Full text of "The Cornhill magazine"

I MADE AI.I, HASTK TO OKT AWAT.

THE

COKNHILL

MAGAZINE

VOL. XXXY.

JANUARY TO JUNE, 1877,

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE.

1877.

[The right of Publishing Translations of Articles in this Magazine is reserved.']

CONTEOTS OF VOLUME XXXV.

EREMA ; OR, MY FATHERS SIN.

PAGE

Chapter XII. Gold and Grief. 1

XIII. The Sawyer's Prayer 6

XIV. Not far to seek 9

XV. Brought to Bank 15

XVI. Firm and Infirm 19

XVII. Hard and Soft 129

XVIII. Out of the Golden Gate 134

XIX. Inside the Channel 139

XX. Bruntsea 143

XXL Listless 148

XXII. Betsy Bowen 363

XXIII. Betsy's Tale 368

XXIV. Betsy's Tale (continued) 373

XXV. Betsy's Tale (concluded) 377

XXVI. At the Bank 385

XXVII. Cousin Montague 392

XXVIII. A Check 398

XXIX. At the Pump 403

XXX. Cocks and Coxcombs 617

XXXI. Adrift 622

XXXII. At Home 628

XXXIII. Lord Castlewood 633

XXXIV. Shoxford 641

XXXV. The Sexton , 646

XXXVI. A Simple Question 653

XXXVII. Some Answer to it 658

XXXVIII. A Witch 664

CARITA.

Chapter XXII. Mystified 106

XXIII. A Remonstrance 114

XXIV. On the other Side of the Wall 121

XXV. An Idealist 234

XXVI. In the "House" 241

XXVII. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing 249

XXVIII. The Fireside 257

XXIX. The Old Folk and the Young 264

XXX. A Rebellious Heart 271

XXXI. The House of Mourning 490

yj CONTENTS.

CAHITA (continued).

Chapter XXXU. Taking up Dropt Stitehes .................................... 497

XXXIII. Little Emmy's Visitors ........................................ 504

XXXTV. The Widow.... .................................................... 513

XXXV. Eoger's Fate ....................................................... 521

XXXVI. Between the Two ................................................ 528

XXXVII. The Crisis Approaching ....................................... 738

XXXVIII. The Supreme Moment .......................................... 745

XXXIX. The Hand of Fate ................................................ 753

" Alfarache, Guzman de," and the Gusto Picaresco .................................... 24

Alps (The) in Winter ................................................................... . ...... 352

Anecdotes of an Epicure ..................................................................... 56

Ave Maria. (A Breton Legend.) By Alfred Austin .................................... 735

Bacchus and Ariadne, The Triumph of. (Lorenzo de' Medici's Carnival Song.) 458

Bath, A Fashionable, in the Olden Time ................................................ 195

Bulgarian Popular Songs .................................................. .. ................. 221

Chaucer's Love-Poetry ........................................................................ 280

Consciousness, Dual..... ............................... . ....................................... 86

Crema and the Crucifix ....................................................................... 685

Donegal, Folk-Lore of the County of. The Fairies .................................... 172

Dual Consciousness ..................................................................... . ...... 86

Dutch Milton, A .............................................................................. 696

Epicure, Anecdotes of an ..................................................................... 56

Falling in Love, On ..................... ....................................................... 214

Fashionable Bath in the Olden Time ...................................................... 195

Fielding's Novels. Hours in a Library. No. XIV ................................... 154

Folk-Lore of the County Donegal. The Fairies ..................................... 172

From Stratford to London .................................................................. 69

Genius and Vanity ........................................................................... 670

Gossip of History, The ........................................................................ 325

Great Storms ................................................................................. 182

" Gusman de Alfarache " and the Gusto Picaresco .................... . ........... 24

Heroes and Valets ....................... v ................................................... 4g

History, the Gossip of ................................................................ 335

Hours in a Library. No. XIV. Fielding's Novels ............................. 154

,, No. XV. Charles Kingsley ................................... 424

Is the Moon Dead? ,

Kingsley, Charles. Hours in a Library. No. XV ......................... 424

Lizzie's Bargain. Parti ................................................. c-g

Partn ................................................. .I.!.""".*!;".! 694

Lorenzo de' Medici's Carnival Song. The Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne ... 458
Love, On Falling in ..................................................

Marriages, Quiet .....................................................

My Neighbour's Wife ................................................

Mythology, TheKationale of .....................................

CONTENTS. Vii

PAGE

Nils Jensen 298

" Out of the Mouth of Babes " 84

Quiet Marriages 460

Kain-Cloud (The). (After the Tamil) 208

Eain, the Levelling Power of 476

Eationale of Mythology, The 407

Bidicule and Truth 580

Sicilian Folk-Songs 443

Storms, Great 182

Stratford to London 69

Sweet Love is Dead. By Alfred Austin 279

Transcaucasia 536

Truth and Kidicule 580

Turkish Ways and Turkish Women, On. Part III 340

Valets and Heroes - 46

Vanity and Genius 670

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

TO PACK PACK

I MADE ALL HASTE TO GET AWAY 1

"YES, YOU YOUNG IDIOT !" CRIED THE OLD MAX, JUMPING UP 106

I KNEW THEKK WOULD BE NONE TO LOVE LIKE THEM, 'WHEREVER I MIGHT GO 129

"Ott, WHAT A FARCE IT WAS," SHE THOUGHT 234

"ELAINE" 257

TO ME HE SEEMED VERY MUCH TO BB THAWING TO HER 363

"LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO MY NEW WARD, MlSS EllEMA CASTLBWOOD " ... 385

"I HAVE BSKX IN GREAT TROUBLE LATELY," SAID HE 490

"SOMETHING MORE YET ONLY ONE THING MORE" 513

HERE i FOUND LORD CASTLEWOOD 617

"I KNOWS THE MAN WHO DONE IT" 641

HER EYES WERE WITH HER HEART, AND THAT WAS FAR AWAY 738

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

JANUARY, 1877.

0r,

it.

CHAPTER XII.
GOLD AND GRIEF.

T may have been ail hour,
but it seemed an age, ere
the sound of the horn,
in Firm's strong blast,
released me from my
hiding - place. I had
heard no report of fire-
arms, nor perceived any
sign of conflict ; and.
certainly the house was
not on fire, or else I must
have seen the smoke.
For being still in great
alarm, I had kept a very
sharp look-out.

Ephraim Gundry
came to meet me, which
was very kind of Mm.
He carried his bugle in
his belt, that he might
sound again for me, if needful. But I was already running towards the
house, having made up my mind to be resolute. Nevertheless I was
highly pleased to have his company, and hear what had been .done.

" Please to let me help you, " he said with a smile ; " why, Miss, you
are trembling dreadfully. I assure you, there is no cause for that."
VOL. xxxv. NO. 205. 1.

2 EREMA.

" But you might have been killed, and Uncle Sani, and Mai-tin, and
everybody. Oh, those men did look so horrible ! "

" Yes, they always do, till you come to know them. But bigger
cowards were never born. If they can take people by surprise, and shoot
them without any danger, it is a splendid treat to them. But if any one
like grandfather meets them, face to face, in the daylight, their respect
for law and life returns. It is not the first visit they have paid us.
Grandfather kept his temper well. It was lucky for them that he did."

Remembering that the rovers must have numbered nearly three to
one, even if all our men were staunch, I thought it lucky for ourselves
that there had been no outbreak. But Firm seemed rather sorry that
they had departed so easily. And knowing that he never bragged, I
began to share his confidence.

" They must be shot, sooner or later," he said ; " unless indeed they
should be hanged. Their manner of going on is out of date, in these
days of settlement. It was all very well, ten years ago. But now we
are a civilised state, and the hand of law is over us. I think we were
wrong to let them go. But of course I yield to the governor. And I
think he was afraid for your sake. And to tell the truth, I may have
been the same."

Here he gave my arm a little squeeze, which appeared to me quite
out of place ; therefore I withdrew, and hurried on. Before he could
catch me, I entered the door, and found the Sawyer sitting calmly with
his own long pipe once more, and watching Suan cooking.

" They rogues have had all the best of our victuals, " he said, as soon as
he had kissed me. " Respectable visitors is my delight, and welcome to
all of the larder. But at my time of life, it goes agin' the grain, to lease
out my dinner to galley-rakers. Suan, you are burning the fat again."

Suan Isco, being an excellent cook (although of quiet temper), never
paid heed to criticism, but lifted her elbow, and went on. Mr. Gundry
know that it was wise to offer no further meddling ; although it is well
to keep them up to their work by a little grumbling. But when I came
to see what broken bits were left for Suan to deal with, I only wondered
that he was not cross.

" Thank God for a better meal than I deserve," he said, when they
all had finished ; " Suan, you are a treasure, as I tell you every day
a'most. Now, if they have left us a bottle of wine, let us have it up.
We be all in the dumps. But that will never do, my lad."

He patted Firm on the shoulder, as if he were the younger man of
the two ; and his grandson went down to the wreck of the cellar ; while
I, who had tried to wait upon them, in an eager clumsy way, perceived
that something was gone amiss, something more serious and lasting than
the mischief made by the robber troop. "Was it that his long ride had
failed, and" not a friend could be found to help him ?

When Martin and the rest were gone, after a single lass of wine,
and Ephraim had made excuse of something to be seen to, the Sawyer

EREMA. 3

leaned back in his chair, and his cheerful face was troubled. I filled his
pipe, and lit it for him, and waited for him to speak, well knowing his
simple and outspoken heart. But he looked at me, and thanked me
kindly, and seemed to be turning some grief in his mind.

" It ain't for the money," he said at last, talking more to himself
than to me ; " the money might a'been all very well, and useful in a sort
of way. But the feelin', the feelin' is the thing I look at ; and it ought
to have been more hearty. Security ! Charge on my land indeed !
And I can run away, but my land must stop behind ! What security
did I ask of them 1 'Tis enough a'most to make a rogue of me."

" Nothing could ever do that, Uncle Sam ! " I exclaimed, as I came
and sat close to him ; while he looked at me bravely, and began to smile.

" Why, what was little Missy thinking of 1 " he asked. " How solid
she looks ! Why, I never see the like ! "

" Then you ought to have seen it, Uncle Sam. You ought to have
seen it fifty times, with everybody who loves you. And who can help
loving you, Uncle Sam ? "

" Well, they say that I charged too much for lumber, a'cuttin' on the
cross, and the backstroke work. And it may a'been so, when I took
agin a man. But to bring up all that, with the mill strown down, is a
cowardly thing, to my thinking. And to make no count of the beadin'
T threw in, whenever it were a straightforrard job, and the turpsy
knots, and the clogging of the teeth 'tis a bad bit to swallow, when the
mill is strown."

" But the mill shall not be strown, Uncle Sam. The mill shall be
built again. And I will find the money."

Mr. Gundry stared at me, and shook his head. He could not bear
to tell me how poor I was, while I thought myself almost made of
money. " Five thousand dollars you have got put by for me," I con-
tinued, with great importance. " Five thousand dollars from the sale, and
the insurance fund. And five thousand dollars must be five-and-twenty-
thousand francs. Uncle Sam, you shall have every farthing of it. And
if that won't build the mill again, I have got my mother's diamonds."

" Five thousand dollars ! " cried the Sawyer, in amazement, opening
his deep grey eyes at me. And then he remembered the tale which he
had told, to make me seem independent. " Oh yes, to be sure, my dear ;
now I recollect. To be sure to be sure your own five thousand
dollars ! But never will I touch one cent of your nice little fortune ;
no, not to save my life. After all, I am not so gone in years, but what
I can build the mill again myself. The Lord hath spared my hands and
eyes, and gifted me still with machinery And Firm is a very handy
lad, and can carry out a job pretty fairly, with better brains to stand
over him ; although it has not pleased the Lord to gift him with sense of
machinery, like me. But that is all for the best, no doubt. If Ephraim
had too much of brains, he might have contradicted me. And that I
could never abide, God knows, from any green young jackanapes."

4 EREtfA,

" Oh, Uncle Sam, let me tell you something, something very
important ! "

" No, my dear, nothing more just now. It has done me good to
have a little talk, and scared the blue somethings out of me. But just
go and ask whatever is become of Firm. He was riled with them
greasei's. It was all I could do to keep the boy out of a difficulty with
them. And if they camp anywhere nigh, it is like enough he may go
hankerin' after them. The grand march of intellect hathn't managed
yet to march old heads upon young shoulders. And Firm might happen
to go outside the law."

The thought of this frightened me not a little ; for Firm, though mild
of speech, was very hot of spirit at any wrong ; as I knew from tales of
Suaii Isco, who had brought him up, and made a glorious idol of him.
And now, when she could not say where he was, but only was sure that
he must be quite safe (in virtue of a charm from a great medicine-man
which she had hung about him), it seemed to me, according to what I was
used to, that in these regions human life was held a great deal too lightly.

It was not for one moment that I cared about Firm, any more than
is the duty of a fellow-creature ; he was a vory good young man, and
in his way good-looking, educated also quite enough, and polite, and a
very good carver of a joint ; and when I spoke, he nearly always
listened. But, of course, he was not to be compared as yet to his grand-
father, the true Sawyer.

When I ran back from Suan Isco, who was going on about her
charm, and the impossibility of any one being scalped who wore it, I
found Mr. Gundry in a genial mood. He never made himself uneasy
about any trifles. He always had a very pure and lofty faith in the
ways of Providence, and having lost his only son Elijah, he was sure
that he never could lose Firm. He had taken his glass of hot whisky-
and- water, which always made him temperate ; and if he felt any of his
troubles deeply, he dwelt on the"m now from a high point of view.

" I may a' said a little too much, my dear, about the badness of man-
kind," he observed, with his pipe lying comfortably on his breast ; " all
sayings of that sort is apt to go too far. I ought to have made more
allowance for the times, which gets into a ticklish state, when a old man
is put about with them. Never you pay no heed whatever to any harsh
words I may have used. All that is a very bad thing for young folk."

" But if they treated you badly, Uncle Sam, how can you think that
they treated you well 1 "

He took some time to consider this, because he was true in all his
thoughts. And then he turned off to something else.

" Why, the smashing of the mill may have been a mercy, although in
disguise to the present time of sight. It will send up the price of scant-
lings, and we was getting on too fast with them. By the time we have
built up the mill again, we shall have more orders than we know how to
do with. When I come to reckon of it, to me it appears to be the rea-

EEEMA. 5

sonable thing to feel a lump of grief for the old mill, and then to set to,
and build a stronger one. Yes, that must be about the right thing to
do. And we'll have all the neighbours in, when we lay foundations."

" But what will be the good of it, Uncle Sam, when the new mill
may at any time be washed away again ? "

" Never, at any time," he answered very firmly, gazing through the
door, as if he saw the vain endeavour. " That little game can easily be
stopped, for about fifty dollars, by opening down the bank towards the
old track of the river. The biggest waterspout that ever came down
from the mountains could never come anigh the mill, but go right down
the valley. It hath been in my mind to do it often, and now that I see
the need, I will. Firm and I will begin to-morrow."

" But where is all the money to come from, Uncle Sam ] You said
that all your friends had refused to help you."

" Never mind, my dear. I will help myself. It won't be the first
time, perhaps, in my life."

" But supposing that I could help you, just some little. Supposing
that I had found the biggest lump of gold ever found in all California ] "
Mr. Gundry ought to have looked surprised ; and I was amazed that
he did not. But he took it as quietly as if I had told him that I had
just picked xip a brass button of his. And I thought that he doubted my
knowledge, very likely, even as to what gold was.

" It is gold, Uncle Sam, every bit of it gold here is a piece of it just
look and as large, I am sure, as this table. And it may be as deep as
this room, for all that one can judge to the contrary. Why, it stopped
the big pile from coming to the top, when even you went down the river."
" Well, now, that explains a thing or two," said the Sawyer, smiling
peacefully, and beginning to think of another pipe, if preparation meant
anything. " Two things have puzzled me about that stump, and indeed
I might say three things. Why did he take such a time to drive, and
why would he never stand up like a man, and why wouldn't he go away,
when he ought to 1 "

" Because he had the best of all reasons, Uncle Sam. He was
anchored on his gold, as I have read in French, and he had a good right
to be crooked about it and no power could get him away from it."

" Hush, my dear, hush ! It is not at all good for young people to let
their minds run on so. But this gold looks very good indeed. Are you
sure that it is a fair sample, and that there is any more of it ? "

" How can you be so dreadfully provoking, Uncle Sam, when I tell
you that I saw it with my own eyes 1 And there must be at least half a
ton of it."

" Well, half a hundred-weight will be enough for me. And you
shall have all the rest, my dear. That is, if you will spare me a bit,
Miss Remy. It all belongs to you, by discovery ; according to the digger's
law. And your eyes are so bright about it. Miss, that the whole of your
heart must be running upon it,"

g EBEMA.

" Then you think me as bad as the rest of the world ! How I wish
that I had never seen it ! It was only for you that I cared about it.
For you, for you and I will never touch a scrap of it."

Mr. Gundry had only been trying me perhaps. But I did not see it
in that light, and burst into a flood of childish tears, that he should mis-
understand me so. Gold had its usual end in grief. Uncle Sam rose up
to soothe me, and to beg my pardon, and to say that perhaps he was
harsh, because of the treatment he had received from his friends. He
took me in his arms and kissed me ; but before I could leave off sobbing,
the crack of a rifle rang through the house, and Suan Isco, with a wail,
rushed out.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE SAWYER'S PRAYER.

THE darkness of young summer night was falling on earth, and tree, arid
stream. Everything looked of a different form and colour from those of
an hour ago, and the rich bloom of shadow mixed with colour, and cast
by snowy mountains, which have stored the purple adieu of the sun,
was filling the air with delicious calm. The Sawyer ran out with his
shirt-sleeves shining, so that any sneaking foe might shoot him ;" but with
the instinct of a settler, he had caught up his rifle. I stood beneath a
carob-tree, which had been planted near the porch, and flung fantastic
tassels down, like the ear-rings of a negress. And not having sense
enough to do good, I was only able to be frightened.

Listening intently, I heard the sound of skirring steps on the other
side of, and some way down, the river; and the peculiar tread, even
thus far off, was plainly Suan Isco's. And then, in the stillness, a weary
and heavy foot went, toiling after it. Before I could follow, which I
longed to do, to learn at once the worst of it, I saw the figure of a man
much nearer, and even within twenty yards of me, gliding along without
any sound. Faint as the light was, I felt sure that it was not one of our
own men, and the barrel of a long gun upon his shoulder made a black
line among silver leaves. I longed to run forth and stop him, but my
courage was not prompt enough ; and I shamefully shrank away behind
the trunk of the carob-tree. Like a sleuth, compact, and calm-hearted
villain, he went along without any breath of sound, stealing his escape
with skill ; till a white bower-tent made a background for him, and he
leaped up, and fell flat, without a groan. The crack of a rifle came later
than his leap, and a curl of white smoke shone against a black rock, and
the Sawyer in the distance cried, " "Well now ! " as he generally did, when
satisfied.

So scared was I, that I caught hold of a cluster of pods to steady me ;
and then without any more fear for myself, I ran to see whether it was
possible to help. But the poor man lay beyond earthly help ; he was too
dead to palpitate. His life must have left him in the air, and he could
not even have felt his fall,

EREMA. 7

In violent terror, I burst into tears, and lifted his heavy head, and
strove to force his hot hands open, and did I know not what, without
thinking, labouring only to recall his life.

" Are you grieving for the skulk who has shot my Firm 1 " said a
stern voice quite unknown to me ; and rising I looked at the face of Mr.
Gundry, unlike the countenance of Uncle Sam. I tried to speak to him,
but was too frightened. The wrath of blood was in his face, and all his
kind desires were gone.

" Yes, like a girl, you are sorry for a man who has stained this earth,
till his only atonement is to stain it with his blood. Captain Pedro,
there you lie, shot, like a coward, through the back. I wish you were
alive to taste my boots. Murderer of men, and dastard ravisher of
women, miscreant of God, how can I keep from trampling on you 1 "

It never had been in my dreams that a good man could so entirely
forget himself. I wanted to think that it must be somebody else, and
uot our Uncle Sam. But he looked towards the west, as all men do
when their spirits are full of death, and the wan light showed that his
chin was triple.

Whether it may have been right or wrong, I made all haste to get
away. The face of the dead man was quite a pleasant thing, compared with
the face of the old man living. He may not have meant it, and I hope he
never did ; but, beyond all dispute, he looked barbarous for the moment.

As I slipped away, to know the worst, there I saw him standing
still, longing to kick the vile man's corpse, but quieted by the great awe
of death. If the man had stirred, or breathed, or even moaned, the
living man would have lost all reverence in his fury. But the power of
the other world was greater than even revenge could trample on. He let
it lie there, and he stooped his head, and went away quite softly.

My little foolish heart was bitterly visited by a thing like this. The
Sawyer, though not of great human rank, was gifted with the largest
human nature that I had ever met with. And though it was impossible
as yet to think, a hollow depression, as at the loss of some great ideal,
came over me.

Returning wretchedly to the house, I met Suan Isco and two men
bringing the body of poor Firm. His head and both his arms hung
down, and they wanted somebody to lift them ; and this I ran to do,
although they called out to me not to meddle. The body was carried in,
and laid upon three chairs, with a pillow at the head ; and then a light
was struck, and a candle brought by somebody or other. And Suan Isco
sat upon the floor, and set up a miserable Indian dirge.

" Stow away that," cried Martin of the mill, for he was one
of those two men; "wait till the lad is dead; and then pipe up to your
liking. I felt him try to kick, while we carried him along. He come
forth on a arrand of that sort, and he seem to a'been disappointed. A
very fine young chap I call him, for to try to do it still, howsomever his
mind might be wandering. Missy, keep his head up."

8 EREMA.

I did as I was told, and watched poor Firm, as if ray own life hung
upon any sign of life in him. When I look back at these things, I think
that fright, and grief, and pity must have turned an excitable girl almost
into a real woman. But I had no sense of such things then.

" I tell you, he ain't dead," cried Martin ; " no more dead than I be.
Pie feels the young gal's hand below him, and I see him try to turn up
his eyes. He has taken a very bad knock, no doubt, and trouble about
his breathing. I seed a fellow scalped once, and shot through the heart ;
but he came all round in about six months, and protected his head with
a document. Firm, now, don't you be a fool. I have had worse things
in my family."

Ephraim Gundry seemed to know that some one was upbraiding
him. At any rate, his white lips trembled with a weak desire to
breathe, and a little shadow of life appeared to nicker in his open eyes.
And on my sleeve, beneath his back, some hot bright blood came
trickling.

" Keep him to that," said Martin, with some carpenter sort of sur-
gery ; "less fear of the life when the blood begins to run. Don't move
him, Missy, never mind your arm. It will be the saving of him."

I was not strong enough to hold him up, but Suan ran to help me ;
and they told me afterwards that I fell faint, and no doubt it must
have been so. But when the rest were gone, and had taken poor Firm
to his straw mattress, the cold night air must have flowed into the
room, and that perhaps revived me. I went to the bottom of the stairs
and listened, and then stole up to the landing, and heard Suan Isco, who
had taken the command, speaking cheerfully in her worst English.
Then I hoped for the best, and without any knowledge wandered forth
into the open air.

Walking quite as in a dream this time^which I had vainly striven
to do when seeking for my nugget), I came to the bank of the gleaming
river, and saw the water just in time to stop from stepping into it.
Careless about this, and every other thing, for the moment, I threw
myself on the sod, and listened to the mournful melody of night.
Sundry unknown creatures, which by day keep timid silence, were
sending placid sounds into the darkness, holding quiet converse with
themselves, or it, or one another. And the silvery murmur of the
wavelets soothed the twinkling sleep of leaves.

I also, being worn and weary, and having a frock which improved
with washing, and was spoiled already by nursing Firm, was well con-
tent to throw myself into a niche of river-bank, and let all things
flow past me. But before anything had found time to flow far, or the
lullaby of night had lulled me, there came to me a sadder sound than
plaintive nature can produce without her Master's aid, the saddest
sound in all creation a strong man's wail.

Child as I was and perhaps all the more for that reason as know-
ing so little of mankind I might have been more frightened, but I

EREMA. 9

could not have been a bit move shocked, by the roaring of a lion. For
I knew in a moment whose voice it was, and that made it pierce me
tenfold. It was Uncle Sam, lamenting to himself, and to his God
alone, the loss of his last hope on earth. He could not dream that any
other than his Maker (and his Maker's works, if ever they have any
sympathy) listened to the wild outpourings of an aged, but still very
natural heart, which had always been proud of controlling itself. I
could see his great frame through a willow-tree, with the sere grass and
withered reeds around, and the faint gleam of fugitive water beyond.
He was kneeling towards his shattered mill, having rolled his shirt-
sleeves back to pray, and his white locks shone in the starlight ; then,
after trying several times, he managed to pray a little. First (perhaps
partly from habit), he said the prayer of Our Lord pretty firmly, and
then he went on to his own special case, with a doubting whether he
should mention it. But as he went on, he gathered courage, or received
it from above, and was able to say what he wanted.

" Almighty Father of the living and the dead, I have lived long, and
shall soon be dead, and my days have been full of trouble. But I never
had such trouble as this here before, and I don't think I ever shall get
over it. I have sinned every day of my life, and not thought of Thee,
but of victuals, and money, and stuff; and nobody knows, but myself and
Thou, all the little bad things inside of me. I cared a deal more to be
respectable and get on with my business than to be prepared for kingdom
come. And I have just been proud about the shooting of a villain,
who might a' gone free and repented. There is nobody left to me in
my old age. Thou hast taken all of them. Wife, and son, and mill,
and grandson, and my brother who robbed me the whole of it may
have been for my good, but I have got no good out of it. Show me the
way for a little time, Lord, to make the best of it ; and teach me to
bear it like a man, and not break down at this time of life. Thou
knowest what is right. Please to do it. Amen."

CHAPTEE XIV.
NOT FAR TO SEEK.

IN the present state of controversies most profoundly religious, the Lord
alone can decide (though thousands of men would hurry to pronounce)
for or against the orthodoxy of the ancient Sawyer's prayer. But if
sound doctrine can be established by success (as it always is), Uncle
Sam's theology must have been unusually sound ; for it pleased a
gracious Power to know what he wanted, and to grant it.

Brave as Mr. Gundry was, and much enduring and resigned, the
latter years of his life on earth must have dragged on very heavily, with
abstract resignation only, and none of his blood to care for him. Being
so obstinate a man, he might have never admitted this, but proved

10 EREMA.

against every one's voice, except his own, his special blessedness. But
this must have been a trial to him, and happily he was spared from it.

For although Firm had been very badly shot, and kept us for weeks
in anxiety about him, his strong young constitution and well-nourished
frame got over it. A truly good and learned doctor came from Sacra-
mento, and we hung upon his words, and found that there he left us
hanging. And this was the wisest thing perhaps that he could do,
because in America medical men are not absurdly expected, as they are
in England, to do any good ; but are valued chiefly upon their power of
predicting what they cannot help. And this man of science perceived
that he might do harm to himself and his family, by predicting amiss,
whereas he could do no good to his patient by predicting rightly. And
so he foretold both good and evil, to meet the intentions of Providence.

He had not been sent for in vain, however ; and to give him his due
he saved Ephraim's life, for he drew from the wound a large bullet,
which, if left, must have poisoned all his circulation, although it was
made of pure silver. The Sawyer wished to keep this silver bullet as a
token, but the doctor said that it belonged to him according to miners'
law ; and so it came to a moderate argument. Each was a thoroughly stub-
born man, according to the bent of all good men, and reasoning increased
their unreason. But the doctor won, as indeed he deserved, for the
extraction had been delicate ; because when reason had been exhausted,
he just said this :

" Colonel Gundry, let us have no more words. The true owner is
your grandson. I will put it back where I took it from."

Upon this, the Sawyer being tickled, as men very often are in sad
moments, took the doctor by the hand, and gave him the bullet heartily.
And the medical man had a loop made to it, and wore it upon his watch
chain. And he told the story so often (saying that another man perhaps
might have got it out, but no other man could have kept it), that among
a great race who judge by facts it doubled his practice immediately.

The leader of the robbers, known far and wide as " Captain Pedro,"
was buried where he fell ; and the whole so raised Uncle Sam's repu-
tation, that his house was never attacked again j and if any bad charac-
ters were forced by circumstances to come near him, they never asked
for anything stronger than ginger-beer or lemonade, and departed very
promptly. For as soon as Ephraim Gundry could give account of his
disaster, it was clear that Don Pedro owed his fate to a bottle of the
Sawyer's whisky. Firm had only intended to give him a lesson for
misbehaviour, being fired by his grandfather's words about swinging me
on the saddle. This idea had justly appeared to him to demand a
protest ; to deliver which he at once set forth with a valuable cow-hide
whip. Coming thus to the rovers' camp, and finding their captain
sitting in the shade to digest his dinner, Firm laid hold of him by the
neck, and gave way to feelings of severity. Don Pedro regretted his
misconduct, and being lifted up for the moment above his ordinary

EREMA. 11

view, perceived that he might have clone better, and shaped the pattern
of his tongue to it. Firm, hearing this, had good hopes of him ; yet
knowing how volatile repentance is, he strove to form a well-marked
track for it. And when the captain ceased to receive cow-hide, he must
have had it long enough to miss it.

Now this might have ended honourably and amicably for all con-
cerned, if the captain had known when he was well off. Unluckily he
had purloined a bottle of Mr. G-undry's whisky, and he drew the cork
now to rub his stripes, and the smell of it moved him to try it inside.
And before very long, his ideas of honour, which he had sense enough to
drop when sober, began to come into his eyes again, and to stir him up
to mischief. Hence it was that he followed Firm, who was riding home
well satisfied, and appeased his honour by shooting in cold blood, and
justice by being shot any how.

It was beautiful, through all this trying time, to watch Uncle Sam's
proceedings. He appeared so delightfully calm, and almost careless,
whenever he was looked at. And then he was ashamed of himself per-
petually, if any one went on with it. Nobody tried to observe him, of
course, or remark upon any of his doings, and for this he would become
so grateful, that he would long to tell all his thoughts, and then stop.
This must have been a great worry to him, seeing how open his manner
was ; and whenever he wanted to hide anything, he informed us of that
intention. So that we exhorted Firm every day to come round and
restore us to our usual state. This was the poor fellow's special desire ;
and often he was angry with himself, and made himself worse again by
declaring that he must be a milksop to lie there so long. Whereas, it
was much more near the truth that few other men, even in the Western
States, would ever have got over such a wound. I am not learned
enough to say exactly where the damage was, but the doctor called it, I
think, the sternum, and pronounced that " a building-up process " was
required, and must take a long time, if it ever could be done.

It was done at last, thanks to Suan Isco, who scarcely ever left him
by day or night, and treated him skilfully with healing herbs. But he,
without meaning it, vexed her often by calling for me a mere ignorant
child. Suan was dreadfully jealous of this, and perhaps I was proud of
that sentiment of hers, and tried to justify it, instead of labouring to
remove it, as would have been the more proper course. And Firm most
ungratefully said that my hand was lighter than poor Suan's, and every-
thing I did was better done, according to him which was shameful on
his part, and as untrue as anything could be. However, we yielded to
him in all things, while he was so delicate ; and it often made us, poor
weak things, cry to be the masters of a tall strong man.

Firm Gundry received that shot in May, about ten days before the
twelvemonth was completed from my father's death. The brightness of
summer, and beauty of autumn, went by without his feeling them, and
while his system was working hard to fortify itself by walling-up, as the

1 2 EREMA.

learned man had called it. There had been sonic difficulties in this
process, caused partly, perhaps, by our too lavish supply of the raw
material ; and before Firm's gap in his " sternum " was stopped, the
mountains were coming down upon us, as we always used to say when the
snow-line stooped. In some seasons this is a sharp time of hurry, broken
with storms, and capricious, while men have to slur in the driving
weather tasks that should have been matured long since. But in other
years, the long descent into the depth of winter is taken not with a
jump like that, but gently, and softly, and windingly, with a great
many glimpses back at the summer, and a good deal of leaning on the
arm of the sun.

And so it was this time. The autumn and the winter for a fortnight
stood looking quietly at each other. They had quite agreed to share
the hours, to suit the arrangements of the sun. The nights were starry
and fresh and brisk, without any touch of tartness ; and the days were
sunny and soft and gentle, without any sense of languor. It was a
lovely scene : blue shadows gliding among golden light.

The Sawyer came forth, and cried, " What a shame ! This makes me
feel quite young again. And yet I have done not a stroke of work. No
excuse. Make no excuse. I can do that pretty well for myself. Praise
God for all his mercies. I might do worse, perhaps, than have a pipe."

Then Firm came out to surprise him, and to please us all with the
sight of himself. He steadied his steps, with one great white hand upon
bis grandfather's Sunday staff, and his clear blue eyes were trembling
with a sense of gratitude and a fear of tears. And I stepped behind a
red strawberry-tree, for my sense of respect for him almost made me sob.

Then Jowler thought it high time to appear upon the scene, and
convince us that he was not a dead dog yet. He had known tribulation,
as his master had, and had found it a difficult thing to keep from the
shadowy hunting-ground of dogs, who have lived a conscientious life. I
had wondered at first what his reason could have been for not coming
forward, according to his custom, to meet that troop of robbers. But
his reason, alas, was too cogent to himself, though nobody else in that
dreadful time could pay any attention to him. The B-Overs, well know-
ing poor Jowler's repute, and declining the fair mode of testing it, had
sent in advance a very crafty scout, a half-bred Indian, who knew as
much about dogs as they could ever hope to know about themselves.
This rogue approached faithful Jowler so we were told long after-
wards not in an upright way, but as if he had been a brother qua-
druped. And he took advantage of the dog's unfeigned surprise and
interest, to accost him with a piece of kidney containing a powerful poison.
According to all sound analogy, this should have stopped the dear
fellow's earthly tracks ; but his spirit was such, that he simply went
away to nurse himself up in retirement. Neither man nor dog can tell
what agonies he suffered ; and doubtless his tortures of mind about duty
unperformed were the worst of all. These things are out of human

EEEMA. 13

knowledge in its present unsympathetic state. Enough that poor Jowler
came home at last, with his ribs all up and his tail very low.

Like friends who have come together again, almost from the jaws of
death, we sat in the sunny noon, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The
trees above us looked proud and cheerful, laying aside the mere frippery
of leaves, with a good grace and contented arms, and a surety of having
quite enough next spring. Much of the fruity wealth of autumn still
was clustering in our sight, heavily fetching the arched bough down, to
lessen the fall, when fall they must. And against the golden leaves of
maple behind the unpretending roof, a special wreath of blue shone like
a climbing Ipomsea. But coming to examine this, one found it to be
nothing more nor less than the smoke of the kitchen chimney, busy with
a quiet roasting job.

This shows how clear the air was ; but a thousand times as much
could never tell how clear our spirits were. Nobody made any " demon-
stration," or cut any frolicsome capers, or even said anything exuberant.
The stedfast brooding breed of England, which despises antics, was pre-
sent in us all, and strengthened by a soil whose native growth is peril,
chance, and marvel. And so we nodded at one another, and I ran over
and curtseyed to Uncle Sam, and he took me to him.

" You have been a dear good child," he said, as he rose, and looked
over my head at Firm ; " my own granddarter, if such there had been,
could not have done more to comfort me ; nor half so much for ought I
know. There is no picking and choosing among the females, as God
gives them. But He has given you. for a blessing and saving to my old
age, my dearie."

" Oh, Uncle Sam, now the nugget ! " I cried, desiring like a child to
escape deep feeling, and fearing any strong words from Firm. " You
have promised me ever so long that I should be the first to show Firm
the nugget."

" And so you shall, my dear, and Firm shall see it before he is an
hour older, and Jowler shall come down to show us where it is."

Firm, who had little faith in the nugget, but took it for a dream of
mine, and had proved conclusively from his pillow that it could not exist
in earnest, now with a gentle, satirical smile declared his anxiety to see
it ; and I led him along by his better arm, faster, perhaps, than he
ought to have walked.

In a very few minutes we were at the place, and I ran eagerly to
point it ; but behold, where the nugget had been, there was nothing ex-
cept the white bed of the river ! The blue water flowed very softly on
its way, without a gleam of gold to corrupt it.

" Oh, nobody will ever believe me again ! " I exclaimed in the saddest
of sad dismay. " I dreamed about it first, but it never can have been
a dream throughout. You know that I told you about it, Uncle Sam,
even when you were very busy, and that shows that it never could have
been a dream."

1 4 EREMA.

" You told me about it, I remember now," Mr. Gundry answered
dryly ; " but it does not follow that there was such a thing. My dear,
you may have imagined it ; because it was the proper time for it to come,
when my good friends had no money to lend. Your heart was so good
that it got into your brain ; and you must not be vexed, my dear child ;
it has done you good to dream of it."

" I said so all along," Firm observed ; " Miss Rema felt that it ought
to be, and so she believed that it must be there. She is always so warm
and trustful.

" Is that all you are good for ? " I cried, with no gratitude for his
compliment. " As sure as I stand here I saw a great boulder of gold,
and so did Jowler ; and I gave you the piece that he brought up. Did
you take them all in a dream, Uncle Sam ? Come, can you get over
that?"

I assure you that for the moment I knew not whether I stood
upon my fe^t or head, until I perceived an extraordinary grin on the
Sawyer's ample countenance ; but Firm was not in the secret yet, for he
gazed at me with compassion ; and Uncle Sam looked at us both, as if he
were balancing our abilities.

" Send your dog in, Missy," at last he said ; "he is more jour dog
than mine, I believe, and he obeys you like a Christian. Let him go
and find it if he can."

At a sign from me, the great dog dashed in, and scratched with all
four feet at once, and made the valley echo with the ring of mighty bark-
ing ; and in less than two minutes, there shone the nugget, as yellow and
as big as ever.

" Ha, ha ! I never saw a finer thing," shouted Uncle Sam, like a
schoolboy. " I were too many for you, Missy dear ; but the old dog
wollops the whole of us. I just shot a barrow-load of gravel on your
nugget, to keep it all snug till Firm should come round ; and if the boy
had never come round, there the gold might have waited the will of the
Almighty. It is a big spot anyhow."

It certainly was not a little spot, though they all seemed to make so
light of it which vexed me, because I had found it, and was as proud
as if I had made it. Not by any means that the Sawyer wa,s half as
careless as he seemed to be ; he put on much of this for my sake, having
very lofty principles, especially concerning the duty of the young. Young
people were never to have small ideas, so far as he could help it, particularly
upon such matters as Mammon, or the world, or fashion ; and not so very
seldom he was obliged to catch himself up in his talking, when he chanced
to be going on, and forgetting that I, who required a higher vein of
thought for my youth, was taking his words downright ; and I think
that all this had a great deal to do with his treating all that gold in such
an exemplary manner ; for if it had really mattered nothing, what made
him go in the dark and shoot a great barrow- load of gravel over it ?

EREAtA.. 15

CHAPTER XV.
BKOUGHT TO BANK.

THE sanity of a man is mainly tested among his neighbours and kindred
by the amount of consideration which he has consistently given to cash.
If money has been the chief object of his life, and he for its sake has
spared nobody, no sooner is he known to be successful than admiration
overpowers all the ill-will he has caused. He is shrewd, sagacious, long-
headed, and great ; he has earned his success, and few men grudge, while
many seek to get a slice of it ; but he, as a general rule, declines any
premature distribution ; and for this custody of his wealth, he is admired
all the more by those who have no hope of sharing it.

As soon as ever it was known that Uncle Sam had lodged at his
bankers a tremendous lump of gold, which rumour declared to be worth
at least a hundred thousand dollars, friends from every side poured in,
all in hot haste, to lend him their last farthing. The Sawyer was pleased
with their kindness, but thought that his second-best whisky met the
merits of the case. And he was more particular than usual with his
words ; for according to an old saying of the diggers, a big nugget always
has children, and, being too heavy to go very far, it is likely to keep all
its little ones at home. Many people, therefore, were longing to seek
for the frogs of this great toad ; for so in their slang the miners called them,
with a love of preternatural history. But Mr. Gundry allowed no search
for the frogs, or even the tadpoles, of his patriarchal nugget. And much
as he hated the idea of sowing the seeds of avarice in any one, he showed
himself most consistent now in avoiding that imputation ; for not only
did he refuse to show the bed of his great treasure, after he had secured
it, but he fenced the whole of it in, and tarred the fence and put loop-
holes in it ; and then he established Jowler where he could neither be
shot nor poisoned, and kept a man with a double-barrelled rifle in the
ruin of the mill, handy to shoot, but not easy to be shot ; and this was a
resolute man, being Martin himself, who had now no business. Of course
Martin grumbled ; but the worse his temper was, the better for his duty,
as seems to be the case with a great many men ; and if any one had come
to console him in his grumbling, never would he have gone away again.

It would have been reckless of me to pretend to say what anybody
ought to do ; from the first to the last I left everything to those who
knew so much better ; at the same time, I felt that it might have done
no harm if I had been more consulted, though I never dreamed of saying
so, because the great gold had been found by me, and although I cared
for it scarcely more than for the tag of a boot-lace, nobody seemed to me
able to enter into it quite as I did ; and as soon as Firm's danger and
pain grew less, I began to get rather impatient, but Uncle Sam was not
to be hurried.

Before ever he hoisted that rock of gold, he had made up his mind
for me to be there, and he even put the business off, because I would

15 EREMA.

not come one night, for I had a superstitious fear on account of its being
my father's birthday. Uncle Sam had forgotten the date, and begged
my pardon for proposing it ; but he said that we must not put it off later
than the following night, because the moonlight would be failing, and we
durst not have any kind of lamp, and before the next moon the hard
weather might begin. All this was before the liberal offers of his
friends, of which I have spoken first, although they happened to come
after it.

While the Sawyer had been keeping the treasure perdu, to abide the
issue of his grandson's illness, he had taken good care both to watch it
and to form some opinion of its shape and size ; for, knowing the pile
which I had described, he could not help finding it easily enough ; and,
indeed, the great fear was that others might find it, and come in great
force to rob him ; but nothing of that sort had happened, partly because
he held his tongue rigidly, and partly, perhaps, because of the simple
precaution which he had taken.

Now, however, it was needful to impart the secret to one man at
least ; for Firm, though recovering, was still so weak that it might have
killed him to go into the water, or even to exert himself at all ; and,
strong as Uncle Sam was, he knew that even with hoisting-tackle, he alone
could never bring that piece of bullion to bank ; so, after much considera-
tion, he resolved to tell Martin of the Mill, as being the most trusty man
about the place, as well as the most surly ; but he did not tell him until
everything was ready, and then he took him straightway to the place.

Here, in the moonlight, we stood waiting, Firm and myself and Suan
Isco, who had more dread than love of gold, and might be useful to keep
watch, or even to lend a hand, for she was as strong as an ordinary man.
The night was sultry, and the fire-flies (though dull in the radiance of
the moon) darted, like soft little shooting-stars, across the still face of
shadow, and the flood of the light of the moon was at its height, sub-
merging everything.

While we were whispering and keeping in the shade, for fear of
attracting any wanderer's notice, we saw the broad figure of the Sawyer
rising from a hollow of the bank, and behind him came Martin the fore-
man, and we soon saw that due preparation had been made, for they took
from under some driftwood (which had prevented us from observing it)
a small moveable crane, and fixed it on a platform of planks which they
set up in the river-bed.

" Pale-faces eat gold," Suan Isco said, reflectively, and as if to satisfy
herself. " Dem eat, drink, die gold ; den pull gold out of one other's
ears. Welly hope Mellican mans get enough gold now."

" Don't be sarcastic, now, Suan," I answered ; " as if it were possible
to have enough ! "

" For my part," said Firm, who had been unusually silent all the
evening, " I wish it had never been found at all. As sure as I stand
here, mischief will come of it. It will break up our household. I hope

EREMA. 17

it will turn out a lump of quartz, gilt on the face, as those big nuggets
do, ninety-nine out of a hundred". I have had no faith in it all along."

" Because I found it, Mr. Firm, I suppose," I answered rather pet-
tishly, for I never had liked Firm's incessant bitterness about my nugget.
"Perhaps if you had found it, Mr. Firm, you would have had great faith
in it.

" Can't say, can't say," was all Firm's reply ; and he fell into the silent
vein again.

" Heave-ho ! heave-ho ! there, you sons of cooks ! " cried the Sawyer,
who was splashing for his life in the water. " I've tackled 'un now !
Just tighten up the belt, to see if he biteth centre-like. You can't lift 'un !
Lord bless 'ee, not you. It'll take all I know to do that, I guess ; and
Firm ain't to lay no hand to it. Don't you be in guch a doggoned hurry.
Hold hard, can't you 1 "

For Suan and Martin were hauling for their lives, and even I caught
hold of a rope-end, but had no idea what to do with it, when the Sawyer
swung himself up to bank, and in half a minute all was orderly. He
showed us exactly where to throw our weight, and he used his own to
such good effect that, after some creaking and groaning, the long bill of
the crane rose steadily, and a mass of dripping sparkles shone in the
moonlight over the water.

" Hurrah ! What a whale ! How the tough ash bends ! " cried Uncle
Sam, panting like a boy, and doing nearly all the work himself. " Martin,
lay your chest to it. We'll grass him in two seconds. Californy never
saw a sight like this, I reckon."

There was plenty of room for us all to stand round the monster
and admire it. In shape it was just like a fat toad, squatting with his
shoulders up and panting. Even a rough resemblance to the head and
the haunches might be discovered, and a few spots of quartz shone here
and there on the glistening and bossy surface. Some of us began to feel
and handle it with vast admiration ; but Firm, with his heavy boots,
made a vicious kick at it, and a few bright scales, like sparks, flew off.

" Why, what ails the lad ?" cried the Sawyer in some wrath ; " what
harm hath the stone ever done to him 1 To my mind, this here lump is
a proof of the whole creation of the world, and who hath lived long
enough to gainsay 1 Here this lump hath lain, without changing colour,
since creation's day ; here it is, as big and heavy as when the Lord laid
hand to it. What good to argue agin' such facts 1 Supposin' the world
come out o' nothing, with nobody to fetch it, or to say a word of orders,
how ever could it 'a managed to get a lump of gold like this in it ? They
clever fellers is too clever. Let 'em put all their heads together, and
turn out a nugget, and I'll believe them."

Uncle Sam's reasoning was too deep for any but himself to follow.
He was not long in perceiving this, though we were content to admire
his words, without asking him to explain them ; so he only said, " Well,
well," and began to try with both hands if he could heft this lump. He

1 8 EREMA.

stirred it, and moved it, and raised it a little, as the glisten of the light
upon its roundings showed ; but lift it fairly from the ground he could
not, however he might bow his sturdy legs and bend his mighty back to
it ; and, strange to say, he was pleased for once to acknowledge his own
discomfiture.

" Five hundred and a half I used to lift to the height of my knee-
cap easily ; I may 'a fallen off now a hundredweight with years, and
strings in my back, and rheumatics ; but this here little toad is a cleai
hundredweight out and beyond my heftage. If there's a pound here,
there's not an ounce under six hundredweight, I'll lay a thousand dollars.
Miss Eema, give a name to him. All the thundering nuggets has
thundering names.

"Then this shall be called 'Uncle Sam,' " I answered; "because he
is the largest and the best of all."

" It shall stand, Miss," cried Martin, who was in great spirits, and
seemed to have bettered himself for ever. " You could not have given
it a finer name, Miss, if you had considered for a century. Uncle Sam
is the name of our glorious race, from the kindness of our natur'. Every-
body's uncle we are now in vartue of superior knowledge, and freedom,
and giving of general advice, and stickin' to all the world, or all the good
of it. Darned if old Sam aren't the front of creation ! "

" Well, well," said the Sawyer, " let us call it ' Uncle Sam,' if the
dear young lady likes it ; it would be bad luck to change the name ; but
for all that, we must look uncommon sharp, or some of our glorious race
will come and steal it, afore we unbutton our eyes."

" Pooh ! " cried Martin, but he knew very well that his master's words
were common sense ; and we left him on guard with a double-barrelled
gun, and Jowler to keep watch with him. And the next day he told us
that he had spent the night in such a frame of mind from continual
thought, that when our pet cow came to drink at daybreak, it was but
the blowing of her breath that saved her from taking a bullet between
her soft, tame eyes.

Now, it could not in any kind of way hold good that such things
should continue ; and the Sawyer, though loth to lose sight of the nugget,
perceived that he must not sacrifice all the morals of the neighbourhood
to it, and he barely had time to despatch it on its road at the bottom of
a load of lumber, with Martin to drive, and Jowler to sit up, and Firm
to ride behind, when a troop of mixed robbers came riding across, with a
four-wheel cart and two sturdy mules, enough to drag off everything.
They had clearly heard of the golden toad, and desired to know more of
him ; but Uncle Sam, with his usual blandness, met these men at the
gate of his yard, and upon the top-rail, to ease his arm, he rested a rifle
of heavy metal, with seven revolving chambers. The robbers found out
that they had lost their way, and Mr. Gundry answered that so they had,
and the sooner they found it in another direction, the better it would be
for them. They thought that he had all his men inside, and they were

EREMA. 19

mighty civil, though we had only two negroes to help us, and Suan Isco,
with a great gun cocked. But their curiosity was such that they could
not help asking about the gold ; and, sooner than shoot them, Uncle Sam
replied that, upon his honour, the nugget was gone. And the fame of
his word was so well known, that these fellows (none of whom could tell
the truth even at confession) believed him on the spot, and begged his
pardon for trespassing on his premises. They hoped that he would not
say a word to the Vigilance Committee, who hanged a poor fellow for .
losing his road ; and he told them that if , they made off at once, nobody
should pursue them, and so they rode off very happily.

CHAPTER XVI.
FIRM AND INFIRM.

STRANGE as it may appear, our quiet little home was not yet disturbed by
that great discovery of gold. The Sawyer went up to the summit of
esteem in public opinion ; but to himself, and to us, he was the same as
ever. He worked with his own hard hands, and busy head, just as
he used to do ; for although the mill was still in ruins, there was plenty
of the finer work to do, which always required band-labour. And at night
he would sit at the end of the table furthest from the fireplace, with his
spectacles on, and his red cheeks glowing, while he designed the future
mill, which was to be built in the spring, and transcend every mill ever
heard, thought, or dreamt of.

We all looked forward to a quiet winter, snug with warmth and
cheer indoors, and bright outside with sparkling trees, brisk air, and
frosty appetite ; when a foolish idea arose, which spoiled the comfort at least
of two of us. Ephraim Gundry found out, or fancied, that he was entirely
filled with love of a very young maid, who never dreamt of such things,
and hated even to hear of them ; and the maid, unluckily, was myself.

During the time of his ailment, I had been with him continually,
being only too glad to assuage his pain, or turn his thoughts away from
it. I partly suspected that he had incurred his bitter wound for my
sake; though I never imputed his zeal to more than a young man's
natural wrath at an outrage. But now he left me no longer in doubt, and
made me most uncomfortable. Perhaps I was hard upon him, and after-
wards I often thought so ; for he was very kind and gentle ; but I was
an orphan child, and had no one to advise me in such matters. I
believe that he should have considered this, and allowed me to grow a
little older ; but perhaps he himself was too young as yet, and too
bashful, to know how to manage things. It was the very evening after
his return from Sacramento, and the beauty of the weather still abode in
the soft warm depth around us. In every tint of rock and tree, and
playful glass of river, a quiet clearness seemed to lie, and a rich content
of colour. The grandeur of the world was such, that one could only rest
among it, seeking neither voice nor thought.

20 EREMA.

Therefore I was more surprised than pleased to hear my name ring
loudly thi-ough the echoing hollows, and then to see the bushes shaken,
and an eager form leap out. I did not answer a word, but sat with a
wreath of white bouvardia and small adiantum round my head, which
I had plaited anyhow.

