he,  and  he  was  right  you  see, 
sir.  He'd  been  in  five  years  come  Christmas,  and  knew  more  about  it 
than  I  did  then." 

"  And  you  have  left  it  now '?  "  said  Trevithic,  with  a  strange  expression 
of  pity  in  his  face. 

"  So  I  'ave,  sir,  I'm  bound  to  say,"  said  Davy,  finishing  off  his 
porter,  "  and  I'd  rather  die  in  the  ditch  any  day  than  go  back  to  that 
d place." 

"  It  looked  clean  and  comfortable  enough,"  said  Trevithic. 

"Clean,  comfirable  !  "  said  Davy.  "Do  you  think  I  minds  a  little 
dirt,  sir  ?  Did  you  look  under  the  quilts  ?  Why,  the  vermin  was  a-running 
all  over  the  place  like  flies,  so  it  were.  It  come  dropping  from  the 
ceiling  ;  and  my  pardner  he  were  paralytic,  and  he  used  to  get  me  to  wipe 
the  bugs  off  his  face  with  a  piece  of  paper.  Shall  I  tell  ye  what  it  was 
like  ?  "  And  old  Davy,  in  his  ire,  began  a  history  so  horrible,  so  sickening, 
that  Trevithic  flushed  up  as  he  listened, — an  honest  flush  and  fire  of 
shame  and  indignation. 

"  I  tell  j<m  fairly  I  don't  believe  half  you  say,"  said  Jack,  at  last.  "  It 
is  too  horrible  and  unnatural." 

"  True  there,"  said  Davy,  comforted  by  his  porter  and  his  gruel.  "It 
ain't  no  great  matter  to  me  if  you  believes  'arf  or  not,  sir.  I'm  out  of  that 
hole,  and  I  ain't  agoin'  back.  Maybe  your  good  lady  has  an  umbrella 
wants  seeing  to  ;  shall  I  call  round  and  ask  this  afternoon,  sir  ?  " 

Jack  nodded  and  said  he  might  come  if  he  liked,  and  went  home, 
thinking  over  the  history  he  had  heard.  It  was  one  of  all  the  histories 
daily  told  in  the  sunshine,  of  deeds  done  in  darkness.  It  was  one  grain  of 
seed  falling  into  the  ground  and  taking  root.  Jack  felt  a  dull  feeling  of 
shame  and  sadness ;  an  uncomfortable  pricking  as  of  a  conscience  which 
had  been  benumbed ;  a  sudden  pain  of  remorse,  as  he  walked  along  the 
dusty  lane  which  led  to  the  vicarage.  He  found  his  wife  in  the  drawing- 
room,  writing  little  scented  notes  to  some  of  her  new  friends,  and  accepting 
proffered  dinners  and  teas  and  county  hospitalities.  Little  Dulcie  was 
lying  on  her  back  on  a  rug,  and  crooning  and  chattering  ;  the  shutters 
were  closed ;  there  was  a  whiff  of  roses  and  scented  water  coming  in  from 
the  baking  lanes.  It  was  a -pretty  home-picture,  all  painted  in  cool 
whites  and  greys  and  shadows,  and  yet  it  had  by  degrees  grown  intoler- 
able to  him,  Jack  looked  round,  and  up  and  down,  and  then  with  a 
sudden  impulse  he  went  up  and  took  his  wife's  hand,  and  looked  her  full 
in  the  face.  "Anne,"  he  said,  "  could  you  give  up  something  for  me 
— something,  everything,  except  what  is  yours  as  a  right  ?  Dear,  it  is 
all  so  nice,  but  I  am  very  unhappy  here.  May  I  give  up  this  pretty 
home,  and  will  you  come  and  live  with  me  where  we  can  be  of  more 
use  than  we  are  here  ?  "  He  looked  so  kind  and  so  imploring,  that  for 

36—2 


743  JACK  THE   GIANT -KILLEB. 

an  instant  Anne  almost  gave  way  and  agreed  to  anything.  There  was  a 
bright  constraining  power  in  Jack's  blue  eye  which  had  to  deal  with 
magnetism,  I  believe,  and  which  his  wife  wras  one  of  the  few  people  to 
resist.  She  recovered  herself  almost  immediately. 

"  How  ridiculous  you  are,  John,"  she  said,  pettishly.  "  Of  course  I 
will  do  anything  in  reason ;  but  it  seems  to  me  very  wrong  and  unnatural 
and  ungrateful  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Trevithic,  encouraging  herself  as  she 
went  on,  "  not  to  be  happy  when  you  have  so  much  to  be  thankful  for ;  and 
though,  of  course,  I  should  be  the  last  to  allude  to  it,  yet  I  do  think  when 
I  have  persuaded  papa  to  appoint  you  to  this  excellent  living,  considering 
how  young  you  are  and  how  much  you  owe  to  him,  it  is  not  graceful,  to 
say  the  least,  on  your  part  .  .  .  ." 

John  turned  away  and  caught  up  little  Dulcie,  and  began  tossing  her 
in  the  air.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  we  won't  discuss  this  now.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  take  a  week's  holiday,"  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  laugh. 
"  I  am  going  to  stay  with  Frank  Austin  till  Saturday.  Will  you  tell  them 
to  pack  up  my  things  ?" 

"  But,  my  dear,  we  are  engaged  to  the  Kidd  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  must  write  and  make  my  excuses,"  Jack  said,  wearily.  "  I  must 
go.  I  have  some  business  at  Hammersley."  And  he  left  the  room. 

Chances  turn  out  so  strangely  at  times  that  some  people, — women 
especially,  who  live  quietly  at  home  and  speculate  upon  small  matters — look 
on  from  afar  and  wonder  among  themselves  as  they  mark  the  extraordinary 
chain-work  of  minute  stitches  by  which  the  mighty  machinery  of  the  world 
works  on.  Men  who  are  busy  and  about,  here  and  there  in  life,  are  more 
apt  to  take  things  as  they  find  them,  and  do  not  stop  to  speculate  how 
this  or  that  comes  to  be.  It  struck  Jack  oddly  when  he  heard  from  his 
friend  Frank  Austin  that  the  chaplain  who  had  been  elected  instead  of  him 
at  the  workhouse  was  ill  and  obliged  to  go  away  for  a  time.  "He  is  trying 
to  find  some  one  to  take  his  place,  and  to  get  off  for  a  holiday,"  said 
Mr.  Austin.  "  He  is  a  poor-sort  of  creature,  and  I  don't  think  he  has  got 
on  very  well  with  the  guardians." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Trevithic,  "  whether  I  could  take  the  thing  for  a  time  ? 
We  might  exchange,  you  know ;  I  am  tired  of  play,  heaven  knows.  There 
is  little  enough  to  do  at  Featherston,  and  he  might  easily  look  after  my 
flock  while  I  take  the  work  here  off  his  hands." 

