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THE 


COKNHILL 


MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  XLII. 


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

1880. 


ftp 


[7'Ae  r/jr/^i  o/  Publishing  Translations  of  Articles  in  this  Sfagazine  is  reserved.] 


CONTENTS   OF  VOLUME  XLII. 


WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  KOMANCE. 

PAGE 

Chapter  XXXVIII.     A  Parable 1 

XXXIX.     AEelease 7 

XL.     "  While  the  Ripples  fold  upon  Sands  of  Gold"   12 

„                XLI.     Backward  Thoughts     241 

XLII.     A  Toast 246 

„            XLIII.     Expectations    252 

„              XLIV.     "  Ye  are  welcome,  Glenogie !"    257 

„               XLV.     The  Equinoctials  at  Last    265 

XLVI.     "Flieh!     Auf!     Hinaus!"    269 

XLVII.     After  the  Gale 498 

XLVIII.     "A  Good  One  for  the  Last" 505 

XLIX.    Adieu! 510 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE.     By  Henry  James,  Jr. 

Chapters        VII.— XII 107 

XIII.— XVIII - 129 

XIX.— XXIV 364 

XXV.— XXIX 385 

„       XXX.— XXXV 616 

THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.     (In  Two  Parts  ) 

Part  I. 

Chapter        I.     Tells  how  I  camped  in  Graden  Sea-Wood,  and  beheld  a  Light 

in  the  Pavilion    307 

„            II.     Tells  of  the  Nocturnal  Landing  from  the  Yacht 312 

,,           III.     Tells  how  I  became  acquainted  with  my  Wife     316 

,,  IV.     Tells  in  what  a  startling  manner  I  learned  I  was  not  alone 

in  Graden  Sea- Wood 322 

Part  II. 

„  V.     Tells  of  an  Interview  between  Northmour,  your  Mother,  and 

Myself 430 

„           VI.     Tells  of  my  Introduction  to  the  Tall  Man    433 

,,         VII.     Tells  how  a  Word  was  cried  through  the  Pavilion  Window  438 

VIII.     Tells  the  Last  of  the  Tall  Man 443 

IX.     Tells  how  Northmour  carried  out  his  Threat   447 


vi  CONTENTS. 

MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

PAGE 

Chapters       I.— IV 513 

V.— VIII 732 

FINA'S  AUNT.    SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  Miss  WILLIAMSON'S  DIARY. 

Chapters  L— VII 641 


Art,  Notes  on  the  Supernatural  in.     Faustus  and  Helena.    By  Vernon  Lee 212 

Art,  Water-colour,  Notes  on.     By  Harry  Quilter.     I. — The  Early  Masters 404 

Belzoni,  Giovanni  Battista.    By  Kichard  F.  Burton    36 

Books,  Rambles  among.     No.  I. — Country  Books 662 

Buddhists  and  Buddhism  in  Burma.     By  Shway  Yoe 721 

Burmese,  The.     By  Shway  Yoe 582 

Carver,  The,  and  the  Caliph.     By  Austin  Dobson    239 

Cimabue  and  Coal-scuttles  61 

Corporations,  Unreformed    77 

Country  Parsons   415 

Decorative  Decorations 590 

Dress,  The  Natural  History  of    560 

English  Sculpture  in  1880   173 

Falling  in  Love 471 

Faustus  and  Helena.     Notes  on  the  Supernatural  in  Art.    By  Vernon  Lee  212 

Folk-Songs,  Venetian    485 

"Fools,  The  Ship  of"  229 

Foreign  Orders  464 

Foreign  Titles    202 

Game 294 

Greeks,  Ancient,  Social  Life  amongst  the 601 

Growth  of  Sculpture.     By  Grant  Allen 273 

Homes,  The,  of  Town  Poor.     By  the  Eev.  Harry  Jones 452 

Hours  in  a  Library.     No.  XXII. — Sterne 86 

Kentish  Chalk,  Studies  in   51 

Letters,  The  Seamy  Side  of 348 

Lyme  Kegis  ;  a  Splinter  of  Petrified  History    709 

Macaulay,  Lord,  and  Dr.  Johnson's  Wife 573 

Madeira,  A  Gossip  about :  The  Desertas  and  Teneriffe   328 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PA(JB 

Minuets , 187 

Mrs.  Van  Steen 680 

Orders,  Foreign 464 

Parsons,  Country 415 

Quevedo 586 

Eambles  among  Books.    No.  I. — Country  Books 662 

Sculpture,  English,  in  1880 173 

Sculpture,  The  Growth  of.    By  Grant  Allen.... » 273 

Shakspeare,  why  did  he  write  Tragedies  ? 153 

"  Ship  of  Fools,  The  "  229 

Social  Life  amongst  the  Ancient  Greeks 601 

Steen,  Mrs.  Van 680 

Sterne. — Hours  in  a  Library.     No.  XXII 86 

Studies  in  Kentish  Chalk 51 

Supernatural  in  Art,  Notes  on  the.    Faustus  and  Helena.    By  Vernon  Lee 212 

Sweating  Sickness,  The.     By  Alex.  Charles  Ewald 196 

Tennyson,  A  New  Study  of.     Part  II 17 

Titles,  Foreign  202 

To  a  Friend  recently  Lost.     By  George  Meredith    497 

Town  Poor,  The  Homes  of.     By  the  Kev.  Harry  Jones   452 

Two  Beggars.     (A  Sketch  from  Life.)    By  John  Dangerfield    342 

Unreformed  Corporations 77 

Venetian  Folk-Songs     485 

Wator-colour  Art,  Notes  on.     By  Harry  Quilter.     I. — The  Early  Masters  404 

Why  did  Shakspeare  write  Tragedies  ?  153 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTEATIONS. 


"Mr  FATHER!" 

MORRIS   HAD   A   SWEET,    LIGHT   TENOR   VOICE 107 

"DON'T    LET   HER    MARRY   HIM!" '. 129 

•THANK  YOU  VERY  MUCH.     I  HAVE  ENJOYED  THE  WHOLE  THING  TREMENDOUSLY"  241 

BLESS  ME!"  CRIED  THE  LAIRD 257 

"  MY  DEAR  GOOD  GIRL  !  "  HE  EXCLAIMED,  AND  THEN  LOOKED  UP  RATHER  VAGUELY  364 
"I  SHALL  REGARD  IT  ONLY  AS  A  LOAN,"  SHE  SAID   385 

t 

WE    ALL   GO    OUT    TO    THE   HEADLAND    AND    WAVE    OUR    HANDKERCHIEFS 498 

•> 

FOR   THE    FIRST    TIME   THEY   "WERE    ARM-IN-ARM     513 

IT    WAS   VERY    DIFFERENT    FROM   HIS    OLD FROM    HIS    YOUNG — FACE 6  1  G 

HE   LOOKED    ROUND    QUIETLY,    WITH   HIS    BRIGHT,    SHAGGY    EYKS      G4 1 

SHE    FELL    DOWN   AT    MY    FEET    IN    A    PASSION    OF    SOBS    AKD    TEARS 732 


THE 


COENHILL    MAGAZINE. 


JULY,  1880. 


Wllntt  Wings ;  §,  gating 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
A  PARABLE. 

DW  we  had  not  been  five 
minutes  within  the  walla 
of  Castle  Osprey  when 
great  shouts  of  laughter 
were  heard  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  library  ;  and 
presently  the  Laird  came 
quickly  into  the  room 
where  the  two  women 
were  standing  at  the  open 
window.  He  was  flou- 
rishing a  newspaper  in 
his  hand ;  delight,  sar- 
casm, and  desperate 
humour  shone  in  his  face. 
He  would  not  notice  that 
Queen  Titania  looked 
very  much  inclined  to 
cry,  as  she  gazed  out  on 
the  forlorn  remains  of 

what  had  once  been  a  rose-garden  ;  he  would  pay  no  heed  to  Mary  Avon's 

wan  cheek  and  pensive  eyes. 

"Just  listen  to  this,  ma'am,  just  listen  to  this,"  he  called  out  briskly; 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  247.  1. 


2  WHITE  WINGS  :   A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

and  all  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  seemed  to  wake  up  into  cheerfulness 
and  life.  "  Have  I  not  told  ye  often  about  that  extraordinary  body, 
Johnnie  Guthrie  ?  Now  just  listen  !  " 

It  appeared  that  the  Laird,  without  even  bestowing  a  glance  on  the 
pile  of  letters  lying  waiting  for  him,  had  at  once  dived  into  the  mass  of 
newspapers,  and  had  succeeded  in  fishing  out  the  report  of  the  last  meet- 
ing of  the  Strathgovan  Police  Commissioners.  With  a  solemnity  that 
scarcely  veiled  his  suppressed  mirth,  he  said — 

"  Just  listen,  ma'am  :  '  The  fortnightly  meeting  of  the  Strathgovan 
Police  Commissioners  was  held  on  Monday,  Provost  McKendrick  in 
the  chair.  Mr.  Robert  Johnstone  said  he  had  much  pleasure  in  con- 
gratulating the  chairman  and  the  other  gentlemen  assembled  on  the 
signal  and  able  manner  in  which  the  fire  brigade  had  done  their  duty  on 
the  previous  Saturday  at  the  great  conflagration  in  Coulter-side  buildings ; 
and  he  referred  especially  to  the  immense  assistance  given  by  the  new 
fire-engine  recently  purchased  by  the  Commissioners.  (Hear  !  hear  !) 
He  could  assure  the  meeting  that  but  for  the  zealous  and  patriotic  ardour 
of  the  brigade — aided,  no  doubt,  by  the  efficient  working  of  the  steam 
engine — a  most  valuable  property  would  have  been  devoted  holus-bolus 
to  the  flames.' " 

The  Laird  frowned  at  this  phrase. 

"  Does  the  crayture  think  he  is  talking  Latin  ?  "  he  asked,  apparently 
of  himself. 

However,  he  continued  his  reading  of  the  report — 

"  '  Provost  McKendrick,  replying  to  these  observations,  observed 
that  it  was  certainly  a  matter  for  congratulation  that  the  fire  brigade 
should  have  proved  their  efficiency  in  so  distinct  a  manner,  considerino1 
the  outlay  that  had  been  incurred ;  and  that  now  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Burgh  would  perceive  the  necessity  of  having  more  plugs.  So  far  all  the 
money  had  been  well  spent.  Mr.  J.  Guthrie'" — but  here  the  Laird 
could  not  contain  his  laughter  any  longer. 

"  That's  Johnnie,  ma'am,"  he  cried,  in  explanation,  "  that's  the 
Johnnie  Guthrie  I  was  telling  ye  about — the  poor,  yaumering,  pernickity, 
querulous  crayture  !  '  Mr.  J.  Guthrie  begged  to  say  he  could  not 
join  in  these  general  felicitations.  They  were  making  a  great  deal  of 
noise  about  nothing.  The  fire  was  no  fire  at  all ;  a  servant-girl  could 
have  put  it  out  with  a  pail.  He  had  come  from  Glasgow  by  the  eleven- 
o'clock  'bus,  and  there  was  then  not  a  trace  of  a  fire  to  be  seen.  The 
real  damage  done  to  the  property  was  not  done  by  the  fire,  but  by  the 
dirty  water  drawn  by  the  fire  brigade  from  the  Coulter  burn,  which  dirty 
water  had  entirely  destroyed  Mrs.  Maclnnes'  best  bedroom  furniture.'  " 

The  Laird  flourished  the  newspaper,  and  laughed  aloud  in  his  joy ; 
the  mere  reading  of  the  extract  had  so  thoroughly  discomfited  his 
enemy. 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  the  like  o'  that  body  ? "  he  cried.  "  A  snarlin' 
quarlin',  gruntin',  growlin',  fashious  crayture !  He  thinks  there  could 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING-  EOMANCE.  3 

hot  be  any  fire,  just  because  lie  was  not  in  time  to  see  it.  Oh,  Johnnie, 
Johnnie,  Johnnie,  I'm  just  fair  ashamed  o'ye." 

But  at  this  point  the  Laird  seemed  to  become  aware  that  he  had 
given  way  too  much  to  his  love  of  pure  and  pithy  English.  He  imme- 
diately said,  in  a  more  formal  manner — 

"  I  am  glad  to  perceive,  ma'am,  that  the  meeting  paid  no  heed  to 
these  strictures,  but  went  on  to  consider  whether  the  insurance  com- 
panies should  not  share  the  expense  of  maintaining  the  fire  brigade. 
That  was  most  proper — most  judeecious.  I'm  thinking  that  after  dinner 
I  could  not  do  better  than  express  my  views  upon  that  subject,  in  a 
letter  addressed  to  the  Provost.  It  would  be  in  time  to  be  read  at  the 
monthly  sederunt 

"Come  along,  then,  Mary,  and  let  .us  get  through  our  letters,"  said 
his  hostess,  turning  away  with  a  sigh  from  the  dilapidated  rose-garden. 

As  she  passed  the  piano,  she  opened  it. 

"  How  strange  it  will  sound  !  "  she  said. 

She  played  a  few  bars  of  Mary  Avon's  favourite  song ;  somehow  the 
chords  seemed  singularly  rich  and  full  and  beautiful  after  our  long  listen- 
ing to  the  monotonous  rush  of  the  sea.  Then  she  put  her  hand  within 
the  girl's  arm  and  gently  led  her  away,  and  said  to  her  as  they  passed 
through  the  hall 

"  '  Oh,  little  did  my  mitlier  think 
When  first  she  cradled  me' 

that  ever  I  should  have  come  back  to  such  a  picture  of  desolation. 
But  we  must  put  a  brave  face  on  it.  If  the  autumn  kills  the  garden,  it 
glorifies  the  hills.  You  will  want  all  your  colour-tubes  when  we  show 
you  Loch  Hourn." 

"  That  was  the  place  the  Doctor  was  anxious  to  veesit,"  said  the 
Laird,  who  was  immediately  behind  them.  "  Ay.  Oh,  yes,  we  will 
show  Miss  Mary  Loch  Hourn  ;  she  will  get  some  material  for  sketches 
there,  depend  on't.  Just  the  finest  loch  in  the  whole  of  the  Highlands. 
When  I  can  get  Tom  Galbraith  first  of  all  persuaded  to  see  Bunessan— " 

But  we  heard  no  more  about  Tom  Galbraith.  Queen  Titania  had 
uttered  a  slight  exclamation  as  she  glanced  over  the  addresses  of  the 
letters  directed  to  her. 

"  From  Angus ! "  she  said,  as  she  hurriedly  opened  one  of  the 
envelopes,  and  ran  her  eye  over  the  contents. 

Then  her  face  grew  grave,  and  inadvertently  she  turned  to  the  Laird. 

"  In  three  days,"  she  said,  "  he  was  to  start  for  Italy." 

She  looked  at  the  date. 

"  He  must  have  left  London  already !  "  said  she,  and  then  she 
examined  the  letter  further.  "  And  he  does  not  say  where  he  is  going." 

The  Laird  looked  grave  too— for  a  second.  But  he  was  an  excellent 
actor.  He  began  whistling  the  air  that  his  hostess  had  been  playing. 
He  turned  over  his  letters  and  papers  carelessly.  At  length,  he  said, 
with  an  air  of  fine  indifference — 

1—2 


4  WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

"  The  grand  thing  of  being  away  at  sea  is  to  teach  ye  the  compara- 
teevely  trifling  importance  of  anything  that  can  happen  on  land." 

He  tossed  the  unopened  letters  about,  only  regarding  the  addresses. 

"  What  care  I  what  the  people  may  have  been  saying  about  me  in 
my  absence  1 — the  real  thing  is  that  we  got  food  to  eat  and  were  not  swept 
into  Corrievreckan.  Come,  Miss  Mary,  I  will  just  ask  ye  to  go  for  a 
stroll  through  the  garden  wi'  me,  until  dinner-time ;  our  good  friends  will 
not  ask  us  to  dress  on  an  evening  like  this,  just  before  we  have  got  every- 
thing on  shore.  Twenty-five  meenutes,  ma'am?  Very  well.  If  any- 
body has  been  abusing  me  in  my  absence,  we'll  listen  to  the  poor  fellow 
after  dinner,  when  we  can  get  the  laugh  made  general,  and  so  make 
some  good  out  of  him;  but  just  now  we'll  have  the  quiet  of  the  sunset 
to  ourselves.  Dear,  dear  me  !  we  used  to  have  the  sunset  after  dinner 
when  we  were  away  up  about  Canna  and  Uist." 

Mary  Avon  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  What !  not  a  single  letter  for  ye  ?  That  shows  very  bad  taste  on 
the  pairt  of  the  young  men  about  England.  But  I  never  thought  much  o' 
them.  From  what  I  hear,  they  are  mostly  given  over  to  riding  horses, 
and  shooting  pheasants,  and  what  not.  But  never  mind.  I  want  ye  to 
come  out  for  a  stroll  wi'  me,  my  lass  :  ye'll  see  some  fine  colour  about 
the  Morven  hills  presently,  or  I'm  mistaken." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  she,  obediently ;  and  together  they  went  out 
into  the  garden. 

Now  it  was  not  until  some  minutes  after  the  dinner-gong  had  sounded 
that  we  again  saw  these  two,  and  then  there  was  nothing  in  the  manner 
of  either  of  them  to  suggest  to  any  one  that  any  thing  had  happened.  It 
was  not  until  many  days  afterwards  that  we  obtained,  bit  by  bit,  an 
account  of  what  had  occurred,  and  even  then  it  was  but  a  stammering, 
and  disjointed,  and  shy  account.  However,  such  as  it  was,  it  had  better 
appear  here,  if  only  to  keep  the  narrative  straight. 

The  Laird,  walking  up  and  down  the  gravel  path  with  his  com- 
panion, said  that  he  did  not  so  much  regret  the  disappearance  of  the 
roses,  for  there  were  plenty  of  other  flowers  to  take  their  place.  Then 
he  thought  he  and  she  might  go  and  sit  on  a  seat  which  was  placed 
under  a  drooping  ash  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  for  from  this  point  they 
commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  western  seas  and  hills.  They  had  just 
sat  down  there  when  he  said — 

"  My  girl,  I  am  going  to  take  the  privilege  of  an  old  man,  and  speak 
frankly  to  ye.  I  have  been  watching  ye,  as  it  were — and  your  mind  is 
not  at  ease." 

Miss  Avon  hastily  assured  him  that  it  was  quite,  and  begged  to  draw 
his  attention  to  the  yacht  in  the  bay,  where  the  men  were  just  lowering 
the  ensign,  at  sunset. 

The  Laird  returned  to  the  subject ;  entreated  her  not  to  take  it  ill 
that  he  should  interfere ;  and  then  reminded  her  of  a  certain  night  on 
Loch  Leven,  and  of  a  promise  he  had  then  made  her.  Would  he  be  ful- 


WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  5 

filling  that  solemn  undertaking  if  he  did  not,  at  some  risk  of  vexing  her, 
and  of  being  considered  a  prying,  foolish  person,  endeavour  to  help  her  if 
she  was  in  trouble  ? 

Miss  Avon  said  how  grateful  she  was  to  him  for  all  his  kindness  to 
her ;  and  how  his  promise  had  already  been  amply  fulfilled.  She  was 
not  in  trouble.  She  hoped  no  one  thought  that.  Everything  that  had 
happened  was  for  the  best.  And  here — as  was  afterwards  admitted — 
she  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying,  and  was  very  much  mortified,  and  ashamed 
of  herself. 

But  at  this  point  the  Laird  would  appear  to  have  taken  matters  into 
his  own  hand.  First  of  all  he  began  to  speak  of  his  nephew — of  his  bright 
good  nature,  and  so  forth — of  his  professed  esteem  for  her — of  certain  possi- 
bilities that  he,  the  Laird,  had  been  dreaming  about  with  the  fond  fancy 
of  an  old  man.  And  rather  timidly  he  asked  her — if  it  were  true  that 
she  thought  everything  had  happened  for  the  best — whether,  after  all, 
his  nephew  Howard  might  not  speak  to  her  1  It  had  been  the  dream  of 
his  old  age  to  see  these  two  together  at  Denny-mains,  or  on  board  that 
steam  yacht  he  would  buy  for  them  on  the  Clyde.  Was  that  not 
possible  1 

Here,  at  least,  the  girl  was  honest  and  earnest  enough — even 
anxiously  earnest.  She  assured  him  that  that  was  quite  impossible.  It 
was  hopeless.  The  Laird  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  holding  her 
hand. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  rather  sadly,  but  with  an  affectation  of  grave 
humour,  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  story.  It  is  about  a  young  lass,  who 
was  very  proud,  and  who  kept  her  thoughts  very  much  to  herself,  and 
would  not  give  her  friends  a  chance  of  helping  her.  And  she  was  very 
fond  of  a — a  young  Prince  we  will  call  him — who  wanted  to  go  away  to 
the  wars,  and  make  a  great  name  for  himself.  No  one  was  prouder  of 
the  Prince  than  the  girl,  mind  ye,  and  she  encouraged  him  in  everything, 
and  they  were  great  friends,  and  she  was  to  give  him  all  her  diamonds, 
and  pearls,  and  necklaces — she  would  throw  them  into  his  treasury,  like 
a  Roman  matron — -just  that  he  might  go  away  and  conquer,  and  come 
back  and  marry  her.  But  lo,  and  behold  !  one  night  all  her  jewels  and 
bracelets  were  stolen  !  Then  what  does  she  do?  "Would  ye  believe  it? 
She  goes  and  quarrels  with  that  young  Prince,  and  tells  him  to  go  away 
and  fight  his  battles  for  himself,  and  never  to  come  back  and  see  her  any 
more— just  as  if  any  one  could  fight  a  battle  wi'  a  sore  heart.  Oh,  she  was 
a  wicked,  wicked  lass,  to  be  so  proud  as  that,  when  she  had  many  friends 
that  would  willingly  have  helped  her.  .  .  .  Sit  down,  my  girl,  sit  clown, 
my  girl,  never  mind  the  dinner ;  they  can  wait  for  us.  ...  Well,  ye 
see,  the  story  goes  on  that  there  was  an  old  man — a  foolish  old  man — 
they  used  to  laugh  at  him,  because  of  his  fine  fishing  tackle,  and  the  very 
few  fish  he  caught  wi'  the  tackle — and  this  doited  old  body  was 
always  intermeddling  in  other  people's  business.  And  what  do  you 
think  he  does  but  go  and  say  to  the  young  lass  :  '  Ha,  have  I  found  ye 


6  t          WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

out  ?  Is  it  left  for  an  old  man  like  me — and  me  a  bachelor,  too,  who 
should  know  but  little  of  the  quips  and  cranks  of  a  young  lass's  ways — is 
it  left  for  an  old  man  like  me  to  find  out  that  fine  secret  o'  yours  1 '  She 
could  not  say  a  word.  She  was  dumfounded.  She  had  not  the  face  to 
deny  it :  he  had  found  out  what  that  wicked  girl,  with  all  her  pride,  and 
her  martyrdom,  and  her  sprained  ankles,  had  been  about.  And  what  do 
you  think  he  did  then  1  Why,  as  sure  as  sure  can  be,  he  had  got  all  the 
young  lass's  property  in  his  pocket;  and  before  she  cculd  say  Jack 
Robinson,  he  tells  her  that  he  is  going  to  send  straight  off  for  the  Prince 

— this  very  night — a  telegram  to  London " 

The  girl  had  been  trembling,  and  struggling  with  the  hand  that  held 
hers.  At  last  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  with  a  cry  of  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  sir  !  You  will  not  do  that !  You  will  not  degrade 
me!" 

And  then — this  is  her  own  account,  mind — the  Laird  rose  too,  and 
still  held  her  by  the  hand,  and  spoke  sternly  to  her. 

"  Degrade  you  1 "  said  he.  "  Foolish  lass  !  Come  in  to  your  dinner." 
When  these  two  did  come  in  to  dinner — nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late — their  hostess  looked  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other.  But  what 
could  she  perceive  1  Mary  Avon  was  somewhat  pale,  and  she  was  silent : 
but  that  had  been  her  way  of  late.  As  for  the  Laird,  he  came  in 
whistling  the  tune  of  the  Queen's  Maries,  which  was  a  strange  grace 
before  meat,  and  he  looked  airily  around  him  at  the  walls. 

"I  would  just  like  to  know,"  said  he  lightly,  "whether  there  is  a 
single  house  in  all  Scotland  where  ye  will  not  find  an  engraving  of  one  or 
other  of  Mr.  Thomas  Faed's  pictures  in  some  one  of  the  rooms  1 " 

And  he  preserved  this  careless  and  indifferent  demeanour  during 
dinner.  After  dinner  he  strolled  into  the  library.  He  would  venture 
upon  a  small  cigar.  His  sole  companion  was  the  person  whose  humble 
duty  in  this  household  is  to  look  after  financial  matters,  so  that  other 
folks  may  enjoy  themselves  in  idleness. 

The  Laird  lay  back  in  an  easy-chair,  stretched  out  his  legs,  lit  his 
cigar,  and  held  it  at  arms'  length,  as  if  it  were  something  that  ought  to 
be  looked  at  at  a  distance. 

"  You  had  something  to  do  with  the  purchase  of  Miss  Mary's  Ameri- 
can stock,  eh  ? "  said  he,  pretending  to  be  concerned  about  the  end  of  the 
cigar. 

"Yes." 

"What  was  it ?" 
"  Funded  Five  per  Cent." 
"  What  would  be  about  the  value  of  it  now  ?  " 
"  Just  now  1     Oh,  perhaps  106,  or  107." 

"  No,  no,  no.  I  mean,  if  the  bonds  that  that  ill-faured  scoondrel 
carried  away  with  him  were  to  be  sold  the  now,  what  money,  what  Eng- 
lish money,  would  they  fetch  1 " 

But  this  required  some  calculation, 


WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  7 

"  Probably  about  7,300Z." 

"  I  was  asking,"  said  the  Laird,  "  because  I  was  wondering  whether 
there  was  any  chance  of  tracing  them." 

"  Not  the  least.  They  are  like  bank-notes — more  useful  indeed,  to  a 
swindler  than  even  bank-notes." 

"  Ay,  is  that  so,"  said  the  Laird;  and  he  seemed  to  be  so  charmed  with 
his  whistling  of  the  air  of  the  Queen's  Maries  that  he  returned  to  that 
performance.  Oddly  enough,  however,  he  never  ventured  beyond  the 
first  line  :  perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  missing  the  tune. 

"  Seven  thousand  three  hundred,"  said  he,  meditatively.  "  Man, 
that's  a  strong  cigar — little,  and  black,  and  strong.  Seven  thousand 
three  hundred.  Girls  are  strange  craytures.  I  remember  what  that 
young  doctor  was  saying  once  about  weemen  being  better  able  to  bear 
pain  than  men,  and  not  so  much  afraid  of  it  either — — " 

And  here  the  Queen's  Maries  came  in  again. 

"  It  would  be  a  strange  thing,"  said  the  Laird,  with  a  sort  of  rueful 
laugh,  "  if  I  were  to  have  a  steam-yacht  all  to  myself,  and  cruise  about 
in  search  of  company,  eh  1  No,  no  ;  that  will  not  do.  My  neighbours 
in  Strathgovan  will  never  say  that  I  deserted  them,  just  when  great  im- 
provements and  serious  work  have  to  be  looked  forward  to.  I  will  not 
have  it  said  that  I  ran  away,  just  to  pleasure  myself.  Howard,  my  lad, 
I  doubt  but  ye'll  have  to  whistle  for  that  steam-yacht." 

The  Laird  rose. 

"  I  think  I  will  smoke  in  the  garden  now  :  it  is  a  fine  evening." 

He  turned  at  the  door,  and  seemed  suddenly  to  perceive  a  pair  of 
stag's  horns  over  the  chimney-piece. 

"  That's  a  grand  set  o'  horns,"  said  he ;  and  then  he  added  carelessly, 
"  What  bank  did  ye  say  they  American  bonds  were  in  1 " 

"  The  London  and  Westminster." 

"  They're  just  a  noble  pair  o'  horns,"  said  he  emphatically.  "  I  won- 
der ye  do  not  take  them  with  ye  to  London."  And  then  he  left. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
A  EELEASE. 

WE  had  a  long  spell  ashore  at  this  time,  for  we  were  meditating  a 
protracted  voyage,  and  everything  had  to  be  left  ship-shape  behind  us. 
The  Laird  was  busy  from  morning  till  night ;  but  it  would  appear  that 
all  his  attention  was  not  wholly  given  to  the  affairs  of  Strathgovan. 
Occasionally  he  surprised  his  hostess  by  questions  which  had  not  the 
least  reference  to  asphalte  pavements  or  gymnasium  chains.  He  kept 
his  own  counsel,  nevertheless. 

By-and-by  his  mysterious  silence  so  piqued  and  provoked  her  that 
she  seized  a  favourable  opportunity  for  asking  him,  point-blank,  whether 


8  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

he  had  not  spoken  to  Mary  Avon.  They  were  in  the  garden  at  the 
time,  he  seated  on  an  iron  seat,  with  a  bundle  of  papers  beside  him  ;  she 
standing  on  the  gravel-path  with  some  freshly-cut  flowers  in  her  hand. 
There  was  a  little  colour  in  her  face,  for  she  feared  that  the  question 
might  be  deemed  impertinent ;  yet,  after  all,  it  was  no  idle  curiosity 
that  prompted  her  to  ask  it.  Was  she  not  as  much  interested  in  the 
girl's  happiness  as  any  one  could  be  1 

"  I  have,"  said  he,  looking  up  at  her  calmly. 

Well,  she  knew  that.     Was  this  all  the  answer  she  was  to  get  ? 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  he,  after  a  second,  "  if  I  seem  to 
be  making  a  mystery  where  there  is  no  mystery.  I  hate  all  foolishness 
like  that.  I  do  not  myself  believe  there  is  anything  of  the  kind ;  but 
I  will  just  ask  ye  to  wait  for  a  day  or  two  before  speaking  to  the  lass 
herself.  After  that,  I  will  leave  it  all  in  your  hands.  I  trust  ye  will 
consider  that  I  have  done  my  part." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  of  that,  sir,"  said  she  :  though  how  could  she  be 
sure? 

"  There  is  not  much  I  would  not  do  for  that  lass,"  said  he,  somewhat 
absently.  "  She  has  a  wonderful  way  of  getting  a  grip  of  one's  heart, 
as  it  were.  And  if  I  could  have  wished  that  things  had  turned  out 
otherwise " 

The  Laird  did  not  finish  the  sentence.     He  seemed  to  rouse  himself. 

"  Toots  !  toots  !  "  said  he,  frowning.  "  When  we  are  become  men,  we 
have  to  put  away  childish  things.  What  is  the  use  of  crying  for  the 
moon  ?  There,  ma'am,  is  something  serious  and  practical  to  consider — 
something  better  worth  considering  than  childish  dreams  and  fancies." 

And  then,  with  much  lucidity  and  with  a  most  dispassionate  parade 
of  arguments  on  both  sides,  he  put  before  her  this  knotty  question  : 
whether  it  was  a  fit  and  proper  thing  for  a  body  like  the  Strathgovan 
Commissioners  to  own  public-house  property  ]  That  was  the  general 
question.  The  immediate  question  was  whether  the  "  William  Wallace  " 
public-house,  situated  in  the  Netherbiggins  road,  should  be  re-let  or 
summarily  closed  ?  On  the  one  hand  it  was  contended  that  the  closing 
of  the  "  William  Wallace  "  would  only  produce  a  greater  run  on  the 
other  licensed  houses ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  urged  that  a  body  like 
the  Commissioners  should  set  an  example  and  refuse  to  encourage  a 
mischievous  traffic.  Now  the  Laird's  own  view  of  the  liquor  question — 
which  he  always  put  forward  modestly,  as  subject  to  the  opinion  of 
those  who  had  had  a  wider  legislative  and  administrative  experience 
than  himself — was,  that  the  total  suppression  of  the  liquor  traffic  was 
a  chimera ;  and  that  a  practical  man  should  turn  to  see  what  could  be 
done  in  the  way  of  stringent  police  regulations.  He  was  proceeding  to 
expound  these  points  when  he  suddenly  caught  sight  of  the  Youth,  who 
had  appeared  at  the  gate,  with  two  long  fishing-rods  over  his  shoulder. 
He  dropped  his  voice. 

"  That  just  reminds  me,  ma'am,"  said  he.     "  I  am  greatly  obliged  to 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  9 

ye — my  nephew  equally  so — for  your  great  kindness  to  him.  I  think  it 
will  not  be  necessary  for  him  to  trespass  on  your  forbearance  any  longer." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  think  I  will  let  him  go  back  to  his  own  pursuits  now,"  said  the 
Laird. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "  By  all  means  let  him  come  with  us  to  Stor- 
noway.  He  has  been  very  good  in  not  grumbling  over  any  inconvenience. 
You  would  not  send  him  away  just  as  we  are  going  to  start  on  our 
longest  cruise  1 " 

She  could  not  say  anything  further  at  the  moment,  for  the  Youth 
came  up  the  gravel-path,  and  threw  the  two  huge  rods  on  to  the 
lawn. 

"  Look  there,  uncle  ! "  he  cried.  "  I  don't  care  what  size  of  lithe 
you  get  on  the  line,  I'll  bet  those  rods  won't  break,  any  way.  Suther- 
land used  to  be  lamenting  over  the  big  fish  you  lost  up  in  the  north  : 
try  them  with  those  things. !  " 

Here  their  hostess  passed  on  and  into  the  house  with  her  flowers. 
Uncle  and  nephew  were  left  by  themselves. 

"  Howard,  lad,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two  men,  "  bring  that  chair 
over,  and  sit  opposite  me.  I  do  not  want  my  papers  to  be  disturbed. 
There  are  one  or  two  matters  of  business  I  would  like  to  put  before  ye." 

The  Youth  did  as  he  was  bid.  The  Laird  paused  for  a  second  or 
two;  then  he  began — 

"  When  I  asked  ye  to  come  to  the  Highlands,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  I 
put  an  alternative  before  ye,  with  certain  consequences.  There  were 
two  things,  one  of  which  J  wanted  ye  to  do.  Ye  have  done  neither." 

Howard  Smith  looked  somewhat  alarmed  :  his  hostess  was  not  there 
to  put  a  jocular  air  over  that  bargain. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "I — I  could  not  do  what  was  impos- 
sible. I —  I  have  done  my  best." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  Laird,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  "  neither 
has  been  done.  I  will  not  say  it  has  been  altogether  your  fault.  So  far 
as  I  have  seen,  ye  have  been  on  very  good  terms  with  the  young  leddy ; 
and — and — yes,  paid  her  what  attention  was  expected  of  ye  ;  and " 

"  Well,  you  see,  uncle,"  he  interposed,  eagerly,  "  What  was  the  use  of 
my  proposing  to  the  girl  only  to  be  snubbed  ?  Don't  I  know  she  cares 
no  more  about  me  than  about  the  man  in  the  moon  ?  Why,  anybody 
could  see  that.  Of  course,  you  know,  if  you  insist  on  it — if  you  drive 
me  to  it — if  you  want  me  to  go  in  and  get  snubbed — I'll  do  it.  I'll 
take  my  chance.  But  I  don't  think  it's  fair.  I  mean,"  he  added  has- 
tily, "  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  drive  ye  to  anything,"  said  the  Laird — on  any 
other  occasion  he  might  have  laughed  at  the  Youth's  ingenuousness,  but 
now  he  had  serious  business  on  hand.  "  I  am  content  to  take  things  as 
they  are.  Neither  of  the  objects  I  had  in  view  has  been  accomplished  ; 
perhaps  both  were  impossible ;  who  can  tell  what  lies  in  store  for  any 

1—5 


10  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

of  us,  -when  we  begin  to  plan  and  scheme  1  However,  I  am  not  disposed 
to  regard  it  as  your  fault.  I  Avill  impose  no  fine  or  punishment,  as  if 
we  were  playing  at  theatre-acting.  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin  of  my 
own  ;  and  it  is  my  wish  that,  at  my  death,  Denny-mains  should  go  to  you." 
The  Youth's  face  turned  red ;  yet  he  did  not  know  how  to  express 
his  gratitude.  It  did  not  quite  seem  a  time  for  sentiment ;  the  Laird 
was  talking  in  such  a  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  Subject  to  certain  conditions,"  he  continued.  "  First  of  all,  I  spoke 
some  time  ago  of  spending  a  sum  of  3,OOOZ.  on  a  steam-yacht.  Dismiss 
that  from  your  mind.  I  cannot  afford  it ;  neither  will  you  be  able." 

The  young  man  stared  at  this.  For  although  he  cared  very  little 
about  the  steam-yacht — having  a  less  liking  for  the  sea  than  some  of 
us — he  was  surprised  to  hear  that  a  sum  like  3,000£.  was  even  a  matter 
for  consideration  to  a  reputedly  rich  man  like  his  uncle. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  sir,"  said  he.     "  I  don't  at  all  want  a  steam-yacht." 
"  Very  well,  we  will  now  proceed." 

The  Laird  took  up  one  of  the  documents  beside  him,  and  began  to 
draw  certain  lines  on  the  back  of  it. 

"  Ye  will  remember,"  said  he,  pointing  with  his  pencil,  "  that  where 
the  estate  proper  of  Denny-mains  runs  out  to  the  Coulter-burn  road, 
there  is  a  piece  of  land  belonging  to  me,  on  which  are  two  tenements, 
yielding  together,  I  should  say,  about  300£.  a  year.  By-and-by,  if  a 
road  should  be  cut  so — across  to  the  Netherbiggins  road — that  land  will 
be  more  valuable ;  many  a  one  will  be  wanting  to  feu  that  piece  then, 
mark  my  words.  However,  let  that  stand  by.  In  the  meantime  I 
have  occasion  for  a  sum  of  ten  thousand  three  hundred  pounds." 

The  Youth  looked  still  more  alarmed  :  had  his  uncle  been  speculating  1 
"  — and  I  have  considered  it  my  duty  to .  ask  you,  as  the  future  pro- 
prietor of  Denny-mains  in  all  human  probability,  whether  ye  would 
rather  have  these  two  tenements  sold,  with  as  much  of  the  adjoining 
land  as  would  make  up  that  sum,  or  whether  ye  would  have  the  sum 
made  a  charge  on  the  estate  generally,  and  take  your  chance  of  that  land 
rising  in  value  1  What  say  ye  1 " 

The  Laird  had  been  prepared  for  all  this ;  but  the  Youth  was  not, 
He  looked  rather  frightened. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  hear,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "  that — that—  you 

were  pressed  for  money " 

"  Pressed  for  money  1 "  said  the  Laird  severely ;  "  I  am  not  pressed 
for  money.  There  is  not  a  square  yard  of  Denny-mains  with  a  farthing 
of  mortgage  on  it.  Come,  let's  hear  what  ye  have  to  say." 

"  Then,"  said  the  young  man,  collecting  his  wits,  "  my  opinion  is, 
that  a  man  should  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own." 

"  That's  well  said,"  returned  the  Laird,  much  mollified.  "  And  I'm 
no  sure  but  that  if  we  were  to  roup*  that  land,  that  quarrelsome  body 


To  roup,  to  sell  by  public  auction. 


WHITE  WINQS:   A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  11 

Johnny  Guthrie  might  not  be  trying  to  buy  it ;  and  I  would  not  have 
him  for  a  neighbour  on  any  consideration.  Well,  I  will  write  to  Todd 
and  Buchanan  about  it  at  once." 

The  Laird  rose  and  began  to  bundle  his  papers  together.  The  Youth 
laid  hold  of  the  fishing-rods,  and  was  about  to  carry  them  off  somewhere, 
when  he  was  suddenly  called  back. 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  the  Laird,  "  my  memory's  going.  There  was 
another  thing  I  was  going  to  put  before  ye,  lad.  Our  good  friends  here 
have  been  very  kind  in  asking  ye  to  remain  so  long.  I'm  thinking  ye 
might  offer  to  give  up  your  state-room  before  they  start  on  this  long  trip. 
Is  there  any  business  or  occupation  ye  would  like  to  be  after  in  the 
south  ?  " 

The  flash  of  light  that  leapt  to  the  young  man's  face  ! 

"  Why,  uncle  ! "  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  diving  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  "  I  have  twice  been  asked  by  old  Barnes  to  go  to  his  place — 
the  best  partridge-shooting  in  Bedfordshire " 

But  the  Youth  recollected  himself. 

"  I  mean,"  said  he  seriously,  "  Barnes,  the  swell  solicitor,  don't  you 
know? — Hughes,  Barnes,  and  Barnes.  It  would  be  an  uncommonly  good 
thing  for  me  to  stand  well  with  them.  They  are  just  the  making  of  a 
young  fellow  at  the  bar  when  they  take  him  up.  Old  Barnes's  son  was 
at  Cambridge  with  me ;  but  he  doesn't  do  anything— an  idle  fellow — 
cares  for  nothing  but  shooting  and  billiards.  I  really  ought  to  cultivate 
old  Barnes." 

The  Laird  eyed  him  askance. 

"  Off  ye  go  to  your  pairtridge- shooting,  and  make  no  more  pre- 
tence," said  he ;  and  then  he  added,  "  And  look  here,  my  lad,  when  ye 
leave  this  house  I  hope  ye  will  express  in  a  proper  form  your  thanks  for 
the  kindness  ye  have  received.  No,  no ;  I  do  not  like  the  way  of  you 
English  in  that  respect.  Ye  take  no  notice  of  anything.  Ye  receive  a 
man's  hospitality  for  a  week,  a  fortnight,  a  month  ;  and  then  ye  shake 
hands  with  him  at  the  door ;  and  walk  out — as  if  nothing  had  happened  ! 
These  may  be  good  manners  in  England ;  they  are  not  here." 

"  I  can't  make  a  speech,  uncle,"  said  the  Youth  slyly.  "  They  don't 
teach  us  those  things  a,t  the  English  public  schools." 

"  Ye  gowk,"  said  the  Laird  severely,  "  do  you  think  I  want  ye  to 
make  a  speech  like  Norval  on  the  Grampian  Hills  ?  I  want  yo  to  express 
in  proper  language  your  thankfulness  for  the  attention  and  kindness 
that  have  been  bestowed  on  ye.  What  are  ye  afraid  of?  Have  ye  not 
got  a  mouth  1  From  all  that  I  can  hear  the  English  have  a  wonderful 
fluency  of  speech,  when  there  is  no  occasion  for  it  at  all :  bletherin' 
away  like  twenty  steam-engines,  and  not  a  grata  of  wheat  to  be  found 
when  a'  the  stour  is  laid." 


12  WHITE  WIKGS:   A  YACHTIJSG-  ROMANCE. 

CHAPTER  XL. 
"  WHILE  THE  RIPPLES  FOLD  UPON  SANDS  OP  GOLD." 

THE  days  passed,  and  still  the  Laird  professed  to  be  profoundly  busy; 
and  our  departure  for  the  north  was  further  and  further  postponed. 
The  Youth  had  at  first  expressed  his  intention  of  waiting  to  see  us  off; 
which  was  very  kind  on  his  part,  considering  how  anxious  he  was  to 
cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  that  important  solicitor.  His  patience, 
however,  at  last  gave  out ;  and  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  start  on  a 
certain  morning.  The  evening  before  we  walked  down  to  the  shore  with 
him,  and  got  pulled  out  to  the  yacht,  and  sate  on  deck,  while  he  went 
below  to  pack  such  things  as  had  been  left  in  his  state-room.  "  It  will 
be  a  strange  thing,"  said  our  gentle  Admiral-in-chief,  "  for  us  to  have  a 
cabin  empty.  That  has  never  happened  to  us  in  the  Highlands,  all  the 
time  we  have  been  here.  It  will  be  a  sort  of  ghost's  room ;  we  shall  not 
dare  to  look  into  it  for  fear  of  seeing  something  to  awaken  old  memories." 

She  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  out  some  small  object. 
"  Look,"  said  she,  quite  sentimentally. 

It  was  only  a  bit  of  pencil :  if  it  had  been  the  skull  of  Socrates  she 
could  not  have  regarded  it  with  a  greater  interest.  "  It  is  the  pencil 
Angus  used  to  mark  our  games  with.  I  found  it  in  the  saloon  the  day 

before  yesterday "  and  then  she  added,  almost  to  herself — "  I  wonder 

where  he  is  now." 

The  answer  to  this  question  startled  us.     "  In  Paris,"  said  the  Laird. 

But  no  sooner  had  he  uttered  the  words  than  he  seemed  somewhat 
embarrassed.  "  That  is,  I  believe  so,"  he  said  hastily.  "  I  am  not  in 
correspondence  with  him.  I  do  riot  know  for  certain.  I  have  heard — 
it  has  been  stated  to  me — that  he  might  perhaps  remain  until  the  end  of 
this  week  in  Paris  before  going  on  to  Naples." 

He  appeared  rather  anxious  to  avoid  being  further  questioned.  He 
began  to  discourse  upon  certain  poems  of  Burns,  whom  he  had  once  or 
twice  somewhat  slightingly  treated.  He  was  now  bent  on  making  ample 
amends.  In  especial,  he  asked  whether  his  "hostess  did  not  remember  the 
beautiful  verse  in  "  Mary  Morison,"  which  describes  the  lover  looking 
on  at  the  dancing  of  a  number  of  young  people,  and  conscious  only  that 
his  own  sweetheart  is  not  there  1 

"  Do  ye  remember  it,  ma'am  1 "  said  he  ;  and  he  proceeded  to  repeat 
it  for  her — 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sighed  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  13 

— Beautiful,  beautiful,  is  it  not?  And  that  is  an  extraordinary  busi- 
ness— and  as  old  as  the  hills  too — of  one  young  person  waling  *  out 
another  as  the  object  of  all  the  hopes  of  his  or  her  life ;  and  nothing  will 
do  but  that  one.  Ye  may  show  them  people  who  are  better  to  look  at, 
richer,  cleverer ;  ye  may  reason  and  argue ;  ye  may  make  plans,  and 
what  not :  it  is  all  of  no  use.  And  people  who  have  grown  up,  and 
who  forget  what  they  themselves  were  at  twenty  or  twenty-five,  may 
say  what  they  like  about  the  foolishness  of  a  piece  of  sentiment ;  and 
they  may  prove  to  the  young  folks  that  this  madness  will  not  last,  and 
that  they  should  marry  for  more  substantial  reasons ;  but  ye  are  jist 
talking  to  the  wind  !  Madness  'or  not  madness,  it  is  human  nature  ;  and 
ye  might  jist  as  well  try  to  fight  against  the  tides.  I  will  say  this,  too," 
continued  the  Laird — and  as  he  warmed  to  his  subject,  he  rose,  and 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  deck — "  if  a  young  man  were  to  come 
and  tell  me  that  he  was  ready  to  throw  up  a  love-match  for  the  sake  of 
prudence  and  worldly  advantage,  I  would  say  to  him  :  '  Man,  ye  are  a 
poor  crayture.  Ye  have  not  got  the  backbone  of  a  mouse  in  ye.'  I 
have  no  respect  for  a  young  man  who  has  prudence  beyond  his  years ; 
not  one  bit.  If  it  is  human  nature  for  a  man  at  fifty  years  to  laugh  at 
sentiment  and  romance,  it  is  human  nature  for  a  man  at  twenty-five  to 
believe  in  it ;  and  he  who  does  not  believe  in  it  then,  I  say,  is  a  poor 
crayture.  He  will  never  come  to  anything.  He  may  make  money ; 
but  he  will  be  a  poor  stupid  ass  all  his  days,  just  without  those  expe- 
riences that  make  life  a  beautiful  thing  to  look  back  on." 

He  came  and  sate  down  by  Mary  Avon. 

"  Perhaps  a  sad  thing,  too,"  said  he,  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his ; 
"  but  even  that  is  better  than  a  dull  causeway,  with  an  animal  trudging 
along  and  sorely  burdened  with  the  world's  wealth.  And  now,  my 
lass,  have  ye  got  everything  tight  and  trim  for  the  grand  voyage  1 " 

"  She  has  been  at  it  again,  sir,"  says  his  hostess,  interposing.  "  She 
wants  to  set  out  for  the  south  to-morrow  morning." 

"  It  would  be  a  convenient  chance  for  me,"  said  the  girl  simply. 
"  Mr.  Smith  might  be  good  enough  to  see  me  as  far  as  Greenock — 
though,  indeed,  I  don't  at  all  mind  travelling  by  myself.  I  must  stop 
at  Kendal — is  that  where  the  junction  is  1 — for  I  promised  the  poor 
old  woman  who  died  in  Edinburgh  that  I  would  call  and  see  some 
relations  of  hers  who  live  near  Windermere." 

"  They  can  wait,  surely  1  "  said  the  Laird,  with  frowning  eyebrows, 
as  if  the  poor  people  at  Windermere  had  attempted  to  do  him  some 
deadly  injury. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  hurry  for  them,"  said  she.  "  They  do  not  even  know 
I  am  coming.  But  this  chance  of  Mr.  Smith  going  by  the  steamer 
to-morrow  would  ^e  convenient." 

"  Put  that  fancy  out  of  your  head,"  said  he  with  decision.     "  Ye  are 

*   Waling — choosing. 