"What a lovely dear you are!" cried Finn, and then he seemed
frightened at his own words,

" I had no idea that you would have finished your dinner so soon as
this, Mr. Firm."

" And you did not want me. You are vexed to see me. Tell the
truth, Miss Rema."

" I always tell the truth," I answered ; " and I did not want to be
disturbed just now. I have so many things to think of."

" And not me among them. Oh no, of course, you never think of
me, Erema."

" It is very unkind of you to say that," I answered, looking clearly
at him, as a child looks at a man. "And it is not true, I assure yoxi,
Firm. Whenever I have thought of dear Uncle Sam, I very often go
on to think of you, because he is so fond of you."

" But not for my own sake, Erema ; you never think of me-for my
own sake."

" But yes, I do, I assure you, Mr. Firm ; I do greatly. There is
scarcely a day that I do not remember how hungry you are, and I think
of you."

" Tush ! " replied Firm, with a lofty gaze. " Even for a moment
that does not in any way express my meaning. My mind is very much
above all eating, when it dwells upon you, Erema. I have always been
fond of you, Erema."

" You have always been good to me, Firnl," I said, as I managed to
get a great branch between us. " After your grandfather, and Suan
Isco, and Jowler, I think that I like you best of almost anybody left to
me. And you know that I never forget your slippers."

" Erema, you drive me almost wild, by never \inderstanding me.
Now, will you just listen to a little common sense? You know that I
am not romantic."

"Yes, Firm; yes, I know that you never did anything wrong in
any way."

" You would like me better if I did. What an extraordinary thing
it is ! Oh, Erema, I beg your pardon."

He had seen in a moment, as men seem to do, when they study the
much quicker face of a girl, that his words had keenly wounded me
that I had applied them to my father, of whom I was always thinking ;
though I scarcely ever spoke of him. But I knew that Firm had meant
no harm, and I gave him my hand, though I could not speak.

" My darling," he said, " you are very dear to me, dearer than all the
world beside. I will not worry you any more. Only say that you do
not hate me,"

EKEMA. 21

" How could 1 1 How could anybody ? Now let us go in, and
attend to Uncle Sam. He thinks of everybody before himself."

" And I think of everybody after myself. Is that what you mean,
Erema t "

" To be sure ! If you like ; you may put any meaning on my words
that you think proper. I am accustomed to things of that sort, and I
pay no attention whatever, when I am perfectly certain that I am right."
" I see," replied Firm, applying one finger to the side of his nose, in
deep contemplation, which, of all his manners, annoyed me most, that
nose being slightly crooked ; " I see how it is ; Miss Rerna is always
perfectly certain that she is right, and the whole of the rest of the
world quite wrong. Well, after all, there is nothing like holding a
first-rate opinion of oneself."

" You are not what I thought of you," I cried, being vexed beyond
bearance by such words, and feeling their gross injustice; "if you wish
to say anything more, please to leave it until you recover your temper. I
am not quite accustomed to rudeness."

"With these words, I drew away and walked off, partly in earnest
and partly in joke, not wishing to hear another word. And when I
looked back, being well out of sight, there he sat still, with his head on
his hands ; and my heart had a little ache for him.

However, I determined to say no more, and to be extremely careful.
I could not in justice blame Ephraim Gundry for looking at me very
often. But I took good care not to look at him again, unless he said
something that made me laugh, and then I could scarcely help it. He
was sharp enough very soon to find out this ; and then he did a thing
which was most unfair, as I found out long afterwards. He bought an
American jest-book, full of ideas wholly new to me, and these he com-
mitted to heart, and brought them out as his own productions. If I
had only known it, I must have been exceedingly sorry for him. But
Uncle Sam used to laugh, and rub his hands, perhaps for old acquaint-
ance sake ; and when Uncle Sam laughed, there was nobody near who
could help laughing with him. And so I began to think Firm the most
witty and pleasant of men, though I tried to look away.

But perhaps the most careful and delicate of things was to see how
Uncle Sam went on. I could not understand him at all just then, and
thought him quite changed from my old Uncle Sam ; but afterwards,
when I came to know, his behaviour was as clear and shallow as the water
of his own river. He had very strange ideas about what he generally
called " the female kind." According to his ideas (and, perhaps they were
not so unusual among mankind, especially settlers), all " females " were of
a good, but weak, and consistently inconsistent sort. The surest way to
make them do whatever their betters wanted, was to make them think
that it was not wanted, but was hedged with obstacles beyond their power
to overcome ; and so to provoke and tantalise them to set their hearts
upon doing it. In accordance with this idea (than which there can be
none more mistaken), he took the greatest pains to keep me from having

EREMA.

a word to say to Firm, and even went so far as to hint with winks and
nods of pleasantry, that his grandson's heart was set upon the pretty
Miss Sylvester, the daughter of a man who owned a herd of pigs, much
too near our saw-mills, and herself a young woman of outrageous dress,
and in a larger light contemptible. But when Mr. Gundry, without
any words, conveyed this piece of news to me, I immediately felt quite a
liking for gaudy but harmless Pennsylvania, for so her parents had
named her, when she was too young to help it, and I heartily hoped that
she might suit Firm, which she seemed all the more likely to do, as his
conduct could not be called noble. Upon that point, however, I said not
a word, leaving him purely to judge for himself, and feeling it a great relief
that now he could not say anything more to me. I was glad that his
taste was so easily pleased; and I told Suan Isco how glad I was.

This I had better have left unsaid ; for it led to a great explosion,
and drove me away from the place altogether, before the new mill was
finished, and before I should otherwise have gone from friends who were
so good to me, not that I could have stayed there much longer, even if
this had never come to pass ; for week by week, and month by month,
I was growing more uneasy. Uneasy, not at my obligations, or depend-
ence upon mere friends (for they managed that so kindly that I seemed to
confer the favour), but from my own sense of lagging far behind my duty.
For now the bright air, and the wholesome food, and the pleasure of
goodness around me, were making me grow, without knowledge or notice,
into a tall and not altogether to be overlooked young woman. I was
exceedingly shy about this, and blushed if any one spoke of it ; but yet
in my heart I felt that it was so, and how could I help it ? And when
people said, as rough people will, and even Uncle Sam sometimes, "hand-
some is as handsome does," or " beauty is only skin deep," and so on, I
made it my duty not to be put out, but to bear it in mind, and be thank-
ful. And though I had no idea of any such influence at the moment, I
hope that the grandeur of nature around, and the lofty style of every-
thing, may have saved me from dwelling too much on myself, as Penn-
sylvania Sylvester did.

Now the more I felt my grown-up age, and health, and buoyant
vigour, the surer I knew that the time was come for me to do some good
with them. Not to benefit the world in general, in a large and scattery
way (as many young people set out to do, and never get any further), but
to right the wrong of my own house, and bring home justice to my own
heart. This may be thought a partial and paltry object to set out with ;
and it is not for me to say otherwise. At the time, it occurred to me in
no other light, except as my due business, and I never took any large
view at all. But even now I do believe (though not yet in pickle of
wisdom), that if everybody, in its own little space, and among its own
little movements, will only do and take nothing without pure taste of
the salt of justice, no reeking atrocity of national crimes could ever taint
the heaven.

Such questions, however, become me not. I have only to deal with

EREMA. 23

very little things, sometimes too slim to handle well, and too sleezy to be
woven ; and if they seem below my sense and dignity to treat of, I can
only say that they seemed very big at the time when I had to encounter
them. For instance, what could be more important, in a little world of
life, than for Uncle Sam to be put out, and dare even to think ill of me ]
Yet this he did ; and it shows how shallow are all those theories of the
other sex, which men are so pleased to indulge in. Scarcely anything
could be more ridiculous from first to last, when calmly and truly
considered, than the firm belief which no power of reason could, for the
time, root out of him.

Uncle Sam, the dearest of all mankind to me, and the very kindest,
was positively low enough to believe, in his sad opinion of the female
race, that my young head was turned because of the wealth to which I
had no claim, except through his own justice. He had insisted, at first,
that the whole of that great nugget belonged to me, by right of sole dis-
covery. I asked him whether, if any stranger had found it, it would
have been considered his; and whether he would have allowed a
" greaser;" upon finding, to make off with it. At the thought of this,
Mr. Gundry gave a little grunt, and could not go so far as to maintain
that view of it. But he said that my reasoning did not fit ; that I was
not a greaser, but a settled inhabitant of the place, and entitled to all a
settler's rights. That the bed of the river would have been his grave,
but for the risk of my life ; and therefore whatever I found in the bed
of the river belonged to me, and me only.

In argument he was so much stronger than I could ever attempt to
be, that I gave it up, and could only say that if he argued for ever, it
could never make any difference. He did not argue for ever, but only
grew obstinate and unpleasant, so that I yielded at last to own the half
share of the bullion.

Very well. Everybody would have thought, who has not studied the
nature of men, or been dragged through it heavily, that now there could
be no more trouble between two people entirely trusting each other, and
only anxious that the other should have the best of it. Yet instead of
that being the case, the mischief, the myriad mischief of money set in ;
until I heartily wished sometimes that my miserable self was down in the
hole which the pelf had left behind it.

For what did Uncle Sam take into his head (which was full of
generosity and large ideas, so loosely packed that little ones gi*ew between
them, especially about womankind), what else did he really seem to think,
with the downright stubbornness of all his thoughts, but that I, his poor
debtor, and pensioner, and penniless dependant, was so set up and elated
by this sudden access of fortune, that henceforth none of the sawing
race was high enough for me to think of. It took me a long time to
believe that so fair and just a man ever could set such construction upon
me. And when it became too plain that he did so, truly I know not
whether grief or anger was uppermost in my troubled heart.

be gJKkraebc" unto fbc 6usta

IT is, as we are often reminded, difficult to believe nowadays that there
was a time when it took five days to travel from London to York. To
anyone who subscribes to a lending library, reads the reviews, or even
looks over the publishers' announcements, it will be scarcely less difficult
to conceive a time when England produced no novels and subsisted
entirely on imported fiction. We are so accustomed to the achievements of
this branch of the national industry that it has ceased to excite in us any
feeling of admiration or astonishment. We are immensely proud of our
machinery. When we particularly want to impress, please, or puzzle any
foreign potentate who visits us, we take him down to Woolwich, and show
him how easily and quickly a Woolwich infant may be brought into the
world ; or to Birmingham or Manchester, where he sees a sheet of metal
in the twinkling of an eye converted into steel pens, or some fluffy stuff
passing through a mad whirl of wheels and coming out at the other
end as shirting. Unhappily, it is not possible to exhibit the actual
mechanical process which produces with such wonderful rapidity the
enormous amount of fiction required by the British nineteenth-century
public. There is, unfortunately, no way of astonishing Sultan, Seyyicl,
or Shah by presenting to his eyes an example of applied mechanics dealing
with, for instance, a forged will, a false marriage, a family feud, a curate
more or less Anglican, a guardsman more or less diabolical, or any
similar raw material, and spinning, twisting, and weaving the whole into
the article of commerce known by the trade as a novel of the season, three
vols. octavo, price one pound eleven and sixpence. Nevertheless, the
manufacture is a scarcely less remarkable triumph of modern skill and
enterprise, more especially if we bear in mind that its present prodigious
development is altogether a growth of our own days. The tremendoxis
activity in the fiction market presents, indeed, a striking contrast to the
sluggishness of business in those days when a few pieces of work turned
out by a few irregular hands like Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, or
Sterne amply sufficed to meet the demand for entertaining literature ;
not to speak of that remoter and still more backward age the handloom
period in the history of novel-weaving when our simple ancestors were
contented with the fabrics of Mrs. Aphra Behn and the ingenious Mrs.
Manley, a coarse web according to our taste, but very fine in their un-
educated eyes.

These, however, were at any rate English ; but before the Restoration

<! eUiSMAN DE ALFAKACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO. 25

native ingenuity does not appear to have been capable of even so moderate
an effort as the fabrication of a serviceable intrigue, and the novel-readers
of England were wholly dependent upon the productions of the foreigner.
This was the age of those shabby folios with high-sounding titles upon
which the explorer sometimes lights among the remoter shelves of an old
country-house library " Cassandra," " Clelia," " Astrea : a Romance,"
" Ibrahim ; or, the Illustrious Bassa," " Artamanes ; or, the Grand Cyrus,"
and the like ; volumes for the most part describing themselves as " written
by eminent wits and englished by persons of quality," and in bulk, type,
and appearance as unsuggestive of light reading as books well could be.
It is in such company that Guzman de Alfarache is most frequently found
in these days, but the proverb which makes company an index to character
does not hold good in this case. The works of D'TJrfe, Gomberville, La
Calprenede, and the Scuderys, which gave employment to the translators
and, it is to be presumed, entertainment to the readers of England about
the middle of the seventeenth century, were all mere offshoots of the earlier
forms of fiction, the romances of chivalry and the prose pastorals. As
M. Demogeot says in his History of French Literature, "le bucher de
Cervantes n'etouffa pas toute la race chevaleresque ; le roman heroique,
malencontreux phenix, en sortit sain et sauf pour 1'ennui du xvii e
siecle." They were, in fact, nothing more than modifications of the old
romances, and, like the old romances, they sought to lead the reader into a
world as far removed as possible from the world of his experience, and
to interest him by the representation of personages, incidents, sentiments,
and motives of action as unlike those of real life as the author's imagina-
tion could make them. Guzman de Alfarache was constructed on a plan
exactly the opposite of this. It was an example of the new form of
fiction which had come into existence in the sixteenth century. The
great movement of the time, the gravitation towards fact, which had made
itself felt in theology, in philosophy, in science, and in art, extended even
to fiction, and gave birth to a new species of romance ; one that laid its
scenes, not in vague regions peopled by impossible knights and shepherds,
but in the crowded highways of everyday life, and appealed not to the
sentimental instincts of the reader, but to his sympathy with the weak-
nesses, wants, and humours of flesh and blood.

The first essay in this direction was the little Spanish tale of Lazarillo
de Tormes, the origin, character, and place in literature of which have been
already dealt with in these pages.* Guzman de Alfarache, also a Spanish
tale, was the next, or at least the next that has come down to us. At first
sight it may seem i strange that Spain, of all countries, should have been the
one to take the initiative in stibstituting a realistic for a romantic school
of fiction ; but the reason is not far to seek. Spain was the country where
the romantic fiction not only the chivalric but also the pastoral reached
the highest pitch of luxuriance, and the only country where its effects upon

* Cornhill Magasine, June 1875.
VOL, XXXV, NO, 205, 2.

26 " GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO,

the popular taste assumed the magnitude of an evil ; it would be, therefore,
naturally the quarter where a reaction might be expected. In the next
place Spanish society presented some especially striking contrasts to the
pictures which the romantic writers were fond of drawing. No characters,
for instance, could well have been more dissimilar than the heroes of the
romances, and the actual knights errant the vagabond chevaliers d 1 Indus-
trie by whom Spain was overrun in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
and if we are to trust contemporary evidence there was as little Arcadian
innocence as there was princely magnificence in the life of the middle and
lower classes at the same time. Incongruities of this sort coiild not long
escape notice among people gifted with a sense of humour ; and, whatever
doubts there may be as to the possession of humour by the other Latin
races, there can be none in the case of the Spaniards. The novels written
in the gusto picaresco, as the style in time came to be called, were a
very natural result of these circumstances. They were not, of course,
designedly burlesques upon the fashionable fiction of the clay, but in effect
they travestied its salient features. Everything in them was of the
familiar type : the incidents were those of everyday occurrence within
the experience of the reader ; the scenes were carefully copied from life, a
marked preference being given to low life ; the aims, actions, and senti-
ments of the characters were studiously unheroic, and in their heroes
every one of the knightly virtues of the old romances was conspicuous by
its absence. For these last they had the advantage of a large and well-
recognised class to draw from. Among the unwholesome growths bred
by the decay of Spain during the reigns of the Philips was the swarm of.
idlers that infested the kingdom the pauper hidalgos who, in the words
of Espinel, " mas quieren padecer necesidades que ser oficiales," who pre-
ferred to endure any straits rather than stoop to work ; and the picaros,
who to an equal repugnance to labour added an entire unscrupulousness
as to the means by which the wants of life were to be supplied. These,
especially the latter, and their shifts and contiivances, adventures and
mishaps, offered tempting materials for a school of fiction founded on
principles diametrically opposed to those which governed the writers of the
chivalry and pastoral romances.

Guzman de Alfarache appeared in 1599, at the commencement as
well of the Augustan age of Spanish literature as of the reign which
confirmed the downward tendency of the national fortunes. No work
of the age, not even Don Quixote, which followed it six years later, had
so great or so immediate a success ; and it is only when we come to
modern times, to Scott or Dickens, that we find in the history of litera-
ture anything like so rapid or so wide a popularity. According to a
statement which, as Ticknor says, there is no reason to question, at least
twenty-six editions, amounting to upwards of 50,000 copies, of the first
part had been produced within six years after its first appearance, and
within three it had been already translated into French and Italian.
Versions appeared later in Portuguese, German, Dutch, and Latin ; the

" GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO. 27

last a curious one, by Caspar Ens, author of the Epidorpides, which,
from the number of editions it passed through, seems to have been
popular. Into English it had the good fortune of being translated by a
gentleman and a scholar familiar with the language, literature, and life
of Spain, James Mabbe, " Don Diego Puede-Ser " (i.e. " may-be "), as he
punningly called himself, sometime Fellow of Magdalen, Oxford, and
afterwards secretary to the Earl of Bristol, the English ambassador at
the Court of Madrid in the reign of James I.

There were many excellent translations of masterpieces of foreign
literature produced in England at that time Fairfax's Tasso, Harring-
ton's Ariosto, Bartholomew Yong's version of the Dianas of Montemayor,
Perez, and Polo ; Shelton's Don Quixote, Florio's Montaigne ; and Mabbe's
Guzman is not the least meritorious among the number. He is much
more sparing of interpolations of his own, and more faithful to his task
than most of the old translators, and his style, if sometimes a little
tinged with the pedantry of the day, is generally vigorous, idiomatic,
and clear, with, moreover, a certain well-bred air about it, which no
doubt helped to recommend the book to a higher class of readers than
the English version of its predecessor, Lazarillo de Tormes, found favour
with. To the student of Spanish literature it is especially valuable, as
Mabbe worked in scholarly fashion, annotating copiously from Covarru-
bias and other sources, wherever the text seemed to require elucidation ;
and his notes on phrases, customs, and proverbs (in which last Guzman
is even richer than Don Quixote) are often curious and always worth
reading. It is pleasant to see that his industry and conscientiousness
did not go unrewarded; for his translation, published in 1623, in the
same year with the famous first folio of /Shakespeare, and, like it, with
commendatory verses by Ben Jonson, had reached a fourth edition in
1656, eight years before a third of Shakespeare was called for.

Of Mateo Aleman, the author of the original, less perhaps is known
than of any man of equal distinction in Spanish literature. He seems
to have had little or no intercourse, friendly or otherwise, with the lead-
ing men of his day. They complimented one another profusely in those
times, and they occasionally said things of each other which were not
complimentary. But Aleman's name does not appear for good or bad,
except in some Latin verses of Espinel's prefixed to the Guzman, and
in some lines of Lope de Vega's to another work. He is not mentioned by
Cervantes in the Viage al Parnaso, nor by Lope in the Laurel de Apolo,
poems that almost read like a register of all the scribblers of Spain. It
has been argued that Cervantes was jealous of his popularity as a
novelist ; but the conjecture only rests on one or two passages which do
not necessarily involve a reference to any individual, and, a priori, such
jealousy is very unlike Cervantes. It is only the small men of this
world who are always fancying that there is not room enough in it for
themselves as well as for their neighbours ; and Cervantes, who bore

with such dignity the inordinate popularity of Lope de Vega, was not

28 " GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO;

likely to feel soro at so moderate and legitimate a success as that of
Aleman. Even the industrious Nicolas Antonio, although a fellow-
townsman and almost a contemporary, was unable to add anything
material to the account given of Aleman by his friend Valdes in the
second part of the Guzman. It is uncertain when he was born and
when he died, and all that is positively known about him is that he was
a Sevillian by birth, that for many years he held the important office of
Contactor de Resultas in the Treasury of Philip II. ; that, being strictly
upright, he was unable to make official life remunerative, and forsook it
for literature ; that, besides his novel, he wrote a life of San Antonio of
Padua, and a treatise on Castilian orthography ; and that, notwith-
standing the prodigious success of his Guzman, he was none the richer
for it.* The title of the book conveys a hint of the spirit in which it
was written. The authors of the romances of chivalry were fond of
giving imposing geographical designations to their heroes, like Amadis de
Gaula, Belianis de Grecia, Palmerin de Inglaterra, Felixmarte de Hir-
cania, and, in mockery, the authors of the new school of fiction chose for
theirs obscure or ludicrous local titles. It is not the least humorous
touch in Don Quixote that the country selected for the knight should be
the dullest, ugliest, and most unromantic tract in the whole Spanish
plateau. The founder of the school is connected with the Tormes, the
shabbiest river in Spain, perhaps, except the Manzanares. Espinel's
hero took his title of nobility from the petty mountain village of
Obregon, near Santander, and not far, by the way, from that Santillana
which the world knows best as the birthplace of Gil Bias. In the same
manner Aleman dignifies his Guzman by describing him as of Alfarache,
a small village forming a kind of suburb, and a not particularly
reputable one, of Seville.

like all the romances of the same family except the two by Cer-
vantes (for Don Quixote is by birth a member of the family), Aleman's
novel is cast in the form of an autobiography. The keynote of the
picaresque fiction is struck at the very outset by Guzman apologising,
with an admirable assumption of sincerity, for exposing the errors'of
his parents, and introducing himself as the issue of an intrigue between
the wife of an old Sevillian gentleman and a Genoese adventurer, whose
discreditable antecedents are detailed at some length. He thus adroitly
prepares the reader for his own moral laxity, and for the candour
with which he publishes it. Being in a measure congenital, he can
treat it as a defect for which he is not responsible, something like a
hump or a squint, which he cannot help and should rather be pitied
for. By the deaths of his two fathers, as he pleasantly calls them, and

* It is not unlikely that Aleman may have been of German descent, as the name
implies. It is very uncommon in Spain, and in the few instances in which it occurs
it seems to indicate a German origin. He may possibly have been descended from
the printer Meynardo Ungut Aleman, who flourished in Seville at the end of the fif-
teenth century.

"GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO. 29

the poverty of his mother, he is driven to seek his fortune, and, in the
true spirit of a Spanish vagabond, he starts " to see the world, travelling
from place to place and commending himself to God and well-disposed
people." His adventures on the road and in wayside inns are very much
of the sort Le Sage was so fond of describing ; a sort of adventure and
description which filtered through Gil Bias, pervades Roderick Random
and Peregrine Pickle, and comes to us with nineteenth century modifi-
cations in the pages of Pickwick. Indeed, although it would be difficult
to point to any instance in which Le Sage has directly borrowed from
Guzman de Alfarache, no work of the school probably had indirectly
more influence on the creation of Gil Bias. In Guzman, too, we have
the first instance of tales introduced into the narrative, just as the novel
of " The Curious Impertinent " is introduced in Don Quixote ; a device
of which Le Sage, Fielding, Smollett, and, in our own day, Dickens,
freely availed themselves, and which is interesting as a survival of the
art of the Italian novellieri and their predecessors the Oriental story-
tellers. One of these tales is commonly said to have furnished the
underplot for Beaumont and Fletcher's Little French Lawyer ; but the
same story is told by Masuccio and by Parabosco, either of whom is more
likely to have been the source than Aleman. Guzman was too much of
a philosopher to struggle against destiny, or instinct, whichever it was
that impelled him towards a vagabond career. He admits, indeed, that
he made one attempt at gaining at honest living ; but it was in the
capacity of stable boy to a roguish innkeeper, and his main duty was
cheating his master's guests in the matter of corn, so that it can be hardly
considered a serious deviation into the paths of rectitude. At any rate
he did not long persist in it; his spirit craved a wider field of action, and
he started for Madrid, begging his way. There he fell in with other
adventurers somewhat of his own sort, who put him up to the necessary
tricks and contrivances ; and what with cheating and thieving, and the
victuals distributed at the monasteries, and his occasional earnings as a
market porter (which calling he affected to save himself from being taken
up for a rogue and vagabond), he led so easy and independent a life
that he confesses he would not have changed it for that of the best of his
ancestors. For a time his operations were on a small scale, but one day
an opportunity for bolder practice offered itself, and he promptly availed
himself of it. Being employed by one of his customers to carry a sum
of money, he took advantage of the crowd to make off with it, and
escaping from Madrid, got to Toledo, where he set up as a gallant on
the plunder. Retribution speedily followed, and in the usual way.
It has ever been one of woman's missions to be the instrument by
which gay roguery, sooner or later, is punished, and the rule was proved
in Guzman's case by a clever Toledan lady, who made a victim of him
while he flattered himself he was making a conquest of her. He then
enlisted as a soldier for service in Italy under a captain as unscrupulous
as himself, on whose behalf he pilfered, plundered, and cheated the

30 " GUZMAN DE ALFAEACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO.

unfortunate people on whom they were billeted on the march, under-
goinf mock punishment when detected, with due resignation. This
part of the tale gives a lively idea of some of the penalties which Spain
had to pay for military pre-eminence in the reigns of Charles V. and
Philip II. Landed at Genoa, he got his discharge from his captain,
who frankly told him he was afraid to keep so great a rogxie in his service.
As his father was a Genoese, he sought after his relations, and at length
found an uncle, who, however, only recognised him by having him tossed
in a blanket. He then relapsed into his old way of living, and joined a
fraternity of beggars, whose philosophy and code of rules, set forth at full
length, furnish some of the most amusing pages in the book. One trick
which he learned that of dressing up a sore leg artistically stood him in
such good stead afterwards at Rome that he was taken into the house of
a compassionate cardinal, where, by the connivance of a couple of knavish
surgeons (almost everyone in the book is either a knave or a dupe), a
cure was effected, greatly to their credit and profit, and Guzman was
retained as page in the cardinal's service. His instincts, however, proved
too strong for him, and for repeated pilfering, gambling, and cheating
he received his dismissal, but was immediately taken into the house of
the French ambassador as a kind of jester, in which service he is left at
the close of the first part of the work.

It will be seen from this slight sketch that in structure, plan, and
movement the tale is precisely of the same sort as Gil Bias, the main
difference lying in the superior finish imparted to his work by the larter
novelist. But there is also this difference, that Gil Bias, if not exactly a
dignified or a moral character, yet shows some desire at least to stand
fairly well in the reader's good opinion, while Guzman, on the other
and, is entirely devoid of everything in the nature of self-respect. Not
only does he seem to take a positive pleasure "in depicting himself as a
thief, a liar, a cheat, and a hypocrite, but he never misses an opportunity
of showing himself in a degrading or contemptible light. It should be
observed, however, that there are, properly speaking, two Guzmans in the
field. One is the acting Guzman, the actual perpetrator of the rogueries
which he describes with such glee ; the other the older and graver Guzman,
who plays the part of chorus and comments in an edifying strain on the
follies and delinquencies of his younger self. This duality should be borne
in mind, becaxise otherwise there would seem to be a certain amount of
inconsistency in Guzman when we find him discoursing plausibly on the
beauty of honesty or gratitude, and in the next sentence, perhaps, telling
us, as if it was the best of jokes, how he robbed his benefactor. The
contrivance is not a bad one for the author's purpose, for it enables him
to offer any quantity of merely entertaining matter, while he is at the
same time ostensibly carrying out the object which he claims to have in
view the discouragement of vice by examples of its consequences.

It is curious how shy the early masters of realistic fiction were of
admitting that they had any thought of giving amusement to their

" GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO. 31

readers. Almost all the picaresque novelists are eager in their pro-
testations that all they seek in their faithful representations of real life
is to warn ingenuous youth against the snares and pitfalls that beset its
path through this world. The instructions morales contained in Gil
Bias are its strong points, according to Le Sage. Defoe, whose Colonel
Jack, Moll Flanders, Roxana, and Captain Singleton are all obviously
modelled after the gusto picaresco romance, always insists strongly upon
his moral purpose. Even Smollett, in the preface to Roderick Random,
would persuade us that the aim of that severe book is to excite generous
indignation against the sordid and vicious disposition of the world.
Aleman's didactic intention manifests itself in frequent long, and often
long-winded, moralisings on the frailties and follies of mankind, which
would be, to most modern tastes, intolerably dry, were they not liberally
larded with racy old proverbs and quaint and shi'ewd reflections. This
kind of writing, however, was one of the literary fashions of the age,
and these disquisitions no doubt contributed largely to the popularity
of Guzman at home and abroad. But unquestionably its main attrac-
tion lay in the truth and vigour with which the scenes and characters of
real life are drawn ; and this is proved by a fact, of which Aleman com-
plains pathetically in his second part, that, whereas he called his book
Atalaya de la Vida Humana (The Watch-Toiver of Human Life), people
had fastened the name of " Picaro " on it, so that it was known by no
other. But a more vexatious proof of the popularity of Guzman's ad-
ventures was the publication of a spurious continuation of them, fore-
stalling the second part which Aleman had promised, and spoken of as
already partly written. The case of Cervantes and Avellaneda was
almost completely anticipated, but it must be owned that Aleman took
the affront with better temper than Cervantes, though the grievance in
his case was greater. The language of Cervantes at the end of the first
part of Don Quixote is very uncertain as to the production of a second,
and indeed seems almost to invite another pen to the task " forse altri
cantera con miglior plettro." And then he allowed eight years to
pass without making any sign. It is true that he annoimced a con-
tinuation the year before Avellaneda produced his false Quixote, but it is
at any rate possible that the latter may have been then written, and that
the author was not willing to see his labour thrown away. In fact,
Cervantes had himself to blame for the injury that was done to him ; but
in Aleman's case the hardship was much more real, for the counterfeit
Guzman came out three years after the appearance of the original,* and
was based, it seems, upon Aleman's own continuation, to the manuscript
of which the author had in some way obtained access. Nevertheless
Aleman, though he protests strongly against the appropriation, candidly

* Ticknor says the spurious second part \vas first printed at Madrid in 1603 ; but
j\Ir. Quaritch of Piccadilly had, not long ago, a copy of an edition dated Barcelona,
J602, which seems, however, to hare been printed in 1C01.

32 "GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

admits the merit of the work, and even says he would have been proud to
be the author of it. This, however, was perhaps merely judicious magna-
nimity, for it is higher praise than an impartial critic would give. The
spurious Guzman is far superior in style to the spurious Quixote, and
much less coarse and vulgar, but it is at best a mediocre production.

Aleman was not only more good-humoured than Cervantes, but be
showed more humour in his retaliation. Instead of losing his temper
and calling his imitator a blockhead, as he had to re- write his second
part, he availed himself of the opportunity and made him a character
in the book. The false Guzman claimed to be the work of one Mateo
Luxan de Sayavedra, an assumed name, like " Avellaneda," and this
Sayavedra Aleman introduced into the novel, making him servant to
Guzman and a still greater thief and scoundrel than his master ; * and
he also slyly contrives to identify him with one Juan Marti, a Valencian
advocate, who is supposed to have been the real author. A large por-
tion of the story is taken up with the joint rogueries of the worthy pair,
and finally Sayavedra makes an end of himself as they are on their way
back to Spain by jumping overboard in a fit of delirium, in the course
of which he had fancied himself to be Guzman, and mentioned several
of the incidents of the spurious Life, " which, however, nobody paid any
attention to, for everyone saw he was mad." The rest of the book is
made up of Guzman's adventures in Spain. He returned to Madrid,
where he married for money and set up in business, but his wife dying,
he was forced to refund the money he got with her ; and then the bright
idea struck him that, with his antecedents and knowledge of life, the
Church was his true vocation. With this view he went through the
necessary studies at the University of Alcala, but just as he was ready
to take orders he fell in love that is to say, so far as the heroes of these
tales ever succumbed to that passion for love, it should be observed,
plays but a small part in the machinery of these primitive novels : its
value as a source of motion in realistic fiction was a discovery of com-
paratively modern times. He married the object of his choice, who
proved in every way worthy of him, and the scandalous life they led is
described by Guzman with his usual sententious effrontery. At last,
however, the lady, weary of him and still more of his old mother, whom
he had taken to live with him, eloped with one of her numerous lovers,
and he, being in consequence thrown \ipon his own resources, betook
himself once more to his old profession, and performed some notable
rogueries (such as selling the tiles off a house in which he had been
charitably given a lodging), until, on the recommendation of a too
credulous friar, he was taken into the service of a wealthy lady, whom,
it is needless to say, he promptly robbed. For this he was sent to the

* Dickens, it may be remembered, revenges himself in a somewhat similar manner
in Nicholas Nickleby on the dramatic authors who had, in much the same fashion
appropriated the product of his invention,

"GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO FICARESCO. 33

galleys, but having the good luck to become privy to a conspiracy among
his fellow-convicts, which he revealed to the authorities, he was set at
liberty ; and his memoirs end with a promise of a continuation if, as he
imctuously puts it, he has not in the meantime exchanged this transitory
life for that which is the hope of the faithful a promise, however, which
was never fulfilled.

That such a book should have achieved so wide a popularity, abroad
as well as at home, is not a little significant of the state of Europe at the
beginning of the seventeenth century. Characters like Guzman must
have been pretty common in society to ensure the recognition of such a
hero as one of the actualities of everyday life ; and society itself must
have been curiously tolerant of rascality when unblushing confessions
like these could have been relished as charming light reading. It is
undoubtedly a work of genius, but of a far lower order of genius than its
predecessor, Lazarillo de Tormes. It abounds with invention, imagination,
and graphic power, but the reader never feels himself in the presence of
a master who can infuse the breath of life into his imaginings, and whose
scenes he- can realise without any supplemental effort of his own fancy.
Nor has it anything of that finer humour which pervades the sketches
and descriptions of the Lazarillo, nor even of the light-hearted fun that
Mendoza's little scamp throws into his mishaps and rogueries. Still it is
a thoroughly original work, full of character, shrewd observation, and
pictures of life and manners that are at once lively and lifelike ; and
appearing at a time when amusing books were few, it not unnaturally
found favour with the multitude, and became the model on which
subsequent attempts in the same line were shaped.

The first of these, in order of publication, was not a happy one. It
was the strange book called La Picara Justina, professedly by one
Francisco Lopez de Ubeda, but in reality by a Dominican monk, Andres
Perez of Leon, which appeared in 1605, in the same year with the
second part of the Guzman and the first of Don Quixote. This, as
the title implies, is the life and adventures of a sort of female Guzman,
and is obviously an imitation of Aleman's work. The author, in his
prologue, pretends that it was written while he was a student at Alcala,
but that it was " somewhat augmented after the appearance of the admired
book of the Picaro ; " but, if so, the augmentation must have included a
good deal of re- writing, for the influence of Guzman is almost everywhere
traceable. He has, however, none of Aleman's invention, observation,
or knowledge of life and character, and can. only imitate his meditative
and philosophical digressions. The style, too, shows that it must have
been written not long before it was published, for it is a striking example
of the mannerism which began to infect prose as well as poetry early in
the seventeenth century. The idea to be expressed is always made subor-
dinate to the mode of expressing it, and there is throughout that constant
effort to say commonplace tilings in an unusual way which characterised
the contemporary school of the Enphuists in England. Of story, inci-

34 " GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

dent, or adventure there is little or nothing, the substance of the book
being merely tedious accounts of Justina's wanderings, interspersed with
descriptions of wayside-inn life which might be amusing if they could
be stripped of their cold conceits and intolerable verbiage. It does not
seem to have had any influence on the branch of literature to which it
belongs, and the only interest attaching to it arises from its connection
with Cervantes. Although published in 1605, it was licensed in August
1604, or four months earlier than the date of the license of Don Quixote.
Nevertheless in some doggrel verses prefixed to one of the chapters, Jus-
tina speaks of herself as " more famous than Don Quixote, or Lazarillo,
or Alfarache, or Celestina ; " so that, unless the date be a mistake or the
verses a subsequent addition, we have Cervantes' novel while still an
iinpublished book ranked with the three most popular fictions of Spain.
Evidence, however, is not wanting to show that Don Quixote was pretty
widely known before it was in print, for there is a spiteful letter of Lope's
of about the same date which refers to it, and hints that no poet could be
found to write commendatory verses for it.

But the compliment did not prevent Cervantes from judging of the
Picara Justina on its merits. It is one of the very few books attacked
in the Journey to Parnassus, where he describes the author of it coming
on. " with fluttering skirts and sweating, and, like a culverin, discharging
his big book," to the damage of the orthodox poets ; on which one of their
sentinels warned them to stoop their heads, as " the opposite party was
about to let fly another novel." On this passage an ingenious and erudite
commentator on Cervantes, Don Nicolas Diaz de Benjumea, has founded
a theory on the vexed question of authorship of the Avellaneda continua-
tion of Don Quixote. He believes that the ' ' otra no vela " was the spurious
sequel, and that Andres Perez was, if not "Avellaneda," at any rate a
collaborateur ; and he further points out that " Pedro Noriz," mentioned
in the second part of Don Quixote, c. 62, looks like a kind of anagram
of "Andres Perez," and that Cervantes must have had some strong reason
for his bitterness against a book which had been complimentary to him.
On this point, however, the words used afford a sufficient explanation.
Cervantes, whose own style is a model of ease and clearness, would
naturally detest a style laboured, loose, and vague, like that of the
Picara, and nothing could more happily describe it than "haldeando
y trasudando." But, apart from this, the theory is not consistent
with dates. It is true that Avellaneda's Quixote and the Journey
to Parnassus appeared nearly together in July 1614, but the latter, as
we know by the prologue to the Novelas Exemplares, was already
written more than a year before that time. Besides, if there is any-
thing certain in this matter, it is that Cervantes had no knowledge or
even suspicion of any production like Avellaneda's when he was writing
the 58th chapter of the second part, where the Don and Sancho are still
bound for Saragossa, which destination they suddenly change for Barce-
lona in the next chapter, on account of the discovery of the spurious

"GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE" AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO. 35

Quixote. This was some time after the appearance of Avellaneda's book
and of the Journey, for, from the date of Sancho's letter, it is clear that
Cervantes had only written as far as chapter 36 on the 20th of July,
1614.

Cervantes himself appears among the picaresque novelists. Don
Quixote of course is not to be included among the works of the
gusto picaresco, although it is unquestionably of the same family. Like
them it is a product of the opposition to and reaction against the popular
fiction of the sixteenth century, and it is, therefore, like them, intensely
realistic. It is, in truth, the story of the collision between fancy and fact
of a man regiilating his movements in accordance with the laws of an
imaginary world, and so knocking his poor head at every turn against
the hard facts of the actual world in which he has to move. There
is no such subtle motive as this underlying the picaresque novels.
Their treatment of fact is purely objective, and their purpose simply
to show life, or some phase of it, as it really is. One of the earliest
works of Cervantes was an effort in this direction. It is the little tale
of Rinconete y Cortadlllo, the third of his Novelas Exemplares, and
the best of them, except the exquisite novelet of The Gitanilla. He
mentions it in the first part of Don Quixote, and there can be no doubt
that he wrote it between 1588 and 1598, when he was employed as pur-
veyor and collector of taxes at Seville.

It is an unfinished sketch of low life in that city, then, as now,
a favourite haunt of the picaro class, and it has all the vitality and
freshness of a sketch taken on the spot by the hand of a master.
Bouterwek calls it " a comic romance in miniature," but it is more
like a Hogarth in words. It is simply a picture of a fraternity of
thieves, under the presidency of one Monipodio, a sort of compound of
Jonathan Wild and Duke Hildebrod in the Fortunes of Nigel, by
whom Rinconete and Cortadilto, two young vagabonds somewhat of the
Lazarillo de Tormes type, are admitted to practice in Seville. But, how-
ever slight its pretensions to the character of a romance may be, it is of
interest in the history of fiction, for it is Cervantes' first attempt at
drawing from the life ; and in his sketches of Monipodio's gang, and of
their quarrels, their caixmses, their systematic rascality, and their
grotesque piety, he gave the foretaste of that humour which has made
Sancho Panza a citizen of the world.

But though undoubtedly written some time before Don Quixote, it
was not printed till 1613, when it appeared as one of the twelve tales in
virtue of which Cervantes claimed to be " the first who had written
novels (novelado) in Castilian," a phrase implying that he did not look
upon productions like Lazarillo de Tormes as novels, but restricted the
title to short stories more or less resembling the Italian novelle, such as,
for example, his own Curious Impertinent. Fictions of this kind were
very numerous and popular in Spain in the first half of the seventeenth
century, and now and then they present some of the features of the tales

36 " GUZMAN DE ALFAIUCHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

of the picaresque school, but there is always the radical difference that
they seek to interest the reader by the intrigo, as the dramatists of
Dryden's time would have said, and not by a truthful picture of real
life, manners, or human nature.

The first genuine gusto picaresco tale after Rinconete y Cortadillo
was Marcos de Obregon, by the poet and musician Vicente Espinel,
which appeared in 1618. The name will be familiar to most English
readers though, probably, not one in ten thousand has ever read the book
in connection with Gil Bias, which is generally said to have been
founded on Espinel's novel. The statement was originally made by
Voltaire in a contemptuous notice of Le Sage in the appendix to his
Siecle de Louis XIV., in which he says that Gil Bias " est entierement pris
du roman espagnol intitule La Vidad de lo Escudiero dom Marcos
d'Obrego" Never, perhaps, has self-confidence more naively committed
itself than in this sentence. Not only are there seven mistakes in eight
words, but they show that the writer could not have seen the book he
quotes, and that he certainly would have been unable to read it if he
had seen it. Besides, there is a slight flavour of Portuguese in the title of
the " roman espagnol," which argues an ignorance of that language also ;
so that from these few words we may estimate the value of Voltaire's
criticism on the Araucana, which had not been translated, and "on the
Lusiad, the translation of which he had not seen. As to Marcos de
Obregon, the case is very simple. He got the idea from Bruzen de la
Martiniere, and then " generalised " it in this form. The truth is that
Le Sage did borrow, and freely, from Espinel's tale. It is rich in inci-
dents and episodes of the very sort that suited his purpose, which he took
without ceremony; and, whether it was that he fancied himself safe from
detection, or, as is more likely, never troubled his head about it, he made
no effort to conceal the fact that he had taken them. One of the first
acts of the ordinary thief is to remove all names from the stolen goods,
but Le Sage, in some instances, left the names in the tales he annexed
standing just as he found them. Thus the story of the garden barbier
in the first vohime of Gil Bias is merely a rifacimento of the commence-
ment of Marcos de Obregon, retaining both his name and that of Dona
Mergelina. In the same manner both the name and story of Camilla,
who cheated Gil Bias of his ring, are taken from Marcos. In one
instance Le Sage thought to make an improvement .in his original by
changing " Dr. Sagredo " into " Dr. Sangrado ; " but, seeing that it was
the Doctor's patients, and not himself, who were " bled," the alteration
cannot be called a happy one. Other examples of his appropriations are
to be found in the apologue of the two students in the address to the
reader, which is improved out of Espinel's prologue ; the story of Don
Raphael being carried off by the corsairs and his adventures at Algiers,
which are closely copied from the adventures of Marcos himself ; and the
story of Gil Bias and the flatterer, who supped at his expense at Peiia-
flor, and of the amorous muleteer a few pages farther on. To these

" GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO. 37

may be added a few minor touches, like Don Mathias saying it was
unreasonable to expect a man who, even for a party of pleasure, would
not get up before noon, to rise at six to fight a duel. In fact, it was Le
Sage's practice to avail himself of any adaptable joke, incident, or tale,
just as Dickens, for example, availed himself of the story over which
Dr. Johnson and Beauclerk had their memorable quarrel to expand it
into Sam Weller's immortal legend of the man that killed himself on
principle ; nor is Espinel the only author he borrowed from, for he levied
contributions on some of the dramatists also. This is the extent of his
obligations to Marcos de Obregon. For structure, form, and local colour
he was no doubt indebted to Guzman, the Gran Tacano, and Estebanillo
Gonzalez, but all else in Gil Bias is his own. The scenery, the costumes
in short, all the " properties " are Spanish ; and, as the work of a man
who never set foot in Spain, it is a marvel that they are so truly Spanish.
But the dramatis personce are all French ; and as for Gil Bias himself,
he has not a Spanish bone in his body. He is as thorough a Frenchman
as Dumas' D'Artagnan or Prevost's Chevalier des Grieux. Certainly
Le Sage .borrowed nothing in the way of plot or construction from
Marcos de Obregon. It opens with an exordium in praise of patience,
and we are given to understand that its object is to show the advantages
of cultivating that virtue. But it is difficult to see how the tale effects
this purpose, unless, indeed, it be through the example of a hermit
in whose cell Marcos is detained by a sudden storm and flood, and to
whom he relates the history of his youth, a narrative occupying the best
part of two days, and considerably more than two-thirds of the book.
In justice to Marcos, it must be admitted that the strictly narrative
portion and the tales and episodes introduced are told with spirit, but
they are over-weighted by the long-winded and prosy discourses with
which he seasons them ; and most readers will sympathise with the
alacrity with which the good hermit, "perhaps," as Marcos candidly
owns, " tired of listening so long," points out that the flood has gone
down and the bridge become passable.

Another book of very much the same character is Alonso, the Servant
of many Masters, or, as it came to be called in later editions, El
Donado Hablador (The Loquacious Lay Brother), by Geronimo Yanez y
Rivera, the first volume of which appeared in 1624, and the second two
years later. It is even more awkwardly constructed than Marcos de
Obregon, being cast in the form of a dialogue throughout ; but it is in
other respects much on a par with it. Le Sage, apparently, was not
aware of its existence, as he has taken nothing from it, though there is
more to suit his purpose than in Espinel's novel. It is far richer in
pictures of Spanish life and society, some of which, especially those of
university and military life, are very graphic and obviously truthful;
and, besides, it abounds with short stories of the jest-book order, one of
which, indeed, is actually taken from the great Spanish Joe Miller, the
Floresta Espafiola, of Melchior de Santa Cruz. It is the tale of the

38 " GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

Franciscan monk who, being barefoot, was persuaded to carry his fellow-
traveller, a Dominican, across a river, but halfway over finding the
burden heavier than he had bargained for asked the other if he had any
money about him, and, on the Dominican replying that he had six reals
in his pocket, at once dropped him into the stream, saying, " You should
have told me that before : don't you know our Order is forbidden to
cany money 1 " Another, which ha,s a decided smack of the Italian
salt, and is quoted by Burton in the Anatomy of Melancholy, is the
story of the magic water with which a lady, complaining of the quarrel-
some temper of her husband, was advised to fill her mouth whenever he
began to scold, taking care to keep it there as long as he was in the room.
But in the same year (1626) there appeared at Saragossa a much
more important book than either of these, or than any of the class
except the Lazarillo and the Guzman. This was the Vida del Euscon
Don Pablos, JExemplo de Vagamundos y Espejo de Tacanos, by no less an
author than Quevedo, who, not content with distinction as a poet, a
satirist, a dramatist, a biographer, and a theologian, enrolled himself
among the novelists in this way. The book is better known as the
Gran Tacano, which may be roughly translated as " Arch-Rascal," the
original title probably proving too clumsy, and not very apt, as
" buscon " means rather a petty pilferer than a clever, unscrupulous
scoundrel, such as Don Pablos really was. It is a tale somewhat like
the Lazarillo and the Guzman, but, as might be expected from a man of
Quevedo's original genius, it has a strongly-marked individuality and
character of its own. It is the history of a model scamp, whose father
was a barber who robbed his customers while shaving them, and whose
mother was a practitioner in quackery, a dealer in the black art, and a
professional go-between, a character which seems to have had a special
attraction for Spanish writers ever since the time of the Arch priest of
Hita and of the Celestina. Nevertheless, he ingratiated himself so
much with a schoolfellow, the son of a wealthy hidalgo, that when the
latter was going to the University of AlcaM he took young Paul with
him, partly as a companion, partly as a kind of servant, a relationship
which, according to the novelists, was very common in Spain at that
time, and to which many a humbly-born youth owed a university educa-
tion. Their adventures on the road from Segovia to Alcala are quite in
the manner of Le Sage at his best. In fact, in reading the Tacano the
conviction again and again forces itself on the mind that Le Sage must
have had the book at his fingers' ends ; but there is a gratuitous coarse-
ness at times which the artistic instinct of Le Sage would never have
permitted. The same may be said of the descriptions of student life at
Alcala, which are full of broad humour, and are evidently reminiscences
of Quevedo's own residence there. The students of his time are not
painted in flattering colours. It would be difficult to imagine a more
abominable set of young monkeys. Indeed, it is unjust to compare them
with monkeys, for they seem to have been far more like Yahoos, and it
was their pleasant practice to welcome a newly-arrived freshman in.

"GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE" AND THE GUSTO PICAEESCO. 39

much the same manner as Captain Gulliver describes himself to have
been welcomed by the Yahoos the first time he encountered them.

Nor is this to be set down as mere novelist's exaggeration, for the truth
of the picture is vouched for by more than one contemporary, and in the
Donado Hablador we have a very similar account of the ways of the
students at the sister university of Salamanca. Among these youths
Paul, by force of character, soon came to be a leading spirit and prime
mover in every enterprise against the peace and property of the towns-
folk of Alcala. His studies were, however, interrupted by a letter from
his uncle, the hangman of Segovia, announcing the death of his father.
" He died," said the letter, " with as much fortitude as any man ever
did ; you may take my word for it, for I hanged him myself. The
convict's jacket fitted him as if it had been made for him. He mounted
the ladder, not running up like a cat, nor yet too slowly ; and observing
one of the rounds broken, he pointed it out to the sheriff, and begged
him to have it mended against the next occasion. In fact, I cannot tell
you how he pleased everybody. I quartered him afterwards, and God
knows it grieves me to see him furnishing an ordinary to the crows." The
letter goes on to say that, as for his mother, though she is not exactly dead,
she is the next thing to it, as the Inquisition has got hold of her for practis-
ing witchcraft ; so that, upon the whole, Paul may as well consider himself
an orphan, and come and take possession of the family property ; in
addition to which the affectionate uncle proposes to make him his heir,
adding, " With your knowledge of Latin and rhetoric you will make a
rare hangman." The last sentence illustrates the difficulty of translating
Spanish humour. It is quite impossible to do full justice to the pompous
gravity of " sereis singular en el arte de verdugo." The whole letter is a
good specimen of Quevedo's peculiar humour. He has been called the
Spanish Voltaire, and no doubt in the turn of his mind he bears a
certain resemblance to the great Frenchman. But an English reader
will be far oftener reminded of Swift than of Voltaire in Quevedo's
humorous and satirical passages. He had what Voltaire had not, or at
least had only in a limited degree, and what especially characterised
Swift's humour the gift of perfect gravity while laying some preposterous
absurdity before the reader. You can always catch Voltaire's grin and
the twinkle of his eye in the background, but Swift and Quevedo never
betray the slightest consciousness of saying anything ludicrous or any-
thing that is not the merest and most obvious matter of fact.