"  I  know  you  always  had  a  hankering  after  those  unsavoury  flesh- 
pots,"  Austin  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  should  think  Skipper  would  jump  at 
your  offer,  and  from  all  I  hear  there  is  plenty  to  be  done  here,  if  it  is 
work  you  are  in  want  of.  Poor  little  Skipper  did  his  best  at  one 
time ;  I  believe  he  tried  to  collect  a  fund  for  some  of  the  poor  creatures 
who  couldn't  be  taken  in,  but  what  is  one  small  fish  like  him  among  so 
many  guardians  ?  "  said  Mr.  Austin,  indulging  in  one  of  those  clerical 
jokes  to  which  Mr.  Trollope  has  alluded  in  his  delightful  Chronicles. 

Jack  wrote  off  to  his  bishop  and  to  his  wife  by  that  day's  post.     Two 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  749 

different  answers  reached  him  ;  his  wife's  came  next  day,  his  bishop's 
three  days  later. 

Poor  Anno  was  frantic,  as  well  she  might  be.  "  Come  to  Hammersley 
for  two  months  in  the  heat  of  the  summer ;  bring  little  Dulcie ;  break  up 
her  home  ! — Never.  Throw  over  Lady  Kidderminster's  Saturdays  ;  admit  a 
stranger  to  the  vicarage ! — Never  !  Was  her  husband  out  of  his  senses  ?  " 
She  was  deeply,  deeply  hurt.  He  must  come  back  immediately,  or  more 
serious  consequences  than  he  imagined  might  ensue. 

Trevithic's  eyes  filled  up  with  tears  as  he  crumpled  the  note  up  in  his 
hand  and  flung  it  across  the  room.  It  was  for  this  he  had  sacrificed  the 
hope  of  his  youth,  of  his  life, — for  this.  It  was  too  late  now  to  regret,  to 
think  of  what  another  fate  might  have  been.  Marriage  had  done  him  this 
cruel  service  : — It  had  taught  what  happiness  might  be,  what  some  love 
might  be,  but  it  had  withheld  the  sweetness  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life, 
and  only  disclosed  the  knowledge  of  good  and  of  evil  to  this  unhappy 
Adam  outside  the  gates  of  the  garden. 

Old  Mr.  Bellingham  did  not  mend  matters  by  writing  a  trembling  and 
long-winded  remonstrance.  Lady  Kidderminster,  to  whom  Anne  had  com- 
plained, pronounced  Trevithic  mad;  she  had  had  some  idea  of  the  kind,  she 
said,  that  day  when  he  behaved  in  that  extraordinary  manner  in  the  lane. 

"It's  a  benevolent  mania,"  said  Lord  Axminster,  her  eldest  son. 

Mrs.  Myles  shook  her  head,  and  began,  "  He  is  not  mad,  most  noble 
lady.  ..."  Mrs.  Trevithic,  who  was  present,  flushed  up  with  resentment 
at  Mrs.  Myles  venturing  to  quote  scripture  in  Jack's  behalf.  She  did  not 
look  over-pleased  when  Mrs.  Myles  added  that  she  should  see  Mr.  Trevithic 
probably  when  she  went  to  stay  at  Hammersley  with  her  cousin,  Mrs. 
Gamier,  and  would  certainly  go  and  see  him  at  his  work. 

Jack,  who  was  in  a  strange  determined  mood,  meanwhile  wrote  back 
to  his  wife  to  say  that  he  felt  that  it  was  all  very  hard  upon  her ;  that 
he  asked  it  from  her  goodness  to  him  and  her  wifely  love  ;  that  he  would 
make  her  very  happy  if  she  would  only  consent  to  come,  and  if  not  she 
must  go  to  her  father's  for  a  few  weeks  until  he  had  got  this  work  done. 
"Indeed  it  is  no  sudden  freak,  dear,"  he  wrote.  "I  had  it  in  my  mind 
before" — (John  hesitated  here  for  a  minute  and  took  his  pen  .off  the  paper) 
— "  that  eventful  day  when  I  walked  up  to  the  rector,  and  saw  you  and 
learnt  to  know  you."  So  he  finished  his  sentence.  But  his  heart  sank 
as  he  posted  the  letter.  Ah  me  !  he  had  dreamed  a  different  dream. 

If  his  correspondence  with  his  wife  did  not  prosper  as  it  should  have 
done,  poor  Trevithic  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  bishop's  letter,  which  not 
only  gave  consent  to  this  present  scheme,  but  offered  him,  if  he  wished 
for  more  active  duty,  the  incumbency  of  St.  Bigots  in  the  North,  which 
would  shortly  be  vacant  in  Hammersley,  and  which,  although  less  valu- 
able than  his  present  living  as  far  as  the  income  was  concerned,  wns 
much  more  so  as  regards  the  souls  to  be  saved,  which  were  included  in 
the  bargain. 