14  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

going  to  no  Greenock,  and  to  no  Kendal,  at  the  present  time.  Ye  are 
going  away  with  us  to  the  north,  to  see  such  things  as  ye  never  saw 
before  in  your  life.  And  if  ye  are  anxious  to  get  on  with  your  work, 
I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do.  There's  our  Provost  McKendrick  has  been 
many  a  time  telling  me  of  the  fine  salmon-fishing  he  got  at  the  west  side 
of  Lewis — I  think  he  said  at  a  place  called  Gometra " 

"  Grimersta,"  is  here  suggested. 

"  The  very  place.  Ye  shall  paint  a  picture  of  Grimersta,  my  lass, 
on  commission  for  the  Provost.  I  authorise  ye  :  if  he  will  not  take  it, 
I  will  take  it  myself.  Never  mind  what  the  place  is  like — the  Provost 
has  no  more  imagination  than  a  boiled  lobster ;  but  he  knows  when  he 
has  good  friends,  and  good  fishing,  and  a  good  glass  of  whisky ;  and, 
depend  on  it,  he'll  be  proud  to  have  a  picture  of  the  place,  on  your  own 
terms.  I  tell  ye  I  authorise  ye." 

Here  the  Youth  came  on  deck,  saying  he  was  now  ready  to  go  ashore. 

"  Do  you  know,  sir,"  said  his  hostess,  rising,  "  what  Mary  has  been 
trying  to  get  me  to  believe  ? — that  she  is  afraid  of  the  equinoctials  ! " 

The  Laird  laughed  aloud. 

"  That  is  a  good  one — that  is  a  good  one ! "  he  cried.  "  I  never 
heard  a  better  story  about  Homesh." 

"  I  know  the  gales  are  very  wild  here  when  they  begin,"  said  Miss 
Avon,  seriously.  "Every  one  says  so." 

But  the  Laird  only  laughs  the  more,  and  is  still  chuckling  to  him- 
self as  he  gets  down  into  the  gig  :  the  notion  of  Mary  Avon  being  afraid 
of  anything — of  fifteen  dozen  of  equinoctial  gales,  for  example — was  to 
him  simply  ludicrous. 

But  a  marked  and  unusual  change  came  over  the  Laird's  manner 
when  we  got  back  to  Castle  Osprey.  During  all  the  time  he  had  been 
with  us,  although  he  had  had  occasionally  to  administer  rebukes,  with 
more  or  less  of  solemnity,  he  had  never  once  lost  his  temper.  We  should 
have  imagined  it  impossible  for  anything  to  have  disturbed  his  serene 
dignity  or  demeanour.  But  now — when  he  discovered  that  there  was 
no  letter  awaiting  any  one  of  us — his  impatience  seemed  dangerously 
akin  to  vexation  and  anger.  He  would  have  the  servants  summoned 
and  cross-examined.  Then  he  would  not  believe  them;  but  must  needs 
search  the  various  rooms  for  himself.  The  afternoon  post  had  really 
brought  nothing  but  a  newspaper — addressed  to  the  Laird — and  that  he 
testily  threw  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  without  opening  it.  We  had 
never  seen  him  give  way  like  this  before. 

At  dinner,  too,  his  temper  was  no  better.  He  began  to  deride  the 
business  habits  of  the  English  people — which  was  barely  civil.  He  said 
that  the  English  feared  the  Scotch  and  the  Germans  just  as  the  Ameri- 
cans feared  the  Chinese — because  the  latter  were  the  more  indefatigable 
workers.  He  declared  that  if  the  London  men  had  less  Amontillado 
sherry  and  cigarettes  in  their  private  office-rooms,  their  business  would 
be  conducted  with  much  greater  accuracy  and  despatch.  Then  another 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  KOMANCE.  15 

thought  struck  him  :  were  the  servants  prepared  to  swear  that  no  regis- 
tered letter  had  been  presented  in  the  afternoon,  and  taken  away  again 
because  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  to  sign  the  receipt  1  Inquiry 
being  made  it  was  found  that  no  such  letter  had  been  presented.  But, 
finally,  when  the  turmoil  about  this  wretched  thing  was  at  its  height, 
the  Laird  was  pressed  to  say  from  which  part  of  the  country  the  missive 
was  expected.  From  London,  he  said.  It  was  then  pointed  out  to  him 
that  the  London  letters  were  usually  sent  along  in  the  evening — sometimes 
as  late  as  eight  or  nine  o'clock.  He  went  on  with  his  dinner,  grumbling. 
Sure  enough,  before  he  had  finished  dinner,  a  footstep  was  heard  on 
the  gravel  outside.  The  Laird,  without  any  apology,  jumped  up  and 
went  to  the  window. 

"  There's  the  postman,"  said  he,  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  "  Ye  might 
give  him  a  shilling,  ma'am  :  it  is  a  long  climb  up  the  hill." 

It  was  the  postman,  no  doubt ;  and  he  had  brought  a  letter,  but  it 
was  not  for  the  Laird.  We  were  all  apprehensive  of  a  violent  storm 
when  the  servant  passed  on  and  handed  this  letter  to  Mary  Avon.  But 
the  Laird  said  nothing.  Miss  Avon,  like  a  properly-conducted  school- 
girl, put  the  letter  in  her  pocket. 

There  was  no  storm.  On  the  contrary,  the  Laird  got  quite  cheerful. 
When  his  hostess  hoped  that  no  serious  inconvenience  would  result 
from  the  non-arrival  of  the  letter,  he  said,  "  Not  the  least ! "  He  began 
and  told  us  the  story  of  the  old  lady  who  endeavoured  to  engage  the 
practical  Homesh — while  he  was  collecting  tickets — in  a  disquisition  on 
the  beauties  of  Highland  scenery,  and  who  was  abruptly  bidden  to 
"  mind  her  own  pussness ;  "  we  had  heard  the  story  not  more  than 
thirty-eight  times,  perhaps,  from  various  natives  of  Scotland. 

But  the  letter  about  which  the  Laird  had  been  anxious  had — as  some 
of  us  suspected — actually  arrived,  and  was  then  in  Mary  Avon's  pocket. 
After  dinner  the  two  women  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Avon 
sate  down  to  the  piano,  and  began  to  play,  idly  enough,  the  air  called 
Heimweh.  Of  what  home  was  she  thinking,  then — this  waif  and  stray 
umong  the  winds  of  the  world  1 

Tea  was  brought  in.  At  last  the  curiosity  of  the  elder  woman  could 
no  longer  be  restrained. 

"  Mary,"  said  she,  "  are  you  not  going  to  read  that  letter  ?  " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  girl,  plunging  into  her  pocket.  "  I  had  for- 
gotten I  had  a  letter  to  read." 

She  took  it  out  and  opened  it,  and  began  to  read.  Her  face  looked 
puzzled  at  first,  then  alarmed.  She  turned  to  her  friend. 

"  What  is  it  1  What  can  it  mean  1  "  she  said,  in  blank  dismay ;  and 
the  trembling  fingers  handed  her  the  letter. 

Her  friend  had  less  difficulty  in  understanding ;  although,  to  be  sure, 
before  she  had  finished  this  perfectly  plain  and  matter-of-fact  communi- 
cation, there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  It  was  merely  a  letter  from  the 
manager  of  a  bank  in  London,  begging  to  inform  Miss  Avon  that  he 


16  WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

had  just  received,  through  Messrs.  Todd  and  Buchanan,  of  Glasgow,  a 
sum  of  10,300£.  to  be  placed  to  her  credit.  He  was  also  desired  to  say, 
that  this  sum  was  entirely  at  her  own  free  disposal ;  but  the  donor  would 
prefer — if  she  had  no  objection — that  it  should  be  invested  in  some  home 
security,  either  in  a  good  mortgage,  or  in  the  Metropolitan  Board  of 
"Works  Stock.  It  was  a  plain  and  simple  letter. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  don't  you  understand — don't  you  understand  ] "  said 
she.  "  He  meant  to  have  given  you  a  steam-yacht,  if — if  you  married 
Howard  Smith.  He  has  given  you  all  the  money  you  lost ;  and  the 
steam-yacht,  too.  And  there  is  not  a  word  of  regret  about  all  his  plans 
and  schemes  being  destroyed.  And  this  is  the  man  we  have  all  been 
making  fun  of." 

In  her  conscious  self-abasement  she  did  not  perceive  how  bewildered — 
how  absolutely  frightened — this  girl  was.  Mary  Avon  took  back  the 
letter  mechanically ;  she  stood  silent  for  a  second  or  two,  then  she  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper — 

"  Giving  me  all  that  money  !  Oh,  I  cannot  take  it — I  cannot  take 
it !  I  should  not  have  stayed  here — I  should  not  have  told  him  any- 
thing— I — I — wish  to  go  away " 

But  the  common  sense  of  the  elder  woman  came  to  her  rescue.  She 
took  the  girl's  hand  firmly,  and  said — 

"  You  shall  not  go  away.  And  when  it  is  your  good  fortune  to  meet 
with  such  a  friend  as  that,  you  shall  not  wound  him  and  insult  him 
by  refusing  what  he  has  given  to  you.  No ;  but  you  will  go  at  once 
and  thank  him." 

"I  cannot — I  cannot,"  she  said,  with  both  her  hands  trembling. 
"  What  shall  I  say  ?  How  can  I  thank  him  1  If  he  were  my  own 
father  or  brother,  how  could  I  thank  him  ? " 

Her  friend  left  the  room  for  a  second,  and'  returned. 

"  He  is  in  the  library  alone,"  said  she.  "  Go  to  him.  And  do  not 
be  so  ungrateful  as  to  even  speak  of  refusing." 

The  girl  had  no  time  to  compose  any  speech.  She  walked  to  the 
library  door,  timidly  tapped  at  it,  and  entered.  The  Laird  was  seated 
in  an  easy-chair,  reading. 

When  he  saw  her  come  in — he  had  been  expecting  a  servant  with 
coffee,  probably — he  instantly  put  aside  his  book. 

"  Well,  Miss  Mary  ?  "  said  he  cheerfully. 

She  hesitated.  She  could  not  speak  ;  her  throat  was  choking.  And 
then,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  she  sank  down  before  him,  and 
put  her  head  and  her  hands  on  his  knees,  and  burst  out  crying  and 
sobbing.  And  all  that  he  could  hear  of  any  speech-making,  or  of  any 
gratitude,  or  thanks,  was  only  two  words — 

"  My  father!" 

He  put  his  hand  gently  on  the  soft  black  hair. 

"  Child,"  said  he,  "  it  is  nothing.     I  have  kept  my  word." 


17 


0f 


PART  II. 

And  well  bis  words  become  him  :  is  he  not 
A  full-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers? — EDWIN  MORRIS. 

IN  a  former  numl>er  of  this  Magazine  we  drew  attention  to  certain  pecu- 
liarities in  the  work  of  the  Laureate  which  had  not,  in  our  opinion,  been 
sufficiently  appreciated  by  his  many  critics.  We  ventured  to  point  out 
that  he  belongs  to  a  class  of  poets  whose  work  has  a  twofold  value,  a 
value,  that  is  to  say,  dependent  on  its  obvious,  simple,  and  intrinsic 
beauties,  which  is  its  exoteric  and  popular  side,  and  a  value  dependent 
on  niceties  of  adaptation,  allusion,  and  finish,  which  is  its  esoteric  and 
critical  side;  that  he  is  to  a  certain  point  only  the  poet  of  the  people, 
that  he  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  cultured,  that  his  services  to 
art  will  never  be  properly  understood  till  his  writings  come  to  be  studied 
in  detail,  till  they  are,  as  those  of  his  masters  have  been,  submitted  to 
the  ordeal  of  the  minutest  critical  investigation  ;  till  the  delicate  mecha- 
nism of  his  diction  shall  be  analysed  as  scholars  analyse  the  kindred 
subtleties  of  Sophocles  and  Virgil,  till  the  sources  of  his  plots  have  been 
laid  bare,  and  the  original  and  the  copy  placed  side  by  side ;  till  we  are 
in  possession  of  comparative  commentaries  on  his  poems  as  exhaustive 
as  those  with  which  Orelli  illustrated  Horace,  and  Matthias,  Gray.  We 
ventured  to  suggest  that  his  poems  should  be  studied,  not  as  we  study 
those  of  the  fathers  of  Song,  as  we  study  those  of  Homer,  Dante,  Chaucer, 
Shakspeare,  but  as  we  study  those  who  stand  first  in  the  second  rank  of 
poets  ;  that  in  dealing  with  him  we  have  to  deal  not  with  a  Homer,  but 
with  an  Apollonius,  not  with  an  Alcaeus,  but  with  a  Horace ;  not  so 
much  with  a  poet  of  original  genius,  as  with  a  great  artist,  with  one 
whose  mastery  lies  in  assimilative  skill,  whose  most  successful  works  are 
not  direct  studies  from  simple  nature,  but  studies  from  nature  interpreted 
by  art.  That  he  belongs,  in  a  word,  to  a  school  which  stands  in  the  same 
relation  to  the  literature  of  England  as  the  Alexandrian  poets  stood  to 
the  literature  of  Greece,  and  as  the  Augustan  poets  stood  to  the  litera- 
ture of  Rome. 

We  will  illustrate  our  meaning.  In  the  works  of  the  fathers  of 
poetry  everything  is  drawn  directly  from  Nature.  Their  characters  are 
the  characters  of  real  life.  The  incidents  they  describe  have  their 
counterpart  in  human  experience.  When  they  paint  inanimate  objects, 
either  simply  in  detail,  or  comprehensively  in  group,  their  pictures  are 


18  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

transcripts  of  what  they  have  with  their  own  eyes  witnessed.  In  de- 
scription for  the  mere  sake  of  description,  they  never  indulge.  The  phy- 
sical universe  is  with  them  merely  the  stage  on  which  the  tragi-comedy 
of  life  is  evolving  itself.  Their  language  is,  as  a  rule,  plain  and  simple. 
When  they  are  obscure  the  obscurity  arises  not  from  affectation  but  from 
necessity.  Little  solicitous  about  the  niceties  of  expression,  they  are 
in  no  sense  of  the  word  stylists,  they  have  no  ambitious  ornaments,  few 
tropes,  and  nothing  of  what  the  Latin  critics  call  the  delicice  et  lenocinia 
verborum.  Their  object  was  to  describe  and  interpret,  not  to  refine  and 
subtilise.  They  were  great  artists,  not  because  they  worked  on  critical 
principles,  but  because  they  communed  with  truth.  They  were  true  to 
Art  because  they  were  true  to  Nature.  In  the  school  of  which  we  take 
Virgil  and  the  Laureate  to  be  the  most  conspicuous  representatives,  a 
school  which  seldom  fails  to  make  its  appearance  in  eveiy  literature  at 
a  certain  point  of  its  development,  all  this  is  reversed.  Their  material 
is  derived  not  from  the  world  of  Nature,  but  from  the  world  of  Art. 
The  hint,  the  framework,  the  method  of  their  most  characteristic  com- 
positions, seldom  or  never  emanate  from  themselves.  Take  their  dra- 
matis personce.  The  only  powerful  portrait  in  Virgil  is  a  study  from 
Euripides  and  Apollonius,  the  rest  are  shadows,  mere  outlines,  suggested 
sometimes  by  Homer  and  sometimes  by  the  Greek  dramatists.  Mr. 
Tennyson's  Arthur  and  Launcelot  were  the  creations  of  Malory,  or 
rather  of  those  poets  who  supplied  Malory  with  his  romance.  His 
Ulysses  is  a  study  from  Dante.  His  most  subtly  elaborated  character, 
Lucretius,  is  the  result  of  a  minute  and  sympathetic  study  of  the  De 
Rerum  Naturd.  His  minor  heroes  and  heroines,  his  Eleanores,  his 
Madelin.es,  his  Marianas,  are  rather  embodiments  of  peculiar  moods  and 
fancies  than  human  beings.  When  Virgil  sits  down  to  write  pastorals, 
he  reproduces  Theocritus  with  servile  fidelity.  When  he  writes  didactic 
poetry  he  takes  Hesiod  for  his  model.  When  he  composes  the  jE-neid,  he 
casts  the  first  part  in  the  mould  of  the  Odyssey,  and  the  second  part  in  the 
mould  of  the  Iliad.  He  is  careful  also  to  introduce  no  episode  for  which 
he  cannot  point  to  his  pattern.  So  with  the  Laureate.  Mr.  Tennyson's 
Idylls  are  a  series  of  incidents  from  the  Arthurian  Romances.  His  Enid 
is  from  Lady  Charlotte  Guest's  Mabinoyion.  His  classical  studies — 
CEnone,  Ulysses,  Tithonus,  Lucretius,  were  possibly  suggested  by  the 
author  of  Laodamia,  possibly  by  the  soliloquies  in  the  Greek  dramas. 
His  English  Idylls  are  obviously  modelled  on  Theocritus  and  Words- 
worth. In  Wordsworth's  Michael  he  found  a  model  for  Enoch  Arden. 
His  In  Memoriam  was  suggested  by  Petrarch ;  his  Dream  of  Fair 
Women  by  Chaucer ;  his  Godiva  by  Moultrie  ;  the  Women's  University 
in  the  Princess  by  Johnson.  His  Lotus-Eaters  is  an  interpretative  sketch 
from  the  Odyssey ;  his  Golden  Supper  is  from  Boccaccio  ;  his  Dora  is  the 
versification  of  a  story  by  Miss  Mitford.  When  Virgil  has  a  scene  to  de- 
scribe, or  a  simile  to  draw,  he  betakes  him  first  to  his  predecessors  to 
find  a  model,  and  then  proceeds  to  fill  in  his  sketch.  With  a  touch  here 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  19 

and  a  touch  there,  now  from  memory,  now  from  observation,  borrowing 
here  an  epithet  and  there  a  phrase — adding,  subtracting,  heightening, 
modifying,  substituting  one  metaphor  for  another,  developing  what  is 
latent  in  suggestive  imagery,  laying  under  contribution  the  vast  range  of 
Greek  and  Roman  literature, — the  unwearied  artist  patiently  toils  on, 
till  his  precious  mosaic  is  without  a  flaw,  till  every  gem  in  the  coronet  of 
his  genius  has  received  the  last  polish.  It  has  been  the  pleasing  task  of 
a  hundred  generations  of  the  learned  to  follow  this  consummate  artist 
step  by  step  to  discover  his  gems  in  their  rough  state,  and  to  compare 
them  in  that  state  with  the  state  in  which  they  are  when  they  leave 
his  finishing  hand.  Such  an  investigation  is  little  less  than  an  analysis 
of  the  principles  of  good  taste,  and  from  such  an  investigation  the 
poet  has  infinitely  more  to  gain  than  to  lose.  It  is  the  object  of  these 
papers  to  show  that  much  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  most  valuable  work  is 
of  a  similar  character,  that  he  possesses,  like  Virgil,  some  of  the  finest 
qualities  of  original  genius,  but  that  his  style  and  method  are,  like 
the  style  and  method  of  the  Roman,  essentially  artificial  and  essen- 
tially reflective.  With  both  of  them  expression  is  the  first  consideration. 
If  the  matter  be  meagre,  the  form  is  always  perfect ;  if  the  ideas  are 
fine,  the  clothing  is  still  finer.  Their  composition  resembles  the  sculpture 
described  by  Ovid — materiem  superabat  opus — the  workmanship  is  more 
precious  than  the  material.  One  of  the  most  highly  finished  passages 
Virgil  ever  produced  was  the  description  of  a  boy  whipping  his  top ;  one 
of  the  finest  passages  in  all  Mr.  Tennyson's  writings  is  the  comparison 
between  the  heavy  fall  of  a  drunken  man  and  the  fall  of  a  wave  tumbling 
on  the  shore.*  The  diction  of  both  is  often  so  subtly  elaborated  that  it 
defies  analysis.  Dissect,  for  example,  the  line  "  discolor  unde  auri  per 
ramos  aura  refulsit"  and  you  reduce  it  to  nonsense.  Dissect 

There  with  her  milk-white  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  king, 

and  it  becomes  unintelligible.  When  Virgil  wishes  to  describe  a  shep- 
herd wondering  whether  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  he  will  see  his 
farm  again,  he  writes — 

Post  aliquot,  mea  regna  videns  mirabor  aristas  ? 

When  Mr.  Tennyson  has  occasion  to  allude  to  the  month  of  March,  he 
speaks  of 

The  roaring  moon 

Of  daffodil  and  crocus. 

Their  expressions  not  unfrequently  resemble  enigmas. 
A  labyrinth  becomes  in  Virgil, 

iter,  qua  signa  sequendi 
Falleret  indeprensus  et  irremeabilis  error  ; 

*  See  the  lines  in  The  Last  Tournament,  beginning — 

Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 
Fell,  as  the  crest,  &c. 


20  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

and  the  life  of  Christ  becomes,  in  the  Laureate's  phraseology — 

The  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue. 

The  works  of  both  poets  abound  in  these  ingenious  periphrases.  No 
two  poets  have  so  completely  triumphed  over  what  Horace  tells  us  is 
the  most  difficult  of  all  arts — the  art  of  expressing  commonplaces  with 
originality.  Their  poems  are  store-houses  of  every  figure  in  the  vocabu- 
lary of  rhetoricians.  There  is  scarcely  a  page  in  Virgil  which  is  not 
loaded  with  Hellenisms  and  with  allusions  to  the  literature  of  Greece, 
often  of  such  a  kind  as  to  make  them  unintelligible  except  to  those  who 
know  where  to  turn  for  a  commentary.  Mr.  Tennyson's  diction  teems 
with  similar  peculiarities.  He  is  not  only  continually  imitating  the 
Greek  and  Roman  writers,  but  he  is  continually  transplanting  their 
idioms  and  their  phrases  into  our  tongue.  An  unlearned  reader  must 
indeed  be  often  at  a  loss  when  confronted  with  turns  like  these  :  "  This 
way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind ; "  "  laughed  with  alien  lips ;  " 
"  finished  to  the  finger  nail ;  "  "  sneezed  out  a  full  God-bless-you  left 
and  right ;  "  "  he  stood  four  square ; "  "  cooked  his  spleen ;  "  and  the 
like. 

Where  Virgil  particularly  excels  is  where  he  is  improving  in  detail 
upon  Homer,  upon  Hesiod,  upon  Apollonius,  or  upon  Ennius ;  in  his 
descriptive  passages,  and  pre-eminently  in  his  similes.  His  master- 
pieces are  the  fourth  and  the  sixth  ^Eneids.  In  the  first  he  follows  the 
third  and  fourth  books  of  the  Argonautica.  In  the  second  he  is  follow- 
ing the  eleventh  Odyssey.  Many  of  his  phrases,  his  turns,  his  cadences, 
his  epithets — the  disjecta  membra  of  his  diction,  are  still  to  be  found 
scattered  up  and  down  the  Greek  poets,  and  the  remains  of  the  older 
Roman  masters,  his  obligations  to  which  have  been  pointed  out  by  more 
than  one  of  his  critics.  What  the  literature  of  the  Old  World  was  to  the 
greatest  artist  of  antiquity,  that  is  the  literature  of  the  Old  and  New 
World  to  the  greatest  artist  of  our  day.  A  parallel  between  Virgil  and 
Tennyson  might,  we  believe,  be  drawn  closer  than  any  other  parallel 
which  could  be  instituted  between  two  poets.  Such  a  parallel  is,  how- 
ever, no  part  of  our  present  task.  Our  object  is  merely  to  show  that 
Mr.  Tennyson,  so  far  as  the  character  of  his  work  is  concerned,  stands 
in  the  same  relation  to  the  poetry  of  England  as  Virgil  stood  to  the 
poetry  of  Rome  ;  that  they  belong  to  the  same  school,  that  to  be  enjoyed 
thoroughly  they  must  be  studied  critically,  and  that  to  be  studied 
critically  they  imist  be  studied  with  a  constant  eye  to  their  connection 
with  their  predecessors.  We  shall  therefore  make  no  apology  for  con- 
tinuing our  former  paper,  and  we  offer  what  follows,  not  as  any  cata- 
logue of  plagiarisms,  but  simply  as  material  for  an  illustrative  com- 
mentary on  the  works  of  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  times.  The 
ancient  critics  were  never  weary  of  illustrating  the  poems  of  Virgil  by 
elaborate  series  of  parallel  passages,  and  it  was  by  the  aid  of  such  com- 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  21 

mentaries  that  his  peculiar  excellence  became  properly  appreciated. 
There  is  surely  no  reason  why  works  which  are  in  point  of  execution  in- 
ferior to  none  of  the  masterpieces  of  antiquity  should  not  be  studied  with 
similar  diligence  and  on  a  similar  method  by  ourselves.  A  few  of  the 
parallel  passages  to  which  we  shall  direct  attention  were  obviously  pro- 
fessed imitations,  some  of  them  may  have  been  .unconscious  recollections, 
and  many  of  them  no  doubt  are  merely  casual  coincidences.  To  begin, 
then. 

In  the  early  lyrics  the  predominant  influences  are  Coleridge  and 
Keats,  the  resemblance  lying  not  so  much  in  particular  passages  as  in 
the  essence  of  the  whole  — 

As  having  clasped  a  rose 

Within  the  palm,  the  rose  being  ta'en  away, 

The  hand  retains  a  little  breath  of  sweet, 

Holding  a  i'aint  perfume  of  his  sweet  guest. 

If  we  examine  them  more  particularly,  we  shall  find  that  from  the 
first  have  been  borrowed  rhythm  and  cadence,  from  the  second  are 
derived  that  languid  beauty,  that  voluptuous  purity,  that  excessive  rich- 
ness of  expression,  and  that  curious  intermixture  of  archaic  phraseology 
with  modern  sentiment,  which  are  the  most  striking  characteristics  of 
these  poems.  We  may  notice,  also,  how  carefully  the  epithets  and 
phrases  have  been  culled  from  various  sources.  To  take  a  few  instances 

from  many  : 

It  will  change  but  it  -will  not  die.  —  Nothing  will  Die. 

From  Shelley's  Cloud  — 

I  change  but  I  cannot  die. 

The  laws  of  marriage  charactered 

Upon  the  blanched  tablecs  of  her  heart.  —  Isabel. 

Compare  ^Eschylus,  Prometheus,  791  — 


or  more  directly  Heywood's  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  — 
Within  the  red-leaved  tablets  of  her  heart. 

So  in  the  Ode  to  Memory  we  have  "  ribbed  sand,"  which  occurs  in  the 
second  part  of  the  Ancient  Mariner;  "wattled  folds"  from  Comus, 
"  storied  walls  "  from  Milton  and  Gray.  The  magnificent  epithet 
myriad-minded,  which  occurs  in  the  same  poem,  has  a  curious  history. 
It  was  discovered  first  by  Coleridge,  as  a  phrase  /uvptoi'oue  in  some 
Byzantine  critic,  and  applied  by  him  with  happy  propriety  to  Shak- 
speare.  So  also  we  have  in  the  Poet  the  epithet  "  secretest,"  from 
Macbeth,  "  the  secretest  man  of  blood  "  —  the  breathing  Spring,  from 
Pope's  Messiah,  "  with  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  Spring."  So  again, 
in  Sea  Faeries,  "  the  ridged  sea,"  from  Lear  (act.  iv.  scene  6),  "  Horns 
whelk'd  and  waved  like  the  ridged  sea."  So  also  "  full-sailed  verse  " 
in  Eleanore  recalls  Shakspeare's  eighty-  sixth  sonnet,  "  the  full  sail  of 


22  A  NEW  STUDY  Of  TENNYSON. 

his  great  verse."     The  beautiful  epithet  "  apple-eketb'd  "  in  the  tstet, 
"a  bevy  of  Eroses  apjde-cheek'd"  is  from  Theocritus,  Idyll,  xxv.  1. 

X*  a  fjLa\OTrdpyos  'Ayava. 
1  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise  (Oriana), 

recalls  Ford's  Brother  and  Sister — 

Wash  every  -word  thou  utterest 
In  tears  of  blood. 

"We  may  notice  that  the  first  three  stanzas  of  Eleanore  bear  a  curious 
resemblance  to  a  singularly  beautiful  fragment  of  Ibycus  ;  compare  the 
spirit  and  images  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  verses  with  the  following  lines  : 

'Evpva\f,  y\avKeci)V  Xapircav  6d\os 
Ka\\iKo/j.(tiv  /u.f\e8ri[j.a,  <re  fjL€v  Kvirpis 
a  r'  ayavof3\f(j)apos  HeiQu  fioSeoicriv 

tv  &v6ecru>  Qpttyav 
fj.vpra  re.    /cat  to.  KaL  fXl^pvcros 
fj.a\a  T€  leal  poSa  /col  Tfpeiva  Sd<pva, 
TU/J.OS  &VTCVOS  K\vTbs  vpQpos  (yfiprjffiv  drjSoj'as. 

These  three  poems — Adeline,  Margaret,  and  Eleanore — should  also  be 
compared  with  Wordsworth's  Triad,  which  possibly  suggested  them. 

Nor  in  passing  should  we  forget  to  place  side  by  side  with  Tenny- 
son's exquisite  Mariana  the  four  lovely  lines  in  which  Sappho  is  de- 
scribing some  Mariana  of  antiquity  : 

8e'Sv/ce  jj.lv  a  ffeXavva 
Kai  riAij'/'aSes,  /ue'eratSe 
vvKTfs,  irapa  8'  ep^er'  &pa, 
fyca  8e  fj.6va  /carevSai. 

In  Mariana  in  the  South — 

Large  Hesper  ylitter'd  on  tier  tear, 

reminds  us  of  Keats — 

No  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears. — Hyperion,  book  ii. 

In  The  Two   Voices  we  may  notice  two  or  three  parallels.     The  line 
describing  the  insensibility  of  the  dead  man  to  the  world — 

His  sons  grew  up  that  Lear  his  name, 
Some  grew  to  honour,  some  to  shame, 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame, 

recall  Job,  chapter  xiv.  : 

His  sons  come  to  honour,  and  he  knewcth  not ;  and  they  are  brought  lo\r,  but  he 
pcrccireth  it  not. 

The  lines — 

Moreover  something  is  or  seems 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  : 
Of  something  felt,  like  something  here, 
Of  something  done  I  know  not  where, 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  23 

find  an  appropriate  commentary  in  Wordsworth's  splendid  Ode  : 

But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon ; 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone. 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat, 
"Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

It  may  be  fanciful,  but  we  have  often  thought  that,  as  Mr.  Tennyson 
was  indebted  to  Homer  for  the  suggestion  of  The  Lotus-Eaters,  so  he  must 
have  been  fresh  from  the  study  of  Bion  and  Moschus  when  he  sate  him- 
self down  to  the  composition  of  that  delicious  poem.  In  two  of  their 
exquisite  fragments  are  to  be  found  all  those  qualities  which  characterize 
Mr.  Tennyson's  poem — its  languid  and  dreamy  beauty,  its  soft  and 
luscious  verse,  its  tone,  its  sentiment.  How  exactly  parallel,  for  example, 
are  the  following  passages  : 

All  things  hare  rest,  why  should  we  toil  alone  ? 

Death  is  the  end  of  life,  ah  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be  ? 

fls  it&ffov  a.  SeiAol  Ka/j-dras  /c'ejs  fpya  TtovfvfJ.es  ; 
tyvxav  8'  &xpi  T'IVOS  trorl  KepSea  Kal  irorl  Tfxvas 
£aAAo/xes,  1/j.eipovrfs  ael  TTO\V  ir\r]ovos,  u\$<a 
\ado/j.fd'  •>!  dpa  Trdvres  on  Qvarol  yfv6fj.fff9a 
X&s  Ppaxvv  fK  Moipas  \dxofJ.ff  x.P&vov- 

BION,  Idyll  ir. 

Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 

To  watch  the  emerald-colour'd  water  falling 

Through  many  a  woven  acanthus  wreath  divine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the  pine.- 

Kal  irovos  6<7rJ  6d\affffa  .   .   . 

avrdp  tfAoi  yAvicvt  virvos  L>7rt>  ir\ara.vu>  $a.Qv<f>v\X<p  ' 

Kal  Ttayas  <pi\fot[j.i  rov  tyyvOey  $xoif  «Kou€if 

a  T€p-rrei  tyoQfoicra  rbv  aypiKOv,  ou^i  rapdffffet. 

MOSCHUS,  Idyll  v. 

It  may  be  observed,  by  the  way,  that  in  the  Princess  the  English 
poet  has  used  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same,  epithets  for  the  plane-tree  as 
Moschus  has  done  in  the  passage  just  quoted,  •'  the  ftdl-leaved  platans  of 
the  vale."  With  Bion  and  Moschus  we  cannot  btit  think  that  he  must 
have  been  lingering  over  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence.  Compare,  for 
example,  the  two  passages  which  follow  with  The  Lotus-Eaters  : 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest, 
Sleep-soothing  grovea  and  quiet  lawns  between, 


24  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

And  flowing  beds  that  slumbrous  influence  kest, 
From  poppies  breath'd,  and  beds  of  pleasant  green. 

Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  play'd, 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen, 
That  as  they  bicker'd  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur  made. 

A  pleasant  land  of  drowsihed  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky, 

In  the  fine  poem  of  Fatima,  the  lines  : 

0  Love  !  0  fire  !  once  lie  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  Ihroitgh 

My  lips, 

bear  a  singularly  close  resemblance  to  a  passage  in  Achilles  Tatius' 
Cl'dophon  and  Leudppe  (book  ii.)  : 

•?}  Se  (fyvxty  rapaxPeiffa  rqi 
ird\\fTa.i.   fl  8e  JJLTJ  TOIS 


The  ballad  of  Oriana  was  evidently  suggested  by  the  old  ballad  of 
Helen  of  Kirkconnel,  both  poems  being  based  on  a  similar  incident,  and 
both  poems  being  the  passionate  soliloquy  of  the  bereaved  lover,  though 
Mr.  Tennyson's  treatment  of  the  subject  is  of  course  all  his  own.  In  the 
Palace  of  Art  we  may  notice  that  the  phrase  "  the  first  of  those  who 
know,"  applied  to  the  great  philosophers,  is  translated  from  Dante,  who 
calls  Aristotle  "  II  maestro  di  color  che  sanno'"  In  Lady  Clara  Vere  de 
Vere  the  sentiment  "  'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good,"  on  which  the  poem  is 
such  a  fine  comment,  was  first  preached  by  Menander  : 

6s  hv  ft  yeyovbis  y  ry  <f>vffei  irpj»s  T'  ayada, 
K&V  A.i6iofys  p,  fJ.r)rep,  (crrtv  fvyevrjs. 


And  by  Dante,  Convito  : 

E  gentilezza  dovunque  virtute  ; 
Ma  non  virtute  ov'  ella. 

The  conclusion  of  Audley  Court,  where  the  tranquillising  effects  of 
night  are  described  as  gladdening  the  heart  of  the  spectators,  would 
appear  to  be  a  reminiscence  of  the  famous  moonlight  scene  in  the 
eighteenth  Iliad,  where 

yey-qBe  5e  re  (pptva  Ttoifji.i\v 

as  he  feels  the  influence  of  the  tranquil  night. 

The  curious  expression  "  baby  sleep  "  in  the  Gardener's  Daughter, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby  sleep, 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNtfSOK.  25 

is  to  be  found  in  Shelley's  Queen  Mob  : 

And  on  her  lips 
The  baby  sleep  is  pillowed. 

In  the  Palace  of  Art  the  picture  of  Europa  is  from  Moschus. 
In  the  Dream  of  Fair  Women  the  proud  boast  of  Cleopatra, 

I  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows,  &c., 

is  a  splendid  transfusion  of  the  last  lines  in  Horace's  ode  (i.  xxxvi.) : 

Invidens 

Privata  deduci  superbo 
Non  humilis  mulier  triumpho, 

as  the  dirges  of  the  young  Jewish  maiden  remind  us  closely  of  those 
breathed  by  the  young  Antigone.  Compare  with  the  Laureate's  verses 
Antigone,  840-876.  Again,  the  lines  : — 

With  that  she  tore  her  role  apart,  and  halj 
The  polished  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 
Laid  bare, 

is  an  almost  literal  translation  from  the  Hecuba,  556  : 

Xafioiiffa.  irfir\ovs  e£  &Kpas  f7rcafj.iSos 

epprite.    .    .    . 

fiaffrovs  r'  Z5fi£f,  ffrepva  0'  us  ayd\/jLaros 

KaAAioTo. 

The  "  polished  argent "  exactly  and  most  happily  interpreting  the  idea 
suggested  by  the  AycfX/zarof. 

In  the  same  poem  the  bold  and  graphic  phrase, 

Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 

suggests  Horace's 

Diespiter 
Igni  corusco  nubila  divide/is. — i.  xxxiv. 

In  the  next  poem  we  may  notice  in  passing  an  odd  coincidence.  In 
Edwin  Morris  we  find  : 

She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  die  vans  suit ; 

and  in  Don  Juan,  Julia's  letter  is  despatched  in  an  envelope, 
The  seal  a  sunflower — elle  vous  suit  partout. 

The  whole  plot  of  Dora  to  the  minutest  details  is  taken  from  a  prose 
story  of  Miss  Mitford's  (Our  Village,  2nd  series),  the  only  difference 
being  that  in  the  poem  Mary  Hay  becomes  Mary  Morrison.  That  this 
circumstance  has  not  been  intimated  in  the  poem  is  due,  no  doubt,  to  the 
fact  that  the  Laureate,  like  Gray,  leaves  his  commentators  to  trace  him 
to  his  raw  material ;  though  why  he  should  have  prefixed  a  preface  to  the 
Golden  Supper  acknowledging  his  debt  to  Boccaccio,  and  should  have 
omitted  to  do  so  in  the  case  of  Dora  it  is  difficult  to  understand.  Miss 
Mitford  has  certainly  more  to  gain  from  the  honour  than  the  author  of 
the  Decamerone. 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  247.  2. 


26  A  NEW  STUDY  OP  TENNYSON. 

The  physical  effect  of  joy  on  the  spirits  so  happily  described  in  The 

Gardener's  Daughter — 

I  rose  up 

Full  of  his  bliss  and  .... 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me, 

has  been  noticed  by  Massinger,  City  Madam,  act  iii.  scene  3. 

I  am  sublim'd.     Gross  earth 
Supports  me  not,  I  walk  on  air. 

We  now  come  to  Ulysses.  The  germ,  the  spirit,  and  the  sentiment 
of  this  poem  are  from  the  twenty-sixth  canto  of  Dante's  Inferno.  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  indeed  done  little  but  fill  in  the  sketch  of  the  great 
Florentine.  As  is  usual  with  him  in  all  cases  where  he  borrows,  the 
details  and  minuter  portions  of  the  work  are  his  own ;  he  has  added 
grace,  elaboration,  and  symmetry ;  he  has  called  in  the  assistance  of  other 
poets.  A  rough  crayon  draught  has  been  metamorphosed  into  a  perfect 
picture.  As  the  resemblances  lie  not  so  much  in  expression  as  in  the 
general  tone,  we  will  in  this  case  substitute  for  the  original  a  literal  ver- 
sion. Ulysses  is  speaking : 

Neither  fondness  for  my  son,  nor  reverence  for  my  aged  sire,  nor  the  due  love 
which  ought  to  have  gladdened  Penelope,  could  conquer  in  me  the  ardour  which  I  had 
to  become  experienced  in  the  world,  and  in  human  vice  and  worth.  I  put  out  into  the 
deep  open  sea  with  but  one  ship,  and  with  that  small  company  which  had  not  deserted 
me.  ...  I  and  my  companions  were  old  and  tardy  when  we  came  to  that  narrow  pass 
where  Hercules  assigned  his  landmarks.  "  0  brothers,"  I  said,  "  who  through  a 
hundred  thousand  dangers  have  reached  the  West,  deny  not  to  this  the  brief  vigil  of 
your  senses  that  remain,  experience  of  the  unpeopled  world  beyond  the  sun.  Consider 
your  origin,  ye  were  not  formed  to  live  like  brutes,  but  to  follow  virtue  and  know- 
ledge." .  .  .  Night  already  saw  the  other  pole  with  all  its  stars,  and  ours  so  low  that 
it  rose  not  from  the  ocean  floor. 

Now  compare  the  key  verses   of  Mr.  Tennyson's  poem.     Ulysses 
speaks : 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  enjoyed  ; 
Greatly  have  suffered— greatly  both  with  those 
That  lov'd  me  and  alone.        .  . 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end! 

And  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  grey  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge. 

There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail. 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd  and  wrought  and  thought  with  me, 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine. 

•  .    You  and  I  are  old. 

Death  closes  all;  but  something,  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note  may  yet  be  done. 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  27 

.     Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off !        .  .     for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

In  the  other  parts  of  the  poem  the  imitations  from  Homer  and  Virgil 
are  too  obvious  to  be  specified.  Passing  on  to  Locksley  Hall,  it  may  not 
be  uninteresting  to  add  to  the  parallel  passages  pointed  out  in  a  former 
paper  two  or  three  others. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is, 

recalls  Scott's  Abbot,  chapter  ii.  :  "  Know  that  the  rank  of  the  man  rates 
that  of  the  wife."     The  fine  line — • 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt, 
recalls  Tasso  (Gerusalemme,  canto  ix.)  : 

Nuova  nube  di  polve  ecco  vicina, 
Che  fulgori  in  grembo  tiene. 

The  singular  image  in  the  couplet — 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands, 

finds  a  sort  of  parallel  in  a  pretty  verse  by  that  elegant  writer  of  happy 
trifles,  W.  R.  Spencer  : 

Thy  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  Time's  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass. 

The  magnificent  line — 

And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips, 
looks  like  a  reminiscence  of  Guarini's  Pastor  Fido,  act  ii.  scene  6  : 

Ma  i  colpi  di  due  labbra  innamorate, 
Quando  a  ferir  si  va  bocca  con  bocca, 

.  .     ove  1'un  alma  e  1'altra 

Corre. 

A  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things, 

is  of  course  Dante's — 

Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria. 
In  (Enone  the  line 

Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 

is  taken  almost  without  alteration  from  Part  II.  of  Henry  VI.,  act  ii. 
scene  3. 

Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  grief. 

In  another  very  popular  poem  of  the  Laureate's  we  have  a  curiously 
interesting  illustration  of  the  skill  with  which  he  changes  into  his  own 
precious  metal  the  lees  refined  ore  of  other  poets.  It  will  not  be  neces- 

2—2 


28  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

sary  to  quote  his  lyric,  "  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead,"  as  it 
will,  no  doubt,  be  fresh  in  the  memory  of  every  one  who  is  likely  to  be 
interested  in  this  paper  ;  so  we  proceed  at  once  to  the  parallels.  In 
Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  (canto  i.  stanza  9)  appear  the  following 

verses  : 

O'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 
The  ladye  dropp'd  nor  flower  nor  tear, 
Until,  amid  her  sorrowing  clan, 
Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee. 

Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 

Curiously  enough,  the  climax  of  the  piece  —  the  sudden  and  passionate 
resolve  on  the  part  of  the  bereaved  parent  to  live  for  the  child  —  closely 
resembles  a  passage  in  Darwin's  once  celebrated  episode  of  Eliza  in  the 
Botanic  Garden.  There  the  mother  has  been  slain  in  war,  and  the 
young  husband,  distracted  with  grief,  has  abandoned  himself  to  despair  ; 
but  on  his  two  little  children  being  presented  to  his  sight,  exclaims,  like 
Tennyson's  heroine  — 

These  bind  to  earth  —  for  these  I  pray  to  live. 

This  similarity  is,  however,  more  curious  than  significant.  But  we 
now  come  to  a  series  of  very  interesting  parallel  passages.  In  no  poem 
of  the  Laureate's  is  the  workmanship  so  strikingly  superior  to  the 
material  as  in  The  Princess,  and  in  no  poem,  with  the  exception  perhaps 
of  In  Memoriam,  do  we  find  so  many  echoes  of  other  singers.  The 

lines  — 

A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  south, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and  the  shrieks 

Of  the  wild  woods  together  ;  and  a  voice 

Went  with  it  :  Follow  —  follow  —  thou  shalt  win  ! 

forcibly  remind  us  of  Shelley's  — 

A  wind  arose  among  the  pines,  and  shook 
The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and  then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghosts 
Were  heard  —  0  follow,  follow  me  ! 
Again, 

As  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East, 

is,  with  the  substitution  of  East  for  West,  from  Homer  (Iliad  ii.,  lines 

147-8)  : 


us  5'  S 

\df)pos,  tiraiytfav,  tiri  T'  Ij/jiffai  affraxtitcrtnv. 

The  ingenious  simile  in  which  the  sudden  collapse  of  a  speaker  is  com- 
pared to  the  sudden  collapse  of  a  sail,  is  apparently  borrowed  from 

Dante  : 

Till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and  her  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  &c. 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  29 

Quali  dal  vento  le  gonfiate  vele 
Caggiono  avvolte,  poiche  1'alber  fiacca. 

Inferno,  canto  rii.  13-14. 

Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the  shadow,  Time. 
This  expression  is  from  Wordsworth  : 

Death,  the  skeleton, 
And  Time,  the  shadow. — Yews. 
The  curious  expression — 

Stared  with  great  eyes  and  laugh' d  with  open  lips, 
is  literally,  of  course,  from  the  20th  Odyssey  : 

ol  5'  tfSij  yvad/jio'iffi  ytXyuv  a\\OTpioiffii>. 

So,  again,  the  fine  simile  in  which  the  unshaken  firmness  of  Ida  is  com- 
pared to  a  pine  vexed  and  tried  by  storm,  Avas  evidently  suggested  by 
the  magnificent  simile  in  which  Virgil  compares  ^Eneas,  under  similar 
circumstances,  to  an  oak.  To  Homer,  Mr.  Tennyson  is  indebted  for  the 

following  : — 

As  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  onward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  night 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake,  and  tarn  by  tarn, 
Expunge  the  world. 

Now  compare  Iliad,  iv.  275  : 

ws  8'  or  airb  <r/co7rj7js  e?8e  vf<f>os  alir6\os  a.V'hp, 
fpxdfJ-evov  KO.TO.  ir6i>TOV  VTtb  Zetyvpoio  iwrjs, 
T<£  Se  T'  &vev0ev  tovn,  p.e\d.vTtpov,  T/tfre  iriffffa, 
<f>aivfT'  ibv  Kara  irovrov,  &yei  8e  re  \ai\aira  iroAA^y. 

The  beautiful  line — 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
suggests  Virgil's — 

Nee  gemere  aeria  cessabit  turtur  ab  utmo. 

Eclogue  i.  59. 

It  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  notice  also  that  the  summary  of  the 
Lady  Psyche's  lecture  bears  some  resemblance  to  that  of  the  learned  lady 
in  Prior's  Alma.  Compare — 

This  world  was  once,  &c. 

Then  the  monster,  then  the  man. 

Thereupon  she  took 

A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  th'  ungracious  past : 
Gla'nc'd  at  the  legendary  Amazon, 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom  ; 
Ean  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman  lines 
Of  empire.          .... 

Till,  warming  with  her  theme, 
She  fulmin'd  out  her  scorn  of  Laws  Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touched  on  Mahomet 
With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chivalry. 


30  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

Now  let  us  listen  to  Prior's  learned  dame  : 

She  kindly  talked,  at  least  three  hours, 
Of  plastic  forms  and  mental  powers, 
Described  our  pre-existing  station 
Before  this  vile  terrene  creation. 
And  lest  we  should  grow  weary,  madam, 
To  cut  things  short,  came  down  to  Adam  ; 
From  thence,  as  fast  as  she  was  able, 
She  drowns  the  world  and  builds  up  Babel  ; 
Through  Syria,  Persia,  Greece,  she  goes, 
And  takes  the  Eomans  in  the  close. 

This  is  probably  only  a  mere  coincidence  ;  but  we  venture  to  think  that 
the  following  singularly  happy  simile  must  have  been  an  imitation,  more 
or  less  unconscious,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Tennyson. 

Bland  the  smile  that,  like  a  wrinkling  wind 
On  glassy  water,  drove  his  cheek  in  lines. 

Compare  these  lines  from  Shelley's  Prince  Athanase  : 

O'er  the  visage  wan 
Of  Athanase,  a  ruffling  atmosphere 
Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow  ran, 
Like  wind  upon  some  forest-bosom  'd  lake 
Glassy  and  dark. 

Another  felicitous  and  ingenious  simile  appears  to  have  been  suggested 
by  a  passage  in  Wordsworth's  Excursion  :  — 

He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament, 
But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Though  anchor  d  to  the  bottom  —  such  is  he. 

In  the  fifth  book  of  the  Excursion  we  find  . 

A  thing 

Subject  ....  to  vital  accidents  ; 
And,  like  the  water-lily,  lives  and  thrives, 
Whose  root  is  fix1  d  in  stable  earth,  whose  head 
Floats  on  the  tossing  waves. 