Paul, however, had no mind to become his uncle's successor ; and
possessing himself of the money his father had left, he slipped out of
Segovia and made for Madrid. On the road he overtakes a pauper
hidalgo, whose portrait may serve as a companion to that of the squire
in Lazarillo de Tormes, but Quevedo's treatment of the character is far
harder and more unsympathetic than Mendoza's. By this worthy he is
instructed in the arts of life at the capital, and introduced to a kind of
boarding-house frequented by rogues, vagabonds, and adventurers of
various sorts, who, with their straits, shifts, and contrivances, furnish a

40 "GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICABESCO.

subject that Quevedo's humour revels in, and one that his curious know-
ledge of Madrid low life, as shown in his slang ballads, enabled him to
depict accurately and fully. At length a clumsily- executed theft brings
the authorities down on the establishment, and the whole " college," as
he calls it, is consigned to prison. Here again Quevedo is in his ele-
ment. Poor fellow ! in the course of his own troubled life he had more
than one opportunity of studying in person the humours of a Spanish
gaol, and had no necessity to draw on his imagination for his details ; but
if we had any doubt of the truth of his sketches we have only to compare
them with those of Borrow in The Bible in Spain to see how little the
novelist has added, and how little Madrid prisons have changed in two
centuries. Paul being a man of property, compared with his comrades,
found little difficulty in obtaining his release by a judicious investment
of his father's ducats, which he had providently secreted, and was soon
restored to Madrid society, in which he endeavoured to cut a figure, and
for some time succeeded, until an unlucky meeting with his old master
and college companion of Alcala led to an exposure and a not unmerited
beating. All this part is so entirely in the style of Gil Bias that it seems
more than likely that Le Sage was largely indebted to it, though he has
not adopted any particular adventure, incident, or character. Paul's
money being now gone and his pretensions exposed, he sought a livelihood
for a while by begging as a cripple, and afterwards, in conjunction with
another impostor, by stealing children and then restoring them, with a
trumped up story of having rescued them from under the wheels of a
coach. He next joined a company of strolling players, and became an
actor and dramatist, a portion of his adventures which has a special
interest, as it is full of curious details relating to the drama and stage
customs and practices at about the period when Lope and his school had
just gained the ascendency over the popular^ taste which they so long
held. This career was brought to a close by the arrest for debt of the
manager, and after a few amatory and gambling adventures Paul takes
leave of the reader at Seville, where he is about to embark for the Indies.
If it is inferior in true humour to the Lazarillo and JKinconete y
Cortadillo, in knowledge of life, wit, and satire, this novel of Quevedo's
is unsurpassed by any of the picaresque school, and this makes all the
more absurd the attempt of M. Germond de Lavigne to assign its com-
position to the period of Quevedo's boyhood. Quevedo was undoubtedly
precocious. He was a graduate in theology at fifteen, a brilliant Greek,
Latin, and Hebrew scholar at an unusually early age ; and he had
hardly attained manhood when the great Lipsius called him the " glory
of Spain." But learning of this sort is a very different thing from the
kind of learning that shows itself in every page of the Gran Tacaiio ; no
amount of precocity will give knowledge of life, and men, and 'manners,
and it is inconceivable how anybody with a fair share of the critical
faculty, and with the book before him, could believe it to have been
written by a boy in his sixteenth year. Yet this is what M. Germond
de Lavigne most dogmatically asserts in the preface and notes to his

"GUZMAN DE ALFABACHE" AND THE GUSTO PICAKESCO. 41

translation, first published in 1843, and re-issued in the Collection Jannet
in 1868. It would not be worth while to contradict such an assertion
made by an obscure writer, but coming from a distinguished Spanish
scholar like M. Germoncl de Lavigne, and one who, by his translations
of Avellaneda and the Celestina, has a claim to rank as an authority on
Spanish literature, it deserves something more than a passing notice.
All he can show in support of his theory is, that the name of Antonio
Perez is mentioned in the account of one Paul's escapades at Alcala, which
proves, he thinks, that Quevedo was writing at the time when Perez
was a source of uneasiness to the Spanish Court, i.e. between 1593 and
1597. But in all probability in the hoax in question we have merely a
recollection of an incident of Quevedo's own student days (he says ex-
pressly that they talk of the joke at Alcala " to this day"), and that the
name of Perez was actually used as described. What could be more
natural than that, writing no matter how long afterwards, he should
introduce, just as it occurred, a prank in which, perhaps, he had taken
part himself 1 ? At any rate, the date of a work is not to be settled on
evidence like this ; besides, there is evidence that the Tacano was not
written till at least after 1605, for Paul speaks of himself as riding from
Segovia on a " Rucio de la Mancha," an obvious allusion to Sancho
Panza's " Dapple ;" and in an earlier chapter one of the characters says
he has two plans for taking Ostend, evidently referring to the famous
siege of that town by Spinola from 1601 to 1604. Nevertheless, with a
curious positiveness, M. Lavigne says, " La premiere edition fut done
imprimee vers 1596." He does not condescend to say where Ihis edition
is to be seen, or by whom it has ever been seen. The earliest in the
-British Museum is that of Saragossa (1626), which all bibliographers,
including Don Aureliano Guerra y Orbe, the learned and industrious
editor of Quevedo's works, have always considered, and no doubt rightly,
to be the first. No harm would have been done had he been content with
this, but unluckily near the end Paul observes that formerly there were
" no comedies but those of the good Lope de Vega and Ramon," of which
passage M. de Lavigne says that " there are here two errors which I
have felt bound to rectify." In the first place, he says at the time when
our hero flourished, Lope de Vega could not be called one of the first
authors of popular comedies : " 1'intention de Quevedo a etc, sans nul
doute, de citer Lope de Rueda. le pere du theatre espagnol ;" and as to
the other, he says, " Ramon m'est completement inconnu. II est, sans
aucun doute, question de Torres Naharro ;" and with true Gallic self-
confidence he makes the corrections in his translation. In fact, having,
in his zeal to prove the Tacano the model of Guzman, invented an im-
possible date for the book, he alters the text to suit it, and in doing so
destroys a valuable piece of testimony on the history of the Spanish
drama. For the Ramon who is " completely unknown " to M. de
Lavigne happens to be Dr. Alfonso Ramon, a dramatist mentioned with
praise by more than one writer of the time, but especially by Cervantes,
who, in the prologue to his comedies (1615), speaks of him very much as

42 "GUZMAN DE ALFARACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

Quevedo does here, as one of those to whom, next to Lope, Spanish
comedy was most indebted. M. Germond de Lavigne is, indeed, rather
given to rash statements. He says Rojas " did not finish the Celestina"
Cota may have begun the Celestina, but Rojas certainly finished it. He
says that Aleman would not have continued Guzman but for Luxan de
Sayavedra, nor Cervantes fished Don Quixote but for Avellaneda.
The first statement is wrong, and the second mere assertion. He says
Espinel invented a form of guitar, called after him espinela. Espinel
added a fifth string to the guitar, and is said to have invented the decima
or stanza of ten eight-syllable lines, which is sometimes called espinela.
He confounds Morales the actor with Morales el Divino, the painter of
Badajoz, and, in short, gives a good deal of information somewhat
astonishing to a Spanish student. It is to be regretted, becaxise his
translation is a very good one. It is brisk and spirited, and has the
neatness and finish characteristic of the workmanship of the French
litterateur. It is, besides, generally faithful except where he thinks he
can improve upon his author. The difficulties, too, are overcome with
real skill and knowledge of the language ; and there is no Spanish so
difficult as Quevedo's in his humorous works. He had a passion for
using words in out-of-the-way senses, and for verbal gymnastics, concerts,
and tours de force of every kind ; and though he professed to be an
enemy of the conceptista school, he was himself as great a sinner as any
against simplicity and good taste. And the sin has brought its punish-
ment with it, for the wit and humour, imagination and fancy, that
would have made him one of the world's favourites lie hidden away
where few care to look for them. Hence Quevedo has been generally
unfortunate in his translators. L'Estrange's lively version of the
Visions is at least as much L'Estrange as Quevedo, and the two English
translations of the Tacano, that of 1657 under the title of Buscon the
Witty Spaniard, and the later one, The Life of Paul the Sharper, which
was adopted in the Edinburgh edition of Quevedo's prose works, are
rather paraphrases, and poor ones, than translations.

The Tacano is almost the last of the genuine gusto picaresco novels.
Among the numerous fictions which poured from the press during the
reign of Philip IV. there were many strongly impregnated with the
picaresque flavour. One or two of Salas Barbadillo's tales, such as the
Ingeniosa Helena and the Necio lien afortunado, translated into English
under the title of The Lucky Idiot, and attributed to Quevedo, are
of this sort, as are one or two of those by Santos, like Dia y Noche
en Madrid, of which Le Sage made free use in his Diable Boiteiix. The
same may be said of Castillo Solorzano's tales, the Bachiller Trapaza,
and the Garduna de Sevilla, called by L'Estrange and Ozell The
Spanish Polecat ; and of Don Gregorio Guadana, by Antonio Hen-
riquez Gomez, which last, indeed, claims expressly to be of the same
family as the Tacano, Justina, and Guzman. But in it, and still more
in the others, the essential character of the picaresque fiction is wanting.
There are, no doubt, many real-life touches and sketches, but they are

"GUZMAN DE ALFAKACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO. 43

merely introduced incidentally : the aim and purpose of the writers are
not those of the picaresque novelists to present a picture of real life.
The love of the drama was the dominant passion, and popular taste
began to run in favour of fictions which were little more than stage in-
trigues and comedies of the capa y espada cast in the form of novels,
like those of Dona Maria de Zayas, the Spanish Aphra Behn. Besides
this, one of the symptoms of the national decay which was then making
rapid progress was the disfavour shown generally to everything eminently
national. The noble old ballads were being treated with contempt ; the
racy proverbs, brimming with sly sagacity, that the older writers quoted
with such relish, were coming to be looked upon as fitting garnish for
the speech of a boor ; the simple, flexible old Spanish measures were
giving way before inordinate sonneteering ; and the clear, flowing Cas-
tilian of Mendoza, Mariana, and Cervantes was becoming an obscure
jargon of conceits and affectations. Naturally, therefore, a growth so
thoroughly and peculiarly Spanish as the picaresque novel could not
1 ong maintain an existence.

There is, however, one remarkable book to be noticed before the list
is closed, and that is Estebanillo Gonzalez, Hombre de Buen Humor
" The Good-natured Fellow," as the English translators make it, though in
truth it means rather a fellow who does not allow himself to be " put
out" by anything. At any rate there is nothing like " good-nature" in
Estebanillo's composition, for a more cynically selfish scoundrel is not to
be found in the whole range of the picaro heroes. It is the account of
the adventures, for the most part in Italy, Germany, and Flanders, at
the time of the Thirty Years' Wai 1 , of a Spaniard of the Guzman de
Alfarache type, but blessed with an effrontery which even that master of
impudence might have envied. As a rogue, a liar, and a thief, Esteba-
nillo is at least Guzman's equal ; but while the latter shows, or affects at
times, some sort of contrition, the former invariably recounts his rascality
with a chuckle, as if it was the best joke in the world. Nor is this all.
Shamelessness generally draws the line at cowardice. However much a
man may have cast off all self-respect, he will be unwilling to confess
himself iitterly wanting in courage. Estebanillo, however, takes a posi-
tive delight in giving instances of his own poltroonery, as if they were
the most admirable strokes of humour. He always preferred, he says,
that people should say of him " here fled " rather than " here fell." At
the battle of Nordlingen he describes with the utmost glee how he ran
away and took shelter inside the carcase of a dead horse, which he after-
wards swore had fallen under him ; and at Glogau how he hid in a hay-
loft, and how he fell off his horse in fright at Thionville. In short, he
misses no opportunity of proving that he was in truth what he calls
himself, " archigallina de gallinas " (an arch-hen of hens). But the most
remarkable thing about the book is that there is no saying with certainty
what it is. Of its author nothing is known. It has been attributed to
Espinel (who was dead at the time of the events mentioned in it), and to
Guevara, the author of the Diablo Cojuelo ; but it is plain that it was

44 "GUZMAN DE ALFAEACHE " AND THE GUSTO PICARESCO.

written by one who was an eye-witness of most if not all of the scenes
described. He represents himself as having been eventually taken into
the service of Octavio Piccolomini as a jester, and to him he dedicates
this history of " his life and achievements." The question, then, remains
whether the book is a novel, or in truth what it pretends to be, an auto-
biography. If it is a novel, it is one into which the author has with
consummate skill interwoven an unusual amount of his own personal
experiences. If it is an autobiography, the writer has unquestionably
indulged a literary leaning to fiction. The style is detestable. It seems
to be an object with the author to give the reader as much trouble as
possible in making out his meaning. When Estebanillo says " bread "
he may mean a sword, or he may mean a treaty of peace ; the only thing
that is certain is that he does not mean bread. This, so far as it goes, is
an argument in favour of the idea that the book is a fiction founded upon
fact, not a narrative of fact spiced with fiction, for the style is precisely
that which was in vogue with the Spanish litterateurs of the period
when they aimed at brilliancy. In either case the book is a curiosity of
literature. If it be a novel, then the novelist had in no small degree
Defoe's power of giving an air of verisimilitude to his inventions. If it
be a personal narrative, then the narrator was a raconteur, whese gifts
were very like those of Le Sage ; and no definition, analysis, or descrip-
tion could convey a clearer idea of the true character and purpose of the
picaresque novels of Spain than this fact, that the work with which
eveiy account of them must be closed is a narrative of which we cannot
tell whether it is the bond fate memoir of a flesh and blood adventurer or
the story of a creature of some novelist's brain.

Spain, as has been already observed, is the only country that has
ever produced a distinct class of fictions of this sort. There are, indeed,
instances of picaresque tales in other languages, such as the French
Pedrille del Campo and The English Rogue, Meriton Latroon, but they
are professedly imitations of the Spanish style. A doubtful exception is
the German tale of Simpliclssimus, by Christoph Grimmelshausen, in
which all the gusto picaresco features are as strongly marked as in any
of the family. It may possibly have been written in imitation of the
Spanish novels, just as a contemporary work, the Visions of Philander
von Sittewald, imitated the Visions of Quevedo ; but if so, it is no
servile imitation. Simplicius, the hero, is as genuine a picaro as Guzman
or Pablos, but he is as German as they are Spanish, and the humour is
as original as that of Jean Paiil himself. Another exception is the
latest and greatest of picaresque novels, Thackeray's Barry Lyndon,
though even there a Spanish origin may be traced through Fielding.
Gil Bias is certainly an imitation, and a very close one, but it is also
a great deal more than an imitation. Le Sage's merit does not lie in
having imitated the Spanish novel or transplanted it successfully into
French soil. He is like some far-seeing traveller, who has perceived in
some outlandish herb or root virtues of which the natives who gather
it are unaware, and which, by proper cultivation, may be indefinitely

>' GUZMAN DE ALFABACHE" AND THE GUSTO PICARESCd. 45

increased ; and to his instinct we owe it that this queer wild product of
Spanish genius has not remained a mere curiosity for bookworms, but
has been made to yield fruit for the amusement of mankind. Not that
he himself was fully aware of its capabilities. He did not contemplate,
apparently, anything more than an improved and refined picaresque
novel, with the crudities removed and the piquant natural flavour pre-
served, and even heightened, by judicious cultivation.

It is curious to note how gradual was the development of fictions of
real life. Outwardly Gil Bias differs but slightly from the Spanish .novels
Le Sage took as his models, but the differences are suggestive. Gil Bias
himself is an undoubted scamp, but he is a very much more decorous,
decent, and self-respecting scamp than his prototypes, the picaros. Then
the whole interest is not centered in the knaveries, adventures, and mis-
haps of the hero, but other personages are connected with him, and per-
sonally introduced to the reader, which in itself indicates a great step in
advance towards our modern novels of real life, as it clears the way for
the introduction of character. Then the potent agency of love, in a very
rudimentary form it is true, makes its appearance, and exerts an in-
fluence ignored by the older novelists. In the same way Roderick Ran-
dom, the lineal descendant of Gil Bias, shows the working of the
process. His morals are very far from strict, but they indicate a far
greater deference to public opinion than those of his predecessor ; and
Peregrine Pickle and Tom Jones, though perhaps really little better than
Random, decidedly stand more in awe of the general censor, Society.
In short, the discovery was only made by comparatively slow degrees
that, picturesque as disreputable life may be, it is not the only real life
worth painting ; and that it is quite possible to construct a novel, true
to nature, and at the same time entertaining, without making the hero a
ruffian, a scoundrel, or a scamp. To us, accustomed as we are to regard
novels as perhaps the most elaborate and complex products of literary
art, it is not easy to realise so remote a stage in their development, any
more than it is easy to realise that the ancestors of Society lived in
caves like bears, or in lake dwellings like beavers. Nevertheless, that
they did pass through such a stage is brought home to us now and then
in more ways than one. How, for instance, are we to account for the
occasional appearance in fashionable fiction of cynical ruffians and mus-
cular scoundrels of the Guy Livingstone type except on the theory of
"reversion," as the evolutionists would call it 1 ? What are they but
features of the original savage stock reappearing after ages of civilisation
in the modified offspring, just as in one of our most useful domestic
animals we sometimes see traces of the markings of the parent zebra or
quagga 1 The picaros of Spanish fiction are not, perhaps, an ancestry to
be proud of, but our novels are in this respect only in the same position
as many other things. The stage began with a cart ; the alchemists
were the forefathers of Davy, Faraday, and Liebig; Rome itself rose
from a gathering of vagabonds ; and the modern novel may be content
with an origin much like that of Rome.

Itraes unb Dalets.

THE great secret of political health is the right distribution of responsi-
bility. Public like private servants become corrupt when nobody
checks their accounts, and imbecile when they are checked at every
turn. Every officer in the State, as' in the army, should have a sphere
of discretion, subject to the general supervision of his commander. The
general should be allowed to plan a campaign ; the private to select an
object for his bullets. The perfection of military organisation depends
as much upon leaving sufficient play to component parts as in securing
the unity of the whole machine. Unluckily we are apt, in this as in some
other cases, to oscillate from one extreme to another ; we remedy insub-
ordination by excessive centralisation and suppose that organisation (the
favourite catchword of modern reformers) implies the substitution of pas-
sive mechanism for intelligent co-operation. When in old days the hands of
our rulers were untied, they helped themselves too freely from our pockets.
We have since tied their hands so tight that they have a permanent cramp
in their fingers. The approval of the public is not only to be the sole end
of their activity, but the sole rule in each particular action. To destroy
the abuse we suppress the one great stimulus to intelligent energy.
The doctrine becomes important as the facility of abuse increases. We
possess a most elaborate and skilful machinery, daily growing in per-
fection of organisation, for compelling our 'officials to feel that some
millions of eyes are riveted upon their most trifling motions. It is no
wonder if they become nervous and fidgety, and are sometimes more
anxious to avoid failure than to pluck success from danger. "What
will they say in England 1 " was a very good question at the proper
moment, but a general ought not to ask it every morning before he posts
a sentry. The "master's eye" is an admirable tonic; but a sensible
master does not mistake his eyes for Sam Weller's miraculous micro-
scopes. Their powers of vision are limited, and a good master knows
when to shut them. This danger of confusing between the responsibility
which stimulates and that which enervates and oppresses, is recognised
in theory if not always borne in mind in practice. There is another
confusion, as mischievous and, it would seem, in still greater need of
elucidation. A general should be responsible for the success of his
measures, though he should not be worried about every petty detail.
But it does not follow that a general or any other public servant should be
responsible to the public for the cut of his hair, for the mode in which
he spends his holidays, for the taste in which he furnishes his rooms, or

HEROES AND VALETS. 47

for the conversations which he carries on with his wife. So long as he
breaks no recognised code, moral or social, the public has no concern
with his actions, and interference of a million is as impertinent as the
interference of an individual. If a stranger peeps through the keyhole
of my study, I may rightfully give him at least a moral slap in the face.
His publication of the news thus acquired is clearly a great aggravation
of the offence. The eminence of his victim should increase rather than
diminish the indignation due to such offences, as implying a want of
reverence as well as a want of manners. Conduct which would be intoler-
able as between two private gentlemen does not become venial because the
injured person possesses unusual claims upon our respect.

Formerly, it must be granted, there was some excuse for such per-
formances. The distinction between a man's public and his private
capacity was not drawn so clearly as it is now. The ruler of the State
was hardly distinguished from the landlord of the territory. The
national debt was confused with the private debt of the monarch. Till
a veiy late period, Ministers were literally as well as technically the
servants of the Crown, and a secretary of state might be appointed or
dismissed like a footman by the private taste of the King. Almost to
the present reign, the government of the nation depended avowedly on
mere backstairs intrigues, and a State revolution might be caused by the
tricks of a chambermaid. As long as the people were really at the
mercy of the pettiest personal interests, there was some excuse for pub-
lishing personal gossip. We ridicule Horace Walpole and bis like for
gathering up savoury morsels of Court scandal. Doubtless the practice
does not imply a high standard of personal dignity. But in his day, and
even later than his day, such scandal was really a part of history. We
despise the talebearer ; but his information was really of interest. We
do not envy the men to whose lot it fell to record instances of the
drunkenness, the frivolity, the petty selfishness, and ignoble vices of
some of our former rulers. Such annalists have had to dabble in very
repulsive filth to acquire their knowledge, and may have broken confi-
dence in betraying it. When, however, the great wheels of State were
revolving in such a medium, it was as well that the facts should be
known. Nay, we must even feel a kind of gratitude to men who soiled
their own hands in showing with how little wisdom and how little
virtue the world has sometimes been governed.

Things are happily now altered ; and the private life of our rulers
should be their own. As they have become more responsible in their
public, they should become freer in their private capacity. We have no
longer to seek for the causes of the rise and downfall of Ministers in the
retired recesses of palaces. To go there at all is an impertinence.
Queen Anne turned out Ministers because she had been " got at " (in
sporting slang) by one of her attendants. Queen Victoria dismissed
Mr. Gladstone when he ceased to command a majority in Parliament.
It was natural to inquire into the petty intrigues of Queen Anne's

48 HEROES AND VALETS.

household, when it would be the grossest breach of good manners to ask
questions about the maids and the footmen employed by her present Ma -
jesty. It is well, indeed, that we should know in general that our rulers are
virtuous and honourable in their private relations. The domestic purity
of a Court, as no living Englishman will dispute, may be a legitimate
source of strength to the constitution. "We may be sincerely grateful when
the persons concerned themselves sanction the publication of materials upon
which a sufficient estimate of their characters can be formed without in-
volving a breach of private confidence. But we can know all that we
have a right to know, or ought to wish to know, without retailing the
petty tittle-tattle which gi-atifies the curiosity of country tea-tables and
loungers at London clubs ; and certainly without giving it the benefit of
circulation in the press, and advertising it on a thousand placards.

The general principle thus seems to be simple enough. Whatever a man
does as a public servant is a legitimate subject of inquiry to his superiors
and ultimately to the public. Publicity in this sense is not only legiti-
mate, but the essential and indispensable guarantee of 'purity. What a
public man does in a private capacity may also be properly known so far
as it directly affects his public character. If an archbishop were in the habit
of drinking to excess, or a Chancellor of the Exchequer of gambling on
the Stock Exchange, the facts should be known ; for nobody will deny that
such facts would affect the public character of the accused. On the other
hand, the details of a man's private life, his special tastes, his family
relations, his modes of dressing, eating, and drinking, are matters into
which the public has no sort of right to .concern itself. The habit of
prying into matters with which we lave no concern is fully as bad for the
public as for its component parts ; it may inflect cruel hardships upon
individuals, and it demoralises the persons who indulge in it. No one
with the common feelings of a gentleman will deny that it ought to be
suppressed. The only difficulty is in defining the precise limits of public
interference. How are we to define the sphere within which a man may
properly shut himself up and defy all intruders'? The fact that there is
some difficulty in drawing the line is the cause of the existing mischief.
We have gradually slid into a laxity which threatens pernicious con-
sequences ; but the first stages of the process are harmless enough and
even desirable.

We desire and who can blame us ? to know something of our rulers,
not only of that part of them which can be discovered in a blue-book,
but of their characters, as living, moving, feeling beings. Are they true
men or " miserable creatures having-the-honour-to-be 1 " mere clothes-
horses, or flesh-and-blood realities ] Brilliant journalists gratify our
tastes by elaborate " psychological analyses," and carefully drawn portraits,
which often reveal veiy high artistic skill. Mr. Punch presents us with
good-humoured caricatures which hurt nobody, and give more character
by a stroke of a pencil than is contained in a volume of solid history.
Photographers make the features of great men familiar, and their portraits

HEROES AND VALETS. 49

draw crowds to the walls of the Academy. In due time their memoirs
will be published, and details will be cleared up which are still a
mystery for contempoi'aries. There is nothing illegitimate in these pro-
ceedings, for nothing has been told which can give pain to a becoming
sensibility. Our guides must make themselves known to us, if they would
challenge our confidence, anil they, doubtless, would generally be the last
to complain. A man may well be proud the first time that he appears
in a cartoon of Mr. Tenniel's.

But our appetite grows by what it feeds on. We ask for more facts,
without inquiring too nicely whether our demand is fair. There is no
want of men ready to supply the demand. The " interviewer " is on the
look-out. He hunts for gossip as keenly as a dog for truffles. He
scents a bit of scandal from afar. It is nothing to him whether the
savoury morsel is picked up in a gutter or on a private dinner-table.
The more private, the better chance that it will be his exclusive property.
"When the statesman fondly supposes that he is taking a holiday, the eye
of his persecutor follows him. The penny-a-liner springs from the earth
as vultures in the tropics seem to drop mysteriously from the clouds.
A well-known gentleman lately got into an awkward place in a holiday
scramble. " Ah, sir," were the first words that came to him as he reached
a safe place, "this will be in the papers to-morrow." If a Minister
amuses himself in his garden, and talks to a miscellaneous visitor, his
words will be published to a listening universe. If he stops at a station,
he is asked to make an address instead of swallowing a pork-pie. The
smaller political fry who bask in the sunshine of great acquaintance
make notes to be used in memoirs or to be used in popular lectures in
America and the colonies. The memoir- writer is a posthumous interviewer,
and publishes scandals, (he more piquant for a little keeping, mixed with
any scraps that may have been swept out of the great man's wri ting- table.

In all this, it may be replied there is little mischief and little cause
for pitying the victim. A man who leads a public life must put up with
the penalties of publicity. If the fine gloss of sensibility be rubbed off
his nature, that is part of the price which he pays for his position. If
this be granted for a moment, the question still remains, who is public ?
It seems often to be answered very vaguely. A popular novelist or poet,
for example, is taken to be public property. If so many thousand copies
of a book are published, its author becomes a legitimate victim. The
instant he is dead, we have a right to know all about him. The most
careless letters, written to the most intimate friends, are printed, regard-
less even of living sensibility. We are to know what he (or she) said
about his acquaintance ; to plunge into the details of his love affairs, and
to know the ins and outs of his petty quarrels. Perhaps it would have
been agony to him, when alive, to have his secrets laid open to the
million. Perhaps it is still agony to those who are still living. No
matter, the man has written a good book, and he is doomed. What
would we not have given, it is said, for similar information about

VOL. xxxv. NO. 205. 3.

50 HEROES AND VALETS.

Shakespeare 1 I am unfeeling enough, to rejoice that we know so little.
A man who cannot understand Hamlet without knowing the rights of
Shakespeare's relations with Anne Hathaway would not really under-
stand it the better if the minutest details had been published at his
death. The microscopic writers who spend years in the attempt to
" illustrate " the history of a great author by unearthing some forgotten
entry in a register are, as a rule, the worst of all judges of his merit.
Hamlet and the Faery Queen have stirred the human imagination as
powerfully as though Spenser and Shakespeare had been treated like
some modern authors. It is pleasant to think that their memory is safe
in the deep waters of oblivion from all the impertinence of literary petti-
foggers. Biography is indeed one of the most charming and valuable of
all forms of literature. Boswell and Lockhart, and some more recent
writers, deserve our very warmest gratitude. But the biographer has many
temptations due to the very charm of his work, and it would be super-
fluous to prove that biographers have often yielded to temptation.

To publish all the rubbish that a great man has written, and
would, if he could, have suppressed, and to revive every scandal once
attached to his name, is becoming the accepted mode of honouring his
memory. But the mischief inflicted is palpable. The commonest
weakness of modern authors is certainly their excessive self-conscious-
ness. How can it be helped when every foolish adorer is gaping
for every scrap of knowledge about the petty details of their life
when fragments of infinitesimal information about their sayings and
doings are treasured up as in old days men treasured bits of the old
clothes of saints ; when well-meaning Americans and there is really
something touching about the simplicity of Transatlantic adorers tout
for introductions as they might struggle at home for the keepership of a
lighthouse 1 ? I have known such an admirer literally cherish a hair
brushed off the coat of a celebrated author ; "and I imagine that some
famous men must have a heavy postage to pay for the supply of auto-
graphs. When such things are done in the lifetime of eminent men,
what will be done when they are dead? What ransacking of old
drawers, what hunting up of schoolboy exercises, of scrawls hastily
drawn on the backs of letters, and especially of letters in which there is
anything really interesting, that is to say generally, of some unpleasant
remark about a friend ! I may remark innocently enough that someone
whom I really esteem is a bore ; perhaps he has been telling me a story
when I had a toothache or had heard of the loss of an investment ; my
phrase may imply no scruple of settled ill will, and it has been frankly
written in the confidence of private correspondence. To publish it, with-
oiit a word of explanation, may inflict a cruel and merciless pang on
my friend ; but who of the race of memoir- writers would be stopped by
such a consideration 1 Or I am a lady, and have laughed to my closest
confidant at a gentleman who made me an offer. I would not for the world
hurt a worthy man who has paid me the highest compliment in his

HEROES AND VALETS. 51

power. But I die ; an entei-prising person gets hold of my letter, and
my poor adorer has the thoughtless phrase passed on to him in the shape
of a cruel insult.

The evil is not a new one ; but modern enterprise is tending to
aggravate it intolei-ably. We may often, for example, see portraits and
read biographies of men whose only claim to celebrity is that they are
known in what is called good society. If such literature be intended for
the footmen, who want to know the history of the persons behind whose
carriages they stand, the practice would be intelligible. But we would
hope that the public is not yet composed exclusively of flunkies, and that
the fact that a man has a certain social position does not justify the
whole world in forcing itself upon his privacy. Or, again, we have been
of late deliberately invited to peruse a series of studies of great men at
home ; to disguise ourselves in imagination in plush ; to become familiar
with the domestic arrangements of a gentleman's house, to discover
whether he smokes a cigar after breakfast, and what kind of coat he
wears in his study, If a well-known man has any rights of privacy, it is
difficult to- understand how they can fail to be infringed by writings,
which, we would suppose, must either come from his valet or from a
private acquaintance, who makes notes for publication in moments of
social intimacy. In the first case, the valet should be dismissed ; in the
other, he should show the gentleman the door. The alternative that the
celebrated person is a consenting party is too humiliating to be contem-
plated. And surely that which no private gentleman could do without
a gross breach of manners, does not become respectable when the author
is anonymous.

It is true that at present the offence is generally smothered under
an excess of compliment. The valet who is about to publish notes from
the knifeboard, or collections from the waste-paper basket, has a dim
feeling (let us hope !) that his trade is rot an ennobling one. He feels
more certainly that it is likely to be spoilt if he makes himself too offensive.
As a rule, therefore, he is complimentary. He is taking a liberty, but he
hopes that flattery will quench resentment. He affects to be actuated by
a genuine veneration instead of its caricature, a vulgar curiosity. He is
quite ready to grovel, to swear that the shoes which he has been blacking
are of the shiniest kind, and that the notes which he has purloined are
written in the best of handwriting. The ruse, it is to be feared, is too often
successful. The vanity even of great men is easily tickled. A gentleman
who would resent the publication of his washing-bills when they reveal
insufficiency of linen is flattered by the same publication when the results
are creditable. He does not see or does not remember that the evil is done
when the notes become public property. The use to which the information
will be put depends upon the taste of men whose very trade implies utter
want of delicacy. Allow your valet to publish your papers, and he will
have the right to choose his materials. If the sound rule is once broken
down, the coating of flattery will become thinner, a satirical intention

3-2

52 HEKOES AND VALETS.

will begin to reveal itself, and what was a simple impertinence will
become a system of libelling. Nothing can be more futile than to bar-
gain with a thief when you have once allowed lum to put his hands in
your pockets. The difference between impertinent praise and imperti-
nent abuse is really trifling. The true evil is the impertinence, and that
is what ought to be resisted by all men of high feeling. Of the two, it
is almost better to be abused, for it does not raise a suspicion of com-
plicity. Paul Pry should be put down, whatever his intentions. If he
begins harmlessly by a fair portrait of a public character, he may be-
come in course of time a social pest, to whom neither sex nor private
station is sacred. He will start by taking notes in a reporter's gallery
and end by sneaking into a lady's boudoir.

The evil of such practices is indeed mainly independent of their
accidental colouring. The pain which they may cause is a strong, but
not the sole ground of objection. When a scribbler takes advantage
of private confidence to publish some unpleasant anecdote about a great
man, or reproduce a bit of scandal, of which, though utterly groundless,
the falsity cannot now be demonstrated, and which, even in that case,
will leave a stain in the memory of cai*eless readers, the evil is palpable.
Every one will denounce it. It is a cruel and shameful act ; though one
ean seldom have the pleasure of putting its perpetrators 011 the pillory.
But in all cases the mischief done to the public is of the same character.
In one word, it tends to vulgarise public opinion. When a practice is
of such a nature that no gentleman could confess to it without degrada-
tion, the sufferance of it tends to poison the social atmosphere. No
gentleman would print without permission the gossip which reaches him
in private society. The persons who print such gossip, oven if covered
with some thin veil of reticence, must be described by the epithet which
is the antithesis of gentleman. If they could have their way, the general
standard of self-respect would be lowered throughout the country.

Actions which have no public character should, I have sail, be
sacred from public curiosity. It is not that a man should not be responsible
even for his private actions, but that he should be responsible to the
right tribunal. My own family have an interest in some of my actions ;
my friends in others ; and my colleagues or subordinates in a third class.
In each case it is most desirable that I should be in contact with the
opinions of those who are both concerned in my behaviour and have the
means of judging. In each case, interference by the unqualified and
xinconcerned is generally mischievous. No wise friend ever meddles
between man and wife, or between father and children. The reason is
not only that the meddling will be resented ; but that in such delicate
questions none but the immediate parties to the dispute are really
qualified to have any opinion. When that incoherent mass of hasty and
half-informed judgment called public opinion is brought to bear upon
such matters, the effect is far more demoralising. The man'a actions
are determined not by his instincts and affections, but by reference to

HEROES AND VALETS. 53

the question, what will people say ? He aims at respectability instead
of virtue. He loses that fine sense of self-respect which is the most
essential safeguard of all lofty motive. He conforms to the vulgar
standard set up by impertinent intruders, and acquires, in place of a
conscience, a little store of popular platitudes. If he is a public official, he
will thrive in proportion as he can flatter the public taste. A gentleman
(as we are told in the papers) has lately been winning popularity in
Amei-ica because he dressed himself in coarse clothes and chewed tobacco.
Mere vulgarity passes itself off for honesty ; for people forget that the
easiest kind of hypocrisy is a superficial brutality of manners. The
person in question was christened " blue Jeans," as Hosea Biglow's hero
hoped to be called " old Timbertoes." That, in the words of the best
American humourist, is what the people likes

Suthiu' eombinin' morril truths with phrases such as strikes.

When such a practice is common, the charlatan has a start in the
race for honour. The public learns to resent as an insult to itself the
honourable reserve which refuses to invite the ignorant and uncultivated
to sit in judgment upon matters beyond their ken. Public life under such
conditions becomes offensive to men of delicate sensitive natures ; and
the independence of spirit which is the greatest of political virtues
becomes a disadvantage or is supplanted by a coarse affectation of
brutality. True greatness of public character is rooted in the purity
and tenderness of domestic life. But the direct tendency of impertinent
intrusion is to give an advantage to the charlatans and hypocrites
always too abundant in the world who are ready to lay bare for public
inspection their most private affairs, and to advertise their domestic virtues.
The spurious article in such a case is a more paying commodity than the
genuine, and* a willingness to submit to degradation becomes a direct
qualification for success. The evil great in its bearing upon public men
is certainly not less in its influence ' upon those teachers of mankind
who are most sensitive, most easily spoilt by self-consciousness, and often
the subjects of the most impertinent intrusion. For one writer who is now
hurt by abuse, a dozen are ruined by injudicious flattery ; if the
flattery begins to affect their private life, it will become more poisonous
than ever. The late biographer of an eminent writer told how his hero
had once risen at night to practise some dancing steps for the amuse-
ment of his children. The story, pretty enough in itself, was uncon-
sciously spoilt by the addition that the said writer turned to his friend,
and remarked that the story would look well in his biography. If even
the expectation of posthumous adulation could produce an act so pain-
fully jarring because indicative of such morbid self-consciousness, what is
likely to be the influence of contemporary portrait-painting 1

The evils thus suggested are, -it may be hoped, still in the bud.
They have not yet become so conspicuous as they are said to be else-
where. There is the more hope that they may be stamped out. The

54 HEROES AND VALETS.

means, however, of doing so are not so obvious as could be wished.
There are certain offences for which caterers to public amusement are
punished readily and severely enough. Any open manifestations of in-
decency or irreverence are properly resented by public opinion ; and it
may fairly be said that in such matters the press is generally pure, and
errs, if it errs at all, on the comparatively safe side of excessive prudery.
But this particular evil does not appear to be resented in the only way
in which resentment produces much immediate effect, that is, by injuring
the pockets of the publishers. We blame, but we read. Curiosity is a pas-
sion which does not look too nicely at the means by which it is gratified.
The very people who will condemn most sincerely the habit of publish-
ing all the savoury details of a criminal trial, will yet read the reports
as greedily as the last sensation novel. The standard is gradually
lowered by an unworthy competition. Each successive writer goes a
little further towards the borders of the forbidden, and his offence is
condoned in consideration of the amusement he affords. The curious
crowd presses always a little further to get a better peep into the domicile
of its victim, and each man who is not on the extreme verge thinks
himself justified by his more intrusive neighbours, whilst there are
plenty who have no scruples at all in affoi-ding this tacit encourage-
ment. I hate the practice of using the name of a whole people as a term of
abuse of saying that this or that is bad because it is French, German, or
American. Such language is a tacit appeal to some of the meanest and
naiTOwest of popular sentiments. But it may be said without pi-ejudice
that the English press seems to be tending to lose the quality by which it
claimed, rightly or wrongly, to rise above the American. We have con-
demned the practice, attributed to American penny-a-liners, of describing
ladies' ball-dresses and intruding upon the privacy of politicians. We
can see plainly enough the mote in our neighbour's eye and recog-
nise the tendency of such laxity to lower the general standard of self-
respect. Can we now pass such a judgment without condemning our-
selves 1 Is not the British journalist becoming daily more intrusive, less
Inclined to admit that his allusions may be impertinent, and more reck-
less in gratifying the public appetite for petty gossip 1 If not, would
some of the dealers in such literary ware kindly inform us where they
draw the line and in what cases they recognise the sanctity of private
life ? I fancy that they would find the task rather difficult.

This is not the place to inquire whether the law in such matters
might not be improved ; whether the punishment inflicted on a libeller
should not be extended to men who have told no lie, but have infringed
the proper rights of privacy ; and whether the publisher of purely pri-
vate matter should not be at least bound to obtain the consent of those
concerned, in a more general sense than is at pi'esent the case. If a
man chooses to publish his own accounts, as an eminent person has
lately chosen to do, there is no wrong committed, though there may
be a want of judgment. But if another man gets hold of my banker's

HEROES AND VALETS. 55

book and tells the public how much I spend on charity or tobacco,
I should surely be able to stop him. There are, however, obvious
difficulties in the matter, and such questions may be left to persons
of technical knowledge. But there is an imperceptible process by
which a healthy public opinion gradually makes itself felt. When it
is distinctly understood that publications of a certain class deserve the
reprobation of all who call themselves gentlemen, the social sanction is
not without its power. If the valet who publishes accounts of the hero
can be made to feel that his trade is a dirty one, even his pachyderma-
toiis nature will not be quite insensible. Nobody, not even the meanest
of his species, is quite impenetrable to the contempt of his fellows. If
public opinion can be made sound, those who cater for it will gradually
conform themselves to its laws. Even that great argument the argu-
ment from the pocket may gradually come to be on its side. The
danger is that the habitual infringement of certain well-known rules
may gradually weaken their authority ; the most hopeful remedy is that
a clear apprehension of the evils to which such classes lead may induce
the leaders of opinion to bestir themselves in time. Eminent men may
become shy of affording opportunities to those who would take liberties
with their private character, and critics may condemn, with all the
vigour of which they are capable, the offenders who have enjoyed too
much impunity. It is, of course, tempting to take refuge in mere con-
tempt for offenders, too callous to be easily punished ; but it is some-
times a duty to denounce a bad practice, even when the denunciation
does no immediate harm to the offender.

BRILLAT-SAVARIN, whose destiny was to popularise a rational theory of
diet, first saw the light at Belley, on April 1, 1755. He was brought
up to the profession of the law, and till the outbreak of the Revolution
led the tranquil uneventful life of a provincial advocate. The only
incident of his youth of which he makes mention is a visit to the
abbey of St. Sulpice to be marked with a white stone even in his
Epicurean Calendar. Brillat-Savarin was very fond of music a cir- '
cumstance which afterwards went near to save his head and was leader
of an amateur troop which often serenaded the ladies of Belley. The
Abbot of St. Sulpice invited him and his friends to come and assist
in the performance of High Mass on the festival of St. Bernard, Patron
Saint of the monastery. " The Saint," courteously observed the Abbot,
" will thereby be glorified ; our neighbours will be delighted, and you
will have the honour of being the first Orpheus who shall have pene-
trated into those lofty regions " (the monastery was perched high on
the mountain side).

One fine summer night, accordingly, Brillat-Savarin and his friends
set out for the convent, where they arrived at an early hour on the
following morning. Here we get a glimpse of the old conventual
hospitality, now mere tradition of the past, then a substantial fact.
The Father Cellarer received them. " Welcome, Gentlemen," he said ;
" our Reverend Abbot will be right pleased to hear of your arrival :
he is still in bed, having fatigued himself yesterday ; but come with
me and you shall see whether you were expected." They followed him
into the refectory, where, in the midst of a spacious table, rose a
pasty " as big as a church : " it was flanked on the north by a quarter
of cold veal, on the south by an enormous ham, on the east by a,
monumental pyramid of cool, fresh butter, on the west by a bushel
of artichoke salad. There was fruit too, as well as white napkins, and
silver plate ; lay-brothers also and servants ready to help the viands.
Nor should we forget to add that in a corner of the hall, a hundred
bottles of unmistakable aspect reposed beneath a fountain of running
water, which as it flowed seemed to murmur Evoe Bacche. The tra-
vellers were in no way staggered at the prospect of dealing with such a
breakfast at four A.M. : in those days coffee was not taken early in the
day. The Father Cellarer excused himself for being unable to join
them he had to say Massmean : while they were to make themselves
at home.

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICUEE. 57

After breakfast they all found nice warm beds awaiting them and
were allowed to sleep till the hour of Divine Service. There they
acquitted themselves remarkably well and were much complimented
by their host. It was now noon, and time for dinner naturally a
more solid meal than breakfast. Of roast meat alone there were fourteen
different kinds, while the dessert comprised the most delicious fruits of the
valley, brought up at considerable labour and cost to the heights from
which the monastery commanded its magnificent prospect. The coffee,
adds Brillat-Savarin, was delicious : it was served not in the tiny cups
of a degenerate age, but in fair deep bowls in which the good brothers
plunged their thick lips with a noise which would have done honour to
spermaceti whales before a storm. After dinner, Vespers ; after Vespers,
everyone might do as he pleased. The Abbot bade them good night.
" I don't think," said the kindly old man, " that my presence would be
troublesome to the brothers ; but I wish them to know they have full
liberty. St. Bernard's Day comes but once a year ; to-morrow we shall
re-enter on the accustomed routine ; eras iterabimus cequor." And in
truth, though the Abbot was beloved by all, there ivas a good deal more
noise after his departure than before. The fun soon became fast and
furious ; and a delicate little supper towards nine o'clock put everybody
into high spirit. As the night deepened a voice was heard : " Father
Cellarer, where is your dish 1 " " 'Tis too true " answered his Reverence,
" I am not Cellarer for nothing." He left the hall, and presently
returned, followed by three servants, of whom the first bore a mighty
dish of buttered toast, the other two carried a table on which stood a
veritable tub of brandy, sweetened and flaming a substitute for punch,
of which the French were then ignorant.

This was the sign the feast was o'er.

The toast was eaten and the brandy drunk; then as the stroke of
midnight was heard the company parted, beds being again provided for
the guests.

This was in the year 1782, when fears of change were already
beginning to disquiet kings and monks. At St. Sulpice it was whispered
that a reforming Abbot, of the strictest temper, would soon replace
the venerable chief under whose gentle rule everyone was so happy ;
and for Brillat-Savarin there were days of trouble ahead. In 1789 he
was returned by his fellow-citizens to the States-General; and sub-
sequently named, firstly, President of the Civil Tribunal in the Depart-
ment of the Ain, and, afterwards, Judge of the Court of Appeal. These
facts deserve to be mentioned, for one of the best morals of Brillat-
Savarin's life is that work is absolutely necessary to enjoyment. He
himself, much as he loved a good dinner, thoroughly despised a man who
loved nothing else. On this subject he tells a curious story of an
emigrant noble he met at Lausanne, a fine, strong, healthy-looking man,
but of a laziness perfectly phenomenal. Work of any kind seemed to

58 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE.

him the thing most to be dreaded in this world, and he would have died
of hunger with the best grace in the world if a worthy tradesman of the
town had not opened a credit for him at an eating-house, by which he
was enabled to dine on the Sunday and Wednesday in each week. On
those days he crammed himself up to the oesophagus and pocketed a huge
piece of bread ; then quietly retired to sleep or lounge away the hours
till next dinner-time. As often as he felt gnawing sensations in the
stomach he drank water. When Brillat-Savarin saw him he had
subsisted for three months on this extraordinary diet, and was not ill in
the conventional sense of the word, only oppressed with an unnatural
languor. " I asked him to dinner," writes his compatriot, " at my inn,
where he officiated in a way to make one tremble. But I did not
renew the invitation, because I love to see men bravely fronting adver-
sity and obeying, when they must, that judgment issued against the
human race, ' In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread.' " *

Meanwhile Brillat-Savarin continued to be held in such high esteem
by his fellow-townsmen that in 1793 they had elected him to the perilous
office of Mayor, when he opposed a vigorous resistance to the emissaries of
Marat and Robespierre ; soon, however, he was obliged to fly for his life,
and it was then that he visited first Switzerland and afterwards the United
States. But before quitting the soil of his beloved country, he was to
meet with a little adventure which he ever afterwards loved to recall.
He was bound for Dole, hoping to obtain from the Citizen Representative
Prot that safe-conduct which had become necessary to keep him at a
convenient distance from prison and the scaffold. Mounted on a service-
able nag which he had named " Joy," he rode cheerfully enough along
the smiling landscape bounded by the heights of the Jura, and, about
eleven o'clock one bright morning, put up at an old-fashioned snug-look-
ing inn, the principal hostelry of the village of Mont-sous- Vandrey.
Having seen to his horse, Brillat-Savarin passed into the kitchen, where
a joyoiTS spectacle presented itself to his enraptured gaze. Quails,
leverets, and a fine turkey were placidly roasting before the fire, and
these seemed but a tithe of the delectable things which were evidently
on the point of being served. " Good," he thought ; " Providence does
not entirely desert me. Let us pluck this flower too in passing. There
will always be time to die." Then turning to mine host, " Mon cher,"
he asked, " what are you going to give me for dinner that is good 1 "
" Nothing that is not good, Monsieur : good boiled beef, good potato-
soup, good shoulder of mutton, and good beans." A chill of disappoint-
ment ran through the frame of the traveller. He never ate boiled beef,
which he justly observed was meat deprived of its juice ; potatoes and

* Brillat-Savarin had some pleasanter recollections of Lausanne, notably of the
Lion cC Argent, where (British tourists may sigh as they read) an excellent dinner of
three courses, including game from the neighbouring mountains, and fresh fish from
Lake Leman, and a delicious white wine ad libitum, was to be had, all for the sum of
one shilling and nine pence.

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICUBE. 59

beans were too fattening, and for shoulder of mutton lie had no fancy.
" For whom then is this feast? " he demanded in disconsolate tones. The
host explained. Four advocates had been in those parts to settle a great
case; an arrangement had happily been arrived at, and they were on the
point of celebrating the happy termination of the business by a cosy
little dinner. " Monsieur," quoth Brillat-Savarin, after musing a few
seconds, " will you be so good as to present them my compliments and
say that a gentleman of quality * requests as a particular favour to be
admitted to dine with them, that he is ready to take his share of the
expense, and that he will always esteem himself their debtor 1- " The
host withdrew and a period of painful suspense followed. But in a
minute or two, a fat, neat, rosy little gentleman entered the kitchen,
examined a saucepan or two, looked at the roast, and retired. Another
minute and mine host returned. " Monsieur," he said, " the gentlemen are
extremely nattered by your proposal, and only await your presence to sit
down to dinner." " What a dinner ! ! ! " exclaims Brillat-Savarin, with
three points of exclamation, recalling the happiness of that day. The
barristers proved delightful companions and accorded him the heartiest
welcome, while the food and wine were such as few monster hotels of
modem days can furnish. It may be guessed that the newcomer was
not allowed to pay a centime, and towards evening went cheered and in-
vigorated on his lonely journey. Good fortune never comes single ; and at
Dole, the ex-Mayor succeeded in winning the good graces of Madame
Prot by his vocal and musical talent. " Citizen," she said, " when a man
cultivates the fine arts as you do, he does not betray his country. I know
you have some request to prefer to my husband : it shall be granted ; it is
I who promise you." And, truly enough, on the following morning he re-
ceived his passport, signed and sealed. Ladies' logic is a fearful and won-
derful thing.

From Dole Brillat-Savarin passed into Switzerland and ultimately
proceeded to America. In the Physiologie du Godt he gives but a
brief account of his residence in the United States. It resembles in fact
the famous chapter on Snakes, and runs as follows :

" Sejour en Amerique. "

The truth is that the lively Frenchman was very much bored in the
territory of the Great Republic, where, like Talleyrand, he regretted to
find but one dish to thirty-two religions. And yet New York was ever
memorable to him as the scene of what he justly calls a national victory
when the Briton succumbed and the Gaul remained master of the
field.

Brillat-Savarin was wont to spend his evenings at Little's, a famous
tavern of Old Gotham, where, with the Vicomte de la Massue and M.
Fehr, he loved to enjoy a modest supper of Welsh rarebits and cider.
Occasionally he was joined by Mr. Wilkinson, a Jamaica planter, a

* Gallice, "homme de bonne compa'gnie."

60 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE.

good fellow and thorough gentleman, as his French friend takes care to
inform us. Still, manners were rough in those days, and Mr. Wilkinson
probably thought it would be a capital joke to see three " frogs " under the
table. With this amiable intention, he asked the enemies of his native
land to dinner ; and they frankly accepted his invitation. Fortunately for
Brillat-Savarin, as he was leaving Little's that evening, the waiter drew
him aside and warned him that the invitation was in reality a challenge
to a hard drinking bout. He was exceedingly annoyed, being too much
of a gourmet to relish such orgies ; still the instinct of combat would not
allow him to withdraw, and moreover he was confident of his own
strength and only uneasy for his compatriots. " I desired," he says, " the
triumph of the nation and not that of the individual." Accordingly he
addressed a " severe allocution " to Fehr and Massue, and warned them
to drink slowly and to try and throw away some of their wine while he
distracted the attention of Mr. Wilkinson and the other Englishman
who was to be present. Also to eat gently but constantly. Finally,
before setting out for Little's, on the following day, he made his friends
share with him a plateful of bitter almonds, which are said to be a
prophylactic against intoxication.