750  JACK  THE     GIANT-KILLER. 

New  brooms  sweep  clean,  says  the  good  old  adage.  After  ho  took  up 
his  residence  at  St.  Magdalene's,  Jack's  broomstick  did  not  begin  to  sweep 
for  seven  whole  days.  He  did  not  go  back  to  Featherston  ;  Anne  had  left 
for  Sandsea ;  and  Mr.  Skipper  was  in  possession  of  'the  rectory,  and 
Trevithic  was  left  in  that  of  500  paupers  in  various  stages  of  misery  and 
decrepitude,  and  of  a  two-headed  creature  called  Bulcox,  otherwise  termed 
the  master  and  the  matron  of  the  place.  Jack  waited ;  he  felt  that  if  ho 
began  too  soon  he  might  ruin  everything,  get  into  trouble,  stir  up  the 
dust,  which  had  been  lying  so  thickly,  and  make  matters  worse  than  before ; 
he  waited,  watched,  looked  about  him,  asked  endless  questions,  to  not  one 
of  which  the  poor  folks  dared  give  a  truthful  answer.  "  Nurse  was  werry 
kind,  that  she  was,  and  most  kinsiderate,  up  any  time  o'  night  and  day," 
gasped  poor  wretches,  whose  last  pinch  of  tea  had  just  been  violently 
appropriated  by  "  nurse  "  with  the  fierce  eyebrows  sitting  over  the  fire,  and 
who  would  lie  for  hours  in  an  agony  of  pain  before  they  dared  awaken  her 
from  her  weary  sleep.  For  nurse,  whatever  her  hard  rapacious  heart 
might  be,  was  only  made  of  the  same  aching  bones  and  feeble  flesh  as 
the  rest  of  them.  "  Everybody  was  kind  and  good,  and  the  mistress  camo 
round  reg'lar  and  ast  them  what  they  wanted.  The  tea  was  not  so  nice 
perhaps  as  it  might  be,  but  they  was  not  wishin'  to  complain."  So  they 
moaned  on  for  the  first  three  days.  On  the  fourth  one  or  two  cleverer 
and  more  truthful  than  the  rest  began  to  whisper  that  "  nurse  "  sometimes 
indulged  in  a  drop  too  much  ;  that  she  had  been  very  unmanageable  the 
night  before,  had  boxed  poor  Tilly's  ears — poor  simpleton.  They  all  loved 
Tilly,  and  didn't  like  to  see  her  hurt.  See,  there  was  the  bruise  on  her 
cheek,  and  Tilly,  a  woman  of  thirty,  but  a  child  in  her  ways,  came  shyly 
up  in  a  pinafore,  with  a  doll  in  one  arm  and  a  finger  in  her  mouth.  All 
the  old  hags  sitting  on  their  beds  smiled  at  her  as  she  went  along.  This 
poor  witless  Tilly  was  the  pet  of  the  ward,  and  they  did  not  like  to  have  her 
beaten.  Trevithic  was  affected,  he  brought  Tilly  some  sugar-plums  in  his 
pocket,  and  the  old  toothless  crones  brightened  up  and  thanked  him,  nodding 
their  white  night-caps  encouragingly  from  every  bed.  Meanwhile  John 
sickened :  the  sights,  the  smells,  the  depression  of  spirits  produced  by  this 
vast  suffering  mass  of  his  unlucky  brothers  and  sisters,  was  too  much  for 
?iim,  and  for  "a  couple  of  days  he  took  to  his  bed.  The  matron  came  to 
see  him  twice ;  she  took  an  interest  in  this  cheerful  new  element,  sparkling 
still  with  full  reflection  of  the  world  outside.  She  glanced  admiringly  at 
his  neatly  appointed  dressing-table,  the  silver  top  to  his  shaving-gear,  and 
the  ivory  brushes. 

John  was  feverish  and  thirsty,  and  was  draining  a  bottle  of  mirky- 
looking  water  when  Mrs.  Bulcox  came  into  the  room.  "  What  is  that 
you  are  drinking  there,  sir  ?  "  said  she.  "My  goodness,  it's  the  water 
from  the  tap, — we  never  touch  it !  I'll  send  you  some  of  ours  ;  the  tap- 
water  comes  through  the  cesspool  and  is  as  nasty  as  nasty  can  be." 

"  Is  it  what  they  habitually  drink  here  ?  "  Trevithic  asked,  languidly. 

"  They're  used  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Bulcox ;  "  nothing  hurts  them." 


JACK  TEE   GLINT-KILLER.  751 

Jack  turned  away  with  an  impatient  movement,  and  Mrs.  Bulcox  went 
off  indignant  at  his  want  of  courtesy.  The  fact  was,  that  Jack  already 
knew  more  of  the  Bulcox' s  doings  than  they  had  any  conception  of,  poor 
wretches,  as  they  lay  snoring  the  comfortable  sleep  of-  callousness  on  their 
snug  pillows.  "I  don't  'alf  like  that  chap,"  Mr.  Bulcox  had  remarked 
to  his  wife,  and  Mrs.  Bulcox  had  heartily  echoed  the  misgiving.  "I 
go  to  see  him  when  he  is  ill,"  said  she,  "  and  he  cuts  me  off  as  sharp 
as  anything.  What  business  has  he  comin'  prying  and  spying  about 
the  place  ?  " 

.  What  indeed !  The  place  oppressed  poor  Jack,  tossing  on  his  bed  ; 
it  seemed  to  close  in  upon  him,  the  atmosphere  appeared  to  be  full  of 
horrible  moans  and  suggestions.  In  his  normal  condition  Jack  would 
have  gone  to  sleep  like  a  top,  done  his  best,  troubled  his  head  no  more 
on  the  subject  of  troubles  he  could  not  relieve  ;  but  just  now  he  was  out 
of  health,  out  of  spirits — although  his  darling  desire  was  his — and  more 
susceptible  to  nervous  influences  and  suggestions  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  his  life  before.  This  night  especially  he  was  haunted  and  overpowered 
by  the  closeness  and  stillness  of  his  room.  It  looked  out  through  bars 
into  a  narrow  street,  and  a  nervous  feeling  of  imprisonment  and  helpless- 
ness came  over  him  so  strongly  that,  to  shake  it  off,  he  jumped  up  at  last 
and  partly  dressed  himself,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room.  The 
popular  history  of  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  gives  a  ghastly  account  of  the 
abode  of  BJunderbore;  it  describes  "  an  immense  room  where  lay  the  limbs 
of  the  people  lately  seized  and  devoured,"  and  Blunderbore  "  with  a  horrid 
grin"  telling  Jack  "that  men's  hearts  eaten  with  pepper  and  vinegar 
were  his  nicest  food.  The  giant  then  locked  Jack  up,"  says  the  history, 
"  and  went  to  fetch  a  friend." 

Poor  Trevithic  felt  something  in  Jack's  position  when  the  gates  were 
closed  for  the  night,  and  he  found  himself  shut  in  with  his  miserable 
companions.  He  could  from  his  room  hear  the  bolts  and  the  bars  and 
the  grinding  of  the  lock,  and  immediately  a  longing  would  seize  him  to 
get  out. 

To-night,  after  pacing  tip  and  down,  he  at  last  took  up  his  hat 
and  a  light  in  his  hand,  and  opened  his  door  and  walked  downstairs  to 
assure  himself  of  his  liberty  and  get  rid  of  this  oppressive  feeling  of 
confinement.  He  passed  the  master's  door  and  heard  his  snores,  and  then 
he  came  to  the  lower  door  opening  into  the  inner  court.  The  keys  were 
in  it — it  was  only  locked  on  the  inside.  As  Jack  came  out  into  the  court- 
yard he  gave  a  great  breath  of  relief:  the  stars  were  shining  thickly 
overhead,  very  still,  very  bright*;  the  place  seemed  less  God-forgotten 
than  when  he  was  up  there  in  his  bedroom :  the  fresh  night-air  blew  in 
his  face  and  extinguished  his  light.  He  did  not  care,  he  put  it  down 
in  a  corner  by  the  door,  and  went  on  into  the  middle  of  the  yard  and 
looked  all  round  about  him.  Here  and  there  from  some  of  the  windows 
a  faint  light  was  burning  and  painting  the  bars  in  gigantic  shadows  upon 
the  walls  ;  and  at  the  end  of  'the  court,  from  what  seemed  like  a  grating 