The  whole  of  the  passage  beginning 

Come  down,  0  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height, 
is  obviously  modelled  on  Theocritus,  Idyll  xi.  41  sqq. 
A  very  graphic  expression  in  The  Sleeping  Beauty,  — 

The  silk,  star-broider'd  coverlet, 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould, 

has  evidently  beenjronsferred  from  Homer  (Iliad,  xxiv.  163),  where  he 
speaks  of  Priam  : 


The  couplet  in  the  L'Envoi  of  the  Day  Dream  — 

For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  Earth, 
And  in  the  morning  of  the  times, 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  31 

is  obviously  merely  a  version  of  Bacon's  famous  paradox — "  Antiquitas 
saeculi,  juventus  mundi." 

In  Edwin  Morris  the  lines  : 

Shall  not  Love  to  me 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you,  right  and  left? 

are  from  Catullus,  xlv.  8,  9 — 

Amor,  sinistram  ut  ante, 
Dextram  sternuit  approbationem. 

In  Sea  Dreams  the  poet  has  apparently  laid  the  fragments  of  Pindar 
under  contribution : 

My  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass, 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold. 

In  the  136th  fragment  (edit.  Schneidewin)  we  find  : 

Tre\dyfi  5"  ev  iro\vxpvffoio  TT\OVTOV 
irdtrts  "iffa.  veofifv  tyfvSfj  irpbs  aurdv. 

In  Saint  Simeon  Stylites,  when  the  Saint,  alluding  to  his  mortal  body, 
observes — 

This  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings, 

we  are  reminded  of  Carew's  original  but  ludicrous  couplet : 

The  soul  .... 
Broke  the  outward  shell  of  sin, 
And  so  was  hatch'd  a  cherubin  ;  ' 

or  still  more  immediately,  perhaps,  of  Rogers'  epigram  comparing  man 
on  earth  to  the  inglorious  chrysalis,  and  man  after  death  to  the  full- 
fledged  butterfly. 

We  are  strongly  reminded  both  of  Horace  and  Virgil  in  the  two 
magnificent  stanzas  entitled  Will.     The  passage — 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock, 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves,  &c. 

having  been  evidently  suggested  by  the  famous  lines  which  begin  the 
third  ode  of  the  third  book ;  and  the  verses  which  follow —  f 

Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock 

That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent  sound, 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock 

Tempest-buffeted, 

are  as  obviously  borrowed  from  Virgil  (JEneid,  x.  693  seg.)  : 

Ille  velut  rupes,  vastum  quse  prodit  iu  aequor, 
Obvia  ventorum  furiis,  expostaque  ponto, 
Vim  cunctam  atque  minas  perfert  coelique  marisque 
Ipsa  immota  manens. 

Or  possibly  from  the  parent  simile,  Iliad  0.,  618  seq.  The  fine  ex- 
pression— 

Their  surging  charges  foamed  themselves  away, 


32  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

is,  with  a  change  in  the  application,  a  reminiscence  of  ^Eschylus  (Aga- 
memnon, 1030)  — 


We  may  notice,  also,  another  curiously  minute  appropriation  of  an 
expression  from  JEschylus,  in  the  Morte  d'  Arthur  : 

Looking  wistfully  .... 
As  in  a  picture. 

The  Greek  poet  (Agamemnon,  230)  describing  Iphigenia,  says  — 

t;8a/\A'  tKaffrov 
air  O/U/UOCTOS  /Se'Aei  (ftiXo'iKTy 
irpfTTOv&a.  6'  &s  fi>  ypa^afi. 

"We  do  not  propose  to  follow  in  detail  the  passages  from  the  Greek 
and  Roman  poets  of  which  Mr.  Tennyson  has  availed  himself  in 
Lucretius,  but  we  cannot  forbear  noticing  the  felicity  with  which  he 
has,  in  adopting,  interpreted  a  singular  epithet  in  Horace.  The  line 
"  Voltus  nimium  lubricus  aspici  "  (Odes,  i.  xix.  8),  has  been  interpreted 
by  many  generations  of  commentators  as  a  face  too  dangerous  to  gaze 
upon.  Now  there  is  surely  no  reason  why  the  epithet  should  not  be 
explained  as  meaning  a  face  voluptuously  symmetrical,  a  face  over 
which  the  eyes  slip  and  wander,  as  it  were,  because  in  its  rounded 
smoothness  they  find  no  particular  feature  on  which  to  pause.  So, 
reproducing  the  image  and  meaning,  Mr.  Tennyson  — 

Here  an  Oread  —  how  the  sun  delights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery  sides. 

A  poet  is,  after  all,  the  best  commentator  on  a  poet.     The  beautifully 

graphic  picture, 

As  the  dog, 

With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot,  plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland, 

is  almost  literally  from  Lucretius,  iv.  991  : 

Canes  in  molli  ssepe  quiete 
Jactant  crura  tamen  subito,  vocesque  repente 
Mittunt  et  crebro  redducunt  naribus  auras. 

In  dealing  with  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  we  shall  not  attempt  to 
discuss  the  question  of  Mr.  Tennyson's  obligations  to  the  original 
romances,  nor  shall  we  draw  any  parallels  from  tbein.  Such  a  task, 
though  belonging  essentially  to  our  "  Study,"  would  demand  more  space 
than  we  can  at  present  afford.  A  few  parallel  passages,  miscellaneously 
selected  from  various  authors,  must  therefore  bring  this  paper  to  a  con- 
clusion. Several  passages  have  already  been  printed  in  a  former  essay  : 
these,  of  course,  are  here  omitted. 

The  fine  simile  in  Gareth  and  Lynette,  where  Gareth's  adversary  is 
compared  to  a  buoy  at  sea,  which  dips  and  springs  but  never  sinks,  in 
spite  of  the  winds  and  waves  rolling  over  it,  may  possibly  have  been 
suggested  by  a  simile  in  Lycophron  (Cassandra,  Potter's  edit.  755,  756), 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  33 

where  Ulysses  is  compared  to  a  cork  in  the  sea  with  the  winds  and 
waves  rolling  over  it,  but  not  sinking  it  : 

etrrai,  Trap'  &\\ov  8'  &AAoy,  &is  irevKTjs  K\dSos 
/JwcTTjs  <TTpo/8^T(Js  <t>t\\bv  fvdpiiaffKtav  irvocus. 

The  following  coincidence  is  probably  purely  accidental,  but  there  is  a  line 
in  Enid  bearing  a  singular  resemblance  to  another  verse  in  Lycophron  : 

A  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the  •wave. 

The  Greek  runs  (Cassandra,  790)  — 


The  line- 

She  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade, 

recalls  Juvenal's  timid  traveller  : 

Efc  motce  ad  lunam  trepidabis  arundinis  umbram.  —  Sat.  x.  21. 

The  simile  which  follows  just  afterwards  — 

Like  a  shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the  sand, 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand, 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin  — 

may  be  compared  with  Keats'  less  finished  but  equally  graphic  picture  : 

Where  swarms  of  minnows 

Ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand; 
If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 
That  very  instant  net  one  will  remain. 

He  dragged  his  eyebrow  lashes  down,  and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse. 

In  this  bold  and  graphic  expression  the  poet  is  indebted  to  Homer's 

irav  8e  tirtffKwwv  ndrw  eA/cerai,  ufffff  KaXvirruv. 

Iliad,  xvii.  136. 

The  elaborate  care  with  which  the  concluding  paragraphs  of  Merlin 
and  Vivian  have  been  modelled  on  the  verses  in  Virgil's  fourth  JEneid  ', 
which  describe  the  ruin  of  Dido,  is  obvious,  though  Mr.  Tennyson's 
"  What  should  not  have  been  had  been,"  is  but  a  coarse  substitute  for 
the  tact  and  delicacy  of  the  Roman's 

Fulsere  ignes  et  conscius  aether 
Connubiis,  summoque  ulularunt  vertice  Nymphse. 

The  fine  simile  in  Lancelot  and  Elaine  : 

All  together  down  upon  him 
Bore,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North  Sea, 


34  A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON. 

Green  glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark  — 

is  obviously  borrowed  from  Homer  (Iliad,  xv.  624)  :  — 

iv  5'  eireff'  ais  ore  KV/J.O.  Qofj  tv  vr/t  ireffr)ffiv 
\df3pov  virb  ve<pe<av  ave/j.orpe<pes,  rj  Se  re  tracra. 


For  the  "  stormy  crests  "  we  may  compare  Iliad,  iv.  426.     The  pictu- 
resque and  minutely  accurate  "  green  glimmering  towards  the  summit  " 
is  Mr.  Tennyson's  own  beautiful  touch. 
The  famous  line  in  the  same  idyll  — 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true  — 

reminds  us  in  its  striking  association  of  jingle,  antithesis,  and  allitera- 
tion, of  a  line  in  Sophocles  ((Edipus  Rex,  1250)  : 

ZvOa  .... 
^£  avSpbs  &i>8pa,  Kal  reKv'  e'/c  rtKviav  re/cot, 

while  the  actual  antithesis  has  been  anticipated  in  the  Tn'orte  aTriororarij 
of  Andocides,  ix.  32,  and  the  "  faithful  in  thy  unfaithfulness  "  of  Chettle. 
One  cannot  but  think  that  in  describing  the  dead  Elaine  the  poet  must 
have  remembered  Byron's  beautiful  picture  of  the  dead  Medora  ;  compare 

the  lines  : 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily 

All  her  bright  hair  streaming  down 
....  And  she  herself  in  white, 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear  featur'd  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smil'd. 

Byron's  lines  -are  : 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair 
That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither'd  there. 
And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd 
In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 
As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign'd,  a  sleep. 

Her  lips  ....  seem'd  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 
But  the  white  shroud  and  each  extended  tress, 
Long,  fair,  &c. 

In  the  same  idyll  the  lines  — 

A  trumpet  blew, 

Then  waiting  at  the  doors  the  war-horse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice  — 

recall  Ovid,  Met.  iii.  704  : 

Fremit  acer  equus  cum  bellicus  sere  canoro 
Signa  dedit  tubicen  pugnseque  assumit  amorem. 


A  NEW  STUDY  OF  TENNYSON.  35 

So,  also,  in  Enid,  the  vivid  image — 

She  saw 
Dust  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it — 

reminds  us  of  the  fine  passage  in  the  Anabasis  of  Xenophon,  in  which 
the  approach  of  an  army  at  a  distance  is  described  ^(Anab.  i.  viii.  8)  : 
ifyavt]  Kortopros  ....  rrt^a  <$»}  Kal  ^aX^oc  rtc  tfaTpairre. 

And  now  we  must  conclude.  Had  we  thought  that  there  would  be 
the  smallest  chance  of  this  paper  or  of  its  predecessor  being  misunder- 
stood, they  would  never  have  seen  the  light.  But  we  have  no  such 
fear.  The  purpose  for  which  they  were  written  has  been  already  ex- 
plained. They  are  offered  as  commentaries  on  works  which  will  take 
their  place  beside  the  masterpieces  of  Greek  and  Roman  genius,  and 
which  will,  like  them,  be  studied  with  minute  and  curious  diligence  by 
successive  generations  of  scholars.  A  versatility  without  parallel  among 
poets  has  enabled  Mr.  Tennyson  to  appeal  to  all  classes.  His  poetry  is 
the  delight  of  the  most  fastidious  and  of  the  most  emotional.  He  touches 
Burns  on  one  side,  and  he  touches  Sophocles  on  the  other.  But  to  the 
scholar,  and  to  the  scholar  alone,  will  his  most  precious  and  his  most 
characteristic  works  become  in  their  full  significance  intelligible.  By 
him  they  will  be  cherished  with  peculiar  fondness.  To  him  they  will  be 
like  the  enchanted  island  in  Shakspeare  : 

Full  of  echoes, 
Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight. 

To  him  it  will  be  a  never-ending  source  of  pleasure  to  study  his 
Tennyson  as  he  studies  his  Virgil,  his  Dante,  and  his  Milton. 

J.  C.  C. 


36 


anm 


i. 

BELZONI  AT  PADUA. 

I  HAVE  no  intention  of  troubling  the  reader  with  a  biography  of  Gio- 
vanni Battista  Belzoni.  The  birth,  the  short,  eventful  life  of  forty-five 
years,  and  the  death  of  the  great  Italian  explorer,  have  been  written 
and  re-written  both  at  home  and  abroad  :  his  excursions  into  ancient 
and  classical  Egypt  are  as  familiar,  if  not  more  so,  to  the  Englishman  as 
to  the  Italian.  My  business  is  with  a  few  details  of  his  career,  and 
especially  with  his  death,  concerning  which  I  know  more  than  any  man 
now  living.  Finally,  I  would  suggest  certain  honours  due  to  his  memory 
before  it  fades,  —  the  fate  of  travellers  and  explorers  amongst  their  brother 
men,  —  into  the  mists  and  glooms  of  the  past.  As,  however,  all  are 
not  familiar  with  a  career,  peculiarly  attractive  to  Englishmen,  which 
began  in  1815  and  which  ended  in  1823,  the  following  facts,  borrowed 
more  from  living  authorities  than  from  books,  may  not  be  unwelcome. 

Belzoni's  mother-city  was  Padua.  A  century  after  he  was  born  I 
visited  what  now  represents  his  birthplace,  No.  2946  in  the  Via  Paolotti. 
It  stands  opposite  the  gloomy  old  prison  of  the  same  name,  a  kind  of 
guardhouse,  whose  occupation  is  denoted  by  the  sentries  and  the  wooden 
window-screens.  The  two-storied,  four-  windowed  tenement,  with  its 
yellow  walls  and  green  shutters  jealously  barred  in  the  ground-floor, 
bears,  under  the  normal  Paduan  arcade,  a  small  slab  of  white  marble 
inscribed  : 

IN   QVESTA   CASA 

IL   5    NOV.    1778   NACQVE 

BELZONI. 

The  building,  however,  is  modern.  In  the  early  quarter  of  our  century, 
the  street  was  a  straggle  of  huts  and  hovels,  and  the  garden  of  the  present 
house  contained  more  than  one.  They  were  "  improved  off"  about  1845, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  leading  home  a  bride,  by  the  present  owner,  Sig. 
Squarcina,  C.E. 

As  the  explorer  tells  us  in  his  well-known  Travels*  the  family  was 
originally  Roman,  with  the  rights  of  citizenship,  and  the  name  Bolzon, 
or  Bolzoni,  was  softened  by  him  to  Belzoni.  One  of  many  children,  he 

*  Narrative  of  Operations  and  Recent  Discoveries  in  Egypt  and  Nubia,  etc.,  fol.  and 
atlas.  London,  Murray,  1820. 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  EELZONI.  37 

inherited  a  splendid  physique  from  his  mother,  Teresa,  of  the  well-known 
Orsolato  house ;  she  is  described  as  a  woman  of  masculine  strength 
and  stature.  His  father,  Jacopo,  was  a  tonsore, — in  plain  English, 
a  barber, — proud  of  the  old  home  which  he  had  never  seen,  and  full  of 
legends  concerning  the  grandeur  of  Rome  and  his  ancestry.  Let  me  say, 
sans  rancune,  that  there  is  an  important  difference  (in  kind)  between 
a  Roman  tonsore  and  a  northern  "  barber."  We  must  not  confound  old 
and  new  civilisations. 

The  future  traveller's  first  journey  was  an  escapade  which  is  related 
at  full  length  by  his  biographers.*  The  father  had  taken  his  large  and 
lively  family  for  a  gita  to  Monte  Ortone,  near  the  famous  thermae  of 
classical  Abano,  and  the  day  in  the  country  had  been  so  charming  that 
Giambattista  persuaded  his  younger  brother  Antonio  to  repeat  the  trip 
without  the  formality  of  asking  leave.  This  led  to  further  wanderings — 
to  Ferrara,  Bologna,  and  other  places  in  the  direction  of  Rome ;  but  the 
two  runaways,  who  were  penniless,  presently  lost  heart  and  returned 
home.  Hence,  possibly,  the  persistent  but  mistaken  report  which  makes 
Belzoni's  father  a  cultivatore,  or  peasant-proprietor,  at  Abano,  and,  con- 
sequently, a  compatriot  of  Pietro  di  Abano,  the  "  Conciliator  of  Doctors' 
Differences"  (A.D.  1250-1316). 

Padua,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  by  no  means  neglected  her  worthy, 
as  is  known  to  every  traveller  who  visits  the  Palazzo  della  Ragione. 
This  curious  pile,  which  separates  the  fruit  market  and  the  vegetable 
market,  with  their  Dahoman  umbrellas,  is  thoroughly  out  of  place.  The 
guide-books  tell  us  that  the  architectural  idea  was  borrowed  from  a 
Hindu  palace ;  I  find  in  it  a  forecast  of  the  nineteenth  century  railway 
station.  A  mighty  roof  covers  the  great  hall,  II  Salon  di  Padua,  called 
"  of  Reason  "  because  courts  of  law  were  held  here ;  both  have  the  merit 
of  being  as  large  and  as  ugly  as  any  in  Italy.  Inside,  over  the  doorway, 
stands  the  great  medallion  in  Carrara  marble,  two  metres  in  circum- 
ference, cut  in  alto-relievo,  at  Rome,  by  Rinaldo  Rinaldi  of  Padua,  a 
pupil  of  Canova.  Girt  by  the  serpent  of  immortality,  the  head  of  the 
turbaned  and  long-bearded  explorer  looks  towards  the  dexter  chief,  and 
bears  the  following  simple  and  incorrect  legend  : 

I.B.BELZONIVS.VETER.AEGIPTI  (sic)  MONVMENT.REPERTOR. 

Below  stands : 

OBIIT,    AET.    ANN.    XLV    IN    AFRICA.    REGNO 
BENINENSI    AN.    MDCCCXXIII. 

This  medallion  was  set  up  after  the  explorer's  death.  In  1819,  when 
he  revisited  his  native  city,  and,  despite  the  res  angusta,  domi,  pre- 
sented to  her,  with  the  pride  of  filial  piety,  two  Egyptian  statues,  his 


*  Vol.  ii.  pp.  11-16,  Viaggi  in  Egitto,  by  Prof.  Abate  LodovicoMenin,  Milano  1825, 
Menin  -was  acquainted  with  Belzoni's  mother,  and  with  the  whole  family,  of  whom 
only  relations  on  the  female  side  (Orsolato)  now  remain. 


38  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI. 

compatriots  showed  their  gratitude  by  a  medal  coined  in  England.  It 
bore  round  the  figures  : 

OB   DONVM    PATRIA   GRATA 
A.MDCCCXIX. 

On  the  reverse  is  : 

10.  BAPT.  BELZONI 

PATAVINO 

QVI    CEPHRENIS    PIRAMIDEM 
APIDISQ.    SEPVLCRVM 

PRIMVS   APERVIT 

ET    URBEM    BERENICIS 

NVBIAE    ET    LIBYAE    NON 

IMPAVIDE   DETEXIT. 

At  either  side  of  the  entrance  which  carries  the  medallion  sit  the  two 
Egyptian  statues  alluded  to.  Both  represent  Pasht,  the  cat-headed  god- 
dess of  Bi-Bast,  or  Bubastis,  now  Zagazig  town.  Brugsch  Bey  makes 
her  Isis  of  the  tabby-head,  in  Arabic  Bissat  (the  cat),  Osiris  assuming 
the  title  of  Bas  or  Biss  (the  tom-cat).  The  two  hold  in  the  left  hand  the 
mystic  Tau ;  one  has  well-marked  whiskers  a  la  Re  Galantuomo  ;  conse- 
quently, despite  the  forms,  which  are  distinctly  feminine,  it  has  become, 
in  local  parlance,  the  "  male  mummy."  "  Pussy,"  *  on  the  right  is  in- 
scribed : 

10.    BAPT.    BELZONI.    PAT. 

EX  THEBIS   AEGYPTIS 

DONVM   MISIT 

A.M.DCCCXIX. 

CIVITAS   GRATA. 

Further  to  the  left  of  the  entrance  stands  the  plaster  statue  of  Belzoni, 
carrying  on  its  base  the  artist's  name,  SANAVIO  NATALE.  It  is  of  heroic 
size,  at  least  ten  feet  tall,  and  habited  in  a  very  fancy  costume :  large 
falling  collar,  doublet  buttoned  in  front,  sash  round  waist,  shorts,  long 
stockings,  and  "  pumps  "  with  fancy  arabesques  :  in  Rabelaisian  phrase, 
"  pinked  and  jagged  like  lobster  wadles."  The  right  hand  holds  a  roll 
of  manuscript ;  the  left  controls  a  cloak,  or  rather  a  fringed  cloth,  a 
curtain,  which  is,  I  presume,  the  picturesque  and  poetical  phase  of  cloak. 
This  work  of  art  has  two  merits.  It  shows  the  explorer's  figure  exactly 
as  it  never  was,  and  it  succeeds  in  hiding  his  face  from  a  near  view ; 
the  rapt  regard  is  so  "  excelsior,"  so  heavenwards,  that  the  spectators 
see  only  a  foreshortened  nose  based  upon  a  tangled  bush  of  beard.  The 
inscription  also  has  its  value :  it  is  long,  while  it  says  little ;  it  omits  one 
of  the  names ;  and,  as  a  record  of  exploits,  it  indulges  too  freely  in  the 

*  In  the  Gold  Mines  of  Midian  I  derive  this  word  from  "Bissah."     The  cat  is  a 
later  introduction  into  Europe,  and  the  very  word  (Katt,  Catus)  is  probably  Semitic. 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI.  39 

figure  called  "  hysteron-proteron."  I  copy  it  because,  being  provisional, 
there  are  hopes  of  its  growing  out  of  childish  defects,  and  the  numbers 
in  parentheses  show  what  should  have  been  the  proper  order  of  the 
lines  :  * 

GIOVANNI  (add  BATTISTA)  BELZONI 

NATVRALISTA   IDRAVLICO   ARCHEOLOGO 
(4)  IL   RECONDITO   EGITTO   DIVINANDO   SVELO 

(3)    ERCVLEO    INFOCILATO 

(9)    ALLE    INGORDE   SABBIE   TOGLIEVA    BERENICE 
(8)   LA   SECONDA   PIRAMIDE      (e)    I   SEPOLCRI   D'lPSAMBVL 

(?)    LA   NECROPOLI    PSAMETICA    (sic)    PENETRAVAf 
(5)    SMOSSE    LA    MOLE   DE    MEMNONE    FONDATO    IL    MVSEO    BRITTANICO    (sic) 

PARLO    FAMA    SI    GRANDE 

CHE   GLI   STRANIERI   STANCHI   D'lNVIDIARE   ONORARONO 

A    PlV    ARDVE    IMPRESE    SCORREA   L' AFRICA 

IL   SIRIO   ARDORE   SPENSE   L'AVDACIA 

CREBBE   LA   GLORIA 

NATO   IN   PADOVA    1778   MORt   A   GATO   D*AFRICA    1823. 

The  first  three  lines  are  correct  enough,  "barring"  the  mutilated 
name.  Belzoni,  after  preparing  to  become  a  monk,  studied  the  elements 
of  engineering  at  Rome,  which,  on  the  French  occupation  (1803),  he 
exchanged  for  London.  "  Hercules  "  probably  alludes  to  the  fact,  for- 
gotten by  his  countrymen,  that  he  supported  himself*  by  feats  of  strength 
at  various  theatres.  He  was  a  magnificent  specimen  of  a  man,  strong 
as  a  Hercules,  handsome  as  an  Apollo;  the  various  portraits  taken 
about  this  time  show  the  fine  features  which  rarely,  except  in  statues, 
distinguish  the  professional  athlete.  He  had  that  "  divination,"  that 
archaeological  instinct,  which  nascitur,  non  fit :  we  see  it  now  in  MM. 
Mariette,  Cesnola,  and  Scbliemann,  whose  name  is  Shalomon. 

After  marrying,  and  passing  nine  years  in  England,  Belzoni  with  his 
wife  drifted  to  Egypt  (June  9,  1815),  then  happy  under  the  rule  of 
Mohammed  Ali  the  Great.  He  began,  as  an  "  independent  member," 
with  setting  up  a  hydraulic  machine  at  the  Shubrah  Gardens,  carrying 
owls  to  Athens,  coals  to  Newcastle.  He  failed,  and  fell  into  the  ranks. 
Nile-land  was  then,  as  now,  a  field  for  plunder ;  fortunes  were  made  by 
digging,  not  gold,  but  antiques ;  and  the  archaeological  field  became  a 
battle-plain  for  two  armies  of  Dragomans  and  Fellah-navvies.  One  was 
headed  by  the  redoubtable  Salt ;  the  other  owned  the  command  of  Dro- 

*  The  1st  of  January  was  up  the  Nile  ;  the  2nd,  entered  the  Second  Pyramid  and 
continued  till  the  3rd  up  stream  ;  the  4th  was  to  Berenike  on  the  Eed  Sea,  and  the 
5th  to  the  so-called  Oasis  of  Ammon. 

f  This  orthography,  and  even  Psamatikhos,  is  found ;  but  the  M  of  Psammis,  or 
Psammetic,  probably  bore  in  this  a  sign  of  reduplication  (M). 


40  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  EELZONI. 

vetti,  or  Drouetti,  the  Piedmontese  Consul  and  Collector,  whose  sharp 
Italian  brain  had  done  much  to  promote  the  great  Pasha's  interests. 

Belzoni,  without  a  regular  engagement,  cast  his  lot  with  the  English- 
man, and  was  sent  to  Thebes.  Here  he  shipped  on  board  a  barge 
.and  floated  down  to  el-Rashid  (Rosetta),  the  bust  of  Rameses  II., 
miscalled  "  Young  Memnon," — (Miamun  or  Amun-mai).  The  Colossus 
reached  its  long  home,  the  large  Hall  in  the  British  Museum,  without 
any  of  the  mishaps  which  have  lately  attended  a  certain  "  Needle."  * 
The  explorer  then  travelled,  vid  Alexandria,  Cairo,  and  Edfu,  to  the 
Isles  of  Elephantine  and  Philse,  both,  by-the-by,  meaning  Elephant 
(Arabic  el-Fil),  despite  "Wilkinson.  The  enemy  attacked  him  as  he  was 
removing  his  obelisk  from  Philse;  it  consisted  of  an  "Arab"  mob, 
numbering  some  thirty,  under  the  command  of  two  Italians — Lebuco  and 
the  "  renegade  Rossignano,"  with  Drouetti  in  the  rear.  Belzoni  defended 
himself  in  a  characteristic  way,  by  knocking  down  an  assailant,  seizing 
his  ankles,  and  using  him  as  a  club  upon  the  foemen's  heads.  This 
novel  weapon,  in  the  Samson  style,  gained  a  ready  victory.  He  reached 
"Wady  Halfah  (second  Cataract),  and  cleared  the  deposits  of  Typhon 
from  the  Ramesseiims  of  Abu-Simbal  (Ipsambul).  The  so-called  Crystal 
Palace  contains  a  caricature  of  these  rock-temples ;  and  country  folk 
identify  the  Colossi  with  "  Gog  and  Magog." 

In  1817  Belzoni,  still  under  Salt,  made  his  third  run  up-country, 
and  attacked  the  famous  Biban  el-Muluk,  the  "  Gates  (i.e.  tombs)  of  the 
Kings."  The  hollow  sound  of  a  wall  revealed  an  inner  chamber,  and 
the  sinking  of  the  ground,  caused  by  rain,  led  to  the  Sepulchre  of 
Sethi  I.  His  description  of  crawling,  snail-like,  through  the  passages  is 
admirable.  The  results  of  this  work  best  known  in  England,  are  the 
Colossal  head  and  arms  sent  to  the  British  Museum ;  and  the  Sarco- 
phagus, of  semi-transparent  arragonite,  afterwards  (1824)  sold  by  Salt  to 
Sir  John  Soane  for  2,0001.  "  Belzoni's  Tomb  "  preserves  his  name  in 
Egypt ;  but  I  have  noticed  that  of  late  years  certain  toimst-authors 
have  forgotten  the  duty  of  rendering  honour  where  honour  is  due. 

During  1817-1818  Belzoni  worked  at  the  Troici  lapidis  mons,  vul- 
garly known  as  the  "  Second  Pyramid."  He  had  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading the  Bedawin-Fellahs  of  the  west  bank  to  assist  him ;  but,  as 
usual,  he  ended  by  succeeding.  He  cleared  the  upper  of  the  two  open- 
ings, and  found  that  the  Arabs  had  been  before  him.  The  inscription 
given  by  him  (p.  273)  and  copied  into  every  hand-book  is,  let  me  say, 
despite  of  Professor  Lee  and  M.  Saldme,  in  part  unintelligible.  Per- 
haps Belzoni's  occupation  is  not  gone.  It  appears  to  many  that  those 

*  In  1822,  John  Murray,  of  Albemarle  Street,  published  six  "Plates  illustrative 
of  the  Eesearches  and  Operations  of  G.  Belzoni  in  Egypt,"  &c.  They  are,  1.  General 
View  of  the  Site  of  Thebes.  2.  The  Mode  in  -which  the  Colossal  Head  of  Young 
Memnon  was  taken  from  Thebes.  3.  India  from  the  Ceiling  of  the  Great  Vaulted 
Hall,  in  the  Tomb  supposed  to  be  that  of  Psammis,  at  Thebes.  4  and  5.  Ruins  of 
Ombos,;&c.  6.  Interior  of  Temple  in  theVTsland  of  Philse. 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI.  41 

vast  sepulchral  mansions  must  contain  many  chambers;  and  I  ask 
myself  why  the  pendulum  and  the  new  sound-instruments  should  not 
be  scientifically  tried. 

In  September,  1817,  our  explorer  set  out  from  Esue  to  visit  Berenike 
(Troglodytica).  This  Port  of  Ptolemy  Lagi  was  the  African  terminus 
of  the  Indian  "  overland,"  intended  to  turn  the  stormy  and  dangerous 
Gulf  of  Suez  ;  and  it  held  its  own  till  supplanted  by  Myos  Hormos  and 
other  ports  further  north.  The  goods  were  disembarked,  were  carried 
by  caravans  through  the  Desert  of  the  Thebai's,  to  Coptos,  Kobther, 
Caphtor  (?),  Kobt,  Kaft  or  Koft  on  the  Nile;  and  thence  were  floated 
down  to  Alexandria.  The  land  journey  was  estimated  at  258  Roman 
miles,  and  the  march  of  twelve  days  gave  an  average  of  21  per  diem  : 
our  modern  itineraries  make  the  total  271  English  statute  miles.  A 
similar  western  line  was  also  taken,  to  escape  the  even  more  turbulent 
and  perilous  Gulf  of  Akabah ;  the  road  lying  from  Leuke  Kome  (el- 
Haura)  through  the  Land  of  Midian  to  Rhinocolura  (el-Arish),  on  the 
Mediterranean. 

At  Berenike,  following  M.  Caliud,  and  seeking  for  sulphur,  Belzoni 
discovered  a  temple  of  Serapis  ;  he  explored  the  emerald  mines  of  Jebel 
Zabbarah  to  the  north-west,  and  the  "  Emerald  Island,"  or  St.  John's, 
which  the  Arabs  call  Semergeh,  or  Semergid,  from  the  Greek  Smaragdos. 
Berenike  has  twice  been  visited  by  my  friend  General  Purdy  (Pasha),  in 
1871  and  1873.  He  found  remains  of  mines  about  the  Jebel  el-Zabergah 
(Zumurrud  ?)  with  scorise,  handmills,  and  other  appurtenances  of  the 
craft,  all  along  the  road.*  Belzoni's  last  trip  (1819)  was  to  Mceris  and 
"  Elloah  "  (El-wah)  el-Kasr,  the  smaller  oasis,  of  which  he  is  the  dis- 
coverer. He  was  wrong,  however,  in  identifying  it  with  the  "  Wady  "  of 
Jupiter  Ammon,  which  is  Siwah. 

After  five  years  of  splendid  and  profitable  work  in  Egypt,  Belzoni 
left  it  for  ever  (1819).  In  London  he  published  his  book,  canvassed  his 
friends,  and  prepared  to  carry  out  the  dream  of  his  life, — a  plunge  into 
the  then  unexplored  depths  of  the  African  continent.  And  here,  leaving 
him  for  a  time,  we  will  return  to  Padua.  Par  parenthese,  the  "  Chauvi- 
nismus  "  concerning  stranger  jealousy  hardly  applies  to  England  :  she  was 
the  explorer's  second  mother ;  and  his  enemies  were  his  own  countrymen. 

In  1866,  when  Padua  exchanged  the  "Eagle  with  Two  Heads  dis 
played "  for  the  plain  Cross  Argent  of  Savoy,  sundry  patriotic  citizens 
addressed  a  petition  to  the  municipality,  praying  that  the  name  of  the 
contrada  be  changed  from  the  ignoble  "dei  Paolotti"  to  the  noble 
"  Belzoni."  The  request  was  disregarded,  probably  for  the  usual  reason ; 
it  did  not  emanate  from  the  fountain  of  all  civic  honour — the  town-hall. 
The  experiment  is  to  be  tried  again,  under  circumstances  which  ought  to, 
and  which  I  hope  will,  ensure  success.  The  Riviera  (quay)  Santa  Sofia, 
formerly  a  fetid  canal,  one  of  the  many  veinlets  of  the  Bacchaglione,  has 

*  Bull,  Egypt.  Geoff.  Soc.,  No.  6,  Nov.  1879, 


42  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI. 

just  lost  name  and  nature ;  the  ground,  a  large  oblong,  will  be  planted 
with  trees  (Eucalyptus?),  and  it  would  start  well  in  life  under  the 
honoured  name  of  PIAZZALE  BELZONI. 

The  necessary  measures  are  being  taken  by  Giovanni  Dr.  Tomasoni, 
of  TJdine,  a  man  of  property,  who  has  travelled  round  the  world.  He 
holds,  by-the-by,  with  Mesnier  (1874),  against  Gray  (1875),  that  the 
Bonze  in  strange  costume,  short  cloak  and  flat  cap,  who  appears  in  the 
Buddhist  temple  of  the  "  Five  Hundred  Genii "  at  Canton,  is  not  Shien- 
Tchu,  a  Hindu  saint,  but  a  western  man,  and  consequently  Marco  Polo.* 

The  first  step  will  be  to  name  the  Square;  the  second,  to  raise  a 
Monument.  Something  provisional  might  be  set  up,  in  the  shape  of  a 
wooden  pyramid,  till  subscriptions  justify  a  formal  statue.  As  this 
charge  could  not  fairly  be  imposed  on  the  municipality,  an  appeal  should 
be  made  to  public  generosity.  Padua  has  now  many  wealthy  sons,  and 
we  may  hope  that  they  will  practically  disprove  the  imputation  of 
materialismo.  Let  us  also  hope  that  the  statue  will  be  realistic; — will 
show  the  explorer  in  working  garb,  not  habited  like  a  Turk,  a  courtier, 
or  a  Hercules. 

n. 
BELZONI  IN  BENIN. 

Before  landing  the  explorer  on  the  edge  of  the  Dark  Continent,  it  is 
advisable  to  cast  a  short  glance  at  Africa,  in  connection  with  England, 
during  the  first  quarter  of  our  century.  The  "  African  Association," 
which  became  (1831)  the  "  Royal  Geographical  Society,"  was  formed  in 
June,  1788.  It  began  by  sending  out  Ledyard,  one  of  the  Cook's  circum- 
navigators, who  was  killed  by  fever  in  "  Sennaar," — properly  Si  (water) 
n  (of)  and  Arti  (the  Island) = Water  Island.  Followed  Lucas ;  but  this 
well-qualified  traveller  returned,  re  infectd,  to  the  north  coast.  Next 
went  the  gallant  Major  Houghton,  to  be  plundered  and  left  to  starve 
among  the  Arabs  of  Ludamar  (Wuld  Omar)  in  the  Great  Desert  (1791). 
Then  came  upon  the  stage  that  famous  Mungo  Park,  whose  charming 
volumes,  I  believe,  owe  most  of  their  charm  to  Brian  Edwards,  of 
Jamaica.  The  Scotch  surgeon's  first  and  ever  memorable  march  was 
made  in  1795-97,  and  the  fatal  second  in  1805.  Herr  Hornemann, 
of  Gottingen,  set  out  from  Cairo  in  1798 ;  became,  it  is  supposed,  a 
Marabut  or  Santon  in  Kashna  ;  and  disappeared  about  1803.  Roentgen 
was  murdered  near  Mogador  in  1809.  Adams,  alias  Benjamin  Rose, 
assured  the  Association  that  in  1810  he  had  visited  "Timbuctoo,"  or, 
properly,  Tin-bukhtu,  the  "  Well  of  Bukhtu."  The  same  place  was 
reached,  in  1815,  by  James  Riley,  supercargo  of  the  American  brig 
Commerce,  who  brought  back  authentic  details  concerning  the  then 

*  Lecture  of  February  20,  1877.     Mr.  Archdeacon  Gray's  Walks  in  the  City  of 
Canton  was  printed  at  Hong  Kong.   It  supports  the  Hindu  claims  in  pp.  207-8  and  217* 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI.  43 

mysterious  course  of  the  Niger.  Captain  Tuckey,  R.N.,  commanding  a 
Government  expedition,  lost  himself  and  most  of  his  companions  by 
Congo  fever  and  calomel,  in  1816.  During  the  same  year,  Major  Peddie 
died  at  the  beginning  of  his  march  on  the  Bio  Nunez ;  and  Major  Camp- 
bell, his  second  in  command,  at  Kakundy,  in  the  next,  June  13,  1817. 
Captain  Gray  (1818-19)  returned  safe  from  a  trip  to  the  Upper  Gambia. 
Major  Laing  (1821-22)  fixed  the  sources  of  the  Niger,  which  he  did  not 
reach,  in  N.  latitude  9°.*  He  was  murdered  during  a  second  expedition 
in  1826,  and  evil  reports,  probably  false,  connected  his  death  with  the 
French  explorer  Caillie.  The  expedition  of  Ritchie  and  Lyon  ended 
disastrously,  by  the  death  of  its  chiefs,  in  November,  1819.  Lastly, 
Denham  and  Clapperton  began  their  memorable  exploration  in  1820, 
and  returned  in  January,  1825. 

During  this  interval,  Belzoni  again  presented  himself  before  the 
British  public.  The  reports  concerning  "  Timbuctoo  "  had  only  whetted 
general  curiosity ;  and  the  factitious  importance  with  which  the  march 
by  "  long  Desert,"  and  the  "  treachery  of  the  Moors,"  had  invested  that 
uninteresting  place,  lasted  till  the  visit  of  my  late  friend  Barth  in  1853. 
The  nineteenth  century  moves  apace.  In  1879  the  French  are  proposing 
an  impossible  railway  from  Algiers  to  the  ex-capital  of  Negroland ; — 
the  chief  inducement  being,  evidently,  to  cut  out  ces  Anglais. 

The  Italian  explorer  had  much  in  his  favour.  His  gigantic  strength 
was  unimpaired  ;  and  he  had  recruited  his  health  by  three  years  of  beef- 
steaks and  beer.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  command ;  and  he  was 
well  acquainted  with  colloquial  Arabic.  His  economies  and  the  liberality 
of  his  friends  supplied  him  with  the  sinews  of  travel.  The  well-known 
Briggs  Brothers,  of  London  and  Alexandria,  lent  him  200?.  On  the 
other  hand  his  forty-five  years  were  against  him :  Africa,  like  the  per- 
sons alluded  to  by  Byron,  ever 

Prefers  a  spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty. 

Belzoni  began  by  visiting  Tangier,  where,  foiled  by  the  suspicions  of 
the  Moors  and  the  Jews,  he  failed  to  reach  Fez.  He  now  changed  his 
plans,  and  very  sensibly  made  his  will  (May  20,  1823)  before  entering 
Central  Africa,  the  "  grave  of  Europeans."  He  divided  his  property  into 
three  parts — the  recipients  being  his  mother,  "  Teresa  Belzoni,"  or  "  Bol- 
zoni ;  "  another  Theresa,  the  daughter  of  his  deceased  brother  Antonio ; 
and  his  wife  Sarah.  This  done,  he  embarked  at  Mogador,  touched  at 

*  I  proposed  to  explore  the  sources  in  1860-65 ;  but  the  late  Dr.  Baikie  agreed 
with  me  that  le  jcu  ne  valait  pas  la  chandelle.  My  friend  Winwood  Reade  was  not 
successful  in  1869.  The  head  of  the  Joliba  ("  Great  Eiver  ")  has  just  been  reached 
by  MM.  Tweifel  and  Moustier,  employes  in  the  house  of  M.  Verminch,  of  Sierra 
Leone.  They  ascended  the  Rokolle,  passed  the  Kong  Mountains  and  Falaba  town 
with  some  difficulty;  and,  guided  by  Major  Laing's  map,  found  the  main  source  on 
the  frontier  of  Kissi  and  Koranka,  some  200  miles  from  the  "  Lion's  Range."  "What 
was  our  "  Royal  Geographical  Society"  doing ?^ 


44  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI. 

Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  landed  in  the  Bight  of  Benin.  He  seems  to 
have  "  divined  "  the  Niger  outlet.  There  were  many  "  theoretical  dis- 
coverers," especially  my  friend  the  late  James  M'Queen ;  but  the  ques- 
tion was  not  practically  settled  till  Richard  and  John  Lander  dropped 
down  the  Nun,  or  direct  stream,  to  the  Atlantic  mouth,  in  1830. 

"  Benin,"  or  "  Binnin," — by  the  natives  called  "  Ibini,"  "  Bini,"  or 
"  Ini," — held  her  head  high  amongst  African  kingdoms  during  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  In  our  age  the  name  has  fallen 
into  disuse,  and  few  know  anything  beyond  the  fact  that  she  lies  some- 
where in  West  Africa.  According  to  early  explorers,  the  length  (north 
to  south)  was  80  by  40  leagues  of  depth.  John  Barbot  *  increases  these 
figures  to  300  by  1 25,  and  makes  the  northern  limit  "  Ardra,"  now  Da- 
homan,  which  he  identifies  with  the  classical  Aranya  mom  on  the  South 
Ethiopic  Ocean. 

Benin  was  discovered  by  thp  Portuguese,  of  whom  old  \Villem  Bos- 
man  politely  says,  "  They  served  for  setting  dogs  to  spring  the  game 
which  was  seized  by  others."  The  explorer  was  Joam  Afonso  de  Aveiro,f 
and  the  date  1485,  one  year  after  Diogo  Cam  had  begun  that  conquest  of 
the  Congo  which  has  lately  been  completed  by  Mr.  Henry  M.  Stanley. 
Men  were  enthusiasts  in  those  days.  Fernan'  de  Poo  (Fernando  Po) 
called  his  trouvaille  A  Ilka  Formosa  (Fair  Isle) ;  and  the  Benin  River 
became  0  Rio  Formosa,  or  Fermoso, — an  older  form, — but  not  Formosa, 
the  feminine.  In  our  times  the  British  mariner  sings, — with  variants  : — 

The  Bight  of  Benin !  the  Bight  of  Benin ! 
One  comes  out  where  three  goes  in. 

The  natives  know  the  stream -mouth  as  Uwo  Jco  Jakri,  or  "  Outlet  of 
Jakri,"  the  latter  being  African  for  the  European  Wari,  Owari,  Awerri, 
Ouueri,  Owhyere,  or  Ovare,  a  petty  princedom  on  the  southern  fork. 
The  late  Mr.  Beecroft,  H.  M.'s  Consul  for  Fernando  Po,  proved  (1840) 
by  a  cruise  in  the  Etliiope  steamer  that  this  Wari  branch  leaves  the 
Niger  a  little  below  Abu  or  Ibu  town.  Consequently  the  Rio  Formoso 
is  the  Western  arm.  of  the  Delta,  whose  hypo  then  use  measures  some 
180  miles. 

The  "Missioner"  soon  took  Benin  in  hand.  Aveiro  brought  home 
a  "Mouf"  (Ambassador)  from  the  King,  praying  to  be  supplied  with 
reverend  men  and  ghostly  meals.  The  Capuchin,  Father  Jerom  Merolla 
da  Sorrento, J  tells  us  a  pleasant  story  how  Father  Angel o  Maria  per- 

*  This  "  Agent-General  of  the  Royal  African  Company"  treats  especially  of  Benin 
in  book  iv.  chap.  5,  and  his  brother  James  continued  the  work  from  1682  to  1699. 

f  He  was  factor  of  the  then  Dutch  Elmina  on  the  Gold  Coast  during  the  terminal 
quarter  of  the  last  century.  His  twenty-first  letter  treats  of  the  "  Kingdom  of  Benin ;  " 
and  his  valuable  work  was  translated  in  1705. 

|  He  wrote  about  1680  his  Voyage  to  Congo  and  several  other  Countries,  chiefly  in 
Southern  Africa.  His  work,  which  is  minute  and  valuable,  was  first  "  made  English 
from  the  Italian  "  in  Churchill's  Collection  (i.  521).  I  borrow  from  Pinkerton  (vol.  xvi.), 
and  hope  to  republish  the  book  with  the  good  aid  of  the  Hakluyt  Society. 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BtiLZONl.  45 

suaded  a  "  white  young  lady  "  of  St.  Thomas  Island  to  a  peculiar  act  of 
self-devotion.  She  travelled  to  Benin,  and,  "  being  arrived  at  the  King's 
palace,  she  was  received  by  that  monarch  like  another  Rachel  by  Jacob, 
Esther  by  Ahasuerus,  or  Artemisia  by  Mausolus,  and  afterwards  married 
by  him  after  the  Christian  fashion ;  thereby  giving  a  good  example  to  his 
subjects,  who  soon  forsook  their  former  licentious  principles  and  submitted 
to  be  restrained  by  the  rules  of  the  Gospel ;  that  is,  were  all  married 
according  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  Church."  This  much-suffering 
young  person  sacrificed  herself  to  very  little  purpose.  During  the  seven- 
teenth century  Benin,  like  Congo,  was  overrun  by  a  little  army  of 
"  Apostolic  Missioners ;  "  who  had,  however,  more  care  for  their  fees  of 
slaves  than  for  cures  of  souls  :  they  meddled  and  they  muddled,  and  they 
conducted  themselves  generally,  to  judge  by  their  own  accounts,  in  a 
way  which  would  have  secured  deportation  at  the  hands  of  downright 
Mr.  John  Dunn. 

By  slow  degrees  Christianity  withered  on  its  uncongenial  soil.  The 
Portuguese,  who  had  begun  work  at  Benin  under  D.  Joam  II.,  struck 
work  under  D.  Joam  III.  During  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century 
only  a  few  half-caste  traders  and  slavers  from  St.  Thomas  kept  up 
churches  and  lodges  at  the  chief  settlements.  In  1862  I  found  a  trace 
of  the  faith  in  one  place  only,  Wari-  or  Jakri-town  ;  a  tall  cross  still  bore 
a  bronze  crown  of  thorns  nailed  to  the  centre,  and  a  rude  M(aria  ?)  of 
the  same  material  was  fastened  to  the  lower  upright.  Singularly  strange 
and  misplaced  was  this  emblem,  rising  from  a  grass  thicket  surrounded 
by  a  wall  of  the  densest  jungle,  with  a  typical  dead  tree  in  front.  Native 
huts  here  and  there  peeped  over  the  bush ;  and  hard  by  stood  the  usual 
Juju  or  fetish-house,  a  dwarf  shed  of  tattered  matting  garnished  with  a 
curtain  of  white  calico  soiled  and  rusty.  Truly  a  suggestive  type  of 
the  difficulties  with  which  the  Cross  had  to  contend  in  lands  where 
Nature  runs  riot,  and  where  the  mind  of  man  is  rank  as  its  surroundings ; — 
difficulties  against  which  it  has  fought  a  good  fight,  but  hitherto  without 
the  crown.  Hard  by  the  cross  was  a  mound  of  solid  earth,  whose  tread 
suggested  that  it  was  a  place  of  sepulture.  Of  these  reverend  men,  these 
Nigerian  martyrs,  it  may  be  truly  said,  "  Time  hath  corroded  their 
epitaphs  and  buried  their  very  tombstones."  Not  a  sign  of  burial  ap- 
peared save  a  bit  of  blanched  and  weathered  skull.  Yet  they  are  not  to 
be  pitied.  They  laboured  through  life  at  a  labour  of  love,  expecting  the 
pleasing  toil  to  end  in  eternal  repose.  And  the  good  which  they  did 
lives  after  them ; — at  Wari  I  saw  none  of  the  abominations  of  Great 
Benin  and  Dahome. 

Upon  the  heels  of  the  "  Apostolic  Missioner  "  came  the  merchant,  who 
was  mostly  a  slave-dealer.  Now  our  eye-witnesses  and  authorities  be- 
come Bosnian  and  Barbot,  who  give  copious  accounts  of  the  country  and 
country  folk.  All  the  principal  European  nations,  Portuguese,  Dutch, 
English,  and  French,  at  one  time  had  comptoirs  ;  and  all  failed  in  conse- 
quence of  the  mosquitos,  the  fever,  and  the  utter  rascality,  the  compli- 


46  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZOitt. 

cated  dishonesty,  of  the  people,  or  rather  peoples.  The  celebrated  botanist 
(A.  M.  F.  J.),  Palisset  de  Beauvais,  here  passed  upwards  of  a  year  (1786) 
in  collecting  materials  for  his  More  d'Oware  et  de  Benin.  In  1788 
Capitaine  Landolphe  founded  near  the  river  mouth  for  the  Compagnie 
d'Owhyere  a  fort  and  factoiy  which  he  called  Borodo  ;  this  establishment 
lasted  till  1792,  and  died  of  the  Great  Revolution.  In  these  days  a  few 
English,  houses,  Messrs.  Horsfall,  Harrison,  Stewart  and  Douglas,  and 
others,  have  settlements  near  the  estuary,  and  take  palm-nuts  in  barter 
for  English  goods.  The  export  slave  trade  is  totally  stopped,  to  the 
manifest  injury  of  the  slave,  who  was  once  worth  eighty  dollars,  and 
now  hardly  as  many  sixpences.  .Nothing,  however,  would  be  easier  than, 
to  run  a  dozen  cargoes  of  casimir  noir  out  of  the  Benin  river. 