The dinner, we are assured, consisted of a " rotsbeef," a turkey
cooked in its gravy, boiled " roots " (]), a salad of raw cabbage, and a
jam tart. The wine was claret, for which, bye and bye, was substituted
port, while to port succeeded madeira. Dessert was now on the table.
It consisted of biscuits, butter, and nuts, aliments which encourage the
consumer to drink. It was beginning to be warm work for all con-
cerned ; but Brillat-Savarin observed, with pleasure, that his friends
had followed his advice, and that Fehr, in particular, had contrived .to
empty a good many glasses of wine into a beer-jug which stood neglected
at his end of the table. The three Frenchmen looked still fresh when
Mr. Wilkinson called for spirits an order which made Biillat-Savarin,
for the first time that evening, feel nervous. He dexterously avoided
the grosser forms of drinking spirits, by asking in his turn for a bowl
of punch. Little brought it in himself. It would have sufficed for
forty persons, but was happily accompanied by a supply of buttered
toast. After one or two glasses had been drunk, B. observed, with
pleasure, that Mr. Wilkinson's face had turned to a crimson -purple, and
that his eyes looked haggard, while his friend's head was steaming like
a kettle. Fehr and Massue, on the other hand, were still cool. The
catastrophe came much sooner than B. had expected. Mr. Wilkinson
suddenly sprang to his feet, as if seized by a happy inspiration, and
began, in trumpet tones, to thunder forth lluU Britannia ; then, quite
as suddenly, dived under the table, where he preferred to remain. His
friend, laughing loudly, stooped forward to pick him up ; then he, too,
lay extended on the floor. The Frenchmen were victorious, and drank
a final glass of punch, with Little, to the health of the vanquished.
Next morning all the New York papers contained accounts of the

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE. 61

battle ; and the New York papers wore copied by all the others in the
United States.

Fortunately for himself, Brillat-Savarin seems to have possessed some
remnants of a private fortune, and the days of his exile were not
embittered by the constant struggle for daily bread which so many of
his fellow-countrymen had to wage. One of his friends turned weaver and
quietly descended into a lower grade of the social scale ; another earned
a handsome sum of money by making salads in London. When he had
realised 80,000 francs (3,200), he was enabled to return to France, buy
a snug little property in Limousin, and live the pleasant and dignified
life of a country squire. The history of this gentleman, indeed
D'Albignac by name (of unmistakably "noble" stock) is worth a digres-
sion, if only from the curious light which it throws upon English
manners and customs at the close of the last century. D'Albignac was
dining one day at a famous inn in the City, and five or six " dandies,"
or swells of the period, as our own slang has it, were dining at a
neighbouring table. Presently one of them got up and addressed him
in very polite tones. " Mossieu, they say that your nation excels in
the art of making salads ; would you do us the favour to mix one for
us ? " After a second's hesitation, D'Albignac agreed ; and while dress-
ing the lettuce, replied, without embarrassment, to the questions which
his new acquaintance put to him. He even avowed, with a slight blush,
that he was in receipt of pecuniary assistance from the English Govern-
ment. In shaking hands with him, one of the young men contrived
to leave a five-pound note in his grasp. He, on the other hand, gave
his address ; and was not greatly surprised when, a few days later, he
received a letter entreating him as a special favour to come and make
the salad that evening at a large house in Grosvenor Square, where a
dinner-party was to be given. He went, and received a very handsome
present ; while the salad proved so good, that " the Frenchman " was
soon in general request, and no entertainment was thought complete
without him. It should be added that D'Albignac's salads were quite
unlike the simple preparations of the modern French kitchen which
go by that name. He would mix together oils, flavoured with fruit,
vinegar, soy, caviare, truffles, anchovies, " calchup " (quaere : ketchup ?),
gravy, and the yoke of eggs.

dura majorum ilia !

Brillat-Savarin himself could not afford to be altogether idle ; and
during his stay in New York he added to his means by giving lessons
in French, and joining the orchestra of the principal theatre in that
town. In 1796, to his intense joy, he was able to bid farewell to the
ungenial American climate, and to sail for France. He soon obtained
honourable employment in the public service, being successively Sec-
retary to the General Staff of the Army in Germany, Government
Commissioner to the Departmental Tribunal of the Seine-et-Oise, and,

62 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE.

finally, Counsellor in the Court of Appeal. Henceforth his life flowed
on in an unbroken current of tranquil and iiseful labour. He had done
with politics ; but, like Congreve in his retirement, " he had civil words
and small good offices for men of every shade of opinion. And men
of every shade of opinion spoke well of him in return." He was
conservative enough, however, to be pleased at the restoration of the
ancient line, which he may have hoped would bring back the ancient
ways, the grand old politeness, the wit, and the social wisdom of former
times. But they did not altogether, as Frenchmen are the first to
acknowledge. Twenty years of civil and foreign wars had perhaps
made men too serious to recognise sufficiently the importance of small
things.

Among the minor innovations of that changeful epoch, few so
deeply grieved conservative epicures as the revolution wrought by
Anglomania in the economy of the table. The veiy names of dishes
began to be anglicised, and, to this day, Frenchmen never think of
designating a beef-steak or a dish of roast-beef save by their English
names incorrectly spelt. The English fashion of serving fish after soup
was also introduced by the returned emigres ; and, though pronounced
a grave mistake by more than one competent authority, it has continued
to hold its ground. On the other hand, Brillat-Savarin praises the
practice of taking a glass of madeira with the soup, which the French
also owe to us ; but there was another Britannic custom which annoyed
and even shocked him viz. that of using finger-glasses, with little
glasses of warm water for rinsing the mouth. He pronounced it to
be an " innovation equally useless, indecent, and disgusting. Useless,
because persons who know how to eat keep their mouths sweet to the
end of the meal ; they have cleansed them either with fruit, or with the
last glasses of wine that are drunk at dessert ; indecent, for it is a
generally recognised principle that all ablutions should be conducted in
the privacy of a dressing-room ; disgusting, for the prettiest and
freshest mouth loses its charms when it usurps the functions of the
evacuatory organs. And what will be the aspect of a mouth that is
neither pretty nor fresh 1 "

It was in 1825 that Brillat-Savarin, at the age of 70, published his
famous work " Physiologie dii Gout," which deserved to confer on him an
immortality of the second class, if the gradations of fame could be nicely
measured. " The book itself," says a thoughtful critic, " is charmingly
written, accomplishes all that it professes, exactly meets the tastes and
satisfies the capacities of the wide circle to which it is addressed ; is
lively, genial, racy, and just sufficiently seasoned with well-told and
timely anecdotes." Indeed, how can a well -written book on eating fail
to be of universal interest 1 It should be added that some of the stories,
though they would have seemed perfectly harmless to the generation
which laughed over Tom Jones, are a little too unlaced according to the
ideas of the 19th century.

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE. 63

The work opens with twenty aphorisms, which rival the famous
maxims of Pelham on the art of dressing. They are :

I. The Universe is nothing except through life, and everything which
lives nourishes itself.

II. Animals feed ; man eats ; a man of wit and breeding alone knows
how to eat.

III. The destiny of nations depends on the way in which they
nourish themselves.

IV. Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.

V. The Creator, in obliging man to eat in order that he may live,
invites him by appetite, and rewards him by pleasure.

VI. Taste is an act of our judgment, by which we accord the prefer-
ence to things which are palatable over those which are not.

VII. The pleasures of the table are for all ages, all conditions, all
countries, and all days; they can associate themselves with all other
pleasures, and remain to console us for their loss.

VIII. The dining-room is the only place where you are never bored
during the first hour.

IX. The discovery of a new dish does more for the happiness of the
human race than the discovery of a new constellation.

X. Those who get an indigestion, and those who get drunk, know
neither how to eat nor how to drink.

XI. The order of edibles is from the more substantial to the lighter.

XII. The order of drinks is from the lighter to the more heady and
more perfumed.

XIII. To assert that there should be no change of wines at dinner is
a heresy; the tongue sui-feits itself; and, after the third glass, the best
wine produces but a dull sensation.

XIV. A dessert without cheese is even as a fair woman who lacketh
an eye.

XV. A man may become a cook, but he must be born a roaster.

XVI. The most indispensable quality in a cook is punctuality ; the
same quality is required of a guest.

XVII. To wait too long for a guest who is late is a want of polite-
ness for all who are present.

XVIII. He who receives his friends, and bestows no thought on the
meal to be prepared for them, is unworthy to have friends.

XIX. The mistress of the house ought always to assure herself that
the coffee is excellent ; the master should see that the wines are of the
best brands.

XX. To invite anyone to dinner is to make yourself responsible for
his happiness during the time he is under your roof.

The truth of most of these aphorisms will be admitted by all ; even
the third, which to a thoughtless person might appear flippant, is the
statement of a weighty historical fact, though possibly ridden to death

64 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE.

by the late Mr. Buckle. At all events, we English have long echoed the
opinion of the ancient chronicler who ascribed the superiority of the
English gentry over the Castilian in war to the circumstance that the
former were " nourished with tender meat and good ale," while the
golden youth of Spain regaled itself on garlic and sherry. The fifth
aphorism, again, is a gay version of Paley's noble argument on the proofs
of the existence of a Creator from the benevolent design to be seen in his
works. The thirteenth, on the other hand, will hardly commend itself
to those who think three glasses of wine amply sufficient at dinner, or to
those who think them too much. It may be observed on this subject,
that though teetotalism as a religion would have been wholly unintel-
ligible to Brillat-Savarin, he was not only an extremely temperate man,
but somewhat opposed to the generality of his countrymen in approving
of the Anglo-American fashion of taking only tea or coffee, instead of
wine, with breakfast ; and as a sovereign digester after a full meal, he
recommends, not the popular glass of liqueur, or cognac, but a cup of
chocolate. He also strongly insists on the superiority of chocolate to tea
or coffee from a hygienic point of view ; and with him all doctors agree.
Of the dangers of coffee, indeed, he gives a striking instance, having seen
in London, " sur la place de Leicester," a man who had become a hope-
less cripple from immoderate indulgence in the use of that potent
beverage. The votary of Mocha was bent almost double, but he had
ceased to suffer, and by a strong effort of the will had succeeded in
reducing himself to five or six cups of his favourite drink a day. Brillat-
Savarin was himself obliged to give up taking coffee in his old age, find-
ing its effects too strong. The Due de Massa, Minister of Justice, once
required a spell of hard work from him at only a few hours' notice, and
he saw no way of accomplishing it except by sitting up all night. After
dinner, accordingly, he took two cups of strong coffee, and had no dis-
position, or indeed ability, to sleep for forty hours afterwards.

He who wrote so well and so enthusiastically of the pleasures of the
table, would be perfectly content with the simplest meal, and entertained
a robust contempt for persons who were afraid to "rough it" in troublous
times. Yet we have seen that he was perfectly alive to the charms of a
good dinner in the midst of the perils of a journey on which his life was
at stake ; and he never let slip an opportunity. On this head, another
of his adventures deserves to be related, though it too is the record of a
tiiumph over our own compatriots. He was travelling with two ladies
whom he had promised to escort as far as Melun. They had started
early in the morning, and arrived at Montgeron with threatening appe-
tites. But, alas 1 at the inn where they put up there seemed absolutely
nothing left to eat, owing to the ravages of three " diligences " full of
travellers, to say nothing of post-chaises. Only an excellent leg of
mutton turned before the fire in the most approved of fashions. Un-
happily, it belonged to three Englishmen, who had brought it with
them, and who were sitting upstairs drinking champagne and awaiting

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICUKE. 65

its arrival. "But, at least," said Brillat-Savarin to the cook, "you
could dress us some eggs in the gravy." The cook assented, propounding
the more than questionable doctrine that the gravy belonged to him of
right as his perquisite. While he was engaged in breaking the eggs,
Brillat-Savarin approached the leg of mutton and drew a large pocket-
knife on fell designs intent ; therewith he inflicted twelve deep wounds
on the unresisting meat, which soon gave up the last drop of its vital
juice. By and by, the French party was making a delicious breakfast
on ceufs broulles au jus, with cups of steaming coffee and cream ; and
laughing merrily at the thought that they had the substance of the leg
of mutton, while the luckless English were endeavouring to masticate
the fibrous tissue, which was all that remained of it.

One other travelling experience of Brillat-Savarin's must be given, if
only to show that he had a son worthy of him. At a country inn at
which he put up he found four turkeys being roasted, and forthwith
demanded one for his own dinner ; when to his surprise he learnt that
they had all been bespoken for a gentleman. " For one gentleman ? "
demanded' B., in an incredulous tone. " Yes, Monsieur." " He has,
doubtless, a large party with him?" "On the contrary, he is alone."
"Do you happen to know his name 1 ?" "I think it is a M. Brillat-
Savarin." " It must be my son," exclaimed the astonished father, and
desire .1 to be shown into the room where his offspring was dreaming of
coming pleasures. After the first greetings, the sire demanded an
explanation, which he received in the frankest terms. " The fact is,
Sir," began this true chip of the old block, " there is a particular slice of
the turkey of which I am extremely fond, and which, whenever I am in
your company, you eat. Being alone, I determined to regale myself on
my favourite morsel without stint." This was a defence which the
father could especially appreciate, by the token that, being an extremely
good-natured man, he looked with a friendly eye on the weaknesses of
our common humanity. A friend once said to him, " The despair of my
life is that I can never get my fill of oysters." " Come and dine with
me," answered Brillat-Savarin, "and you shall have your fill." The
friend, a M. Laperte, came punctual to his time, and was soon engaged
in an interesting conference with the oysters. B. looked on quiet]y for
an hour, by which time M. Laperte had given good news of 31 dozen,
and was proceeding as fresh as ever to discuss the 32nd dozen, when
his host, wearied with long inaction, said : " My poor friend, not to-day
will destiny allow you to eat your fill," and rang for the soup. M.
Laperte did ample justice to the excellent dinner which followed.
Brillat-Savarin's veracity was never impeached, so that after reading his
narrative one may well credit the story that the Emperor Heliogabalus
was in the habit of taking 400 oysters, 100 ortolans, and 100 peaches for
his breakfast every morning. Brillat-Savarin gives one or two other
instances of the capacity of the human stomach. Thus, General Eisson
drank eight quart bottles of wine every morning at breakfast ; neither
VOL. xxxv. :ro. 205. 4.

66 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICUEE.

the clearness of his mind nor the cheerfulness of his temper seeming to
be impaired thereby. General Sibuet, a gallant officer, who died on the
field of honour in 1813, at the passage of the Bober, was equally gifted
with the power of making a beast of himself. He was eighteen years old,
when he strolled one evening into the kitchen of Genin, who kept one of
the best inns at Belley. A magnificent turkey was at that very moment
being taken off the spit, and young Sibuet's mouth watered. " I have just
dined," he said to the landlord, " and yet I could eat that turkey whole."
Several countrymen were seated at the kitchen fire, eating chestnuts and
drinking white wine. Said one of them, a substantial-looking farmer, in
the corrupt provengal of the country, " Sez vosu meze, z'u payo ; e sez
voscaca en rotaz, i-zet vo ket paireet may ket mazerai la restaz," which,
being interpreted, means, "If you eat it, I will pay; but if you give in
on the road, you shall pay, and I shall eat the rest." The challenge was
accepted, and the future general, as became him, set methodically to
work. The two wings and a drumstick disappeared with such alarming
rapidity that " Hai ! " called out the farmer, in agony, " ze vaie praou
qu'izet fotu ; m'ez, Monche Chibouet, poez kaet zu daive paiet, lesse m'en
a m'en mesiet on mocho." (" Alas ! I see well that it is all over ; but,
Monsieur Sibuet, since I am to pay, suffer me at least to eat a morsel
myself.")

With mere voracity, however, Brillat-Savarin was too refined to have
any sympathy ; and when he sings the praise of Gourmandise he is
careful to explain that it has nothing in common with greediness or
gluttony. For this reason we must regret that the word has no precise
-equivalent in the English language, our sturdy fathers having failed to
appreciate the nicer shades of epicureanism. (" They know nothing,
these English," said an Indian, contemptuously, " except to spin cotton
and conquer the world.") " La gourmandise," insists the author of the
Physiologie du Gout, " est ennemie des exces." It must be so, or how
could the portrait of a pretty gourmande have been drawn in such
charming colours ? Thus does Brillat-Savarin sketch her :

" Nothing is more agreeable to see than a pretty gourmande armed
for conquest : her napkin is daintily arranged ; one of her hands reposes
on the table ; the other conveys to her mouth the little morsels so deftly
cut, or the wing of partridge she must bite ; her eyes are bright, her lips
of nature's enamel, her conversation sprightly ; all her motions are
graceful ; nor is she without that spice of coquetry which women put into
everything. With so many advantages she is irresistible ; and Cato the
Censor would have yielded to the gentle influence."

Such a one was Madame X., whom the author first met at a dinner-
party when she was but fifteen years old. She was already very pretty,
of a sensuous order of beauty. " Do you know," whispered Brillat-
Savarin to his neighbour, "that that little girl is a gourmande 1"
" Nonsense," replied the other, " she has not arrived at the age of gour-
mandise: she is a mere child." "Wait and see," rejoined Brill'

ANECDOTES OF AN EPICUKE. 67

Savarin, who was a disciple of Lavater and Gall, and seldom deceived in
faces. Nevertheless, as the dinner proceeded, he began to fear that he
had made a mistake, and regretted the circumstance only because his
observations had been directed by scientific considerations, and he was
grieved that Science should be mistaken. Still he consoled himself by
remembering that there are exceptions to every rule. But with the
dessert, a dessert as "copious " as it was " brilliant," his hopes revived,
and once more Science was proved to be in the right. Not only did the
little girl eat of everything which came within her reach, but she had
herself helped to the most distant dishes. In short, she ate so much that
the company began to wonder how so small a body could enclose so vast
an assortment of goods. Two years later, Brillat-Savarin met her again.
She had then been married just eight days, and a handsomer woman he
had rarely set eyes on. Unfortunately, her husband seemed already to
be making himself wretched over the compliments she received. Not
long after he took her to a country-house, far away from Paris, and
" society " saw her no more. One can only hope she was happy.

At another dinner-party, Brillat-Savarin, after carefully scanning the
features of the Duke Decres, Minister of Marine, who was present, pro-
nounced his Excellency a gourmand. He was a short, thick-set, dark,
curly-haired man, with a round face, a double chin, thick lips, and a
mouth not quite so large as a church door, but still of fair proportions.
B. communicated the result of his observation to the lady seated next
him. " You need not tell him I said so," he added, laughing. The lady
promised faithfully and found an opportunity to tell the Duke that
same evening. Next day Brillat-Savarin received a pleasant letter from
his Grace, in which the latter modestly disclaimed the possession of so
estimable a quality as that which his agreeable convive had attributed to
him. By the way, is it that we are more serious or merely less debonair
than our neighbours 1 Somehow, the mind refuses to picture an English
Minister (say Mr. Gladstone, or the Duke of Argyll) taking the troublo
to inform by letter a man whom he had never met in his life that he was
not unduly fond of a good dinner. Brillat-Savarin naturally wrote back
A very courteous epistle, but insisted that if the Duke was not an epicure,
he was resisting the intention of Nature in his case. Not long after, all
Paris was laughing over a furious quarrel between the Minister and his
Cook, which had got into the papers ; and Brillat-Savarin was amused to
find that, though the cook had been grossly impertinent, and had even
obtained the better of his master in the wordy war, he was not dis-
charged ; from which the inference was plain. The cook knew his art,
and the Duke had not the courage to part with a good cook, The Duke
was a gourmand. Q.E.D.

Brillat-Savarin's useful and kindly life came to an end almost imme-
diately after the publication of its magnum opus (for the Physiologie du
Gout is small only in size, and contains the quintessence of half a century
of thought, observation, and wit). On the 21st of January, 1826, many

68 ANECDOTES OF AN EPICURE.

loyal gentlemen attended a solemn Mass for the repose of the soul of
Louis XVI. (beheaded on that day in the year 1793). It was celebrated
in the fine old abbey church of Saint Denis, which, like all similar
edifices, was extremely cold in winter. Three eminent lawyers who were
present all caught colds, and were killed by exposure to that inclement
January weather. They were Robert de Saint Vincent, the Advocate-
General Marchangy, and " M. le Conseiller Brillat-Savarin." The last
died on the 2nd of February following, deeply regretted by the many
friends who knew him, and were aware of the sterling benevolence and
manly honesty of his character. It would be absurd to pretend that his
morality realised the ideal of Christian or even stoical perfection. But
he never fell short of the world's standard of integrity, and lived a good
citizen and a pleasant companion, free from all taint of hypocrisy and
pretentiousness. As the world goes, this is no small praise.

It has been justly observed that he was a man of one book. He
wrote, indeed, a treatise on political economy, and one or two works on
archeology, but these are forgotten, while the Physiologie du Godt re-
mains a French classic. It should be added that the author has not dis-
dained to present his readers with a variety of excellent recipes, which
will fully repay a practical study. One of these shall be given in con-
clusion, for it supplies what is to many persons, and especially to brain-
workers, the most important of desiderata viz. the meaas of obtaining
a harmless stimulant. Brillat-Savarin had read that Marshal Richelieu
was in the habit of chewing lozenges flavoured with amber. Now the
Marshal is described by Macaulay as "an old fop who passed his life
from sixteen to sixty in seducing women for whom he cared not one
straw," but by Frenchmen he is known as the hero "of glorious memory"
who took Minorca from the English in sight of their own squadron,
what time we vented our insular spleen by shooting a certain admiral,
"to encourage others," as Voltaire said. Therefore, Brillat-Savarin
thought that whatever the man of glorious memory did must contain a
lesson for Gallic humanity. Moreover, he often felt a lassitude of mind
which indisposed him to work, and made it almost impossible for him to
think with vigour. Wine, as a stimulant, is suited to few persons,
though Blackstone wrote his Commentaries in collaboration with a bottle
of port ; and coffee Brillat-Savarin found even more objectionable, for
we have seen that its power over him was too great. At length he
discovered that the sovereign restorative, at least for him, was a good
cup of chocolate, with a piece of amber in it of about the size of a broad-
bean, beaten, of course, to powder, and mixed with sugar. " By means
of this tonic," he says, " the action of the vital powers is facilitated,
thought developes itself with ease, and I never suffer after it from the
insomnia which would be the infallible consequence of a cup of black
coffee." There is obviously the same danger in tea as in coffee, besides
which, the one and the other are apt to injuriously affect the nervous
system, if taken habitually in strong doses.

Jrcrnt jsiratfarfr ia

SEEING our dearth of information about Shakspeare is so great, nothing
that may be of the slightest value ought to be neglected ; and so it may
be worth while to consider what scenes and sights may have been
familiar to him in his journey ings to and fro from Stratford to London.
The transit can be accomplished now in four or five hours ; but it was
no such light matter in the Elizabethan days. The distance is some 100
miles (by Oxford 94), and probably under ordinary circumstances would
occupy four or five days to traverse, though no doubt, under pressure, a
less time .might suffice. These periods would certainly form notable
epochs in the poet's life. What a change from " the smoke and uproar
and riches of Rome " ! No doubt he would seldom travel alone. Perils
from robbers were too common and too serious to encourage that
practice. But yet he would often be lonely enough ; and many a thought
afterwards embodied in immortal shape must have occurred to him
during these long hours. It would make a fine picture the author of
Hamlet, his " season " over, amidst the woody solitudes of the Chilterns,
or slowly wending his way through some lowland marsh. We may be
sure he was not idle at these times. The rough rude simple life he saw
around him would not be unsuggestive. There is a tradition, as we
shall see, that he " studied " his Dogberry in some village he passed
through. His tablets must often have been called into requisition. And
when the days were fair, and all the landscape wore the beauty of the sun-
shine, many a " session of sweet silent thought " must have been holden.
We cannot doubt that in those long quiet journeys his spirit found for
itself nurture and strength. The true poet is like that " bright flower,
whose home is everywhere." Often travel-tired, he would find rest for
himself in contemplating the face of nature and the humours of men.
Indeed, with all their discomforts and annoyances, these may have been
precious times for him ; and he may have arrived at his destination a
wiser, if a weary, man.

There are two or three sonnets in which he speaks of journeys,
possibly of these journeys. The following may have been written at
Stratford, at the close of one of them :

"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind when body's work's expired ;

70 FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

For then my thoughts (from far when I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness -which the blind do see ;
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.

So thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee and for myself no quiet find.

In others we see him in the midst of a journey, weighed down with
that strange sorrow whose history seems likely to remain inscrutable :

How heavy do I journey on the way,

When what I seek my weary travel's end

Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,

" Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend ! "

The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,

Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,

As if by some instinct the wretch did know

His rider loved not speed, being made from thee.

The bloody spur cannot provoke him on

That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,

Which heavily he answers with a groan

More sharp to me than spurring to his side ;

For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

There are others in which he speaks of absences from his friend. Of
course Shakspeare made other journeys, besides between Stratford and
London ; occasionally he " strolled " with his company ; but in any case
these sonnets may be of assistance in picturing him to us as he passed
along the roads that we propose to specify. "We can see that it was not
without knowledge he made Autolycus sing :

A merry heart goes all the day ;
Your sad tires in a mile-a.

II.

We need scarcely remind our readers that facilities of locomotion in
the Elizabethan age were scanty enough. They are probably well aware
how scanty such facilities were a century later, and even a century later
still. It was much worse in the Elizabethan age. Public coaches did
not begin to run, or to stick fast, till nearly half a century after Shak-
speare's time. The art 'of road-making was not yet known ; Metcalfe and
Telford, and their worthy biographer Mr. Smiles, belonged to a far distant
posterity. What they were pleased to call roads then were mere deeply-
rutted tracks, almost or altogether impassable in bad weather; wide-
spreading sloughs with no Mr. Hope at the further edge to lend the

FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 71

splashed and mired traveller a hand. The country was still generally
unenclosed ; and all that could be done when the ruts became too deep
for endurance was to essay a fresh track by the side of the old one.
Some statutes indeed had been passed in the reign of Henry the Eighth,
designed to improve certain thoroughfares of notorious ba.dness, and an
Act of a more general application had been passed in the reign of Queen
Maiy ; but little or nothing had come of them. The description given
in the preamble of the statute of 1555 remained still true : " Highways
are now both very noisome and tedious to travel in, and dangerous to
all passengers and carriages." "We have not yet learnt to control our
rivers, and it is still possible sometimes to see wide lakes extending over
the land : but this was a common Elizabethan spectacle. Often then,
and many a time after, locomotion was completely intercepted by floods. .
Not so very seldom might it be said that the " contagious fogs "

Falling in the land,

Hare every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents :
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain>
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard ;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock ;
The nine men's morris is filled up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguiehable.

At such times one's journey could only be pursued by the help of
skilful guides, and even so at some risk. To take a late illustration,
Thoresby, who died in 1715, tells us in his diary how the rains had
" raised the washes upon the road near Ware to that height that passen-
gers from London that were upon that road swam, and a poor higgler
was drowned, which prevented me travelling for many hours ; yet
towards evening we adventured with some country people who con-
ducted us over the meadows, whereby we missed the deepest of the wash
at Cheshunt, though we rode to the saddle-skirts for a considerable way,
but got safe to Waltham Cross, where we lodged."*

Such being the roads so " founderous," as someone calls them what
would the vehicles be ?

Carriers' carts f of a sort did struggle along ; but for the most part
movement was accomplished on foot or on horseback, and conveyance of
goods by pack-horses. Horse-litters were occasionally used. Coaches
are said to have been introduced by Boomen, Queen Elizabeth's own

* See Smiles' Lives of the Engineers : Metcalfe and Telford, p. 19, ed. 1874.

t Fynes Morison speaks (temp. James I.) of "carriers who have long covered
wagons, in which they carry passengers from place to place; but this kind of
journeying," he adds, " is so tedious, by reason they must take wagon very early and
come very late to their inns, that none but women and people of inferior condition
travel in this sort."

72 FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

coachman ; but they were little better, as Mr. Smiles remarks, than carts
without springs, the body resting solid upon the axles. And those who
used them paid a bitter penalty for the luxury.* At one of the first
audiences which the Queen gave to the French Ambassador, in 1568,
she feelingly described to him " the aching pains she was suffering in con-
sequence of having been knocked about in a coach which had been
driven a little too fast, only a few days before." About a century later,
the public vehicles were popularly known as " hell-carts," and no doubt
well deserved the name. One grave objection to wheels was, it seems,
that they broke up the roads ! " King James," says Mr. Roberts, " pro-
claimed that carts and wagons with four wheels, carrying excessive
burthens, so galled the highways and the very foundations of bridges,
that the king denounced them to the judges as common nuisances, against
the weal public, and the use of them an offence. By this proclamation
of James I., in the year 1622, no carrier was to travel with a four-
wheeled wagon, but only with a cart having two wheels, and only to
carry 20 cwt. Anyone transgressing this was to be punished." At
Weymouth, in 1635, "the authorities passed a bye-law, that no brewers
were to bind the wheels of their carts with iron, as it wore away the
pitching of the streets. Precisely similar was the complaint against
hackney-coaches, 1638 viz. that they broke up the streets. ... It having
been thought proper to ordain in the year 1662, that the wheels of each
cart or wagon should be four inches in the tyre, this was found to be
impracticable, for in some parts the ruts could not receive such wheels,
nor could the carriages pass. A proclamation stayed the prosecution of
offenders till the further order of Parliament." In the Elizabethan age
the fact was that the roads could not bear the coaches, and the coaches
could not bear the roads ; so there was but little traffic in that way, that
fearful institution the stage-coach being a later birth of time.

On foot then, or on horseback, Shakspeare would perform his journeys.
That he would ride when he could afford it is the more probable from
the fact we gather from certain sonnets that he was lame, for we see no
reason to take the words in any non-natural or heterobiographical sense.
There is ground for believing that this defect was of no very serious
nature ; it has been compared with that of Scott, and that of Byron ; but
it would probably make him prefer riding to walking. And we might
just ask in passing whether pedestrianising is not a quite modern English
taste 1 A German, who made a walking tour in this country not a
hundred years ago, found such a method of progress not at all practised, and
indeed one which exposed him to much suspicion and discomfort. He
unbosomed his wonder that it should be so to a coach-fellow-traveller,

* See a picture of this invention in Mr. Roberta's Social History of t'ke Southern
Counties. Perhaps those who hare known what it is to be hauled in a bathing-
machine across a fine shingly beach can best appreciate the delights of such a means
of locomotion.

FROM sTRATFOKL TO LONDON. 73

for he did sometimes indulge himself in a lift. " On my asking him why
Englishmen, who were so remarkable for acting up to their own notions
and ideas, did not, now and then, merely to see life in every point of
view, travel on foot ; ' Oh ! ' said he, ' we are too rich, too lazy, and
too proud.' " But, if a quite modern taste, it was, no doubt, an old
necessity for many a traveller. See Walton's account of Hooker's walking
from Oxford to Exeter.

Horses could be hired at I2d. the first day, and 8(7. a day after till
re-delivery. "Mr. John Garland, merchant, mayor of Lyme in 1569,
rode to London on town business. His whole charge for himself and
horse in London was 31. 5s. ; the hire of the horse was 5s." Also, it
was possible to post, at least in some parts. It was so in Norfolk as
early as 1568, as we learn from Blornefield apud Roberts. The charge
was 2d. a mile for the horse, and Gd. for the guide " to go and carry back
the horse ; and the said horses were not to carry any cloak-bag of above
ten pounds' weight." A common arrangement for those who did not
keep a horse of their own was to buy one at the beginning of a journey
and sell it at the end. So late as 1753 a Dr. Skene, of Aberdeen,
travelled from London to Edinburgh in this way. He bought a mare
for eight guineas in London, rode her nineteen days, and sold her in
Edinburgh for what he had given for her.

We have an incidental picture of the travelling equestrian of the
seventeenth century, in a book quoted by Mr. Smiles, called The Grand
Concern of England explained in several Proposals to Parliament, pub-
lished in 1673, denouncing stage-coaches and caravans. The writer, said
to be one John Gressot, of the Charterhouse, insists that stage-coaches
were ruinous to trade, " for that most gentlemen, before they travelled in
coaches, used to ride with swords, belts, pistols, holsters, portmanteaus,
and hat-cases [a heavy cargo this !], which in these coaches they have little
or no occasion for ; for, when they rode on horseback, they rode in one suit
and carried another to wear when they came to their journey's end, or lay by
the way ; but in coaches a silk suit and an Indian gown, with a sash, silk
stockings, and beaver hats, men ride in and carry no other with them,
because they escape the wet and dirt, which on horseback they cannot
avoid ; whereas in two or three journeys on horseback their clothes and
hats were wont to be spoiled ; which done, they were forced to have new
very often, and that increased the consumption of the manufactures and
the employment of the manufacturer, which travelling in coaches doth in
no way do."

Certainly it was not all plain sailing for the equestrian. It was
often as much as he could do, nay more, to get along. Here is a four-
teenth century instance : Archbishop Islip, riding from Oxford Palace
to Mayfield, Sussex, in 1 362, fell from his horse in a wet and miry lane
between Sevenoaks and Tunbridge, so that he was wet through all over.
In that pitiable state he rode on without any change of clothes, and was
seized with paralysis. Think of his poor Grace, the Primate of All

74 FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

England, utterly dank and bemudded ! And things were scarcely a whit
better three centuries after. " Eight hundred horse were taken prisoners
in the civil wars in Lincolnshire while sticking in the mire."

Add to all the perils from ruts and sloughs and floods those from
highwaymen. The waters were only sometimes out ; the robbers always
were, professionals or amateurs. The woods that then abounded
afforded these gentlemen an excellent cover, which they turned to good
account. So early as 1285 some attempt was made to circumscribe this
accommodation. It was enacted, says Mr. Smiles, " that all bushes and
trees along the roads leading from one market to another should be cut
down for two hundred feet on either side, to prevent robbers lurking
therein." On the Buckinghamshire proverb, " Here if you beat a
bush it's odds you'ld start a thief," Fuller, in his Worthies, observes,
" No doubt there was just occasion for this proverb at the original
thereof, which then contained satirical truth, proportioned to the place
before it was reformed ; whereof thus our great antiquary : ' It was
altogether impassable in times past by reason of trees, until that Leofstane,
Abbot of St. Alban's, did cut them down, because they yielded a place of
refuge for thieves.' But this proverb is now antiquated as to the truth
thereof, Buckinghamshire affording as many maiden assizes as any
locality of equal populousness. Yea, hear how she pleadeth for herself
that such highwaymen were never her natives, but fled thither for their
shelter out of neighbouring counties." We may quite admit the truth of
Fuller's latter remark, without believing that highway robbery was at
all rare in the county of which he speaks. Certainly in the olden times
the Chiltern Hills were notorious for the bandits that haunted them.
" We passed through many woods," writes Brunette Latini, Dante's tutor,
of his journey from London to Oxford, " considered here as dangerous
places, as they are infested with robbers, which indeed is the case with
most of the roads in England. This is a circumstance connived at by
the neighbouring barons on consideration of sharing in their booty and
of these robbers serving as their protectors on all occasions, personally
and with the whole strength of their band. However, as our company was
numerous, we had less fear." It was to establish order, or do what he
could in that line in this thieves' lair, that the Steward of the Chiltern
Hundreds was originally appointed. But in all parts of the country a
meeting with those who

With a base and boisterous sword enforced
A thievish living on the common road

was a very common travelling experience. And so it was common to
go armed ; as appears from the extract given above, from The Grand
Concern, &c., and could be shown still more fully, if our space permitted,
from Harrison's Description of England. See the New Shakspere
Society's edition, edited by Mr. Furnivall, Part I., p. 283.

FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 75

III.

Having said just as much on the ways and means of Elizabethan
travelling as may help us to form a picture of our poet en route, let us
now name specially the roads which he in all probability followed in
passing between his home at Stratford and " his place of business " in
London.

There are two main routes between Stratford and London : one by
Oxford and High Wycombe, the other by Banbury and Aylesbtiry. And
there are traditions which indicate that Shakspeare used them both. At
least that he used the former one may be regarded as fairly certain. For
the latter one it is to be said that certainly at a later time it became the
recognised route from London, and that one tradition seems to connect
him with it.

There would seem good reason for believing that in the Elizabethan
age, and later still, that the common route was by Oxford. Mr.
Halliwell Phillipps, to whose researches we all owe so much, prints in his
Life of Shakspeare the following account of some Stratford people who
went to London on the business of the Corporation in 1592.

Charges laid out when we went to Court :

Paid for our horsemeat the first night at Oxford . . . iis. viiie?.

And for our own charges the same night ii. iirf.

The second night at Islip for our supper .... us. iind.

And for our horsemeat the same night at Islip . . . Us. \iiid,

The third day for our bait and our horses at Hook Norton . xii<f.

And for walking our horses at Tetsworth and elsewhere . iiid.
Sum for this journey . . . xia. id.

We are told by Anthony Wood that Shakspeare in his journeys
between Warwickshire and London frequented "the house of John
Davenant, a sufficient vintner." It was, and is, a tavern known as the
" Crown," in the Corn Market, not far from Carfax Church. And so
Aubrey : " Mr. William Shakspeare was wont to go into Warwickshire
once a year, and did commonly in this journey lie at this [Davenant's]
house in Oxon, where he was exceedingly respected." And so Oldys,
on the authority of Pope, who quoted Betterton : " If tradition may be
trusted, Shakspeare often baited at the Crown Inn, a tavern in Oxford,
in his journey to and from London." Davenant, the poet, son of the
publican, is said to have been Shakspeare's godson, and to have boasted,
or at least suggested, that he stood in a yet closer relation to him.

The tradition that connects Shakspeare with the other route men-
tioned, or rather with a variety of it, is given only by Aubrey :

" The humour of the constable in Midsummer Night's Dream [he
means Much Ado about Nothing] he happened to take at Grendon,
in Bucks, which is the road from London to Stratford ; and there was

76 FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

living that constable about 1642, when I first came to Oxon. I think
it was Midsiimmer night that he happened to lie there. Mr. Jos. Howe is
of that parish, and knew him. Ben Jonson and he did gather humours
of men daily wherever they came. . . . He was wont to go to his native
country once a year."

The Variorum version gives Crendon (see iii. 213, ed. 1813), and
there is a place called Long Crendon in Bucks, not far from Thame ; but
we follow the reading of Mr. Halliwell Phillipps as more probably sound.*
Grendon, or to give it its full style, Grendon Underwood, lies just to the
north of the road the old Akeman Street from Aylesbury to Bicester,
about six miles from the latter town ; and so travelling by the Banbury
and Aylesbury route, mentioned above, Shakspeare might easily make
the worthy constable's acquaintance. At a later time the coaches, it
it would seem, did not go by Bicester, but by Buckingham, as may be
learnt from Owen's Britannia Depicta, or Oyilby Improved, 1749. No
doubt the equestrian traveller would perpetually vary his route, for the
sake of companionship, or some special flood or other danger, or for mere
variety's sake.

That Shakspeare then did not always go vid Oxford is probable
enough, and has a tradition in its favour; but we seem justified in
believing that vid Oxford was certainly his ordinary route ; and so to
it we will now give attention.

IV.

For the sake of convenience, we will divide the journey into four
stages, two between Stratford and Oxford, two between Oxford and
London.

(i) from Stratford to Chipping Norton, 20 miles. A most pleasant
expedition, now-a-days, over a finely undulating country, up the valley
of the Stour, by the side, for some miles at least, of noble parks, which in
Shakspeare's time, perhaps, were not enclosed. Probably no English
county surpasses Warwickshire in quiet loveliness. Nature does not
reveal herself there in her more terrible forms, but in a sweet, tranquil
beauty, balm-like to the spirit, and deliciously restful. Scott calls
" Caledonia stern and wild " Caledonia, with its brown heaths and
shaggy woods, with its mountains and floods " meet nurse of the poetic
child." But this opinion may be justly doubted. The greatest of all
poetic children was nursed amid far other scenes not amidst excitement
and grandeur, but amidst calm and peace. The Avon, no doubt, could
and did rise at times, and sweep the labours of men and oxen before its
swollen current ; but for the most part it flowed on, not chafing and

* That Grendon is right is proved if any proving is wanted by the fact, known
from other sources, that Mr. Jos. Howe was of Grendon, not Crendon. He was born
at Grendon Underwood, Bucks, March 29, 1612, and died August 28, 1701, setat.
ninety. See Bishop Pearson's Vind. Ignat. ; Hearne's Robert of Gloucester, ed. 1810.

FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 77

mutinying against its restraints, but content and gentle ; and Gray, with
his fine tact, touches the right chord when he speaks of " lucid Avon "
straying. It was amidst sweet silences, which Avon's murmur and
Arden's whisperings scarcely broke, that Shakspeare was cradled and
nurtured, that the mighty mother did unveil her awful face to her
" darling." So too it was with the Jewish prophet. " A great and
strong wind rent the mountains and brake in pieces the rocks before the
Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind ; and after the wind an earth-
quake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake ; and after the earth-
quake a fire ; but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire "
after all those tumults and terrors " a still small voice."

" One said no less truly than merrily," writes Fuller of Warwickshire :
" ' It is the heart, but not the core of England,' having nothing coarse or
choaky therein. The wooded part thereof may want what the fieldon
affords ; so that Warwickshire is defective in neither. As for the plea-
sure thereof, an author [Speed] is bold to say, that from Edgehill one
may behold it another Eden, as Lot did the Plain of Jordan ; but he
might have put in : ' It is not altogether so well watered.' "

Shakspeare would leave Stratford by the Clopton Bridge, and then
presently turn his face due southward. Soon the road rises. When it
falls slightly again, amidst noble trees, he would lose sight of Trinity spire,
and feel that his native town was really left behind. At Aldermiiister,
if the day was bright, he might linger a few minutes by the church, so
picturesque and picturesquely situated. And then on, beneath trees that,
some of them at least, still lend a grateful shadow, by Newbold to
Tredington, little dreaming as he passed by the point where a road
strikes off to Lower Eatington, that there some day on a cross would be
inscribed doggrel mentioning him :

6 miles to Shakspere's Town -whose name

Is known throughout the earth
To Shipton 4, whose lesser fame

Boasts no such poet's birth.

What comfort even this feeble quatrain might have ministered to him,
could he have seen it that first journey, when he was setting forth to try
his fortune in strange fields ; when, whatever the confidence with which
his genius inspired him, his course was yet dim and uncertain ; and who
knew whether when " the surly sullen bell," which gave warning to the
world that he was fled from it, had ceased tolling, any one would care
his "poor name" to rehearse? Just where that cross now stands, he
may one day have stood, faint and weary, hesitating, despondent. It
is, however, quite as probable that when he reached the bifurcation he
was in the highest possible spirits, and punned villanously on the name
of the neighbouring hamlets.

He might turn a quarter of a mile or so from the high road to look
at the fine church at Tredington, with its Norman doorway and its monu-
ments ; and, perhaps, gossiping with some native " he was a handsome,

78 FEOM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

well-shaped man," quoth Aubrey, " very good company, and of a very
ready and pleasant smooth wit" would hear, and would himself crack
some joke about the ever hard-up rector. "I have heard Mr. Trap
say," so writes the B/ev. John Ward, sometime (1662-1679) vicar
of Stratford, " that the parsons of Tredington were always needy. One
Dr. Brett, who was parson before Dr. Smith, was to marry one Mr.
Hicks ; and Mr. Hicks, in u vapour, laid a handful of gold and silver
upon the book ; and he took it all. [Why should not he 1 What was
it put on the book for 1] Whereupon Mr. Hicks went to him, and told
him of it that he did not intend to have given him all : it was about
ten pound. Says he, ' I want, and I will pay thee again ; ' but never
did."

The first place worthy of the name of town he would arrive at would
be Shipston-on-Stour, situated on a somewhat bleak upland. A quiet
place in these days, but once, as is shown by the inns which still abound,
lively enough with coaches and traffic. They gape in vain now, the
yard gates, except haply on market-days and at the mop-fair ; and the
horns that once made the old streets ring are blown, if blown at all,
on the banks of the Styx, no longer of the Stour. " In this bleak ill-
cultivated track," * writes one who traversed it not quite a century since,
" the lower class of labouring poor, who have very little other employ-
ment in winter than thrashing out corn, are much distressed for the
want of fuel, and think it economy to lie much in bed, to save both
firing and provisions."

Now on to Long Compton. " The intervening country is opeif,
exposed, and not very rich," says the writer just quoted, and his descrip-
tion may serve for the earlier time. It is deficient in planting, which in
course of time woxild generate warmth to the atmosphere, and convert
the various influences of the heavens into a nutritive vegetable mould
that would eventually enrich it." The water-shed of the Stour is now
reached. Long Comptonf lies straggling in a way that justifies its
adjective across a valley, from either edge of which are obtainable fine
views, those to the north from above Weston House especially so. It is
from this place that Burghley writes to the Earl of Shrewsbury, when
he dates thus : " From Compton-in-the-Hole (so well called for a deep
valley ; but surely the entertainment is Very good, and here have I
wished your lordship), 23rd August, 1572." Crossing the Combe, which
gives the village its name, even the most uninterested and uninteresting
tourist would, we should suppose, turn a few steps aside to see the anti-
quarian glory of Oxfordshire, for we are now in Oxfordshire the
Eolbrich-stones.J They probably show less well now than in Shak-

* Se Tour in England and Scotland in 1785. By Thomas Newton, Esq.

t At Barton-on-the-Heath, some two miles from Long Compton, lived Robert
Dover, of Cotswold games celebrity. (Merry Wives, I. i. 92.) See Britton's Beauties
of "England and, Wales : Warwickshire.

I See Drayton's Polyolbion, the 13th Song, and Selden's note.

FEOM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 79

speare's day, for Time and the farmers have been busy. We may cer-
tainly imagine him lingering in that mysterious circle, wondering what
faith or what sorrow or what triumph it was that had once arranged it,
hearing perchance from some old shepherd the stories of the Whispering
Knights and of the disappointed King. Here indeed were " sermons in
stones." The original language was dark and hidden ; yet, for all that,
they were rich in significance, in suggestion, in pathos. An old MS.,
quoted by Hearne in his edition of Robert of Gloucester's Chronicle,
describing the Mirabilia Britannice, ends thus : " Sunt magni lapides
in Oxenfordensi pago, manu hominum quasi sub quadam connexione
dispositi, set a quo tempore vel a qua gente vel ad quid memorandum
vel signandum factum fuerit, ignoratur. Ab incolis autem vvocatur locus
ille Eolendrych."

Dropping across another valley, we presently reach Chipping Norton,
for no longer can one put up at Chapel House at Cold Norton, a well-
known hostelry once " a most excellent inn, and fitted up in the first
style of accommodation," says a last century_]traveller. " The Chapel "
originally belonged, as we learn from Murray, to an Augustinian priory,
founded temp. Henry II. When Shakspeare passed by, this priory had
been suppressed only some fifty years ; and, probably enough, ruins were
yet standing, and the Chapel looked not altogether unlike itself. At
Chipping Norton he would find accommodation in abundance ; for it
must have been then, as it had been long before (so its'name shows) an
important market town, and as it was long afterwards, an important
station for travellers. When, in 1749, a coach was started to run from
Birmingham to London, vid Oxford, " It breakfasts," writes Lady Lux-
borough to Shenstone, whom she wishes to avail himself of it, "at
Henley [in Arden], and lies at Chipping Norton." The town consists
mainly of one long street, which it would seem consisted mainly of inns.
The church, not much changed probably since the sixteenth century,
with its picturesque site, its double north aisle, its hexagonal south porch,
and its old monuments, is well worth a visit.

(ii) from Chipping Norton to Oxford, 20 miles. Regaining the
high road, Shakspeare would, as far as Woodstock, follow the course of
the Glyme, which flows into the Evenlode, which flows into the Isis.
The first village encountered is Neat Enstone, half a mile south of
Enstone. He might turn aside to see Enstone church^and smile over
the legend of the murdered Kenelm, son of Kenulphus, to whom it is
dedicated, having, perhaps, Latin enough to interpret the old leonines
always provided he came across them :

In Clene sub spina jacet in convalle bovina
Vertice privatus, Kenelmus fraude necatus.

At least let us think of him visiting the Hoarstone, as it is called, the
(A. S. Ent. = giants) Giant's stone, that is said to give the village its
name, for it would lie but a few yards out of his way. We say " it,"
but in fact there are four other stones, the Hoarstone alone surviving

80 FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON.

upright. They formed once, it may be believed, a rude tomb with four
cumbrous sides and a cumbrous roof, with earth heaped all round them
or over them. How long might a giant lie i' the earth ere he rot ? He
must, surely, have an extra allowance of years.

Passing now on through the hamlet of Over Kiddington, with its
ruined cross at Nether Kiddington, a mile on the left, is a church said
to be worth seeing, but we cannot see everything by Ditchley Park,*
home of the Lees, who were destined to be celebrated hereafter by a
brother-genius ; then, after perhaps a slight detour, to Glympton, and
passing on the right the road to Cornbury Hall (only five miles off), where
Leicester, Elizabeth's Leicester, perished by the poison prepared, it is
said, for his wife ; keeping by the old wall of Woodstock Park it is said
to have been the first park enclosed with a wall our poet would arrive
at Woodstock town. For him, obvious associations here would be the
Fair Rosamond and the poet Chaucer. The story of the former has been
shown to be much mixed with fable; the connection of the latter with
Woodstock is now wholly doubted, though, after all, we may disbelieve
that Thomas Chaucer was the son of the poet without disbelieving that
the poet, who was connected with the court and with princes of the
blood, visited a palace so famous in his time and so much frequented.
Shakspeare would enjoy the Chaucer memory, at least, with no allaying
scepticism ; and as he strolled through that glorious park, might have a
vision of Theseus, to be portrayed by himself some day, " to the laund
riding him full right," or of Palamon and Arcite madly fighting fighting
"breem, as it were boares two."

Or, perhaps, in a realistic vein, he drew a grotesque picture to himself of
the royal lover losing the thread and finding himself involved in his own
labyrinth, with his Rosamond close by, yet inaccessible, so near and yet
so far, while the queen sat fuming and frowning outside, unable to dis-
cover the aperture through which her truant spouse had disappeared.

Woodstock would have also associations with his own time. The
palace had been one of the places of the queen's confinement during her

* " Hence [from Cornbury] we went to see the famous wells, natural and artificial
grotts and fountains, called Bushell's Wells, at Enstone. This Bushell had been
secretary to my Lord \ r erularn. It is an extraordinary solitude. There he had two
mummies ; a grott where he lay in a hammock like an Indian. Hence we went to
Dichley, an ancient seat of the Lees, now Sir Hen. Lee's ; it is a low, ancient timber-
house, with a pretty bowling-green. My lady gave us an extraordinary dinner. This
gentleman's mother was Countess of Rochester, who was also there, and Sir Walter
Saint John. There were some pictures of their ancestors not ill-painted ; the great-
grandfather had been Knight of the Garter ;, there was the picture of a Pope, and
our Saviour's head. So we returned to Cornbury." Evelyn's Diary, Oct. 20, 1664.
This Sir Henry Lee would be, so far as date goes Eevis belonged to the grandfather
Scott's hero. It would have, pleased the author of Woodstock to know, that the Will
whom his hero is for ever quoting, must often have passed close by Ditchley Park,
and might have patted the head, or pinched the ear, of his admirer when a boy.

FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 81

sister's reign. It was here she heard the milkmaid singing, and envied
her happy lot. The verses she is said to have written upon that occasion
may have been still decipherable in Shakspeare's time, and he may have
perused them on their extraordinary tablet :

Fortune, how thy restless, wavering state
Hath wrought with cares my troubled wit !
Witness this present prison whither fate
Could bear me, and the joys I quit.
Thou caused'st the guilty to be losed
From bands wherein are innocents enclosed ;
Causing me guiltless to be strait reserved,
And freeing those that death have well deserved .
But by her malice can be nothing wrought ;
So God send to my foes all they have thought.
A.D. 1555. ELIZABETH, Prisoner.

And so, by Begbrooke and Wolvercote, with a drink, perhaps, at
Aristotle's well, into Oxford by St. Giles's Street, to the Crown, or,
perhaps, on his first visit, to some humbler shelter.