752  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

to  a  cellar,  some  dim  rays  were  streaming  upward.  Trevithic  was 
surprised  to  see  a  light  in  such  a  place  and  he  walked  up  to  see,  and  then 
he  turned  quickly  away,  and  if  like  uncle  Toby  he  swore  a  great  oath 
at  the  horrible  sight  he  saw,  it  was  but  an  expression  of  honest  pity  and 
most  Christian  charity.  The  grating  was  a  double  grating  and  looked  into 
two  cellars  which  were  used  as  casual  wards  when  the  regular  ward  was 
full.  The  sight  Trevithic  saw  is  not  one  that  I  can  describe  here. 
People  have  read  of  such  things  as  they  are  and  were  only  a  little  while 
ago  when  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  first  published  that  terrible  account 
which  set  people  talking  and  asking  whether  such  things  should  be  and 
could  be  still. 

Old  Davy  had  told  him  a  great  many  sad  and  horrible  things,  but  they 
were  not  so  sad  or  so  horrible  as  the  truth,  as  Jack  now  saw  it.  Truth, 
naked,  alas  !  covered  with  dirt  and  vermin,  shuddering  with  cold,  moaning 
with  disease,  and  heaped  and  tossed  in  miserable  uneasy  sleep  at  the 
bottom  of  her  foul  well.  Every  now  and  then  a  voice  broke  the  darkness, 
or  a  cough  or  a  moan  reached  him  from  the  sleepers  above.  Jack  did 
not  improve  his  night's  rest  by  his  midnight  wandering. 

*  Trevithic  got  well,  however,  next  day,  dressed  himself,  and  went  down 
into  the  little  office  which  had  been  assigned  to  him.  His  bedroom  was  over 
the  gateway  of  the  workhouse  and  looked  into  the  street.  From  his  office 
he  had  only  a  sight  of  the  men's  court,  the  wooden  bench,  the  stone  steps, 
the  grating.  Inside  was  a  stove  and  green  drugget,  a  little  library  of  books 
covered  with  greasy  brown  paper  for  the  use  of  those  who  could  read. 
There  was  not  much  to  comfort  or  cheer  him,  and  as  he  sat  there  he  began 

think  a  little  disconsolately  of  his  pleasant  home,  with  its  clean  com-" 
ibrtable  appointments,  the  flowers  round  the  window,  the  fresh  chintzes, 
and,  above  all,  the  dear  little  round  face  upturned  to  meet  him  at  every 
coming  home. 

It  would  not  do  to  think  of  such  things,  and  Jack  put  them  away,  but 
he  wished  that  Anne  had  consented  to  come  to  him.  It  seemed  hard  to 
be  there  alone — him  a  father  and  a  husband,  with  belongings  of  his 
own.  Trevithic,  who  was  still  weak  and  out  of  sorts,  found  himself 
making  a  little  languid  castle  in  the  air,  of  crooked  places  made  straight, 
of  whited  sepulchres  made  clean,  of  Dulcie,  grown  tall  and  sensible, 
coming  tapping  at  his  door  to  cheer  him  when  he  was  sad,  and  encourage 
him  when  he  was  weary. 

Had  the  fever  come  back,  and  could  it  be  that  he  was  wandering  ?  It 
seemed  to  him  that  all  the  heads  of  the  old  men  he  could  see  through  the 
grating  were  turning,  and  that  an  apparition  was  passing  by — an  appari- 
tion, gracious,  smiling,  looking  in  through  the  bars  of  his  window,  and 
coming  gently  knocking  at  his  door  ;  and  then  it  opened,  and  a  low  voice 
said, — "  It's  me,  Mr.  Trevithic — Mrs.  Myles  ;  may  I  come  in  ?  "  and  a 
cool,  grey  phantom  stepped  into  the  dark  little  room.  "  How  ill  you  are 
looking,"  Mrs.  Myles  said,  compassionately.  "  I  came  to  ask  you  to  come 
back  and  dine  with  us  ;  I  am  only  here  for  a  day  or  two  with  my  cousin 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  753 

Fanny  Gamier.  She  visits  this  place  and  brought  me,  and  I  thought  of 
rsking  for  you  ;  and  do  come,  Mr.  Trevithic.  These — these  persons  showed 
mo  the  way  to  your  study."  And  she  looked  back  at  the  grinning  old  heads 
that  were  peeping  in  at  the  door.  Mary  Myles  looked  like  the  lady  in 
Comus — so  sweet,  and  pure,  and  fair,  with  the  grotesque  faces,  peering  and 
whispering  all  about  her.  They  vanished  when  Trevithic  turned,  and 
t  tood  behind  the  door  watching  and  chattering  like  apes,  for  the  pretty 
lady  to  come  out  again.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  we  are  that  you 
have  come  here,  Mr.  Trevithic,"  said  Mrs.  Myles.  "  Poor  Fanny  has  half 
broken  her  heart  over  the  place,  and  Mr.  Skipper  was  so  hopeless  that  it 
was  no  use  urging  him  to  appeal.  You  will  do  more  good  in  a  week  than 
he  has  done  in  a  year.  I  must  not  wait  now,"  Mrs.  Myles  added.  "  You 
will  come,  won't  you  ? — at  seven  ;  we  have  so  much  to  say  to  you.  Here 
is  the  address." 

As  soon  as  Jack  had  promised  to  come,  she  left  him,  disappearing  with 
her  strange  little  court  hobbling  after  her  to  the  very  gate  of  the  dreary  place. 

Jack  was  destined  to  have  more  than  one  visitor  that  afternoon.  As 
Jie  still  sat  writing  busily  at  his  desk  in  the  little  office,  a  tap  came  at  the 
door.  It  was  a  different  apparition  this  time,  for  an  old  woman's  head 
peeped  in,  and  an  old  nutcracker- looking  body,  in  her  charity-girl's  livery, 
staggered  feebly  into  his  office  and  stood  grinning  slyly  at  him.  "  She 
came  to  borrow  a  book,"  she  said.  "  She  couldn't  read,  not  she,  but,  law 
bless  him,  that  was  no  matter."  Then  she  hesitated.  "He  had  been 
speaking  to  Mike  Rogers  that  morning.  You  wouldn't  go  and  get  us  into 
trouble,"  said  the  old  crone,  with  a  wistful,  doubtful  scanning  interrogation 
of  the  eyes  :  "but  I  am  his  good  lady,  and  'ave  been  these  thirty  years, 
;ind  it  do  seem  hard  upon  the  gals,  and  if  you  could  speak  the  word,  sir, 
and  get  them  out " 

"Out?"  said  Jack. 