The  ethnological  peculiarity  of  Great  Benin,  as  noted  by  all  travellers, 
is  the  contrast  between  a  comparative  civilisation  and  an  abominable 
barbarity.  The  capital  which  Bosnian  and  Barbot  call  Oedo  (Wedo)  had 
in  1800  a  circumference  of  six  leagues;  and  of  the  thirty  main  streets 
some  stretched  two  miles  long  and  twenty  feet  wide.  All  were  kept  in 
a  remarkable  state  of  cleanliness, — a  virtue  little  known  to  Europe  in 
those  days, — because  "  every  woman  sweeps  her  own  door."  At  levees  the 
prince  sat  upon  an  ivory  couch  under  a  silken  canopy ;  and  on  his  left 
hand,  against  a  fine  tapestry,  stood  "  seven  white  scoured  elephant's 
teeth  "  on  pedestals  of  the  same  material.  The  palace  also  contained 
large  stables  for  horses ;  an  article  of  luxury  which  has  almost  died  out. 
The  nobles  bore  the  titles  of  Homograns  (homens  grandes)  or  grandees, 
and  below  them  were  the  Mercadores  and  Fiadores  (sureties  or  brokers). 
Yet  the  city  was  a  Golgotha,  an  Aceldama,  and  Barbot  exclaims  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  heart  and  nose  : — 

The  fiends  their  sons  and  daughters  they 

Did  offer  up  and  slay : 
Yea,  with  unkindly  murthering  knife 

The  guiltless  blood  they  spilt ; 
Yea,  their  own  sons'  and  daughters'  blood 

Without  all  cause  of  guilt. — PSALM  Iv.  35-38. 

The  "  grand  customs  "  on  the  death  of  a  "  King  "  were,  and  are,  essen- 
tially different  in  detail  from  those  of  Dahome.  Yet  the  underlying 
idea  is  the  same.  Majesty  must  not  enter  Hades,  Ghost-home,  the 
Shadowy  Land,  without  regal  pomp  and  circumstance.  The  body  is 
lowered  into  a  deep  pit ;  and  the  most  beloved  domestics  of  both  sexes, 
who  highly  prize  the  honour,  take  their  places  above  it.  The  mouth  of 
the  hollow  is  then  closed  with  a  large  stone,  and  crowds  of  mourners  sit 
around  it  night  and  day.  Next  morning  certain  officers,  told  off  for  the 
purpose,  open  the  pit  and  ask  the  set  question,  "  Have  ye  found  the 
king1?"  (i.e.  in  Deadman's-land).  Those  alive  answer  by  telling  how 
many  of  their  number  had  perished  of  hunger  and  cold.  This  "  strange- 
fantastical  ceremony  "  is  sometimes  continued  for  five  or  six  days.  When 
at  last  no  sound  comes  from  below,  the  lieges  make  a  great  feast,  and 


GIOVANNI  BATTlStfA  SEliSOtfl.  47 

Spend  the  night  running  about  the  streets,  chopping  off  heads  and  drag- 
ging off  the  corpses,  which  are  thrown  into  the  pit  before  its  final  closing. 
Bosnian,  in  the  normal  chapter  on  "  Manners  and  Customs,"  notices  the 
"  ridiculous  religion  "  and  the  frequent  "  apparition  of  ghosts  of  deceased 
ancestors," — in  fact,  full-blown  Spiritualism.  But,  like  the  men  of  his  day, 
he  never  for  a  moment  suspects  that  anything  lies  beneath  the  surface. 

In  May,  1838,  Messrs.  Moffat  and  Smith,*  surgeons  on  board  a  mer- 
chant schooner,  went  to  the  city  of  Great  Benin,  wishing  to  open,  or 
rather  to  re-open,  trade.  The  latter,  a  "  very  promising  young  man," 
died  of  a  dysentery  caught  by  being  drenched  with  rain.  They  were 
horrified  to  see  a  trench  full  of  bodies  at  which  the  turkey-buzzards  were 
tugging,  and  "two  corpses  in  a  sitting  position."  These  victims  had 
probably  been  despatched  with  a  formal  message,  announcing  the  arrival 
of  strangers  to  the  King's  father  in  Ghost-land.  The  same  unpleasant 
spectacle  was  offered  in  August,  1862,  when  I  visited  Benin,  accompanied 
by  Lieutenant  Stokes,  of  H.M.S.  Bloodhound,  and  Dr.  Henry. t  In 
the  tall  rank  herbage,  on  the  right  of  the  path  leading  into  the  city,  ap- 
peared the  figure  of  a  fine  young  man  bare  to  the  waist,  with  arms 
extended  and  wrists  fastened  to  a  scaffold  framework  of  peeled  wands, 
poles  and  stakes  planted  behind  him.  For  a  moment  we  thought  that 
the  wretch  might  be  alive  :  a  few  steps  convinced  us  of  our  mistake.  He 
had  been  crucified  after  the  African  fashion,  seated  on  a  rough  wooden 
stool,  with  a  white  calico  cloth  veiling  the  lower  limbs.  Between  the 
ankles  stood  an  uncouth  image  of  yellow  clay,  concerning  which  the 
frightened  natives  who  accompanied  us  would  not  speak.  A  rope  of 
lliana,  in  negro-English  called  a  "  tie-tie,"  bound  tight  round  the  neck  to 
a  stake  behind,  had  been  the  immediate  cause  of  death.  The  features  still 
showed  strangulation,  and  the  sacrifice  was  so  fresh  that,  though  the  flies 
were  there,  the  turkey-buzzards  had  not  found  the  eyes.  The  blackness 
of  the  skin  and  the  general  appearance  proved  that  the  sufferer  was  a 
slave.  No  emotion  whatever,  save  holding  the  nose,  was  shown  by  the 
crowds  of  Beninese,  men  a.nd  women,  who  passed  by ;  nor  was  there  any 
expression  of  astonishment  when  I  returned  to  sketch  the  victim. 

It  is  some  comfort  to  think  that  the  murder  was  committed  with  as 
much  humanity  as  possible.  These  messengers  to  Ghost-land  are  always 
made  to  drink  off  a  bottle  of  rum  before  the  fatal  cord  is  made  fast.  In 
one  point,  indeed,  I  found  the  Beninese  superior  to  their  neighbours. 
Twin  births  are  esteemed  good  omens,  not  bestial  and  unnatural  produc- 
tions ;  and  the  mother  receives  a  royal  bounty  like  the  happy  parents  of 
triplets  and  quartets  in  England.  Beyond  this  nothing  can  be  said  in 
favour  of  Great  Benin.  The  town  has  a  fume  of  blood;  it  literally 
stinks  of  death.  Without  any  prepossessions  for  "  Humanitarian  policy," 
and  far  from  owning  that  Proselytism  has  succeeded,  or  ever  will  suc- 

*  "  A  Visit  to  the  Capital  of  Benin  in  the  Delta  of  the  Kwara  or  Niger,"  Journal 
of  the  Royal  Geographical  Society,  1841,  vol.  xi.  pp.  190-192. 

t  "My  Wanderings  in  West  Africa,"  Fraser's  Magazine,  March,  1863. 


4fc  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI. 

ceed,  in  this  part  of  Africa,  I  could  not  but  compare  once  more  the  dif- 
ference between  Abeokuta,  where  there  are  missionary  establishments, 
and  Benin,  which  for  years  has  remained  a  fallow  field.  In  the  former, 
human  sacrifice  still  flourishes ;  but  it  is  exceptional,  it  is  done  sub  rosd, 
and  it  does  not  shock  public  decency  by  exposing  the  remnants  of  hu- 
manity. In  the  latter  it  is  a  horror — teste  "  Fraser." 

This  unpleasant  city  was  Belzoni's  first  objective.  He  had  engaged 
a  homeward  bound  sailor,  a  negroid  from  Kashna,  who  had  served  on 
board  H.M.S.  Owen  Glendower,  as  his  companion  to  "  Timbuctoo,"  vid 
Haussa.  Thus  he  hoped  to  open  a  way  through  one  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous corners  of  the  Dark  Continent.  A  similar  attempt  was  made  in 
our  day  by  the  unfortunate  Jules  Gerard,  the  Chasseur  (afterwards  Tueur) 
du  Lion.  Whilst  his  relations  live  I  hesitate  to  tell  the  true  tale  of  his 
death. 

Belzoni  was  not  a  general  favourite  in  Egypt.  He  had  placed  him- 
self in  a  false  position,  and  he  seemed  to  suffer  under  a  chronic  irritation 
and  suspiciousness.  He  complained  of  "  atrocious  persecutions ;  "  he 
found  fortune  "  barbarous  and  unkind,"  and  he  left  Egypt  "  prema- 
turely," his  plans  being  incomplete.  In  Africa  it  was  otherwise.  The 
skippers,  supercargoes,  and  agents,  popularly  termed  "Palm-oil  lambs" 
(of  the  Nottingham  breed),  rough-mannered,  kindly-hearted  men,  soon 
learned  to  love  their  guest  as  a  friend.  "With  affectionate  adieux  he  took 
leave  of  them,  was  rowed  tip  stream  and  landed  at  Gwato.  Bosnian 
calls  this  village  "  Agatton;"  he  tells  us  that  it  ranked  in  importance 
after  Boededoe  (Obobi),*  and  Arebo,  Arbon,  Egro,  New-town  or  Young- 
town.  "  It  was  formerly  a  considerable  place,  but  hath  suffered  much 
by  the  wars ;  it  is  situate  on  a  small  hill  in  the  river  ;  and  it  is  a  day's 
journey  by  land  to  the  city  of  Great  Benin."  Barbot  describes  "  Gotten  " 
as  a  very  large  town,  much  more  pleasant'  and  healthy  than  its  two 
rivals."  The  country  is  full  of  all  sorts  of  fruit  trees,  and  well  furnished 
with  several  little  villages,  whose  inhabitants  go  thither  to  the  markets, 
which  are  held  at  Gotten  for  five  days  successively.  He  places  it  twelve 
leagues  S.S.E.  of  the  capital.  Messrs.  Moffat  and  Smith  make  "Gatto 
or  Agatto  "  twenty  miles  to  the  S.W.  (read  S.S.W.).  I  have  noticed 
"  Gwato  "  at  some  length,  as  here  Belzoni  was  fated  to  find  a  grave. f 

The  explorer  was  kindly  received  by  Obbd  (King)  Oddi  or  Odalla, 
father  of  Jambra,  alias  Atolo,  whom  I  visited.  In  1862  many  of  the 
oldsters  at  Benin  remembered  the  traveller ;  and  talked  admiringly  of 
his  huge  black  beard,  his  gigantic  strength,  and  his  mighty  stature, — six 
feet  six.  Everything  was  looking  well,  when  the  bad  water  of  the  city, 
taken  from  holes  and  polluted  wells,  brought  on  a  dysentery,  and  the 
explorer  was  no  longer  young.  In  those  days  African  fever  was  treated 
with  the  lancet,  which  still  names  our  leading  Medical  Journal.  Dy- 
sentery had  the  benefit  of  calomel,  opium,  laudanum,  and  oleum  ricini, 

*  p.  138,  Fraser,  February,  1863,  and  p.  275,  March,  1863. 
|  p.  277,  Fraser,  March,  1863. 


GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI.  49 

the  latter  a  poison  in  those  lands.  Here  let  me  observe  that  the  anti- 
diarrhoea  pill  in  the  Crimean  campaign  was  fully  as  fatal  as  the  Russian 
bullet.  "When  Nature  is  relieving  the  engorged  liver,  Art  slips  in  and 
prevents  the  cure.  Instead  of  meat-broths  to  support  the  strength, 
paps  and  gruels  are  given  to  sour  the  stomach ;  in  fact  the  treatment  was, 
and  generally  is,  that  best  calculated  to  ensure  fatal  results. 

Belzoni  was  too  ill  to  take  leave  of  the  King,  who  sent  him  a  kindly 
message.  On  the  morning  of  November  28  (1823)  he  told  Captain  John 
Hodgson,  of  the  brig  Providence,  who  had  run  up  to  see  him,  that  the 
hand  of  death  was  upon  him.  On  December  2,  with  his  usual  good 
sense,  he  begged  to  be  carried  to  Gwato  and  thence  to  "  Bobee  "  (Obobi), 
hoping  much  from  the  sea  air.  Mr.  Hodgson  in  his  ignorance  unwil- 
lingly consented,  and  despatched  him  in  a  rough  palanquin  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Smith ;  he  himself  intended  to  rejoin  the  sufferer  at  Gwato, 
whence  the  vehicle  was  to  be  sent  back.  At  the  end  of  the  march  the 
disease  seemed  to  take  a  favourable  turn ;  and  the  explorer  was  well 
enough  to  eat  some  bread  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea.  Before  leaving  Benin 
city  he  disposed  of  his  belongings.  He  ordered  all  the  objects  worthy  of 
a  passage  to  be  sent  to  England  by  ^he  brig  Castor  of  Liverpool.  He 
wrote  a  few  lines  to  Messrs.  Briggs ;  and,  being  unable  to  hold  a  pen,, 
he  sent  his  ring  to  his  wife,  with  an  expression  of  lively  affection  and 
loving  memory. 

At  4  A.M.  on  the  next  day  (December  3),  the  explorer  awoke  with 
swimming  head,  cold  extremities,  and  eyes  expressing  delirium.  He  was 
strong  enough  to  swallow  a  little  arrowroot,  but  not  to  speak.  At  2.45 
P.M.  he  passed  away,  apparently  without  pain.  Mr.  Hodgson,  reaching 
Gwato  at  4  P.M.,  found  that  the  body  had  been  laid  out  by  Mr.  Smith. 
He  went  to  the  local  Caboceer,  or  Governor,  and  obtained  leave  to  bury 
his  dead  "  at  the  foot  of  a  very  large  tree."  Under  its  broad  foliage  a 
grave  was  dug  six  feet  deep,  and  at  9  P.M.  the  corpse  was  buried  with  all 
the  honours.  Mr.  Hodgson  read  the  funeral  service,  and  his  eighteen 
men,  headed  by  himself  and  Mr.  Smith,  saluted  with  three  salvos  of 
musketry  his  guest's  tomb.  Sundry  guns  were  fired  by  the  vessels  in 
port,  the  schooner  Providence,  the  American  Curlew,  and  the  Castor. 
Mr.  W.  Fell,  supercargo  of  the  latter,  caused  his  carpenter  to  prepare  a 
tablet  with  an  inscription  noting  the  day  of  death,  and  expressing  the 
pious  hope  that  all  European  travellers  who  may  visit  the  last  home  of 
the  intrepid  and  enterprising  traveller,  will  be  pleased  to  clear  the  ground,, 
and  to  repair  the  ring  fence  if  necessary. 

Such  is  the  official  and  received  account  of  the  explorer's  death- 
Local  tradition  declares  that  Belzoni  was  carried  to  the  house  of  Ogea, 
Caboceer  (Governor)  of  Gwato.  This  man,  described  as  a  tall  negroid  of 
yellow  complexion  and  uncanny  look,  died  about  1850.  He  is  said  to 
have  poisoned  the  traveller  in  hopes  of  plunder ;  and  what  lends  colour 
to  the  charge  is  that  he  afterwards  tried  the  same  trick  upon  a  European 
trader,  and  failed.  The  chief  of  Gwato,  "  Kusei," — also,  by  the  by,  a  noted 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  247.  3. 


50  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  BELZONI. 

poisoner, — popularly  known  as  "  the  Parson  "  (here  an~old  title,  heredi- 
tary and  connected  with  the  local  religion),  declared  to  me,  among  others, 
that  many  of  Belzoni's  papers  were  handed  over  by  Ogea  to  the  royal 
Fiador,  or  broker,  and  that  since  the  latter's  death  they  descended  to  his 
son.  Stray  leaves  have  been  seen,  according  to  European  testimony,  in 
the  hands  of  the  townspeople,  leading  to  the  conclusion  that  there  are 
more  behind.  Mr.  Sharpe,  a  late  agent  to  Messrs.  Horsfall,  made  a 
liberal  bid  for  these  documents  ;  but  without  result.  I  was  equally  un- 
fortunate, although  I  offered  a  bale  of  cloth =201. 

Belzoni's  grave  has  been  allowed,  despite  the  epitaph,  to  drop  out  of 
sight.  Staff  Surgeon  W.  F.  Daniell  *  described  it  as  an  "  elevated  mound 
of  earth  overrun  with  weeds,  with  the  fragments  of  a  decayed  wooden 
cross."  Messrs.  Moffat  and  Smith  found  the  "grave  of  the  traveller 
BeLzoni  marked  by  a  wooden  tablet  fast  going  to  decay."  In  1862,  when 
I  saw  it,  the  place  had  become  a  tabula  rasa. 

The  site  of  the  sepulchre  was  pointed  out  to  me  near  the  Governor 
of  Gwato's  house,  to  the  south-east  of  the  village.  "  Belzoni's  tree  "  is  a 
fine  spreading  growth,  which  bears  a  poison  apple,  and  whose  boughs 
droop  nearly  to  the  ground.  A  little  plantation  of  the  Koko-yam  (Colo- 
casia)  clothes  the  sides  of  the  low  mound  from  which  the  trunk  springs, 
and  a  few  huts  and  sheds  stand  between  it  and  "  the  bush."  It  is  a 
pretty  and  romantic  spot. 

I  assembled  the  village  ancients,  and  made  a  desultory  attempt  at 

-digging  under  their  vague  and  discordant  directions.  But  time  was 
short,  a  fight  was  brewing,  and  African  growths  cover  double  and  treble 
the  area  of  our  largest  English.  I  was  obliged  to  content  myself  with 
sketching  Belzoni's  tree,  with  sending  home  a  handful  of  wild  flowers, 
and  with  expressing  a  hope  that  "  some  European  passing  by  "  would  be 
more  fortunate  than  myself,  f 

In  1865  I  left  Fernando  Po,  a  locality  famed  for  the  rapid  consump- 
tion of  Europeans  generally,  and  especially  of  English  Consuls.  Two  of 
my  successors  have  succumbed  to  the  climate ;  and  now  there  is  a  third 

:  applicant  for  the  honourable,  but  ticklish,  duty  of  representing  the  British 
^Government.  I  can  only  hope  that  Mr.  Consul  E.  H.  Hewett  will  carry 
out  a  project  of  mine,  foiled  by  circumstances ;  and  will  recover  for  the 
good  city  of  Padua,  which  rejoices  in  the  apocryphal  relics  of  Antenor 
and  of  Livy,  the  mortal  remains  of  her  right  worthy  son  Giovanni 
Battista  Belzoni. 

EICHAED   F.   BURTON. 

*  Sketches  of  the  Nautical  Topography  (&c.)  of  (he  Gulf  of  Guinea. 
•j-  p.  28,  Frascr,  March,  1863. 


51 


m  fUttibjj 


NATUKE  lends  no  countenance  to  the  dictum  of  Dr.  Johnson  that  one 
green  field  is  like  another.  Monotonous  uniformity  is  not  to  be  found  in 
her  least  or  greatest  handiwork.  While  there  are  no  hard  and  fast  lines 
of  demarcation  between  her  geographical  divisions,  she  has  set  certain 
broad  marks  of  distinction  upon  their  face  which  a  little  experience 
enables  her  students  to  note  and  recognise.  It  would  scarcely  be  too 
much  to  affirm  that  the  eye  of  a  trained  observer,  at  the  first  aspect  of  a 
new  tract  of  country,  can  pronounce  whether  the  soil  be  chalk,  sand,  or 
clay,  what  are  its  common  native  products,  and  what  is  the  quality  of 
the  landscape  in  point  of  beauty.  An  expert  in  English  chalk-scenery, 
at  all  events,  may  safely  rely  upon  his  powers  of  clairvoyance  to  dis- 
tinguish its  familiar  features  wherever  he  travels.  There^is  no  mistaking 
the  indicia  of  that  landscape  when  once  thoroughly  known.  The  gradual 
process  by  which  such  knowledge  is  acquired  can  no  more  be  communi- 
cated than  the  pleasure  which  it  brings.  It  is  always  true  of  Nature 
that 

You  must  lore  her  ere  to  you 
She  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

All  that  can  be  done  towards  training  another's  eye  is  to  throw  out  a 
few  hints  which  may  help  it  to  observe  for  itself.  No  easier  school  for  a 
novice  can  be  suggested  than  the  Kentish  chalk-lands,  and  the  following 
rough  notes  of  their  prevailing  characteristics  may  serve,  faute  de  mieux, 
as  a  skeleton  chart  for  his  guidance.  The  area  is  a  large  one,  but  the 
district  more  particularly  referred  to  is  its  most  picturesque  section,  with 
which  the  writer  happens  to  be  best  acquainted. 

A  condition  prevenient  for  the  true  enjoyment  of  a  country  such  as 
this  is  that  one  should  be  an  active  walker.  "  The  proud  ones  who  in 
their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike-road  "  can  form  but  the  most  meagre 
idea  of  its  variety  and  beauty.  Even  the  horseman  will  be  unable  to 
penetrate  many  a  recess  specially  haunted  by  its  charm.  It  offers,  how- 
ever, no  perilous  pleasures  to  the  mountaineer.  Soundness  of  wind  and 
limb,  and  a  healthy  contempt  of  dust  or  mud,  according  to  the  weather, 
are  alone  sufficient  to  qualify  you  as  a  walking  tourist.  At  whatever 
season  of  the  year  you  may  take  your  first  view  of  this  landscape,  the 
feature  which  will  thrust  itself  upon  your  notice  before  all  others  is  the 
uniform  roundness  of  the  outlines.  The  hills  bear  upon  them  the  stamp 
of  their  aqueous  origin.  Gradually  narrowing  upwards  from  the  base 
with  a  gentle  acclivity,  their  slopes  and  crests  are  smooth ;  the  former 
often  vertically  scored  by  the  flow  of  water  into  deep  central  depressions, 

3—2 


52  STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK. 

on  either  side  of  which  the  ground  swells  softly  like  the  curves  of  a 
bosom.  Where  the  flow  has  been  horizontal  at  their  base,  they  are 
generally  divided  from  the  valley  by  a  long  low  ridge,  from  which  the 
downward  slope  is  less  regular  and  more  concave  than  elsewhere.  Those 
which  still  retain  their  primitive  character  of  down  are  covered  with  a 
close  crisp  turf,  fragrant  in  summer  with  patches  of  wild  thyme,  often 
branded  with  "  fairy-rings,"  and  here  and  there  dotted  with  low  bushes 
of  thorn,  gorse,  or  juniper.  Some  are  wooded  and  others  tilled,  but  in 
all  cases  they  keep  their  rounded  shape  unless  artificially  distorted. 
Mounting  the  highest  point  to  take  a  general  survey,  you  will  see  that 
the  hills  run  in  a  series  of  undulating  parallel  lines  from  north  to  south, 
with  winding  valleys  between  them.  At  irregular  intervals  some  of 
these  long  lines  converge  and  are  laterally  crossed  by  shorter  ones,  which, 
closing  up  the  valleys,  mould  them  into  a  basin-like  shape.  Of  the 
valleys,  the  narrower  are  for  the  most  part  intersected  by  roads  fringed 
with  trees.  The  broadest  of  them  all  is  intersected  by  a  stream  which 
has  evidently  scooped  out  its  channel  there,  and,  as  indicated  by  the 
marshy  vegetation  for  some  distance  on  either  side,  was  formerly  much 
wider  than  now.  Looking  southward  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  you 
will  see  the  succession  of  hill  and  dale  terminate  in  a  long  stretch  of 
table-land  level  with  the  height  at  which  we  stand,  bounding  the  chalk 
district  in  that  direction,  while  eastward  it  merges  into  a  similar  suc- 
cession which  extends  far  beyond  the  range  of  sight. 

The  nature  of  the  soil  discloses  itself  alike  in  the  crude  whiteness  of 
the  roads  and  paths,  in  the  crumbling  edges  which  divide  the  wooded 
crests  from  the  down  or  tillage  of  the  slopes,  in  broad  patches  of  pale 
brown  wherever  the  land  lies  fallow,  and  in  the  faintness  of  tint  imparted 
to  the  green  corn  where  the  fields  have  been  newly  sown.  Most  of  the 
primitive  roads,  which  obviously  owe  their  origin  to  common  need  and 
use,  follow,  as  you  will  observe,  the  line  of  least  resistance  by  conform- 
ing to  the  structural  character  of  the  hills  and  valleys,  either  running 
cornice- wise  along  the  one,  or  winding  thread-like  through  the  other. 
The  high  roads  to  the  great  city  alone  ignore  this  rule,  and  cut  through 
hill  and  dale  with  uniform  indifference.  The  broader  of  the  valley-roads, 
into  which  the  hill-roads  eventually  run,  follows  the  main  course  of  the 
stream,  and  has  been  an  immemorial  link  of  communication  between  the 
villages,  which,  each  with  its  cluster  of  tiled  or  slated  dwellings 
grouped  round  a  grey  church-tower,  here  and  there  associated  with  the 
ruins  of  a  mediaeval  castle,  lie  scattered  at  distances  of  two  or  three 
miles  apart  upon  either  bank.  The  narrower  roads  or  lanes  are,  in  like 
manner,  links  of  communication  between  the  upland  or  valley  farms.  Of 
the  footpaths,  some  are  mere  extensions  of  "  a  sheep-walk  up  the  windy 
wold,  or  a  driftway  for  cattle."  Others,  which  are  the  product  of  special 
needs  and  occasional  use,  are  cut  abruptly  across  the  hill-ridges,  and  open 
out  of  the  cornice-roads  with  steep  rough  banks,  diminishing  or  increasing 
in  height  as  they  rise  or  fall.  These  furnish  an  opportunity  for  observing 


STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK.  53 

the  stratification  of  the  ground,  elsewhere  usually  hidden  under  its  smooth 
turf-covering;  their  jutting  ledges,  layer  above  layer,  pointing  unmistak- 
ably to  a  gradual  deposition  of  shelly  ooze  under  the  pressure  of  deep 
water.  The  rugged  flints  which  crop  out  between  the  ledges  are  the  common 
building-stone  of  the  country,  the  older  walls  of  castle,  church,  dwelling, 
barn,  and  oast-house  alike  being  constructed  of  them.  They  are  full  of 
organic  remains,  especially  of  the  ammonite,  echinus,  and  pecten,  the 
former  being  sometimes  of  great  size.  Those  occasional  gaps  in  the  banks 
are  "  quarries  trenched  along  the  hill,"  the  sites  of  old  chalk-pits,  now 
generally  superseded  by  the  more  convenient  railway-cuttings.  When 
these  have  been  deserted  long  enough  for  a  growth  of  green  lichen  to 
encrust  their  broken  surfaces;  when  the  hollows  are  filled  up  with  a 
thicket  of  elder  and  bramble,  and  sprays  of  ivy  and  clematis  fringe  their 
mouths  and  trail  down  their  sides,  few  features  of  the  landscape  are  more 
picturesque. 

Picturesque  is  the  epithet,  par  excellence,  applicable  to  this  landscape 
as  a  whole.  Its  graceful  and  tender  beauty  wins  upon  you  as  well  by  its 
variety  as  by  its  permanence.  The  aspect  is  incessantly  changing,  but 
depends  upon  no  seasonal  fluctuation  or  elemental  conjunction  for  its 
attractiveness.  Under  the  dullest  of  grey  skies  and  in  those  mid-winter 
days  when  nature  seems  actually  dead,  the  outlines  keep  their  charm. 
Analogous  in  character  to  the  South  Downs  of  Sussex,  though  not  com- 
parable to  them  in  point  of  scale,  these  hills  partake  of  the  "  sweetness," 
if  not  of  the  "  majesty,"  which  Gilbert  White  found  in  what  he  naively 
calls  that  "  vast  range  of  mountains."  Their  broad  sweeping  curves  of 
crest,  hollow,  and  slope,  here  absolutely  smooth,  or  ridged  only  in  the 
lines  which  mark  where  the  sheep  have  browsed,  there  studded  with 
bushes  or  clothed  with  trees  from  the  summit  downward,  so  bold  and 
spacious  in  their  effects  of  light  and  shade,  are  such  as  Copley  Fielding 
and  Hine  have  best  loved  to  paint.  Where  two  opposite  ranges  approach 
one  another  across  the  valley  and  enclose  the  distance  within  their  frame, 
the  resemblance  is  striking  to  one  of  Claude's  familiar  subjects.  That 
clump  of  elms  in  the  middle  distance  will  remind  you  of  his  favourite 
tree-grouping,  and  the  tall,  slender  arches  of  yonder  railway-viaduct 
recall  one  of  the  ruined  aqueducts  which  form  a  common  feature  in  his 
Campagna-pictures.  If  these  uplands  are  more  beautiful  at  one  time 
than  another,  it  is,  perhaps,  under  two  different  conditions  of  the  atmo- 
sphere. On  a  summer's  afternoon,  when  a  south  wind  is  blowing  freshly 
and  the  sky  is  full  of  diffused  light  and  floating  masses  of  cumulus,  there 
is  no  lovelier  sight  than  to  watch  the  cloud-shadows  chasing  one  another 
in  endless  succession  down  the  slopes,  and,  caught  for  a  moment  in  the 
valley,  disappearing  into  space.  On  a  still  autumn  evening  the  gradual 
suffusion  of  the  hillsides  with  a  sleepy  glamour  of  mist,  and  the 
lengthening  shadows  of  the  trees  slowly  stretching  eastward  before  the 
westering  sun,  compose  a  picture  beyond  the  reach  of  art. 

This  landscape,  again,  partakes  largely  of  the  quality  of  restfulness 


54  STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK. 

which  attaches  more  or  less  to  every  succession  of  hills  and  valleys ;  the 
massive  steadfastness  of  the  one  and  the  lowly  reliance  of  the  other 
apparently  combining  to  produce  that  impression  upon  the  mind.  It  is 
heightened  in  the  present  case  by  the  sense  of  solitude.  Thanks  to  the 
value  of  the  land  for  corn  and  fruit  culture,  and  the  unwillingness  of  the 
owners  to  part  with  it  for  building  sites,  few  districts  within  the  same 
distance  of  the  metropolis  are  so  thinly  peopled.  The  wearied  Londoner 
•who  has  had  the  fortune  to  discover  this,  will  not  be  ungrateful  for  the 
boon.  Along  many  a  mile  of  these  uplands  he  will  meet  with  no  fellow 
creature  other  than  rabbit,  squirrel,  or  bird,  and  may  find  a  score  of  rocks 
wherein  to  dream  away  a  summer's  day  with  the  certainty  of  being  un- 
disturbed. 

"Within  living  memory  this  district  was  wooded  to  a  much  greater 
extent  than  now.  Such  woodland  tracts  as  remain  lie  upon  the  crests 
and  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills,  or  belt  the  valley-roads.  The  character- 
istic trees  of  the  uplands  are  the  beech,  thorn,  and  yew ;  of  the  lowlands 
the  elm  and  the  ash;  but  horse-chestnut,  lime,  maple,  birch,  syca- 
more, and  rowan  grow  freely  also.  In  places  on  the  hills  where  there 
may  be  a  little  admixture  of  soil — a  raised  beach  of  water- worn  stones 
or  a  strip  of  peaty  heath  attesting  the  presence  of  gravel  or  sand — 
Scotch  firs  and  other  conifers  grow ;  and  even  without  this  aid  the  larch 
will  thrive.  The  oak  and  Spanish  chestnut  take  less  kindly  to  the  country, 
often  indeed  attaining  a  vast  girth,  but  usually  being  stunted  in  height. 
The  beech  is  the  real  monarch  of  our  hillside  woods,  majestic  alike  in 
stature  and  development  of  trunk  and  limb.  The  thorns  seldom  reach 
to  any  great  size,  but  often  assume  with  age  a  fantastic  gnarliness  that 
reminds  one  of  the  olive.  The  yews,  which  are  found  for  the  most  part 
on  the  ridges  above  the  roads,  were  planted,  as  tradition  has  it,  to  guide 
mediaeval  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  at  Canter- 
bury. Several  are  doubtless  coeval  with  the  days  of  pilgrimage,  and 
some  of  the  finest  specimens  crown  the  steep  highway  between  Otford 
and  Wrotham,  which  goes  by  the  special  name  of  "  the  Pilgrim's  road." 
The  yew's  common  habit  of  throwing  its  strength  into  the  top,  leaving 
the  trunk  bare,  sometimes  produces  an  umbrella-like  shape  that,  en- 
couraged by  art,  makes  it  a  prominent  landmark.  The  elm  is  fore- 
most among  the  lowland  trees,  and  reaches  its  full  height.  Some  of  the 
valley-roads  are  lined  with  it  on  either  side,  and  the  arching  boughs 
interlace  overhead  like  the  groined  roof  of  a  cathedral  nave.  The  lime 
is  less  lofty,  though  of  ample  girth,  but  is  apt  to  develop  an  unhealthy 
fibrous  growth  midway  round  its  trunk,  disfiguring  its  symmetry.  The 
ash  and  willow  which,  with  the  alder,  fringe  the  river-banks,  are  seldom 
left  to  grow  naturally,  but  pollarded  periodically  for  the  sake  of  their 
branches. 

More  characteristic  of  the  chalk-land  than  its  trees  are  its  hedge- 
row shrubs  and  underwood.  In  striking  contrast  with  the  sombre, 
unvarying  foliage  of  the  yews  upon  the  hill-crests  are  their  ordinary 


STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK.  55 

companions,  the  wayfaring  and  service  trees,  whose  leaves  change  from  a 
spring  vesture  of  grey-green,  with  white  under-sides  laid  bare  by  every 
breeze,  to  an  autumn  robing  of  russet ;  and  whose  clusters  of  milky 
bloom  give  place  either  to  glossy  berries  that  pass  from  pale-green  to 
pink,  onwards  to  crimson,  and  thence  to  black,  or  to  bunches  of  mealy 
fruit  that  ripen  from  green  to  red  and  brown.  Scarcely  less  abundant 
are  the  dog-wood,  with  its  ruddy  stems,  pointed  leaves  that  change  from 
green  through  purple  to  crimson,  and  dense  black  berries ;  and  the 
spindle-tree,  whose  small  leaves  and  whitish-green  blossoms  may  escape 
attention  in  summer,  but  which  "in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 
flower,"  with  its  waxen,  three-sided,  and  rose-coloured  seed-vessels. 
Mingled  with  them  in  ample  variety  are  holly,  privet,  hawthorn,  maple,^ 
willow,  hornbeam,  hazel,  elder,  eglantine,  woodbine,  blackthorn,  brambisv. 
and  all  the  commoner  native  shrubs,  each  beautiful  in  its  own  phsees-. 
of  growth  if  allowed  to  mature.  This  freedom  is  too  seldom  enjoyed,, 
owing  to  the  immoderate,  zeal  with  which  our  Kentish  farmers  carry 
out  their  praiseworthy  aim  of  securing  as  much  light  and  air  as  possible- 
for  their  crops.  The  ruthless  forays  which  they  periodically  make  upon 
the  hedgerows  to  denude  them  of  all  but  the  barest  screen  of  foliage, 
have  the  doubly  disastrous  effect  of  depriving  a  soil  already  too  dry  of 
its  natural  reservoir  of  moisture,  and  the  landscape  of  a  special  grace. 
When  one  of  these  hedgerows  has  the  good  fortune  to  remain  untouched 
all  the  year  through,  it  offers  an  inexhaustible  study  of  form  and  colour. 
From  earliest  spring  its  green,  yellow,  and  crimson  leaf-buds  are  eloquent 
in  promise,  and  the  coldest  March  does  not  pass  without  an  earnest  of 
fulfilment  in  the  white  blossoms  put  forth  by  the  blackthorn's  leafless 
stems,  or  the  golden  pollen  shed  from  the  sallow-palm.  With  April  and 
May  come  the  bevy  of  white-flowering  shrubs,  hawthorn,  Guelder,  way- 
faring tree,  service,  and  dogwood,  preceded  and  followed  by  leaves  which*'. 
traverse  the  scale  of  green  through  its  numberless  shades,  save  those- 
which,  like  the  maple's,  are  scarlet-tipped,  or,  like  the  sapling  oak's,  are- 
stained  throughout  with  crimson.  Summer  perfects  the  development 
of  the  leaves  and  deepens  their  tints ;  gives  free  scope  to  the  hop, 
bryony,  bindweed,  and  other  climbing  plants  which  riot  in  a  profuse 
tangle  of  tendrils ;  and  withers  the  flowers  of  spring  only  to  replace  them 
by  its  own,  shell-pink  or  pearl-white  chalices  of  eglantine,  creamy 
yellow  whorls  of  woodbine,  masses  of  milky  privet,  starry  clusters  of 
clematis,  and  trumpet-mouths  of  convolvulus.  As  the  season  draws  to  a 
close,  the  hedgerow's  "  young  wood,"  the  product  of  the  last  three  months, 
puts  forth  its  foliage,  whose  fresher  green  recalls  the  memory  of  its 
vernal  prime,  yet  with  a  foretaste  of  autumn  in  the  sombre  shading. 
The  maple's  outermost  leaves  are  now  half  or  wholly  crimsoned  instead 
of  scarlet-tipped,  and  the  ruddy  purple  tinge  assumed  by  the  sapling  oak 
is  shared  in  varying  measure  by  the  latest  shoots  of  ash  and  hazel. 
Autumn  fulfils  and  multiplies  the  pageant  of  colour ;  stimulating  the 
woodbine  and  at  times  the  eglantine  to  a  second  bloom  ;  graduating  the 


56  STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK. 

passage  of  the  green  leaf  to  its  death  by  every  possible  change  of 
yellow,  brown,  and  gold  until  it  reaches  the  tint  for  which  our  old 
writers  could  find  no  apter  epithet  than  philomot  (feuttle  morte) ;  and 
lingering  out  the  metamorphosis  of  the  berry  from  orange  to  scarlet  or 
crimson,  and  from  indigo  to  black.  Winter,  which  annuls  so  much 
that  is  pleasant  to  the  eye,  does  not  wholly  deprive  us  of  these  glories, 
often  prolonging  to  the  last  the  deep  russet  of  the  beech  and  oak,  bringing 
out  into  fuller  relief  the  glossy  purple  of  the  bare  birch  stems,  and  sparing 
many  a  bramble-spray  splashed  with  blood-red  streaks,  a  holly-bush 
unstripped  of  its  coral  beads,  or  hoary  filament  of  the  clematis  with  its 
pathetic  resemblance  to  the  symbol  of  human  decay.  Thus  no  seasonal 
lapse  passes  over  the  hedgerow  without  bringing  to  those  who  care  to  seek 
for  it  some  fresh  picture  of  exquisite  detail  in  broad  or  minute  contrasts. 
The  bank  which  the  hedge  surmounts,  though  still  more  dependent 
for  its  beauty  upon 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower, 

is  happily  less  liable  to  ravage.  If  comparatively  few  plants  and  flowers 
are  exclusively  found  upon  the  chalk,  the  abundant  variety  of  its  pro- 
ducts, and  the  quick  succession  of  their  blossoms  and  tints,  together 
with  the  absence  of  some  and  the  rarity  of  other  species  which  are  com- 
mon elsewhere,  constitute  sufficiently  distinctive  characteristics.  Only 
one  other  soil  in  any  part  of  England  known  to  the  present  writer — 
the  sandstone  rock  of  Waterdown  Forest  in  Sussex — is  more  variously 
and  richly  flowerful.  As  early  as  February,  if  the  season  be  ordinarily 
mild,  primroses  and  violets  push  their  leaves  and  buds  through  the  sere 
grass,  the  arum  (or  wake-robin)  begins  to  lift  its  scroll,  and  the  cleaver 
its  whorl.  From  March  to  May  the  floral  succession  is  swiftest.  Violets 
— white,  lavender,  and  purple,  scented  and  scentless — are  the  first- 
comers  ;  primroses  follow  closely,  and  in  greater  abundance.  True  to 
her  virginal  character,  the  Spring  clothes  herself  above  every  other 
season  with  pale  or  delicate-tinted  flowers,  and  foremost  of  these  are 
anemones  white  and  pink,  the  stichwort,  and  the  strawberry.  Still  later 
come  the  speedwell  with  its  "  darling  blue,"  the  celandine,  buttercup, 
dandelion,  and  avens,  all  yellow,  the  latter  (which,  on  account  of  its 
virtue  as  a  simple,  our  forefathers  called  the  herb  Bennet)  having  a 
crimson  eye ;  then  the  hyacinth,  dark  and  light  blue,  and  the  skull-cap 
in  endless  varieties  of  tint  from  palest  pink  to  deepest  purple.  Between 
June  and  August  these  give  place  to  the  yellow-green  mignonette,  scarlet 
and  crimson  poppies,  white,  bladder,  and  rose  campions,  the  lesser  stich- 
wort, the  crane's-bill,  herb  Robert,  or  wild  geranium,  with  rose-pink 
blossoms  and  lace-like  leaves,  white  marguerite  daises,  lilac,  purple, 
occasionally  white  scabious,  the  sky-blue  cornflower,  yellow  and  white 
toad-flax,  with  its  tongue  of  bright  orange,  white  cow-parsley  and  hem- 
lock, crimson  and  purple  thistles,  frail  blue  harebells,  golden  St.  John's 
•wort  and  sun-daisies,  the  scarlet  pimpernel,  or  shepherd's  weather-glass, 


STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK.  57 

and  the  mallow,  for  whose  peculiar  blending  of  red  and  blue  no  name 
has  been  found  but  its  own.  With  the  advent  of  autumn  this  succession 
begins  to  fail,  but  the  night -shade,  teazle,  and  several  varieties  of  the  mint 
tribe  maintain  the  prevalence  of  purple  which  characterises  the  season, 
and  many  of  the  summer  flowers  linger  until  the  setting  in  of  winter. 
Even  then  the  despised  nettle,  with  its  graceful  umbels  of  white  or  yellow 
blossoms,  is  often  hardy  enough  to  defy  the  frost.  When  the  bank  is 
deserted  by  every  flower,  it  keeps  one  last  attraction  in  its  covering  of 
ground-ivy,  each  of  whose  symmetrical  sprays,  with  its  dark-veined 
leaves,  is  a  masterpiece  of  chiaroscuro. 

Many  of  these  flowers  thrive  still  better  under  the  shelter  of  the 
woods.  During  April  and  May  the  copses,  especially  those  that  have 
been  cut  a  year  or  two  previous,  are  literally  carpeted  with  primroses, 
violets,  anemones,  and  hyacinths.  The  strictly  woodland  flowers  abound 
also  :  the  wood-sorrel,  with  its  perfect  bright-green  trefoils  and  daintily 
pencilled  white  blossoms;  the  woodruff,  with  its  delicate  whorls  and 
small  "  enamelled  "  flowers,  prized  more  in  death  than  in  life  for  their 
scent  of  new-mown  hay ;  the  lily  of  the  valley ;  the  wood-spurge,  with  its 
"  cup  of  three,"  yellow-green  in  spring,  bronze-red  in  autumn ;  Solo- 
mon's seals ;  the  tall  spikes  of  the  viper's  bugloss,  the  positive  contrast 
of  whose  blue  corolla  and  red  stamens  makes  it  strikingly  attractive ; 
several  varieties  of  orchis,  of  which  the  purple  and  crimson  are  the  most 
common,  the  "  green-man,"  fly,  and  bee  being  comparatively  rare ;  and 
the  creeping  jenny,  which  lights  up  the  paths  on  summer  evenings  with 
its  golden  sconces  set  in  an  emerald  framework.  Other  flowers  are  pecu- 
liar to  the  meadows,  notably  the  lilac  cuckoo-flower  or  lady's-smock, 
always  to  be]  found  first,  as  Mr.  Tennyson,  most  faithful  of  poetic 
naturalists,  has  not  failed  to  observe,  in  "  the  meadow-trenches ;  "  white, 
sweet-scented  saxifrage,  ragged  robin,  and  the  splendid  marsh  marigolds, 
Shakspeare's  marybuds,  which  cover  the  lowlands  beside  the  river 
with  a  cloth  of  gold.  In  the  same  situation  grow  the  rose-tinted  drop- 
wort  with  its  white  cross-shaped  pistil,  creamy  meadow-sweet,  and  blue 
forget-me-not.  Still  closer  to  the  verge  of  the  stream  rises  the  yellow  iris, 
and  upon  its  face  float  the  white  water-strawberry  and  golden  water-lily.* 

*  How  these  names,  as  one  enumerates  them,  confute  the  notion  which,  though 
high  living  authority  has  been  cited  for  it,  we  cannot  hesitate  to  call  ignorant,  that  tha 
loving  study  of  natural  beauty  is  a  growth  of  modern  time !  If  the  gold  of  poetry  be 
ever  embedded  in  the  ore  of  language,  the  tender  grace  and  truthful  observation  of 
our  forefathers  have  surely  been  preserved  for  us  in  such  names  as  speed-well,  loose- 
strife, cuckoo-flower,  wake-robin,  forget-me-not,  poor  man's  or  traveller's  joy,  daisy 
(day's  eye),  shepherd's  weather-glass,  &c.,  &c.  Many  of  the  quaint  resemblances 
•which  their  eyes  were  quick  to  discover  in  these  objects  of  their  affection  have  lost 
their  significance  for  ours.  Dandelion  (dents  de  lion)  and  foxglove  (folk's  or  fairy's 
glove)  convey  no  meaning  to  those  who  do  not  consider  their  etymology ;  and  wa 
doubt  if  the  likeness  of  the  columbine's  inverted  blossom  to  a  nest  of  doves  (coluTnba) 
has  struck  one  modern  observer  out  of  a  hundred.  Miss  Ingelow,  so  far  as  we  re- 
member, is  the  only  English  poet  who  has  referred  to  it. 


58  STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK. 

In  their  choice  of  habitat,  as  every  naturalist  knows,  flowers  are  as 
capricious  as  the  sex  of  which  they  are  the  accepted  symbols ;  and  many 
not  above  enumerated  are  to  be  found  in  particular  localities  and  nowhere 
else.  The  cowslip,  plentiful  enough  on  the  downs  of  Sussex  and  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  is  somewhat  rare  here,  except  on  the  banks  of  the  "  Pilgrim's 
Road,"  where  it  grows  abundantly.  The  columbine  is  to  be  met  with 
only  in  a  few  retired  woods  and  hillsides,  and  there  develops  its  character- 
istic tendency  to  "  sport "  in  colour  and  double  its  blossoms  so  luxuriantly 
as  to  deceive  experts  into  taking  it  for  a  garden  seedling.  The  foxglove 
confines  itself  likewise  to  a  few  favourite  haunts,  and  the  yellow  broom 
which  has  given  its  name  to  one  of  our  hills  is  seldom  to  be  seen  else- 
where. The  Canterbury  bell,  so  abundant  at  the  edge  of  the  Sussex 
downs,  but  now  and  then  shows  itself  under  ours.  You  may  search 
high  and  low  in  vain  for  the  sweet-briar  rose  unless  you  know  exactly 
where  to  look ;  and  a  small  white  variety  of  toad-flax  is  restricted  to  one 
solitary  patch. 