What a revelation of delight and beauty to the youth from Stratford !
It would form an epoch in his life, this first passing under the spell of
Oxford. It was like entering the Presence. The colleges, already
venerable, seemed the very homes of learning and thought. His shrewd
observation would, indeed, presently suggest to him that folly and
ignorance had here and there intruded themselves, and that often the
Muses must be blushing for those called their sons ; but so broad and
wise a critic would never make the blunder of forgetting in certain abuses
the magnificent uses and the magnificent fruits of the great school within
whose precincts his heart beat with a new rapture. It was a temple
dedicated to Wisdom, and we may believe he bowed his head in it with
a sincere worship. To say nothing else, the mere outward beauty of
the place, its halls and quadrangles and groves, its antiquity which
showed as " a lusty winter, frosty but kindly," its stately towers, the
majestic river on whose waters its fair face was mirrored the mere out-
ward beauty of the place would gladden his inmost soul.

(iii) From Oxford to High Wycombe, 25 miles. The common route
from Oxford to London was by Tetsworth, High Wycombe, and Beacons-
field. It was by this route that Brunetto Latini, from whom we have
already quoted, proceeded in the thirteenth century. Harrison, in the
Elizabethan age, in his chapter on Thoroughfares, mentions it. This is
his list of the intermediate places : " Whatleie, Thetisford, Stocking-
church, East Wickham, Becconsfield, Uxbridge." The Stratford citi-
zens went this way on the occasion referred to above. So Evelyn, in
1664, going "with my lord visct. Cornbury to Cornbury in Oxford-
shire, to assist him in the planting of the park and bear him company,
with Mr. Belin and Mr. May, in a coach with six horses ; dined at
Uxbridge, lay at Wickam." Returning from Oxford, " we came back
by Beaconsfield ; next day to London, where we dined at the lord Chan-

VOL. xxxv. NO. 205. 5.

82 FilOM STBATFORD TO LONDON.

cellor's with my lord Bellasis." Aud endless other instances might be
given. But the route by Henley is scarcely four miles longer, and no
doubt was often taken.

Shakspearc would pass down " the High," and beneath Magdalen
Tower, across Magdalen Bridge, and then turn to the left. He might
keep to the main road, go' on up Heddington Hill, and so pass near
Forest Hill, where the Powells lived, with whom Milton was to be one
day connected, perhaps exchanging a " good morrow " with the future
father of Mary ; or, more probably, he would take the nearer road which
runs just north of Horspath, and so to Wheatley. Then crossing the
Thame, on to Tetsworth, where he might pause to look at the rude
sculptures over the south doorway of the church. Then mounting the hill
in front of him, he would find the Chilterns now close at hand, stretching
from north to south before him like a wall, here richly beech- wooded, there
bare down. Near Aston Rowant, which lies a little to the north of the
road, there were objects of interest on either hand that might well have
attracted him, did his leisure serve. Some two miles to the south there
was Shirburne Castle, looking much as we see it now, much as the men
of the fourteenth century had seen it, with its towers and moat and draw-
bridges, as perfect a representation of the Middle Ages as exists, we
suppose, at least exteriorly ; the interior is modernised. It was here,
but not in the present building, which dates from 1377 according to
Murray, that Brunette Latini passed a night. Some eight miles to the
north from Aston Rowant, he would find localised traditions of a king
on whom he was himself to confer immortal distinction ; for the Kimbles
Great Kimble, Little Kimble, and Kimblewick near Princes Ris-
borough, are said to have derived their name from Cymbeline, or Kini-
belinus apud Geoffrey of Monmouth, Kimbel apud Robert of Glou-
cester. A yet older form of his name the form found on certain coins
is found close by in Cunobelin's Camp. The mound by Great Kimble
church, the Whiteleaf Cross on Green Holly Hill, and the earthwork just
mentioned, all give to the neighbourhood a strange traditional interest.
And it has other charms. The view to the west, from near Cunobelin's
Camp, is of unusual extent and beauty ; and it is good to be there for a
summer's evening.

He looked and sav/ wide territory spread
Before him, towns and rural works between.

Let us- now go on our way from Aston Rowant to the Chilterns, by
Stokenchurch Hill to Stokenchurch. Thick wood still covers the sides
of the Chilterns here ; the thieves that once swarmed in them are no
more, or rather have transferred themselves to some other beat, for we
cannot flatter ourselves or them that they have grown honest. They
only do not rob here because there is no one to rob, and because that
way of doing the business is something out of date. Stokenchurch has
now a deserted look ; it seems created for coaches to drive through, and
ftt the present time they are like angels' visits. On now across the

FROM STRATFORD TO LONDON. 83

Common into Buckinghamshire, to West Wycombe, not in Shakspeare's
time deformed by a church so unsightly and in such vile taste, with its
" hypsethral mausoleum," which looks rather like an overgrown pound.
And so to High or Chipping Wycombe, called also by Harrison, as we
have seen, East Wycombe, whose most interesting feature is its large
and handsome church, with its fine Perpendicular tower.

(iv) From High Wycombe to London, 29 miles. The road runs along-
side of the Wick till, when a mile beyond Loudwater, that streamlet
turns south towards the Thames ; and then makes for Beaconsfield, to be
made famous in after days by the residence of Waller (at Hall Barns)
and Burke (at Gregory's, or Butler's Court, as he named it). The
church lies close by the wayside, and might well attract the traveller's
notice. And now on by a gentle descent, passing on the right of Bui-
strode Park, with its old earthwork and legend of Saxcn daring, and
then across the common by Gerard's or Jarrett's Cross. And so crossing
the Colne into Middlesex, to Uxbridge, in whose main street still stand
many houses that, to judge from their appearance and style, were there
when Shakspeare passed through. The place has long outshone its
mother village. " Though," says a writer* in 1761, " it is entirely inde-
pendent, and is governed by two bailiffs, two constables, and four head-
boroughs, it is only a hamlet to Great Hillington " \sic\.

The road would now, no doubt, begin to give evidence of the proxi-
mity of the metropolis in an increasing number of passengers. The
attractive force of the great centre would be more manifestly shown, and
Shakspeare would see a striking illustration of one of his own similes :

As many arrows, loosed several ways,

Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town ;

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ;

As many lines close in the dial's centre ;

So may a thousand actions, once afoot,

End in one purpose, and be all wvll borne

Without defeat.

From Hilliugdon Hill, with Harrow on his left and Windsor in the
distance 011 his right, he would look down on the champaign in which
London lies. And then, now on the very threshold of his Promised
Land, across Hillingdon Heath, and through Northcote, near Southall ;
over Han well Common, through Ealing Dean to Acton, by Kensington
Gravel Pits, through Tyburn, all along Oxford Street as far as High
Street, when, following the old line, he would turn off by St. .Giles'-in-
the-Fields (then really so), and proceed along Broad Street, and so along
Holborii, houses now beginning to multiply around him, and so, at last,

into LONDON.

J. W. HALES.

* London and its Environs, &c., 6 vols. Printed for R. and J. Dodsley. 1761.

(Dut of tin mouth of babes."

Mr little niece and I I read

My Plato in my easy chair :
And she was building on the floor

A pack of cards with wondrous care.

We worked in silence, but, alas !

Among the cards a mighty spill.
And then the little ape exclaimed,

" Well ! Such is life ! Look, Uncle Will !

I gave a start and dropped my book

It was the Phsedo I had read
A sympathetic current thrilled,

Like lightning, through my heart and head.

I eyed with curious awe the "child, '
The unconscious Sibyl, where she sat,

Whose thoughtless tongue could babble forth
Strange parables of life and fate.

Yes, such is life ! a Babel house,
A common doom hath tumbled all,

King, Queen, and Knave, and plain, and trump,
A motley crew in motley fall !

We rear our hopes, no Pharaoh's tomb,
Nor brass could build so sure a name ;

But, soon or late, a sad collapse,
And great the ruin of the same.

" OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES." 85

Ah such is life ! Oh, sad and strange

That Love and Wisdom so ordain !
Some ere the Builder's hands have yet

One card against another lain ;

Some when the house is tiny still ;

Some when you've built a little more ;
And some when patience hath achieved

A second, third, or higher floor.

Or should you win the topmost stage,

Yet is the strength but toil and pain
And here the tiny voice rejoined,

" But I can build it up again."

My height of awe was reached. Can babes

Behold what reason scans in vain ?
Ah, childhood is divine, I thought,

Yes, Li/zie. build it up again!

F. C. T.

gun I Consciousness.

RATHER more than two years ago we considered* in these pages the
theory originally propounded by Sir Henry Holland, but then recently
advocated by Dr. Browri-Sequard, of New York, that we have two brains,
each perfectly sufficient for the full performance of mental functions. We
did not for our own part either advocate or oppose that theory, but
simply considered the facts which had been urged in support of it, or
which then occurred to us as bearing upon it, whether for or against.
We showed, however, that some classes of phenomena which had been
quoted in support of the theory seemed in reality opposed to it when all
the circumstances were considered. For example, Browii-Sequard had
referred to some of those well-known cases in which during severe illness
a language forgotten in the patient's ordinary condition had been recalled,
the recollection of the language enduring only while the illness lasted.
We pointed to a case in which there had not been two mental conditions
only, as indicated by the language of the patient, but three ; the person in
question having in the beginning of his illness spoken. English only, in
the middle of his illness French only, and on the day of his death Italian
only (the language of his childhood). The interpretation of that case,
and of others of a similar kind, must, we remarked, be very different
from that which Brown-Sequard assigned, perhaps correctly, " to cases
of twofold mental life." A case of the last-named kind has recently been
discussed in scientific circles, which appears to us to bear very forcibly on
the question whether Holland's theory of a dual brain is correct. We pro-
pose briefly to describe and examine this case, and some others belonging to
the same class, two of which were touched upon in our former essay, but
slightly only, as forming but a small part of the evidence dealt with by
Brown-Sequard, whose arguments we were then considering. We wish
now to deal, not with the question of the duality of the brain, but with
the more general question of dual or intermittent consciousness.

Among the cases dealt with by Brown-Sequard was that of a boy at
Netting Hill, who had two mental lives. Neither life presented anything
specially remarkable in itself. The boy was a well-mannered lad in his
abnormal as well as in his normal condition, or one might almost
say (as will appear more clearly after other cases have been considered)
that the two boys were quiet and well-behaved. But the two mental
lives were entirely distinct. In his normal condition the boy remembered

*See the Cornhill Magazine for September, 1874.

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS 87

nothing which had happened in his abnormal condition ; and vice versd,
in his abnormal condition he remembered nothing which had happened
in his normal condition. He changed from either condition to the other
in the same manner. " The head was seen to fall suddenly, and his eyes
closed, but he remained erect if standing at the time, or if sitting he
remained in that position (if talking, he stopped for a while, and if
moving, he stopped moving) ; and after .a minute or two his head rose,
he started up, opened his eyes, and wa.s wideawake again." "While
the head was drooped, he appeared as if either sleeping or falling asleep.
He remained in the abnormal state for a period which varied between
one hour and three hours ; it appears that every day, or nearly every day,
he fell once into his abnormal condition.

This case need not detain us long ; but there are some points in it
which deserve more attention than they seem to have received from Dr.
Brown- Sequard. It is clear that if the normal and abnormal mental lives
of this boy had been entirely distinct, then in the abnormal condition he
would have been ignorant and in those points in which manners depend
on training ill-mannered. He would have known only, in this condition,
what he had learned in this condition ; and as only about a tenth part of his
life was passed in the abnormal condition, and presumably that portion
of his life not usually selected as a suitable time for teaching him, the
abnormal boy would of necessity be much more backward in all things
which the young are taught than the normal boy. As nothing of this
kind was noted, it would appear probable that the boy's earlier years
were common to both lives, and that his unconsciousness of his ordinary
life during the abnormal condition extended only to those parts of his
ordinary life which had passed since these seizures had begun. Un-
fortunately Brown-Sequard's account does not mention when this had
happened.

It does not appear that the dual brain theory is required so far as
this case is concerned. The phenomena seem rather to suggest a peculiarity
in the circulation of the brain corresponding in some degree to the condition
probably prevailing during somnambulism or hypnotism, though with
characteristic differences. It may at least be said that no more valid
reason exists for regarding this boy's case as illustrating the dis-
tinctive duality of the brain than for so regarding some of the more
remarkable cases of somnambulism ; for though these differ in certain
respects from the boy's case, they resemble it in the circumstances on
which Brown-Sequard's argument is founded. Speaking generally of hyp-
notism, that is, of somnambulism artificially produced, Dr. Carpenter
says, " In hypnotism, as in ordinary somnambulism, no remembrance
whatever is preserved, in the waking state, of anything that may have
occurred during its continuance ; although the previous train of thought
may be taken up and continued uninterruptedly on the next occasion
when hypnotism is induced." In these respects, the phenomena of
hypnotism precisely ros n mble those of dual consciousness as observed in

88 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

the boy's ease. In what follows we observe features of divergence. Thus
" when the mind is not excited to activity by the stimulus of external
impressions, the hypnotized subject appears to be profoundly asleep ; a
state of complete torpor, in fact, being usually the first result of the
process just described, and any subsequent manifestation of activity being
procurable only by the prompting of the operator. The hypnotized subject,
too, rarely opens his eyes ; his bodily movements are visually slow ; his
mental operations require a considerable time for their performance >
and there is altogether an appearance of heaviness about him, which
contrasts strongly with the comparatively wide-awake air of him who has
not passed beyond the ordinary biological state."

It would not be easy to find an exact parallel to the case of the two-
lived boy in any recorded instance of somnambulism. In fact, it is to be
remembered that recorded instances of mental phenomena are all selected
for the very reason that they are exceptional, so that it would be unreason-
able to expect them closely to resemble each other. One case, however,
may be cited, which in certain points resembles the case of Dr. Brown-
Sequard's patient. It occurred within Dr. Carpenter's own experience.
A young lady of highly nervous temperament suffered from a long and
severe illness, characterized by all the most marked forms of hysterical
disorder. In the course of this illness came a time when she had a
succession of somnambulistic seizures. " The state of somnambulism
usually supervened in this case in the waking state, instead of arising, as
it more commonly does, out of the conditions of ordinary sleep. In this
condition, her ideas were at first entirely fixed upon one subject the death
of her only brother, which had occurred some years previously. To this
brother she had been very strongly attached ; she had nursed him in his
last illness ; and it was perhaps the return of the anniversary of his
death, about the time when the somnambulism first occurred, that gave
to her thoughts that particular direction. She talked constantly of him,
retraced all the circumstances of his illness, and was unconscious of any-
thing that was said to her which had not reference to this subject. . . .
Although her eyes were open, she recognised no one in this state, not
even her own sister, who, it should be mentioned, had not been at home
at the time of her brother's last illness." (It will presently appear, how-
ever, that she was able to recognise those who were about her during
these attacks, since she retained ill-feeling against one of them ; more-
over, the sentences which immediately follow suggest that the sense of
sight was not dormant.) " It happened on one occasion, that when she
passed into this condition, her sister, who was present, was wearing a
locket containing some of their deceased brother's hair. As soon as she
perceived this locket, she made a violent snatch at it, and would not be
satisfied until she had got it into her possession, when she began to talk
to it in the most endearing and even extravagant terms. Her feelings
were so strongly excited on this subject that it was deemed prudent
to check them ; and as she was inaccessible to all entreaties for the

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 89

relinquishrnent of the locket, force was employed to obtain it from her.
She was so determined, however, not to give it up, and was so angry at
the gentle violence used, that it was found necessary to abandon the
attempt, and having become calmer after a time she passed off into
ordinary sleep. Before going to sleep, however, she placed the locket
under her pillow, remarking, ' Now I have hid it safely, and they shall
not take it from me.' On awaking in the morning, she had not the
slightest consciousness of what had passed ; but the impression of the
excited feelings still remained ; for she remarked to her sister : ' I cannot
tell what it is that makes me feel so, but every time that S. comes near
me, I have a kind of shuddering sensation ; ' the individual named being
a servant, whose constant attention to her had given rise to a feeling of
strong attachment on the side of the invalid, but who had been the chief
actor in the scene of the previous evening. This feeling wore off in the
course of a day or two. A few days afterwards, the somnambulism
again returned; and the patient being upon her bed at the time,
immediately began to search for the locket under her pillow." As it had
been removed in the interval, " she was unable to find it ; at which she
expressed great disappointment, and continued searching for it, "with the
remark, ' It must be there ; I put it there myself a few minutes ago, and
no one can have taken it away.' In this state the pi'esence of S. renewed
her previous feelings of anger ; and it was only by sending S. out of the
room that she could be calmed, and induced to sleep. The patient was
the subject of many subsequent attacks, in eveiy one of which the anger
against S. revived, until the current of thought changed, no longer run-
ning exclusively upon what related to her brother, but becoming capable
of direction by suggestions of various kinds presented to her mind, either
in conversation, or, more directly, through the several organs of sense."

We have been particular in quoting the above account, because it
appears to us to illustrate well, not only the relation between the phenomena
of dual consciousness and somnambulism, but the dependence of either
class of phenomena on the physical condition. If it should appear that
dual consciousness is invariably associated with some disorder either of
the nervous system or of the circulation, it would be impossible, or at
least very difficult, to maintain Brown- Sequard's explanation of the boy's
case. For one can hardly imagine it possible that a disorder of the sort
should be localised so far as the brain is concerned, while in other respects
affecting the body generally. It so chances that the remarkable case
recently dealt with by French men of science forms a sort of connecting
link between the boy's case and the case just cited. It closely resembles
the former in certain characteristic features, while it resembles the latter
in the evidence which it affords of the influence of the physical condition
on the phenomena of double consciousness. The original narrative by
M. Azam is exceedingly prolix ; but it has been skilfully condensed by
Mr. H. J. Slack, in the pages of a quarterly journal of science. We
follow his version in the main.

90 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

The subject of the disorder, Felida X., was born in Bordeaux in 1843.
Until the age of thirteen she differed in no respect from other girls. But
about that time symptoms of hysterical disorder presented themselves,
and although she was free from lung-disease, she was troubled with
frequent spitting of blood. After this had continued about a year, she
for the first time manifested the phenomena of double unconsciousness.
Sharp pains attacked both temples, and in a few moments she became
unconscious. This lasted ten minutes, after which she opened her
eyes, and entered into what M. Azam calls her second state, in which she
remained for an hour or two, after which the pains and unconsciousness
came on again, and she returned to her ordinary condition. At intervals
of about five or six days, such attacks were repeated ; and her relations
noticed that her character and conduct during her abnormal state were
changed. Finding also that in her usual condition she remembered

o o

nothing which had passed when she was in the other state, they thought
she was becoming idiotic ; and presently called in M. Azam, who was
connected with a lunatic asylum. Fortunately he was not so enthusiastic
a student of mental aberration as to recognise a case for the lunatic
asylum in every instance of phenomenal mental action. He found Felida
intelligent, but melancholy, morose, and taciturn, very industrious, and
with a strong will. She was very anxious about her bodily health. At
this time the mental changes occxirred more frequently than before.
Nearly every day, as she sat with her work on her knees, a violent
pain shot suddenly through her temples, her head dropped upon her
breast, her arms fell by her side, and she passed into a sort of sleep, from
which neither noises, pinches, nor pricks could awaken her. This condition
lasted now only two or three minutes. " She woke up in quite another
state, smiling gaily, speaking briskly, and trilling (fredonnant) over her
work, which she recommenced at the point where she left it. She would
get up, walk actively, and scarcely complained of any of the pains she had
suffered so severely a few minutes before. She busied herself about the
house, paid calls, and behaved like a healthy young girl of her age. In
this state she remembered perfectly all that had happened in her two
conditions." (In this respect her case is distinct from both the former, and
is quite exceptional. In fact, the inclusion of the consciousness of both
conditions during the continuance of one condition only, renders her case
not, strictly speaking, one of double consciousness, the two conditions not
being perfectly distinct from each other.) " In this second life, as in the
other, her moral and intellectual faculties, though different, were in-
contestably sound. After a time (which in 1858 lasted three or four
hours), her gaiety disappeared, the torpor suddenly ensued, and in two or
three minutes she opened her eyes and re-entered her ordinary life,
resuming any work she was engaged 'in just where she left off. In this
state she bemoaned her condition, and was quite unconscious of what
had passed in the previous state. If asked to continue a ballad she had
been singing she knew nothing about it, and if she had received a visitor

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 91

she believed she had seen no one. The forgetfulness extended to every-
thing which happened during her second state, and not to any ideas or
information acquired before her illness." Thus her early life was held in
remembrance during both her conditions, her consciousness in these two
conditions being in this respect single ; in her second or less usual condition
she remembered also all the events of her life, including what had passed
since these seizures began ; and it was only in her more usual condition
that a portion of her life was lost to her that, namely, which had passed
during her second condition. In 1858 a new phenomenon was occasionally
noticed as occasionally occurring she woxild sometimes wake from her
second condition in a fit of terror, recognising no one but her husband.
The terror did not last long, however ; and during sixteen years of her
married life her husband only noticed this terror on thirty occasions.

A painful circumstance preceding her marriage somewhat forcibly
exhibited the distinction between her two states of consciousness. Rigid
in morality during her usual condition, she was shocked by the insults
of a brutal neighbour, who told her of a confession made to M. Azam
during her second condition, and accused her of shamming innocence.
The attack unfortunately but too well founded as far as facts were con-
cerned brought on violent convulsions, which required medical attend-
ance during two or three hours. It is important to notice the difference
thus indicated between the character of the personalities corresponding to
her two conditions. " Her moral faculties," says M. Azam, " were in-
contestably sound in her second life, though different," by which, be it
understood, he means simply that her sense of right and wrong was just
during her second condition, not of course that her conduct was irre-
proachable. She was in this condition, as in the other, altogether
responsible for her actions. But her power of self-control, or rather
perhaps the relative power of her will as compared with tendencies to
wrong-doing, was manifestly weaker during her second condition. In
fact, in one condition she was oppressed and saddened by pain and anxiety,
whereas in the other she was almost free from pain, gay, light-hearted,
and hopeful. Now we cannot altogether agree with Mr. Slack's remark,
that if, during her second state, " she had committed a robbery or an
assassination, no moral responsibility could have been assumed to rest upon
her with any certainty, by any one acquainted with her history," for her
1 moral faculties in her second condition being incontestably sound, she was
clearly responsible for her actions while in that condition. But certainly
the question of punishment for such an offence would be not a little compli-
cated by her twofold personality. To the woman in her ordinary condition,
remembering nothing of the crime committed (on the supposition we are
dealing with), in her abnormal condition, punishment for that crime would
certainly seem unjust, seeing that her liability to enter into that condition
had not in any degree depended on her own will. The drunkard who,
waking in the morning with no recollection of the events of the past
night, finds himself in gaol for some crime committed during that time.

92 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

although he may think the punishment he has to endure severe mea-
sure for a crime of which in his ordinary condition he is incapable,
knows at least that he is responsible for placing himself under that influ-
ence which made the crime possible. Supposing even he had not had
sufficient experience of his own character when under the influence of
liquor to have reason to fear he might be guilty of the offence, he yet
perceives that to make intoxication under any circumstances an excuse
for crime would be most dangerous to the community, and that he suffers
punishment justly. But the case of dual consciousness is altogether
different, and certainly where responsibility exists under both conditions,
while yet impulse and the restraining power of will are differently related
in one and the other condition, the problem of satisfying justice is a most
perplexing one. Here are in effect two different persons residing in one
body, and it is impossible to punish one without punishing the other
also. Supposing justice waited until the abnormal condition was resumed,
then the offender would probably recognise the justice of punishment ;
but if the effects of the punishment continued until the usual condition
returned, a person would suffer who was conscious of no crime. If the
offence were murder, and if capital punishment were inflicted, the ordi-
nary individuality, innocent entirely of murder, would be extinguished
along with the first, a manifest injustice. As Huxley says of a similar
case, " the problem of responsibility is here as complicated as that of the
prince-bishop, who swore as a prince and not as a bishop. ' But, your
highness, if the prince is damned, what will become of the bishop ? ' said
the peasant." *

It does not appear to us that there is in the case of Felida X. any
valid reason for regarding the theory of two brains as the only available
explanation. It is a noteworthy circumstance that the pains preceding
each change of condition affected both sides of the head. Some modifi-
cation of the circulation seems suggested as the true explanation of the
changes in condition, though the precise nature of such modification, or
how it may have been brought about, would probably be very difficult to
determine. The state of health, however, on which the attacks depended
seems to have affected the whole body of the patient, and the case pre-
sents no features suggesting any lateral localisation of the cerebral changes.
On the other hand, the case of Sergeant F. (a few of the circumstances
of which were mentioned in our essay entitled " Have we two Brains ? "),
seems to correspond with Dr. Holland's theory, though that theory is far
from explaining all the circumstances. The man was woxinded by a
bii],let which fractured his l e ft parietal bone, and his right arm and leg
were almost immediately paralysed. When he recovered consciousness

* Should any doubt whether these conditions of dual existence are a reality (a
doubt, however, which the next case dealt with in the text should remove), we would
remind them that a similar difficulty unmistakably existed in the case of Eng and
Chang, the Siamese twins. It would have been almost impossible- to inflict any
punishment on one by which the other would not suffer, and capital punishment
inflicted on one would have involved the death of the other.

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS 1 . 93

three weeks later, the right side of the body was completely paralysed,
and remained so for a year. These circumstances indicate that the cause
of the mischief still existing is the shock which the left side of the brain
received when the man was wounded. The right side may have learned
(as it were) to exercise the functions formerly belonging to the left side,
and thus may have passed away the paralysis affecting the right side
until this had happened. These points are discussed in the essay above
named, however, and need not here detain us. Others which were not
then dealt with may now be noted with advantage. We would specially
note some which render it doubtful whether in the abnormal condition
the man's brain acts at all, whether in fact his condition, so far as con-
sciousness was concerned, is not similar to that of a frog deprived of its
brain in a certain well-known experiment. (This appears to be the
opinion to which Professor Huxley inclines, though, with proper scientific
caution, he seems disposed to suspend his judgment.) The facts are very
singular, whatever the explanation may be.

In the normal condition, the man is what he was before he was
wounded an intelligent, kindly fellow, performing satisfactorily the duties
of a hospital attendant. The abnormal state is ushered in by pains in the
forehead, as if caused by the constriction of a band of iron. In this state
the eyes are open and the pupils dilated. (The reader will remember
Charles Reade's description of David Dodd'seyes, "like those of a seal.")
The eyeballs work incessantly, and the jaws maintain a chewing motion.
If the man is en pays de con^aissance, he walks about as usual ; but in a
new place, or if obstacles are set in his way, he stumbles, feels about
with his hands, and so finds his way. He offers no resistance to any
forces which may act upon him, and shows no signs of pain if pins are
thrust into his body by kindly experiment3rs. No noise affects him.
He eats and drinks apparently without tasting or smelling his food,
accepting assafcetida or vinegar as readily as the finest claret. He is sen-
sible to light only under certain conditions. But the sense of touch is
strangely exalted (in all respects apparently except as to sensations of
pain or pleasure), taking in fact the place of all the other senses. We
say the sense of touch, but it is not clear whether there is any real sen-
sation at all. The man appears in the abnormal condition to be a mere
machine. This is strikingly exemplified in the following case, which we
translate directly from Dr. Mesnet's account : " He was walking in the
garden under a group of trees, and his stick, which lie had dropped a
few minutes before, was placed in his hands. He feels it, moves his hand
several times along the bent handle of the stick, becomes watchful, setJas
to listen, suddenly he calls out, ' Henry ! ' then, ' There they are ! there
are at least a scoie of them ! join us two, we shall manage it.' And
then putting his hand behind his back as if to take a cartridge, he goes
through the movement of loading his weapon, lays himself flat on the
grass, his head concealed by a tree, in the posture of a sharpshooter, and
with shouldered weapon follows all the movements of the enemy whom

94 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

lie fancies he sees at a short distance." This, however, is an assumption,
the man cannot in this state fancy he sees, unless he has at least a recol-
lection of the sensation of sight, and this would imply cerebral activity.
Huxley, more cautious, says justly that the question arises " whether the
series of actions constituting this singular pantomime was accompanied
by the ordinary states of consciousness, the appropriate train of ideas or
not 1 Did the man dream that he Avas skirmishing ? or was he in the
condition of one of Vaucouson's automata a mechanism worked by
molecular changes in his nervous system 1 The analogy of the frog shows
that the latter assumption is perfectly justifiable."

The pantomimic actions just related corresponded to what probably
happened a few moments before the man was wounded ; but this human
automaton (so to call him, without theorising as to his actual condition)
goes through other performances. He has a good voice, and was at one
time a singer in a cafe. " In one of his abnormal states he was observed
to begin humming a tune. He then went to his room, dressed himself
carefully, and took up some parts of a periodical novel which lay on his
bed, as if he were trying to find something. Dr. Mesuet, suspecting that
he was seeking his music, made up one of these into a roll and put it into
his hand. He appeared satisfied, took up his cane and went downstairs
to the door. Here Dr. Mesnet turned him round, and he walked quite
contentedly in the opposite direction, towards the room of the concierge.
The light of the sun shining through a window now happened to fall
upon him, and seemed to suggest the footlights of the stage on which he
was accustomed to make his appearance. He stopped, opened his roll of
imaginary music, put himself into the attitude of a singer, and sung, with
perfect execution, three songs, one after the other. After which he wiped
his face with his handkerchief and drank, without a grimace, a tumbler
of strong vinegar and water which was put into his hand."

But the most remarkable part of the whole story is that which
follows. " Sitting at a table in one of his abnormal states, Sergeant F. .
took up a pen, felt for paper and ink, and began to write a letter to his
general, in which he recommended himself for a medal on account of his
good conduct and courage." (Rather a strange thing, by the way, for a
mere automaton to do.) "It occurred to Dr. Mesnet to ascertain ex-
perimentally how far vision was concerned in this act of writing. He
therefore interposed a screen between the man's eyes and his hands ; under
these circumstances, F. went on writing for a short time, but the words
became illegible, and he finally stopped, without manifesting any discon-
tent. On the withdrawal of the screen, he began to write again where
he had left off. The substitution of water for ink in the inkstand had a
similar result. He stopped, looked at his pen, wiped it on his coat,
dipped it in the water, and began again with a similar result. On
another occasion, he began to write upon the topmost of ten super-
imposed sheets of paper. After he had written a line or two, this sheet
was siiddenly drawn away. There was a slight expression of surprise.

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 95

but he continued his letter on the second sheet exactly as if it had been
the first. This operation was repeated five times, so that the fifth sheet
contained nothing but the writer's signature at the bottom of the page.
Nevertheless, when the signature was finished, his eyes turned to the
top of the blank sheet, and he went through the form of reading what he
had written a movement of the lips accompanying each word ; more-
over, with his pen, he put in such corrections as were needed, in that
part of the blank page which corresponded with the position of the
words which required correction in the sheets which had been taken
away. If the five sheets had been transparent, therefore, they would,
when superposed, have formed a properly written and corrected letter.
Immediately after he had written his letter, F. got up, walked down to
the garden, made himself a cigarette, lighted and smoked it. He was
about to prepare another, but sought in vain for his tobacco-pouch,
which had been purposely taken away. The pouch was now thrust
before his eyes and put under his nose, but he neither saw nor smelt it ;
when, however, it was placed in Ms hand, he at once seized it, made a
fresh cigarette, and ignited a match to light the latter. The match was
blown out, and another lighted match placed close before his eyes, but
he made no attempt to take it ; and if his cigarette was lighted for him,
he made no attempt to smoke. All x this time his eyes were vacant, and
neither winked nor exhibited any contraction of the pupil."

These and other similar experiments are explained by Dr. Mesnet
(and Professor Huxley appears to agree with him) by the theory that
F. " sees some things and not others ; that the sense of sight is accessible
to all things which are brought into relation with him by the sense of
touch, and, on the contrary, insensible to all things which lie outside
this relation." It seems to us that the evidence scarcely supports this
conclusion. In every case where F. appears to see, it is quite possible
that in reality he is guided entirely by the sense of touch. All the
circumstances accord much better with this explanation than with the
theory that the sense of sight was in any way affected. Thus the sun-
light shining through the window must have affected the sense of touch,
and in a manner similar to what F. had experienced when before the
footlights of the stage, where he was accustomed to appear as a singer.
In this respect there was a much closer resemblance between the effect
of sunlight and that of the light from footlights, than in the circum-
stances under which both sources of light affect the sense of sight. For
in one case the light came from above, in the other from below ; the
heat would in neither case be sensibly localised. Again, when a screen
was interposed between his eyes and the paper on which he was writing,
he probably became conscious of its presence in the same way that a
blind man is conscious of the presence of objects near him, even in some
cases of objects quite remote, by some subtle effects discernible by the
sense of touch excited to abnormal relative activity in the absence of
impressions derived from the sense of sight. It is true that one might

96 DUAL CONSriOUSNESF.

have expected him to continue writing legibly, notwithstanding the
interposed screen ; but the consciousness of the existence of what in his
normal condition would effectually have prevented his writing legibly,
would be sufficient to explain his failure. If, while in full possession of
all our senses, the expectation of failure quite commonly causes failure,
how much more likely would this be to happen to a man in F.'s unfor-
tunate abnormal condition. The sense of touch again would suffice to
indicate the presence of water instead of ink in his pen when he was
writing We question whether the difference might not be recognised
by any person of sensitive touch after a little practice ; but certainly a
blind man, whose sense of touch was abnormally developed, would
recognise the difference, as we know from experiments which have
indicated even greater delicacy of perception than would be required for
this purpose. The experiment with superposed sheets of paper is more
remarkable than any of the others, but certainly does not suggest that
light makes any impression iipon Sergeant F. It proves, in fact, so far
as any experiment could prove such a point, that the sense of touch
alone regulates the man's movements. Unconscious of any change
(because, after the momentary surprise produced by the withdrawal of
the paper, he still found he had paper to write on) he continued _wri ting.
He certainly did not in this case, as Dr. Mesnet suggests, see all things
which are brought into relation with him by the sense of touch ; for if
he had, he would not have continued to write when he found the words
already written no longer discernible.

On the whole, it appears reasonable to conclude, as Professor Huxley
does, that though F. may be conscious in his abnormal state, he may
also be a mere automaton for the time being. The only circumstance
which seems to oppose itself very markedly to the latter view is the
letter-writing. Everything else that this man did was what he had
already done prior to the accident. If it could be shown that the letters
written in his abnormal state were transcripts, not merely verbatim et
literatim, biit exact in every point, of some which he had written before
he was wounded, then a strong case would be made out for the automa-
ton theory. Certainly few instances have come under the experience of
scientific men where a human being has so closely resembled a mere
machine as this man appears to do in his abnormal condition.

The moral nature of F. in his abnormal condition is for this reason
a matter of less interest than it would be, did he show more of the
semblance of conscious humanity. Still it is worthy of notice, that,
whereas in his normal condition he is a perfectly honest man, in his
abnormal state " he is an inveterate thief, stealing and hiding away
whatever he can lay hands on with much dexterity, and with an abso-
lutely absurd indifference as to whether the property is his own or not."
It will be observed that the cases of dual consciousness thus far
considered, though alike in some respects, present characteristic diver-
gencies. In that of the boy at Norwood, the two characters were very

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 97

similar, so far as can be judged, and each life was distinct from the other.
The next case was only introduced to illustrate the resemblance in
certain respects between the phenomena of somnambulism and those of
double or rather alternating consciousness. The woman Felida X.
changed markedly in character when she passed from one state to
the other. Her case was also distinguished from that of the boy, by the
circumstance that in one state she was conscious of what had passed in
the other, but while in this other state was unconscious of what had
passed in the former. Lastly, in Sergeant F.'s case we have to deal with
the effect of an injury to the brain, and find a much greater difference
between the two conditions than in the other cases. Not only does the
man change in character, but it may j ustly be said that he is little more
than an animal, even if he can be regarded as more than a mere auto-
maton while in the abnormal condition. We find that a similar variety
characterizes other stories of double consciousness. Not only are no two
cases closely alike, but no case has been noted which has not been
distinguished by some very marked feature from all others.

Thus, although in certain respects the case, we have next to consider
resembles very significantly the case of Sergeant F., it also has a special
significance of its own, and may help us to interpret the general problem
presented to us by the phenomena of dual consciousness. We abridge
and in some respects simplify the account given by Dr. Carpenter in his
interesting treatise on Mental Physiology. Comments of our own are
distinguished from the abridged narrative by being placed within
brackets :

A young woman of robust constitution had narrowly escaped drown-
ing. She was insensible for six hours, and continued unwell after being
restored to animation. Ten days later she was seized with a fit of com-
plete stupor, which lasted four hours ; when she opened her eyes she
seemed to recognise no one, and appeared to be utterly deprived of the
senses of hearing, taste, and smell, as well as of the power of speech.
Sight and touch remained, but though movements were excited and
controlled by these senses, they seemed to arouse no ideas in her mind.
In fact, her mental faculties seemed entirely suspended. Her vision at
short distancas was quick, and the least touch startled her ; but unless
she was touched or an object were placed where she could not help seeing
it, she took no notice of what was passing around her. [It does not
appear to us certain that at this stage of her illness she saw in the
ordinary sense of the word ; the sense of touch may alone have been
affected, as it certainly is affected to some degree by any object so placed
that it could not but be seen by a short-sighted person. But it is clear
that later the sense of sight was restored, supposing, which is not per-
haps probable, that it was ever lost in the early stage.] She did not
even know her own mother, who attended constantly upon her. Where-
ever she was placed she remained. Her appetite was good, but [like F.]
she ate indifferently whatever she was fed with, and took nauseous

98 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

medicines as readily as agreeable food. Her movements were solely
of the automatic kind. Thus, she swallowed food put into her mouth,
but made no effort to feed herself. Yet when her mother had conveyed
the spoon [in the patient's hand] a few times to her mouth, the patient
continued the operation. It was necessary, however, to repeat this
lesson every time she was fed, showing the complete absence of memory.
" The very limited nature of her faculties, and the automatic life she
was leading, appear further evident from the following particulars. One
of her first acts on recovering from the fit had been to busy herself in
picking the bedclothes; and as soon as she was able to sit up and be
dressed, she continued the habit by incessantly picking some portion of
her dress. She seemed to want an occupation for her fingers, and accord-
ingly part of an old straw bonnet was given to her, which she pulled
into pieces with great minuteness ; she was afterwards bountifully
supplied with roses : she picked off the leaves, and then tore them up
into the smallest particles imaginable. A few days subsequently, she
began forming upon the table, out of those minute particles, rude figures
of roses, and other common garden flowers ; she had never received any
instructions in drawing. Roses not being so plentiful in London, waste
pa.per and a pair of scissors were put into her hand, and for some days
she found an occupation in cutting the paper into shreds ; after a time
these cuttings assumed rude shapes and figures, and more particularly
the shapes used in patchwork. At length she was supplied with proper
materials for patchwork, and after some initiatory instruction, she took
to her needle and to this employment in good earnest. She now laboured
incessantly at patchwork from morning till night, and on Sundays and
week-days, for she knew no difference of days ; nor could she be made
to comprehend the difference. She had no remembrance from day to
day of what she had been, doing on the previous day, and so every
morning commenced de novo. Whatever she began, that she continued
to work at while daylight lasted ; manifesting no uneasiness for anything
to eat or drink, taking not the slightest heed of anything which was
going on around her, but intent only on her patchwork." From this
time she began to improve, learning like a child to register ideas. She
presently learned worsted- work, and showed delight in the harmony of
colours and considerable taste in selecting between good and bad pat-
terns. After a while she began to devise patterns of her own. But she
still had no memory from day to day of what she had done, and unless
the unfinished work of one day was set before her on the next, she would
begin something new.

And now, for the first time, ideas derived from her life before her
illness seemed to be awakened within her. When pictures of flowers,
trees, and animals were shown her, she was pleased ; but when she was
shown a landscape in which there was a river or a troubled sea, she
became violently agitated, and a fit of spasmodic rigidity and insensi-
bility immediately followed. The mere sight of water in motion made

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 99

her shudder. Again, from an early stage of her illness she had derived
pleasure from the proximity of a young man to whom she had been
attached. At a time when she did not remember from one hour to
another what she was doing, she would anxiously await his evening
visit, and be fretful if he failed to pay it. When, during her removal
to the country, she lost sight of him, she became unhappy and suffered
from frequent fits ; on the other hand, when he remained constantly
near her, she improved in health, and early associations were gradually
awakened.

At length a day came when she uttered her first words in this her
second life. She had learned to take heed of objects and persons around
her ; and on one occasion, seeing her mother excessively agitated, she be-
came excited herself, and suddenly, yet hesitatingly, exclaimed, " What's
the matter !" After this she began to articulate a few words. For a
time she called every object and person "this," then gave their right
names to wild flowers (of which she had been passionately fond when a
child), and this " at a time when she exhibited nof the least recollection
of the ' old familiar friends and places ' of her childhood." The gradual
expansion of her intellect was manifested chiefly at this time in signs of
emotional excitement, frequently followed by attacks of spasmodic
rigidity and insensibility.

It was through the emotions that the patient was restored to the
consciousness of her former self. She became aware that her lover was
paying attention to another woman, and the emotion of jealousy was so
strongly excited that she had a fit of insensibility which resembled her
first attack in duration and severity. But it restored her to herself.
" When the insensibility passed off she was no longer spell-bound. .The
veil of oblivion was withdrawn ; and, as if awakening from a sleep of
twelve months' duration, she found herself surrounded by her grand-
father, grandmother, and their familiar friends and acquaintances. She
awoke in the possession of her natural faculties and former knowledge ;
but without the slightest remembrance of anything which had taken
place in the year's interval, from the invasion of the first fit to the [then]
present time. She spoke, but she heard not ; she was still deaf, but being
able to read and write as formerly, she was no longer cut off from com-
munication with others. From this time she rapidly improved, but for
some time continued deaf. She soon perfectly understood by the motion
of her lips what her mother said ; they conversed with facility and quick-
ness together, but she did not understand the language of the lips of a
stranger. She was completely unaware of the change in her lover's
affections which had taken place in her state of second consciousness ;
and a painful explanation was necessary. This, however, she bore very
well ; and she has since recovered her previous bodily and mental health."

There is little in this interesting narrative to suggest that the duality
of consciousness in this case was in any way dependent on the duality of
the brain. During the patient's abnormal condition the functions of the

100 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

brain [proper] would seem to have been for a time in complete abeyance,
and then to have been gradually restored. One can perceive no reason
for supposing that the shock she had sustained would affect one side
rather than the other side of the brain, nor why her recovery should
restore one side to activity and cause the side which (in the dual brain
hypothesis) had been active during her second condition to resume its
original activity. The phenomena appear to suggest that in some way
the molecular arrangement of the brain matter became modified during
her second condition ; and that when the original arrangement was
restored all recognisable traces of impressions received while the abnormal
arrangement lasted were obliterated. As Mr. Slack presents one form
of this idea, " the grey matter of the brain may have its molecules
arranged in patterns somewhat analogous to those of steel filings under
the influence of a magnet, but in some way the direction of the forces
or vibrations may be changed in them. The pattern will then be
different." We know certainly that thought and sensation depend on
material processes, chemical reactions between the blood and the mus-
cular tissues. Without the free circulation of blood in the brain, there
can be neither clear thought nor ready sensation. With changes in the
nature of the circulation come changes in the quality of thought and the
nature of sensation, and with them the emotions are changed also. Such
changes affect all of us to some degree. It may well be that such cases
as we have been dealing with are simply instances of the exaggerated
operation of causes with which we are all familiar ; and it may also be that
in the exaggeration itself of these causes of change lies the explanation of
the characteristic peculiarity of cases of dual consciousness, the circum-
stance namely that. either the two states of consciousness are absolutely
distinct one from the other, or that in one state only are events remem-
bered which happened in the other, no recollection whatever remaining
in this latter state of what happened in the other, or, lastly, that only
faint impressions excited by some intense emotion experienced in one
state remain in the other state.

It seems possible, also, that some cases of another kind may find their
explanation in this direction, as, for instance, cases in Avhich, through some
strange sympathy, the brain of one person so responds to the thoughts
of another that for the time being the personality of the person thus
influenced may be regarded as in effect changed into that of the person
producing the influence. Thus, in one singular case cited by Dr.
Carpenter, a lady was " metamorphosed into the worthy clergyman on
whose ministry she attended " (sic), " and with whom she was personally
intimate. I shall never forget," he says, " the intensity of the lacka-
daisical tone in which she replied to the matrimonial counsels of the
physician to whom he (she) had been led to give a long detail of his (her)
hypochondriacal symptoms : ' A wife for a dying man, doctor.' No
intentional simulation could have approached the exactness of the imi-
tation alike in tone, mannei*s, and language, which spontaneously pro-

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 101

ceeded from the idea with which the fair subject was possessed, that she
herself experienced all the discomforts whose detail she had doubtless
frequently heard from the real sufferer." The same lady, at Dr.
Carpenter's request, mentally " ascended in a ^balloon and proceeded to
the North Pole in search of Sir John Franklin,' whom she found alive ;
and her description of his appearance and that of his companions was
given with an inimitable expression of sorrow and pity."

It appears to us that very great interest attaches to the researches
made by Prof. Barrett into cases of this kind, and that it is in this
direction we are to look for the explanation of many mysterious pheno-
mena formerly regarded as supernatural, but probably all admitting (at
least all that have been properly authenticated) of being interpreted so
soon as the circumstances on which consciousness depends shall have been,
determined. Thus the following account of experiments made at the
village school in "VVestmeath seem especially suggestive : " Selecting
some of the village children, and placing them in a quiet room, giving
each some small object to look at steadily, he found one amongst the
number who readily passed into a state of reverie. In that state the
subject could be made to believe the most extravagant statements, such
as that the table was a mountain, a chair a pony, a mark on the floor an
insuperable obstacle. The girl thus mesmerised passed on the second
occasion into a state of deeper sleep or trance, wherein no sensation
whatever was experienced, unless accompanied by pressure on the eye-
brows of the subject. When the pressure of the fingers was removed,
the girl fell back in her chair utterly unconscious of all around, and had
lost all control over her voluntary muscles. On reapplying the pressure,
though her eyes remained closed, she sat up and answered questions
readily, but the manner in which she answered them, her acts and
expressions, were capable of wonderful diversity, by merely altering the
place on the head where the pressure was applied. So sudden and
marked were the changes produced by a movement of the fingers that the
operation seemed very like playing on some musical instrument. On a
third occasion the subject, after passing through these, which have been
termed the biological and phrenological states, became at length keenly
and wonderfully sensitive to the voice and acts of the operator. It was
impossible for the latter to call the girl by her name, however faintly and
inaudibly to those around, without at once eliciting a prompt response.
If the operator tasted, smelt, or touched anything, or experiened any
sudden sensation of warmth or cold, a corresponding effect was produced
on the subject, though nothing was said, nor could the subject have seen
what had occurred to the operator. To be assured of this, he ban-
daged the girl's eyes with great care, and the operator having gone
behind the girl to the other end of the room, he watched him and the
girl, and repeatedly assured himself of this fact." Thus far, Prof.
Barrett's observations, depending in part on what the operator expe-
rienced, may be open to just so much doubt as may affect our opinion of

102 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

the veracity of a person unknown ; but in what follows we have his own
experience alone to consider. " Having mesmerised the girl himself, he
took a card at random from a pack which was in a drawer in another
room. Glancing at the card to see what it was, he placed it within a
book, and in that state brought it to the girl. Giving her the closed
book, he asked her to tell him what he had put within its leaves. She
held the book close to the side of her head, and said, ' I see something
inside with red spots on it ; ' and she afterwards said there were five red
spots on it. The card was the five of diamonds. The same result
occurred with another card ; and when an Irish bank-note was substi-
tuted for the card, she said, ' Oh, now I see a number of heads so many
I cannot count them.' He found that she sometimes failed to guess
correctly, asserting that the things were dim ; and she could give no
information of what was within the book unless he had previously known
what it was himself. More remarkable still, he asked her to go in
imagination to Regent Street, in London, and tell him what shops she
had seen. The girl had never been out of her remote village, but she
correctly described to him Mr. Ladd's shop, of which he happened to be
thinking, and mentioned the large clock that overhangs the entrance to
Beak Street. In many other cases he convinced himself that the exist-
ence of a distinct idea in his own mind gave rise to an image of the idea
(that is, to a corresponding image) on the mind of the subject; not
always a clear image, but one that could not fail to be recognised as a
more or less distorted reflection of bis own thought." It is important to
notice the limit which a scientific observer thus recognised in the range
of the subject's perceptions. It has been stated that subjects in this con-
dition have been able to describe occurrences not known to any person,
which yet have been subsequently verified. Although some narratives
of the kind have come from persons not likely to relate what they knew
to be untrue, the possibility of error outweighs the probability that such
narratives can really be true. There is a form of unconscious cerebra-
tion by which untruthful narratives come to be concocted in the mind.
For instance, Dr. Carpenter heard a scrupulously conscientious lady
asseverate that a table " rapped " when nobody was within a yard of it ;
but the story was disproved by the lady herself, who found from her
note-book, recording what really took place, that the hands of six persons
rested on the table when it rapped. And apart from the unconscious
fiction-producing power of the mind, there is always the possibility, nay,
often the extreme probability, that the facts of a case may be misunder-
stood. Persons may be supposed to know nothing about an event who
have been conscious of its every detail ; nay, a person may himse!f be
unconscious of his having known, and in fact of his really knowing, of a
particular event. Dual consciousness in this particular sense is a quite
common experience, as, for instance, when a story is told us which we
receive at first as new, until gradually the recollection dawns upon us,
and becomes momentarily clearer and clearer, not only that we have

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 103

heard it before, but of the circumstances under which we heard it, and
even of details which the narrator from whom a few moments before we
received it as a new story has omitted to mention.*

The most important of all the questions depending on dual conscious-
ness is one into which we could not properly enter at any length in
these pages the question, namely, of the relation between the condition
of the brain and responsibility, whether such responsibility be considered
with reference to human laws or to a higher and all-knowing tribunal.
But there are some points not wanting in interest which may be here more
properly considered.

In the first place it is to be noticed that a person who has passed into
a state of abnormal consciousness, or who is in the habit of doing so,
can have no knowledge of the fact in his normal condition except from
the information of others. The boy at Norwood might be told of what
he had said and done while in his less usual condition, but so far as any
experience of his own was concerned he might during all that time have
been in a profound sleep, Similarly of all the other cases. So that we
have here the singular circumstance to consider, that a person may have
to depend on the information of others respecting his own behaviour
not during sleep or mental aberration or ordinary absence of mind but
(in some cases at least) while in possession of all his faculties and while
unquestionably responsible for his actions. Not only might a person
find himself thus held responsible for actions of which he had no know-
ledge, and perhaps undeservedly blamed or condemned, but he might find
himself regarded as untruthful because of his perfectly honest denial of
all knowledge of the conduct attributed to liim. If such cases were
common, again, it would not improbably happen that the simulation of
dual consciousness would become a frequent means of attempting to evade
responsibility.

Another curious point to be noticed is this. Supposing one subject
to alternations of consciousness were told that in his abnormal condition
he suffered intense pain or mental anguish in consequence of particular

* An instance of the sort turns up in Pope's correspondence with Addison, and
serves to explain a discrepancy between Tickcll's edition of the Spectator and the
original. In No. 253, Addison had remarked that none of the critics had taken notice
of a peculiarity in the description of Sisyphus lifting his stone up the hill, which is no
sooner carried to the top of it but it immediately tumbles to the bottom. " This
double motion," 883-3 Addison, " is admirably described in the numbers of those verses.
In the four first it is heaved up by several spondees intermixed with proper breathing-
places, and at last trundles down in a continual line of dactyls." On this Pope
remarks : " I happened to find the -same in Dionysius of Ilalicarnassus's Treatise, who
treats very largely upon these verses. I know you will think fit to soften your
expression, when you see the passage, which you must needs have read, though it be
since slipt out of your memory." These words, by the way, were the last (except " I
am, with the utmost esteem, &c.'') ever addressed by Pope to Addison. It was in
this letter that Pope with sly malice asked Addison to look over the first two books of
his (Pope's) translation of Homer.