"From  the  black  kitchen — so  they  name  it,"  said  the  old  crone,  mys- 
teriously :  "  the  cellar  under  the  master's  stairs.  Kate  Hill  has  been  in 
and  out  a  week  come  yesterday.  I  knowed  her  grandmother,  poor  soul. 
She  shouldn't  have  spoke  tighty  to  the  missis ;  but  she  is  }7oung  and 
don't  know  no  better,  and  my  good  man  and  me  was  thinking  if  maybe 
you  could  say  a  word,  sir — as  if  from  yourself.  Maybe  you  heard  her  as 
you  went  upstairs,  sir  ;  for  we  know  our  cries  is  'eard." 

So  this  was  it.  The  moans  in  the  air  were  not  fancy,  the  complainings 
had  been  the  real  complaints  of  some  one  in  suffering  and  pain. 

"  Here  is  the  book,"  said  Jack,  suddenly;  "and  I'm  afraid  you  can 
have  no  more  snuff,  ma'am."  And  with  a  start  poor  old  Betty  Rogers 
nearly  stumbled  over  the  matron,  who  was  standing  at  his  door. 

"Well,  what  is  it  you're  wanting  now?"  said  Mrs.  Bulcox.  "You 
mustn't  allow  them  to  come  troubling  you,  Mr.  Trevithic." 

"  I  am  not  here  for  long,  Mrs.  Bulcox,"  said  Jack,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  While  I  stay  I  may  as  well  do  all  I  can  for  these  poor 
creatures." 


754  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  caine  into  Mrs.  Bulcox's  face  at  the  notion  of 
liis  approaching  departure.  He  had  been  writing  all  the  morning,  covering 
sheets  and  sheets  of  paper.  He  had  been  doing  no  harm,  and  she  felt 
she  could  go  out  for  an  hour  with  her  Bulcox,  with  an  easy  mind. 

As  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bulcox  came  home  together,  Jack,  who  was  looking 
from  his  bedroom  window,  saw  them  walking  up  the  street.  He  had  put 
up  his  sheets  of  paper  in  an  envelope,  and  stamped  it,  and  addressed 
it.  He  had  not  wasted  his  time  during  their  absence,  and  he  had  visited 
a  part  of  the  workhouse  unknown  to  him  before,  having  bribed  one  pauper 
and  frightened  another  into  showing  him  the  way.  Mr.  Bulcox  coming 
under  the  window  heard  Jack  calling  to  him  affably.  "  Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  post  this  packet  for  me  ?  "  cried  Jack.  The  post-box  was  next- 
door  to  the  workhouse.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said,  as  Mr.  Bulcox  picked  up 
the  thick  letter  which  came  falling  to  the  ground  at  his  feet.  It  was 
addressed  to  Colonel  the  Hon.  Charles  Hambledon,  Lowndes  Square, 
London.  "Keeps  very  'igh  company,"  said  Bulcox  to  his  wife,  and  he 
felt  quite  pleased  to  post  a  letter  addressed  to  so  distinguished  a  personage. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jack  again,  looking  very  savagely  pleased  and 
amused  ;  "it  was  of  importance."  He  did  not  add  that  it  was  a  letter  to 
the  editor  of  the  Jupiter,  who  was  a  friend  of  his  friend's.  Trevithic  liked 
the  notion  of  having  got  Bulcox  to  fix  the  noose  round  his  own  neck. 
He  felt  ashamed  of  the  part  he  was  playing,  but  he  did  not  hurry  him- 
self for  that.  It  was  necessary  to  know  all,  in  order  to  sweep  clean  once 
he  began.  Poor  Kate  Hill  still  in  durance  received  a  mysterious  and 
encouraging  message,  and  one  or  two  comforts  were  smuggled  in  to  her 
by  her  gaoler.  On  the  Wednesday  morning  his  letter  would  appear  in 
the  Jupiter — nothing  more  could  be  done  until  then.  Next  day  was 
Tuesday  :  he  would  go  over  to  Sandsea  and  talk  Anne  into  reason,  and 
get  back  in  time  for  the  board  ;  and  in  the  meantime  Jack  dressed  himself 
and  went  to  dine  with  the  widows. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  PATMVE  CUT  A  THREAD  OF  MRS.  TREVITIITC'S  KNITTING. 

MRS.  MYLES'  cousin,  Mrs.  Gamier,  lived  in  a  quaint,  comfortable-looking 
low  house  on  the  Chester  high-road,  with  one  or  two  bow-windows  and 
gables  standing  out  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  a  gallery  upstairs,  with 
four  or  five  windows,  which  led  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  two  widows  were  very  fond  of  due  another  and  often  together ; 
there  was  a  similarity  in  tastes  and  age  and  circumstance.  The  chief 
difference  in  their  fate  had  been  this — that  Fanny  Gamier  had  loved  her 
husband,  although  she  could  not  agree  with,  him — for  loving  and  agreeing 
do  not  go  together  always — and  Mary  Myles'  married  life  had  been  at 
best  a  struggle  for  indifference  and  forgiveness  ;  she  was  not  a  very  easily 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  755 

moulded  woman ;  she  could  do  no  more  than  forgive  and  repent  her  own 
ill-doing  in  marrying  as  she  did. 

The  trace  of  their  two  lives  was  set  upon  the  cousins.  A  certain 
coldness  and  self-reliance,  a  power  of  living  for  to-day  and  forgetting,  was 
Lhe  chief  gift  that  had  come  to  Mary  Myles  out  of  the  past  experience  of 
her  life.  Fanny  Gamier  was  softer,  more  impressionable,  more  easily 
touched  and  assimilated  by  the  people  with  whom  she  came  in  contact ; 
she  was  less  crisp  and  bright  than  Mary,  and  older,  though  she  was  the 
same  age.  She  had  loved  more  and  sorrowed  more,  and  people  remember 
their  sorrows  in  after-years  when  their  angers  are  forgotten  and  have  left 
only  a  blank  in  their  minds. 