In  grasses,  ferns,  and  mosses  these  chalk-lands  are  less  rich  than 
some  other  soils,  but  the  ordinary  kinds  flourish  freely.  The  cereals  must 
not  be  overlooked  among  the  first-named,  since  in  an  agricultural  district 
man's  work  has  to  be  taken  into  account  as  modifying  the  conditions  of 
natural  beauty.  The  quality  of  the  soil  in  the  first  place,  and  tradition 
in  the  second,  have  apparently  dictated  that  white  wheat  should  be  more 
extensively  grown  here  than  any  other  variety  of  the  grain.  However 
splendid  may  be  the  harvest,  it  lacks  the  glowing  lustre  which  flames 
from  the  sheaves  of  the  red  wheat  on  the  clays  and  sands  of  Surrey  and 
Sussex ;  and  the  artist  will  more  highly  esteem  it  in  an  earlier  stage, 
when  its  "  thousand  waves  .  .  .  ripple  "  over  the  broad  uplands  with  an 
ineffable  grace  of  curve.  Looking  on  these  fields  when  freshly  ploughed, 
you  would  be  apt  to  think  there  was  no  room  for  a  blade  to  spring,  so 
thickly  are  they  strewn  with  flints,  but  visit  them  a  few  months  later 
and  you  will  see  every  interstice  filled  up  and  the  surface  mantling  with 
green.  The  abundance  of  silex  in  the  soil,  so  essential  to  the  healthy  growth 
of  straw,  renders  ours  of  excellent  substance.  If  the  fields  of  barley  and 
oats  partake  of  the  same  coldness  as  the  wheat,  and  the  silver  of  the  one 
be  less  sheeny,  the  gold  of  the  other  less  mellow  than  elsewhere,  the 
deficiency  of  colour  is  made  up  to  us  by  the  successional  variety  of  other 
crops ;  in  spring  by  breadths  of  crimson  trifolium  and  rose-pink  sainfoin ; 
in  summer  by  the  pied-bean  and  white  pea  blossoms,  the  clear  yellow  of 
mustard  and  luzern,  and  the  deep  green,  sprinkled  with  purple,  of  the  tares; 
in  autumn  by  masses  of  pale-pink  clover,  potato -fields  blossoming  ini 
white  and  purple,  the  shining  leaves  and  ruddy  stalks  of  the  mangold. 
The  sheep,  for  whose  behoof  most  of  these  crops  are  grown,  attest  the 
fatness  of  the  pasture  by  the  quality  of  their  wool,  which  is  highly  prized, 
rather  than  of  their  mutton,  which  is  inferior  to  that  of  the  grass-fed 
Southdowns.  Though  the  hop-gardens  in  some  other  parts  of  Kent  are 
larger  and  more  fruitful  than  ours,  no  situation  is  better  fitted  than  these 


STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK.  59 

hill-slopes  to  array  their  long  avenues  of  golden-green  leaves,  hanging 
flower-clusters,  and  wanton  tendrils.  Every  farmstead  boasts  its  cherry, 
apple,  or  plum  orchard,  and  the  lane  which  connects  it  with  the  high  road 
is  usually  bordered  on  each  side  by  a  row  of  bullace  or  damson  trees.  The 
April  landscape  offers  no  fairer  picture  than  their  wavy  lines  of  milky 
bloom.  Large  tracts  are  devoted  to  the  culture  of  "ground  fruit," 
strawberries,  raspberries,  currants,  and  gooseberries,  which,  with  a  smaller 
supply  of  filberts,  cobnuts,  and  walnuts,  readily  find  their  way  to  the 
London  markets. 

The  soil  of  our  flower-gardens  is  too  rarely  unmixed  to  afford  any 
characteristic  evidences,  unless  it  be  a  tendency  in  the  deeper  shades  of 
colour  to  become  pale  with  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  when  the  chalk 
remains  native,  however,  it  repays  the  labour  of  a  generous  and  skilful 
hand,  and  no  obstacles  present  themselves  to  the  cultivation  of  any  hardy 
tree,  shrub,  or  flower  that  will  grow  in  our  latitude.  The  mean  temper- 
ature, allowing  for  differences  in  altitude  and  exposure,  is  moderate  both 
in  heat  and  cold.  Snow  melts  quickly  except  in  sheltered  spots  on  the 
hills.  The  water  is  too  hard  for  some  tastes,  but  singularly  pure,  as  the 
analytical  reports  of  the  metropolitan  water  companies  invariably  attest. 
The  air  is  fine,  sweet,  and  bracing.  Though  liable,  from  its  neighbour- 
hood to  the  sea,  to  an  occasional  incursion  of  mist  which  enters  through 
its  river  outlet,  the  soil  breeds  no  fogs  of  its  own,  and  a  slight  shifting  of 
the  wind  suffices  to  disperse  the  invader.  Only  after  long-continued  rain 
does  the  ground  become  viscid,  and  is  apt  to  lose  its  moisture  but  too 
quickly. 

Passing  over  its  human  denizens,  whose  blood  has  mingled  too  long 
with  that  of  other  autochthons  to  retain  any  distinctive  elements,  it  would 
be  unpardonable  not  to  say  a  word  of  the  chalkland  fauna.  Like  the 
flora,  its  characteristic  consists  as  much  in  the  rarity  or  absence  of  certain 
species  commonly  found  on  other  soils  as  in  the  variety  and  abundance  of 
those  which  it  nurtures.  The  magpie  and  the  jay,  for  example,  of  which 
the  woods  of  Sussex  and  Surrey  have  only  too  many,  are  seldom  seen  in 
ours.  The  great  woodpecker  sometimes  utters  its  strange  laugh,  but  you 
may  long  listen  in  vain  for  the  little  woodpecker's  "  tapping."  The  red- 
start, another  common  bird  in  Surrey  and  Sussex,  never  or  rarely  visits 
us.  On  the  other  hand,  the  yellow-hammer,  of  which  Surrey  knows  little, 
is  our  familiar  guest.  In  song-birds,  lark,  linnet,  thrush,  blackbird,  robin, 
blackcap,  wren,  and  most  of  the  finches,  we  are  abundantly  rich.  The 
nightingale  and  cuckoo  come  early  and  linger  late.  Nor  are  the  songless- 
birds  less  numerous.  Any  summer's  day  you  may  hear  the  ceaseless 
"  wrangling "  of  the  daw,  the  clamour  of  the  rooks,  whose  voices  are 
only  dissonant  when  single  and  richly  harmonious  in  concert,  the 
cushat's  plaint,  the  ringdove's  lullaby,  the  starling's  fine  whistle,  the 
swallow's  thin  shriek,  the  whin-chat's  fretful  hack,  the  quaint  call-note 
of  the  wry-neck,  or  the  "  human  cry  "  of  the  plover ;  and  any  evening 
the  nightjar's  vibrant  rattle,  or  the  white  owl's  stertorous  breathing. 


60  STUDIES  IN  KENTISH  CHALK. 

A  few  rarer  birds  may  now  and  then  be  seen  by  those  who  know  their 
haunts  ;  the  windhover  hawk  poising  ere  its  swoop,  a  heron  pursuing  his 
leisurely  flight  towards  the  river,  or  a  curlew  sailing  up  from  the  marshes. 
A  pair  of  ravens  not  long  since  built  an  annual  nest  in  one  of  our  parks, 
but  of  late  years  seem  to  have  forsaken  it.  The  birds  and  beasts  of  chase 
and  warren  find  ample  cover  here,  and  breed  as  freely  as  they  are  suffered 
to  do.  Occasionally  an  otter  is  to  be  heard  of  beside  the  stream,  but  is 
ruthlessly  pursued  to  death  for  the  sake  of  the  trout.  No  excuse  but 
ignorance  of  its  habits  can  be  pleaded  for  the  systematic  destruction  of 
the  harmless  hedgehog  which,  though  still  with  us,  will  soon  become  as 
extinct  as  the  badger.  With  true  beasts  of  vermin,  save  those  which 
sportsmen  encourage,  we  are  not  greatly  troubled,  and  from  the  pests  of 
the  reptile  and  insect  worlds  we  enjoy  comparative  immunity.  The 
adder,  the  hornet,  the  stag-beetle,  and  June  bug,  which  abound  on  sandy 
soils,  are  here  scarcely  to  be  met  with.  The  hop-gardens  are  infested 
with  many  peculiar  enemies,  but  find  a  staunch  defender  in  the  ladybird. 
The  worst  foes  of  our  flowers  and  vegetables  are  the  wire- worm  and  the 
snail.  A  white  variety  of  the  latter  attains  immense  size,  and  so  much 
resembles  the  kind  which  the  Southern  French  use  for  soup  as  to  inspire 
a  wish  that  it  were  equally  edible.  Bees  thrive  admirably  on  the  sain- 
foin, clover,  and  other  upland  blossoms,  and  their  honey  fetches  a  high 
price.  Thanks  to  the  wide  extent  of  the  chalk  flora,  the  collector  of 
butterflies  and  moths  finds  constant  occupation.  No  trout-stream  within 
easy  access  of  the  metropolis  is  more  favourably  conditioned  than  that 
which  flows  through  our  principal  valley,  or  seems  to  afford  keener  satis- 
faction to  the  angler.  The  trout-ova  are  said  to  be  in  particular  request 
by  the  leading  professor  of  English  pisciculture.  To  one  who,  like  the 
present  writer,  is  not  a  sportsman,  no  other  attraction  should  be  needed 
than  the  stream  itself.  Now  slow  and  tranquil,  now  swift  and  headstrong 
as  it  draws  near  to  or  falls  from  the  weirs  which  span  its  channel ;  at  one 
moment  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  at  the  next  steeped  in  shadow ;  over- 
hung here  by  alders  and  willows,  there  bordered  by  watercress,  forget- 
me-not,  iris,  and  reed ;  haunted  by  passing  visions  of  kingfisher,  moorhen, 
and  water-rat,  or  stately  processions  of  gliding  swans,  it  ripples  and 
babbles  along  its  winding  course  with  changeful  grace  of  motion  and 
ceaseless  murmur  of  music. 

H.  G.  H. 


61 


€a%l-ztnttk&. 


SOME  months  since  I  ventured  to  lay  before  the  readers  of  the  CORNHILL 
MAGAZINE  certain  reflections  upon  the  Philosophy  of  Drawing-rooms, 
wherein  I  endeavoured,  so  far  as  my  humble  lights  permitted  me,  to 
accommodate  the  transcendental  Platonic  archetype  of  a  rational  drawing- 
room  to  the  practical  necessities  of  a  modern  eight-roomed  cottage.  There- 
upon I  was  immediately  attacked  and  put  to  utter  rout  by  a  lively  writer 
in  one  of  our  weekly  journals.  Into  the  main  facts  of  our  controversy 
("  si  rixa  et  ubi  tu  pulsas,  ego  vapulo  tantum  ")  I  cannot  enter  here. 
Doubtless,  as  in  all  controversies,  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on 
both  sides.  But  there  was  one  little  side  issue  which  set  me  thinking 
seriously.  My  opponent  urged,  amongst  other  objections,  that  a  room 
such  as  that  which  I  described  would  cost  a  few  thousand  pounds  to 
furnish  and  decorate,  instead  of  the  modest  hundred  which  had  formed 
my  original  estimate.  Now,  as  it  happened  that  my  figures  were  founded 
on  personal  experience,  I  felt  naturally  anxious  to  discover  the  origin  of 
this  slight  difference  of  opinion  between  us.  It  soon  appeared  that  my 
critic's  difficulty  really  consisted  in  the  fact  that  his  r61e  was  that  of  an 
artist  and  collector,  while  mine  was  the  humbler  one  of  a  decorative 
upholsterer.  When  I  spoke  of  Venetian  glass,  he  did  not  suppose  I  could 
mean  Dr.  Salviati's  or  the  San  Murano  Company's,  but  firmly  though 
politely  took  his  stand  in  the  Venice  of  the  Doges — the  only  Venice 
whose  artistic  existence  he  could  bring  himself  in  any  way  to  recognise. 
The  pretty  hawthorn  pattern  porcelain  he  only  knew  in  its  priceless  old 
Oriental  form,  and  he  refused  even  to  acknowledge  the  solid  reality,  far 
less  the  beauty  in  shape  and  colour,  of  the  lovely  and  daintily  figured  jar 
which  now  meets  my  eyes  when  I  raise  them  from  the  sheet  of  foolscap  on 
which  I  am  at  this  moment  writing  the  present  paper.  Yet  I  somehow 
cannot  shake  off  my  primitive  belief  that  the  jar  in  question  actually  does- 
exist,  and  is  just  as  exquisite  in  form  and  hue  as  if  it  could  show  a  most 
undoubted  pedigree  from  the  venerable  days  of  the  Ming  dynasty  itself. 
As  to  Vallauris  vases,  those  audacious  attempts  to  debase  the  beautiful 
by  offering  it  to  the  ignoble  vulgar  at  a  moderate  charge  of  one  shilling, 
my  censor  frankly  confessed  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  them. 
^Esthetic  pleasure,  he  remarked  quite  clearly  between  his  lines  (if  I  read 
him  aright),  is  and  ought  always  to  remain  the  special  and  peculiar  pre- 
rogative of  the  class  which  can  afford  to  buy  Italian  great  masters  and 
antique  bric-a-brac  at  unreasonable  prices. 

I  will  candidly  admit  that  I  am  not  careful  to  answer  him  in  this 


62  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

matter.  It  seems  to  me  an  obvious  truism  that  the  beautiful  is  equally 
beautiful  however  much  or  however  little  it  may  cost,  and  that  the  lilies 
of  the  field,  though  every  village  child  may  pluck  them,  are  yet  arrayed 
in  purer  loveliness  than  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  I  was  anxious 
to  show  how  people  of  slender  means  might  make  their  homes  bright  and 
pretty  at  a  small  expense,  not  to  show  how  they  might  pick  up  old  china 
at  fabulously  cheap  prices.  But  the  criticism  raised  some  reflections  in 
my  mind,  chiefly  connected  with  Cimabue  and  coal-scuttles,  which  I 
thought  might  prove  not  wholly  unprofitable  to  the  readers  of  this  maga- 
zine. The  scope  and  the  domain  of  art  are  at  the  present  moment  under- 
going a  revolutionary  widening  under  our  very  eyes,  and  it  is  worth 
while  to  trace  the  previous  history  which  has  made  this  revolution 
possible  or  even  inevitable.  To  put  it  briefly,  we  live  in  an  age  when  the 
aesthetic  interest  is  deserting  Cimabue  and  fixing  itself  upon  coal-scuttles. 

Walking  down  an  unlovely  English  street  in  a  manufacturing  town, 
with  its  crumbling,  flat-fronted,  dirty  brick  cottages,  its  ragged  unkempt 
children  playing  in  the  dusty,  grimy  gutter,  its  slatternly  hard-faced 
women,  its  hulking,  ill-clad  men,  its  thick  atmosphere  of  smoke  and  fog, — 
one  turns  away  in  spirit  to  a  village  of  Central  African  or  Malayan  savages, 
such  as  one  sees  it  in  the  illustrations  to  Dr.  Schweinfurth's  or  Mr.  Wallace's 
books,  with  its  neat,  octagonal  wattled  huts,  its  large-leaved  tropical  plants, 
its  breadth  of  air  and  roominess,  its  people  fantastically  decked  out  with 
bright  blossoms,  red  ochre,  quaintly  tattooed  decorations,  and  necklets  of 
teeth  or  shells,  all  of  which,  however  little  they  may  happen  to  accord 
with  our  own  notions  of  taste,  show  at  least  a  decided  love  of  aesthetic  orna- 
ment on  the  part  of  their  creators.  When  we  contrast  these  two  opposite 
poles  of  human  life,  we  cannot  help  asking  ourselves,  Why  has  the  pro- 
gress of  our  European  civilisation,  such  as  it  is,  killed  out  in  the  mass  of 
our  population  that  native  taste  for  the  beautiful  which  is  so  conspicuous 
in  the  merest  savages  1  How  is  it  that  in  a  country  which  spends  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  upon  Fra  Angelicos  and  Botticellis,  upon  Corots  and 
Millets,  upon  Gainsboroughs  and  Burne  Joneses,  upon  Assyiian  bulls 
and  Egyptian  Pashts,  upon  South  Kensington  Museums  and  Albert 
Memorial  monstrosities,  nine-tenths  of  the  people  should  still  live  per- 
petually in  a  state  of  aesthetic  darkness  and  degradation  far  below  that  of 
the  lowest  existing  savages,  or  even  of  the  wild  black-skinned  hunters  who 
chipped  flints  and  carved  mammoth  ivory  a  hundred  thousand  years  ago 
among  the  pre-glacial  forests  of  the  Somme  and  the  Thames  ?  Is  it  not 
extraordinary  that  side  by  side  with  our  Salons  and  our  Royal  Academies, 
our  Louvres  and  our  Schools  of  Design,  there  should  exist  a  vast  squalid 
mass  of  humanity,  leading  unlovely  lives  in  the  midst  of  ugly  and  shape- 
less accessories  which  would  arouse  the  contempt  of  a  naked  ISTaga  or 
Bushman,  and  more  careless  of  cleanliness  or  personal  adornment  than 
the  fierce-jawed  pre-historic  savages  of  the  palaeolithic  period  1 

I  know  most  readers  will  imagine  at  the  first  blush  that  I  am  rhe- 
torically exaggerating  the  contrast  between  the  aesthetic  barbarian  and 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  63 

our  own  utilitarian  poor.  But  a  little  definite  comparison  will  soon  show 
that  this  language,  strong  as  it  is,  does  no  more  than  represent  the  truth. 
Look,  for  example,  at  the  most  primary  element  in  the  love  for  beauty — I 
mean  personal  adornment.  The  women  and  children  of  the  Seven  Dials 
have  uncombed  and  tangled  hair,  twisted  perhaps  into  a  rude  knot  at  the 
back  of  the  head  with  a  few  rusty  hairpins.  But  the  Fijians  decorate 
themselves  with  the  most  elaborate  and  careful  coiffures,  in  a  variety  of 
styles,  from  the  plain  but  well-combed  frizzy  poll  of  the  men  to  the 
infinite  tiny  plaits  and  curls  of  the  native  belles.  About  the  beauty  to 
European  eyes  of  these  headdresses  we  need  say  nothing.  Some  will  find 
them  becoming,  while  others  will  merely  think  them  bizarre  ;  but  in  any 
case  they  show  at  least  the  pains  which  the  Fijians  take  to  satisfy  their 
own  standard  of  fashion  and  of  aesthetic  taste.  Some  of  the  coiffures 
require  several  days  for  their  arrangement ;  and  when  they  have  been 
successfully  completed,  the  proud  possassor  sleeps  with  his  neck  on  a  sort 
of  notched  wooden  pillow,  his  head  being  quite  unsupported,  so  as  to 
avoid  disarranging  the  lofty  artistic  structure.  In  Tahiti  and  in  the 
Hawaiian  Islands,  again,  flowers  in  the  hair,  in  wreaths,  in  garlands  to 
hang  about  the  body,  and  in  every  other  conceivable  shape,  form  the 
common  ornament  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Every  one  who  has 
read  the  delightful  accounts  of  life  in  the  Archipelagos  of  the  Pacific 
given  by  Miss  Bird,  Mrs.  Brassey,  or  Lord  Pembroke,  must  have  noticed 
the  air  of  refinement  and  aesthetic  culture  thrown  over  the  whole  atmo- 
sphere of  life  amongst  these  half- reclaimed  savages  by  the  constant  presence 
of  crimson  hibiscus,  and  scarlet  poinsettia,  and  purple  bougainvillea  as 
inseparable  adjuncts  of  even  the  most  prosaic  acts.  But  our  own  grown- 
up cottagers  think  an  attention  to  wild  flowers  worthy  only  of  children. 
Tattooing,  once  more,  is  not  a  practice  in  complete  harmony  with  our  old- 
world  notions,  and  "  society  "  in  England  was  convulsed  with  a  nine  days' 
horror  when  a  flying  rumour  reached  it  some  months  since  that  two 
young  royal  personages  had  been  decorated  with  a  broad  arrow  across 
their  faces  after  the  primitive  fashion  of  the  South  Seas  ;  but  very  few 
people  at  home  have  ever  noticed  how  exquisitely  beautiful,  when  viewed 
by  themselves,  are  most  of  the  curved  or  symmetrical  patterns  used  by 
the  Maories  for  decorating  their  cheeks.  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  has  shown 
most  conclusively  that  tattooing  was  originally  adopted,  not  as  an  orna- 
ment, but  as  a  mutilation  or  disfigurement,  marking  subjection  to  a  con- 
quering race ;  and  the  way  in  which  it  has  been  gradually  modified,  so  as 
to  become  at  last  purely  aesthetic  in  purpose,  is  in  itself  a  striking  proof 
of  high  artistic  feeling  amongst  the  people  who  employ  it.  If  we  want 
further  proof  of  such  artistic  feeling  we  have  only  to  look  at  the  exactly 
similar  curves  and  patterns  with  which  the  Maories  so  exquisitely  carve 
their  war  canoes  and  their  paddles,  their  cocoa-nut  drinking-cups,  and 
their  graceful  clubs  or  bdtons,  the  Polynesian  counterparts  of  the  Homeric 
sceptres. 

"We  might  even  go  a  step  further  back,  perhaps,  and  draw  a  natural 


64  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

inference  from  the  respective  personal  appearance  of  the  South  Sea 
Islanders  and  the  East  End  Londoners  themselves.  Mr.  Darwin  believes 
that  the  general  beauty  of  the  English  upper  class,  and  especially  of  the  titled 
aristocracy — a  beauty  which  even  a  hardened  Radical  like  the  present  writer 
must  frankly  admit  that  they  possess  in  an  unusual  degree — is  probably 
due  to  their  constant  selection  of  the  most  beautiful  women  of  all  classes 
(peeresses,  actresses,  or  wealthy  bourgeoisie)  as  wives  through  an  immense 
number  of  generations.  The  regular  features  and  fine  complexions  of  the 
mothers  are  naturally  handed  down  by  heredity  to  their  descendants. 
Similarly  it  would  seem  that  we  must  account  for  the  high  average 
of  personal  beauty  amongst  the  ancient  Greeks  and  the  modern  Italians 
by  the  high  average  of  general  taste,  the  strong  love  for  the  beautiful, 
diffused  amongst  all  classes  in  both  those  races.  The  prettier  women 
and  the  handsomer  men  would  thus  stand  a  better  chance  of  marrying, 
other  things  equal,  and  of  handing  down  their  own  refined  type  of  face  and 
figure  to  their  children.  If  this  be  so — and  evolutionists  at  least  can  hardly 
doubt  it — then  we  should  expect  everywhere  to  find  the  general  level  of  per- 
sonal beauty  highest  where  there  was  the  widest  diffusion  of  aesthetic  taste. 
Now,  our  own  squalid  poor  are  noticeable,  as  a  rule,  for  their  absolute 
and  repulsive  ugliness,  even  when  compared  with  those  of  other  European 
countries.  "  La  laideur,"  says  M.  Taine  with  truth,  in  his  Notes  sur 
PAngleterre,  "  est  plus  laide  que  chez  nous."  Gaunt,  hard-faced  women, 
low-browed,  bull-dog-looking  men,  sickly,  shapeless  children  people  the 
back  slums  of  our  manufacturing  towns.  Their  painful  ugliness  cannot 
all  be  due  to  their  physical  circumstances  alone ;  for  the  lazzaroni  who 
hang  about  the  streets  of  Naples  must  lead  lives  of  about  equal  hardship 
and  discomfort ;  yet  many  of  them,  both  men  and  women,  are  beautiful 
enough  to  sit  as  models  for  a  Lionardo.  On  the  other  hand,  every 
traveller  speaks  in  high  admiration  of  the  beauty  and  gracefulness  dis- 
played by  young  and  old  amongst  the  aesthetic  Polynesians ;  while  in 
many  like  cases  I  note  that  Europeans  who  have  once  become  accustomed 
to  the  local  type  find  decidedly  pretty  faces  extremely  common  in  several 
savage  races  whose  primitive  works  of  art  show  them  in  other  ways  to 
possess  considerable  aesthetic  taste.  In  India,  where  artistic  feeling  is 
universal,  almost  every  man  or  woman  is  handsome.  On  the  whole,  it 
seems  to  me  fairly  proved  that  the  average  personal  beauty  everywhere 
roughly  corresponds  to  the  average  general  love  for  beauty  in  the  abstract. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  at  least  certain  that  most  (if  not  all)  existing 
or  pre-historic  savages  take  and  have  taken  far  more  pains  with  their 
personal  decoration  than  the  vast  mass  of  our  own  poor.  The  people  of 
Bethnal  Green,  of  the  Black  Country,  and  of  the  Glasgow  or  Liverpool 
hovels  wear  clothes  or  rags  for  warmth  alone,  and  apparently  without 
any  care  for  their  appearance,  even  on  Sundays.  But  all  savages  paint 
themselves  red  with  ochre,  and  blue  with  indigo  or  woad ;  they  tattoo 
themselves  with  intricate  patterns,  which  it  takes  days  to  trace  out;  they 
cover  themselves  with  flowers  and  fern  leaves ;  they  gather  ostrich  plumes 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  65 

or  other  feathers  for  their  head-dresses ;  they  weave  girdles,  belts,  and 
necklaces  of  feathers,  cowries,  wampum,  or  seeds ;  they  manufacture  cloth 
with  bright  dyes  and  pretty  patterns  ;  and  they  trade  with  European  or 
Arab  merchants  for  Turkey-red  cotton,  brilliant  Venetian  beads,  and 
scarves  or  sashes  of  pure  and  delicate  colours.  I  have  waded  through, 
whole  reams  of  literature  on  this  subject,  in  print  or  manuscript,  and  I 
find  missionaries  and  travellers  almost  universally,  from  Mr.  Gifford 
Palgrave  in  the  Philippine  Islands  to  Mr.  Whitmee  in  Samoa  (in  oppo- 
sition to  the  general  European  idea),  speak  highly  of  savage  taste  in 
matters  of  dress.  And  when  we  go  back  even  to  the  earliest  wild  men 
of  the  Stone  Age,  we  learn  from  Professor  Boyd  Dawkins  that  they  painted 
themselves  red  with  oxide  of  iron,  that  they  made  themselves  necklets  of 
shells,  bones,  and  fossils,  and  that  they  stitched  together  mantles  of  fur 
or  feathers  with  a  rude  thread  made  from  the  sinews  of  deer. 

If  we  compare  the  savage  hut  and  its  contents  with  the  modern 
workman's  cottage,  the  contrast  becomes  even  more  striking.  Here  our 
judgment  is  not  disturbed  by  those  wide  fluctuations  of  fashion  which 
make  it  difficult  for  us  to  appreciate  the  aesthetic  intent  of  a  tattooed 
New  Zealand  nose  or  a  parti-coloured  Ojibway  forehead.  The  more  a 
man  studies  savage  art,  the  more  is  he  struck  by  the  almost  universal 
good  taste  which  it  displays.  Every  chair,  stool,  or  bench  is  prettily 
shaped  and  neatly  carved.  Every  club,  paddle,  or  staff  is  covered  with 
intricate  tracery  which  puts  to  shame  our  European  handicraft.  Every 
calabash  or  gourd  is  richly  wrought  with  geometrical  patterns  or  conven- 
tionalised floral  and  animal  designs.  The  most  primitive  pottery  is 
graceful  in  form  and  irreproachable  in  its  simple  ornament  of  string- 
courses or  bead-work.  Central  African  bowls  and  drinking-cups  almost 
rival  Etruscan  or  Hellenic  shapes.  Prehistoric  vases  from  the  barrows 
or  lake-dwellings  are  not  less  lovely  than  the  Trojan  or  Mycensean 
models  which  are  now  teaching  our  modem  potters  a  long-forgotten  secret 
of  taste.  Even  the  stone  hatchets  and  arrow-heads  of  the  very  earliest 
age  show  a  decided  striving  after  aesthetic  effect.  And  when  we  remem- 
ber that  these  exquisite  carvings  and  these  polished  jade  implements 
are  produced  with  miserably  inefficient  tools  and  appliances — when  we 
recollect  the  instances  quoted  by  Sir  John  Lubbock  where  whole  years 
are  spent  in  the  perfecting  of  a  single  art-product,  in  grinding  smooth  a 
jasper  hatchet  or  polishing  a  crystal  ear-drop — we  cannot  fail  to  wonder 
at  the  aesthetic  fervour  of  these  unsophisticated  artists.  There  is  posi- 
tively no  object,  however  insignificant,  in  the  ordinary  savage  hut,  on 
which  immense  pains  have  not  been  expended  for  purely  ornamental 
purposes. 

Look,  by  way  of  contrast,  at  our  English  labourer's  cottage.  A  few 
painted  deal  chairs,  a  square  white  table,  an  iron  bedstead,  half  a  dozen 
plain  Delft  cups  and  saucers,  a  little  coarse  table  linen,  and  a  pile  of 
bedclothes — these  constitute  almost  the  whole  furniture  of  nine  out  of 
±en  English  households.  We  must  not  be  led  away  by  thinking  of  a 

TOL.  XLII.— NO.  247.  4. 


66  CIMABUE   AND   COAL-SCUTTLES. 

stray  cottage  or  so  in  the  country,  or  a  few  model  workmen's  houses  in 
the  outskirts  of  our  towns,  where  gay  flowers  and  bits  of  ornamental 
pottery  add  a  touch  of  grace  to  the  little  home.  Such  homes  are  really 
quite  exceptional,  and  by  far  the  larger  number  of  our  people  seem 
wholly  destitute  of  aesthetic  surroundings  in  any  shape.  "We  must  never 
forget  that  the  vast  majority  of  Englishmen  live  and  die  either  in  the 
stifling  dens  of  our  great  towns  or  in  the  cheerless  little  stone-floored 
cottages  of  our  country,  whose  thatched  eaves  look  so  picturesque  without 
and  whose  bare  walls  chill  the  eye  with  their  cold  reception  within. 
Why  is  it  that  civilisation  has  done  so  little  to  raise,  or  rather  so  much 
to  lower,  their  aesthetic  sensibilities  ? 

Two  reasons  must  be  given  in  answer  to  this  question.  The  first  and 
most  obvious  one  has  doubtless  already  occurred  to  every  thinking  person. 
Civilised  life  so  heightens  the  struggle  for  existence  that  the  mass  of  men 
are  compelled  ceaselessly  to  devote  their  whole  labour  to  the  bare  task  of 
earning  their  daily  bread.  In  spite  of  occasional  hardship  and  periodical 
starvation,  the  savage  generally  finds  his  life  admit  of  considerable  leisure, 
which  he  can  employ  in  aesthetic  occupations.  During  the  intervals  of 
hunting,  fishing,  nutting,  planting  maize,  and  gathering  yam  or  bread- 
fruit, he  can  find  time  not  only  for  grinding  stone  weapons  or  weaving 
baskets,  but  also  for  building  artistic  head  dresses,  tattooing  his  chest  and 
arms,  drilling  shells  or  fossils  to  string  as  wampum,  and  staining  his 
roughly- woven  fibres  with  green,  yellow,  blue,  and  scarlet  dyes.  He  can 
lie  on  his  back  in  the  sun  to  carve  his  calabash  or  polish  his  cocoa-nut 
cup.  The  modern  Eskimos,  like  the  cave-men  of  the  Dordogne,  have 
leisure  in  their  snow  huts  for  sketching  spirited  representations  of  their 
hunting  parties,  scratched  on  the  mammoth  tusks  which  they  take  from 
the  frozen  carcases  embedded  in  the  ice  of  the  glacial  period.  But  our 
English  labourers  and  artisans  must  toil  the  live-long  day  to  procure  bare 
food  and  drink,  with  such  minimum  of  clothing  and  furniture  as  the 
habits  of  the  race  imperatively  demand.  What  political  economy,  with 
its  customary  grim  facetiousness,  calls  the  "  standard  of  comfort "  among 
our  lower  classes,  does  not  embrace  more  than  the  scantiest  necessities  of 
warmth  and  sustenance.  It  leaves  no  margin  for  decoration,  either  in 
personal  dress  or  household  furniture ;  far  less  for  distinctive  works  of 
art  such  as  those  which  so  commonly  adorn  even  the  poorest  savage  huts. 
But  the  second  reason,  to  which,  as  it  seems  to  me,  sufficient  import- 
ance has  hardly  ever  been  attributed,  is  this.  The  rapid  growth  of 
civilisation  has  itself  entailed  so  great  an  advance  in  art- workmanship 
that  the  highest  art-products  have  utterly  outgrown  the  means  of  all  but 
the  wealthiest  classes  :  and  the  lower  branches  have  thus  been  left  to  lag 
behind  and  fall  out  of  the  artistic  category  altogether.  We  have  paid 
so  much  attention  to  our  Cimabues  that  we  have  till  quite  lately  utterly 
neglected  our  coal-scuttles.  It  is  not  so  amongst  unsophisticated  savages. 
With  them,  whatever  is  woi-th  making  is  worth  making  well.  Moreover, 
the  difference  between  their  highest  and  their  lowest  handicraft  is  so 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  67 

slight  that  almost  every  article  is  equally  well  made.  But  with  us  it 
would  long  have  been  thought  absurd  to  ask  Mr.  Millais  or  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton  to  turn  from  pourtraying  their  Jersey  Lilies  or  their  Nausicaas 
to  design  our  soup-plates  and  our  Turkey  carpets.  Painting,  sculpture, 
and  architecture  have  thus  outrun  all  our  lesser  arts,  and  have  finally 
brought  about  a  condition  of  things  in  which  till  yesterday  they  alone 
were  thought  worthy  the  serious  attention  of  artists. 

The  growth  of  this  divorce  between  art  and  common  life  is  easy 
enough  to  trace.  In  all  ages,  art  has  specially  devoted  itself  to  royalty 
or  religion — to  the  political  or  the  ecclesiastical  government.  Temples 
and  palaces  are  its  chief  homes.  Whether  we  look  at  Egypt  with  its 
endless  colonnades  of  Karnak  and  its  granite  images  of  Memnon  and 
Sesostris  ;  or  at  Assyria  with  its  winged  bulls  and  its  regal  bas-reliefs  ; 
or  at  Hellas  with  its  Partheuons  and  its  Theseiums  ;  or  at  Rome  with  its 
Colosseum  and  its  Capitol ;  or  at  modern  Europe,  with  its  Louvre  and  its 
Escurial,  its  St.  Peter's  and  its  Lincoln  Minster,  its  Vatican  and  its  Winter 
Palace,  we  see  everywhere  that  kings  and  deities  gather  round  their  dwelling- 
places  all  the  grandest  works  of  the  highest  national  art.  We  may  turn 
again  to  India,  and  there  we  find  the  same  tale  in  the  mosques  and 
mausoleums  of  Agra  and  Delhi,  in  the  exquisite  temples  of  Benares,  in 
the  rock-hewn  caves  of  Elephanta,  in  the  gorgeous  courtyards  of  modern 
Lucknow.  Turn  once  more  to  Mexico,  to  Peru,  to  China,  and  the  same 
fact  everywhere  forces  itself  upon  our  attention.  Amongst  ourselves, 
we  find  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  the  thousand  minor  arts  of 
wood-carving,  mosaic,  jewellery,  intaglio,  fresco,  ivory-work,  metallurgy, 
and  upholstery,  all  pressed  into  the  special  service  of  royalty.  Our 
cathedrals  give  us  the  same  arts  in  addition  to  music,  glass  staining, 
embroidery,  and  fifty  other  decorative  devices.  From  east  to  west, 
from  China  to  Peru,  we  see  every  kind  of  aesthetic  handicraft  lavished 
with  about  equal  hand  upon  the  country's  king  and  the  country's  gods. 

Naturally,  as  the  savage  chief  developed  into  the  barbaric  or  civilised 
monarch,  and  as  the  arts  grew  up  side  by  side  with  this  slow  evolution  of 
the  governmental  agency,  the  highest  artistic  products  were  specially 
prepared  for  royal  use.  In  the  great  Oriental  despotisms,  where  hardly 
any  ranks  existed  between  the  king  and  the  slavish  subject,  the  king 
himself  absorbed  almost  all  the  spare  labour  of  the  community,  and  the 
gods  absorbed  the  rest.  Thus,  even  in  the  barbaric  stage,  the  gap  between 
the  higher  art  which  ministered  to  the  great,  and  the  lower  arts  which 
ministered  to  the  people,  must  have  been  very  great.  But  with  the 
rapid  advance  made  in  mediaeval  and  modern  times,  that  gap  has  become 
immensely  widened.  All  through  the  Middle  Ages,  especially  in  Italy, 
the  higher  art  was  developing  with  extraordinary  rapidity.  From  the 
Renaissance,  however,  we  must  date  the  beginning  of  the  modern  and 
complete  separation  between  the  two  types  of  art,  the  industrial  and  the 
aesthetic.  The  separation  was  consummated  by  the  successors  of  Michel 
Angelo,  and  it  remained  unchallenged  till  a  couple  of  dozen  years  ago. 

4—2 


68  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

The  difference  between  a  Ghirlandajo  or  a  Luca  della  Robbia,  and  an 
ordinary  Florentine  goldsmith,  was  a  mere  question  of  material  and 
purpose ;  the  difference  between  a  Sir  Joshua  and  a  contemporary 
London  jeweller  was  total  and  absolute.  In  the  first  case,  both  were 
artists  of  slightly  varying  merits ;  in  the  second  case,  the  one  was  an 
artist,  and  the  other  a  respectable  tradesman.  It  is  only  within  the 
last  two  or  three  decades  that  the  gulf  has  once  more  begun  to  be  bridged 
over  in  northern  Europe. 

Even  if  other  causes  had  not  interfered,  the  mere  spontaneous 
development  of  the  highest  art  must  necessarily  have  produced  some 
such  separation.  Painting,  for  example,  had  become  so  highly  evolved, 
that  it  required  a  long  special  training  in  drawing  and  colouring,  in 
perspective  and  chiaroscuro,  in  anatomy  and  in  a  dozen  other  connected 
sciences.  The  painter  must  spend  much  time  beforehand  in  acquiring 
his  art,  and  he  must  also  spend  much  time  over  each  particular  canvas 
in  conception  and  composition,  in  copying  the  features  of  his  models  and 
working  out  the  details  of  his  drapery,  in  rendering  a  single  finger  or  a 
refractory  foot  so  as  to  satisfy  the  highly  critical  connoisseurs  who  had 
developed  side  by  side  with  the  developing  technique  of  the  artists.  The 
special  public  which  can  fully  appreciate  fine  paintings  is  only  to  be 
found,  as  a  rule,  amongst  the  wealthy  classes  who  can  afford  to  buy  them. 
Thus  the  front  rank  of  art  naturally  gets  far  ahead  of  all  the  lesser 
ranks,  and  produces  a  race  of  artists  whose  work  is  ridiculously  advanced 
in  comparison  with  the  average  appreciation  of  the  masses. 

But  this  inevitable  tendency  was  much  strengthened  and  accelerated 
at  the  Renaissance  by  two  special  causes.  In  the  first  place,  the  spirit 
of  the  classical  revival  (especially  in  its  later  days)  tended  towards  the 
unduly  exclusive  cultivation  of  the  three  main  visual  arts,  painting, 
sculpture,  and  architecture.  It  tended,  also,  towards  their  cultivation 
in  a  very  cold  and  isolated  form.  The  remains  of  ancient  art  which 
have  come  down  to  us  are  mere  fragments,  and  they  are  fragments 
whose  real  relation  to  their  surroundings  was  much  misunderstood  by 
the  Florentine  revivalists,  and  ridiculously  caricatured  during  the 
eighteenth  century,  when  the  word  "  classical "  became  almost  synony- 
mous with  cold,  colourless,  and  insipid.  The  chief  relics  of  Hellenic  and 
Roman  art  are  pieces  of  sculpture.  Now  Mr.  Pater  has  lately  pointed 
out  in  two  of  his  exquisite  and  subtly- woven  essays  that  Greek  sculpture 
ought  never  to  be  divorced  from  the  many-coloured  background  of  minor 
arts  which  formed  its  native  atmosphere.  We  should  always  see  in 
fancy  the  chryselephantine  Zeus  or  the  tinted  marble  Aphrodite  projected 
upon  a  mental  field  of  mosaic,  of  metal  work,  of  fresco,  of  stained  ivory 
carving,  of  a  thousand  butterfly  hues  which  have  all  disappeared  from 
the  disenhumed  Hellas  of  our  museums.  But  it  was  this  latter  pale  and 
faded  Hellas  alone  that  the  eye  of  Michel  Angelo  saw  in  the  freshly 
recovered  torsos  of  the  Vatican.  The  gold  and  ivory  were  gone,  the 
general  background  of  varied  arts  had  disappeared,  the  gilding  and 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  69 

tinting  on  the  marble  itself  had  been  worn  away  by  time  or  exposure, 
and  only  the  cold  and  weather-stained  stone  remained  as  an  isolated  relic 
of  that  warm  and  many-hued  Hellenic  world,  whose  picture  is  preserved 
for  us  in  the  minute  descriptions  of  Pausanias.  Accordingly,  the 
"  classical "  school  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  the  false 
heirs  of  the  Renaissance,  began  to  restore  the  Greek  ideal  as  they  found 
it  in  its  few  surviving  fragments.  They  had  not  even  the  wall  paintings 
of  Pompeii  by  which  to  correct  the  erroneous  conception  derived  from 
the  torsos.  Thus  they  reduced  all  art  in  the  end  to  something  so  chilly 
and  lifeless  that  the  world  hailed  with  delight  the  so-called  Gothic 
revival  about  the  middle  of  the  present  century,  as  a  grateful  restoration 
of  warmth  and  colour  to  the  dry  bones  of  a  mummified  art. 

The  second  and  still  more  potent  cause  for  the  separation  between, 
artistic  and  industrial  work  was  the  rapid  growth  of  the  manufacturing 
system  in  northern  Europe.  During  the  Middle  Ages,  the  painter,  the 
sculptor,  and  the  wood-carver  were  all  higher  handicraftsmen,  whose 
handicraft  merged  insensibly  into  that  of  the  decorator,  the  joiner,  the 
jeweller,  and  the  potter.  These  lower  trades  still  gave  an  opportunity 
for  the  display  of  individual  taste,  of  artistic  fancy,  of  that  capricious 
quaintness  which  forms,  perhaps,  the  greatest  charm  of  mediaeval 
workmanship.  But  with  the  employment  of  machinery,  the  separation 
became  broad  and  pronounced.  Steam-woven  patterns  and  calico  prints 
have  superseded  the  hand-made  embroidery  and  rich  brocades  of  earlier 
times.  Cheap  moulded  crockery  and  stamped  designs  have  taken  the 
place  of  jars  turned  upon  the  wheel  and  painted  decorations.  Wall 
papers  hang  where  tapestry  hung  before,  and  chintzes  cover  the  chairs 
that  were  once  covered  by  delicate  needlework.  Electro-plate  tea-pots,  ma- 
chine-made jewellery,  and  ungainly  porcelain  vases  replace  the  handicraft 
of  humbler  Cellinis,  unknown  Ghibertis,  or  inglorious  Palissys.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  cause,  industrialism  became  frankly  cheap  and  ugly, 
while  sestheticism  retreated  into  the  lofty  upper  region  of  the  three 
recognised  fine  arts. 

In  proportion  as  the  industrial  system  was  more  or  less  developed  in 
each  European  country  did  the  divorce  become  absolute.  In  Italy  and 
the  south,  where  the  manufacturing  spirit  never  gained  a  firm  footing, 
individual  workmanship  survived  and  still  survives.  Florentine  mosaics, 
Roman  cameos,  Genoese  filigree  work,  Venetian  glass,  are  all  of  them 
relics  of  the  old  artistic  handicraft  which  has  lived  on  unmoved  among 
the  quiet  Italian  towns.  In  France,  more  manufacturing  than  Italy,  but 
less  so  (at  least  during  the  eighteenth  century)  than  England,  we  find  a 
sort  of  intermediate  stage  in  Sevres  porcelain  and  Gobelins  tapestry,  ia 
Louis  Quinze  marquetry  and  Dieppe  ivory- carving.  But  in  England 
the  gap  was  truly  a  great  gulf.  Between  the  Royal  Academy  and  the 
Birmingham  or  Manchester  workshops  there  was  no  common  term.  Most 
of  our  manufactures  were  simply  and  unpretentiously  utilitarian.  They 
had  no  affectation  of  beauty  in  any  way.  Whatever  art-furniture  existed 


70  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

in  the  country — mosaic  tables  or  buhl  cabinets  in  a  few  noble  houses — 
was  brought  from  those  southern  lands  where  industrialism  had  not  yet 
killed  out  the  native  art-faculties  of  the  people.  A  piece  or  two  of 
Chinese  porcelain,  a  stray  bit  of  Indian  carving,  an  Oriental  rug,  or 
embroidered  cushion  here  and  there  carried  the  mind  away  to  Eastern 
countries  where  steam  and  factories  were  yet  wholly  unknown.  But  at 
home  the  stereotyped  iiniformity  of  manufacturing  ugliness  bore  undi- 
vided sway,  and  if  a  solitary  Wedgwood  at  rare  intervals  had  originality 
enough  to  set  up  some  attempt  at  artistic  industrial  work,  his  aspirations 
naturally  cast  themselves  in  the  prevailing  classical  mould. 

From  these  tendencies  two  evil  results  inevitably  flowed.  In  the 
first  place,  art  came  to  be  looked  upon  by  the  mass,  even  of  the  middle 
classes,  as  something  wholly  apart  from  everyday  life.  The  aesthetic 
faculty  was  a  sense  to  be  gratified  by  an  annual  visit  to  the  Academy,  an 
occasional  perambulation  of  the  National  Gallery,  and  perhaps  a  single 
pilgrimage  during  a  lifetime  to  Rome  and  Florence.  For  the  lower 
classes,  art  ceased  to  exist  at  all.  Their  few  sticks  of  furniture,  their 
bits  of  glass  and  crockery,  were  all  turned  out  on  the  strictly  manufac- 
turing pattern,  with  the  least  possible  expenditure  of  time  and  money. 
Only  the  extreme  upper  class,  the  landed  aristocracy  and  very  wealthy 
merchants,  could  afford  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  pictures  and  statues, 
of  Italian  art-furniture  and  Oriental  porcelain. 

The  second  evil  hangs  on  to  the  first.  As  the  only  beautiful  objects 
^wSth  which  the  rich  were  acquainted  (save  in  the  three  great  arts)  were 
-antique  or  foreign  productions,  the  notion  of  rarity  got  inextricably  and 
fatally  mixed  up  with  that  of  beauty,  or  even  began  to  supersede  it. 
The  age  of  virtuosi  set  in.  "  That  is  a  very  pretty  plate,"  you  may  say 
to  a  confirmed  china  maniac,  as  you  look  over  his  collection  ;  and  he  will 
answer  you  unconcernedly,  "  Ah,  yes,  it  is  pretty,  to  be  sure,"  as  if  that 
were  quite  an  accidental  and  secondary  consideration  about  it.  He  is 
surprised  that  you  should  admire  the  pretty  plate,  rather  than  this 
.hideously  ugly  but  very  rare  pipkin,  which  is  one  of  the  costliest  and 
most  vulgar  specimens  of  old  Worcester  now  extant.  This  spirit  in  a 
less  exaggerated  form  is  widely  prevalent  amongst  all  connoisseurs  and 
collectors.  They  want  a  particular  "sang  de  boeuf"  or  old  turquoise 
-blue  Chinese  vase  not  merely  because  it  is  beautiful,  but  also  because  it 
is  old  and  rare.  The  self-same  turquoise  blue  turned  out  by  a  modern 
«Tapanese  or  European  workman  they  will  not  look  at.  Hence  there  has 
arisen,  or  arose  till  very  lately,  a  certain  profound  hopelessness  in  indus- 
trial Europe — a  general  belief  that  the  age  of  art-production  was  past, 
and  that  we  were  fatally  bound  down  to  make  ugly  things  to  all  eternity. 
"  We  can  never  rival  the  past "  was  the  unspoken  thought  of  almost 
every  Western  manufacturer. 

These  considerations  bring  us  back  at  last  to  Cimabue.  I  do  not  wish 
in  any  way  to  underrate  the  importance  of  the  mediaeval  great  masters ; 
but  it  does  seem  to  me  that  under  the  influence  partly  of  the  collecting 


CIMABUE  AND   COAL-SCUTTLES.  71 

spirit  and  partly  of  the  aesthetic  revival,  their  real  value  and  interest 
have  been  overlooked,  while  false  and  exaggerated  claims  have  been  made 
on  their  behalf.  The  true  importance  of  Cimabue,  for  example,  is 
historical  and  evolutionary,  rather  than  strictly  artistic.  He,  like  every 
other  early  great  painter,  like  the  Egyptian,  Assyrian,  and  Etruscan 
sculptors,  forms  a  moment  in  the  development  of  art.  As  illustrating 
that  moment,  as  carrying  on  the  unbroken  succession  between  the  com- 
parative woodenness  of  his  predecessors  and  the  comparative  freedom  of 
Giotto,  he  possesses  the  deepest  interest  for  the  student  of  artistic  evolu- 
tion. He  is,  in  fact,  a  critical  point  in  the  development ;  he  attracts  our 
attention  just  as  the  ascidian  or  the  lepidosiren  attracts  the  attention  of 
the  genealogical  biologist.  Cimabue  painted  eyes  to  look  like  eyes,  while 
his  Byzantine  masters  painted  them  to  look  like  glass  beads ;  he  created 
stiff  human  beings  in  the  place  of  still  stiffer  model  saints ;  he  made  his 
drapery  hang  something  like  real  clothes  instead  of  hanging  like  starched 
buckram.  Giotto  discovered  that  the  sky  was  blue  and  not  gilded,  that 
human  limbs  were  made  of  flesh  and  bone,  not  of  wood,  and  that  men. 
and  women  lived  their  lives  instead  of  acting  perpetual  tableaux  vivants 
in  unnatural  attitudes.  Masaccio  further  found  out  that  you  could 
move  your  body  freely  on  its  joints,  and  need  not  always  hold  it  in  the 
most  angular  of  abstract  positions.  The  great  Renaissance  painters 
finally  introduced  accurate  anatomical  knowledge,  power  of  drawing,  and 
free  individuality  of  conception  and  composition.  It  is  interesting  to 
follow  the  development,  just  as  it  is  interesting  to  watch  Egyptian  art 
touching  on  Assyrian,  and  Assyrian  again  merging  into  Phoenician, 
Syrian,  Ionian,  and  Athenian.  We  like  to  obsei've  Cimabue  as  the 
transitional  term  between  Byzantine  and  early  Italian  painting,  just  as 
we  like  to  know  what  Professor  Sayce  tells  us  of  the  Hittites  as  the 
missing  link  between  Oriental  and  Hellenic  art.  But  too  many  modern 
enthusiasts  are  accustomed  accordingly  to  speak  of  mediaeval  artists  in 
terms  which  would  be  extravagant  if  applied  to  the  most  developed 
aesthetic  works.  They  weary  us  with  over-appreciation  of  Lippi  and 
Perugino  :  they  annoy  us  by  dragging  doubtful  Memmis  out  of  the  dark 
recesses  of  Italian  churches,  and  finding  in  them  a  thousand  admirable 
qualities  which  are  wholly  invisible  to  the  cold  and  matter-of-fact  eye  of 
the  historical  critic.  Yet,  curiously  enough,  it  is  these  very  people  who 
are  generally  least  ready  to  admit  that  there  can  be  any  merit  or  interest 
in  the  still  more  infantile  art  of  Memphis  and  Nineveh.  Let  us  praise 
Giotto  by  all  means  for  his  admirable  colouring,  for  his  emancipated 
grouping,  for  his  comparatively  natural  figures ;  but  do  not  let  us  pre- 
tend that  all  his  tints  are  as  fine  as  Titian's,  that  all  his  legs  and  arms  are 
absolutely  perfect,  or  that  all  his  attitudes  are  really  those  which  human 
beings  actually  adopt  in  their  every-day  existence. 