104 DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS.

actions during his normal state, how far would he be influenced to refrain
from such actions by the fear of causing pain or sorrow to his " double,"
a being of whose pains and sorrows, nay, of whose very existence, he was
unconscious 1 In ordinary life a man refrains from particular actions
which have been followed by unpleasant consequences, reasoning, in some
cases, " I will not dp so-and-so, because I suffered on such and such
occasions when I did so " (we set religious considerations entirely on one
side by assuming that the particular actions are not contrary to any
moral law), in others, " I will not do so-and-so because my so doing on
former occasions has caused trouble to my friend A or B : " but it is
strange to imagine any one reasoning, " I will not do so-and-so because
my so doing on former occasions has caused my second self to experience
pain and anguish, of which I myself have not the slightest recollection."
A man may care for his own well-being, or be unwilling to bring trouble
on his friends, but who is that second self that his troubles should excite
the sympathy of his fellow-consciousness 1 ? The considerations here
touched on are not so entirely beyond ordinary experience as might be
supposed. It may happen to any man to have occasion to enter into an
apparently unconscious condition during which in reality severe pains
may be suffered by another self, though on his return to his ordinary
condition no recollection of those pains may remain, and though to all
appearance he has been all the time in a state of absolute stupor; and it may
be a reasonable question, not perhaps whether he or his double shall suffer
such pains, but whether the body which both inhabit will suffer while he is
unconscious or while that other consciousness comes into existence. That
this is no imaginary supposition is shown by several cases in Abercrombie's
treatise on the Intellectual Powers. Take, for instance, the following
narrative : " A boy," he tells us, " at the age of four suffered fracture
of the skull, for which he underwent the operation of the trepan. He
was at the time in a state of perfect stupor, and after his recovery retained
no recollection either of the accident or of the operation. At the age of
fifteen, however, during the delirium of fever, he gave his mother an
account of the operation, and the persons who were present at it, with a
correct description of their dress, and other minute particulars. He had
never been observed to allude to it before ; and no means were known by
which he could have acquired the circumstances which he mentioned."
Suppose one day a person in the deb'rium of fever or under some other
exciting cause should describe to those around the tortiires experienced
during some operation, when under the influence of anesthetics he had
appeared to all around to be totally unconscious, dwelling in a special
manner perhaps on the horror of pains accompanied by utter powerless-
ness to shriek or groan, or even to move ; how far would the possibilities
suggested by such a narrative influence one who had a painful operation
to undergo, knowing as he would quite certainly, that whatever pains his
alter ego might have to suffer, not the slightest recollection of them would
remain in his ordinary condition ?

DUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. 105

There is indeed almost as strange a mystery in unconsciousness as there
is in the phenomena of dual consciousness. The man who has passed for a
time into unconsciousness through a blow, or fall, or fit, cannot help
asking himself like Bernard Langdon in that weird tale of Elsie Venner,
" Where was the mind, the soul, the thinking principle all that time ? "
It is irresistibly borne in upon him that he has been dead for a time. As
Holmes reasons, " a man is stunned by a blow and becomes unconscious,
another gets a harder blow and it kills him. Does he become unconscious
too 1 ? If so, when, and how does he come to hits consciousness 1 The man
who has had a slight and moderate blow comes to himself when the im-
mediate shock passes off and the organs begin to work again, or when a
bit of the skull is ' pried ' up, if that happens to be broken. Suppose
the blow is hard enough to spoil the brain and stop the play of the organs,
what happens then] " So far as physical science is concerned there is no
answer to this question ; but physical science does not as yet comprehend
all the knowable, and the knowable comprehends not all that has been,
is, and will be. What we know and can know is nothing, the unknown
and the unknowable are alike infinite.

VOL. xxxv. NO. 205. G.

106

Cant it

CHAPTER XXII.
MYSTIFIED.

Y dear boy, said Mrs.
Meredith, "I see svhat
you are thinking of.
You are young to settle
in life, and about means
there might be some
difficulty ; but to see you
happy I would make
any sacrifice., Nothing
is so important as to
make a good choice,
which you have done,
thank God. That goes
beyond every prudential
consideration. Nothing
else matters in com-
parison ; " and, as she said this, tears stood in her soft eyes. It was
a long speech for Mrs. Meredith. Oswald had come back to the drawing-
room in a loose jacket, with some lingering odour of his cigar about
him, to bid his mother good-night. She was standing by the man-
telpiece with her candle in her hand, while he stood close by, looking
down into the fire, caressing the down, scarcely developed into a moustache,
on his upper lip, and thus hiding a conscious smile.

" So you think my choice a good one, mother? " he said, with a laugh.
Mrs. Meredith did not think him serious enough for such a serious
moment ; but then how useless it is to go on contending with people
because they will not feel as you think proper in every emergency !
After all, eveiy one must act according to his nature ; the easy man
cannot be made restless, nor the light-hearted solemn. This was Mrs.
Meredith's philosophy. But she gave a little sigh, as she had often done,
to the frivolity of her elder son. It was late, and the fire was very low
upon the hearth one of the lamps had burned out the room was
dimmer than usual ; in a corner Edward sat reading or pretending to
read, rather glum, silent, and sad. Oswald, who had come in, in a very
pleasant disposition, as indeed he generally was, smoothed his young

CARlTA. 107

moustache with great complacency. He saw at once that it was Cara of
whom his mother was thinking, and it was not at all disagreeable to him
that she should think so. He was quite willing to be taken for Cara's
lover. There was no harm in a little mystification, and the thought on the
whole pleased him.

" Ah, Oswald, I wish you were a little more serious, especially at such
a moment," said his mother ; " there are so many things to think of. I
wish you would try to realise that it is a very, very important moment
in your life."

" It is a very pleasant one, at least," he said, smiling at her with a
smile which from the time of his baby naughtiness had always subdued
his mother and he lighted her candle, and stooped with filial grace
to kiss her cheek. " Good-night, mother, and don't trouble about me.
I am very happy," he said, with a half-laugh at his own cleverness in
carrying on this delusion. Oswald thought a great deal of his own
cleverness. It was a pleasant subject to him. He stood for some time
after his mother was gone, looking down into the waning fire and smiling to
himself. He enjoyed the idea reflected from their minds that he was an
accepted lover, a happy man betrothed and enjoying the first sweetness of
love. He had not said so ; he had done nothing, so far as he was aware,
to originate such a notion ; but it rather amused and flattered him now
that they had of themselves quite gratuitously started it. As for Cara
herself being displeased or annoyed by it, that did not occur to him. She
was only just a girl, not a person of dignity, and there could be no injury
to her in such a report. Besides, it was not his doing ; he was noway
to blame. Poor dear little Cara ! if it did come to that, a man was not
much to be pitied who had Cara to fall back upon at the last.

Thus he stood musing, with that conscious smile on his face, now and
then casting a glance at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He
was not thinking of his brother, who sat behind with the same book in his
hands that he had been pretending to read all the evening. Edward rose
when his mother was gone, and came up to the fire. He was no master
of words befitting the occasion ; he wanted to say something, and he did
not know what to say. His elder brother, the most popular of the two
he who was always a little in advance of Edward in everything, admired
and beloved and thought of as Edward had never been how was the
younger, less brilliant, less considered brother to say anything to him that
bore the character of advice 1 And yet Edward's heart ached to do so ;
to tell the truth his heart ached for more than this. It had seemed to him
that Cara confided in himself, believed in his affectionate sympathy more
than she did in Oswald's : and to see Oswald in the triumphant position
of avowed lover as they all thought him to be, was gall and bitterness to
the poor young fellow, in whose heart for all these years a warm recollec-
tion of Cara had been smouldering. He was the poor man whose ewe-
lamb his rich brother had taken, and the pang of surprised distress in his
soul was all the bitterer for that consciousness which never quite left his

108 CAEITA.

mind, that Oswald was always the one preferred. But Edward, though
he felt this, was not of an envious nature, and was rather sad for
himself than resentful of his brother's happiness. He went up to him,
dragged by his tender heart much against the resistance of his will,
feeling that he too must say something. He laid his hand, which
quivered a little with suppressed agitation, on Oswald's shoulder.

" I don't know what to pay to you, old fellow," he said, with an
attempt at an easy tone. " I needn't wish you happiness, for you've
got it

In spite of himself Oswald laughed. He had a schoolboy's delight in
mystification, and somehow a sense of Edward's disappointment came
in, and gave him a still greater perception of the joke. Not that he
wished to hurt Ed waul, but to most men who know nothing of love,
there is so much of the ridiculous involved, even in a disappointment,
that the one who is heart-whole may be deliberately cruel without any
evil intention. " Oh, yes, I am happy enough," he said, looking round
at his brother, who, for his part, could not meet his eyes.

" I hope you won't mind what I am going to say to you ? " said
Edward. " I am not so light-hearted a fellow as you are, and that makes
me, perhaps, notice others. Oswald, look here she is not so light-
hearted as you are, either. She wants taking care of. She is very sen-
sitive, and feels many things that perhaps you would not feel. Don't be
vexed. I thought I would just say this once for all and there is no
good thing I don't wish you," cried Edward, concluding abruptly, to
cover the little break in his voice.

" You needn't look so glum about it, Ned," said his brother. " I
don't mean to be turned off to-morrow. We shall have time to mingle
our tears on various occasions before then. Mamma and you have a way
of jumping at conclusions. As for her ".

" I don't like slang on such a subject," said Edward, hotly. " Never
mind ; there are some things we should never agree upon if we talked
till doomsday. Good-night."

" Good-night, old man, and I wish you a better temper unless you'll
come and have another cigar first," said Oswald, with cheerful assurance.
" My mind is too full for sleep."

" Your mind is full of "

" Her, of course," said Oswald, with a laugh ; and he went downstairs
whistling the air of Fortunio's song

Je sais mourir pour ma mie,
Sans la nommer.

He was delighted with the mistake which mystified everybody and
awakened envies, and regrets, and congratulations, which were all in their
different ways tributes to his importance. And no doubt the mistake
might be turned into reality at any moment should he decide that this
would be desirable. He had only to ask Cara, he felt, and she would be

CAEITl. 109

as pleased as the others ; and, indeed, under the influence of a suggestion
which made him feel his own importance so delightfully, Oswald was not
at all sure that this was not the best thing, and the evident conclusion of
the whole. But in the meantime he let his mind float away upon other
fancies. Her ! how little they knew who She was whom they thus igno-
rantly discussed. When he had got into the sanctuary of smoke, at which
Mrs. Meredith shook her head, but which she had carefully prepared for
her boys all the same, Oswald lit the other cigar which he had invited his
brother to accompany, and sat down with that smile still upon his face,
to enjoy it and his fancies. He laid his hand indolently upon a book,
but his own musings were at the moment more amusing, more pleasantly
exciting than any novel. The situation pleased and stimulated his fancy
in every way. The demure little school procession, the meek young con-
ventual beauty, so subdued and soft, yet with spai'kles responsive to be
struck out of her, half frightened, yet at the same time elevated above all
the temptations that might have assailed other girls it was scarcely pos-
sible to realise anything more captivating to the imagination. He sat
and dreamed over it all till the small hours, after midnight sounded one
by one, and his fire went out, and he began to feel chilly ; upon which
argument Oswald, still smiling to himself, went to bed, well pleased with
his fancies as with everything else belonging to him ; and all the better
pleased that he felt conscious of having roused a considerable deal of ex-
citement and emotion, and of having, without any decided intention on
his own part, delightfully taken in everybody, which delighted the
schoolboy part of his nature. To be so clever as he was conscious of
being, and a poet, and a great many other fine things, it was astonishing
how much of the schoolboy was still in him. B\it yet he had no com-
punction as he went up the long staircase : he had not finished, nor indeed
made the least advance with his poem.

From old Pietro's canvas freshly sprung
Fair face !

This beginning was what he liked best.

Edward was moved in a very different way. He would have
been magnanimous and given up Cara that is, having no real right
to Cara, he might have given up the youthful imagination of her
which had always been his favourite fancy, to his brother, with some
wringing of the heart, but with that compensation which youth has
in the sublime sense of self-sacrifice. But there is no bitterness greater
in this world, either for young or old, than that of giving up painfally
to another something which that other holds with levity and treats
with indifference. To hear Cara, the sacred young princess of his own
fancy, spoken of lightly, and the supreme moment of possible union
with her characterized as " turning off," was a downfall which made
Edward half frantic with pain and shame, and indignation and impatience.
She would be to Oswald only a common-place little wife, to be petted

1 1 CAKITA.

when, he Avas in the humour, standing very much lower than himself in
his own good graces ; whereas, to Edward she would have been
but it was Oswald, not Edward, whom she had chosen. How strange
they are ! all those wonderful confusions of humanity which depress the
wisest, the blind jumps at fate, the foolish choices, the passing over of the
best to take the worst, which form the ordinary course of existence every-
where, the poor young fellow thought, in this first encounter with adverse
events ; and this was mingled with that strange wonder of the tender heart
to find itself uncomprehended and rejected, while gifts much less precious
than those it offers are accepted, which is one of the most poignant pangs
of nature : and these feelings surging dimly through Edward's mind, filled
him with a despondency and pain beyond words. Indeed he could not have
told all the bitterness of the vague heavy blackness which swallowed up the
fair world and everything lovely before him. It was not only that Cara
had (he thought) chosen Oswald instead of himself, but also that the lesser
love was preferred to the greater, and that the thing one man would have
worshipped was thrown to the careless keeping of another, as if it were a
thing of no price. The personal question and the abstract one twisted
and twined into one, as is general in the first trials of youth. He himself
unconsciously became to himself the symbol of truelovemisjudged^ of gold
thrown away for pinchbeck and Cara the symbol of that terrible perennial
mistake which is always going on from chapter to chapter of the world's
history. Even, for he was generous in the very pangs of that visionary
envy, it added another pang of suffering to Edward's mind, that he could
not but consider his brother as the pinchbeck, so far as Cara at least was
considered. While Oswald sat smiling to himself through the fumes of
his cigar, Edward threw his window open and gazed out into the chill dark-
ness of the winter night, feeling the cold wind, which made him shiver, to
be more in consonance Avith his feelings than the warmth of the comfort-
able room inside.

Thus the Avhole little Avorld Avas turned upside down by OsAvald's
light-hearted preference of his own gratification to anything other people
might think. He had half forgotten the appointment he had so anxiously
made with Cara when the morning came, having got into full swing with
his A^erses Avhich was a still more captivating Avay of expressing his
sentiments than confession of them to Cara

Fair face from old Pietro's canvas sprung,

Soft as the eve, fresh as the clay,
Sweet shadow of angelic faces, young .

And heavenly bright as they,
Soul of all lovely tilings, by poets sung

He could not content himself with the last line " Accept my lay," or
" my humble lay," was the easiest termination, but it Avas prosaic and
affected. The consideration of this occupied him to the entire exclusion
of Cara, and he only recollected with what anxiety he had begged her

CARITA. Ill

to get rid of her aunt and see lam alone at a quarter past twelve, having
appointed to meet her at noon. He thrust the bit of paper on which he
had been scribbling into his pocket, when he remembered, and went off
languidly to pay his visit ; he had meant to have completed the poem,
and read it over to her, but it was clear that this must be postponed to
another day.

Meanwhile good Miss Cherry, full of anxieties, had got up much
earlier than was necessary, and had spent a long day before twelve
o'clock. By way of giving to her withdrawal at that fated hour an air
of perfect naturalness and spontaneity, she invented a great many little
household occupations, going here and there over the different rooms with
Nurse, looking over Cara's things to see what was wanted, and making a
great many notes of househol d necessities. The one most serious occupation
which she had in her mind she postponed until the moment when the lover,
or supposed lover, should appear. This was her real object in coming to
London, the interview which she had determined to have with her
brother. With a heart beating more loudly than it had beaten for years,
she waited till Oswald Meredith's appearance gave the signal for this
assault, which it was her duty to make, but which she attempted with so
much trembling. By the time Oswald did appear, her breath had almost
forsaken her with agitation and excitement, and she had become almost
too much absorbed in her own enterprise to wonder that at such a
moment the young man should be late. She was already in the library
when Oswald went upstairs. Two interviews so solemn going on
together ! the comfort of both father and daughter hanging in the
balance. Miss Cherry knocked so softly as to be unheard, and had to
repeat the summons before that "come in" sounded through the closed
door which was to her as the trump of doom.

She went in. Mr. Beresford was seated as usual at his writing table,
with all h's books about him. He was busy, according to his gentle idea
of being busy, and looked up with some surprise at his sister when she
entered. Miss Cherry came noiselessly forward in her grey gown, with
her soft steps. He held his pen suspended in his fingers, thinking per-
haps it was some passing question which she meant to ask, then laid it
down with the slightest shadow of impatience, covered immediately by a
pretended readiness to know what she wanted, and a slight sigh over his
wasted time. Those Avho have their bread to work for take interruptions
far more easily than those whose labours are of importance to nobody,
and Macaulay writing his History would not have breathed half so deep
a sigh as did James Beresford over the half hour he was about to lose.

" You want something ? " he said, with the smile of a conscious
martyr.

" Only to speak to you, James," said Miss Cherry, breathless. Then
she looked up at him with a deprecating, wistful smile. " It is not very
often that we meet now, or have any opportunity for a little talk,"
she said.

112 CARITA.

" Yes, Cherry, that is true enough. I have been so much away."
" And people drift apart ; that is true too. I know I can't follow
you in all your deep studies, James ; but my heart is always the same.
I think of you more than of any one, and of Cara. I hope she will live
to be the dearest comfort to you as she always was to us. The light went
away from the Hill, I think, when she went away."

" You have been very good to her, I am sure," he said, with due
gratefulness, " and most kind. You have brought her up very wisely,
Cherry. I have no fault to find with her. She is a good little girl."

Miss Cherry, to hear her small goddess thus described, felt a sudden
shock and thrill of horror ; but she subdued herself. " I wanted to speak
to you, James," she said, " of that : " then, with a slight pant and heave
of her frightened bosom " oh, James ! do you not think you could give
her a little more of your society learn to knoAv her better 1 you would
find it worth your while ! "

" Know her better ! My dear Cherry, I know her very well, poor
child. She is a good little girl, always obedient and dutiful. There
cannot be veiy much fellowship between a man of my occupations and a
quiet simple girl siich as Cara is, I am glad to say ; but I am very fond of
her. You must not think I don't appreciate my child."

"It is not quite that," said poor Cherry. " Oh, James, if you only
knew it, our Cara is a great deal more than merely a good little girl. I
would not for a moment think of finding fault with you ; but if you
would see her a little more in the evening if you would not go out quite
so much

"Go out! I really go out very seldom. I think you are making a
mistake, Cherry, my dear."

" Oh no, James ; since I have come, it has been my great thought. I
know you don't mean to be unkind ; but ^when you are out every

evening

" Really, Cherry, I had no idea that my liberty was to be in-
fringed, and my habits criticised."

Miss Cherry came up to him with an anxious face and wet eyes.
" Oh, James, don't be angry ! That is not what I mean. It is not to
criticise you. But if you would stay with your child in the evening
sometimes. She is so sweet and young. It would give you pleasure if
you were to tiy and it would be better, far better in other ways too."
" I don't understand what you mean," he said, hurriedly.
" No, no. I was sure, quite sure, you never thought, nor meant any-
thing. But the world is a strange world. It is always misconceiving
innocent people and, James, I am certain, nay, I know, it would be
so much better : for every one in every way."

" You seem to have made up your mind to be mysterious, Cherry," he
said. I don't see to whom it can be of importance how I pass my time.
To Cara you think 1 I don't suppose she cares so much for my society.
You are an old-fashioned woman, my poor Cherry, and think as you were

C A RITA. 113

brought up to think. But, my dear, it is not necessary to salvation that
a man should be always in his own house, and between a man of fifty and
a girl of seventeen there is not really so much in common.

" When they are father and daughter, James 1 "

" That does not make very much difference that I can see. But if
you think Cara is dull, we must hit upon something better than my
society. Young friends perhaps if there is any other girl she likes
particularly, let her invite her friend by all means. I don't want my
little girl to be dull."

" It is not that, James. She never complains : but, oh, if you would
try to make friends with the child ! She would interest you, she would
be a pleasant companion. She would make you like your home again :
and oh, pardon me, James, would not that be better than finding your
happiness elsewhere ? "

At this moment the door was opened, and John appeared ushering in a
scientific visitor, whose very name was enough to frighten any humble
person like Miss Cherry. She withdrew precipitately, not sorry to be saved
from further discussion, and wondering at herself how she could have had
the audacity to speak so to James. Nothing but her anxiety could have
given her such boldness. It was presumption, she felt, even in her secret
soul, to criticise, as he said, a man like her brother, older and so
much wiser than herself; but sometimes a little point of custom or
regard to appearances might be overlooked by a clever man in the very
greatness of his thoughts. This was how kind Miss Cherry put it and
in that way, the mouse might help the lion, and the elderly, old-
fashioned sister be of use to a wise and learned man, though he was a
member of all the societies And how kindly he had listened to her, and
received her bold animadversions ! When there is anything to admire
in the behaviour of those they look up to, kind women, like Miss Cherry,
can always find some humble plea like this at least, for a little adoration.
Such a clever man, had he not a right to be furious, brutal if he pleased,
when a simple little woman dared to find fault with him ? but on the con-
trary, how well he took it what a man he was !

Miss Cherry hurrying upstairs met Cara coming down, and her other
excitement came back to her in a moment. She took the girl's hands in
hers, though it was in no more retired place than the landing on the
stairs. " Well, my darling," she said anxiously.

"Well, Aunt Cherry ! " said Cara, and laughed. " I was coming to
look for you, to ask you to come out and get some ribbon "

" But Cara

" Come ! " cried the girl, running upstairs again to get her hat ; and
what had really happened that morning, Miss Cherry never knew. So
that both her excitements came to nothing, and the day turned out
uneventful like other common day?.

114 CARITA.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A REMONSTRANCE.

MK. BERESFORD was seated in his library, as usual, in the morning ; he had
breakfasted and glanced over his newspaper, and now had settled down to
" work," that is, to what he called work. He would not have been much
the worse had he idled, nor would his finances or anybody's comfort
have suffered ; probably that was one reason why he was so industrious.
His writing table was arranged with the most perfect order : here his
blotting book, his pens, his paper of all sizes, from ponderous foolscap to
the lightest accidental note ; there his books of reference ; in the centre, the
volume he was studying. John, by long practice, had learned to know
exactly where to place all his master's paraphernalia. He sat in front of
the fire, which crackled merrily and made light petillements, in the sound of
which alone there was genial company. The ruddy sunshine of the
winter morning entered in a sidelong gleam ; everything was comfortable,
warm, and luxurious round him ; the room was lined almost as high as
the ceiling with books, and the square table near the further window was
covered with magazines and newspapers. He spared nothing in that
way, though for himself he did not read half the literature that was
placed there ready for him. He took his place at his table, opened his
book, put down the letters which he had brought with him from the break-
fast table, and prepared to write or rather to work for his object was
to write a review of the serious book he was reading ; his letters were
about this and other important matters a meeting of the Imperial
Society the arrangements to be made for a series of lectures, the
choice of a new member. He put down all these momentous epistles on
his table, and turned over a page of the book in respect to which he was
prepared to give to the world some new ideas of his own on the relations
between mind and matter, or rather, upon some of those strange processes
by which the human brain, which is as purely matter as the human leg,
pranks itself up in the appearance of a spiritual entity. He was fond of
philosophical questions. But. when he had made all these preparations,
he stopped suddenly short and began to think. What process was it
that brought across him, like a sudden breath of summer air with the
scent of flowers in it, that sudden flood of recollections ? In a moment,
invading his breast and his mind with thoughts of the past, he felt as
people do to whom an old friend appears suddenly, bringing with him a
hundred forgotten associations. Had some one come into the warm and
pleasant room, and laid a hand upon his shoulder and looked him in the
face 1 If James Beresford had been a superstitious man he would have
thought so. His wife had been dead for more than five years and long
and weaiy and painful these years had been. Lately, however, his
heart had been lulled to i*est by sweet friendliness and sympathy and
help ; he had felt strong enough to take up his ordinary life again and
return into the world not unfaithful, but consoled and soothed. Nothing

CARTTA. 115

hud happened to him tobmik tin's sensation of rest from trouble, and what
happened now was not painful. It was only the sudden return of
thoughts which had been in abeyance. She seemed to come and stand by
him, as she used to do, looking over his shoulder, asking after his work.
" What are you doing ? " he seemed to hear her say leaning over him
with that familial- proprietorship of him and all his works and ways,
which was so sweet. Why had this visitation come to him to-day ] Of
course it must have been some impression on his nerves which thus
reflected itself through his being. Some chance contact had stirred one
of those strings, which move what we call feelings in the strange machi-
nery of our puppet nature. He thought somehow that when he had
said this, it explained the mystery. All at once, like a gale of spring,
like a sudden thaw or like some one corning into the room though the
last metaphor was not so fine as the others, it was the most true. Few
of our mental processes (he would have allowed) are pure thought this
was not thought at all ; he felt as if she stood by him she Avhom he
had lost : as if their life came back as it used to be. His grief for her, he
knew, had been lulled to rest, and it wgfe not any revival of the sharp-
ness and bitterness of that grief which moved him : it was a return for a
few minutes of the life they had lived together, of the conditions which
life had borne before.

Perhaps it was simply because his sister was there, and the sound of
the two feminine voices, hers and Cara's, at the breakfast table, had
brought back memories of the old times. He leant his elbows on his
open book, and his chin in the hollow of his hands. What a different
life it had been. What were his societies now, his articles, all his
" work," to the first spontaneous living of those days that were dead 1
How she would come in familiar, sure of her right to be wherever he was
not timid, like Cara, who never knew whether her father would be
pleased or not pleased to see her, nor reverential like good Cherry, who
admired and wondered at his books and his writing. He knew how these
two would look at any moment if need or business brought them knock-
ing to his door. But he never could tell how she would look, so various
were her aspects, never the same two women sometimes in one moment,
turning to tears or to sunshine in the twinkling of an eye, cheering
him, provoking him, stimulating him. Ah, what a change ! life 1 might
have its soothings now, its consolations, little makings up and props, to
give it the appearance of being the same life as before, but nothing could
ever make it what it had been. He had not died of it, neither would he die
of it the grief that kills is rare ; but whatever might happen to him in
the world, so much was certain, that the delight of life was over, the glory
gone out of it. And he did not wish it to be otherwise, he said to him-
self. There are things which a man can have but once. Some men are
so happy as to retain those best things of life till old age but he was

not one of those blessed men . And he was no longer wretched and a

wanderer on the face of the earth. Time had brought him a softenino 1

116

quiet, a dim pleasantness of tranquillity and friends good, tender, sooth-
ing, kindest frien Is.

Some one coming in broke suddenly this strange revival of memory
and of all people in the world it was the doctor, Maxwell, whose name
was so linked to the recollections of the old life, but who, Bere-ford
felt, had never been the same to him sines Annie died. His mind
had been so preoccupied that he had never inquired what was the
cause of this estrangement. What did it matter to him if all the world
wa3 estranged ? he had felt vaguely ; and if he thought upon the subject
at all, supposed that in the anguish of his mind he had sa ; cl something or
done something to vex his old friend. But what did it matter 1 His
life had been too much shipwrecked at firsi to leave his mind at liberty
to care what might happen. And now the estrangement was a fait
accompli. But his heart was touched and soft that morning. The
thought of Annie had come back to him, and here was some one deeply
associated with Annie. In the little start with which he got up from his
chair at the sound of Maxwell's name, a rush of resolution ran through
his veins with a rapidity such as leaves words hopelessly behind. " I
will get to the bottom of it whatever it is. I will know the cause, and
make it up with Maxwell." These words would have taken some.definite
atom of time to think and say, but the thought rushed through his mind
instantaneously as he rose hold'ng out his hand. " Maxwell ! you are
an unusual visitor now-a-days. I am very glad to see you," he said.
That he should have come just now of all times in the world !

" Yes ; I have ceased to be about the house as I used to be," the
doctor said, with a slight confusion, grasping the hand offered to him.
And then they sat down on two chairs opposite to each other, and there
was a pause. They were both embarrassed a little. This kind of cool-
ness between two friends is more difficult to get over than an actual
quarrel. Maxwell was not at his ease. How many recollections this
room brought back to him ! That strange visitor who had stood by James
Beresford's side a minute before stood by his now. He seemed to see
her standing against the light, shaking her finger at them in reproof.
How often she had done so, the light catching her dress, making a kind
of halo round her. Was it possible she was gone gone, disappeared from
before their eyes, making no sign 1 And yet how clearly she seemed to
stand there, looking at the two whose talk she had so often interrupted,
broken off, made an end of, with capricious sweet impertinences. Max-
well, like her husband, felt the reality of her so strong, that his mind
rejected with a strange vertigo the idea of her absolute severance from
this house and this life. The vertigo grew still greater, and his head
seemed to turn round and round when he remembere:! why he had come.

" Why is it 1 " said Beresford. " Something seems to have come be-
tween us I can't toll what. Is it accidenta 1 , or does it mean anything?
I have had a distracted life, as you know, and I may have done something
amiss "

CARITA. 117

" No, no," t-aid the other, hurriedly; " Ictus say nothing about that.
I meant nothing. Beresford, if you have this feeling now, what will you
think when you hear that I have undertaken a disagreeable, intrusive
mission ? "

" Intrusive ? " He smiled : "I don't see what you could be intrusive
about. You used to know all my affairs and if you don't know them
now, it is not my fault."

" Good heavens ! " cried the doctor, involuntarily, " how am I to do
it ? Look here, Beresford ; I said I would come, thinking that I who
knew you so well would annoy you less than a stranger but I don't feel
.so sure about that now."

" What is this gunpowder plot 1 " said Beresford, with a laugh. " Have
I been guilty of high treason without knowing it, and must I fly for my
Iif 3 ? "

The doctor cleared his throat ; he grew red in the face ; finally he
jumped up from his chair and went to the big fireplace, where he stood
with his back to the fire, and his face a little out of his friend's sight.

" Beresford, have you ever thought what a strange position Mrs. Mere-
dith is in ?"

" Mrs. Meredith ! " He said this with such unfeigned surprise that
his visitor felt more awkward than ever. " What can she have to do with
any disunion between you and me 1 "

"By Jove ! " cried the doctor, " we are all a pack of fools;" and from
the fire he walked to the window in the perturbation of his thoughts.

Beresford laughed. " One can never say anything civil to a speech
like that especially as, forgive me ! I have not a notion what you are
being fools about."

Maxwell looke:! out into the square to pi ack up courage. He coughed
as men do when they are utterly at a loss when it is worth while to gain
even a moment. " Don't be angry with me," he said, with sudden
humility. " I should not have taken it in hand, especially as you have
that feeling but look here, I have taken it in hand, and I must speak.
Beresford, old Sommerville came to me yesterday. He's Meredith's friend,
with a general commission to look after the family."

" Has anything happened to Meredith 1 " said Mr. Beresford, with
concern. " This is the second time you have mentioned them. I scarcely
know him but if there is anything wrong, I shall be very sorry for
her sake."

" There is nothing wrong, unless it is of your doing," said the doctor,
with abrupt determination. " To tell the truth, Meredith has heard, or
somebody has told him, or a gossiping has been got up I don't know what
about your visits. You go there too often, they say every night "

" Maxwell ! " cried James Beresford, springing to his feet.

" There ! I told you," said the doctor. " I said you would be angry
as if it were my fault. I am only the mouthpiese. Old Sommerville
would have come to you himself but I was sure it could be nothing but

118 CARIT^.

inadvertence, and undertook the office, knowing you too well much too
well to think for a moment "

" Inadvertence ! Knowing me too well to think ! In the name of
heaven, what is there to think 1 What have I been inadvertent about 1
Angry ! Of course I am angry. What have I done to be gossiped about 1
One of us must be out of his senses surely, either you or I

" No, it isn't that. Gossip does not spare any one. And pardon me,'
said the doctor, growing bolder now that the worst was over, " if you had
ever thought on the subject, you must have seen that such frequent visits
to a woman who is married, whose husband is at the other end of the
world

" Stop stop, I tell you ! I will not have her discussed or her name

introduced."

" That is quite right, Beresford. I knew you would feel so. Is it
right then that the tenderest heart on the face of the earth should be
worried and bullied because of you ] "

" Good God ! " cried the bewildered man, " has she been worried and
bullied 1 What do you mean ? Who has presumed to find fault ? 8he
is 1 am not going to say what she is."

" It is not necessary. I know that as well as any one."

Beresford made a half- conscious pause, and looked at his reprover
with a sudden involuntary raising of his eyebrows. Knew that as well
as any one ! Did he 1 . Vain boaster ! Who but himself knew all the
consoling sweetness, all the soft wealth of sympathy in this friend of
friends ] He felt more angry with Maxwell for this false pretension than
for all his other sins. " I am at a loss to know," he said, coldly, " by
what right any one attempts to interfere with my liberty of action ? I
am not a man whose visits to any house can be considered suspicious.
I should have thought that my character and my antecedents were enough
to preserve me from injurious comment and the gossip you speak of."

" Beresford," said the other hastily, " who thinks of you ? No amount
of gossip could do you any real harm. You must see that. The question
is about /if.-."

It was Beresford's turn now to be excited. He began to pace about
the room in deep annoyance and agitation. Of course this was true.
What was nothing to a man might be everything to a woman ; and no
man worthy the name would expose a woman to comment. He took
refuge, first, in furious abuse of gossip. What had any one to do with his
proceedings ? A man is always more shocked and angry to find himself
the object of remark than a woman is. It seemed incredible to him that
he, of all people in the world he, should be the object of impertinent re-
mark. The idea was intolerable to Beresford. The doctor wisely said
nothing, but let him have his ravings out, withdrawing himself to a chair
by the table, where he sat writing out imaginary prescriptions with the
worn stump of a pen which he found there, and keeping as far out of the
passionate stream of monologue as possible. This was Avise treatment

CAEITA. 119

the best he could have adopted, and after a while the subject of the opera-
tion calmed clown. He flung himself at last into his chair, and there was
a stormy pause.

" I suppose," said Beresford, with a long-drawn breath of mingled
pain and anger, " this was what Cherry meant. I could not make her
out. She is in it too. Have you all laid your heads together and con-
sulted what was the thing that would pain me most the most susceptible
point left I "

Maxwell made no direct reply. " If Miss Cherry has spoken to you,
Beresford, you know your sister," he said. " She would not hurt a fly
much less you, whom she holds in such high respect ; and she would not
think evil readily would she now 1 If she has spoken, you must under-
stand that there is something in it. Listen, my dear fellow. There are
things that must be done and left undone in this world for the sake of
the fools in it merely. You know that as well as I do. Say the fools
ought to be defied and crushed if you like, but in reality we have all to
consider them. The people of bad imaginations and low minds and
mean views really make the laws. for the rest of the world. We can't
help it. For ourselves it might not matter : but for those who are dear
to us for those who are less independent than we "

Again there was a pause. Beresford sat with his elbows on the table
and bit his nails savagely. In this painful amusement there seemed a
certain relief. He stared straight before him, seeing nothing. At last
he turned round sharply upon the doctor, who, with his head bent down,
still sat scribbling without any ink with the old stump of the pen in his
hand. " What do you want me to do 1 ? " he said. .

" Beresford, I did not come here to dictate to you. I came simply to
call your attention "

"Oh, let us not quibble about words ! Dictation ! yes, and something
more than dictation. Of course I am helpless before the plea you bring
up. Of course I have nothing to do but submit, if there is any question

of annoyance to Low minds and bad imaginations indeed ! That

any one should suggest the most distant possibility, the shadow of a re-
proach ! "

" We suggest nothing of the sort, Beresford. We suggest only a
most simple precaution a rule ordinarily observed."

He made a gesture of impatience, stopping further explanation, and
again for two minutes, which looked like an hour, the two men sat silent
together, not, it may be supposed, with any increase of friendliness
towards each other in their thoughts. Perhaps, however, it was only on the
side of the reproved that this feeling was really strong. The reprover was
compunctious and eager to do anything he could to conciliate. He kept a
furtive watch upon his victim as he scribbled. Beresford had retreated
within that most invulnerable of all fortresses silence, and sat, still
biting his nails, staring into the vacant air, neither by word nor look
making any communication of his thoughts. Nothing is more difficult

120 CAKTTA.

than to maintain a .silence like this ; the least absorbed of Ihc two en-
gaged in the passage of arms comes to feel after a time that he must speak
or die and what to say ? More upon the same subject might lessen the
impression already made, and to introduce another subject would be im-
possible. When the pause had lasted as long as possibility permitted,
Maxwell got up, put the pen slowly back in the tray from which it had
strayed, tossed the piece of paper he had been scribbling upon into th c
waste basket, gathered up his gloves, his stick, his hat. Nothing coxild
be more slow and hesitating than all these preparations for departure,
which were somewhat ostentatious at the same time, by way of calling the
attention of Beresford, and perhaps drawing forth something more. " I
must be going," he said at last, holding out his hand. " I hope you won't
think me unfriendly, Beresford, in anything I have said."

" Good-morning," said the other sullenly; then he made a visible
effort to command himself and rose up, but slowly, putting out his hand.
" Very likely not," he said. " I don't say it was unfriendly. You
would not have taken such a disagreeable office on yourself if you had
meant unkindness. No ; I suppose I should thank you, but it is rather
hard to do it. Good-by."

There was no more said. Maxwell went away, not feeling very vic-
torious or proud of himself. Was not he a fool to have undertaken it in
order to prevent scandal, he said to himself, in order to save a woman
from annoyance, in order to help James Beresford out of trouble a
man whom he had liked, and from whom he had been estranged 1
What business had he to meddle with other people's business 1 This, I
fear, was his reflection, as it has been the reflection of so many who have
strained a point to aid a friend, and whose self-denial has not been appre-
ciated. " Catch me doing such a foolish thing again," he said to himself.

As for Beresford, he resumed his seat and his thoughts when the
other was gone. Those thoughts were hot within him, and full of pain.
He who, even when this messenger of evil arrived, had been thinking
with faithful love of his wife ; he whose life had been made a desert by
her dying, whose whole existence was changed, who had not cared for yeai-s
what became of him, because of that loss to be met by this unjust and
insane reproval as soon as he had screwed his courage to the sticking-
place, and resumed his natural position in his own house. It had been
a hard thing to do ; at every corner he had expected to meet her in the
silence he had fancied he heard her calling him the whole house was
full of her, echoing with her steps and her voice. Yet he had schooled
himself to come back, to resume so much as remained to him of life under
his own roof so much as remained, not thinking of years, but of value
and merit. He was not of very much use to any one, nor had he been
much missed, perhaps, except in the working of the societies, and there
were so many people who could do that. But he had been patient and
come back, and established himself " at home," because it was his duty.
He had not shrunk from his duty. And this was his reward. His one

CAKITA. 121

source of soft consolation the one gentle friend on whose constant sym-
pathy he could reckon who made this life of endurance supportable to
him, and kept him up by kind words, by understanding his wants and
troiibles she was to be taken from him. He got up, and walked up
and down his room, and then went to the window and looked blankly
out. Almost without knowing what it was, he saw a brougham come to the
next door, and old Mr. Sommerville step out of it, and enter Mrs. Mere-
dith's house. He had gone to warn her, to disturb the sweet composure of
her mind, to embitter all her thoughts. Beresford turned round, and
began to walk up and down more and more hotly. Could anything in
the world be more innocent? He asked, nay he wanted, nothing more of
her. To go and sit by her now and then (this was how he characterized
his long and daily visits), what was there in that to justify this insulting
demand upon him 1 He lashed himself up into a fury when he thought
of it. He, the truest of mourners, and she, the least frivolous of women.
If ever there was a true friendship, full of support and mutual comfort,
this was the one. And now, at the pleasure of a set of wretched gossips,
ill-minded men, disagreeable women, was this gentle makeshift and sub-
stitute for domestic happiness to be torn from him ? And how good
heavens, how 1

That was the question. It was easy to talk, and say that such a thing
must cease ; but how was it to be done. Was he supposed capable of tell-
ing her that he must resign her friendship ] Was Sommerville, perhaps,
making the communication at this very moment, telling her that it must
not be ; suggesting thoughts that would distress her mind, and disturb
the whole tenor of her life ? For to give pain would be worse than mis-
fortune to her, and she could not so cast him off without giving pain and
feeling it. He thought it was an -imagination that he heard voices
high in discussion on the other side of the wall that separated the two
houses. Was that old meddler taking it upon him to lecture her now 1

CHAPTER XXIV.
ON THE OTHER SlDE OF THE WALL.

OLD Mr. Sommerville got out of his little brougham at Mrs. Meredith's
door. He was a wealthy old man, of whom nobody knew very much, except
that he had made his money in India, and that he lived in cosy bachelor
chambers, with everything extremely comfortable about him, and knew
everybody, and was fond of good things, the pleasures of the table, as old-
fashioned people said, and indeed all other pleasures within the reach of
a respectable o.ld person of sixty-five. He kept a neat little brougham,
and occasionally mounted a strong, steady cob, with a coat like satin,
looking much better fed than his master did, who was always a meagre old
gentleman, notwithstanding his good living. Mr. Sommerville was the
confidential friend of the absent Mr. Meredith, whom nobody, not even his

122 CARITl

own children, knew. As he had advanced in prosperity, it was through
old Sommerville's hands that his family were allowed to share the advan-
tage of his increasing income, and the boys had learned to know that it was
he who reported concerning them to their father, and received communica-
tions from their tutors. The unknown Mr. Meredith did nothing to dis-
credit his wife ; but he kept this constant check over her. It had often
been galling enough to her ; but she was a sweet-tempered woman, used
to accepting the evil with the good, and she had wisely put up with the
curb. She disarmed Mr. Sommerville by her gentleness and sweetness,
by throwing her house open to him, and inviting the scrutiny which she
might have defied, had she been of a different disposition. Sommerville
had not been unworthy of the confidence placed in him. He had kept up
a certain appearance of investigation. All their lives long the boys had
been accustomed to connect his appearance with a lecture of more than
usual seriousness from their mother ; but she had the good sense never to
say anything to connect the old man's name with the reprimand or warn-
ing. All that she said wag, " Your father will not like to hear that you
are idle, disobedient, unruly," as the case might be ; therefore, it was not
from her they learned that Sommerville meant special scrutiny and fault-
finding. But since they had been grown up, Oswald and Edward had them-
selves supplied the thread of connection. Even this, however, had not
made them dislike their old friend. At one moment of especial wicked-
ness, Oswald indeed had designated their father's deputy as the Spy ; but
this was simply a spark of malicious boyhood, struck out in a moment of
resentment, and did not permanently affect their minds, though the title
lasted. The Spy was, on the whole, friendly and indulgent sometimes
even he got them out of small scrapes, and it was he who persuaded the
mother that furtive cigars and other precocious masculinities were not
ci-inainal. So that altogether, notwithstanding his ominous name, he was
not unpopular in the house. It was but lately that he had taken to
coming to those almost daily receptions, which was so principal a feature
in Mrs. Meredith's existence. There he would sit and watch her. pro-
ceedings, her sympathetic talks, the audiences she gave, and all the little
acts of adoration performed before her, with not unkindly eyes. She was
a kind of gentle impostor, a natural humbug, to old Sommerville ; but
he laughed softly to himself as he thus characterized her, and did not like
her less. Never, during all these years, amid all this popularity, had she
given him occasion for a word of serious warning. A mid all the admira-
tion and semi-worship she had received, the kind but watchful Spy had
found no harm in her ; but now, at last, here was something which
called for his interference. To see him arrive at that hour in the morn-
ing was alarming in itself to Mrs. Meredith. She met him. with her
usual kind smile, but with an earnest look of inquiry.

" Is anything the matter 1 " she said.

" Send the boy away," said Mr. Sommerville, in an undertone.

It was Edward who was in the room, and his mother found a com-

CARITA. 123

mission for liim with tremulous haste ; for the distant Meredith was not
always reasonable in his requirements, and of late had written impatiently
about the coming out of one of his sons a calamity Avhich their mother
with all her might was endeavouring to stave off and postpone. She
thought her husband's friend must bring still more urgent orders, and
her heart began to beat.

" I wish you would go and tell Cara that I hope she will come to the
Sympsons with me this afternoon, Edward," she said.

And Edward, full of the thought of his brother's happiness, and loth
yet eager to see if Cara was happy in this new development of affairs,
obeyed reluctantly, but still with a secret alacrity. She was left alone
with the mentor, who had so often brought her advice or semi-reproof.

" You have something to tell me 1 Oh, Mr. Sommerville, what is
it T she cried.

" It is nothing very bad. You must not be alarmed there is no ill
news," he said.

The anxious mother looked at him with a wistful entreaty in her eyes.
Ill news was not what she feared. When a woman has had neither
companionship nor help from her husband for a dozen yeai-s or so,
naturally her sensitiveness of anxiety about him gets modified, and it is
to be feared that she would have taken information of Mr. Meredith's
serious illness, for instance, more easily than the summons which she
feared for one of her boys. She watched every movement of her visitor's
face with anxious interest.

" Edward cannot go till the settled time. You know that," she said,
instinctively following the leading of her own thoughts.

" It is not Edward that I have come to speak of; it is neither of the
boys."

"Ah !" said Mrs. Meredith, with a sigh of involuntary relief; and
she turned to him with cheerful ease and interest, delivered from her chief
fear. This evident ignorance of any other cause for animadversion moved
the old Spy in spite of himself.

" What I am going to say to you, my dear lady, is not exactly from
Meredith though he has heard of the subject, and wishes me to say
something. I hope you will believe there is no harm meant, and that
what I do, I do from the best feeling."

" I have never doubted your kind feeling, Mr. Sommerville ; but you
half frighten me," she said, with a smile. " If it is not the boys, what
can there be to be so grave about ] Tell me quickly, please."

Mr. Sommerville cleared his throat, He put his hat upon the head
of his cane, and twirled it about. It did not often happen to the old
Scotch nabob to be embarrassed ; but he was so now.

" You'll understand, my dear lady, that in what I say I'm solely
actuated by the thought of your good."

" How you alarm me ! " said Mrs. Meredith. " It is something, then,
very disagreeable ? "

124 CAEITA.

" Oh, yes. I've no doubt it will be disagreeable. Medicines are
seldom sweet to the palate. Mrs. Meredith, I will out with it at once,
not to keep you in suspense."

Here, however, he paused to take out his handkerchief, and blew his
nose with a very resounding utterance. After he had finished this opei-a-
tion, he resumed :

" I don't presume to teach a lady of your sense what is her duty ; and
I don't need to tell you that the world exerc:ses a great supervision over
women who, from whatever cause, are left alone."

"What have I done 1 ?" cried Mrs. Meredith, half frightened, half
laughing. " I must have made some mistake, or you would not speak so."

" I doubt if it could be called a mistake ; perhaps it would be better
to say a misapprehension. Mrs. Meredith, there is one of your friends
who pays you a visit every day."

" Several," she said, relieved. " You know how kind people are to
me. Instead of supervision, as you say, I get a great deal of sym-
pathy "

Mr. Sommerville waved his hand, as if to ward off her explanation.
" I am speaking of one person," he said: " a man who is here every even-
ing of his life, or I'm mistaken your neighbour, Mr. Beresford, next door."

" Mr. Beresford ! " she said, with a thrill of disagreeable surprise ; and
there came to her instantaneously one of those sudden realisations of
things that might be thought or said, such as sometimes overwhelm the
unsuspecting soul at the most inappropriate moment ; her colour rose in
spite of herself.

" Just Mr. Beresford. He means no harm and you mean no harm ;
but he should be put a stop to, my dear lady. You gave me your word
you would not be angry 1 But, madam, you're a married lady, and your
husband is at a distance. It's not for your credit or h : s good that he
should visit you every night."

" Mr. Sommerville ! stop, please ! I cannot let you talk so or anyone."

" But you must, my dear lady, unless you want everybody to talk,
and in a very different spirit. The world is a wicked world, and takes
many things into its head. You're a very attractive Avoman still, though
you're no longer in your first youth

" Mr. Sommerville, what you say is very disagreeable to me," said Mrs.
Meredith, offended. " Poor Mr. Beresford ! since he lost his wife he has
been miserable. Nobody ever mourned more truly ; and now, when he
is trying to learn a little resignation, a little patience "

" He should not learn those virtues, madam, at your expense."

" At my expense ! " she said, with sparkling eyes ; " at what expense
to me 1 I allow him to come and sit with me when he has no one at
home to bear him company. I allow him

" I thought his daughter had come to keep him company."

" Poor Cara ! she is a sweet child ; but, at seventeen, what can she
know of his troubles 1 "

CAEITA. 125

" Softly, softly," said Mr. Soinmerville ; " one plea is enough at a time.
If Mr. Beresford is without a companion, it does not matter that his
daughter is only seventeen ; and whatever her age may be, if she is there
he cannot be without companionship. My dear lady, be reasonable. If lie
has a child grown up, or nearly so, he should stay at home. A great many
of us have not even that inducement," said the old man, who was an old
bachelor ; " but no kind lady opens her doors to us." He looked at her
sharply with his keen eyes ; and she felt, with intense annoyance, that
she was getting agitated and excited in spite of herself.

" Mr. Sommerville," she said, with some dignity, " if anyone has been
misrepresenting my friendship for Mr. Beresford, I cannot help that. It
is wicked as well as unkind ; for I think I have been of use to him. I
think I have helped him to see that he cannot abandon his life. I
don't mean to defend myself. I have not done anything to be found
fault with ; friendship "

" Is a delusion," said the old man. " Friendship between a man and
a woman ! There is no sense in it. I don't believe a word of it. Mean-
ing no harm to you, my dear lady. You don't mean any harm ; but if
you talk to me of friendship ! "

" Then I had better say nothing," she answered quickly. " My
husband's representative if you call yourself so has no right to treat
me with rudeness. I have nothing more to say."

" My dear lady," said old Mr. Sommerville, " if I have appeared rude
I am unpardonable. But you'll forgive me 1 I mean nothing but your
good. And all I want is a little prudence the ordinary precautions."

" I will none of them ! " she said, with a flush of indignation. " I

' O

have nothing to be afraid of, and I will not pretend to be prudent as you
call it. Let the world think or say what it pleases it is nothing
to me."

Then there was a pause, and Mrs. Meredith betook herself to her
work a woman's safety-valve, and laboured as if for a wager, while the
old plenipotentiary sat opposite to her, confounded and abashed as she
thought. But Mr. Sommerville was too old and experienced to be much
abashed by anything. He sat silent, collecting his forces for a renewed
attack. That was all. He had a sincere friendship for her in his way,
and was as anxious to prevent scandal as any father could have been ;
and now it occurred to him that he had begun at the wrong end, as he
said. Women were kittle cattle. He had failed when he dwelt
upon the danger to herself. Perhaps he. might succeed better if he
represented the danger to lain.

" I have made a mistake," said the hypocritical old man. " It can
do no harm to you, all that has come and gone. I was thinking of my
own selfish kind that give most weight to what affects themselves, and I
am rightly punished. A lady satis reproche like yourself may well be sans
peur. But that is not the whole question, my dear madam. There is the
man to be considered."

126 CARITA.

When he said this she raised her eyes, which had been fixed on her
work, and looked at him with some anxiety, which was so much gained.

" You will not doubt my word when I say there's a great difference
between men and women," said the old diplomatist. " What is inno-
cent for one is often very dangerous for the other, and vice versd : you
will not deny that."