George  Gamier,  Fanny  Garnier's  husband,  had  belonged  to  that  sect 
of  people  who  have  an  odd  fancy  in  their  world  for  making  themselves  and 
other  folks  as  miserable  as  they  possibly  can — for  worrying  and  wearying 
and  torturing,  for  doubting  and  trembling,  for  believing  far  more  eagerly 
in  justice  (or  retribution,  which  is  their  idea  of  justice)  than  in  mercy. 
Terror  has  a  strange  morbid  attraction  for  these  folks — mistrust,  for  all 
they  say,  seems  to  be  the  motive  power  of  their  lives :  they  gladly  offer 
pain  and  tears  and  penitence  as  a  ghastly  propitiation.  They  are  of  all 
religions  and  creeds  ;  they  are  found  with  black  skins  and  woolly  heads, 
building  up  their  altars  and  offering  their  human  sacrifices  in  the  unknown 
African  deserts ;  they  are  chipping  and  chopping  themselves  before  their 
emerald-nosed  idols,  who  sit  squatting  in  unclean  temples ;  they  are  living 
in  the  streets  and  houses  all  round  about  us,  in  George  Garnier's  pleasant 
old  cottage  outside  the  great  Hammersley  city,  or  at  number  five,  and  six, 
and  seven  in  our  street,  as  the  case  may  be  ;  in  the  convent  at  Bayswater, 
in  the  manses  and  presbyteries.  You  or  I  may  belong  to  the  fraternity, 
so  did  many  a  better  man,  as  the  children  say.  St.  Simon  Stylites, 
Athanasius,  John  Calvin,  Milton,  Ignatius  Loyola,  Savonarola,  not  to 
speak  of  Saints  A,  B,  C,  D,  and  E. 

Mary  poured  Jack  out  a  big  cup  of  strong  tea,  and  brought  it  across 
the  lamp-lit  room  to  him  with  her  own  white  hands.  Mrs.  Gamier 
shivered  as  she  heard  his  story.  The  tea  smoked,  the  lamps  burnt  among 
the  flower-stands,  the  wood  fire  blazed  cheerfully,  for  Mrs.  Myles  was  a 
chilly  and  weak-minded  person,  and  lit  her  fire  all  the  year  round,  more 
or  less.  Trevithic,  comfortably  sunk  back  in  a  big  arm-chair,  felt  a 
grateful  sense  of  ease  and  rest  and  consolation.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
little  house  was  so  congenial  and  fragrant,  the  two  women  were  such 
sympathizing  listeners  ;  Mary  Myles'  bright  eyes  lighted  with  such  kindly 
interest ;  while  Mrs.  Gamier,  silent,  available,  sat  with  her  knitting  under 
the  shade  of  the  lamp.  The  £oor  fellow  was  not  insensible  to  these 
soothing  influences.  As  he  talked  on,  it  seemed  to  him  that  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  realized  what  companionship  and  sympathy  might 
mean.  Something  invisible,  harmonious,  delicate,  seemed  to  drive  away 
from  him  all  thought  of  sin  or  misery  and  turmoil  when  in  company 


756  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

with  these  two  kind  women.  This  was  what  a  home  might  have  been — a 
warm,  flower-scented,  lamp-twinkling  haven,  with  sweet  still  eyes  to 
respond  and  brighten  at  his  success  and  to  cheer  his  failing  efforts.  This 
was  what  it  never,  never  would  be,  and  Trevithic  put  the  thought  away. 
It  was  dangerous  ground  for  the  poor  heart-weary  fellow,  longing  for  peace 
and  home,  comfort  and  love  ;  whereas  Anne,  to  whom  he  was  bound  to 
look  for  these  good  things,  was  at  Sandsea,  fulfilling  every  duty  of  civilized 
life,  and  not  greatly  troubled  for  her  husband,  but  miserable  on  her  own 
account,  hard  and  vexed  and  deeply  offended. 

Mrs.  Trevithic  was  tripping  along  the  south  cliff  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  next  day,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps  behind  her  made  her  stop  and 
look  round.  As  she  saw  that  it  was  her  husband  coining  towards  her,  her 
pale  face  turned  a  shade  more  pale. 

"  Oh,  how  d'ye  do  ?  "  Anne  said.  "  I  did  not  expect  you.  Have  you 
come  for  long  ?  "  And  she  scarcely  waited  for  him  to  come  up  to  her,  but 
began  to  walk  on  immediately. 

Poor  John ;  what  a  coming  home  !  He  arrived  with  his  various  interests, 
his  reforms,  his  forthcoming  letter  in  the  Jupiter ;  there  was  the  offer  of 
the  bishop's  in  his  pocket — the  momentary  gladness  and  elation  of  return 
— and  this  was  all  he  had  come  back  to  ! 

"  Have  you  come  on  business  ?  "  Mrs.  Trevithic  asked. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  Dulcie,"  John  answered  ;  "  that  was  my 
business.  Time  seems  very  long  without  you  both.  All  this  long  time  I 
have  only  had  Mrs.  Myles  to  befriend  me.  I  wish — I  wish  you  would  try 
to  like  the  place,  Anne.  The  two  ladies  seem  very  happy  there." 

"Mrs.  Myles,  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Anne  bitterly.  "No,"  she 
cried,  "  you  need  not  talk  so  to  me.  I  know  too  much,  too  much,  too 
much,"  she  said,  with  something  like  real  pathos  in  her  voice. 

"  My  dearest  Anne,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  Trevithic  said  kindly, 
hurrying  after  her,  for  she  was  walking  very  fast. 

"  It  is  too  late.  I  cannot  forgive  you.  I  am  not  one  of  those  people 
who  can  forget  easily  and  forgive.  Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  that  your 
love  is  not  mine — never  was — never  will  be  mine  ?  Do  you  think  gossip 
never  reaches  me  here,  far  away,  though  I  try  to  live  in  peace  and  away 
from  it  all  ?  And  you  dare  mention  Mary  Myles'  name  to  me — you  dare 
• — you  dare  !  "  cried  Anne,  in  her  quick  fierce  manner. 

"  Of  course  I  dare,"  said  Trevithic.  "  Enough  of  this,  Anne,"  and 
he  looked  as  hard  as  Anne  herself  for  a  minute  ;  then  he  melted.  "  Dear 
Anne,  if  something*  has  failed  in  our  home  hitherto,  let  us  forgive  one 
another  and  make  a  new  start  in  life.  Listen,"  and  he  pulled  out  the 
bishop's  letter  and  read  it  to  her.  "  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  I 
wish  for  this." 

His  wife  did  not  answer.  At  first  he  thought  she  was  relenting.  She 
went  a  little  wav  down  the  side  of  the  cliff  and  waited  for  him,  and  then 


JACK  THE    GIANT-KILLE11.  757 

suddenly  turned  upon  him.  The  wash  of  the  sea  seemed  to  flow  in  time 
vith  her  words. 