Now,  the  general  position  brought  about  in  England  by  all  these 
combined  causes  was  something  like  this.  The  poorer  people  had  no  art 
at  all.  The  richer  imagined  art  to  be  mainly  confined  to  painting,  and 


72  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

perhaps  sculpture  :  while  they  confused  a  love  of  beauty  with  a  taste  for 
making  collections.  The  middle  class  could  not  afford  the  only  kind  of 
art  which  it  knew,  and  therefore  contented  itself  with  bad  imitations  in 
the  shape  of  cheap  family  portraits  in  oils  and  similar  monstrosities. 
Look  into  the  Balbi  palace  at  Genoa,  the  big  white  house  nearly  opposite 
the  Annunziata  Church,  and  you  have  a  good  specimen  of  the  Italian  style 
fully  carried  out  in  all  its  details.  Wide  marble  staircases  lead  you  into 
the  great  reception  rooms.  Vandycks,  Guides,  and  Titians  hang  upon 
the  walls.  The  ceilings  are  painted  in  fresco  :  the  floors  inlaid  with 
parti-coloured  marble.  Every  table,  cabinet,  or  chimney-piece  is  a 
triumph  of  decorative  art.  This  is  what  the  rich  man's  house  can  be 
made,  after  its  fashion,  and  a  fine  and  stately  fashion  it  is.  But  all  these 
things  are  impossible  for  the  man  of  moderate  means  in  our  industrial 
England ;  and  having  no  model  of  his  own  on  which  to  adorn  his  house, 
he  takes  the  most  unattainable  of  all  the  rich  man's  luxuries,  the  great 
painting,  as  his  aim,  and  gets  himself  copied  in  oils,  with  a  heavy  gilt 
frame  included,  for  ten  guineas.  All  the  rest  of  his  house  is  on  the 
manufacturing  pattern.  He  covers  his  wall  with  a  tasteless  paper,  and 
his  floor  with  a  tasteless  carpet;  but  he  hangs  the  picture  and  frame 
over  his  dining-room  side-board,  and  thinks  complacently  to  himself  thalt 
he  has  performed  the  whole  duty  of  man  as  a  munificent  patron  of  art. 

For  a  great  many  years  the  British  middle  classes  contentedly 
slumbered  on  in  this  Philistine  repose.  The  Exhibition  of  1851  suddenly 
woke  them  up  with  an  unexpected  start.  They  had  set  on  foot  that 
Exhibition  with  a  decided  idea  that  they  were  about  to  astonish  the  world 
by  displaying  their  cheap  calicos,  their  excellent  steel  blades,  and  their 
patent  revolving  corkscrews,  to  the  admiration  of  all  outsiders.  Well,  ia 
these  things  they  undoubtedly  and  deservedly  carried  away  the  palm 
from  all  competitors,  even  from  their  own  industrial  kinsmen  across  the 
Atlantic.  But  when  they  put  their  own  goods  side  by  side  with  goods 
from  France  and  Italy,  from  Bohemia  and  Spain,  from  India  and  Japan, 
it  began  to  strike  the  Birmingham  and  Manchester  manufacturers  that 
their  native  productions  were  perhaps  just  a  trifle  ugly.  Long  before,  the 
"classical"  school  had  given  way  to  the  "Gothic"  revival,  and  the 
minds  of  the  architects  and  ecclesiastical  decorators  had  been  carried  back 
(partly  through  the  High  Church  reaction)  to  mediaeval  models.  But  the 
Great  Exhibition  was  the  first  hint  received  by  the  mass  of  our  manu- 
facturing classes  of  their  own  shortcomings.  Everybody  knows  the 
history  of  the  aesthetic  movement  which  set  in  from  that  critical  date. 
England  recognised  its  new  need.  Schools  of  art  and  design  began  to 
inundate  London  and  the  provinces.  South  Kensington  Museums, 
needlework  exhibitions,  artistic  potteries,  and  decorative  upholsteries 
sprang  up  on  every  side.  ^Estheticism  became  first  a  fashion,  and  at  last 
almost  a  craze.  In  its  earlier  phases,  the  new  movement  affected  only 
the  upper  classes.  Art-workmanship  was  introduced  into  the  luxuries 
of  the  rich — the  silver  caskets,  the  ornamental  plaques,  the  carved  oaken 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  73 

furniture  of  wealthy  halls.  But  side  by  side  with  the  practice  of  the 
great  manufacturers  went  the  preaching  of  men  like  Mr.  Ruskin  and 
Mr.  Morris.  The  attention  of  truly  artistic  minds  was  being  turned 
aside,  in  part  at  least,  from  Cimabue  and  Lionardo  to  coal-scuttles  and 
arm-chairs.  During  the  last  five  years,  the  movement  has  spread  rapidly 
downwards  through  society.  It  has  passed  beyond  the  aristocracy  and 
the  upper  middle  class,  and  now  it  has  reached  the  stratum  of  the  small 
shopkeepers  and  clerks.  In  the  course  of  time  it  may  perhaps  reach  the- 
labouring  man,  and  brighten  up  his  cheerless,  unlovely  home  with  a  few 
fairer  gleams  of  artistic  beauty.  Already  it  has  sestheticised  our  wall- 
papers and  our  carpets,  our  vases  and  our  tea-trays,  our  curtains  and  our 
chimney-pieces ;  perhaps  it  may  before  long  do  something  to  sestheticise- 
the  poor  man's  chairs  and  tables,  cups  and  saucers,  clothing  and  sur- 
roundings. Those  who  have  lived  in  homes,  first  of  the  old  and  then  of 
the  new  type,  know  with  what  an  unwonted  grace  their  whole  life  has 
been  suddenly  invested  by  a  few  simple  changes  in  its  artistic  environment. 
They  seem  to  live  and  move  in  a  purer  atmosphere ;  all  existence  seems 
sweetly  set  to  a  higher  key. 

Naturally,  when  first  the  manufacturing  interest  awoke  to  its  own 
exceeding  ugliness,  it  began  to  look  about  for  some  model  upon  which 
it  should  improve  its  personal  appearance.  A  great  many  causes  led  it 
in  the  beginning  towards  medievalism.  The  close  connection  between 
the  High  Church  and  the  Gothic  revivals,  the  strong  share  borne  by 
ecclesiastical  art  in  the  new  movement,  coupled  with  the  complete  gap 
in  that  art  between  the  Reformation  and  our  own  time,  inevitably 
brought  about  such  a  tendency.  Already,  even  in  the  higher  arts,  a 
change  of  taste  in  the  same  direction  was  visible.  People  had  given  up 
admiring  Guiclo  and  the  Caracci  in  favour  of  Francia  and  Filippino 
Lippi.  It  was  the  age  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  and  the  church 
restoration  mania.  Pure  medievalism,  well  or  ill  understood,  was  all 
the  rage.  Metal- work  and  wood-carving,  in  what  was  called  Gothic 
styles,  inundated  our  houses.  Sir  Charles  Eastlake  became  the  oracle 
of  domestic  taste.  A  tendency  to  pointed  arches,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  ran  through  all  our  struggling  decorative  art.  The  cathedrals 
were  the  great  existing  monuments  of  mediaeval  workmanship,  and, 
owing  in  part  to  this  fact,  the  whole  mediaeval  revival  took  a  certain 
undefined  ecclesiastical  and  architectural  turn.  The  architects  and  the 
clergy,  indeed,  had  been  its  prime  authors,  and  they  impressed  upon  it 
too  distinctly  their  own  habits  of  thought.  We  sat  down  to  dinner  on 
a  sort  of  carved- oak  bishop's  throne,  and  we  hung  up  our  hats  on  a 
domestic  variety  of  pinnacled  sedilia.  Even  the  coal-scuttles  assumed 
the  air  of  church  furniture.  It  was  a  little  ridiculous,  perhaps,  but  it 
was  a  step  towards  decorative  improvement.  Like  Cimabue  himself,  it 
formed  a  passing  moment  in  our  aesthetic  evolution.  The  bad  in  it  has 
mostly  passed  away,  but  the  good  has  remained  and  will  doubtless 
remain  for  ever. 


74  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

After  the  mediaeval  stage  came  the  Renaissance,  which  did  not 
supersede  the  other,  but,  so  to  speak,  was  superposed  upon  it.  We 
began  to  admire  Henri  Deux  ware  and  to  read  Mr.  Pater's  admirable 
essays.  Moreover,  people  felt  gradually  more  or  less  conscious  that  the 
mediaeval  school  had  gone  a  little  too  far.  The  knobs  on  the  Gothic 
chairs  hurt  their  backs,  and  the  absurdity  of  carved  wooden  arches  sup- 
porting nothing  hurt  their  rational  sensibilities.  So  we  had  next,  in 
due  historical  order,  the  Queen  Anne  school,  of  which  the  Miss  Garrets, 
with  their  pleasant  dogmatic  style  of  "  Thou  shalt  do  this,"  and  "  Thou 
shalt  not  buy  that,"  were  the  chief  prophetesses.  Chippendale  furniture 
replaced  the  pointed  arches  of  the  previous  decade.  The  Queen  Anne 
school  was  a  great  and  solid  improvement,  and  its  work  will  abide  among 
us  for  many  a  long  day.  It  introduced  us  to  many  good  things,  and 
above  all  it  set  to  work  devising  decorations  which  would  accord  with 
the  ordinary  style  of  brick  house  common  among  the  well-to-do  middle 
•classes  of  England.  It  gave  us  pretty  wall-papers,  designed  on  good 
decorative  principles ;  and  gentle  colours,  and  nice  patterns  in  chintz  or 
tapestry,  and  sensible  chairs,  and  comfortable  fire-places,  and  cosy  sofas. 
Under  a  thin  disguise  of  archaism,  it  really  recognised  the  needs  of 
modern  comfort.  Moreover,  it  penetrated  the  serried  phalanx  of  British 
Philistinism,  and  induced  it  to  discover  its  own  hideousness.  All  this 
is  good  and  commendable.  No  doubt,  like  all  other  schools,  the  Queen 
Anne  school  has  too  much  mannerism ;  but  we  shall  learn  in  time  to 
reject  the  mannerism  and  cleave  to  the  spirit.  The  new  red  brick  houses 
-are  apt  to  be  a  little  tedious  and  monotonous  in  their  interior  decorations 
when  one  sees  a  dozen  or  so  of  them  at  a  time  ;  the  hand  of  the  master 
is  everywhere  too  conspicuous ;  but  after  all,  how  infinitely  preferable 
they  are  to  the  old-fashioned  Philistine  houses  with  no  decoration  at  all  ! 

Concurrently  with  the  Queen  Anne  revival  came  the  Japanese 
invasion.  It  was  natural  that  when  we  began  to  look  out  for  decorative 
art  in  cheap  forms  we  should  turn  our  eyes  to  those  Oriental  countries 
where  such  art  has  formed  a  part  of  the  popular  life  for  all  ages.  In 
Japan,  painting  and  sculpture  never  rose  high  enough  to  kill  off  the 
lower  arts ;  machinery  never  destroyed  the  native  taste  and  ingenuity  of 
the  people.  The  Japanese  products  had  exquisite  colour,  curious  quaint- 
ness,  and  a  certain  national  flavour  which  gave  them  some  ethnographical 
interest.  We  were  glad  to  welcome  their  paper  fans  and  umbrellas, 
their  lacquered  fire-screens,  their  papier-mache  trays,  their  bamboo 
whatnots,  their  daintily- coloured  porcelain  and  coarser  pottery  ware. 
At  the  same  time  with  Japan  we  welcomed  China  and  India  as  well. 
"  In  Tiberim  Syrus  defluxit  Orontes  " — the  Ganges  and  the  Hoang-Ho 
overflowed  the  banks  of  Thames.  Benares  metal-work  and  Lucknow 
jars,  Indian  durries  and  Chinese  bronzes,  jostled  one  another  in  half  the 
windows  in  Regent  Street.  Everything  Oriental  became  equally  fashion- 
able. Persian  tiles,  Turkey  carpets,  and  Cashmere  rugs  found  their  way 
into  every  family.  Most  of  these  new  introductions,  again,  are  also 


CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES.  75 

good,  each  after  its  kind.  Above  all,  they  are  for  the  most  part  cheap 
as  well  as  beautiful,  and  they  enable  the  comparatively  poor  to  obtain 
really  pretty  decorations  for  prices  far  lower  than  those  of  almost  any 
similar  European  manufactures. 

The  general  conclusion  which  we  may  draw  from  these  varying 
freaks  of  fashion  is  a  comfortable  one.  The  mass  of  the  well-to-do 
classes  are  in  search  of  an  aesthetic  style  which  will  suit  their  purses. 
A  little  while  ago  we  heard  Mr.  Poynter  asserting  that  Mr.  Ruskin  had 
"  no  feeling  for  the  beautiful  in  art."  That  is  the  sort  of  language  which 
is  common  amongst  the  higher  art-critics.  But  those  who  believe  that 
every  savage  and  every  child  has  a  feeling  for  the  beautiful  in  art,  do 
not  trouble  themselves  about  these  high  questions.  They  look  for  a  simpler 
and  more  comprehensive  kind  of  beauty.  We  are  still  groping  about, 
but  we  are  on  the  right  path.  Cast  upon  our  own  resources,  we  were 
compelled  at  first  to  take  the  best  we  could  get.  Now  we  are  striking 
out  new  lines  for  ourselves.  Day  by  day  the  love  for  beauty  in  small 
surroundings,  for  art  at  home,  is  spreading  downward  into  successively 
lower  strata  of  our  people.  What  we  need  is  that  the  feeling  for  beauty 
as  beauty  should  be  encouraged.  We  must  not  let  ourselves  be  led  away 
by  the  apostles  of  higher  sestheticism  or  the  mere  bric-a-brac  collectors. 
A  pretty  thing  is  pretty  whatever  it  may  cost,  and,  other  things  equal, 
is  all  the  better  for  being  cheap.  From  the  old-curiosity-shop  point  of 
view,  a  piece  of  Venetian  glass  is  valuable  only  because  it  is  old  ;  from 
the  decorative  point  of  view  it  is  valuable  because  it  is  beautiful  and 
•effective,  and  it  will  be  quite  as  beautiful  and  effective  if  it  was  made 
yesterday  as  if  it  was  made  for  Dandolo  himself.  Just  at  present  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  extravagance,  a  good  deal  of  archaeological  puritanism, 
a  good  deal  of  dogmatic  assertion.  But  all  these  are  common  accom- 
paniments of  every  revolution.  In  the  end,  no  doubt,  we  shall  invent 
more  original  types  for  ourselves.  There  will  be  less  of  mediaevalism, 
less  of  Queen  Anne,  less  of  the  Japanesque,  less  even  of  eclecticism,  and 
more  individuality.  Already  one  can  find  dozens  of  homes,  even  among 
comparative  laymen,  where  the  prevailing  style  is  neither  Mr.  Morris's, 
nor  Dr.  Dresser's,  nor  any  other  authority's,  but  the  owner's  own. 
There  are  thousands  of  people  who  feel  that  they  cannot  criticise,  perhaps 
cannot  even  appreciate,  Corot  and  Millet  with  the  intense  fervour  and 
•subtle  penetration  of  Mr.  Comyns  Carr,  but  who  can  nevertheless  enjoy 
the  beauty  of  a  daintily-shaped  and  delicately-coloured  earthenware  vase, 
•or  a  simple  and  decorative  textile  fabric.  They  firmly  believe  in  their 
own  right  to  admire  Doulton  ware,  even  though  they  may  be  profoundly 
ignorant  of  majolica  or  Chelsea.  It  is  worth  while  to  aim  at  supplying 
this  large  class  of  people  with  artistic  products  which  they  can  under- 
stand, and  in  the  midst  of  which  they  can  pass  their  lives.  England  is 
now  essentially  a  limited  democracy,  and  its  art  must  become  more 
democratic  every  day.  Painting  and  sculpture  can  minister  mainly  to 
the  few  alone ;  decorative  art  must  minister  to  the  many.  Nor  is  this 


76  CIMABUE  AND  COAL-SCUTTLES. 

any  degradation  to  its  office,  but  rather  the  contrary.  "  Art,"  says  a 
great  critic,  "  is  never  more  supreme  than  when  it  fashions  from  the 
commonest  materials  objects  of  the  greatest  beauty." 

Professor  Huxley  once  expressed  a  wish  that  a  race  of  palaeontologists 
might  some  day  come  into  existence  who  knew  nothing  of  geology.  So 
one  might  almost  wish  that  a  race  of  decorative  artists  might  come  into 
existence  who  knew  nothing  of  museums  and  connoisseurs.  They  would 
then  set  to  work  to  invent  beautiful  and  effective  decorations  on  rational 
principles,  not  according  to  pre-established  models.  Those  two  turquoise- 
blue  vases  on  the  mantelpiece  are  modern  Chinese,  and  no  one  but  a 
collector  could  tell  them  from  the  ancient  specimens.  They  do  the  work 
they  are  intended  to  do,  that  is  to  say,  they  decorate  the  room.  But  the 
collector  would  despise  them  because  they  have  not  got  the  proper  mark. 
That  piece  of  Worcester  in  the  cabinet  behind  me,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
genuine  and  valuable ;  but  it  is  so  frightfully  ugly  that  it  retains  its 
place  only  out  of  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  the  friend  who  added 
it  to  the  scratch  collection  of  odds  and  ends  in  the  little  cabinet.  A 
museum  is  one  thing,  and  a  dwelling-house  another.  It  has  been  too 
much  the  fashion  amongst  our  most  artistic  classes  to  confuse  the  two. 
Let  us  religiously  preserve  curiosities  by  all  means,  just  as  we  preserve 
Cimabues,  or  tumuli,  or  Egyptian  mummies ;  but  don't  let  us  imagine 
that  because  they  are  curious  or  ancient  they  are  necessarily  decorative. 
Above  all,  don't  let  us  assent  to  the  converse  proposition,  that  because 
pretty  things  are  cheap  and  modern  they  are  necessarily  unworthy  of 
artistic  consideration.  G.  A. 


77 


(taper  aimns. 


A  BLUE-BOOK  has  recently  been  published  under  the  formal  title  of  "  Report 
of  the  Commissioners  appointed  to  inquire  into  Municipal  Corporations 
not  subject  to  the  Municipal  Corporations  Acts  (other  than  the  City 
of  London),  together  with  Minutes  of  Evidence,  &c.  presented  to  both 
Houses  of  Parliament  by  command  of  Her  Majesty."  It  discloses  a 
state  of  things  a  trifle  less  comic  than  the  unreformed  system  of  borough 
representation,  inasmuch  as  there  is  no  corporation  to  be  found  in  any 
place  which  is  totally  uninhabited.  There  are  non-resident  burgesses 
and  non-resident  chief  magistrates ;  and  the  population  in  proportion  to 
the  number  of  municipal  officers  is  sometimes  ludicrously  small,  remind- 
ing us  of  Macpherson's  army  in  Bon  Gualtier,  which  consisted  of  five-and- 
twenty  men  and  five-and-thirty  pipers.  But  still  there  is  nothing  in  the 
system  corresponding  exactly  to  old  Sarum.  The  place  inhabited  by  the 
corporation  may  be  only  a  small  village  :  but  there  is  at  all  events  that. 
We  see  nothing  to  prevent  aldermen  and  jurats,  and  burgesses  and 
capital  burgesses,  from  still  retaining  the  small  revenues  which  they  draw 
from  landed  property,  and  spending  them  where  they  pleased,  when  not 
one  stone  was  left  upon  another  of  the  original  "  borough  town."  Still 
they  have  not  come  to  that  point  yet ;  governing  bodies,  ranging  from 
twelve  to  twenty,  with  half  a  dozen  officers  in  their  employment,  have 
never  less  than  from  a  hundred  and  fifty  to  a  couple  of  hundred  subjects 
whose  affairs  one  would  be  inclined  to  say  that  they  mismanaged,  if 
mismanagement  on  such  a  Lilliputian  scale  can  be  spoken  of  seriously. 

We  suppose  that  scarcely  one  reader  in  a  hundred  will  understand  at 
first  sight  to  what  the  above  paragraph  refers,  or  will  be  prepared  to 
hear  that,  scattered  up  and  down  the  country,  chiefly  in  the  south  and 
west,  lie  from  eighty  to  a  hundred  municipalities  untouched  by  the  Act 
of  1835,  though  of  course  they  have  lost  the  privileges  which  they  enjoyed 
before  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832.  They  are  not  all  of  such  diminutive 
proportions  as  we  have  above  described ;  among  the  eighty -six  reported 
on  by  the  Commissioners  being  eleven  Parliamentary  boroughs,  and 
several  other  towns  of  which  the  population  is  not  under  two  thousand. 
But  the  great  majority  of  them  are  practically  mere  villages,  with  their 
mayors  or  high  bailiffs,  aldermen,  justices,  town  clerks,  mace-bearers, 
port-reeves,  criers,  ale-tasters,  scavengers,  carnals,  and  constables,  many 
of  these  officials  having  neither  any  duties  to  perform  nor  any  salaries 
to  receive.  Let  us  open  the  report  at  random.  We  light  upon  the 
borough  of  Bovey  Tracey  in  Devonshire.  As  is  frequently  the  case,  the 


78  UNEEFORMED  CORPORATIONS. 

borough  and  the  parish  are  not  conterminous,  the  population  of  the  latter 
being  a  thousand,  while  that  of  the  former  is  two  hundred.  Of  these 
about  fifty  are  freeholders,  and  entitled  to  the  privileges  of  the  corpora- 
tion. The  welfare  of  this  little  community  is  cared  for  by  a  bailiff,  a 
port-reeve,  a  crier,  an  ale-taster,  a  scavenger,  and  two  constables.  Its 
income  is  \ll.  a  year,  which  is  spent,  we  are  told,  in  paying  the  land  tax 
and  property  tax,  in  printing  circulars,  in  perambulating  the  borough 
boundaries,  and  an  annual  dinner  in  the  month  of  May,  of  which  all  the 
freeholders  partake.  The  boundary  stones  of  the  borough  are  said  to  be 
from  six  hundred  to  nine  hundred  years  old.  The  corporation  has  no 
seal ;  but  it  has  some  ancient  weights  and  measures  which  are  never  used ; 
and  tradition  preserves  the  memory  of  a  mace.  There  are,  however, 
better  specimens  than  Bovey  Tracey,  because  here  justice  is  administered, 
and  the  public-houses  are  licensed,  by  the  county  magistrates.  But  such 
is  far  from  being  the  case  in  some  other  places,  where  the  corporations 
are  more  strictly  speaking  municipal. 

Fordwich  is  a  village  in  Kent  with  a  population  of  two  hundred  and 
seventy.  The  governing  body  consists  of  a  mayor  and  seven  "  jurats," 
assisted  by  a  town  clerk.  Anybody  can  become  a  freeman  by  the  pay- 
ment of  51.  Ws. ;  as  soon  as  he  is  a  freeman  he  can  become  a  jurat ;  and 
as  soon  as  he  becomes  a  jurat,  he  becomes  a  magistrate.  These  gentle- 
men try  prisoners  in  the  Borough  Court,  who  undergo  their  sentences  in 
Maidstone  or  Canterbury  Gaol.  They  also  license  all  the  public-houses, 
which  are  four  in  number ;  and  the  management  of  charities,  to  the 
amount  of  about  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  is  in  their  hands.  The  rent 
of  a  fishery,  let  to  the  Stour  Fishery  Association,  which,  however,  does 
not  produce  more  than  about  ten  shillings  each,  they  divide  among 
themselves.  Ouenborough,  in  the  same  county,  has  a  population  of  eight 
hundred.  It  is  governed  by  a  mayor,  bailiff,  and  four  jurats.  It  keeps 
a  recorder,  a  treasurer,  a  town  clerk,  a  constable,  and  two  sergeants-at- 
mace,  who  receive  Ml.  a  year.  Axbridge,  in  Somersetshire,  has  a  popu- 
lation of  nine  hundred.  The  corporation  consists  of  a  mayor,  recorder, 
alderman,  eight  capital  burgesses,  and  free  burgesses.  The  mayor,  the 
alderman,  and  the  recorder,  who  never  attends,  are  the  magistrates  who 
try  prisoners  and  license  the  public-houses.  The  present  mayor  is  a 
tanner.  The  alderman  is  a  watchmaker.  There  is,  of  course,  a  town 
clerk ;  and  at  Axbridge  there  is  an  inspector  of  weights  and  measures. 
The  income  of  the  corporation  is  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a 
year.  Camelford,  in  Cornwall,  has  a  population  of  one  thousand.  It  has 
a  mayor,  seven  capital  burgesses,  a  recorder,  a  town  clerk,  and  a  sergeant- 
at-mace.  The  recorder  does  not  act ;  the  corporation  has  nothing  to  do, 
and  the  duty  of  the  sergeant-at-mace  is  to  wait  on  the  corporation.  Dun- 
wich,  in  Suffolk,  has  a  population  of  two  hundred  and  thirty.  The  cor- 
poration— Heaven  save  the  mark — consists  of  two  bailiffs,  fifteen  aldermen, 
twelve  common  councilmen,  and  twenty-three  freemen.  The  bailiffs, 
recorder,  and  two  assistant  justices,  who  are  simply  such  as  have  been 


UNEEFOEMED  COEPOEATIONS.  79 

bailiffs,  are  the  magistrates.  The  recorder  is  not  a  lawyer,  and  the  other 
magistrates  are  farmers.  St.  Clears,  in  Carmarthenshire,  has  a  population 
of  about  a  thousand.  The  corporation  consists  of  three  port-reeves,  & 
recorder,  a  town  clerk,  two  common  attorneys,  a  crier,  and  an  indefinite 
number  of  burgesses.  The  official  members  of  it  appear  to  have  nothing 
to  do. 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  since  1835  a  good  many 
of  these  village  municipalities  have  expired  of  inanition.  Bossiny,  an 
old  borough  town  in  Tintagel,  which  may  possibly  have  been  a  flourish- 
ing community  in  the  days  of  King  Arthur,  finally  gave  up  the  ghost  in 
1871.  The  last  mayor  was  appointed  in  1841,  but,  like  "  the  last  man," 
he  was  surrounded  by  skeletons.  The  burgesses  were  nearly  all  dead, 
and  no  more  were  appointed.  One  only  is  alive  at  the  present  moment, 
besides  the  mayor,  Mr.  Symons,  who  has  possession  of  the  old  regalia  in 
the  shape  of  a  mace  and  a  cup.  He  still  continued  to  receive  some  rents 
till  1849,  since  which  time  the  property  has  been  occupied  by  somebody 
who  pays  nothing  at  all.  The  same  gentleman  had  an  interest  in  the 
Town  Hall ;  and  when  he  was  bought  out  nine  years  ago  by  Lord 
Wharncliffe,  and  the  edifice  pulled  down,  the  last  vestige  of  this  ancient 
corporation  disappeared.  In  1860  the  corporation  of  Plympton  Earle, 
in  Devonshire,  voted  themselves  extinct.  In  1849  the  corporation  of 
Tregony,  in  Cornwall,  was  found  to  have  literally  died  out.  The  cor- 
poration of  Castle  Rising,  which  existed  in  1835,  has  simply  disappeared. 

The  privileges  enjoyed  by  the  members  of  these  petty  local  bodies, 
small  as  they  are,  are  quite  enough  to  give  rise  to  a  plentiful  crop  of 
social  jealousies  and  heartburnings.  There  is  no  want  of  village  Gracchi 
among  those  who  are  outside  of  the  "  populus ; "  and  one  cannot  help 
exclaiming  as  one  reads  what  admirable  materials  are  here  for  a  novel  in 
the  hands  of  George  Eliot  !  One  main  source  of  the  dissatisfaction  which 
the  commissioners  encountered,  though  it  was  by  no  means  universal, 
was  in  the  quality  of  the  persons  who  filled  the  highest  offices  of  State,  and 
frequently  administered  justice.  At  Axbridge,  in  Somersetshire,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  mayor  is  a  tanner,  and  the  alderman  a  watchmaker,  and 
these  are  the  two  magistrates  for  the  borough.  At  "Woodstock  they  lately 
had  an  alderman  who  couldn  ot  spell  his  own  name  or  that  of  the  town. 
At  Harton,  in  Devonshire,  the  port-reeve  is  a  carpenter,  and  his  prede- 
cessor was  a  shoemaker.  At  Higham  Ferrers,  in  Northamptonshire,  com- 
plaint was  made  that  the  aldermen  and  burgesses  were  the  most  ignorant 
and  illiterate  persons  in  the  town.  The  largest  ratepayer  in  the  parish 
had  been  proposed  as  a  member  of  the  corporation,  but  was  beaten  by  a 
blacksmith.  At  Loughor,  in  Glamorganshire,  the  port-reeve  who  sits  as 
a  magistrate  is  sometimes  only  a  journeyman  tradesman,  a  mason  per- 
haps, or  a  plasterer.  At  Malmesbury,  which  is  a  Parliamentary  borough 
with  a  considerable  population,  complaints  on  this  score  were  very  rife. 
The  alderman  of  Malmesbury  sits  as  a  borough  magistrate ;  and  the  pre- 
sent alderman  is  a  working  tailor.  Among  the  burgesses  who  have 


80  UNREFORMED  CORPORATIONS. 

"  passed  the  chair,"  we  find  one  described  as  a  yeoman  who  was  recently 
a  domestic  servant,  another  a  mason,  and  another  a  cabinet  maker.  It 
is  true  that  at  the  sittings  of  the  court  the  deputy  high  steward,  who  is 
a  solicitor,  is  present,  and  that  he  and  the  town  clerk  keep  the  tailor 
pretty  straight.  Still  there  is  the  fact  that  he  sits  in  the  chair,  and 
occasionally,  after  being  duly  primed,  delivers  the  sentence  of  the  court. 
It  is  only  fair,  however,  to  add  in  this  place  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Powell, 
•who  was  member  for  the  borough,  in  favour  of  the  corporation.  "  I 
should  not  say,"  says  he,  "  that  the  townspeople  outside  the  corporation 
were  of  a  more  intelligent  character  than  the  corporation  themselves.  I 
think  that  they  are  a  thoroughly  sound  common  sense  body  of  men  .  .  . 
a,nd  that  their  decisions  would  compare  favourably  with  those  of  any 
bench  of  magistrates  in  the  country."  Mr.  Powell  believed  the  movement 
against  the  corporation  to  be  purely  political.  "  The  alderman  and  cor- 
poration have  always  supported  the  Conservative  party  from  time  imme- 
morial," and  hence  these  misrepresentations  of  them.  Mr.  Tullaway's 
brother — Tullaway  himself  is  the  tailor — who  was  alleged  by  a  witness 
to  be  one  of  the  "  most  besotted  men  in  the  place,"  is  an  assistant  burgess, 
and  has  been  alderman.  "  I  saw  him  yesterday,"  said  the  witness,  who  is 
a  postman,  "  coming  from  one  of  the  beerhouses  near  my  stable  in  com- 
pany with  a  man  who  is  one  of  the  most  besotted  men  in  our  town,  and 
likewise  an  assistant  burgess  and  brother  to  the  present  alderman.  In 
the  evening  when  I  was  coming  round  from  the  post-office  to  my  house, 
this  fellow,  whose  name  is  Tullaway,  and  is  brother  to  the  alderman,  was 
standing  near  the  market  cross  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  and  he  said, 
•*  Halloo,  old  fellow,  are  you  going  up  to  London  1 '  I  said,  '  I  am,  and 
I  hope  you  will  be  happy  ; '  and  he  said,  '  I  hope  you  will ;'  that  was  last 
•evening.  I  suppose  they  found  out  that  I  was  coming  up  here,  and  I  had 
roused  the  ire  of  this  immaculate  corporation,  I  expect,  a  little." 

Does  not  this  little  bit  bring  the  whole  state  of  party  feeling  in  the 
good  old  town  vividly  before  us  ?  There  is  the  worthy  burgess  a  laudator 
temporis  acti,  and  a  scoffer  at  the  new  ideas  which  proscribe  cakes  and 
ale,  thinking  little  of  education,  and  able  perhaps  to  "  buy  up  many  of 
them  as  has  it "  sauntering  along  the  streets  in  company  with  a  mellow 
friend,  and  conversing  very  probably  on  these  pestilent  disturbers  of  the 
peace,  who  were  for  doing  away  with  all  the  comfortable  old  customs  and 
venerable  institutions  of  the  place  out  of  mere  envy,  jealousy,  and 
naughtiness  of  heart.  On  the  other  hand  is  the  ardent  reformer,  in  the 
pei-son  of  the  local  postman,  who,  although  a  commoner,  never  expects 
to  be  a  burgess,  that  being  an  honour  which  he  does  not  covet,  perhaps 
because  the  grapes  are  sour,  determined,  however,  if  he  can,  to  pull  down 
the  house  about  the  ears  of  the  exclusives,  and  to  exhibit  himself  before 
3,  London  audience  in  the  character  of  a  superior  person,  deeply  shocked 
by  the  misgovernment  of  his  native  town,  and  the  gross  habits  and  low 
birth  of  the  official  class.  It  is  a  beautiful  picture.  But  it  requires 
the  hand  which  drew  the  people  of  Mil  by  to  do  adequate  justice  to  it. 


UNBEFOEMED  COKPORATIONS.  81 

The  actual  advantages  of  belonging  to  one  of  these  corporations,  or 
being  one  of  its  officers,  may  be  easily  summed  up.     They  have  the 
management  of  the  corporate  property,  the  licensing  of  public-houses, 
and  the  privilege  of  spending  certain  sums  of  money  on  corporation 
dinners,  or  of  dividing  it  among  themselves.    Where  they  exercise  magis- 
terial jurisdiction,  they  may  perhaps  have  the  power  of  screening  a 
friend,  or  paying  off  a  grudge  against  an  enemy,  though  it  is  but  fair  to 
say  that  few   such  charges   have   been  brought  against  them.      The 
management  of  their  small  properties,  as  it  is  on  the  whole  the  most 
important,  so  it  seems  to  be  that  one  of  their  functions  which  has  given 
rise  to  the  greatest  discontent.     Their  revenues  are  derived  from  the 
rents  of  land  and  buildings,  investments,  dues,  tolls,  and  fees  on  the 
admission  of  officers  and  burgesses.     And  as  might  have  been  expected, 
it  is  a  custom  in  a  great  many  of  these  boroughs  to  let  the  property  to 
members  of  the  corporation  at  an  absurdly  low  rate.      Land  worth  a 
pound  an  acre  will  be  let  to  burgesses  on  leases  renewable  for  ever  at  five 
or  six  shillings.     At  one  place,  Kidwelly,  land  worth  fifty  shillings  an 
acre  is  let  in  this  way  at  half-a-crown.     At  St.  Clears,  which  we  have 
already  mentioned,  property  worth  from  two  to  three  hundred  pounds  a 
year  brings  in  sixty-one.   In  fact,  favouritism  and  jobbery  of  every  descrip- 
tion appear  to  be  rampant ;  and  what  adds  to  the  discontent  of  the  out- 
side public  is  that  the  corporation  accounts  are  not  published.      They 
may  be  seen  on  application,  it  is  true ;   but  that  is  not  enough.     The 
malcontents  think  that  they  ought  to  be  furnished  with  a  copy.     They 
want  to  know  "  what  becomes  o'  the  money  ? "     And  they  think,  not 
unnaturally,  that  the  town  might  derive  more  benefit  than  it  does  from 
what  is,  after  all,  public  property.     Old  Mr.  Thomas  Tonbridge,  of  New 
Romney,  gave  evidence  to  this  effect,  which  is  very  good  reading.     "  He 
never  had  no  schooling  in  his  young  days."     He  has  picked  it  all  up 
since,  and  something  besides,  we  should  infer  from  the  information  he 
vouchsafed  to  the  commissioners.    They  have  land  let  out  "  among  them- 
selves" for  793/.  a  year,  for  which  he  would  have  given  them  1,000£. 
a  year,  and  the  first  year's  rent  in  advance.     He  was  ready  to  have  sat 
down  and  written  the  cheque  off-hand.     Like  the  northern  farmer,  he 
has  so  many  acres  of  the  Duke's,  and  "  land  of  his  own  besides ;  "  and 
what  is  specially  to  the  purpose,  "his  sheepskins  are  all  at  home." 
This  communicative  old  gentleman  objects  to  things  being  done  "  secret 
and  sly  like."     He  wants  to  see  "  everything  open  and  above-board  ;  " 
for  where  folks  don't  understand  what  is  being  done  they  are  sure  to 
fancy  there  is  something  wrong,  even  though  there  may  be  nothing.     To 
much  the  same  purpose  is  the  evidence  of  a  leather  merchant  and  a 
currier  from  the  little  town  of  Higham  Ferrers.     The  former  gentleman, 
like  the  Malmesbury  postman,  had  also  been  defeated  by  the  village 
blacksmith  in  a  struggle  for  admission  to  the  government,  and  he  was 
proportionably  bitter  in  consequence.     .There  seems  quite  a  run  upon 
blacksmiths  in  unreformed  corporations.     The  administration  of  justice 
VOL.  XLII. — NO.  247.  5. 


82  UNEEFOEMED  COEPOEATIONS. 

by  the  curious  class  of  archons  whom  this  report  exhibits  to  us,  does 
not  seem,  as  a  rule,  to  have  given  rise  to  much  complaint ;  and  where  it 
has  done  so,  the  complaint  itself  has  not  seldom  been  as  stupid  as  the 
worst  of  them.  Some  amusing  cases,  however,  are  furnished  by  Ford- 
wich,  Malmesbury,  Seaford,  and  Higham  Ferrers.  In  Fordwich  it 
appears  that  Colonel  Cox,  who  is  said  to  be  "  an  irritable  gentleman," 
locked  up  another  gentleman,  with  whom  he  was  unfortunate  enough 
to  quarrel,  in  the  town  gaol.  "  He  took  him  bodily,  and  locked  him  up 
for  the  night."  In  Malmesbury  there  was  a  story  which  admirably 
illustrates  the  proneness  to  suspicion  so  characteristic  of  a  certain  class  of 
society.  "  There  was  a  young  man,"  said  one  witness,  "  apprehended 
some  time  last  year,  in  the  month  of  March,  and  Mr.  Weekes  was  then 
alderman.  The  young  man  was  given  into  custody,  I  think,  by  his 
own  father,  because  he  had  obtained  goods  under  alleged  false  pretences 
from  a  jeweller  in  our  town,  Mr.  Barnard,  and  Mr.  Barnard  applied  for 
the  goods,  and  his  father  waxed  wrath  upon  the  subject,  and  sent  for  a 
policeman  and  gave  his  son  into  custody.  He  was  taken  to  the  station- 
house,  and  this  Mr.  Weekes,  our  late  alderman,  sent  to  the  station- 
house  the  next  morning,  and  released  the  prisoner  from  the  station, 
and  this  has  been  the  cause  of  great  discontent  in  our  borough.  Folks 
talk  a  good  deal  about  it."  It  turned  out  on  inquiry  that  nothing  irre- 
gular had  been  done.  But  the  same  witness,  when  asked  by  one  of  the 
commissioners  if  there  was  any  relationship  between  the  alderman  and 
the  young  man,  replied  :  "  He  was  connected  so  far,  as  the  alderman  and 
father  were  both  members  of  the  same  community  or  chapel.  The  young 
man  was  the  son  of  respectable  parents,  but  the  lower  classes  say  that 
they  do  not  consider  justice  was  administered  impartially,  and  that  if  it 
had  been  one  of  them  they  would  have  been  brought  before  a  magis- 
trate and  committed  for  trial."  The  patriotic  postman,  for  the  witness 
was  no  other  than  an  old  acquaintance,  had  probably  never  heard  of  Mr. 
Pell  and  the  late  Lord  Chancellor,  but  the  lower  classes  in  Malmesbury 
were  evidently  of  the  same  opinion  as  the  elder  Mr.  Weller  in  regard  to 
the  impunity  of  aristocratic  offenders.  "  Parliament  ought  to  ha'  took  it 
up,"  said  that  venerable  man,  when  he  heard  that  the  Keeper  of  the 
Royal  Conscience  had  been  guilty  of  profane  swearing ;  "  and  if  he'd 
been  a  poor  man  they'd  ha'  done  it."  The  alderman  of  Malmesbury  had 
not  the  same  excuse  as  the  noble  and  learned  lord  who  was  so  much 
attached  to  Mr.  Pell.  But  the  suspicions  of  the  Commons  were  totally 
without  foundation,  as  no  charge  at  all  was  ever  brought  against  the 
young  man,  who  had  been  locked  up  when  he  was  drunk  for  threatening 
his  father  with  violence.  No  one  in  the  morning  appeared  to  prosecute, 
and  the  prisoner  was  necessarily  discharged.  But  the  Commons  only 
shook  their  heads,  and  no  doubt  continue  to  believe  to  this  day  that  the 
liberation  of  this  young  man  was  a  gross  piece  of  favouritism,  and  a 
daring  contempt  of  the  law.  On  this  occasion  the  two  offenders  were 
Moravians,  or  "  United  Brethren,"  The  witness  added,  for  the  infor- 


UNEEFOEMED  COEPOEATIONS.  83 

mation  of  the  commissioners,  that  his  son  Samuel  was  once  "  unfor- 
tunately assaulted,"  and  that,  owing  to  the  corruption  of  the  bench,  the 
offender  was  most  inadequately  punished.  Moreover,  there  was  great 
disorder  in  court.  When  the  prosecutor's  witness  appeared  to  be  sworn, 
he  was  greeted  with  loud  cries  of  "  Thee  must  not."  And  as  the  prose- 
cutor himself  was  leaving  the  court,  he  was  subjected  to  the  indignity  of 
having  a  man's  fist  thrust  in  his  face.  At  Seaford  the  magistrates  were 
accused  of  being  drunk  upon  the  bench.  And  at  Higham  Ferrers  a  sad 
failure  of  justice  was  narrated  by  the  currier  who  had  been  defeated  by 
the  blacksmith.  "  A  member  of  the  corporation  had  a  rent-audit  held  at 
his  house.  There  were  the  late  mayor  and  several  other  members  of  the 
corporation  at  his  house  until  early  in  the  morning.  They  went  into 
the  servants'  room  while  the  servants  were  in  bed,  and  ordered  them 
to  get  out  of  bed  and  dress  themselves.  One  man  insisted  upon  remain- 
ing in  the  room  while  the  two  female  servants  were  dressing  themselves. 
One  of  the  servants  left,  and  a  friend  of  hers  went  to  the  deputy- 
recorder  and  asked  for  a  summons,  but  he  refused  to  grant  one." 

Being  asked  by  Mr.  John  Karslake  what  offence  was  charged,  the  wit- 
ness said  he  did  not  know.  But  "  people  thought  there  ought  to  be 
something."  The  complainant  "  wanted  a  summons  against  A.  B.  for 
staying  in  the  room  and  refusing  to  go  out  while  the  servant  was  dress- 
ing." They  were  told  that  the  magistrates  did  not  know  what  offence 
had  been  committed,  and  that  they  could  not  grant  a  summons.  But 
the  people  "  thought  they  ought  to  have  justice."  This  modern  Appius 
Claudius  appears  to  have  got  off  too  easily,  but  it  is  difficult  to  see  what 
else  the  magistrates  could  have  done.  The  Commissioner,  at  all  events, 
did  not  think  the  charge  against  them  proved. 

As  might  have  been  anticipated,  a  good  deal  of  eating  and  drinking 
figures  in  the  corporation  expenses.  The  entire  revenues  of  Bovey 
Tracey  are  171.  per  annum ;  and  the  expenditure  for  one  year  was 
10s.  lid.  land  tax,  3s.  6d.  for  printing, and  151.  3s.  for  "dinners,  brandy, 
and  punch."  Some  evil-disposed  persons  have  suggested  that  the  money 
might  be  better  laid  out  in  improving  the  water  supply,  or  in  promoting 
the  interests  of  education.  A  Mr.  Mugford,  we  are  told,  has  been 
"  rather  noisy  "  on  the  subject.  But  as  this  gentleman  is  accustomed  to 
bring  forward  his  proposals  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  at  which  times  he 
curses  and  swears  a  good  deal,  and  "  wants  to  fight,"  it  is  perhaps  not 
surprising  that  his  efforts  have  as  yet  been  unsuccessful.  The  ex-mayor, 
it  is  said  (Mr.  J.  Hurrell),  has  spared  neither  time  nor  money  in  the 
sacred  cause  of  dining.  If  people  want  water  or  learning,  he  argues, 
let  them  go  the  rates,  and  not  rob  a  poor  man  of  his  beer,  which  was 
granted  to  him  many  hundred  years  ago  by  the  king,  God  bless  him  ! 

At  Axbridge  they  only  dine  occasionally,  but  the  burgesses  or  free- 
men have  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  slice  of  seed  cake  on  the  election  of 
the  mayor.  It  is  at  Malmesbury,  however,  that  perhaps  the  funniest 
institution  of  all  is  to  be  found.  This  is  the  "  seeking  feast  "  or  enter- 

6—2 


84  UNKEFORMED  COBPOKATIONS. 

tainment  given  by  the  landholder  who  seeks  to  be  an  assistant  burgess^ 
or  the  assistant  burgess  who  desires  to  be  a  capital  burgess.     The  ac- 
count of  this  custom,  as  given  by  numerous  witnesses,  is  not  very  clear 
on  some  points,  for  it  still   leaves  us  in  doubt  as  to  what  is  the  motive 
power  by  which  the  feast  is  set  agoing.     An  aspirant  for  municipal 
honours  must  first,  we  suppose,  let  it  be  generally  known  to  the  twenty- 
four  assistant  burgesses  that  he  is  anxious  to  be  enrolled  among  them. 
But  the  second  stage  of  the   transaction   is  involved   in   considerable 
obscurity,  no  one  of  the  witnesses  being  competent  to  explain  with  cer- 
tainty the  etiquette  which  governs  it.     That  the  candidate  says  openly 
to  the  burgess,  "  Agree  to  elect  me  at  the  next  vacancy,  and  I  will  then 
give  you  a  seeking  feast,"  was  denied  almost  with  indignation.     This 
was  far  too  coarse  a  way  of  putting  the  arrangement.     That  the  bur- 
gesses, on  the  other  hand,  say  to  the  candidate  that  they  will  have  him 
if  he  gives  them  this  feast  is  likewise  repudiated  as  an  erroneous  version 
of  the  business.     We  suppose  there  is  a  tacit  understanding,  the  opera- 
tion of  which  none  but  those  born  to  it  can  hope  to  comprehend.     It  is 
certain  that  both  the  seeking  feast  and  the  return  feast  are  considered  to 
be  essential  parts  of  the  election ;  and  that  is  all  which  it  is  necessary  to 
know.     The  seeking-feast  appears  to  be  a  rough-and-ready  business ;  the 
seeker  and  his  friends  meeting  at  a  public-house  in  the  evening,  when 
the  entertainment  consists  of  beer,  grog,  and  tobacco,  with  bread  and 
cheese  for  those  who  like  it.     After  the  election,  however,  a  more  sump- 
tuous banquet  is  provided,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  at  a  cost  of  six  or 
seven  pounds ;  a  regular  dinner,  in  fact.     In  simpler  times  the  piece  de 
resistance  was  a  ham.     With  the  march  of  luxury,  however,  the  muni- 
cipal palate  has  grown  daintier,  and  the  seeker  who  has  found  is  now 
expected  to  provide  a  sirloin.     There  is  plenty  of  drinking  on  these 
occasions,  and  formerly  a  plentiful  supply  of  intoxicated  burgesses  might 
be  seen  about  the  streets  in  the  afternoon.     Matters,  however,  are  said 
to  have  mended  a  little,  and  we  are  now  told  euphemistically  that  "  they 
have  a  glass  or  two  of  wine,"  that  they  "  get  merry,  and  like  that,  but 
nothing  but  what  they  know  what  is  going  on."     The  burgesses  do  not 
now  "  wallow  "  about  the  streets.     The  idea,  however,  of  giving  a  seek- 
ing feast  with  tea,  is  still  regarded  with  contempt,  partly  as  a  disagree- 
able thing  in  itself,  partly  as  a  radical  innovation,  deserving  the  scorn  of 
all    well-regulated  minds.      A  teetotal  candidate  sent  his  wife  to  the 
assistant  burgesses  to  know  whether  tea  could  be  recognised  as  a  legiti- 
mate beverage.  "  No,"  answered  these  noble-minded  men  ;  "  we  will  not 
alter  the  old  custom."     They  would  stand  upon  the  ancient  ways,  and  if 
they  stumbled  on  them,  too,  sometimes,  it  was  all  in  the  spirit  of  reve- 
rence.    If,  however,  the  seeker  chose  to  drink  tea  himself,  while  the 
others  drank  better  stuff,  he  was  at  liberty  to  do  so.     The  feast  given  by 
a  newly-elected  capital  burgess  to  his  brother  capitals  is  a  still  grander 
affair,  and  costs  a  pound  a  head. 