Then he made a pause, and looking at her for reply, received a sign
of assent to his vague proposition, which indeed was safe enough.

" How can you tell that Mr. Beresford receives as pure benevolence
all the kindness you show him ] It is very unusual kindness. You
are kind to everybody, madam, above the ordinary level ; and human
creatures are curious they think it is their merit that makes you good to
them, not your own bounty."

She did not make any reply, but continued to look at him. Her
attention at least was secured.

" If I were to tell you the instances of this that have come under
my own observation ! I have known a poor creature who got much
kindness in a house on account of his defects and deficiencies, and because
everybody was sorry for him ; who gave it out, if you'll believe me, and
really thought, that what his kind friends wanted was to marry him to
the daughter of the house ! It's not uncommon, and I dare say, without
going further, that you can remember things which perhaps you have
laughed at "

" All this has nothing to do with Mr. Beresford," she said, quietly,
but with a flush of rising offence.

" No, no." He made a hesitating answer and looked at her. Mrs.
Meredith fell into the snare.

" If he has misunderstood my sympathy for his troubles, if he has
ventured to suppose "

" Cara has gone out with her aunt," said Edward, coming in hastily ;
" but there is surely something wrong in the house. Mr. Beresford
called me into his room, looking very much distressed. He told me to
tell you that he thought of leaving home directly; then changed his
mind, and said I was not to tell you."

" Why do you tell me, then ? " cried his mother, with impatience.
" What is it to me where he is going 1 Am I always to be worried with
other people's troubles 1 L think I have plenty of my own without that."

Edward looked at her with great surprise. Such outbreaks of
impatience from his gentle mother were almost unknown to- him. " He
looks very ill," he said ; " very much disturbed : something must have
happened. Why should not I tell you ] Are you not interested in our
old friend ? Then something very extraordinary has happened, I suppose."

" Oh, my boy," cried Mrs. Meredith, in her excitement, " that is what
Mr. Sommerville has come about. He says poor James Beresford comes
too often here. He says I am too kind to him, and that people will talk,

and he himself thinks Ah ! " she cried suddenly, " what am I saying

to the boy ? "

CAEITl. 127

Edward went up to her hurriedly and put his arm round her, and
thus standing looked round defiant at the meddler. Oswald, too, entered the
room at this moment. The hour for luncheon approached, and naturally
called these young men, still in the first bloom of their fine natural appe-
tites, from all corners of the house. " What's the matter?" he said.
But he had another verse of his poem in his head which he was in great
haste to write down, and he crossed over to the writing-table in the back
drawing-room, and did not wait for any reply Edward, on the con-
trary, put the white shield of his own youthfulness at once in front of his
mother, and indignant met the foe.

" People have talked a long time, I suppose," said Edward, " that
there was nobody so kind as my mother ; and I suppose because you have
trained us, mamma, we don't understand what it means to be too kind.
You do, sir 1 " ciied the young man, with generous impertinence ; " you
think it is possible to be too innocent too good ? "

" Yes, you young idiot ! " cried the old man, jumping up in a mo-
mentary fury. Then he cooled down and reseated himself with a laugh.
" There is the bell for lunch," he said ; " and I don't mean to be
cheated out of the luncheon, which, of course, you will give me, by the
freaks of these puppies of yours, madam. But Oswald is a philosopher ;
he takes it easy," he added, looking kesnly at the placid indifference of
the elder soli.

" Oswald takes everything easy," said Mrs. Meredith, with a sigh.
And they went downstairs to luncheon, and no man could have been
more cheerful, more agreeable than the old Indian. He told them a
hundred stories, and paid Mrs. Meredith at least a score of compliments.
" This indulgence will put it out of my power to be at your levee this
afternoon," he said ; " but there will be plenty of worshippers without me.
I think the neglected women in this town and no doubt there's many
should bring a prosecution against ladies like you, Mrs. Meredith, that
charm more than your share ; and both sexes alike, men and women. I
hear but one chorus, ' There's nobody so delightful as Mrs. Meredith/
wherever I go."

" We are all proud of your approbation," said Oswald, with much
solemnity : he was always light-hearted, and had no desire to inquire
particularly into the commotion of which he had been a witness. But
Edward kept his eyes upon his mother, who was pale with the excite-
ment she had come through. What that excitement meant, the young
man had very little idea. Something had disturbed her, which was
enough for her son ; and, curiously enough, something had disturbed the
neighbours too, whom Edward accepted without criticism as we accept
people whom we have known all our lives. He was curious, and rather
anxkms, wondering what it might be.

But as for Mrs. Meredith, the idea of communicating to her sons
even the suggestion that she could be spoken of with levity, or criticised
as a woman, appalled her when she thought of it. She had cried out,

128 CARITA.

appealing to the boys in her agitation, but the moment after felt that she
could bear anything rather than make them aware that any one had ven-
tured upon a word to her on such subjects. She exerted herself to be as
vivacious as her visitor ; and as vivacity was not in her way, the little
forced gaiety of her manner attracted the attention of her sons more than
the greatest seriousness would have done. Even Oswald was roused to
observe this curious change. " What has happened 1 " he said to his
brother. He thought the Spy had been finding fault with the expendi-
ture of the household, and thought with alarm of his own bills, which
had a way of coming upon him as a surprise when he least expected
them. It was almost the only thing that could have roused him to
interest, for Oswald felt the things that affected Oswald to be of more
importance than anything else could be. As for Edward, he awaited some-
what tremulously the disclosure which he expected after Mr. Sornmcr-
ville's departure. But Mrs. Meredith avoided both of them in the commo-
tion of her feelings. She shut herself up in her own room to ponder the
question, and, as was natural, her proud impulse of resistance yielded to
reflection. Her heart ached a good deal for poor Beresford, a little for
herself. She, too, would miss something. Something would be gone out
of her life which was good and pleasant. Her heart gave a little sob, a
sudden ache came into her being. Was there harm in it ] she asked her-
self, aghast. Altogether the day was not a pleasant one for Mrs.
Meredith. It seemed to plunge her back into tliose agitations of youth
from which surely middle age ought to deliver a woman. It wronged
her in her own eyes, making even her generous temper a shame to
her. Had she been too good 1 as he said too kind 1 an accusation which
is hurtful, and means something like insult to a woman, though to no
other creature. Too kind ! No expression of contempt, no insinuated
slander can be more stinging than this imputation of having been too
kind. Had she been too kind to her sorrowful neighbour 1 had she led
him to believe that her kindness was something more than kindness 1 ?
She, whose special distinction it was to be kind, whose daily court was
established on no other foundation, whose kindness was the breath of her
nostrils ; was this quality, of which she had come to be modestly con-
scious, and of which, perhaps, she was a little proud, to be the instrument
of her humiliation 1 She was not a happy wife, nor indeed a wife at all,
except in distant and not very pleasant recollection, and in the fact that
she had a watchful husband, at the end of the world, keeping guard over
her. Was it possible that she had given occasion for his interference,
laid herself open to his scorn 1 ? It seemed to the poor woman as if
heaven and earth had leagued against her. Too kind ; suspected by the
jealous man who watched her, despised by the ungrateful man by whom
her tender generosity had been misinterpreted. She sent down a message
to Cara that she was not going out. She sent word to her visitors that
she had a headache. She saw nobody all day long. Too kind ! The
accusation stung in the tenderest point, and was more than she could
bear.

I KNEW THERE WOULD BE NONE TO LOVE LIKE THEM, WHENEVER I MIGHT GO.

THE

CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

FEBRUAEY, 1877.

(l~rcm;t; or,

CHAPTER XVII.
HARD AND SOFT.

EFORE very long it was
manifest enough that Mr.
Gundry looked down upon
Miss Sylvester with a
large contempt. But while
this raised my opinion ol
his judgment, it almost
deprived me of a great
relief, the relief of suppos-
ing that he wished hu
grandson to marry this
Pennsylvania. For al-
though her father, with
his pigs and cattle, and a
low sort of hostelry which
he kept, could settle " a
good pile of dollars " upon
her, and had kept her at
the * learnedest ladies'
college" even in San Fran-
cisco, till he himself trembled at her erudition, still it was scarcely
to be believed that a man of the Sawyer's strong common sense, and
disregard of finery, would ever accept for his grandchild a girl made
of affectation, vulgarity, and conceit. And one day quite in the early
VOL. xxxv. NO. 206. 7.

1 30 EREMA.

spring, he was so much vexed with the fine lady's airs, that he left no
doubt about his meaning.

Miss Sylvester was very proud of the figure she made on horseback ;
and having been brought up, perhaps as a child, to ride after pigs and so
on, she must have had fine opportunities of acquiring a graceful style
of horsemanship. And now she dashed through thick and thin in a
most commanding manner, caring no more for a snowdrift than ladies
do for a scraping of the road. No one with the least observation could
doubt that this yoiing woman was extremely anxious to attract Firm
Gundry's notice ; and therefore, on the day above spoken of, once more she
rode over, with her poor father in waiting upon her, as usual.

Now I know very well how many faults I have, and to deny them
has never been my practice ; but this is the honest and earnest truth,
that no smallness of mind, or narrowness of feeling, or want of large
or fine sentiments, made me bolt my door when that girl was in the
house. I simply refused, after seeing her once, to have anything more
to say to her ; by no means because of my birth and breeding (which
are things that can be most easily waived, when the difference is acknow-
ledged) nor yet on account of my being brought Tip in the company of
ladies, nor even by reason of any dislike which her bold brown eyes put into
me. My cause was sufficient, and just, and wise. I felt myself here as
a very young girl, in safe, and pure, and honest hands, yet thrown on my
own discretion, without any feminine guidance whatever. And I had
learned enough from the wise French sisters, to know at a glance that
Miss Sylvester was not a young woman who would do me good.

Even Uncle Sam, who was full of thought and delicate care about
me, so far as a man can understand, and so far as his simple shrewdness
went, in spite of all his hospitable ways, and open universal welcome,
though he said not a word (as on such a point he was quite right in doing)
even he, as I knew by his manner, was quite content with my decision.
But Firm, being young, and in many ways stupid, made a little grievance
of it. And, of course, Miss Sylvester made a great one.

" Oh, I do declare, I am going away," through my open window I
heard her exclaim in her sweetly affected tone, at the end of that
long visit, "without even having the honour of saying a kind word
to your young visitor. Do not wait for me^ -papa ; I must pay my
devoirs. Such a distinguished and travelled person can hardly be afflicted
with mauvaise honte. Why does she not rush to embrace me ? All the
French people do ; and she is so French. Let me see her, for the sake
of my accent."

"We don't want no French here, ma'am," replied .Uncle Sam, as
Sylvester rode off, " and the young lady wants no Doctor Hunt. Her
health is as good as your own, and you never catch no French actions
from her. If she wanted to see you, she would a' come down."

" Oh now, this is too barbarous ! Colonel Gundry, you are the most
tyrannous man ; in your own dominions an autocrat. Everybody says

EEEMA. 131

so, but I never would believe it. Oh, don't let me go away with that
impression. And you do look so good-natured ! "

"And so I mean to look, Miss Penny, until you are out of sight."

The voice of the Sawyer was more dry than that of his oldest and
rustiest saw. The fashionable and highly-finished girl had no idea what
to make of him ; but gave her young horse a sharp cut, to show her
figure as she reined him : and then galloping off, she kissed her tan
gauntlet with crimson network down it, and left Uncle Sam to revolve
his rudeness, with the dash of the wet road scattered in the air.

" I wouldn't a' spoke to her so coarse," he said to Firm, who now
returned from opening the gate and delivering his farewell, " if she
wasn't herself so extra particular, gild me, and sky-blue my mouldings
fine. How my mother would a' stared at the sight of such a gal ! Keep
free of her, my lad, keep free of her. But no harm to put her on, to keep
our Missy alive and awake, my boy."

Immediately I withdrew from earshot, more deeply mortified than I
can tell, and perhaps doing Firm an injustice by not waiting for his
answer. I knew not then how lightly men will speak of such delicate
subjects ; and it set me more against all thoughts of Firm than a month's
reflection could have done. When I came to know more of the world I
saw that I had been very foolish. At the time, however, I was firmly set
in a strong resolve to do that which alone seemed right, or even possible
to quit with all speed a place which could no longer be suited for me.

For several days I feared to say a single word about it, while
equally I condemned myself, for having so little courage. But it was
not as if there were anybody to help me, or tell me what to do ; some-
times I was bold with a surety of right, and then again I shook with the
fear of being wrong. Because, through the whole of it, I felt how
wonderfully well I had been treated, and what a great debt I owed of
kindness ; and it seemed to be only a nasty little pride which made me
so particular. And being so unable to settle for myself, I waited for
something to settle it.

Something came, in a way which I had not by any means expected.
I had told Suan Isco how glad I was that Firm had fixed his liking
steadily upon Miss Sylvester. If any woman on earth could be trusted
not to say a thing again, that one was this good Indian. Not only
because of her provident habits, but also in right of the difficulty which
encompassed her in our language. But she managed to get over both of
these, and to let Mr. Ephraim know, as cleverly as if she had lived in
drawing-rooms, whatever I had said about him. She did it for the best ;
but it put him in a rage, which he came at once to have out with me.

" And so, Miss Erema," he said, throwing down his hat upon the table
of the little parlour, where I sat with an old book of Norman ballads ;
" I have your best wishes then, have I, for a happy marriage with Miss
Sylvester?"

I was greatly surprised at the tone of his voice, while the flush on

1 32 EREMA.

his cheeks and the flash of his eyes, and even his quick heavy tread,
showed plainly that his mind was a little out of balance. He deserved
it, however, and I could not grieve.

" You have my best wishes," I replied demurely, " for any state of
life to which you may be called. You could scarcely expect any less of
me than that."

" How kind you are ! But do you really wish that I should marry
old Sylvester's girl 1 "

Firm, as he asked this question, looked so bitterly reproachful (as if
he were saying, " Do you wish to see me hanged 1 ") while his eyes took
a form which reminded me so of the Sawyer in a furious puzzle, that it
was impossible for me to answer as lightly as I meant to do.

" No, I cannot say, Firm, that I wish it at all ; unless your heart is

set on it "

"Don't you know then where my heart is set? " he asked me in a
deep voice, coming nearer, and taking the ballad-book from my hands.
" Why will you feign not to know, Erema, who is the only one I can
ever think of twice ? Above me, I know, in every possible way birth,
and education, and mind, and appearance, and now far above me in
money as well. But what are all these things ? Try to think, if only
you could like me. Liking gets over everything ; and without it, nothing
is anything. Why do I like you so, Ereina ? Is it because of your birth,
and teaching, and manners, and sweet looks, and all that ; or even
because of your troubles 1 "

" How can I tell, Firm, how can I tell 1 Perhaps it is just because
of myself. And why do you do it at all, Firm ? "

"Ah, why do I do it 1 ? How I wish I knew; perhaps then I might
cure it. To begin with, what is there, after all, so very wonderful about
you?"

" Oh nothing, I should hope. Most surely nothing. It would grieve
me to be at all wonderful. That I leave for American ladies."

" Now you don't understand me. I mean of course that you are
wonderfully good and kind, and clever ; and your eyes, I am sure, and
your lips, and smile, and all your other features there is nothing about
them that can be called anything else but wonderful."

" Now, Firm, how exceedingly foolish you are ! I did hope that you
knew better."

" Erema, I never shall know better. I never can swerve or change,
if I live to be a hundred-and-fifty. You think me presumptuous, no
doubt, from what you are brought up to. And you are so young, that
to seek to bind you, even if you loved me, would be an unmanly thing.
But now you are old enough, and you know your own mind surely well
enough, just to say, whether you feel as if you could ever love me as I
love you."

He turned away, as if he felt that he had no right to press me so,
and blamed himself for selfishness ; and I liked him better for doing

EKEMA. 133

that, than for anything he had done before. Yet I knew that I ought
to speak clearly, and though my voice was full of tears, I tried.

" Dear Firm," I said, as I took his hand, and strove to look at him
steadily, " I like and admire you very much ; and by and by by and
by, I might that is, if you did not hurry me. Of all the obstacles you
have mentioned, none is worth considering. I am nothing but a poor
castaway, owing my life to Uncle Sam and you. But one thing there is
which could never be got over, even if I felt as you feel towards me.
Never can I think of little matters, or of turning my thoughts to to
any such things as you speak of, as long as a vile reproach and wicked
imputation lies on me. And before even that, I have to think of my
father, who gave his life for me. Firm, I have been here too long
delaying, and wasting my time in trifles. I ought to have been in
Europe long ago. If I am old enough for what you talk of, I am old
enough to do my duty. If I am old enough for love, as it is called, I am
old enough for hate. I have more to do with hate than love, I think."

" Erema," cried Firm, " what a puzzle you are ! I never even
dreamed that you could be so fierce. You are enough to frighten Uncle
Sam himself."

" If I frighten you, Firm, that is quite enough. You see now how
vain it is to say another word."

"I do not see anything of the sort. Come back ; and look at me
quite calmly."

Being frightened at the way in which I had spoken, and having
passed the prime of it, I obeyed him in a moment, and came xip gently,
and let him look at me, to his liking. For little as I thought of such
things till now, I seemed already to know more about them, or at least
to wonder which is the stir of the curtain of knowledge. I did not say
anything, but laboured to think nothing, and to look up with unconscious
eyes. But Firm put me out altogether by his warmth, and made me
flutter like a stupid little bird.

" My darling," he said, smoothing back my hair, with a kindness
such as I could not resent, and quieting me with his clear blue eyes,
" you are not fit for the stormy life to which your high spirit is devoting
you. You have not the hardness and bitterness of mind, the cold self-
possession and contempt of others, the power of dissembling and the iron
will in a word, the fundamental nastiness, without which you never could
get through such a job. Why, you cannot be contemptuous even to me ! "

" I should hope not. I should earn your contempt, if I could."

" There, you are ready to cry at the thought. Erema, do not mistake
yourself. Remember that your father would never have wished it
would have given his life ten thousand times over, to prevent it. Why
did he bring you to this remote, inaccessible part of the world, except to
save you from further thought of evil ? He knew that we listen to no
rumours here, no social scandals, or malignant lies ; but we value people
as we find them. He meant this to be a haven for you ; and so it shall

134 EREMA.

be, if you will only rest ; and you shall be the queen, of it. Instead of
redressing his memoiy now, you would only distress his spirit. What
does he care for the world's gossip now 1 But he does care for your
happiness. I am not old enough to tell you things, as I should like to
tell them. I wish I could how I wish I could ! It would make all
the difference to me."

" It would make no difference, Firm, to me ; because I should know
it was selfishness. Not selfishness of yours, I mean, for you never could
be selfish but the vilest selfishness of mine, the same as starved my
father. Yon cannot see things as I see them, or else you would not talk
so. When you know that a thing is right, you do it. Can you tell me
otherwise ? If you did, I should despise you."

" If you put it so, I can say no more. You will leave us for ever,
Erema?"

" No, not for ever. If the good God wills it, I will come back, when
my work is done. Forgive me, dear Firm, and forget me."

" There is nothing to forgive, Ereiua. But a great deal I never can
hope to forget."

CHAPTER XVIII.
OUT OF THE GOLDEN GATE.

LITTLE things, or what we call little, always will come in among great
ones, or at least among those which we call great. Before I passed the
Golden Gate, in the clipper ship Bridal Veil (so called from one of the
Yosemite cascades) I found out what I had long wished to know, why
Firm had a crooked nose. At least, it could hardly be called crooked,
if anybody looked right at ib. But still it departed from the bold
straight line, which nature must have meant for it. everything else about
him being as right as could be required. This subject had troubled me
more than once ; though, of course, it had nothing whatever to do with
the point of view whence I regarded him.

Suan Isco could not tell me, neither could Martin of the mill ; I
certainly could not ask Firm himself, as the Sawyer told me to do, when
once I put the question, in despair, to him. But now, as we stood on
the wharf, exchanging farewells perhaps for ever, and tears of anguish
were in my eyes, and my heart was both full and empty, ample and un-
expected light was thrown on the curvature of Finn's nose.

For a beautiful girl, of about my own age and very nicely dressed,
came up, and spoke to the Sawyer (who stood at my side), and then
with a blush took his grandson's hand. Firm took off his hat to her
very politely, but allowed her to see perhaps by his manner that he was
particularly engaged just now ; and the young lady, with a quick glance
at me, walked off to rejoin her party. But a garrulous old negro servant,
who seemed to be in attendance upon her, ran up and caught Firm by
his coat, and peered up curiously at his face.

EKEMA. 1 35

"How young Massa's poor nose clis longtime? How him feel,
spose now again ] "- lie inquired with a deferential grin. " Young
Massa ebber able take a pinch of good snuff] He, he, Missy berry
heavy den. Missy no learn to dance de nose polka den ? "

" What on earth does he mean 1 " I could not help asking, in spite
of our sorrowful farewell, as the negro went on with sundry other jokes
and cackles at his own facetiousness. And then Uncle Sam, to divert
my thoughts, while I waited for signal to say good-bye, told me how
Firm got a slight twist to his nose.

Ephraim Grind ry had been well taught, in all the common things a
man should learn, at a good quiet school at " Frisco," which distinguished
itself from all other schools by not calling itself a college. And when
he was leaving, to begin home-life, with as much put into him as he
could manage for his nature was not bookish when he was just
seventeen years old, and tall, and straight, and upright, but not set into
great bodily strength, which could not yet be expected, a terrible fire
broke out in a great block of houses newly occupied, over against
the school-house front. Without waiting for master's leave or
matron's, the boys in the Californian style jumped over the fencing and
went to help. And they found a great crowd collected, and flames
flaring out of the top of the house. At the top of the house, according
to a stupid and therefore general practice, was the nursery, made of more
nurses than children, as often happens with rich people. The nurses
had run away for their lives, taking two of the children with them ; but
the third, a fine little girl of ten, had been left behind, and now ran to
the window, with red hot flames behind her. The window was open,
and barbs of fire, like serpent's tongues, played over it.

" Jump, child, jump, for God's sake, jump ! " cried half a hundred
people, while the poor scared creature quivered on the ledge, and shrank
from the frightful depth below. At last, stung by a scorching volley,
she gathered her nightgown tight, and leaped, trusting to the many
faces and the many arms raised towards her. But though many gallant
men were there, only one stood fast just where she fell, and that one was
the youth, Firm Gundry. Upon him she fell, like a stone from heaven,
and though he held up his arms, in the smoky glare, she came down
badly. Badly at least for him, but as her father said, providentially.
For one of her soles, or heels, alighted on the bridge of Ephraim's young
nose. He caught her on his chest, and forgetful of himself, he bore her
to her friends triumphantly, unharmed, and almost smiling. But the
symmetry of an important part of his face was spoiled for ever.

When I heard of this noble affair, and thought of my own pusillani-
mous rendering for verily I had been low enough, from rumours ot
Firm's pugnacity, to attribute these little defects of line to some fisticuffs
with some miner I looked at Firm's nose, through the tears in my
eyes, and had a great mind not to go away at all. For what is the
noblest of all things in man 1 as I bitterly learned thereafter, and already

136 EREMA.

had some guesses not the power of moving multitudes, with eloquence
or by orders, not the elevation of one tribe through the lowering of
others, nor even the imaginary lift of all, by sentiments as yet above
them ; there may be glory in all of these, but the greatness is not with
them. It remains with those who behave like Firm, and get their noses
broken.

However, I did not know those things, at that time of life, though I
thought it right for every man to be brave and good ; and I could not
help asking who the young lady was, as if that were part of the heroism.
The Sawyer, who never was unready for a joke, of however ancient
quality, gave a gi'eat wink at Firm (which I failed to understand), and
asked him how much the young lady was worth. He expected that
Firm would say, " Five hundred thousand dollars " which was about
her value, I believe and Uncle Sam wanted me to hear it ; not that he
eared a single cent himself, but to let me know what Firm could do.

Firm, however, was not to be led into any trap of that sort. Ho
knew me better than the old man did, and that nothing would stir me
to jealousy ; and he quite disappointed the Sawyer.

" I have never asked what she is worth," he said, with a glance of
contempt at money ; " but she scarcely seems worth looking -at, com-
pared compared with certain others."

In the distance I saw the young lady again, attempting no attraction,
but walking along quite harmlessly, with the talkative negro after her.
It would have been below me to pursue the subject, and I waited for
others to reopen it ; but I heard no more about her until I had been for
more than a week at sea, and was able again to feel interest. Then I
heard that her name was Annie Banks, of the firm of Heniker, Banks,
& Co., who owned the ship I sailed in.

But now it was nothing to me who she was, or how beautiful, or
how wealthy, when I clung for the last time to Uncle Sam, and im-
plored him not to forget me. Over and over again he promised to be
full of thoughts of me; even when the new mill was started, which
would be a most trying time. He bowed his tall white head into my
shevelled hair, and blessed and kissed me, although I never deserved it,
and a number of people were looking on. Then I laid my hand in
Firm's ; and he did not lift it to his lips, or sigh, but pressed it long and
softly, and looked into my eyes without a word. And I knew that
there would be none to love like them, wherever I might go.

But the last of all to say " Good-by " was my beloved Jowler. He
jumped into the boat after me (for we were obliged to have a boat, the
ship having laden further down), and he put his forepaws on my shoul-
ders, and whined, and drooped his under-jaw. And when he looked at
me, as he used, to know whether I was in fun or earnest, with more
expression in his bright brown eyes than any human being has, I fell
back under his weight and sobbed, and could not look at any one.

had beautiful weather and the view was glorious., as. we passed

EREMA. 137

the Golden Gate, the entrance to what will one day be the capital of the
world, perhaps. For, as our captain said, all power, and human energy
and strength are always going westward ; and when they come here
they must stop, or else they would be going eastward again, which they
never yet have done. His argument may have been right or wrong
and indeed it must have been one or the other but who could think of
such things now, with a grander thing than human power human love
fading away behind ? I could not even bear to see the glorious moun-
tains sinking, but ran below, and cried for hours, until all was dark and
calm.

The reason for my sailing by this particular ship, and indeed rather
suddenly, was that an old friend and Cornish cousin of Mr. Gundry,
who had spent some years in California, was now returning to England
by the Bridal Veil. This Avas Major Hockin, an officer of the British
army, now on half- pay, and getting on in years. His wife was going
home with him ; for their children were married and settled in England,
all but one now in San Francisco. And that one being well placed in the
firm of Heniker, Banks, & Co., had obtained for his father and mother
passage, upon favourable terms, which was as we say " an object to them."

For the Major, though admirably connected (as his kinship to
Colonel Gundry showed), and having a baronet not far off (if the twists
of the world were set aside), also having served his country, and received
a furrow on the top of his head, which made him brush his hair up,
nevertheless, or all the more for that, was as poor as a British officer
must be, without official sesame. How he managed to feed and teach a
large and not clever family, and train them all to fight their way in a
battle worse than any of his own, and make gentlemen and ladies of
them, whatever they did or wherever they went, he only knew, and his
faithful wife, and the Lord who helps brave poverty. Of such things he
never spoke, unless his temper was aroused by luxury, and self-
indulgence, and laziness.

But now he was a little better off, through having his children off his
hands, and by means of a little property left him by a distant relative.
He was on his way home to see to this ; and a better man never
returned to England, after always standing up for her.

Being a child in the ways of the world, and accustomed to large
people, I could not make out Major Hockin at first, and thought him.
no more than a little man, with many peculiarities. For he was not so
tall as myself, until he put his high-heeled boots on, and he made such a
stir about trifles at which Uncle Sam would have only grunted, that I
took him to be nothing more than a fidgety old campaigner. He wore a
black-rimmed double eyeglass with blue side-lights at his temples, and
h's hat, from the shape of his forehead, hung back ; he had narrow white
wiry whiskers, and a Roman nose, and most prominent chin, and keen grey
eyes with gingery brows, which contracted, like sharp little gables over
them, whenever anything displeased him. Rosy cheeks, tight-drawn,

138 EREMA.

close-shaven, and gleaming with friction of yellow soap, added vigour to
the general expression of his face, which was firm, and quick, and
straightforward. The weather being warm, and the tropics close at
hand. Major Hockin was dressed in a fine suit of Nankin, spruce and
trim, and beautifully made, setting off his spare and active figure, which,
though he was sixty-two years of age, seemed always to be ready for a
game of leapfrog.

We were three days out of the Golden Gate, and the hills of the
coast-ridge were faint and small, and the spires of the lower Nevada
could only be caught when the hot haze lifted ; and everybody lay about
in our ship where it seemed to afford the least smell and heat ; and
nobody for a moment di-eamed for we really all were dreaming of
anybody with energy enough to be disturbed about anything, when
Major Hockin burst in upon us all (who were trying not to be red-hot
in the feeble shade of poop-awnings), leading by the hand an ancient
woman, scarcely dressed with decency, and howling in a tone very sad
to hear.

" This lady has been robbed ! " cried the Major ; " robbed, not fifteen
feet below us. Robbed, ladies and gentlemen, of the most cherished
treasures of her life, the portrait of her only son, the savings of "a life of
honest toil, her poor dead husband's tobacco-box, and a fine cut of
Colorado cheese."

" Ten pounds and a quarter, gospel-true ! " cried the poor woman,
wringing her hands, and searching for any kind face among us.

" Go to the Captain," muttered one sleepy gentleman. " Go to the
devil," said another sleepy man ; " what have we to do with it 1 "

" I will neither go to the Captain," replied the Major, very distinctly,
" nor yet to the devil, as a fellow who is not a man has dared to suggest

/ x. OO

to me "

" All tied in my own pocket-handkerchief ! " the poor old woman
began to scream ; " the one with the three-cornered spots upon 'un.
Only two have I ever owned in all my life, and this were the veiy best
of 'em. Oh dear, oh dear, that ever I should come to this exposing of
my things ! "

" Madam, you shall have justice done, as sure as my name is
Hockin. Gentlemen and ladies, if you are not all asleep, how would
you like to be treated so 1 Because the weather is a trifle warm, there
you lie like a parcel of Mexicans. If anybody picked your pockets,
would you have life enough to roll over ? "

" I don't think I should," said a fat young Briton, with a very good-
natured face; "but for a poor woman I can stand upright. Major
Hockin, here is a guinea for her. Perhaps more of us will give a trifle."

" Well done ! " cried the Major ; " but not so much as that. Let us
first ascertain all the rights of the case. Perhaps half-a-crown apiece
would reach it."

Half-a-crown apiece would have gone beyond it, as we [discovered

ERE3L4. 139

afterwards ; for the old lady's handkerchief was in her lox, lost under
some more of her property ; and the tide of sleepy charity taking this
direction under such vehement impulse, several other steerage pas-
sengers lost their goods, but found themselves too late in doing so. But
the Major was satisfied, and the rude man who had told him to go amiss,
begged his pardon, and thus we sailed 011 slowly and peaceably. '

CHAPTER XIX.
INSIDE THE CHANNEL.

THAT little incident threw some light upon Major Hockin's character. It
was not for himself alone that he was so particular, or, as many would
call it, fidgety, to have everything done properly; for if anything came
to his knowledge which he thought unfair to any one, it concerned him
almost as much as if the wrong had been done to his own home self.
Through this he had fallen into many troubles, for his impressions
were not always accurate, but they taught him nothing ; or rather, as
his wife said, " the Major could not help it." The leading journals of
the various places in which Major Hockin sojourned had published his
letters of grievances sometimes, in the absence of the chief editor, and
had suffered in purse by doing so. But the Major always said, " Venti-
late it, ventilate the subject, my dear sir ; bring public opinion to bear
on it." And Mrs. Hockin always said that it was her husband to
whom belonged the whole credit of this new and spirited use of the fine
word " ventilation."

As betwixt this faithful pair, it is scarcely needful perhaps to say
that the Major was the master. His sense of justice dictated that, as
well as his general briskness. Though he was not at all like Mr. Gundry
in undervaluing female mind, his larger experience and more frequent
intercourse with our sex had taught him to do justice to us ; and it was
pleasant to hear him often defer to the judgment of ladies. But this he
did more perhaps in theory than in practice ; yet it made all the ladies
declare to one another that he was a perfect gentleman. And so he was ;
though he had his faults ; but his faults were such as we approve of.

But Mrs. Hockin had no fault in any way worth speaking of.
And whatever she had was her husband's doing, through her desire
to keep up with him. She was pretty, even now in her sixtieth year,
and a great deal prettier because she never tried to look younger.
Silver hair, and gentle eyes, and a forehead in which all the cares of
eight children had scarcely imprinted a wrinkle, also a kind expression
of interest in whatever was spoken of, with a quiet voice and smile, and
a power of not saying too much at a time, combined to make this lady
pleasant.

Without any fuss or declaration, she took me immediately under her
care ; and I doubt not that after two years passed in the society of

140 EREMA.

Suan Isco and the gentle Sawyer, she found many things in me to
amend, which she did by example and without reproof. She shielded
me also in the cleverest way from the curiosity of the saloon, which at
first was very trying. For the Bridal Veil being a well-known ship
both for swift passages and for equipment, almost every berth was-
taken, and when the weather was calm, quite a large assembly sat down
to dinner. Among these, of course, were some ill-bred people ; and my
youth and reserve, and self-consciousness, and so on, made my reluc-
tant face the mark for many a long and searching gaze. My own wish
had been not to dine thus in public; but hearing that my absence
would only afford fresh grounds for curiosity, I took my seat between
the Major and his wife, the former having pledged himself to the latter
to leave everything to her management. His temper was tried more
than once to its utmost which was not a very great distance but he
kept his word, and did not interfere ; and I having had some experience
with Firm, eschewed all perception of glances. And as for all words,
Mrs. Hockin met them with an obtuse obliqueness ; so that after a day
or two it was settled that nothing could be done about " Miss Wood."

It had been a very sore point to come to, and cost an unparalleled
shed of pride, that I should be shorn of two-thirds of my name, and be
called " Miss Wood," like almost anybody else. I refused to entertain
such a very poor idea, and clung to the name which had always been
mine for my father would never depart from it and I even burst into
tears, which would, I suppose, be called " sentimental ; " but still the
stern fact stared me in the face I must go as " Miss Wood," or not go
at all. Upon this Major Hockin had insisted ; and even Colonel Gun-
dry could not move him from his resolution.

Uncle Sam had done his utmost, as was said before, to stop me from
fishing to go at all ; but when he found my whole heart bent upon it,
and even my soul imperilled by the sense of neglecting life's chief duty,
his own stern sense of right came in, and sided with my prayers to him.
And so it was that he let me go, with pity for my youth and sex, but a
knowledge that I was in good hands, and an inborn, perhaps " Puritanical"
faith, that the Lord of all right would see to me.

The Major, on the other hand, had none of this. He differed from.
Uncle Sam as much as a trim-cut and highly-cultured garden-tree differs
from a great spreading king of the woods. He was not without a strict
sense of religion, especially when he had to inarch men to church ; and
he never even used a bad word, except when wicked facts compelled
him. When properly let alone, and allowed to nurse his own opinions,
he had a i-espectable idea that all things wepe certain' to be ordered for
the best ; but nothing enraged him so much as to tell him that, when
things went against him, or even against his predictions.

It was lucky for me, then, that Major Hockin had taken a most ad^
verse view of my case. He formed his opinions with the greatest haste,
and with the greatest perseverance stuck to them ; for he was the most,

EREMA. 141

generous of mankind, if generous means one quite full of his genus.
And in my little case, he had made up his mind, that the whole of the
facts were against me. " Fact," was his favourite word, and one which
ne always used with great effect; for nobody knows very well what it
means, as it does not belong to our language. And so when he said that
the facts were against me, who was there to answer that facts are not truth ?

This fast-set conclusion of his was known to me, not through himself,
but through his wife. For I could not yet bring myself to speak of the
things that lay close at my heart to him ; though I knew that he must
be aware of them. And he, like a gentleman, left me to begin. I could
often see that he was ready and quite eager to give me the benefit of his
opinion, which would only have turned me against him, and irritated
him perhaps with me. And having no home in England, or indeed, I
might say, anywhere, I was to live with the Major and his wife,
supposing that they could arrange it so, until I should discover rela-
tives.

We had a long and stormy voyage, although we set sail so fairly ; and
I thought that we never should round Cape Horn in the teeth of the
furious north-east winds : and after that we lay becalmed, I have no idea
in what latitude, though the passengersnow talked quite like seamen, at
least till the sea got up again. However, at last we made the English
Channel, in the dreary days of November, and after more peril there
than anywhere else, we were safely docked at Southampton. Here the
Major was met by two dutiful daughters, bringing their husbands and
children, and I saw more of family-life (at a distance) than had fallen to
my lot to observe before ; and although there were many little jars and
brawls and cuts at one another, I was sadly inclined to wish sometimes
for some brothers and sisters to quarrel with.

But having none to quarrel with, and none to love, except good Mrs.
Hockin, who went away by train immediately, I spent such a wretched
time in that town, that I longed to be back in the Bridal Veil in
the very worst of weather. The ooze of the shore and the reek of
the water, and the dreary flatness of the land around (after the glorious
heaven-clad heights, which made me ashamed of littleness), also the rough
stupid stare of the men, when I went about as an American lady may
freely do in America, and the sharpness of everybody's voice (instead of
the genial tones which those who cannot produce them call "nasal," but
which from a higher view are cordial) taken one after other, or all toge-
ther, these things made me think, in the first flush of thought, that Eng-
land was not a nice country. After a little while, I found that I had
been a great deal too quick ; as foreigners are with things which require
quiet comprehension. For instance, I was annoyed at having a stupid
woman put over me, as if I could not mind myself a cook, or a nurse, or
housekeeper, or something very useful in the Hockin family, but to me
a mere incumbrance, and (as I thought in my wrath sometimes), a spy.
What was I likely to do, or what was any one likely to do to me, in a

142 EREM*.

thoroughly civilised country, that I could not even stay in private lodg-
ings, where I had a great deal to think of, without this dull creature
being forced upon me ] But the Major so ordered it ; and I gave in.

There I must have stayed for the slowest three months ever passed
without slow starvation, finishing my growth, but not knowing how to
" form my mind," as I was told to do. Major HockLa came -down,
once or twice, to see me ; and though I did not like him, yet it was
almost enough to make me do so, to see a little liveliness. But I could
not and would not put up with a frightful German baron of music,
with a polished card like a toast-rack, whom the Major tried to impress
on me. As if I could stop to take music-lessons !

" Miss Wood," said Major Hockin, in his strongest manner, the last
time he came to see me : "I stand to you in loco parentis. That means,
with the duties, relationships, responsibilities, and what not, of the un-
fortunate I should say rather of the beloved parent deceased. I wish
to be more careful of you, than of a daughter of my own. A great deal
more careful, ten times, Miss Wood. I may say a thousand times more
careful, because you have not had the discipline which a daughter of
mine would have enjoyed. And you are so impulsive, when you take
an idea. You judge everybody by your likings. That leads fo error,
error, error."

" My name is not Miss Wood," I answered ; " my name is ' Erema
Castlewood.' Whatever need may have been on board ship for nobody
knowing who I am, surely I may have my own name now."

When anybody says " surely," at once up springs a question ; nothing
being sure, and the word itself at heart quite interrogative. The Major
knew all those little things, which manage women so manfully. So he
took me by the hand, and led me to the light, and looked at me.

I had not one atom of Russian twist, or dyed China-grass in my
hair, or even the ubiquitous aid of horse and cow ; neither in my face
or figure was I conscious of false presentment. The Major was welcome
to lead me to the light and to throw up all his spectacles, and gaze with
all his eyes. My only vexation was with myself, because I could not
keep the weakness which a stranger should not see out of my eyes ;
iipon sudden remembrance, who it was that used to have the right to
do such things to me. This it was, and nothing else, that made me
drop my eyes perhaps.

" There, there, my dear ! " said Major Hockin, in a softer voice than
usual ; " pretty fit you are to combat with the world, and defy the
world, and brave the world, and abolish the world or at least the
world's opinion ! ' Bo to a goose' you can say, my dear ; but no ' bo ' to
a gander. No, no, do quietly what I advise by-the-by, you have never
asked my advice ! "

I cannot have been hypocritical ; for of all things I detest that most ;
but in good faith I said, being conquered by the Major's relaxation of his
eyes

EREMA. 1 43

" Oh, why have you never offered it to me ? You knew that I never
could ask for it."

For the moment he looked surprised, as if our ideas had gone cross-
wise ; and then he remembered many little symptoms of my faith in his
opinions ; which was now growing inevitable, with his wife and daughters,
and many grandchildren all certain that he was a Solomon.

" Erema," he said, " you are a dear good girl, though sadly, sadly,
romantic. I had no idea that you had so much sense. I will talk with
you, Erema, when we both have leisure."

" I am quite at leisure, Major Hockin," I replied ; " and only too
happy to listen to you."

" Yes, yes, I dare say. You are in lodgings. You can do exactly
as you please. But I have a basin of ox-tail soup, a cutlet, and a wood-
cock waiting for me, at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. Bless me, I am five
minutes late already ! I will come and have a talk with you after-
wards."

" Thank you," I said ; " we had better leave it. It seems of no im-
portance, compared compared with "

" My dinner ! " said the Major ; but he was offended, and so was I a
little, though neither of vis meant to vex the other.

CHAPTEK XX.
BRUNTSEA.

IT would be unfair to Major Hockin to take him for an extravagant
man or a self-indulgent one, because of the good dinner he had ordered,
and his eagerness to sit down to it. Through all the best years of his
life he had been most frugal, abstemious, and self-denying, grudging
every penny of his own expense, but sparing none for his family. And
now, when he found himself so much better off, with more income and
less outlay, he could not be blamed for enjoying good things, with the
wholesome zest of abstinence.

For, coming to the point, and going well into the matter, the Major
had discovered that the " little property " left to him, and which he was
come to see to, really was quite a fine estate for any one who knew how
to manage it, and would not spare courage and diligence. And of these
two qualities he had such abundance, that without any outlet they might
have turned him sour.

The property lately devised to him by bis cousin, Sir Rufus Hockin,
had long been far more plague than profit to that idle baronet. Sir
Rufus hated all exertion/yet could not comfortably put up with the only
alternative extortion. Having no knowledge of his cousin Nick
(except that he was indefatigable), and knowing his own son to be lazier
even than himself had been, longing also to inflict even posthumous jus-
tice upon the land-agent, with the glad consent of his heir he left this

144 EREMA.

distant, fretful, and naked spur of land to his beloved cousin, Major
Nicholas Hockin.

The Major first heard of this unexpected increase of his belongings
while he was hoveling, in the land of gold, between his desire to specu-
late and his dread of speculation. At once he consulted our Colonel
Gundry, who met him by appointment at Sacramento ; and Uncle Sam
having a vast idea of the value of land in England, which the Major
naturally made the most of, now being an English landowner, they spent
a most pleasant evening, and agreed upon the line marked out by
Providence.

Thus it was that he came home, bringing (by kind arrangement) me,
who was much more trouble than comfort to him, and at first disposed
to be cold and curt. And thus it was that I was left so long in that
wretched Southampton, under the care of a very kind person who never
could understand me. And all this while (as I ought to have known,
without any one to tell me) Major Hockin was testing the value and
beating the bounds of his new estate, and prolonging his dinner from one
to two courses, or three if he had been travelling. His property was
large enough to afford him many dinners, and rich enough (when rightly
treated) to insure their quality.

Bruntsea is a quiet little village on the south-east coast of England, in
Kent or in Sussex, I am not sure which ; for it has a constitution of its
own, and says that it belongs to neither. It used to be a place of size
and valour, furnishing ships, and finding money for patriotic purposes.
And great people both embarked and landed, one doing this and the
other that ; though nobody seems to have ever done both, if history is to
be relied upon. The glory of the place is still preserved in a seal and
an immemorial stick, each of which is blest with marks as incomprehen-
sible as could be wished, though both are to be seen for sixpence. The
name of the place is written in more than forty different ways, they
say ; and the oldest inhabitant is less positive than the youngest how to
spell it.

This village lies in the mouth, or rather at the eastern end of the
mouth, of a long and wide depression among the hills, through which a
sluggish river wins its muddy consummation. This river once went far
along the sea-brink, without entering (like a child who is afraid to bathe),
as the Adnr does at Shoreham, and as many other rivers do. And in
those days, the mouth and harbour were under the cliff at Bruntsea ;
whence its seal and corporation, stick, and other blessings. But three
or four centuries ago the river was drawn by a violent storm, like a
badger from his barrel, and forced to come straight out and face the sea,
without any three miles of dalliance. The time-serving water made the
best of this, forsook its ancient bed (as classic nymphs and fountains used
to do), and left poor Bruntsea with a dry bank, and no haven for a
cockle-shell. A new port, such as it is, incrusted the fickle jaw of the
river ; piles were driven and earthworks formed, lest the water should

EEEMA. 1 45

return to its old love, and Bruntsea, as concerned her traffic, became but
a mark of memory. Her noble corporation never demanded their old
channel, but regarded the whole as the will of the Lord, and had the
good sense to insist upon nothing, except their time-honoured cere-
monies.

In spite of all these and tbeir importance, land became of no value there.
The owner of the Eastern Manor and of many ancient rights, having no
means of getting at them, sold them for an " old song," which they were;
and the buyer was one of the Hockin race, a shipwrecked mariner from
Cornwall, who had been kindly treated there, and took a fancy accord-
ingly. He sold his share in some mine to pay for it, settled here, and
died here ; and his son, getting on in the world, built a house, and took
to serious smuggling. In the chalk cliffs eastward he found holes of
honest value to him, capable of cheap enlargement (which the Cornish
holes were not), and much more accessible from France. Becoming a
magistrate and deputy-lieutenant, he had the duty and privilege of
inquiring into his own deeds, which enabled him to check those few who
otherwise might have competed with him. He flourished, and bought
more secure estates ; and his son, for activity against smugglers, was
made a gentle baronet.

These things now had passed away, and the first fee-simple of the
Hockin family became a mere load and incumbrance. Sir George, and
Sir Egbert, and Sir Rufus, one after another, did not like the hints
about contraband dealings which met them whenever they deigned to
come down there, till at last the estate (being left to an agent) cost a great
deal more than he ever paid in. And thus as should have been more
briefly told the owner was our Major Hockin.

No wonder that this gentleman, with so many cares to attend to, had
no time, at first, to send for me. And no wonder that when he came
down to see me, he was obliged to have good dinners. For the work
done by him in those three months surprised everybody except himself,
and made in old Bruntsea a stir unknown since the time of the Spanish
Armada. For he owned the house under the eastern cliff, and the
warren, and the dairy farm inland, and the slope of the ground where the
sea used to come, and fields where the people grew potatoes gratis,
and all the eastern village, where the tenants paid their rents whenever
they found it rational.

A hot young man, in a place like this, would have done a great deal
of mischief. Either he would have accepted large views, and applauded
this fine communism (if he could afford it, and had no wife), or else he
would have rushed at everybody headlong, and butted them back to their
abutments. Neither course would have created half the excitement
which the Major's did. At least, there might have been more talk at
first, but not a quarter so much in sum total. Of those things, how-
ever, there is time enough to speak, if I dare to say anything about them.

The things more to my mind (and therefore more likely to be. made

146 EREMA.

plain to another mind) are not the petty flickering phantoms of the
shadow we call human, and which alone we realise, and dwell inside it
and upon it, as if it were all creation ; but the infinitely nobler things of
ever-changing but perpetual beauty, and no selfishness. These, without
deigning to us even sense to be aware of them, shape our little minds and
bodies, and our large self-importance, and fail to know when the lord, or
king, who owns, is buried under them. To have perception of such mighty
truths is good for all of us ; and I never had keener perception of them
than when I sat down on the Major's camp-stool, and saw all his land
around me, and even the sea where all the fish were his, as soon as he
could catch them and largely reflected that not a square foot of the
whole world would ever belong to me.

" Bruntlands," as the house was called, perhaps from standing well
above the sea, was sheltered by the curve of the eastern cliff, which
looked down over Bruntsea. The cliff was of chalk, very steep towards
the sea, and showing a prominent headland towards the south, but
prettily rising in grassy curves from the inland and from the westward.
And then where it suddenly chined away from land-slope into sea-front, a
long bar of shingle began at right angles to it, and, as level as a railroad,
went to the river's mouth, a league or so now to the westward^ And
beyond that another line of white cliffs rose, and looked well till they
came to their headland. Inside this bank of shingle, from end to end,
might be traced the old course of the river, and to landward of that
trough at the hither end stood, or lay, the calm old village.

Forsaken as it was by the river, this village stuck to its ancient site
and home, and instead of migrating contracted itself, and cast off need-
less members. Shrunken Bruntsea clung about the oldest of its churches,
while the four others fell to rack and ruin, and settled into cow-yards
and barns, and places where old men might sifc and sigh. But Bruntsea
distinctly and trenchantly kept the old town's division into east and
west.

East Bruntsea was wholly in the Major's manor, which had a special
charter ; and most of the houses belonged to him. This ownership
hitherto had meant only that the landlord should do all the tumble-
down repairs (when the agent reported that they 4 must be done), but
never must enter the door for his rent. The borough had been dis-
franchised, though the snuggest of the snug for generations ; and the
freemen, thus being robbed of their rights, had no power to discharge
their duties. And to complicate matters yet further, for the few who
wished to simplify them, the custom of " borough-English " prevailed,
and governed the descent of dilapidations, making nice niceties for clever
men of law.

" You see a fine property here, Miss Wood," Major Hockin said to
me, as we sat, on the day after I was allowed to come, enjoying the
fresh breeze from the sea and the newness of the February air, and
looking abroad very generally ; " a very fine property, but neglected

EKEMA. 147

shamefully, horribly, atrociously neglected, but capable of noble things,
of grand things, of magnificent, with a trifle of judicious outlay !"

" Oh, please not to talk of outlay, my dear," said good Mrs. Hockin,
gently ; " it is such an odious word; and where in the world is it to come
from V

" Leave that to me. When I was a boy, my favourite copy in my
copy-book was, ' Where there's a will, there's a way.' Miss Wood, what
is your opinion 1 But, wait, you must have time to understand the
subject. First we bring a railway always the first step ; why, the line
is already made for it, by the course of the old river, and the distance
from Newport three miles and a half. It ought not to cost quite 200?.
a mile, the mere outlay for rails and sleepers. The land is all mine, and
and of course other landed proprietors'. Very well, these would all
unite, of course ; so that not a farthing need be paid for land, which is
the best half of the battle. We have the station here not too near my
house, that would never do I could not bear the noise but in a
fine central place where nobody on earth could object to it lively,
and close at hand for all of them. Unluckily I was just too late. We
have lost a parliamentary year through that execrable calm you
remember all about it. Otherwise we would have had Billy Puff
stabled at Brunt-sea by the first of May. But never mind ; we shall do
it all the better and cheaper by taking our time about it. Very well,
we have the railway opened, and the trade of the place developed. We
build a fine terrace of elegant villas, a crescent also, and a large hotel
replete with every luxury ; and we form the finest sea- parade in England
by simply assisting nature. Hah London comes down here to bathe, to
catch shrimps, to flirt, and to do all the rest of it. We become a select,
salubrious, influential, and yet economical place ; and then what do we
do, Mrs. Hockin I"

" My dear, how can I tell ] But I hope that we should rest and be
thankful."

" Not a "bit of it. I should hope not, indeed. Erema, what do we
do then 1"

" It is useless to ask me. Well, then, perhaps you set up a hand-
some sawmill 1 "

" A. sawmill ! What a notion of Paradise ! No, this is what we do
but remember that I speak in the strictest confidence ; dishonest anta-
gonism might arise, if we ventilated our ideas too soon Mrs. Hockin and
Miss Wood, we demand the restoration of our river ! the return of
our river to its ancient course."

"I see," said his wife ; "oh, how grand that would be; and how
beautiful from our windows ! That really, now, is a noble thought ! "

" A just one simply a just one. Justice ought not to be noble, my
dear, however rare it may be. Generosity, magnanimity, heroism, and
so on those are the things we call noble, my dear."