'  'You  are  cruel — yes,  cruel !  "  said  Anne,  trembling  very  much,  and 
moved  for  once  out  of  her  calm.  "  You  think  I  can  bear  anything, — I 
cannot  bear  your  insults  any  longer  !  I  must  go, — leave  you.  Yes,  listen 
t )  me,  I  ic ill  go,  I  tell  you  !  My  father  will  keep  me  here,  me  and  little 
I>ulcie,  and  you  can  have  your  own  way,  John,  and  go  where  you  like. 
You  love  your  own  way  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  it 
\\  ill  make  up  to  you  for  the  home  which,  as  you  say,  has  been  a  failure  on 
the  whole."  And  Mrs.  Trevithic  tried  to  choke  down  a  gulp  of  bitter 
a:igry  tears. 

As  she  spoke  John  remembered  a  time  not  so  very  long  ago,  when 
Anne  had  first  sobbed  out  she  loved  him,  and  when  the  tears  which  she 
sliould  have  gulped  away  had  been  allowed  to  overflow  into  those  bitter 
waters  of  strife — alas  !  neither  of  them  could  have  imagined  possible 
until  now. 

They  had  been  walking  side  by  side  along  the  beach,  the  parson 
trudging  angrily  a  little  a-head,  with  his  long  black  coat  flapping  and 
s  Tinging  against  his  legs;  Anne  skimming  along  skilfully  after  him, 
^ith  her  quick  slender  footsteps;  but  as  she  went  along  she  blamed  him  in 
har  heart  for  every  roughness  and  inequality  of  the  shore,  and  once  when 
she  struck  her  foot  against  a  stone  her  ire  rose  sore  against  him.  Little 
Pulcie  from  the  rectory  garden  spied  them  out  afar  off,  and  pointed  and 
cupered  to  attract  their  attention ;  but  the  father  and  mother  were  too 
iiLuch  absorbed  in  their  own  troubles  to  heed  her,  even  if  they  could  have 
doscried  her  small  person  among  the  grasses  and  trees. 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  said  Jack,  stopping  short  suddenly,  and  turning 
round  and  speaking  with  a  faint  discordant  jar  in  his  voice,  "  that  you 
want  to  leave  me,  Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Anne,  quite  calm  and  composed,  with  two  glowing  cheeks 
that  alone  showed  that  a  fire  of  some  sort  was  smouldering  within.  "  Yes, 
John,  I  mean  it.  I  have  not  been  happy.  I  have  not  succeeded  in 
making  you  happy.  I  think  we  should  both  be  better  people  apart  than 
together.  I  never,  never  felt  so — so  ashamed  of  myself  in  all  my  life  as 
since  I  have  been  married  to  you.  I  will  stay  here  with  papa.  You  have 
given  up  your  living  ;  you  can  now  go  and  fulfil  those  duties  which  are 
more  to  you  than  wife  or  children  or  home."  Anne — who  was  herself 
again  by  this  time — calmly  rolled  up  her  parasol  as  she  spoke  and 
st-  >od  waiting  for  an  answer.  I  think  she  expected  a  tender  burst  of 
remonstrance  from,  her  husband,  a  pathetic  appeal,  an  abandonment 
possibly  of  the  mad  scheme  which  filled  her  with  such  unspeakable 
in  lignation.  She  had  not  counted  on  his  silence.  John  stopped  short 
a  second  time,  and  stood  staring  at  the  sea.  He  was  cut  to  the 
heirt ;  cruelly  stunned  and  shocked  and  wounded  by  the  pain,  so 
th  it  he  had  almost  forgotten  his  wife's  presence,  or  what  he  should  say, 


758  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

or  anything  but  the  actual  suffering  that  he  was  enduring.  It  seemed  like 
a  revelation  of  a  horrible  secret  to  which  he  had  been  blind  all  along.  It 
was  like  a  curse  failing  upon  his  home — undreamt  of  for  a  time,  and 
suddenly  realized.  A  great  swift  hatred  flamed  up  in  his  heart  against 
the  calm  and  passive  creature  who  had  wrought  it — who  was  there  before 
him  waiting  for  his  assent  to  her  excellent  arrangements ;  a  hatred,  indeed, 
of  which  she  was  unworthy  and  unconscious ;  for  Anne  was  a  woman 
of  slow  perception.  It  took  a  long  time  for  her  to  realize  the  effect  of 
her  words,  or  to  understand  what  was  passing  in  other  people's  minds. 
She  was  not  more  annoyed  now  with  Trevithic  than  she  had  been  for  a 
long  time  past.  She  had  no  conception  of  the  furies  of  scorn  and  hatred 
which  were  battling  and  tearing  at  the  poor  fellow's  kind  heart ;  she 
had  not  herself  begun  to  respond  even  to  her  own  emotions ;  and  so 
she  stood  quite  quietly,  expecting,  like  some  stupid  bird  by  the  water's 
edge,  waiting  for  the  wave  to  overwhelm  her.  "  Do  you  not  agree 
with  me  ?"  she  said  at  last.  Trevithic  was  roused  by  his  wife's  question, 
and  answered  it.  "  Yes ;  just  as  you  wish,"  he  said,  in  an  odd, 
cracked  voice,  with  a  melancholy  jar  in  it.  "Just  as  you  like,  Anne." 
And  without  looking  at  her  again,  he  began  once  more  to  tramp  along 
the  shingle,  crushing  the  pebbles  under  his  feet  as  he  went.  The 
little  stones  started  and  rolled  away  under  his  impatient  tread.  Anne 
from  habit  followed  him,  without  much  thinking  where  she  was  going,  or 
what  aim  she  had  in  so  doing ;  but  she  could  not  keep  up  with  his  strong 
progress — the  distance  widened  and  widened  between  them.  John  walked 
farther  away,  while  Mrs.  Trevithic  following  after,  trying  in  vain  to  hasten 
her  lagging  steps,  grew  sad  and  frightened  all  at  once  as  she  saw  him 
disappearing  in  the  distance.  Her  feet  failed,  her  heart  sank,  her  courage 
died  away  all  suddenly.  Like  a  flame  blown  out  all  the  fire  of  her  vexa- 
tion and  impatience  was  gone,  and  only  a  dreary  nothing  remained.  And 
more  hard  to  -bear  even  than  the  troubles,  the  pains,  the  aches,  the 
longings  of  life,  are  its  blanks  and  its  wants.  Outer  darkness,  with  the 
tormenting  fires  and  the  companion  devils,  is  not  the  outer  darkness  that 
has  overwhelmed  strong  hearts  with  terror  and  apprehension.  No  words, 
no  response,  silence,  abandonment — to  us  weak,  loving,  longing  human 
creatures,  that  is  the  worst  fate  of  all. 