At  Woodstock,  a  witness  complained  that  the  only  way  of  getting 
into  the  corporation  was  "  to  go  to  the  public-house  every  night,  and  be 


UNKEFOKMED  COEPOEATIONS.  85 

jolly,  and  so  on,  and  do  as  they  do,"  and  that  for  a  person  of  a  different 
character  (like  the  witness),  who  refrained  from  all  evil  company,  such 
honour  was  unattainable.  Woodstock,  however,  is  not  the  only  place, 
nor  are  unreformed  corporations  the  only  bodies  of  men  who  are  guided 
by  similar  considerations.  Sinners  will  never  love  saints  to  the  end  of 
time ;  besides  which,  an  ascetic  alderman  is  a  contradiction  in  terms,  an 
unnatural  combination  of  ideas  tolerable  only  to  a  morbid  fancy  or  a 
dyspeptic  constitution. 

Politics,  it  is  needless  to  say,  run  high  in  these  little  communities ; 
the  ins  being  mostly  blue,  and  the  outs  principally  yellow.  These 
divisions  are  especially  noticeable  in  the  little  town  of  Woodstock,  from 
the  history  of  which  we  glean  the  interesting  psychological  fact  that  all 
glove  makers  are  Liberals.  Question  10,479  : 

Can  you  at  all  account  for  the  glove  manufacturers  being  excluded  as  a  body? — 
I  think  that  it  is  on  account  of  their  being  all  Liberals  in  politics  ;  I  do  not  know 
any  glove  manufacturer  but  who  is  Liberal  in  politics.  That  is  how  you  account  for 
it? — I  do  not  know  whether  that  is  the  reason  or  not;  I  only  know  that  they  are 
Liberals,  and  are  left  out.  I  know  that  they  are  very  much  annoyed  at  being  left 
out.  I  have  had  conversation  with  all  of  them. 

It  seems,  then,  that  the  glove  maker  is  true  to  his  principles,  and  is 
not  to  be  bribed  even  by  the  prospect  of  promotion,  such  as,  according  to 
one  witness,  "  any  inhabitant  of  the  place  would  deem  an  honour."  But 
we  still  have  to  inquire  what  is  the  necessary  connection  between  glove 
making  and  Liberalism.  As  gloves  are  chiefly  worn  by  the  well-to-do 
classes,  one  would  have  thought  that  the  trade  would  be  on  the  side  of 
property.  The  glove,  too,  has  its  feudal  associations,  and  the  political 
creed  of  the  modern  glove  maker  may  possibly  be  an  example  of  reac- 
tion. Any  way,  the  fact  is  curious,  and  deserves  the  consideration  of 
philosophers. 

The  whole  Report  is  very  interesting,  carrying  us  back,  as  it  does, 
for  so  many  centuries,  to  the  time  when  these  dwindling  villages  were 
flourishing  commercial  towns,  newly  chartered  by  some  Saxon  or  Norman 
sovereign,  and  forming  the  germs  from  which  has  sprung  the  great 
English  middle-class.  Sometimes,  however,  great  privileges  have  been 
conferred  by  the  neighbouring  Barons,  traces  of  which  are  still  visible 
in  surviving  manorial  rights.  In  some  small  towns  the  mayoralty  is 
hereditary  in  the  lord's  family.  But,  interesting  as  many  of  these  insti- 
tutions may  be  in  the  light  of  relics,  they  present  few  other  attractions, 
and  seem  to  serve  no  other  useful  purpose.  Some  of  them  survive  in 
towns  of  some  considerable  importance,  and  might  with  propriety  be 
placed  under  the  Municipal  Corporation  Act.  In  the  case  of  the 
majority,  the  funds,  we  suppose,  will  some  day  be  vested  in  the  Charity 
Commissioners,  or  handed  over  to  School  Boards  for  the  benefit  of  the 
whole  population ;  or  should  the  new  municipal  government  of  which 
we  hear  so  much  be  extended  to  the  counties,  it  is  possible  that  the 
revenues  of  Tregony,  and  Bossiny,  and  Dunwich  might  be  turned  to 
uses  more  nearly  corresponding  to  their  original  ones, 


86 


in  a: 


No.  XXII.— STERNE. 

"  LOVE  me,  love  my  book  "  is  a  version  of  a  familiar  proverb  which 
one  might  be  slow  to  accept.     There  are,  as  one  need  hardly  say,  many 
admirable  persons  for  whose  sake  one  would  gladly  make  any  sacrifice 
of  personal  comfort  short  of  that  implied  in  a  study  of  their  works.     But 
the  converse  of  the  statement  is  more  nearly  true.     I  confess  that  I  at 
any  rate  love  a  book  pretty  much  in  proportion  as  it  makes  me  love  the 
author.     I  do  not  of  course  speak  of  histories  or  metaphysical  treatises 
which  one  reads  for  the  sake  of  the  information  or  of  the  logical  teaching ; 
but  of  the  imaginative  books  which  appeal  in  the  last  resort  to  the  sympathy 
between  the  writer  and  the  reader.     It  matters  not  whether  you  are 
brought  into  contact  with  a  man  by  seeing  or  hearing,  by  the  printed  or 
spoken  word — the  ultimate  source  of  pleasure  is  the  personal  affinity.  To 
read  a  book  in  the  true  sense — to  read  it,  that  is,  not  as  a  critic  but 
in  the  spirit  of  enjoyment — is  to  lay  aside  for  the  moment  one's  own 
personality,  and  to  become  a  part  of  the  author.    It  is  to  enter  the  world 
in  which  he  habitually  lives — for  each  of  us  lives  in  a  separate  world  of 
his  own — to  breathe  his  air,  and  therefore  to  receive  pleasure  and  pain 
according  as  the  atmosphere  is  or  is  not  congenial.     I  may  by  an  intel- 
lectual effort  perceive  the  greatness  of  a  writer  whose  character  is  essen- 
tially antagonistic  to  my  own ;  but  I  cannot  feel  it  as  it  must  be  felt  for 
genuine  enjoyment.     The  qualification  must,  of  course,  be  understood 
that  a  great  book  really  expresses  the  most  refined  essence  of  the  writer's 
character.     It  gives  the  author  transfigured,  and  does  not  represent  all 
the  stains  and  distortions  which  he  may  have  received  in  his  progress 
through  the  world.   In  real  life  we  might  have  been  repelled  by  Milton's 
stern  Puritanism,  or  by  some  outbreak  of  rather  testy  self-assertion. 
In  reading  Paradise  Lost,  we  feel  only  the  loftiness  of  character,  and 
are  raised  and  inspirited  by  sentiments,  without  pausing  to  consider  the 
particular  application. 

If  this  be  true  in  some  degree  of  all  imaginative  writers,  it  is  espe- 
cially true  of  humourists.  For  humour  is  essentially  the  expression  of  a 
personal  idiosyncrasy,  and  a  man  is  a  humorist  just  because  the  tragic 
and  the  comic  elements  of  life  present  themselves  to  his  mind  in  new 
and  unexpected  combinations.  The  objects  of  other  men's  reverence 
strike  him  from  the  ludicrous  point  of  view,  and  he  sees  something  attrac- 
tive in  the  things  which  they  affect  to  despise.  It  is  his  function  to  strip 
off  the  commonplaces  by  which  we  have  tacitly  agreed  to  cover  over  our 


STERNE.  87 

doubts  and  misgivings,  and  to  explode  empty  pretences  by  the  touch  of  a 
vigorous  originality ;  and  therefore  it  is  that  the  great  mass  of  mankind 
are  apt  to  look  upon  humour  of  the  stronger  flavour  with  suspicion.  They 
suspect  the  humorist — not  without  reason — of  laughing  at  their  beards. 
There  is  no  saying  where  he  may  not  explode  next.  They  can  enjoy 
the  mere  buffoonery  which  comes  from  high  spirits  combined  with  thought- 
lessness. And  they  can  fairly  appreciate  the  gentle  humour  of  Addison 
or  Goldsmith,  or  Charles  Lamb,  where  the  kindliness  of  the  intention 
is  so  obvious  that  the  irony  is  felt  to  be  harmless.  It  represents  only 
the  tinge  of  melancholy  which  every  good  man  must  feel  at  the  sight  of 
human  folly,  and  is  used  rather  to  light  up  by  its  gentle  irradiation  the 
amiable  aspects  of  weakness  than  to  unmask  solemn  affectation  and  suc- 
cessful hypocrisy.  As  soon  as  the  humourist  begins  to  be  more  pungent, 
and  the  laughter  to  be  edged  with  scorn  and  indignation,  good  quiet 
people  who  do  not  like  to  be  shocked  begin  to  draw  back.  They  are  half 
ashamed  when  a  Cervantes  or  a  Montaigne,  a  Rabelais  or  a  Swift,  takes 
them  into  his  confidence,  and  proposes  in  the  true  humourist's  spirit  to 
b\it  show  them  the  ugly  realities  of  the  world  or  of  his  own  mind.  They 
shrink  from  the  exposure  which  follows  of  the  absurdity  of  heroes,  the 
follies  of  the  wise,  the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  the  virtuous.  In  their 
hearts  they  take  this  daring  frankness  for  sheer  cynicism,  and  reject 
his  proffered  intimacy.  They  would  rather  overlook  the  hollowness 
of  established  conventions,  than  have  them  ruthlessly  exposed  by  the 
sudden  audacity  of  these  daring  rebels.  To  the  man,  on  the  contrary, 
who  is  predisposed  to  sympathy  by  some  affinity  of  character,  the  sudden 
flash  of  genuine  feeling  is  infinitely  refreshing.  He  rejoices  to  see 
theories  confronted  with  facts,  solemn  conventions  turned  inside  out,  and 
to  have  the  air  cleared  by  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter,  though  it  may 
occasionally  have  something  rather  savage  in  it.  He  welcomes  the  dis- 
covery that  another  man  has  dared  to  laugh  at  the  idols  before  which  we 
are  all  supposed  to  bow  in  solemn  reverence.  We  love  the  humour  in 
short  so  far  as  we  shall  the  character  from  which  it  flows.  Everybody  can 
love  the  spirit  which  shows  itself  in  the  Essays  on  Elia  •  but  you  can 
hardly  love  the  Tale  of  a  Tub  or  Gulliver  unless  you  have  a  sympathy 
with  the  genuine  Swift  which  overpowers  your  occasional  disgust  at  his 
misanthropy.  But  to  this  general  rule  there  is  one  marked  exception  in 
our  literature.  It  is  impossible  for  any  one  with  the  remotest  taste  for 
literary  excellence  to  read  Tristram  Shandy  or  the  /Sentimental  Journey 
without  a  sense  of  wondering  admiration.  One  can  hardly  read  the 
familiar  passages  without  admitting  that  Sterne  was  perhaps  the  greatest 
artist  in  the  language.  No  one  at  least  shows  more  inimitable  felicity  in 
producing  a  pungent  effect  by  a  few  touches  of  exquisite  precision.  He 
gives  the  impression  that  the  thing  has  been  done  once  for  all  ;  he  has  hit 
the  bull's  eye  round  which  inspiring  marksmen  go  on  blundering  in.U-fi 
nitely  without  any  satisfying  success.  Two  or  three  of  the  scenes  in  which 
Uncle  Toby  expresses  his  sentiments  are  as  perfect  in  their  way  as  the 


88  HOURS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

half-dozen  lines  in  which  Mrs.  Quickly  describes  the  end  of  Falstaff  and 
convince  us  that  three  strokes  from  a  man  of  genius  may  be  worth  more 
than  the  life's  labour  of  the  cleverest  of  skilled  literary  workmen. 
And  it  may  further  be  said  that  Uncle  Toby,  like  his  kinsmen  in  the 
world  of  humour,  is  an  incarnation  of  most  lovable  qualities.  In  going 
over  the  list,  a  short  list  in  any  case,  of  the  immortal  characters  in 
fiction,  there  is  hardly  any  one  in  our  literature  who  would  be  entitled  to 
take  precedence  of  him.  To  find  a  distinctly  superior  type,  we  must  go 
back  to  Cervantes,  whom  Sterne  idolised  and  professed  to  take  for  his 
model.  But  to  speak  of  a  character  as  in  some  sort  comparable  to  Don 
Quixote,  though  without  any  thought  of  placing  him  on  the  same  level, 
is  to  admire  that  he  is  a  triumph  of  art.  Indeed,  if  we  take  the  other 
creator  of  types,  of  whom  it  is  only  permitted  to  speak  with  bated  breath, 
we  must  agree  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  figure  even  in  the 
Shakespearean  gallery  more  admirable  in  its  way.  Of  course,  the  creation 
of  a  Hamlet,  an  lago,  or  a  Falstaff  implies  an  intellectual  intensity  and 
reach  of  imaginative  sympathy  altogether  different  from  anything  which 
his  warmest  admirers  would  attribute  to  Sterne.  I  only  say  that  there 
is  no  single  character  in  Shakespeare  whom  we  see  more  vividly  and  love 
more  heartily  than  Mr.  Shandy's  uncle. 

It  should  follow,  according  to  the  doctrine  just  set  forth,  that  we 
ought  to  love  Uncle  Toby's  creator.  But  here  I  fancy  that  everybody  will 
be  sensible  of  a  considerable  difficulty.  The  judgment  pronounced  upon 
Sterne  by  Thackeray  seems  to  me  to  be  substantially  unimpeachable. 
The  more  I  know  of  the  man,  for  my  part,  the  less  I  like  him.  It 
is  impossible  to  write  his  biography  (from  the  admiring  point  of  view) 
without  making  it  a  continuous  apology.  His  faults  may  be  extenu- 
ated by  the  customary  devices ;  but  there  is.  a  terrible  lack  of  any  posi- 
tive merits  to  set  against  them.  He  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  his 
daughter,  and  tolerant  of  his  wife.  The  nearest  approach  to  a  good 
action  recorded  of  him  is  that  when  they  preferred  remaining  in  France 
to  following  him  to  England,  he  took  care  that  they  should  have  the 
income  which  he  had  promised.  The  liberality  was  nothing  very  won- 
derful. He  knew  that  his  wife  was  severely  economical,  as  she  had 
good  reason  to  be ;  inasmuch  as  his  own  health  was  most  precarious, 
and  he  was  spending  his  income  with  a  generous  freedom  which  left  her 
in  destitution  at  his  death.  Still  we  are  glad  to  give  him  all  credit  for 
not  being  a  grudging  paymaster.  Some  better  men  have  been  less 
good-natured.  The  rest  of  his  panegyric  consists  of  excuses  for  his 
shortcomings.  We  know  the  regular  formulae.  He  had  bad  com- 
panions, it  is  said,  in  his  youth.  Men  who  show  a  want  of  principle  in 
later  life  have  a  knack  of  picking  up  bad  companions  at  their  outset. 
We  are  reminded  as  usual  that  the  morals  of  the  time  were  corrupt. 
It  is  a  very  difficult  question  how  far  this  is  true.  We  can  only  make 
a  rough  guess  as  to  the  morals  of  our  own  time ;  some  people  can  see 
steady  improvement,  where  others  see  nothing  but  signs  of  growing 


STEENE.  89 

corruption ;  but  when  we  come  to  speak  of  the  morals  of  an  age  more  or 
less  removed,  there  are  so  many  causes  of  illusion  that  our  estimates  have 
very  small  title  to  respect.  It  is  no  doubt  true  that  the  clergy  of  the 
Church  of  England  in  Sterne's  day  took  a  less  exalted  view  than  they 
now  do  of  their  own  position  and  duties ;  that  they  were  frequently 
pluralists  and  absentees ;  that  patrons  had  small  sense  of  responsibility  ; 
and  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  spiritual  teachers  of  the  country  took 
life  easily,  and  left  an  ample  field  for  the  activity  of  "Wesley  and  his  fol- 
lowers. But,  making  every  allowance  for  this,  it  would  be  grossly  unfair 
to  deny,  what  is  plainly  visible  in  all  the  memoirs  of  the  time,  that  there 
were  plenty  of  honest  squires  and  persons  in  every  part  of  the  country 
leading  wholesome  domestic  lives. 

But,  in  any  case,  such  apologies  rather  explain  how  a  man  came 
to  be  bad,  than  prove  that  he  was  not  bad.  They  would  show  at 
most  that  we  were  making  an  erroneous  inference  if  we  inferred  bad- 
ness of  heart  from  conduct  which  was  not  condemned  by  the  standard 
of  his  own  day.  This  argument,  however,  is  really  inapplicable. 
Sterne's  faults  were  of  a  kind  for  which  if  anything  there  was  less 
excuse  then  than  now.  The  faults  of  his  best  known  contemporaries,  of 
men  like  Fielding,  Smollett,  or  Churchill,  were  the  faults  of  robust  tem- 
perament with  an  excess  of  animal  passions.  Their  coarseness  has  left  a 
stain  upon  their  pages  as  it  injured  their  lives.  But,  however  much  we 
may  lament  or  condemn,  we  do  not  feel  that  such  men  were  corrupt  at 
heart.  And  that,  unfortunately,  is  just  what  we  are  tempted  to  feel 
about  Sterne.  When  the  huge,  brawny  parson,  Churchill,  felt  his  un- 
fitness  for  clerical  life,  he  pitched  his  cassock  to  the  dogs  and  blossomed 
out  in  purple  and  gold.  He  set  the  respectabilities  at  defiance,  took  up 
with  Wilkes  and  the  reprobates,  and  roared  out  full-mouthed  abuse 
against  bishops  and  ministers.  He  could  still  be  faithful  to  his  friends, 
observe  his  own  code  of  honour,  and  do  his  best  to  make  some  atonement 
to  the  victims  of  his  misconduct.  Sterne,  one  feels,  differs  from  Churchill 
not  really  as  being  more  virtuous,  but  in  not  having  the  courage  to 
be  so  openly  vicious.  Unlike  Churchill  he  could  be  a  consummate  sneak. 
He  was  quite  as  ready  to  flatter  Wilkes  or  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with 
atheists  and  libertines,  with  Holbach  and  Crebillon,  when  his  bishop  and 
his  parishioners  could  not  see  him.  His  most  intimate  friend  from  early 
days  was  John  Hall  Stevenson — the  country  squire  whose  pride  it  was  to 
ape  in  the  provinces  the  orgies  of  the  monks  of  Medmenham  Abbey,  and 
once  notorious  as  the  author  of  a  grossly  indecent  book.  The  dog  Latin 
letter  in  which  Sterne  informs  this  chosen  companion  that  he  is  weary 
of  his  life,  contains  other  remarks  sufficiently  significant  of  the  nature  of 
their  intimacy.  The  age  was  not  veiy  nice ;  but  it  was  quite  acute 
enough  to  see  the  objections  to  a  close  alliance  between  a  married  eccle- 
siastic of  forty-five  *  and  the  rustic  Don  Juan  of  the  district.  But  his 

*  Sterne  says  in  the  letter  that  Hall  was  over  forty;  and  he  was  five  years  older 
than  Hall. 

5—5 


90  HOUES  IN  A    LIBRAKY. 

cynicism  becomes  doubly  disgusting  when  we  remember  that  Sterne  was 
all  the  time  as  eager  as  any  patronage  hunter  to  ingratiate  himself  into 
the  good  graces  of  bishops.  Churchill,  we  remember,  lampooned  War- 
burton  with  savage  ferocity.  Sterne  tried  his  best  to  conciliate  the  most 
conspicuous  prelate  of  the  day.  He  never  put  together  a  more  elaborately 
skilful  bit  of  writing  than  the  letter  which  he  wrote  to  Garrick,  with  the 
obvious  intention  that  it  should  be  shown  to  Warburton.  He  humbly 
says  that  he  has  no  claim  to  an  introduction,  except  "  what  arises  from 
the  honour  and  respect  which,  in  the  progress  of  my  work,  will  be 
shown  the  world  I  owe  so  great  a  man."  The  statement  was  probably 
meant  to  encounter  a  suspicion  which  "VVarburton  entertained  that  he 
was  to  be  introduced  in  a  ridiculous  character  in  Tristram  Shandy.  The 
bishop  was  sufficiently  soothed  to  administer  not  only  good  advice  but  a 
certain  purse  of  gold,  which  had  an  unpleasant  resemblance  to  hush- 
money.  It  became  evident,  however,  that  the  author  of  Tristram 
Shandy  was  not  a  possible  object  of  episcopal  patronage ;  and,  indeed,  he 
was  presently  described  by  the  bishop  as  an  "irrevocable  scoundrel." 
Sterne's  "  honour  and  respect  "  never  found  expression  in  his  writings ; 
but  he  ingeniously  managed  to  couple  the  Divine  Legation — the  work 
which  had  justified  Warburton's  elevation  to  the  bench — with  the  Tale  of 
a  Tub,  the  audacious  satire  upon  orthodox  opinions,  which  had  been  an 
insuperable  bar  to  Swift's  preferment.  The  insinuation  had  its  sting, 
for  there  were  plenty  of  critics  in  those  days  who  maintained  that  War- 
burton's  apology  was  really  more  damaging  to  the  cause  of  orthodoxy 
than  Swift's  burlesque.  We  cannot  resist  the  conviction  that  if  War- 
burton  had  been  more  judicious  in  his  distribution  of  patronage,  he 
would  have  received  a  very  different  notice  in  return.  The  blow  from 
Churchill's  bludgeon  was,  on  any  right,  given  by  an  open  enemy.  This 
little  stab  came  from  one  who  had  been  a  servile  flatterer. 

No  doubt  Sterne  is  to  be  pitied  for  his  uncongenial  position.  The 
relations  who  kindly  took  him  off  the  hands  of  his  impecunious  father 
could  provide  for  him  most  easily  in  the  Church  ;  and  he  is  not  the  only 
man  who  has  been  injured  by  being  forced  by  such  considerations  into 
a  career  for  which  he  was  unfitted.  In  the  same  way  we  may  pity  him 
for  having  become  tired  of  his  wife  when  he  seems  to  have  married  under 
a  generous  impulse — she  was  no  doubt  a  very  tiresome  woman — and  try  to 
forgive  him  for  some  of  his  flirtations.  But  it  is  not  so  easy  to  forgive  the 
spirit  in  which  he  conducted  them.  One  story,  as  related  by  an  admiring 
biographer,  will  be  an  amply  sufficient  specimen.  He  fell  in  love  with 
a  Miss  Fourmantelle,  who  was  living  at  York  when  he  was  finishing  the 
first  volumes  of  Tristram  Shandy  at  the  ripe  age  of  forty-six.  He  in- 
troduced her  into  that  work  as  "  dear,  dear  Jenny."  He  writes  to  her 
in  his  usual  style  of  lovemaking.  He  swears  that  he  loves  her  "to  dis- 
traction," and  will  love  her  "  to  eternity."  He  declares  that  there  is 
"  only  one  obstacle  to  their  happiness  " — obviously  Mrs.  Sterne — and 
solemnly  prays  to  God  that  she  may  so  live  and  love  him  as  one  day  to 


STERNE.  91 

share  in  his  great  good  fortune.  Precisely  similar  aspirations,  we  note  in 
passing,  were  to  be  soon  afterwards  addressed  to  Mrs.  Draper,  on  the 
hypothesis  that  two  obstacles  to  their  happiness  might  be  removed, 
namely,  Mr.  Draper  and  Mrs.  Sterne.  Few  readers  are  likely  to  be 
edified  by  the  sacred  language  used  by  a  clergyman  on  such  an  occasion ; 
though  biographical  zeal  has  been  equal  even  to  this  emergency.  But 
the  sequel  to  the  Fourmantelle  story  is  the  really  significant  part.  Mr. 
Sterne  goes  to  London  to  reap  the  social  fruits  of  his  amazing  success 
with  Tristram  Shandy.  The  whole  London  world  falls  at  his  feet ;  he  is 
overwhelmed  with  invitations,  and  deafened  with  flattery ;  and  poor  lite- 
rary drudges  like  Goldsmith  are  scandalised  by  so  ovei-powering  a 
triumph.  Nobody  had  thought  it  worth  while  to  make  a  fuss  about  the 
author  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Sterne  writes  the  accounts  of  his 
unprecedented,  success  to  Miss  Fourmantelle :  he  snatches  moments  in 
the  midst  of  his  crowded  levees  to  tell  her  that  he  is  hers  for  ever  and 
ever,  that  he  would  "  give  a  guinea  for  a  squeeze  of  her  hand  ;  "  and  pro- 
mises to  use  .his  influence  in  some  affair  in  which  she  is  interested. 
Hereupon  Miss  Fourmantelle  follows  him  to  London.  She  finds  him  so 
deeply  engaged,  that  he  cannot  see  her  from  Sunday  till  Friday ;  though 
he  is  still  good  enough  to  say  that  he  would  wish  to  be  with  her  always, 
were  it  not  for  "  fate."  And,  hereupon,  Miss  Fourmantelle  vanishes  out 
of  history,  and  Mr.  Sterne  ceases  to  trouble  his  head  about  her.  It 
needs  only  to  be  added  that  this  is  but  one  episode  in  Sterne's  career  out 
of  several  of  which  the  records  have  been  accidentally  preserved.  Mrs. 
Draper  seems  to  have  been  the  most  famous  case ;  but,  according  to  his 
own  •  statement,  he  had  regularly  on  hand  some  affair  of  the  sort,  and  is 
proud  of  the  sensibility  which  they  indicate. 

Upon  such  an  occurrence  only  one  comment  is  possible  from  the 
moralist's  point  of  view,  namely,  that  a  brother  of  Miss  Fourmantelle, 
had  she  possessed  a  brother,  would  have  been  justified  in  administering  a 
horsewhipping.  I  do  not,  however,  wish  to  preach  a  sermon  upon  Sterne's 
iniquities,  or  to  draw  any  edifying  conclusions  upon  the  present  occa- 
sion. "We  have  only  to  deal  with  the  failings  of  the  man  so  far  as  they 
are  reflected  in  the  author.  Time  enables  us  to  abstract  and  distinguish. 
A  man's  hateful  qualities  may  not  be  of  the  essence  of  his  character, 
or  they  may  be  only  hateful  in  certain  specific  relations  which  do  not 
now  affect  us.  Moreover,  there  is  some  kind  of  immorality — spite 
and  uncharitableness,  for  example — which  is  not  without  its  charm. 
Pope  was  in  many  ways  a  far  worse  man  than  Sterne ;  he  was  an  incom- 
parably more  elaborate  liar,  and  the  amount  of  gall  with  which  his 
constitution  was  saturated  would  have  been  enough  to  furnish  a  whole 
generation  of  Sternes.  But  we  can  admire  the  brilliance  of  Pope's 
epigrams,  without  bothering  ourselves  with  the  reflection  that  he  told  a 
whole  series  of  falsehoods  as  to  the  date  of  their  composition.  We  can 
enjoy  the  pungency  of  his  indignant  satire  without  asking  whether  it 
was  directed  against  deserving  objects.  Atticus  was  perhaps  a  very 
cruel  caricature  of  Addison ;  but  the  lines  upon  Atticus  remain  as  an  in- 


92  HOUKS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

comparably  keen  dissection  of  a  type  which  need  not  have  been  embodied 
in  this  particular  representative.  Some  people,  indeed,  may  be  too 
virtuous  or  tender-hearted  to  enjoy  any  exposure  of  human  weakness. 
I  make  no  pretensions  to  such  amiability,  and  I  can  admire  the  keenness 
of  the  wasp's  sting  when  it  is  no  longer  capable  of  touching  me  and  my 
friends.  Indeed,  almost  any  genuine  ebullition  of  human  passion  is 
interesting  in  its  way,  and  it  would  be  pedantic  to  be  scandalised  when- 
ever ifc  is  rather  more  vehement  than  a  moralist  would  approve,  or 
happens  to  break  out  on  the  wrong  occasion.  The  reader  can  apply  the 
correction  for  himself ;  he  can  read  satire  in  his  moments  of  virtuous 
indignation,  and  twist  it  in  his  own  mind  against  some  of  those  people 
— they  are  generally  to  be  found — who  really  deserve  it.  But  the  case 
is  different  when  the  sentiment  itself  is  offensive,  and  offensive  by  reason 
of  insinceiity.  When  the  very  thing  by  which  we  are  supposed  to  be 
attracted  is  the  goodness  of  a  man's  heart,  a  suspicion  that  he  was  a  mere 
Tartuffe  cannot  enter  our  minds  without  injuring  our  enjoyment.  We 
may  continue  to  admire  the  writer's  technical  skill,  but  he  cannot  fasci- 
nate us  unless  he  persuades  us  of  his  sincerity.  One  might,  to  take  a 
parallel  case,  admire  Reynolds  for  his  skill  of  hand  and  fine  perception 
of  form  and  colour,  if  he  had  used  them  only  to  represent  objects  as  re- 
pulsive as  the  most  hideous  scenes  in  Hogarth.  One  loves  him,  because 
of  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  nature  implied  in  the  representations  of 
infantile  beauty.  And  if  it  were  possible  to  feel  that  this  tenderness  was 
a  mere  sham,  that  his  woi'k  was  that  of  a  dexterous  artist  skilfully 
flattering  the  fondness  of  parents,  the  charm  would  vanish.  The  children 
would  breathe  affectation  instead  of  simplicity,  and  provoke  only  a 
sardonic  sneer,  which  is  suggested  by  most  of  the  infantile  portraits  col- 
lected in  modern  exhibitions. 

It  is  with  something  of  this  feeling  that  we  read  Sterne.  Of  the 
literary  skill  there  cannot  be  a  moment's  question ;  but  if  we  for  a 
moment  yield  to  the  enchantment,  we  feel  ashamed,  at  the  next  moment, 
of  our  weakness.  We  have  been  moved  on  false  pretences  ;  and  we  seem 
to  see  the  sham  Yorick  with  that  unpleasant  leer  upon  his  too  expressive 
face,  chuckling  quietly  at  his  successful  imposition.  It  is  no  wonder  if 
many  of  his  readers  have  revolted,  and  even  been  provoked  to  an  exces- 
sive reaction  of  feeling.  The  criticism  was  too  obvious  to  be  missed. 
Horace  Walpole  indulged  in  a  characteristic  sneer  at  the  genius  who 
neglected  a  mother  and  snivelled  over  a  dead  donkey.  (The  neglect  of  a 
mother,  we  may  note  in  passing,  is  certainly  not  proven.)  Walpole 
was  too  much  of  a  cynic,  it  may  be  said,  to  distinguish  between  senti- 
mentalism  and  genuine  sentiment,  or  rather  so  much  of  a  cynic  that  one 
is  surprised  at  his  not  liking  the  sentimentalism  more.  But  Goldsmith 
at  least  was  a  man  of  real  feeling,  and  as  an  artist  in  some  respects 
superior  even  to  Sterne.  He  was  moved  to  his  bitterest  outburst  of 
satire  by  Tristram  Shandy.  He  despised  the  charlatan  who  eked  out  his 
defects  of  humour  by  the  paltry  mechanica.1  devices  of  blank  pages,  disr 


STEENE.  93 

ordered  chapters,  and  a  profuse  indulgence  in  dashes.  He  pointed  out 
with  undeniable  truth  the  many  grievous  stains  by  which  Sterne's  pages 
are  defaced.  He  spoke  with  disgust  of  the  ladies  who  worshipped  the 
author  of  a  book  which  they  should  have  been  ashamed  to  read,  and 
found  the  whole  secret  of  Sterne's  success  in  his  pertness  and  indecency. 
Goldsmith  may  have  been  yielding  unconsciously  to  a  not  unnatural 
jealousy,  and  his  criticism  certainly  omits  to  take  into  account  Sterne's 
legitimate  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  happily  needless  to  insist  at  the 
present  day  upon  the  palpable  errors  by  which  the  delicate  and  pure-minded 
Goldsmith  was  offended.  It  is  enough  to  indulge  in  a  passing  word  of 
regret  that  a  man  of  Sterne's  genius  should  have  descended  so  often  to 
mere  buffoonery  or  to  the  most  degrading  methods  of  meeting  his  reader's 
interest.  The  Sentimental  Journey  is  a  book  of  simply  marvellous 
cleverness,  to  which  one  can  find  no  nearer  parallel  than  Heine's  Reise- 
bilder.  But  one  often  closes  it  with  a  mixture  of  disgust  and  regret. 
The  disgust  needs  no  explanation ;  the  regret  is  caused  by  our  feeling 
that  something  has  been  missed  which  ought  to  have  been  in  the  writer's 
power.  He  has  so  keen  an  eye  for  picturesque  effects  ;  he  is  so  sensitive 
to  a  thousand  little  incidents  which  your  ordinary  traveller  passes  with 
eyes  riveted  to  his  guide-book,  or  which  "  Smelfungus "  Smollett  dis- 
regarded in  his  surly  British  pomposity ;  he  is  so  quick  at  appreciating 
some  delicate  courtesy  in  humble  life  or  some  pathetic  touch  of  common- 
place suffering,  that  one  grows  angry  when  he  spoils  a  graceful  scene  by 
some  prurient  double  meaning,  and  wastes  whole  pages  in  telling  a  story 
fit  only  for  John  Hall  Stevenson.  One  feels  that  one  has  been  rambling 
with  a  discreditable  parson,  who  is  so  glad  to  be  free  from  the  restraints 
of  his  parish  or  of  Mrs.  Sterne's  company,  that  he  is  always  peeping  into 
forbidden  corners,  and  anxious  to  prove  to  you  that  he  is  as  knowing 
in  the  ways  of  a  wicked  world  as  a  raffish  undergraduate  enjoying  a 
stolen  visit  to  London.  Goldsmith's  idyllic  pictures  of  country  life  may 
be  a  little  too  rose-coloured,  but  at  least  they  are  harmonious.  Sterne's 
sudden  excursions  into  the  nauseous  are  like  the  brutal  practical  jokes 
of  a  dirty  boy  who  should  put  filth  into  a  scent  bottle.  One  feels  that  if 
he  had  entered  the  rustic  paradise,  of  which  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Primrose  were 
the  Adam  and  Eve,  half  his  sympathies  would  have  been  with  the  wicked 
Squire  Thornhill ;  he  would  have  been  quite  as  able  to  suit  that  gentle- 
man's tastes  as  to  wheedle  the  excellent  Vicar ;  and  his  homage  to  Miss 
Olivia  would  have  partaken  of  the  nature  of  an  insult.  A  man  of  Sterne's 
admirable  delicacy  of  genius,  writing  always  with  an  eye  to  the  canons  of 
taste  approved  in  Crazy  Castle,  must  necessarily  produce  painful  discords, 
and  throw  away  admirable  workmanship  upon  contemptible  ribaldry. 
But  the  very  feeling  proves  that  there  was  really  a  finer  element  in  him. 
Had  he  been  thoroughly  steeped  in  the  noxious  element,  there  would 
have  been  no  discord.  We  might  simply  have  set  him  down  as  a  very 
clever  reprobate.  But,  with  some  exceptions,  we  can  generally  recognise 
something  so  amiable  and  attractive  as  to  excite  our  regret  for  the  waste 


94  HOUKS  IN  A  LIBEAKY. 

of  genius  even  in  his  more  questionable  passages.  Coleridge  points  out, 
with  his  usual  critical  acuteness,  that  much  of  Tristram  Shandy  would 
produce  simple  disgust  were  it  not  for  the  presence  of  that  wonderful 
group  of  characters  who  are  antagonistic  to  the  spurious  wit  based  upon 
simple  shocks  to  a  sense  of  decency.  That  group  redeems  the  book, 
and  we  may  say  that  it  is  the  book.  We  must  therefore  admit  that 
the  writer  of  Uncle  Toby  and  his  families  must  not  be  unreservedly 
condemned.  To  admit  that  one  thoroughly  dislikes  Sterne  is  not 
to  assert  that  he  was  a  thorough  hypocrite  of  the  downright  Tartuffe 
variety.  His  good  feelings  must  be  something  more  than  a  mere 
sham  or  empty  formula :  they  are  not  a  flimsy  veil  thrown  over 
degrading  selfishness  or  sensuality.  When  he  is  attacked  upon  this 
ground,  his  apologists  may  have  an  easy  triumph.  The  true  statement 
is  rather  that  Sterne  was  a  man  who  understood  to  perfection  the  art  of 
enjoying  his  own  good  feelings  as  a  luxury  without  humbling  himself  to 
translate  them  into  practice.  This  is  the  definition  of  sentimentalism 
when  the  word  is  used  in  a  bad  sense.  Many  admirable  teachers  of 
mankind  have  held  the  doctrine  that  all  artistic  indulgence  is  universally 
immoral,  because  it  is  all  more  or  less  obnoxious  to  this  objection.  So 
far  as  a  man  saves  up  his  good  feelings  merely  to  use  them  as  the  raw 
material  of  poems,  he  is  wasting  a  force  which  ought  to  be  applied  to  the 
improvement  of  the  world.  What  have  we  to  do  with  singing  and 
painting  when  there  are  so  many  of  our  fellow-creatures  whose  sufferings 
might  be  relieved  and  whose  characters  might  be  purified  if  we  turned 
our  songs  into  sermons,  and,  instead  of  staining  canvas,  they  tried  to 
purify  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  ?  There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  the 
thesis  that  all  fiction  is  really  a  kind  of  lying,  and  that  art  in  general  is 
a  luxurious  indulgence,  to  which  we  have  no  right  whilst  crime  and 
disease  are  rampant  in  the  outer  world. 

I  think,  indeed,  that  I  could  detect  some  flaws  in  the  logic  by  which 
this  conclusion  is  supported,  but  I  confess  that  it  often  seems  to  possess 
a  considerable  plausibility.  The  peculiar  sentimentalism  of  which 
Sterne  was  one  of  the  first  mouthpieces,  would  supply  many  effective 
illustrations  of  the  argument;  for  it  is  a  continuous  manifestation  of 
extraordinary  skill  in  providing  "  sweet  poison  for  the  ages'  tooth."  He 
was  exactly  the  man  for  his  time,  though,  indeed,  so  clever  a  man  would 
probably  have  been  equally  able  to  flatter  the  prevailing  impulse  of  any 
time  in  which  his  lot  had  been  cast.  M.  Taine  has  lately  described  with 
great  skill  the  sort  of  fashion  of  philanthropy  which  became  popular 
among  the  upper  classes  in  France  in  the  pre-revolutionary  generation. 
The  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  so  soon  to  be  crushed  as  tyran- 
nical oppressors  of  the  people,  had  really  a  strong  impression  that  bene- 
volence was  a  branch  of  social  elegance  which  ought  to  be  assiduously 
cultivated  by  persons  of  taste  and  refinement.  A  similar  tendency, 
though  less  strongly  marked,  is  observable  amongst  the  corresponding 
class  in  English  society.  From  causes  which  may  be  analysed  by  his- 


STERNE.  95 

torians,  the  upper  social  stratum  was  becoming  penetrated  with  a  vague 
discontent  with  the  existing  order  and  a  desire  to  find  new  outlets 
for  emotional  activity.  Between  the  reign  of  comfortable  common 
sense,  represented  by  Pope  and  his  school,  and  the  fierce  outbreak  of 
passion  which  accompanied  the  crash  of  the  revolution,  there  was  an 
interregnum  marked  by  a  semi-conscious  fore-feeling  of  some  approach- 
ing catastrophe ;  a  longing  for  fresh  excitement,  and  tentative  excursions 
into  various  regions  of  thought,  which  have  since  been  explored  in  a  more 
systematic  fashion.  Sentimentalism  was  the  word  which  represented  one 
phase  of  this  inarticulate  longing,  and  which  expresses  pretty  accurately 
the  need  of  having  some  keen  sensations  without  very  well  knowing  in 
what  particular  channels  they  were  to  be  directed.  The  growth  of  the 
feminine  influence  in  literature  had  no  doubt  some  share  in  this  develop- 
ment. Women  were  no  longer  content  to  be  simply  the  pretty  fools  of  the 
Spectator,  unworthy  to  learn  the  Latin  grammar  or  to  be  admitted  to  the 
circle  of  wits ;  though  they  seldom  presumed  to  be  independent  authors, 
they  were  of  sufficient  importance  to  have  a  literature  composed  for  their 
benefit.  The  Sentimentalism  of  the  worthy  Richardson  implied  a  dis- 
covery of  one  means  of  turning  this  tendency  to  account,  and  in  his  little 
circle  of  feminine  adorers  we  find  one  of  the  earliest  discussions  of  the 
word. 

"What,"  asks  Lady  Bradshaigh  (writing  to  him  about  1749),  "is  the 
meaning  of  the  word  sentimental,  so  much  in  vogue  amongst  the  polite, 
both  in  town  and  country  1  In  letters  and  common  conversations  I 
have  asked  several  who  made  use  of  it,  and  have  generally  received  for 
answer,  it  is — it  is — sentimental.  Everything  clever  and  agreeable  is  com- 
prehended in  that  word ;  but  I  am  convinced  a  wrong  interpretation  is 
given,  because  it  is  impossible  everything  clever  or  agreeable  can  be  so 
common  as  this  word.  I  am  frequently  astonished  to  hear  such  a  one  is 
a  sentimental  man  ;  we  were  a  sentimental  party  ;  I  have  been  taking  a 
sentimental  walk."  Some  time  earlier  Sterne  was  writing  a  love  letter 
to  his  future  wife,  lamenting  his  "  quiet  and  sentimental  repasts  "  which 
they  had  had  together,  and  weeping  "  like  a  child  "  (so  he  writes)  at  the 
sight  of  his  single  knife  and  fork  and  plate.  The  growth  of  such  phrases 
is  often  an  interesting  symptom  of  new  currents  of  social  development. 
Richardson  might  have  replied  by  pointing  to  the  history  of  Clarissa, 
which  represents  a  respectable,  moral,  and  domestic  Sentimentalism ;  and 
Rousseau  expressed  it  a  little  later  in  a  more  dangerous  and  revolu- 
tionary embodiment.  We  have  known  the  same  spirit  in  many  incarna- 
tions in  later  days.  We  have  been  bored  by  Wertherism  ;  by  the  Byronic 
misanthropy ;  by  the  Weltschmerz  of  our  German  cousins ;  and  by  the 
aesthetic  raptures  or  the  pessimist  lamentations  of  our  modern  poets. 
But  Sterne,  who  made  the  word  popular  in  literature,  represents  what 
may  be  considered  as  Sentimentalism  in  its  purest  form  ;  that  which  cor- 
responds most  closely  to  its  definition  as  sentiment  running  to  waste ; 
for  in  Sterne  there  is  no  thought  of  any  moral,  or  political,  or  philoso- 


96  HOUES  IN  A  LIBKAKY. 

phical  application.  He  is  as  entirely  free  as  a  man  can  be  from  any 
suspicion  of  "  purpose."  He  tells  us  as  frankly  as  possible  that  he  is  simply 
putting  on  the  cap  and  bells  for  our  amusement.  He  must  weep  and  laugh 
just  as  the  fancy  takes  him  ;  his  pen,  he  declares,  is  the  master  of  him, 
not  he  the  master  of  his  pen.  This,  being  interpreted,  means  of  course 
something  rather  different  from  its  obvious  sense.  Nobody,  it  is  abun- 
dantly clear,  could  be  a  more  careful  and  deliberate  artist,  though  he 
aims  at  giving  a  whimsical  and  arbitrary  appearance  to  his  most  skilfully 
devised  eifects.  The  author  Sterne  has  a  thorough  command  of  his  pen ; 
he  only  means  that  the  parson  Sterne  is  not  allowed  to  interfere  in  the 
management.  He  has  no  doctrine  which  he  is  in  the  least  ambitious  of 
expounding.  He  does  not  even  wish  to  tell  us,  like  some  of  his  suc- 
cessors, that  the  world  is  out  of  joint ;  that  happiness  is  a  delusion,  and 
misery  the  only  reality ;  nor  what  often  comes  to  just  the  same  thing, 
is  he  anxious  to  be  optimistic,  and  to  declare,  in  the  vein  of  some  later 
humorists,  that  the  world  should  be  regarded  through  a  rose-coloured 
mask,  and  that  a  little  effusion  of  benevolence  will  summarily  remove 
all  its  rough  places.  Undoubtedly  it  would  be  easy  to  argue — were  it 
worth  the  trouble — that  Sterne's  peculiarities  of  temperament  would  have 
rendered  certain  political  and  religious  teachings  more  congenial  to  him 
than  others.  But  he  did  not  live  in  stirring  times,  when  every  man  is 
forced  to  translate  his  temperament  by  a  definite  creed.  He  could  be  as 
thoroughgoing  and  consistent  an  Epicurean  as  he  pleased.  Nothing  matters 
very  much  (that  seems  to  be  his  main  doctrine),  so  long  as  you  possess 
a  good  temper,  a  soft  heart,  and  have  a  flirtation  or  two  with  pretty 
women.  Though  both  men  may  be  called  sentimentalists,  Sterne  must 
have  regarded  Rousseau's  vehement  social  enthusiasm  as  so  much  insanity. 
The  poor  man  took  life  in  desperate  circumstances,  and  instead  of 
keeping  his  sensibility  to  warm  his  own  hearth,  wanted  to  set  the  world 
on  fire.  When  rambling  through  France,  Sterne  had  an  eye  for  every 
pretty  vignette  by  the  roadside,  for  peasants'  dances,  for  begging  monks, 
or  smart  Parisian  grisettes ;  he  received  and  repaid  the  flattery  of  the 
drawing-rooms,  and  was,  one  may  suppose,  as  absolutely  indifferent  to 
omens  of  coming  difficulties  as  any  of  the  freethinking  or  free-living  abbes, 
who  were  his  most  congenial  company.  Hoi-ace  Walpole  was  no  philo- 
sopher, but  he  shook  his  head  in  amazement  over  the  audacious  scepticism 
of  French  society.  Sterne,  so  far  as  one  can  judge  from  his  letters,  saw 
and  heard  nothing  in  this  direction ;  and  one  would  as  soon  expect  to 
find  a  reflection  upon  such  matters  in  the  Sentimental  Journey  as  to  come 
upon  a  serious  discussion  of  theological  controversy  in  Tristram  Shandy. 
Now  and  then  some  such  question  just  shows  itself  for  an  instant  in  the 
background.  A  negro  wanted  him  to  write  against  slavery ;  and  the 
letter  came  just  as  Trim  was  telling  a  pathetic  story  to  Uncle  Toby,  and 
suggesting  doubtfully  that  a  black  might  have  a  soul.  "  I  am  not  much 
versed,  Corporal,"  quoth  my  Uncle  Toby,  "  in  things  of  that  kind  ;  but  I 
suppose  God  would  not  have  made  him  without  one  any  more  than  thee 


STEENE.  97 

or  ine."  Sterne  was  quite  ready  to  aid  the  cause  of  emancipation  by 
adding  as  many  picturesque  touches  as  he  could  devise  to  Uncle  Toby  or 
sentimentalising  over  jackdaws  and  prisoners  in  the  Sentimental  Journey  ; 
but  more  direct  agitation  would  have  been  as  little  in  his  line  as  travelling 
through  France  in  the  spirit  of  Arthur  Young  to  collect  statistics  about 
rent  and  wages.  Sterne's  sermons,  to  which  one  might  possibly  turn  with 
a  view  to  discovering  some  serious  opinions,  are  not  without  an  interest 
of  their  own.  They  show  touches  of  the  Shandy  style  and  efforts  to  escape 
from  the  dead  level.  But  Sterne  could  not  be  really  at  home  in  the 
pulpit,  and  all  that  can  be  called  original  is  an  occasional  infusion  of  a  more 
pungent  criticism  of  life  into  the  moral  commonplaces  of  which  sermons 
were  then  chiefly  composed.  The  sermon  on  Tristram  Shandy  supplies 
a  happy  background  to  Uncle  Toby's  comments ;  but  even  Sterne  could 
not  manage  to  interweave  them  into  the  text. 