" And the founding of cities. Oh, my dear, I remember, when I was

148 EREMA.

at school, it was always said in what we called our histories, that the
founders of cities had honours paid them, and altars built, and divinities
done, and holidays held in their honour."

" To that I object," cried the Major, sternly. " If I founded fifty
cities, I would never allow one holiday. The Sabbath is enough ; one day
in seven fifteen per cent, of one's whole time ; and twenty per cent, of
your Sunday goes in church. Very right, of course, and loyal, and truly
edifying Mrs. Hockin's father was a clergyman, Miss Wood ; and the
last thing I would ever allow on my manor would be a dissenting
chapel ; but still I will have no new churches here, and a man who
might go against me. They all want to pick their own religious views,
instead of reflecting who supports them ! It never used to be so ; and
such things shall never occur on my manor. A good hotel, attendance
included, and a sound and moderate table d'hote ; but no church, with a
popish bag sent round, and money to pay, without anything to eat."

" My dear, my dear," cried Mrs. Hockin, " I never like you to talk
like that. You quite forget who my father was, and your own second
son such a very sound priest !"

" A priest ! don't let him come here," cried the Major ; " or I'll let
him know what tonsure is, and read him the order of Melchisedec. A
priest ! After going round the world three times, to come home and
be hailed as the father of a priest ! Don't let him come near me, or I'll
sacrifice him."

" Now, Major, you are very proud of him," his good wife answered,
as he shook his stick. " How could he help taking orders when he was
under orders to do so ? And his views are sound to the last degree,
most strictly correct and practical at least, except as to celibacy."

" He holds that his own mother ought never to have been born ! Miss
Wood, do you call that practical ?"

" I have no acquaintance with such things," I replied ; " we had none
of them in California. But is it practical, Major Hockin of course you
know best in your engineering I mean, would it not require something
like a tunnel for the river and the railway to run on the same ground ? "

" Why, bless me ! That seems to have escaped my notice. You
have not been with old Uncle Sam for nothing. We shall have to
appoint you our chief engineer."

CHAPTER XXI.
LISTLESS.

IT seemed an unfortunate thing for me, and unfavourable to my purpose,
that my host, and even my hostess too, should be so engrossed with their
new estate, its beauties and capabilities. Mrs. Hockin devoted herself
at once to fowls and pigs and the like extravagant economies, haviug
bought, at some ill-starred moment, a book which proved that hens

EfcEMA. 149

Ought to lay eggs in a manner to support themselves, their families, and
the family they belonged to, at the price of one penny a dozen. Eggs
being two shillings a dozen in Bruntsea, here was. a margin for profit no
less than two thousand per cent, to be made, allowing for all accidents.
The lady also found another book, divulging for a shilling the author's
purely invaluable secret how to work an acre of ground, pay house-
rent, supply the house grandly, and give away a barrow-load of vege-
tables every day to the poor of the parish, by keeping a pig if that pig
were kept properly. And after that, pork, and ham, and bacon came
of him ; while another golden pig went on.

Mrs. Hockin was very soft-hearted, and said that she never could
make bacon of a pig like that ; and I answered that if she ever got him
it would be unwise to do so. However, the law was laid down in both
books, that golden fowls and diamondic pigs must die the death before
they begin to over-eat production ; and the Major said, " To be sure.
Yes, yes. Let them come to good meat, and then off with their heads."
And his wife said that she was sure she could do it. When it comes to a
question of tare and tret, false sentiment must be excluded.

At the moment, these things went by me as trifles, yet made me
more impatient. Being older now, and beholding what happens with
tolerance and complacence, I am only surprised that my good friends
were so tolerant of me and so complacent. For I mxist have been a
great annoyance to them, with my hurry and my one idea. Happily,
they made allowance for me, which I was not old enough to make for them.
" Go to London, indeed ! Go to London by yourself ! " cried the
Major, with a red face, and his glasses up, when I told him one morning
that I could stop no longer without doing something. " Mary, my dear,
when you have done out there, will you come in and reason if you can
with Miss Wood ? She vows that she' is going to London, all alone."
"Oh, Major Hockin oh, Nicholas dear, such a thing has hap-
pened ! " Mrs. Hockin had scarcely any breath to tell us, as she came
in through the window. "You know that they have only had three
bushels, or, at any rate, not more than five, almost ever since they came.
Erema, you know as well as I do."

" Seven and three quarter bushels of barley, at five and ninepence a
bushel, Mary," said the Major, pulling out a pocket-book; "besides
Indian corn, chopped meat, and potatoes !"

" And fourteen pounds of paddy," I said, which was a paltry thing of
me ; " not to mention a cake of graves, three sacks of brewers' grains,
and then I forget what next."

" You are too bad, all of you. Erema, I never thought you would
turn against me so. And you made me get nearly all of it. But please
to look here. What do you call this ? Is this no reward 1 Is this not
enough ? Major, if you please, what do you call this ] What a pity
you have had your breakfast ! "

" A blessing if this was to be my breakfast. I call that, my dear,

150 EEEMA.

the very smallest egg I have seen since I took sparrows' nests. No
wonder they sell them at twelve a penny. I congratulate you upon your
first egg, my dear Mary."

"Well, I don't care," replied Mrs. Hockin, who had the sweetest
temper in the world. "Small beginnings make large endings; and an
egg must be always small at one end. You scorn my first egg, and
Erema should have had it, if she had been good. But she was very
wicked, and I know not what to do with it."

" Blow it ! " cried the Major. " I mean no harm, ladies. I never
use low language. What I mean is, make a pin hole at each end, give
a puff, and away goes two pennyworth, and you have a cabinet speci-
men, which your egg is quite, fitted by its cost to be. But now, Mary,
talk to Miss Wood, if you please. It is useless for me to say anything,
and I have three appointments in the town " he always called it " the
town " now " three appointments, if not four ; yes, I may certainly say
four. Talk to Miss Wood, my dear, if you please. She wants to go to
London, which would be absurd. Ladies seem to enter into ladies'
logic. They seem to be able to appreciate it better, to see all the turns
and the ins and outs, which no man has intellect enough to see, or at
least to make head or tail of. Good-by for the present ; I had better
be off."

" I should think you had," exclaimed Mrs. Hockin, as her husband
marched off, with his side-lights on, and his short, quick step, and wcll-
satisfied glance at the hill which belonged to him, and the beach, over
which he had rights of plunder or, at least, Uncle Sam would have
called them so, strictly as he stood up for his own.

" Now come and talk quietly to me, my dear," Mrs. Hockin began,
most kindly, forgetting all the marvel of her first-born egg. " I have
noticed how restless you are, and devoid of a\l healthy interest in any-
thing. 'Listless' is the word. 'Listless' is exactly what I mean,
Erema. When I was at your time of life, I could never have gone
about caring for nothing. I wonder that you knew that I even had a
fowl ; much more how much they had eaten ! "

" I really do try to do all I can, and that is a proof of it," I said.
"I am not quite so listless a3 you think. But those things do seem so
little to me."

"My dear, if you were happy, they would seem qiiite large, as, after
all the anxieties of my life, I am able now to think them. It is a power
to be thankful for ; or, at least, I often think so. Look at my husband !
He has outlived and outlasted more trouble than anyone, but myself, could
reckon up to him ; and yet he is as brisk, as full of life, as ready to begin
a new thing to-morrow when at our age there may be no to-morrow,
except in that better world, my dear, of which it is high time for him
and me to think ; as I truly hope we may spare the time to do."

" Oh, don't talk like that," I cried. "Please, Mrs. Hockin, to think
of your hens and chicks at least there will be chicks by and-by. I

EREMA. 151

am almost sure there will, if you only persevere. It seems unfair to set
our minds on any other world, till justice has been done in this."

'' You are very young, my child, or you would know that in that
case we never should think of it at all. But I don't want to preach you
a sermon, Ererna, even if I could do so. I only just want you to tell me
what you think, what good you imagine that you can do."

" It is no imagination. I am sure that I can right my father's wrongs.
And I never shall rest till I do so."

" Are you sure that there is any wrong to right 1 " she asked in the
warmth of the moment, and then, seeing perhaps how my colour changed,
she looked at me sadly, and kissed my forehead.

" Oh, if you had only once seen him," I said ; " without any exaggera-
tion, you would have been satisfied at once. That he could ever have done
any barm was impossible, utterly impossible. I am not as I was. I
can listen to almost anything now quite calmly. But never let me hear
such a wicked thing again."

" You must not go on like that, Erema, unless you wish to lose all
your friends. No one can help being sorry for you. Very few girls
have been placed as you are. I am sure when I think of my own
daughters, I can never be too thankful. But the very first thing you
have to learn, above all things, is to control yourself."

" I know it I know it, of course," I said ; " and I keep on trying
my very best. I am thoroughly ashamed of what I said, and I hope
you will try to forgive me."

" A very slight exertion is enough for that. But now, my dear,
what I want to know is this and you will excuse me if I ask too
much. What good do you expect to get by going thus to London ?
Have you any friend there, anybody to trust, anything settled as to what
you are to do 1 "

" Yes, eveiy thing is settled in my own mind," I answered very
bravely; " I have the address of a very good woman, found among my
father's papers, who nursed his children, and understood his nature, and
always kept her faith in him. There must be a great many more who do
the same, and she will be sure to know them and introduce me to them;
and I shall be guided by their advice."

" But suppose that this excellent woman is dead, or not to be found,
or has changed her opinion."

" Her opinion she never could change. But if she is not to be found,
I shall find her husband, or her children, or somebody. And besides
that, I have a hundred things to do. I have the address of the agent
through whom my father drew his income, though Uncle Sam let me
know as little as he could. And I know who his bankers were (when,
he had a bank), and he may have left important papers there."

" Come, that looks a little more sensible, my dear ; bankers may
always be relied upon. And there may be some valuable plate, Erema.
But why not let the Major go with you 1 ? His advice is so invaluable."

152 EREMA.

" I know that it is, in all ordinary things. But I cannot have him
now for a very simple reason. He has made up his mind about my dear
father horribly, horribly ; I can't speak of it. And he never changes
his mind ; and sometimes when I look at him, I hate him."

" Erema, you are quite a violent girl, although you so seldom show
it. Is the whole world divided then into two camps those who think as
you wish, and those who are led by their judgment to think otherwise ?
And are you to hate all who do not think as you wish ] "

" No, because I do not hate you," I said ; " I love you, though you do
not think as I wish. But that is only beciiuse you think your husband
must be right of course. But I cannot like those who have made up
their minds, according to their own coldness."

"Major Hockinis not cold at all. On the contrary he is a warm-
hearted man -I might almost say hot-hearted."

" Yes, I know he is. And that makes it ten times worse. He takes
up everybody's case but mine."

" Sad as it is, you almost make me smile, " my hostess answered
gravely ; " and yet it must be very bitter for you, knowing how just
and kind my husband is. I am sure that you will give him credit for at
least desiring to take your part. And doing so, at least you might let
him go with you, if only as a good protection."

" I have no fear of any one ; and I might take him into society that
he would not like. In a good cause he would go anywhere, I know. But
in my cause, of course, he would be scrupulous. Your kindness I always
can rely upon, and I hope in the end to earn his as well."

" My dear, he has never been unkind to you. I am certain that you
never can say that of him. Major Hockin unkind to a poor girl like
you ! "

" The last thing I wish to claim is anybody's pity," I answered, less
humbly than I should have spoken, though the pride was only in my
tone perhaps. " If people choose to pity me, they are very good, and I
am not at all offended, because because they cannot help it perhaps, from
not knowing anything about me. I have nothing whatever to be pitied
for, except that I have lost my father, and have nobody left to care for
me, except Uncle Sain in Americtx."

" Your Uncle Sam, as you call him, seems to be a very wonderful
man, Erema," said Mrs. Hockin, craftily, so far as there could be any
craft in her ; l ' I never saw him a great loss on my part. But the
Major went up to meet him somewhere, and came home with the stock
of his best tie broken, and two buttons gone from his waistcoat. Does
Uncle Sam make people laugh so much 1 Or is it that he has some ex-
traordinary gift of inducing people to taste whisky ] My husband is a
very most abstemious man, as you must be well aware, Miss Wood, or
tve never should have been as we are, I am sure. But, for the first time in
all my life, I doubted his discretion, on the following day, when he had

EBfcMA. 153

what shall I say 1 when he had been exchanging sentiments with
Uncle Sam!"

" Uncle Sam never takes too much in any way," I replied to this
new attack ; " he knows what he ought to take, and then he stops. Do
you think that it may have been his ' sentiments,' perhaps, that were
too strong and large for the Major ? "

" Erema ! " cried Mrs. Hockin, with amazement, as if I had no right to
think or express my thoughts in life so early ; " if you can talk politics
at eighteen, you are quite fit to go anywhere. I have heard a great deal
of American ladies, and seen not a little of them, as you know. But I
thought that you called yourself an English girl, and insisted particularly
upon it."

" Yes, that I do ; and I have good reason. I am born of an old
English family, and I hope to be no disgrace to it. But being brought
up in a number of ways, as I have been without thinking of it, and
being quite diffei'ent from the fashionable girls Major Hockin likes to
walk with "

" My dear, he never walks with anybody but myself ! "

" Oh yes, I remember ! I was thinking of the deck. There are no
fashionable girls here yet. Till the terrace is built, and the espla-
nade "

" There shall be neither terrace, nor esplanade, if the Major is to do
such things upon them."

"I am sure that he never would," I replied; "it was only their
dresses that he liked at all, and that very, to my mind, extraordinary
style, as well as unbecoming. You know what I mean, Mrs. Hockin,
that wonderful what shall I call it ? way of looping up "? "

" Call me ' Aunt Mary,' my dear, as you did when the waves were
so dreadful. You mean that hideous Mexican poncho, as they called it,
stuck up here and going down there. Erema, what observation you
have ! Nothing ever seems to escape you. Did you ever see anything
so indecorous 1 "

" It made me feel just as if I ought not to look at them," I answered,
with perfect truth, for so it did ; " I have never been accustomed to
such things. But seeing how the Major approved of them, and liked to
be walking up and down between them, I knew that they must be not
only decorous, but attractive. There is no appeal from his judgment, is
there?"

" I agree with him upon every point, my dear child ; but I have
always longed to say a few words about that. For I cannot help think-
ing that he went too far."

VOL. xxxv. NO. 206. 8.

154

0*trs n a

XIV. FIELDING'S NOVELS.

A DOUBLE parallel lias often been pointed out between the two pairs of
novelists who were most popular in the middle of our own and of the
preceding century. The intellectual affinity which made Smollett the
favourite author of Dickens is scarcely so close as that which com-
mended Fielding to Thackeray. The resemblance between Pickwick and
Humphrey Clinker, or between David Copperfield and Roderick Random,
consists chiefly in the exuberance of animal spirits, the keen eye for
external oddity, the consequent tendency to substitute caricature for por-
trait, and the vivid transformation of autobiography into ostensible
fiction which are characteristic of both authors. Between Fielding and
Thackeray the resemblance is closer. The peculiar irony of Jonathan
Wild has its closest English parallel in Barry Lyndon. The burlesque
in Tom Thumb of the Lee and Dryden school of tragedy may remind us
of Thackeray's burlesques of Scott and Dumas. The characters of the
two authors belong to the same family. Vanity Fair has grown more
decent since the days of Lady Bellaston, but the costume of the actoi^s
has changed more than their nature. Rawdon Crawley would not have
been surprised to meet Captain Booth in a sponging-house ; Shandon and
his friends preserved the old traditions of Fielding's Grub Street ; Lord
Steyne and Major Pendennis were survivals from the more congenial
period of Lord Fellamar and Colonel James ; and the two Amelias re-
present cognate ideals of female excellence. Or, to take an instance of
similarity in detail, might not this anecdote from The Covent Garden
Journal have rounded off a paragraph in the Snob Papers ? A friend of
Fielding saw a dirty fellow in a rnudcart lash another with his whip,
saying, with an oath, " I will teach you manners to your betters."
Fielding's friend wondered what could be the condition of this social
inferior of a mu dear-driver, till he found him to be the owner of a dust-
cart driven by asses. The great butt of Fielding's satire is, as he tells us,
affectation ; the affectation which he specially hates is that of straitlaced
morality ; Thackeray's satire is more generally directed against the par-
ticular affectation called snobbishness ; but the evil principle attacked by
either writer is merely one avatar of the demon assailed by the other.

The resemblance, which extends in some degree to style, might per-
haps be shown to imply a very close intellectual affinity. I am content,
however, to notice the literary genealogy as illustrative of the fact that

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 155

Fielding was the ancestor of one great race of novelists. " I am," he
says expressly in Tom Jones, " the founder of a new province of writing."
Richardson's Clarissa* and Smollett's Roderick Random were indeed
published before Tom Jones ; but the provinces over which Richardson
and Smollett reigned were distinct from the contiguous province of which
Fielding claimed to be the first legislator. Smollett (who comes nearest)
professed to imitate Gil Bias as Fielding professed to imitate Cervantes.
Smollett's story inherits from its ancestry a reckless looseness of con-
struction. It is a series of anecdotes strung together by the accident
that they all happen to the same person. Tom Jones, on the contrary,
has a carefully constructed plot, if not, as Coleridge asserts, one of the
three best plots in existence (its rivals being JEdipus Tyranmts and
The Alchemist], Its excellence depends upon the skill with which it is
made subservient to the development of character and the thoroughness
with which the working motives of the persons involved have been
thought out. Fielding claims even ostentatiously that he is writing a
history, not a romance ; a history not the less true because all the facts
are imaginary ; for the fictitious incidents serve to exhibit the most
general truths of human character. It is by this seriousness of purpose
that his work is distinguished from the old type of novel, developed by
Smollett, which is but a collection of amusing anecdotes ; or from such
work as De Foe's, in which the external facts are given with an almost
provoking indifference to display of character and passion. Fielding's
great novels have a true organic unity as well as a consecutive story, and
are intended in our modern jargon as genuine studies in physiological
analysis.f

Johnson, no mean authority when in his own sphere and free from
personal bias, expressly traversed this claim ; he declared that there was
more knowledge of the human heart in a 'letter of Clarissa than in the
whole of Tom Jones ; and said more picturesquely, that Fielding could
tell the hour by looking at the dial-plate, whilst Richardson knew how
the clock was made. It is tempting to set -this down as a Johnsonian
prejudice, and to deny or retort the comparison. Fielding, we might
say, paints flesh and blood ; whereas Richardson consciously constructs
his puppets out of frigid abstractions. Lovelace is a bit of mechanism ;
Tom Jones a human being. In fact, however, such comparisons are
misleading. Nothing is easier than to find an appropriate ticket for the
objects of our criticism, and summarily pigeon-hole Richardson as an
idealist and Fielding as a realist ; Richardson as subjective and morbid ;
Fielding as objective and full of coarse health ; or to attribute to either
of them the deepest knowledge of the human heart. These are the mere

* Eichardson wrote the first part of Pamela between November 10, 1739, and
January 10, 1740. Joseph Andrews appeared in 1742. The first four volumes of
Clarissa Harlowe and Roderick Random appeared in the beginning of 1748; Tom
Jones in 1749.

f See some appreciative remarks upon this in Scott's preface to the Monastery.

156 HOURS IN A LIBRARY.

banalities of criticism. ; and I can never hear them without a suspicion
that a professor of {esthetics is trying to hoodwink me by a bit of tech-
nical platitude. The cant phrases which have been used so often by
panegyrists too lazy to define their terms, have become almost as mean-
ingless as the complimentary formulae of society.

Knowledge of the human heart in particular is a phrase which covers
very different states of mind. It may mean that power by which the
novelist or dramatist identifies himself with his characters ; sees through
their eyes and feels with their senses : it is the product of a rich nature, a
vivid imagination, and great powers of sympathy, and draws a compara-
tively small part of its resources from external experience. The novelist
knows how his characters would feel under given conditions, because he
feels it himself ; he sees from within, not from without ; and is almost
undergoing an actual experience instead of condensing his observations
on life. This is the power in which Shakspeare is supreme; which
Richardson proved himself, in his most powerful passages, to possess in
no small degree ; and which in Balzac seems to have generated fits of
absolute hallucination.

Fielding is not devoid of this power, as no great imaginative work
can be possible without it ; but the knowledge for which he is specially
conspicuous differs almost in kind. This knowledge is drawn from ob-
servation rather than intuitive sympathy. It consists in great part of
those weighty maxims which a man of keen powers of observation stores
up in his passage through a varied experience. It is the knowledge of
Ulysses, who has known

Cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments ;

the knowledge of a Machiavelli, who has looked behind the screen of
political hypocrisies; the knowledge of which" the essence is distilled in
Bacon's Essays; or the knowledge of which Polonius seems to have
retained many shrewd scraps even when he had fallen into his dotage.
In reading Clarissa or Eugenie Grandet we are aware that the soul of
Richardson or Balzac has transmigrated into another shape; that the
author is projected into his character, and is really giving us one phase
of his own sentiments. In reading Fielding we are listening to remarks
made by a spectator instead of an actor ; we are receiving the pithy
recollections of the man about town ; the prodigal who has been with
scamps in gambling-houses, and drunk beer in pothouses and punch with
country squires; the keen observer who has judged all characters, from
Sir Robert Walpole down to Betsy Canning ; * who has fought the hard
battle of life with unflagging spirit, though with many falls ; and who,
in spite of serious stains, has preserved the goodness of his heart and the

* Fielding blundered rather strangely in the celebrated Betsy Canning case, as
Balzac did in the Affaire Peytel ; but the story is too long for repetition in this
plnce.

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 157

soundness of his head. The experience is generally given in the shape of
typical anecdotes rather than in explicit maxims; but it is not the less
distinctly the concentrated essence of observation, rather than the spon-
taneous play of a vivid imagination. Like Balzac, Fielding has portrayed
the Gomedie Humaine ; but his imagination has never overpowered the
coolness of his judgment. He shows a siiperiority to his successor in
fidelity almost as marked as his inferiority in vividness. And, therefore,
it may be said in passing, it is refreshing to read Fielding at a time when
this element of masculine observation is the one thing most clearly wanting
in modern literatm*e. Our novels give us the emotions of young ladies,
which, in their way, are very good things ; they reflect the sentimental
view of life, and the sensational view, and the common-place view, and the
high philosophical view. One thing they do not tell us. What does the
world look like to a shrewd police-magistrate, with a keen eye in his
head and a sound heart in his bosom? It might be worth knowing.
Perhaps (who can tell ?) it would still look rather like Fielding's world.

The peculiarity is indicated by Fielding's method. Scott, who, like
Fielding, generally describes from the outside, is content to keep himself
in the back ground. " Here," he says to his readers, " are the facts ;
make what you can of them." Fielding will not efface himself; he is
always present as chorus ; he tells us what moral we ought to draw ;
he overflows with shrewd remarks, given in their most downright shape,
instead of obliquely suggested through the medium of anecdote ; he likes
to stop us as we pass through his portrait-gallery ; to take us by the
button-hole and expound his views of life and his criticisms on things in
general. His remarks are often so admirable that we prefer the interpo-
lations to the main current of narrative. Whether this plan is the best
must depend upon the idiosyncrasy of the author ; but it goes some way
to explain one problem, over which Scott puzzles himself, namely, why
Fielding's plays are so inferior to his novels. There are other reasons,
external and internal ; but it is at least clear that a man who can never
retire behind his puppets is not in the dramatic frame of mind. He is
always lecturing where a dramatist must be content to pull the wires.
Shakspeare is really as much present in his plays as Fielding in his
novels ; but he does not let us know it ; whereas the excellent Fielding
seems to be quite incapable of hiding his broad shoulders and lofty
stature behind his little puppet-show.

There are, of course, actors in Fielding's world who can be trusted to
speak for themselves. Tom Jones, at any rate, who is Fielding in his
youth, or Captain Booth, who is the Fielding of later years, are drawn
from within. Their creator's sympathy is so close and spontaneous that
he has no need of his formula) and precedents. But elsewhere he betrays
his method by his desire to produce his authority. You will find the
explanation of a certain line of conduct, he says, in " human nature, page
almost the last." He is a little too fond of taking down that volume
with a nourish ; of exhibiting his familiarity with its pages, and referring

158 HOURS IN A LIBRARY.

to the passages which justify his assertions. Fielding has an odd touch
of the pedant. He is fond of airing his classical knowledge ; and he is
equally fond of quoting this imaginary code which he has had to study so
thoroughly and painfully. The effect, however, is to give an air of arti-
ficiality to some of his minor characters. They show the traces of
deliberate composition too distinctly, though the blemish may be forgiven
in consideration of the genuine force and freshness of his thinking. If
manufactured articles, they are not second-hand manufactures. His
knowledge, tinlike that of the good Parson Adams, comes from life,
not books.

The worldly wisdom for which Fielding is so conspicuous had indeed
been gathered in doubtful places, and shows traces of its origin. He had
been forced, as he said, to choose between the positions of a hackney
coachman and of a hackney writer. " His genius," said Lady M. W.
Montague, who records the saying, " deserves a better fate." Whether
it would have been equally fertile, if favoured by more propitious sur-
roundings, is one of those fruitless questions which belongs to the
boundless history of the might-have-beens. But one fact requires to be
emphasised. Fielding's critics and biographers have dwelt far too exclu-
sively upon the uglier side of his Bohemian life. They have presented
him as yielding to all the temptations which can mislead keen powers of
enjoyment, when the purse is one day at the lowest ebb and the next
overflowing with the profits of some lucky hit at the theatre. Those
unfortunate yellow liveries which contributed to dissipate his little
fortune have scandalised posterity as they scandalised his country neigh-
bours. He has come to be one of the examples of that sagacious school
who hold that a man of genius ought to be a scamp. But it is essential
to remember that the history of the Fielding of later years, the Fielding
to whom we owe the novels, is the record df a manful and persistent
struggle to escape from the mire of Grub Street. During that peiiod he
was studying the law with the energy of a young student ; redeeming
the office of magistrate from the discredit into which it had fallen in the
hands of fee-hunting predecessors ; considering seriously, and making
practical proposals to remedy, the evils which then made the lowest social
strata a hell upon earth ; sacrificing his last chances of health and life to
put down with a strong hand the robbers who then infested the streets
of London ; and clinging with affection to his wife and children. He
never got fairly clear of that lamentable slough of despond into which
his follies had plunged him. His moral tone lost what delicacy it had
once possessed ; he had not the strength which enabled Johnson to gain
elevation even from the temptations which then beset the unlucky "author
by profession." Some literary hacks of the day escaped only by selling
themselves, body and soul ; others sank into misery and vice, like poor
Boyce, a fragment of whose poem has been preserved by Fielding, and
who appears in literary history scribbling for pay in a sack arranged to
represent a shirt. Fielding never let go his hold of the firm hand,

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 159

though he must have felt through life like one whose feet are always
plunging into a hopeless quagmire. To describe him as a mere reckless
Bohemian is to overlook the main facts of his story. He was manly to
the last, not in the sense in which man means animal ; but with the
manliness of one who struggles bravely to redeem early errors, and who
knows the value of independence, purity, and domestic affection. The
scanty anecdotes which do duty for his biography reveal little of his true
life. We know indeed, from a spiteful and obviously exaggerated story of
Horace Walpole's, that he once had a very poor supper in doubtful com-
pany ; and from another anecdote, of slightly apocryphal flavour, that he
once gave to " friendship " the money which ought to have been given to
the collector of rates. But really to know the man, we must go to his
books.

What did Fielding learn of the world which had treated him so
roughly ] That the world must be composed of fools because it did not
bow before his genius, or of knaves because it did not reward his honesty ?
Men of equal ability have drawn both those and the contradictory con-
clusions from experience. Human nature, as philosophers assure us,
varies little from age to age ; but the pictures drawn by the best
observers vary so strangely as to convince us that a portrait depends as
much upon the artist as upon the sitter. One can see nothing but the
baser, and another nothing but the nobler, passions. To one the world
is like a masque representing the triumph of vice ; and another placidly
assures us that virtue is always rewarded by peace of mind, and that
even the temporary prosperity of the wicked is an illusion. On one
canvas we see a few great heroes stand out from a multitude of pygmies ;
on its rival, giants and dwarfs appear to have pretty much the same
stature. The world is a scene of unrestrained passions, impelling their
puppets into collision or alliance without intelligible design ; or a scene
of domestic order, where an occasional catastrophe interferes as little
with ordinary lives as a comet with the solar system. Blind fate
governs one world of the imagination, and beneficent Providence another.
The theories embodied in poetry vary as widely as the philosophies on
which they are founded ; and to philosophise is to declare the funda-
mental assumptions of half the wise men of the world to be transparent
fallacies.

We need not here attempt to reconcile these apparent contradictions.
As little need we attempt to settle Fielding's philosophy, for it resembles
the snakes in Iceland. It seems to have been his opinion that philosophy
is, as a rule, a fine word for humbug. That was a common conviction of
his day ; but his acceptance of it doubtless indicates the limits of his
power. In his pages we have the shrewdest observation of man in his
domestic relations ; but we scarcely come into contact with man as he ap-
pears in presence of the infinite, and therefore with the deepest thoughts and
loftiest imaginings of the great poets and philosophers. Fielding remains
inflexibly in the regions of common-sense and every-day experience. But

160 HOURS IN A LIBRARY.

he has given an emphatic opinion of that part of the world which was
visible to him, and it is one worth knowing. In a remarkable conversa-
tion, reported in Boswell, Burko and Johnson, two of the greatest of
Fielding's contemporaries, seem to have agreed that they had found men
less just and more generous than they could have imagined. People
begin by judging the world from themselves, and it is therefore natural
that two men of great intellectual power should have expected from their
fellows a more than average adherence to settled principles. Thus
Johnson and Burke discovered that reason, upon which justice depends,
has less influence than a young reasoner is apt to fancy. On the other
hand, they discovered that the blind instincts by which the mass is
necessarily guided are not so bad as they are represented by the cynics
who have concentrated their experience into the one maxim, Keep your
pockets buttoned. In spite of much that has been said, that kind of
wisdom is very easily learnt, and is more often the product of the pre-
mature wisdom affected by youth than of a ripened judgment. Good-
hearted men, like Johnson and Burke, shake off cynicism whilst others
are acquiring it.

Fielding's verdict seems to differ at first sight. He undoubtedly lays
great stress upon the selfishness of mankind. He seldom admits of an
apparently generous action without showing its alloy of selfish motive,
and sometimes showing that it is a mere cloak for selfish motives. In a
characteristic passage of his Voyage to Lisbon he applies his theory to his
own case. When the captain falls on his knees, he will not suffer a
brave man and an old man to remain for a moment in that posture, but
forgives him at once. He hastens, however, utterly to disclaim all
praise, on the ground that his true motive was simply the convenience of
forgiveness. " If men were wiser," he adds, " they would be oftener
influenced by that motive." This kind of inverted hypocrisy, which may
be graceful in a man's own case (for nobody will doubt that Fielding was
less guided by calculation than he asserts), is not so graceful when applied
to his neighbours. And perhaps some readers may hold that Fielding
pitches the average strain of human motive too low. I should rather
surmise that he substantially agrees with Johnson and Burke. The selfish-
ness of most men's actions is one of the primary data of life. It is a thing
at which we have no more right to be astonished than at the fact that
even saints and martyrs have to eat and drink like other persons, or that
a sound digestion is the foundation of much moral excellence. It is one
of those facts which people of a romantic turn of mind may choose to
overlook, but which no honest observer of life can seriously deny. Our
conduct is determined through some thirty points of the compass by our
own interest ; and, happily, through at least nine-and-twenty of those
points is rightfully so determined. Each man is forced, by an unavoid-
able necessity, to look after his own and his children's bread and butter,
and to spend most of his efforts on that innocent end. So. long as he
does not pursue his interests wrongfully, nor remain dead to other calls

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 1G1

when they happen, there is little cause for complaint, and certainly there
is none for surprise.

Fielding recognises, but never exaggerates, this homely truth. He
Inn* a hearty and generous belief in the reality of good impulses, and the
existence of thoroughly unselfish men. The main actors in his world
are not, as in Balzac's, mere hideous incarnations of selfishness. The
superior sanity of his mind keeps him from nightmares, if its calmness is
unfavourable to lofty visions. With Balzac women like Lady Bellaston
become the rule instead of the exception, and their evil passions are the
dominant forces in society. Fielding, though he recognises their
existence, tells us plainly that they are exceptional. Society, he says, is
as moral as ever it was, and given more to frivolity than to vice * a
statement judiciously overlooked by some of the critics who want to
make " graphic " history out of his novels. Fielding's mind had
gathered coarseness, but it had not been poisoned. He sees how many
ugly things are covered by the superficial gloss of fashion, but he does
not condescend to travesty the facts in order to gratify a morbid taste
for the horrible. When he wants a good man or woman he knows
where to find them, and paints from Allen or his own wife with obvious
sincerity and hearty sympathy. He is less anxious to exhibit human
selfishness than to show us that an alloy of generosity is to be found
even amidst base motives. Some of his happiest touches are illustrations
of this doctrine. His villains (with a significant exception) are never
monsters. They have some touch of human emotion. No desert,
according to him, is so bare but that some sweet spring blends with
its brackish waters. His grasping landladies have genuine movements
of sympathy ; and even the scoundrelly Black George, the gamekeeper,
is anxious to do Tom Jones a good turn, without risk, of course, to his
own comfort, by way of compensation for previous injuries. It is this
impartial insight into the ordinary texture of human motive that gives a
certain solidity and veracity to Fielding's work. We are always made to
feel that the actions spring fairly and naturally from the character of
his persons, not from the exigencies of his story or the desire to be
effective. The one great difficulty in Tom Joms is the assumption that
the excellent Allworthy should have been deceived for years by the
hypocrite Blifil, and blind to the substantial kindliness of his ward.
Here we may fancy that Fielding has been forced to be unnatural by his
plot. Yet he suggests a satisfactory solution with admirable skill
Allworthy is prejudiced in favour of Blifil by the apparently unjust
prejudice of Blifil's mother in favour of the jovial Tom. A generous
man may easily become blind to the faults of a supposed victim of
maternal injustice ; and even here Field ing fairly escapes from the blame
due to ordinary novelists who invent impossible misunderstandings in
order to bring about intricate perplexities.

* See Tom Jones, book xiv. chap. i.

162 HOURS IN A LIBKARY.

Blifil is perhaps the one case (for Jonathan "Wild is a satire, not a
history, or, as M. Taine fancies, a tract) in which Fielding seems to lose
his unvarying coolness of judgment; and the explanation is obvious.
The one fault to which he is, so to speak, unjust, is hypocrisy. Hypocrisy,
indeed, cannot well be painted too black, but it shoxild not be made
impossible. When Fielding has to deal with such a character he for
once loses his self-command, and, like inferior writers, begins to be angry
with his creatures. Instead of analysing and explaining, he simply reviles
and leaves us in presence of a moral anomaly. Blifil is not more wicked
than lago, but we seem to understand the psychical chemistry by which
an lago is compounded ; whereas Blifil can only be regarded as a devil
(if the word be not too dignified) who does not really belong to this
world at all. The error, though characteristic of a man whose great
intellectual merit is his firm grasp of realities and whose favourite virtue
is his downright sincerity, is not the less a blemish. Hatred of pedantry
too easily leads to hatred of culture, and hatred of hypocrisy to distrust
of the more exalted virtues. Fielding cannot be just to motives lying
rather outside his ordinary sphere of thought. He can mock heartily
and pleasantly enough at the affectation of philosophy, as in the case
where Parson Adams, urging poor Joseph Andrews, by considerations
drawn from the Bible and from Seneca, to be ready to resign his Fanny
" peaceably, quietly, and contentedly," suddenly hears of the supposed
loss of his own little child, and is called upon to act instead of preaching.
But his satire upon all characters and creeds which embody the more ex-
alted strains of feeling is apt to be indiscriminate. A High Churchman,
according to him, is a Phaiisee who prefers orthodoxy to virtue; a
Methodist a mere mountebank, who counterfeits spiritual raptures to
impose upon dupes ; a Freethinker is a man who weaves a mask of fine
phrases, under which to cover his aversion to the restraints of religion.
Fielding's religion consists chiefly of a solid homespun morality, and he is
more suspicious of an excessive than of a defective zeal. Similarly he is
a hearty Whig, but no revolutionist. He has as hearty a contempt for the
cant about liberty* as Dr. Johnson himself, and has very stringent
remedies to propose for regulating the mob. The bailiff in Amelia, who,
whilst he brutally maltreats the unlucky prisoners for debt, swaggers about
the British Constitution, and swears that he is "all for liberty," recalls
the boatman who ridiculed French slavery to Voltaire, and was carried off
next day by a pressgang. Fielding, indeed, is no fanatical adherent of
our blessed Constitution, which, as he says, has been pronouncsd by some
of our wisest men to be too perfect to be altered in any particular, and
which a number of the said wisest men have been mending ever since.
He hates cant on all sides impartially, though, as a sound Whig, hQ
specially hates Papists and Jacobites as the most offensive of all Pharisees,

* See Voyage to Lisbon (July 21st) for some very good remarks upon this word,
which, as he says, no two men understand in the same sense.

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 163

marked for detestation by their taste for frogs and French wine in prefer-
ence to punch and roast beef. He is a patriotic Briton, whose patriotism
takes the genuine shape of a hearty growl at English abuses, with a
tacit assumption that things are worse elsewhere.

The reflection of this quality of solid good sense, absolutely scorning
any aliment except that of solid facts, is the so-called realism of Fielding's
novels. He is, indeed, as hearty a realist as Hogarth, whose congenial
art he is never tired of praising with all the cordiality of his nature, and
to whom he refers his readers for portraits of several characters in Tom
Jones. His scenery is as realistic as a photograph. Tavern kitchens,
sponging-house parlours, the back-slums of London streets, are drawn
from the realities with unflinching vigour. We see the stains of beer-
pots and smell the fumes of stale tobacco as distinctly as in Hogarth's
engravings. He shrinks neither from the coarse nor the absolutely dis-
gusting. It is enough to recall the female boxing or scratching matches
which are so frequent in his pages. On one such occasion his language
seems to imply that he had watched such battles in the spirit of a con-
noisseur in our own day watching less inexpressibly disgusting prize-
fights. Certainly we could wish that, if such scenes were to be depicted,
there might have been a clearer proof that the artist had a nose and eyes
capable of feeling offence.

But the nickname " realist " slides easily into another sense. The
realist is sometimes supposed to be more shallow as well as more prosaic
than the idealist ; to be content with the outside where the idealist
pierces to the heart. He gives the bare fact, where his rival gives the
idea symbolized by the fact, and therefore rendering it attractive to the
higher intellect. Fielding's view of his own art is instructive in this
as in other matters. Poetic invention, he says, is generally taken to
be a creative faculty ; and if so, it is the peculiar property of the romance
writers, who frankly take leave of the actual and possible. Fielding
disavows all claim to this faculty ; he writes histories not romances.
But, in his sense, poetic invention means, not creation, but "dis-
covery ; " that is, " a quick, sagacious penetration into the true essence
of all objects of our contemplation." Perhaps we may say that it is
chiefly a question of method whether a writer should portray men or
angels ; the beings, that is, of everyday life or beings placed under a
totally different set of circumstances. The more vital question is
whether, by one method or the other, he shows us a man's heart or only
his clothes, whether he appeals to our intellects or imaginations, or
amuses us by images which do not sink below the eye. In scientific
writings a man may give us the true law of a phenomenon, whether he
exemplifies it in extreme or average cases, in the orbit of a comet or the
fall of an apple. The romance writer should show us what real men would
be in dreamland, tke writer of " histories " what they are on the knife-
board of an omnibus. True insight may be shown in either case, or may
be absent in either, according as the artist deals with the deepest organic

164 ^URS IN A LIBRARY.

laws or the more external accidents. The Ancient Mariner is an em-
bodiment of certain simple emotional phases and moral laws amidst the
phantasmagoric incidents of a dream, and De Foe does not interpret
them better because he confines himself to the most prosaic incidents.
When romance becomes really arbitrary, and is parted from all basis of
observation, it loses its true interest and deserves Fielding's condemna-
tion. Fielding conscientiously aims at discharging the highest function.
He describes, as he says in Joseph Andrews, " not men, but manners ;
not an individual, but a species." His lawyer, he tells us, has been alive
for the last four thousand years, and will probably survive four thousand
more. Mrs. Tow-wouse lives wherever turbulent temper, avarice, and
insensibility are united ; and her sneaking husband wherever a good
inclination has glimmered forth, eclipsed by poverty of spirit and under-
standing. But the type which shows best the force and the limits of
Fielding's genius is Parson Adams. He belongs to a distinguished
family, whose members have been portrayed by the greatest historians.
He is a collateral descendant of Don Quixote, for whose creation Fielding
felt a reverence exceeded only by his reverence for Shakspeare.* The
resemblance is, of course, distant, and consists chiefly in this, that the
parson, like the knight, lives in an ideal world, and is constantly shocked
by harsh collision with facts. He believes in his sermons instead of his
sword, and his imagination is tenanted by virtuous squires and model
parsons instead of Arcadian shepherds, or knight-errants and fair ladies.
His imagination is not exalted beyond the limits of sanity, but only
colours the prosaic realities in accordance with the impulses of a tranquil
benevolence. If the theme be fundamentally similar, it is treated Avith a
far less daring hand.

Adams is much more closely related to Sir Roger de Coverley, the
Vicar of Wakefield, or Uncle Toby. Each of these loveable beings invites
us at once to sympathise with and to smile at the unaffected simplicity
which, seeing no evil, becomes half ludicrous and half pathetic in this
corrupt world. Adams stands out from his brethren by his intense

* ID his interesting Life of Godwin, Mr. Paul claims for his hero (I believe
rightly) that he was the first English writer to give a "lengthy and appreciative
notice " of Don Qrti.rote. But when he infers that Godwin was also the first English
writer who recognised in Cervantes a great humorist, satirist, moralist, and artist,
ho seems to me to overlook Fielding and perhaps others. Fielding's frequent references
to Don Quixote (to say nothing of his play, Don Quixote in England) imply an
admiration fully as warm as that of Godwin. Don Quixote, says Fielding, for
example, is more worthy the name of history than Mariana, and he always speaks of
Cervantes in the tone of an affectionate disciple. Fielding, I will add, seems to me to have
admired Shakspeare more heartily and intelligently than ninety-nine out of a hundred
modern supporters of Shakspeare societies ; though these gentlemen are never
happier than when depreciating English eighteenth-century critics to exalt vapid
German philosophising. Fielding's favourite play seems from his quotations to have
been Othello,

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 165

reality. If he smells too distinctly of beer and tobacco we believe in him
more firmly than in the less full-blooded creations of Sterne and Gold-
smith. Parson Adams, indeed, has a startling vigour of organisation.
Not merely the hero of a modern ritualist novel, but Amyas Leigh or Guy
Livingstone himself might have been amazed at his athletic prowess.
He stalks ahead of the stage-coach (favoured doubtless by the bad roads
of the period) as though he had accepted the modern principle about
fearing God and walking a thousand miles in a thousand hours. His
mutton fist and the crabtree cudgel which swings so freely round his
clerical head would have daunted the contemporary gladiators, Slack and
Broughton. He shows his Christian humility not merely by familiarity
with his poorest parishioners, but in sitting up whole nights in tavern
kitchens, drinking unlimited beer, smoking inextinguishable pipes, and
revelling in a ceaseless flow of gossip. We smile at the good man's
intense delight in a love-story, at the simplicity which makes him see a
good Samaritan in Parson Trul liber, at the absence of mind which makes
him pitch his ^Eschylus into the fire, or walk a dozen miles in profound
oblivion of the animal which should have been between his knees ; but
his contemporaries were provoked to a horse-langh, and when we
remark the tremendous practical jokes which his innocence suggests to
them, we admit that he requires his whole athletic vigour to bring so
tender a heart safely through so rough a world.

If the ideal hero is to live in fancy -land and talk in blank verse,
Adams has clearly no right to the title, nor, indeed, has Don Quixote.
But the masculine portraiture of the coarse i-ealities is not only indicative
of intellectual vigour, but artistically appropriate. The contrast between
the world and its simple-minded inhabitant is the more forcible in pro-
portion to the firmness and solidity of Fjelding's touch. Uncle Toby
proves that Sterne had preserved enough tenderness to make an exquisite
plaything of his emotions. The Vicar of Wakefield proves that Gold-
smith had preserved a childlike innocence of imagination, and could
retire from duns and publishers to an idyllic world of his own. Joseph
Andrews proves that Fielding was neither a child nor a sentimentalist,
but that he had learnt to face facts as they are, and set a true value on
the best elements of human life. In the midst of vanity and vexation of
spirit he could find some comfort in pure and strong domestic affection.
He can indulge his feelings without introducing the false note of sen-
timentalism, or condescending to tone his pictures with rose colour. He
wants no illusions. The exemplary Dr. Harrison in Amelia held no
action unworthy of him which could protect an innocent person or " bring
a rogue to the gallows." Good Parson Adams could lay his cudgel on
the back of a villain with hearty good will. He believes too easily in
human goodness, but there is not a maudlin fibre in his whole body.
He would not be the man to cry over a dead donkey, whilst children are
in want of bread. He would be slower than the excellent Dr. Primrose
to believe in the reformation of a villain by fine phrases, and if he fell

166 HOUES IN A LIBRAKY.

into such a weakness his biographer would not, like Goldsmith, be
inclined to sanction the error. A villain is induced to reform, indeed,
by the sight of Amelia's excellence, but Fielding is careful to tell us that
the change was illusory, and that the villain ended on a gallows. We
are made sensible that if Adams had his fancies they were foibles, and
therefore sources of misfortune. We are to admire the childlike cha-
racter, but not to share its illusions. The world is not made of moon-
shine. Hypocrisy, cruelty, avarice, and lust have to be stamped out
by hard blows, not cured by delicate infusion of graceful senti-
mentalisms.

So far Fielding's portrait of an ideal character is all the better for
his masculine grasp of fact. It must, however, be admitted that he
fails a little on the other side of the contrast. He believes in a good
heart, but scarcely in very lofty motive. He tells us in Tom Jones *
that he has painted no perfect character, because he never happened to
meet one. His stories, like Vanity fair, may be described as novels
without a hero. It is not merely that his characters are imperfect, but
that they are deficient in the finer ingredients which go to make up the
nearest approximations of our imperfect natures to heroism. Colonel
Newcome was not perhaps so good a man as Parson Adams, but -he had
a certain delicacy of sentiment which led him, as we may remember, to
be rather hard upon Tom Jones, and which Fielding (as may be gathered
from Bath in Amelia) would hare been inclined to ridicule. Parson
Adams is simple enough to become a laughing-stock to the brutal, but
he never consciously rebels against the dictates of the plainest common
sense. His theology comes from Tillotson and Hoadly ; he has no eye
for the romantic side of his creed, and would be apt to condemn a
mystic as simply a fool. His loftiest aspiration is not to reform the
world or any part of it, but to get a modest bit of preferment (he actu-
ally receives it, we are happy to think, in Amelia], enough to pay for his
tobacco and his children's schooling. Fielding's dislike to the romantic
makes him rather blind to the elevated. He will not only start from
the actual, but does not conceive the possibility of an infusion of loftier
principles. The existing standard of sound sense prescribes an
impassable limit to his imagination. Parson Adams is an admirable
incarnation of certain excellent and honest impulses. He sets forth
the wisdom of the heart and the beauty of the simple instincts of an
affectionate nature. But we are forced to admit that he is not the
highest type conceivable, and might, for example, learn something from
his less robust colleague, Dr. Primrose.

This remark suggests the common criticism, expounded with his
usual facile brilliancy by M. Taine. Fielding, he tells us, loves nature,
but he does not love it " like the great impartial artists, Shakspeare and
Goethe." He moralises incessantly, which is wrong. Moreover, his

* Book x. chap. i.

FIELDING'S NOVELS. 167

morality appears to be very questionable. It consists in preferring in-
stinct to reason. The hero is the man who is born generous as a
clog is born affectionate. And this, says M. Taine, might be all very
well were it not for a great omission. Fielding has painted nature, but
nature without refinement, poetry, and chivalry. He can only describe
the impetuosity of the senses, not the nervous exaltation and the poetic
rapture. Man is with him " a good buffalo ; and perhaps he is the
hero required by a people which is itself called John Bull." In all
which, there is an undoubted vein of truth. Fielding's want of refine-
ment, for example, is one of those undeniable facts which must be taken
for granted. But, without seeking to set right some other statements
implied in M. Taine's judgment, it is worth while to consider a little
more fully the moral aspect of Fielding's work. Much has been said
upon this point by some who, with M. Taine, take Fielding for a mere
"buffalo," and by others who, like Coleridge a far safer and more
sympathetic critic hold Tom Jones to be, on the whole, a sound expo-
sition of healthy morality.

Fielding, on the " buffalo " view, is supposed to be simply taking one
side in one of those perpetual controversies which has occupied many
generations and never approaches a settlement. He prefers nature to
law, instinct to reasoned action ; he is on the side of Charles as against
Joseph Surface ; he admires the publican, and condemns the Pharisee
without reserve ; he loves the man who is nobody's enemy but his own,
and despises the prudent person whose charity ends at his own doorstep.
Such a doctrine so absolutely stated is rather a negation of all
morality than a lax morality. If it implies a love of generous instincts,
it denies that a man should have any regard for moral rules, which are
needed precisely in order to control our spontaneous instincts. Virtue
is amiable, but ceases to be meritorious. Nothing would be easier than
to quote passages in which Fielding expressly repudiates such a theory ;
but, of course, a writer's morality must be judged by the conceptions
embodied in his work, not by the maxims scattered through it. Nor,
for the same reason, can we pay much attention to Fielding's express
assertion that he is writing in the interests of virtue ; for Smollett, and
less scrupulous writers than even Smollett, have found their account in
similar protestations. Yet anybody, I think, who will compare Joseph
Andrews with that intentionally most moral work, Pamela, will admit
that Fielding's morality goes deeper than this. Fielding at least makes
us love virtue, and is incapable of the solecism which Richardson
commits in substantially preaching that virtue means standing out for a
higher price. That Fielding's reckless heroes have a genuine sensibility
to the claims of virtue, appears still more unmistakably when we com-
pare them with the heartless fine gentlemen of the Congreve school and
of his own early plays, or put the faulty Captain Booth beside such
an unredeemed scamp as Peregrine Pickle.

It is clear, in short, that the aim of Fielding (whether he succeeds

168 HOUES IN A LIBRARY.

or not) is the very reverse of that attributed to him by M. Taine. Tom
Jones and Amelia have, ostensibly at least, a most emphatic moral
attached to them ; and not only attached to them, but borne in mind
and elaborately preached throughout. That moral is the one which
Fielding had learnt in the school of his own experience. It is the
moral that dissipation bears fruit in misery. The remorse, it is true,
which was generated in Fielding and in his heroes was not the remorse
which drives a man to a cloister or which even seriously poisons his happi-
ness. The offences against morality are condoned too easily, and the line
between vice and virtue drawn in accordance with certain distinctions
which even Parson Adams could scarcely have approved. Vice, he seems
to say, is objectionable only when complicated by cruelty or hypocrisy.
But, if Fielding's moral sense is not very delicate, it is vigorous. He
hates most heartily what he sees to be wrong, though his sight might
easily be improved in delicacy of discrimination. The truth is simply
that Fielding accepted that moral code which the better men of the
world in his time really acknowledged, as distinguished from that by
which they affected to be bound. That so wide a distinction should
generally exist between these codes is a matter for deep regret. That
Fielding in his hatred for humbug should have condemned purity as
puritanical is clearly lamentable. The confusion, however, was part of
the man, and, as already noticed, shows itself in one shape or other
throughout his work. But it would be unjust to condemn him upon
that ground