Anne  became  very  tired,  struggling  after  Trevithic.  A  gull  flapped 
across  her  path,  and  frightened  her.  Little  by  little  she  began  to  realize 
that  she  had  sent  him  away,  and  he  was  going.  She  could  see  him  .still ; 
he  had  not  yet  turned  up  the  steps  from  the  cliff  to  the  rectory  garden, 
but  he  was  gone  as  certainly  as  if  she  could  no  longer  see  him.  And  then 
she  began  to  learn  in  a  void  of  incredulous  amaze,  poor  sluggish  soul, 
that  life  was  hard,  very  hard,  and  terribly  remorseless  ;  that  when  you 
strike,  the  blow  falls  ;  that  what  3*ou  wish  is  not  always  what  you  want ; 
that  it  is  easy  to  call  people  to  you  once  perhaps,  and  to  send  them  away 
once,  but  that  when  they  come  they  stay,  a#d  when  they  go  they  are 


JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER.  759 

gone  and  all  is  over.  Why  was  lie  so  headstrong,  so  ungrateful,  so 
u  treasonable  ?  Was  she  not  right  to  blame  him  ?  and  had  he  not  owned 
himself  to  be  in  the  wrong?  Ah,  poor  wife,  poor  wife!  Something 
c  koking  and  blinding  seemed  to  smite  the  unhappy  woman  in  her  turn. 
She  reached  the  steps  at  last  that  lead  up  the  cliff  to  the  rectory  garden 
vhere  little  Dulcie  had  been  playing  when  her  mother  left  her  Anne 
longed  to  find  her  there — to  clutch  her  in  her  poor  aching  arms,  and 
cover  her  sweet  little  rosy  face  with  kisses.  "Dulcie,"  she  called, 
'  Dulcie,  Dulcie!  "  herToice  echoing  so  sadly  that  it  struck  herself,  but 
Dulcie's  cheery  little  scream  of  gladness  did  not  answer,  and  Anne — 
vho  took  this  silence  as  a  bad  omen — felt  her  heart  sink  lower.  In 
a  dim  way  she  felt  that  if  she  could  have  met  Dulcio  all  would  have 
leen  well. 

She  was  calling  still,  when  some  one  answered ;  figures  came  to  the  hail- 
ed oor,  half-a-dozen  officious  hands  were  outstretched,  and  friendly  greetings 
net  her.  There  was  Miss  Triquett  who  was  calling  with  Miss  Moineaux, 
and  Miss  Simmonds  who  had  driven  up  in  her  basket-carnage,  and  old 
Mr.  Bellingham  trying  in  a  helpless  way  to  entertain  his  visitresses,  and  to 
riake  himself  agreeable  to  them  ah1.  The  old  gentleman,  much  relieved  at 
tae  sight  of  his  daughter,  called  her  to  him  with  a  cheerful,  "  Ah,  my  dear, 
1  ere  you  are.  I  shall  now  leave  these  ladies  in  better  hands  than  mine. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  a  sermon  to  write."  And  Mr.  Bellingham  imme- 
( lately  and  benevolently  trotted  away. 

With  the  curious  courage  of  women,  and  long  habitude,  Mrs.  Trevithic 
took  off  her  hat  and  smoothed  her  straight  hair,  and  sat  down,  and 
nechanically  began  to  make  conversation  for  the  three  old  ladies  who 
( stablished  themselves  comfortably  in  the  pleasant  bow-windowed  drawing- 
loom  and  prepared  for  a  good  chat.  Miss  Simmonds  took  the  sofa  as  her 
light  (as  I  have  said  before,  size  has  a  certain  precedence  of  its  own). 
Hiss  Triquett,  as  usual,  rapidly  glanced  round  the  apartment,  took  in 
the  importation  of  workboxes,  baskets,  toy-boxes,  &c.,  which  Anne's  arrival 
Lad  scattered  about,  the  trimming  on  Mrs.  Trevithic's  dress,  the  worn 
lines  under  her  eyes.  Mrs.  Trevithic  took  her  knitting  from  one 
( f  the  baskets,  and  rang  the  bell  and  desired  the  man  to  find 
Hiss  Dulcie  and  send  her;  and  meanwhile  the  stream  of  conversation 
Lowed  on  uninterruptedly.  Mr.  Trevithic  was  well.  Only  come  for  a 
c  ay  !  And  the  little  girl  ?  Thanks— yes.  Little  Dulcie's  cold  had  been 
E  avere — linseed-poultices,  squills,  ipecacuanha  wine ; — thanks,  yes.  Mrs. 
Trevithic  was  already  aware  of  their  valuable  medicinal  properties. 
Jlr.  Pelligrew,  the  present  curate,  had  sprained  his  thumb  in  the  pulpit- 
(  oor — wet  bandages,  &c.  &c.  Here  Miss  Simmonds,  whose  eyes  had 
1  een  fixed  upon  the  window  all  this  time,  suddenly  exclaimed, — 

"  How  fond  your  husband  is  of  that  dear  child  Dulcie,  Mrs.  Trevithic  ! 
r.?here  she  is  with  her  papa  in  the  garden." 

"Dear  me  !  "  said  Triquett,  stretching  her  long  neck  and  lighting  up 


760  JACK  THE   GIANT-KILLER. 

with  excitement.  "Mr.  Trevitliic  must  be  going  away;  you  never  told 
us.  He  is  carrying  a  carpet-bag." 

As  she  spoke,  Anne,  who  had  been  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  window, 
started  up  and  her  knitting  fell  off  her  lap.  She  was  irresolute  for  an 
instant.  He  could  not  be  going — going  like  that,  without  a  word.  No, 
she  would  not  go  to  him. 

"  0  dear  me  !  "  said  Miss  Simmonds,  who  had  been  trying  to  hook 
up  the  little  rolling  balls  of  worsted  with  the  end  of  her  parasol,  "just  see 
what  I  have  done."  And  she  held  it  up  spindle  fashion  with  the  long 
thread  twisted  round  it  and  hooked. 

"  I  think  I  can  undo  it,"  said  Miss  Moineaux. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I — I  want  to  speak  to  my  husband,"  said 
Mrs.  Trevithic,  starting  up  and  running  to  the  door. 

"He  is  gone,"  said  Miss  Triquett  to  the  others,  looking  once  more 
out  through  the  big  pleasant  window.  "Dear  Miss  Moineaux,  into  what 
a  mess  you  have  got  that  knitting — let  me  cut  the  thread." 

"  Poor  thing,  she  is  too  late,"  said  Miss  Moineaux,  letting  the  two 
ends  of  the  thread  fall  to  the  ground. 


London :  Printed  by  SMITH,  ELDEB  and  Co.,  Old  Kailey,  E.G. 


AP        The  Cornhill  magazine 

4 

C76 
v.16 


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