The  very  essence  of  the  Shandy  character  implies  this  absolute  dis- 
engagement from  all  actual  contact  with  sublunary  affairs.  Neither 
Fielding  nor  Goldsmith  can  be  accused  of  preaching  in  the  objectionable 
sense ;  they  do  not  attempt  to  supply  us  with  pamphlets  in  the  shape  of 
novels,  but  in  so  far  as  they  draw  from  real  life  they  inevitably  suggest 
some  practical  conclusions.  Reformers,  for  example,  might  point  to  the 
prison  experiences  of  Dr.  Primrose  or  of  Captain  Booth,  as  well  as  to  the 
actual  facts  which  they  represent ;  and  Smollett's  account  of  the  British 
navy  is  a  more  valuable  historical  document  than  any  quantity  of  official 
reports.  But  in  Uncle  Toby's  bowling-green  we  have  fairly  shut  the 
door  upon  the  real  world.  "We  are  in  a  region  as  far  removed  from  the 
prosaic  fact  as  in  Aladdin's  wondrous  subterranean  garden.  We  mount 
the  magical  hobby-horse,  and  straightway  are  in  an  enchanted  land,  "  as 
though  of  hemlock  we  had  drunk,"  and  if  the  region  is  not  altogether  so 
full  of  delicious  perfume  as  that  haunted  by  Keats's  nightingale,  and  even 
admits  occasional  puffs  of  rather  unsavoury  odours,  it  has  a  singular 
and  characteristic  influence  of  its  own.  Uncle  Toby,  so  far  as  his  intel 
lect  is  concerned,  is  a  full-grown  child;  he  plays  with  his  toys,  and 
rejoices  over  the  manufacture  of  cannon  from  a  pair  of  jack  boots,  pre 
cisely  as  if  he  were  still  in  petticoats ;  he  lives  in  a  continuous  daydream 
framed  from  the  materials  of  adult  experience,  but  as  unsubstantial  as 
any  childish  fancies ;  and  when  he  speaks  of  realities  it  is  with  the  voice 
of  one  half-awake,  and  in  whose  mind  the  melting  vision  still  blends 
with  the  tangible  realities.  Mr.  Shandy  has  a  more  direct  and  conscious 
antipathy  to  reality.  The  actual  world  is  commonplace;  the  events 
there  have  a  trick  of  happening  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  nature ;  and 
people  not  unfrequently  feel  what  one  might  have  expected  beforehand 
that  they  would  feel.  One  can  express  them  in  cut  and  dried  formulae. 
Mr.  Shandy  detests  this  monotony.  He  differs  from  the  ordinary  pedant 
in  so  far  as  he  values  theories  not  in  proportion  to  their  dusty  antiquity, 
but  in  proportion  to  their  unreality,  the  pure  whimsicality  and  irration- 
ality of  the  heads  which  contained  them.  He  is  a  sort  of  inverted 


98  HOUES  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

philosopher,  who  loves  the  antithesis  of  the  reasonable  as  passionately  as 
your  commonplace  philosopher  professes  to  love  the  reasonable.  He  is 
ready  to  welcome  a  reductio  ad  absurdum  for  a  demonstration ;  yet  he 
values  the  society  of  men  of  the  ordinary  turn  of  mind  precisely 
because  his  love  of  oddities  makes  him  relish  a  contradiction.  He  is 
enabled  to  enjoy  the  full  flavour  of  his  preposterous  notions  by  the 
reaction  of  other  men's  astonished  common  sense.  The  sensation  of 
standing  upon  his  head  is  intensified  by  the  presence  of  others  in  the 
normal  position.  He  delights  in  the  society  of  the  pragmatic  and  con- 
tradictious Dr.  Slop,  because  Slop  is  like  a  fish  always  ready  to  rise  at 
the  bait  of  a  palpable  paradox,  and  quite  unable  to  see  with  the  prosaic 
humorist  that  paradoxes  are  the  salt  of  philosophy.  Poor  Mrs.  Shandy 
drives  him  to  distraction  by  the  detestable  acquiescence  with  which  she 
receives  his  most  extravagant  theories,  and  the  consequent  impossibility 
of  ever  (in  the  vulgar  phrase)  getting  a  rise  out  of  her. 

A   man  would  be  priggish  indeed  who  could  not  enjoy  this  queer 
region  where  all  the  sober  proprieties  of  ordinary  logic  are  as  much 
inverted  as  in  Alice's  Wonderland ;  where  the  only  serious  occiipation  of  a 
good  man's  life  is  in  playing  an  infantile  game ;  where  the  passion  of 
love  is  only  introduced  as  a  passing  distraction  when  the  hobby-horse 
has  accidentally  fallen  out  of  gear ;  where  the  death  of  a  son  merely 
supplies  an  affectionate  father  with  a  favourable  opportunity  for  airing 
his  queer  scraps  of  outworn  moralities,  and  the  misnaming  of  an  infant 
casts  him  into  a  fit  of  profound  melancholy ;  where  everything,  in  short, 
is  topsy-turvy,  and  we  are  invited  to  sit  down,  consuming  a  perpetual  pipe 
in  an  old-fashioned  arbour,  dreamily  amusing  ourselves  with  the  grotesque 
shapes  that  seem  to  be  projected,  in  obedience  to  no  perceptible  law,  xipon 
the  shifting  wreaths  of  smoke.     It  would  be  as  absurd  to  lecture  the 
excellent  brothers  upon  the  absurdity  of  their  mode  of  life  as  to  preach 
morality  to  the  manager  of  a  Punch  show,  or  to  demand  sentiment  in 
the  writer  of  a  mathematical  treatise.      "  I  believe  in  my  soul,"  says 
Sterne,  rather  audaciously,  "  that  the  hand  of  the  supreme  Maker  and 
Designer  of  all  things  never  made  or  put  a  family  together,  where  the 
characters  of  it  were  cast  and  contrasted  with   so  dramatic  a  felicity  as 
ours  was,  for  this  end ;    or  in  which  the  capacities  of  affording  such 
exquisite  scenes,  and  the  powers  of  shifting  them  perpetually  from  morn- 
ing to  night,  were  lodged  and  entrusted  with  so  unlimited  a  confidence 
as  in  the   Shandy  family."     The  grammar  of  the  sentence  is   rather 
queer,  but  we  can  hardly  find  fault  with  the  substance.     The  remark  is 
made  efc  propos  of  Mr.  Shandy's  attempt  to  indoctrinate  his  brother  with 
the  true  theory  of  noses,  which  is  prefaced  by  the  profoundly  humorous 
sentence  which  expresses  the  leading  article  of  Mr.  Shandy's  creed  : 
"  Learned  men,  brother  Toby,  don't  write  dialogues  upon  long  noses  for 
nothing."     And,  in  fact,  one  sees  how  admirably  the  simplicity  of  each 
brother  plays  into  the  eccentricity  of  the  other.    The  elder  Shandy  could 
not  have  found  in  the  universe  a  listener  more  admirably  calculated  to 


STERNE.  99 

act  as  whetstone  for  his  strangely-constructed  wit,  to  dissent  in  pre- 
cisely the  right  tone,  not  with  a  brutal  intrusion  of  common  sense,  but 
with  the  gentle  horror  of  innocent  astonishment  at  the  paradoxes,  mixed 
with  veneration  for  the  portentous  learning  of  hia  senior.     By  looking  at 
each  brother  alternately  through  the  eyes  of  his  relative,  we  are  in- 
sensibly infected  with  the  intense  relish  which  each  feels  for  the  cognate 
excellence  of  the  other.   When  the  characters  are  once  familiar  to  us,  each 
new  episode  in  the  book  is  a  delightful  experiment  upon  the  fresh 
contrasts  which  can  be  struck  out  by  skilfully  shifting  their  positions 
and  exchanging  the  parts  of  clown  and  chief  actor.     The  light  is  made 
to  flash  from  a  new  point,  as  the  gem  is  turned  round  by  skilled  hands. 
Sterne's  wonderful  dexterity  appears  in  the  admirable  setting  which  is 
thus  obtained  for  his  most  telling  remarks.     Many  of  the  most  famous 
sayings,  such  as  Uncle  Toby's  remark  about  the  fly,  or  the  recording 
angel,  are  more  or  less  adapted  from  other  authors,  but  they  come  out 
so  brilliantly  that  we  feel  that  he  has  shown  a  full  right  to  property 
which  he  can  turn  to  such  excellent  account.     Sayings  quite  as  witty, 
or  still  wittier,  ;may  be  found  elsewhere.     Some  of  Voltaire's  incom- 
parable epigrams,  for  example,  are  keener  than  Sterne's,  but  they  owe 
nothing  to  the  Zadig  or  Candicle  who  supplies  the  occasion  for  the 
remark.     They  are  thrown  out  in  passing,  and  shine  by  their  intrinsic 
brilliancy.     But  when  Sterne  has  a  telling  remark,  he  carefully  prepares 
the  dramatic  situation  in  which  it  will  have  the  whole  force  due  to  the 
concentrated  effect  of  all  the  attendant  circumstances.     "  Our  armies 
swore  terribly  in  Flanders,"  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  "but nothing  to  this." 
Voltaire  could  not  have  made  a  happier  hit  at  the  excess  of  the  odium 
theologicum,  but  the  saying  comes  to  us  armed  with  the  authority  of  the 
whole  Shandy  conclave.     We  have  a  vision  of  the  whole  party  sitting 
round,  each  charged  with  his   own  peculiar  humour.      There  is   Mr. 
Shandy,  whose  fancy  has  been  amazingly  tickled  by  the  portentous  oath 
of  Ernulfus,  as  regards  antiquarian  curiosity,  and  has  at  once  framed  a 
quaint  theory  of  the  advantages  of  profane  swearing  in  order  to  justify 
his  delight  in  the  tremendous  formula.     He  regards  his  last  odd  dis- 
covery with  the  satisfaction  of  a  connoisseur  :  "  I  defy  a  man  to  swear 
out  of  it !  "     It  includes  all  oaths  from  that  of  William  the  Conqueror  to 
that  of  the  humblest  scavenger,  and  is  a  perfect  institute  of  swearing 
collected  from  all  the  most  learned  authorities.     And  there  is  the  un- 
lucky Dr.  Slop,  cleverly  enticed  into  the  pitfall  by  Mr.  Shandy's  simple 
cunning,  and  induced  to  exhibit  himself  as  a  monster  of  ecclesiastical 
ferocity  by  thundering  forth  the  sounding  anathema  at  the  ludicrously 
disproportioned  case  of  Obadiah's  clumsy  knot-tying ;  and  to  bring  out 
the  full  flavour  of  the  grotesque  scene,  we  see  it  as  represented  to  the 
childlike  intelligence  of  Uncle  Toby,  taking  it  all  in  sublime  seriousness, 
whistling  lillabullero  to  soothe  his  nerves  under  this  amazing  perfor- 
mance, in  sheer  wonder  at  the  sudden  revelation  of  the  potentialities  of 
human  malediction,  and  compressing  his  whole  character  in  that  admi- 


100  HOUES  IN  A  LIBRAE Y. 

rable  cry  of  wonder,  so  phrased  as  to  exhibit  his  innocent  conviction 
that  the  habits  of  the  armies  in  Flanders  supplied  a  sort  of  standard  by 
which  the  results  of  all  human  experience  might  be  appropriately 
measured,  and  to  even  justify  it  in  some  degree  by  the  queer  felicity  of  the 
particular  application.  A  formal  lecturer  upon  the  evils  of  intolerance 
might  argue  in  a  set  of  treatises  upon  the  light  in  which  such  an  employ- 
ment of  sacred  language  would  strike  the  unsophisticated  common  sense 
of  a  benevolent  mind.  The  imaginative  humourist  sets  before  us  a 
delicious  picture  of  two  or  three  concrete  human  beings,  and  is  then 
able  at  one  stroke  to  deliver  a  blow  more  telling  than  the  keenest  flashes 
of  the  dry  light  of  the  logical  understanding.  The  more  one  looks  into 
the  scene  and  tries  to  analyse  the  numerous  elements  of  dramatic  effect 
to  which  his  total  impression  is  owing,  the  more  one  admires  the  aston- 
ishing skill  which  has  put  so  much  significance  into  a  few  simple  words. 
The  colouring  is  so  brilliant  and  the  touch  so  firm  that  one  is  afraid  to 
put  any  other  work  beside  it.  Nobody  before  or  since  has  had  so  clear 
an  insight -into  the  meaning  which  can  be  got  out  of  a  simple  scene  by 
a  judicious  selection  and  skilful  arrangement  of  the  appropriate  sur- 
roundings. Sterne's  comment  upon  the  mode  in  which  Trim  dropped 
his  hat  at  the  peroration  of  his  speech  upon  Master  Bobby's  death, 
affecting  even  the  "  fat,  foolish  scullion,"  is  significant.  "  Had  he  flung 
it,  or  thrown  it,  or  skimmed  it,  or  squirted  it,  or  let  it  slip  or  fall  in 
any  possible  direction  under  Heaven — or  in  the  best  direction  that  could 
have  been  given  to  it — had  he  dropped  it  like  a  goose,  like  a  puppy,  like 
an  ass,  or  in  doing  it,  or  even  after  he  had  done  it,  had  he  looked  like  a 
fool,  like  a  ninny,  like  a  nincompoop,  it  had  failed,  and  the  effect  upon 
the  heart  had  been  lost."  Those  who  would  play  upon  human  passions 
and  those  who  are  played  upon,  or,  in  Sterne's  phrase,  those  who  drive, 
and  those  who  are  driven,  like  turkeys  to  market,  with  a  stick  and  a 
red  clout,  are  invited  to  meditate  upon  Trim's  hat ;  and  so  may  all  who 
may  wish  to  understand  the  secret  of  Sterne's  art. 

It  is  true,  unfortunately,  that  this  singular  skill — the  felicity  with 
which  Trim's  cap,  or  his  Montero  cap,  or  Uncle  Toby's  pipe — is  made  to 
radiate  eloquence,  sometimes  leads  to  a  decided  bathos.  The  climax  so 
elaborately  prepared  too  often  turns  out  to  be  a  faded  bit  of  senti- 
mentalism.  We  rather  resent  the  art  which  is  thrown  away  to  prepare 
us  for  the  assertion  that  "  When  a  few  weeks  will  rescue  misery  out  of 
her  distress,  I  hate  the  man  who  can  be  a  churl  of  them."  So  we  hate  the 
man  who  can  lift  his  hand  upon  a  woman  save  in  the  way  of  kindness, 
but  we  do  not  want  a  great  writer  to  adorn  that  unimpeachable  senti- 
ment with  all  the  jewels  of  rhetoric.  It  is  just  in  these  very  critical 
passages  that  Sterne's  taste  is  defective,  because  his  feeling  is  not  sound. 
We  are  never  sure  that  we  can  distinguish  between  the  true  gems  and 
the  counterfeit.  When  the  moment  comes  at  which  he  suddenly  drops 
the  tear  of  sensibility,  he  is  almost  as  likely  to  provoke  sneers  as  sym- 
pathy. There  is,  for  example,  the  famous  donkey,  and  it  is  curious  to 


STERNE.  101 

compare  the  donkey  fed  with  macaroons  in  the  Tristram  Shandy  with 
the  dead  donkey  of  the  Sentimental  Journey,  whose  weeping  master  lays 
a  crust  of  bread  on  the  now  vacant  bit  of  his  bridle.  It  is  obviously 
the  same  donkey,  and  Sterne  has  reflected  that  he  can  squeeze  a  little 
more  pathos  out  of  the  animal  by  actually  killing  him,  and  providing 
a  sentimental  master.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in  trying  to  heighten  the 
effect,  he  has  just  crossed  the  dangerous  limit  which  divides  sympathetic 
from  derisive  laughter ;  and  whereas  the  macaroon-fed  animal  is  a  possible, 
sti'aightforward  beast,  he  becomes  (as  higher  beings  have  done)  a  humbug 
in  his  palpably  hypocritical  epitaph.  Sterne  tries  his  hand  in  the  same 
way  at  improving  Maria,  who  is  certainly  an  effective  embodiment  of 
the  mad  young  woman  who  has  tried  to  move  us  in  many  forms  since 
the  days  of  Ophelia.  In  her  second  appearance,  she  comes  in  to  utter  the 
famous  sentiment  about  the  wind  and  the  shorn  lamb.  It  has  become 
proverbial,  and  been  even  credited  in  the  popular  mind  with  a  scrip- 
tural origin ;  and  considering  such  a  success,  one  has  hardly  the  right  to 
say  that  it  has  gathered  a  certain  sort  of  banality.  Yet  it  is  surely  on 
the  extreme  verge  at  which  the  pathetic  melts  into  the  ludicrous.  The 
reflection,  however,  occurs  more  irresistibly  in  regard  to  that  other 
famous  passage  about  the  recording  angel.  Sterne's  admirers  held  it  to 
be  sublime  at  the  time,  and  he  obviously  shai-ed  the  opinion.  And  it  is 
undeniable  that  the  story  of  Le  Fevre,  in  which  it  is  the  most  conspicuous 
gem,  is  a  masterpiece  in  its  way.  No  one  can  read  it,  or  better  still, 
hear  it  from  the  lips  of  a  skilful  reader,  without  admitting  the  mar- 
vellous felicity  with  which  the  whole  scene  is  presented.  Uncle  Toby's 
oath  is  a  triumph  fully  worthy  of  Shakespeare.  But  the  recording  angel, 
though  he  certainly  comes  in  effectively,  is  a  little  suspicious  to  me.  It 
would  have  been  a  sacrifice  to  which  few  writers  could  have  been  equal, 
to  suppress  or  soften  that  brilliant  climax ;  and  yet,  if  the  angel  had 
been  omitted,  the  passage  would,  I  fancy,  have  been  really  stronger. 
We  might  have  been  left  to  make  the  implied  comment  for  ourselves. 
For  the  angel  seems  to  introduce  an  unpleasant  air  as  of  eighteenth 
century  politeness;  we  fancy  that  he  would  have  welcomed  a  Lord 
Chesterfield  to  the  celestial  mansions  with  a  faultless  bow  and  a  dex- 
terous compliment;  and  somehow  he  appears,  to  my  imagination  at 
least,  apparelled  in  theatrical  gauze  and  spangles  rather  than  in  the 
genuine  angelic  costume.  Some  change  passes  over  every  famous  pas- 
sage ;  the  bloom  of  its  first  freshness  is  rubbed  off  as  it  is  handed  from 
one  quoter  to  another ;  but  where  the  sentiment  has  no  false  ring  at  the 
beginning,  the  colours  may  grow  faint  without  losing  their  harmony. 
In  this  angel,  and  some  other  of  Sterne's  best-known  touches,  we  seem 
to  feel  that  the  baser  metal  is  beginning  to  show  itself  through  the  super- 
ficial enamel. 

And  this  suggests  the  criticism  which  must  still  be  made  in  regard 
even  to  the  admirable  Uncle  Toby.  Sterne  has  been  called  the  English 
Rabelais,  and  was  apparently  more  ambitious  himself  of  being  considered 


102  HOUES  IN  A  LIBEAEY. 

as  an  English  Cervantes.  To  a  modern  English  reader  he  is  certainly 
far  more  amusing  than  Rabelais,  and  he  can  be  appreciated  with  less 
effort  than  Cervantes.  But  it  is  impossible  to  mention  these  great  names 
without  seeing  the  direction  in  which  Sterne  falls  short  of  the  highest 
excellence.  We  know  that,  on  clearing  away  the  vast  masses  of  buf- 
foonery and  ribaldry  under  which  Rabelais  was  forced,  or  chose,  to  hide 
himself,  we  come  to  the  profound  thinker  and  powerful  satirist.  Sterne 
represents  a  comparatively  shallow  vein  of  thought.  He  is  the  mouth- 
piece of  a  sentiment  which  had  certainly  its  importance  in  so  far  as  it 
was  significant  of  a  vague  discontent  with  things  in  general,  and  a  desire 
for  more  exciting  intellectual  food.  He  was  so  far  ready  to  fool  the  age 
to  the  top  of  its  bent ;  and  in  the  course  of  his  ramblings  he  strikes 
some  hard  blows  at  various  types  of  hide-bound  pedantry.  But  he  is 
too  systematic  a  trifler  to  be  reckoned  with  any  plausibility  amongst  the 
spiritual  leaders  of  any  intellectual  movement.  In  that  sense,  Tristram 
Shandy  is  a  curious  symptom  of  the  existing  currents  of  emotion,  but 
cannot,  like  the  Emile  or  the  Nouvelle  Heloise,  be  reckoned  as  one  of  the 
efficient  causes.  This  complete  and  characteristic  want  of  purpose  may 
indeed  be  reckoned  as  a  literary  merit,  so  far  as  it  prevented  Tristram 
Shandy  from  degenerating  into  a  mere  tract.  But  the  want  of  intellectual 
seriousness  has  another  aspect,  which  comes  out  when  we  compare 
Tristram  Shandy,  for  example,  with  Don  Quixote.  The  resemblance, 
which  has  been  often  pointed  out  (as  indeed  Sterne  is  fond  of  hinting 
at  it  himself)  consists  in  this,  that  in  both  cases  we  see  loveable  characters 
through  a  veil  of  the  ludicrous.  As  Don  Quixote  is  a  true  hero,  though 
he  is  under  a  constant  hallucination,  so  Uncle  Toby  is  full  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness,  though  his  simplicity  makes  him  ridiculous  to  the 
piercing  eyes  of  common  sense.  In  both  cases,  it  is  inferred,  the 
humorist  is  discharging  his  true  function  of  showing  the  loveable  quali- 
ties which  may  be  associated  with  a  ludicrous  outside. 

The  Don  and  the  Captain  both  have  their  hobbies,  which  they  ride 
with  equal  zeal,  and  there  is  a  close  analogy  between  them.  Uncle 
Toby  makes  his  own  apology  in  the  famous  oration  upon  war.  "  What 
is  war,"  he  asks,  "  but  the  getting  together  of  quiet  and  harmless  people 
with  swords  in  their  hands,  to  keep  the  turbulent  and  ambitious  within 
bounds  1  And  heaven  is  my  witness,  brother  Shandy,  that  the  pleasure 
I  have  taken  in  these  things,  and  that  infinite  delight  in  particular  which 
has  attended  my  sieges  in  the  bowling-green  has  arisen  within  me,  and  I 
hope  in  the  Corporal  too,  from  the  consciousness  that  in  carrying  them 
on  we  were  answering  the  great  ends  of  our  creation."  Uncle  Toby's 
military  ardour  undoubtedly  makes  a  most  piquant  addition  to  his 
simple-minded  benevolence.  The  fusion  of  the  gentle  Christian  with 
the  chivalrous  devotee  of  honour  is  perfect ;  and  the  kindliest  of  human 
beings,  who  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  the  fly's  head,  most  delicately 
blended  with  the  gallant  soldier  who,  as  Trim  avers,  would  march  up 
to  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  though  he  saw  the  match  at  the  very  touch- 


STERNE.  103 

hole.  Should  any  one  doubt  the  merits  of  the  performance,  he  might 
reassure  himself  by  comparing  the  scene  in  which  Uncle  Toby  makes 
the  speech,  just  quoted,  with  a  parallel  passage  in  The  Caxtons,  and 
realise  the  difference  between  extreme  imitative  dexterity  and  the  point 
of  real  genius. 

It  is  only  when  we  compare  this  exquisite  picture  with  the  highest 
art  that  we  are  sensible  of  its  comparative  deficiency.  The  imaginative 
force  of  Cervantes  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  Don  Quixote  and  his 
followers  have  become  the  accepted  symbols  of  the  most  profoundly  tragic 
element  in  human  life — of  the  contrast  between  the  lofty  idealism  of  the 
mere  enthusiast  and  the  sturdy  common  sense  of  ordinary  human  beings 
• — between  the  utilitarian  and  the  romantic  types  of  character ;  and  as 
neither  aspect  of  the  truth  can  be  said  to  be  exhaustive,  we  are  rightly 
left  with  our  sympathies  equally  balanced.  The  book  may  be  a  sad  one 
to  those  who  prefer  to  be  blind ;  but  in  proportion  as  we  can  appreciate 
a  penetrative  insight  into  the  genuine  facts  of  life,  we  are  impressed  by 
this  most  powerful  presentation  of  the  never-ending  problem.  It  is 
impossible  to  find  in  Tristram  Shandy  any  central  conception  of  this 
breadth  and  depth.  If  Trim  had  been  as  shrewd  as  Sancho,  Uncle  Toby 
would  appear  like  a  mere  simpleton.  Like  a  child,  he  requires  a  tho- 
roughly sympathetic  audience,  who  will  not  bring  his  playthings  to  the 
brutal  test  of  actual  facts.  The  high  and  earnest  enthusiasm  of  the 
Don  can  stand  the  contrast  of  common  sense,  though  at  the  price  of 
passing  into  insanity.  But  Trim  is  forced  to  be  Uncle  Toby's  accom- 
plice, or  his  Commander  would  never  be  able  to  play  at  soldiers.  If 
Don  Quixote  had  simply  amused  himself  at  a  mock  tournament,  and 
had  never  been  in  danger  of  mistaking  a  puppet-show  for  a  reality,  he 
would  certainly  have  been  more  credible,  but  in  the  same  proportion  he 
would  have  been  commonplace.  The  whole  tragic  element,  which  makes 
the  humour  impressive,  would  have  disappeared.  Sterne  seldom  ven- 
tures to  the  limit  of  the  tragic.  The  bowling-green  of  Mr.  Shandy's 
parlance  is  too  exclusively  a  sleepy  hollow.  The  air  is  never  cleared  by 
a  strain  of  lofty  sentiment.  "When  Yorick  and  Eugenius  form  part  of 
the  company,  we  feel  that  they  are  rather  too  much  at  home  with  offen- 
sive suggestions.  When  Uncle  Toby's  innocence  fails  to  perceive  their 
coarse  insinuations,  we  are  credited  with  clearer  perception,  and  expected 
to  sympathise  with  the  spurious  wit  which  derives  its  chief  zest  from 
the  presence  of  the  pure-minded  victim.  And  so  Uncle  Toby  comes  to 
represent  that  stingless  virtue,  which  never  gets  beyond  the  ken  or 
hurts  the  feelings  of  the  easy-going  epicurean.  His  perceptions  are  too 
slow  and  his  temper  too  mild  to  resent  an  indecency  as  his  relative,  Colonel 
Newcome,  would  have  done.  He  would  have  been  too  complacent, 
even  to  the  outrageous  Costigan.  He  is  admirably  kind  when  a  comrade 
falls  ill  at  his  door ;  but  his  benevolence  can  exhale  itself  sufficiently  in 
the  intervals  of  hobby- riding,  and  his  chivalrous  temper  in  fighting  over 
old  battles  with  the  Corporal.  We  feel  that  he  must  be  growing  fat; 


104  HOURS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

that  his  pulse  is  flabby  and  his  vegetative  functions  predominant.  When 
he  falls  in  love  with  the  repulsive  (for  she  is  repulsive)  widow  Wadman, 
we  pity  him  as  we  pity  a  poor  soft  zoophyte  in  the  clutches  of  a  rapacious 
crab ;  but  we  have  no  sense  of  a  wasted  life.  Even  his  military  ardour 
seems  to  present  itself  to  our  minds  as  due  to  the  simple  affection  which 
makes  his  regiment  part  of  bis  family  rather  than  to  any  capacity  for  heroic 
sentiment.  His  brain  might  turn  soft ;  it  would  never  spontaneously 
generate  the  noble  madness  of  a  Quixote,  though  he  might  have  followed 
that  hero  with  a  more  canine  fidelity  than  Sancho. 

Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  says  of  Heine,  as  we  all  remember,  that — 

The  spirit  of  the  world, 

Beholding  the  absurdity  of  men — 

Their  vanities,  their  feats — let  a  sardonic  smil« 

For  one  short  moment  -wander  o'er  his  lips — 

That  smile  \vas  Heine. 

There  is  a  considerable  analogy,  as  one  may  note  in  passing,  between 
the  two  men ;  and  if  Sterne  was  not  a  poet,  his  prose  could  perhaps  be  even 
more  vivid  and  picturesque  than  Heine's.  But  his  humour  is  generally 
wanting  in  the  quality  suggested  by  Mr.  Arnold's  phrase.  We  cannot 
represent  it  by  a  sardonic  smile,  or  indeed  by  any  other  expression  which 
we  can  very  well  associate  with  the  world-spirit.  The  imaginative 
humourist  must  in  all  cases  be  keenly  alive  to  the  "  absurdity  of  man  ;"  he 
must  have  a  sense  of  the  irony  of  fate,  of  the  strange  interlacing  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  world,  and  of  the  baser  and  nobler  elements  in  human 
nature.  He  will  be  affected  diffei'ently  according  to  his  temperament 
and  his  intellectual  grasp.  He  may  be  most  impressed  by  the  affinity 
between  madness  and  heroism  ;  by  the  waste  of  noble  qualities  on  trifling 
purposes ;  and,  if  he  be  more  amiable,  by  the  goodness  which  may  lurk 
under  ugly  forms.  He  may  be  bitter  and  melancholy,  or  simply  serious 
in  contemplating  the  fantastic  tricks  played  by  mortals  before  high 
heaven.  But,  in  any  case,  some  real  undercurrent  of  deeper  feeling  is 
essential  to  the  humourist  who  impresses  us  powerfully,  and  who  is  equally 
far  from  mere  buffoonery  and  sentimental  foppery.  His  smile  must  be 
at  least  edged  with  melancholy,  and  his  pathos  too  deep  for  mere 
"  snivelling." 

Sterne  is  often  close  to  this  loftier  region  of  the  humorous ;  some- 
times he  fairly  crosses  it;  but  his  step  is  uncertain  as  of  one  not  feeling 
at  home.  The  absurdity  of  man  does  not  make  him  "  sardonic."  He 
takes  things  too  easily.  He  shows  us  the  farce  of  life,  and  feels  that 
there  is  a  tragical  background  to  it  all ;  but  somehow  he  is  not  usually 
much  disposed  to  cry  over  it,  and  he  is  obviously  proud  of  the  tears  which 
he  manages  to  produce.  The  thought  of  human  folly  and  suffering  does 
not  usually  torment  and  perplex  him.  The  high  test  humourist  should 
be  the  laughing  and  weeping  philosopher  in  one ;  and  in  Sterne  the 
weeping  philosopher  is  always  a  bit  of  a  humbug.  The  pedantry  of  the 
elder  Shandy  is  a  simple  whim,  not  a  misguided  aspiration ;  and  Steme 


STERNE.  105 

is  so  amused  with  his  oddities  that  he  even  allows  him  to  be  obtrusively 
heartless.  Uncle  Toby  undoubtedly  comes  much  nearer  to  complete 
success;  but  he  wants  just  that  touch  of  genuine  pathos  which  he  would 
have  received  from  the  hands  of  the  present  writer.  But  the  performance 
is  so  admirable  in  the  last  passages,  where  Sterne  can  drop  his  buffoonery 
and  his  indecency,  that  even  a  criticism  which  sets  him  below  the  highest 
place  seems  almost  unfair. 

And  this  may  bring  us  back  for  a  moment  to  the  man  himself. 
Sterne  avowedly  drew  his  own  portrait  in  Yorick.  That  clerical  jester,  he 
says,  was  a  mere  child,  full  of  whim  and  gaiety,  but  without  an  ounce  of 
ballast.  He  had  no  more  knowledge  of  the  world  at  26  than  a  "  romping, 
unsuspicious  girl  of  13."  His  high  spirits  and  frankness  were  always 
getting  him  into  trouble.  When  he  heard  of  a  spiteful  or  ungenerous 
action  he  would  blurt  out  that  the  man  was  a  dirty  fellow.  He  would 
not  stoop  to  set  himself  right,  but  let  people  think  of  him  what  they 
would.  Thus  his  faults  were  all  due  to  his  extreme  candour  and  im- 
pulsiveness. It  wants  little  experience  of  the  world  to  recognise  the 
familiar  portrait  of  an  impulsive  and  generous  fellow.  It  represents 
the  judicious  device  by  which  a  man  reconciles  himself  to  some  veiy  ugly 
actions.  It  provides  by  anticipation  a  complete  excuse  for  thoughtless- 
ness and  meanness.  If  he  is  accused  of  being  inconstant,  he  points  out  the 
extreme  goodness  of  his  impulses ;  and  if  the  impulses  were  bad  he  argues 
that  at  least  they  did  not  last  very  long.  He  prides  himself  on  his  dis- 
regard to  consequences,  even  when  the  consequences  may  be  injurious  to 
his  friends.  His  feelings  are  so  genuine  for  the  moment  that  his  con- 
science is  satisfied  without  his  will  translating  them  into  action.  He 
is  perfect  ly  candid  in  expressing  the  passing  phase  of  sentiment,  and 
therefore  does  not  trouble  himself  to  ask  whether  what  is  true  to-day  will 
be  true  to-morrow.  He  can  call  an  adversary  a  dirty  fellow,  and  is  very 
proud  of  his  generous  indiscretion.  But  he  is  also  capable  of  gratifying 
the  dirty  fellow's  vanity  by  highflown  compliments  if  he  happens  to  be 
in  the  enthusiastic  vein ;  and  somehow  the  providence  which  watches 
over  the  thoughtless  is  very  apt  to  make  his  impulses  fall  in  with  the 
dictates  of  calculated  selfishness.  He  cannot  be  an  accomplished  courtier 
because  he  is  apt  to  be  found  out ;  but  he  can  crawl  and  creep  for  the 
nonce  with  any  one.  In  real  life  such  a  man  is  often  as  delightful  for  a 
short  time  as  he  becomes  contemptible  on  a  longer  acquaintance.  When 
we  think  of  Sterne  as  a  man,  and  try  to  frame  a  coherent  picture  of 
his  character,  we  must  give  a  due  weight  to  the  baser  elements  of  his 
composition.  We  cannot  forget  his  shallowness  of  feeling  and  the  utter 
want  of  self-respect  which  prompted  him  to  condescend  to  be  a  mere 
mountebank,  and  to  dabble  in  filth  for  the  amusement  of  graceless 
patrons.  Nor  is  it  really  possible  entirely  to  throw  aside  this  judgment 
even  in  reading  his  works ;  for  even  after  abstracting  our  attention  from 
the  rubbish  and  the  indecency,  we  are  haunted  in  the  really  admirable 
parts  by  our  misgivings  as  to  their  sincerity.  But  the  problem  is  often 

YOL.  XLII. — NO,   247.  6. 


106  HOUES  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

one  to  tax  critical  acumen.  It  is  one  aspect  of  a  difficulty  which  meets 
us  sometimes  in  real  life.  Every  man  flatters  himself  that  he  can  detect 
the  mere  hypocrite.  We  seem  to  have  a  sufficient  instinct  to  warn  us 
against  the  downright  pitfalls,  where  an  absolute  void  is  covered  by  an 
artificial  stratum  of  mere  verbiage.  Perhaps  even  this  is  not  so  easy  as 
we  sometimes  fancy ;  but  there  is  a  more  refined  sort  of  hypocrisy  which 
requires  keener  dissection.  How  are  men  to  draw  the  narrow  and  yet 
all  important  line  which  separates — not  the  genuine  from  the  feigned 
emotion — but  the  emotion  which  is  due  to  some  real  cause,  and  that  which 
is  a  cause  in  itself  1  Some  people  we  know  fall  in  love  with  a  woman, 
and  others  are  really  in  love  with  the  passion.  Grief  may  be  the  sign 
of  lacerated  affection,  or  it  may  be  a  mere  luxury  indulged  in  for  its 
own  sake.  The  sentimentalism  which  Sterne  represented  corresponded 
in  the  main  to  this  last  variety.  People  had  discovered  the  art  of 
extracting  direct  enjoyment  from  their  own  "  sensibility,"  and  Sterne 
expressly  gives  thanks  for  his  own  as  the  great  consolation  of  his  life.  He 
has  the  heartiest  possible  relish  for  his  tears  and  lamentations,  and  it  is 
precisely  his  skill  in  marking  this  vein  of  interest  which  gives  him  his 
extraordinary  popularity.  So  soon  as  we  discover  that  a  man  is  enjoying 
his  sorrow  our  sympathy  is  killed  within  us,  and  for  that  reason  Sterne 
is  apt  to  be  repulsive  to  humourists  whose  sense  of  the  human  tragi-comedy 
is  deeper  than  his  own.  They  agree  with  him  that  the  vanity  of  human 
dreams  may  suggest  a  mingling  of  tears  and  laughter ;  but  they  grieve 
because  they  must,  not  because  they  find  it  a  pleasant  amusement.  Yet 
it  is  perhaps  unwise  to  poison  our  pleasure  by  reflections  of  this  kind. 
They  come  with  critical  reflection,  and  may  at  least  be  temporarily  sup- 
pressed when  we  are  reading  for  enjoyment.  We  need  not  sin  ourselves 
by  looking  a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth.  The  sentiment  is  genuine  at  the 
time.  Do  not  inquire  how  far  it  has  been  deliberately  concocted  and 
stimulated.  The  man  is  not  only  a  wonderful  artist,  but  he  is  right  in 
asserting  that  his  impulses  are  clear  and  genuine.  Why  should  not  that 
satisfy  us  1  Are  we  to  set  up  for  so  rigid  a  nature  that  we  are  never  to 
consent  to  sit  down  with  Uncle  Toby  and  take  him  as  he  is  made  ?  We 
may  wish,  if  we  please,  that  Sterne  had  always  been  in  his  best,  and  that 
his  tears  flowed  from  a  deeper  source.  But  so  long  as  he  really  speaks  from 
his  heart — and  he  does  so  in  all  the  finer  parts  of  the  Toby  drama — why 
should  we  remember  that  the  heart  was  rather  flighty,  and  regarded  with 
too  much  conscious  complacency  by  its  proprietor  ?  The  Shandyism  upon 
which  he  prided  himself  was  not  a  very  exalted  form  of  mind,  nor  one 
which  offered  a  very  deep  or  lasting  satisfaction.  Happily  we  can  dismiss 
an  author  when  we  please  ;  give  him  a  cold  shoulder  in  our  more  virtuous 
moods,  and  have  a  quiet  chat  with  him  when  we  are  graciously  pleased 
to  relax.  In  those  times  we  may  admit  Sterne  as  the  best  of  jesters, 
though  it  may  remain  an  open  question  whether  the  jester  is  on  the  whole 
an  estimable  institution. 


107 


nngian 


VII. 

E  was,  however, 
by  no  means  so 
much  in  earnest 
as  this  might  seem 
to  indicate ;  and, 
indeed,  he  was 
more  than  any- 
thing else  amused 
with  the  whole 
situation.  He 
was  not  in  the 
least  in  a  state  of 
tension  or  of  vigi- 
lance, with  re- 
gard to  Cathe- 
rine's prospects ; 
he  was  even  on 
his  guard  against 
the  ridicule  that 
might  attach  it- 
self to  the  spectacle  of  a  house  thrown  into  agitation  by  its  daughter 
and  heiress  receiving  attentions  unprecedented  in  its  annals.  More 
than  this,  he  went  so  far  as  to  promise  himself  some  entertainment 
from  the  little  drama — if  drama  it  was — of  which  Mrs.  Penniman 
desii-ed  to  represent  the  ingenious  Mr.  Townsend  as  the  hero.  He  had 
no  intention,  as  yet,  of  regulating  the  denouement.  He  was  perfectly 
willing,  as  Elizabeth  had  suggested,  to  give  the  young  man  the  benefit 
of  every  doubt.  There  was  no  great  danger  in  it;  for  Catherine, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was  after  all  a  rather  mature  blossom,  such 
as  could  be  plucked  from  the  stem  only  by  a  vigorous  jerk.  The  fact 
that  Morris  Townsend  was  poor  was  not  of  necessity  against  him ;  the 
Doctor  had  never  made  up  his  mind  that  his  daughter  should  marry 
a  rich  man.  The  fortune  she  would  inherit  struck  him  as  a  very  suffi- 
cient provision  for  two  reasonable  persons,  and  if  a  penniless  swain  who 
could  give  a  good  account  of  himself  should  enter  the  lists,  he  should  be 

*  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1880  by  Henry  James,  Jr. 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 

6—2 


108  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

judged  quite  upon  his  personal  merits.  There  were  other  things  besides. 
The  Doctor  thought  it  very  vulgar  to  be  precipitate  in  accusing  people  of 
mercenary  motives,  inasmuch  as  his  door  had  as  yet  not  been  in  the  least 
besieged  by  fortune-hunters ;  and,  lastly,  he  was  very  curious  to  see 
whether  Catherine  might  really  be  loved  for  her  moral  worth.  He 
smiled  as  he  reflected  that  poor  Mr.  Townsend  had  been  only  twice  to 
the  house,  and  he  said  to  Mrs.  Penniman  that  the  next  time  he  should 
come  she  must  ask  him  to  dinner. 

He  came  very  soon  again,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  had  of  course  great 
pleasure  in  executing  this  mission.  Morris  Townsend  accepted  her  invi- 
tation with  equal  good  grace,  and  the  dinner  took  place  a  few  days  later. 
The  Doctor  had  said  to  himself,  justly  enough,  that  they  must  not  have 
the  young  man  alone ;  this  would  partake  too  much  of  the  nature  of  en- 
couragement. So  two  or  three  other  persons  were  invited ;  but  Morris 
Townsend,  though  he  was  by  no  means  the  ostensible,  was  the  real,  occa- 
sion of  the  feast.  There  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  he  desired  to 
make  a  good  impression ;  and  if  he  fell  short  of  this  result,  it  was  not 
for  want  of  a  good  deal  of  intelligent  effort.  The  Doctor  talked  to  him 
very  little  during  dinner ;  but  he  observed  him  attentively,  and  after  the 
ladies  had  gone  out  he  pushed  him  the  wine  and  asked  him  several  ques- 
tions. Morris  was  not  a  young  man  who  needed  to  be  pressed,  and  he 
found  quite  enough  encouragement  in  the  superior  quality  of  the  claret. 
The  Doctor's  wine  was  admirable,  and  it  may  be  communicated  to  the 
reader  that  while  be  sipped  it  Morris  reflected  that  a  cellar-full  of  good 
liquor — there  was  evidently  a  cellar-full  here — would  be  a  most  attrac- 
tive idiosyncrasy  in  a  father-in-law.  The  Doctor  was  struck  with  his 
appreciative  guest ;  he  saw  that  he  was  not  a  commonplace  young  man. 
"  He  has  ability,"  said  Catherine's  father,  "  decided  ability ;  he  has  a  very 
good  head  if  he  chooses  to  use  it.  And  he  is  uncommonly  well  turned 
out ;  quite  the  sort  of  figure  that  pleases  the  ladies.  But  I  don't  think 
I  like  him."  The  Doctor,  however,  kept  his  reflections  to  himself,  and 
talked  to  his  visitors  about  foreign  lands,  concerning  which  Morris  offered 
him  more  information  than  he  was  ready,  as  he  mentally  phrased  it,  to 
swallow.  Dr.  Sloper  had  travelled  but  little,  and  lie  took  the  liberty  of 
not  believing  everything  that  his  talkative  guest  narrated.  He  prided 
himself  on  being  something  of  a  physiognomist,  and  while  the  young 
man,  chatting  with  easy  assurance,  puffed  his  cigar  and  filled  his  glass 
again,  the  Doctor  sat  with  his  eyes  quietly  fixed  on  his  bright,  expressive 
face.  "  He  has  the  assurance  of  the  devil  himself,"  said  Morris's  host ; 
"  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  assurance.  And  his  powers  of  invention 
are  most  remarkable.  He  is  very  knowing  ;  they  were  not  so  knowing 
as  that  in  my  time.  And  a  good  head,  did  I  say  1  I  should  think  so — 
after  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  and  a  bottle  and  a  half  of  claret !  " 

After  dinner  Morris  Townsend  went  and  stood  before  Catherine,  who 
was  standing  before  the  fire  in  her  red  satin  gown. 

"  He  doesn't  like  me— he  doesn't  like  me  at  all ! "  said  the  young  man. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  109 

"  Who  doesn't  like  you  ?  "  asked  Catherine. 

"  Your  father ;  extraordinary  man ! " 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  know,"  said  Catherine,  blushing. 

"  I  feel ;  I  am  very  quick  to  feel." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"  Ah,  well ;  you  ask  him  and  you  will  see." 

"  I  would  rather  not  ask  him,  if  there  is  any  danger  of  his  saying 
what  you  think." 

Morris  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  mock  melancholy. 

"  It  wouldn't  give  you  any  pleasure  to  contradict  him1?  " 

"  I  never  contradict  him,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Will  you  hear  me  abused  without  opening  your  lips  in  my  defence1?  " 

"  My  father  won't  abuse  you.     He  doesn't  know  you  enough." 

Morris  Townsend  gave  a  loud  laugh,  and  Catherine  began  to  blush 
again. 

"  I  shall  never  mention  you,"  she  said,  to  take  refuge  from  her  con- 
fusion. 

"  That  is  very  well ;  but  it  is  not  quite  what  I  should  have  liked 
you  to  say.  I  should  have  liked  you  to  say :  '  If  my  father  doesn't  think 
well  of  you,  what  does  it  matter  1 ' ' 

"  Ah,  but  it  would  matter ;  I  couldn't  say  that ! "  the  girl  exclaimed. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  smiling  a  little ;  and  the  Doctor,  if 
he  had  been  watching  him  just  then,  would  have  seen  a  gleam  of  fine 
impatience  in  the  sociable  softness  of  his  eye.  But  there  was  no  impa- 
tience in  his  rejoinder — none,  at  least,  save  what  was  expressed  in  a  little 
appealing  sigh.  "  Ah,  well,  then,  I  must  not  give  up  the  hope  of  bring- 
ing him  round  ! " 

He  expressed  it  more  frankly  to  Mrs.  Penniman,  later  in  the  evening. 
But  before  that  he  sang  two  or  three  songs  at  Catherine's  timid  request ; 
not  that  he  nattered  himself  that  this  would  help  to  bring  her  father 
round.  He  had  a  sweet,  light  tenor  voice,  and  when  he  had  finished, 
every  one  made  some  exclamation — every  one,  that  is,  save  Catherine, 
who  remained  intensely  silent.  Mrs.  Penniman  declared  that  his 
manner  of  singing  was  "  most  artistic,"  and  Dr.  Sloper  said  it  was  "  very 
taking — very  taking  indeed  ;  "  speaking  loudly  and  distinctly,  but  with 
a  certain  dryness.  • 

"  He  doesn't  like  me — he  doesn't  like  me  at  all,"  said  Morris  Town- 
send,  addressing  the  aunt  in  the  same  manner  as  he  had  done  the  niece. 
"  He  thinks  I  am  all  wrong." 

Unlike  her  niece,  Mrs.  Penniman  asked  for  no  explanation.  She 
only  smiled  very  sweetly,  as  if  she  understood  everything ;  and,  unlike 
Catherine  too,  she  made  no  attempt  to  contradict  him.  "  Pray,  what 
does  it  matter  1 "  she  murmured  softly. 

"  Ah,  you  say  the  right  thing  !  "  said  Morris,  greatly  to  the  gratifi 
cation  of  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  prided  herself  on  always  saying  the  right 
thing. 


110  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

The  Doctor,  the  next  time  he  saw  his  sister  Elizabeth,  let  her  know 
that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Lavinia's  protege. 

"  Physically,"  he  said,  "  he's  uncommonly  well  set  up.  As  an  anato- 
mist, it  is  really  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see  such  a  beautiful  structure ; 
although,  if  people  were  all  like  him,  I  suppose  there  would  be  very  little 
need  for  doctors." 

"  Don't  you  see  anything  in  people  but  their  bones  ?  "  Mrs.  Almond 
rejoined.  "  What  do  you  think  of  him  as  a  father  ? " 

"  As  a  father  ?     Thank  Heaven  I  am  not  his  father ! " 

"  No  ;  but  you  are  Catherine's.     Lavinia  tells  me  she  is  in  love." 

"  She  must  get  over  it.     He  is  not  a  gentleman." 

"Ah,  take  care !    Remember  that  he  is  a  branch  of  the  Townsends." 

"  He  is  not  what  I  call  a  gentleman.  He  has  not  the  soul  of  one. 
He  is  extremely  insinuating ;  but  it's  a  vulgar  nature.  I  saw  through 
it  in  a  minute.  He  is  altogether  too  familiar — I  hate  familiarity.  He 
is  a  plausible  coxcomb." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  if  you  make  up  your  mind  so 
easily,  it's  a  great  advantage." 

"  I  don't  make  up  my  mind  easily.  What  I  tell  you  is  the  result  of 
thirty  years  of  observation ;  and  in  order  to  be  able  to  form  that  judg- 
ment in  a  single  evening,  I  have  had  to  spend  a  lifetime  in  study." 

"  Very  possibly  you  are  right.  But  the  thing  is  for  Catherine  to 
see  it." 

"  I  will  present  her  with  a  pair  of  spectacles !  "  said  the  Doctor. 

VIII. 

If  it  were  true  that  she  was  in  love,  she  'was  certainly  very  quiet 
about  it;  but  the  Doctor  was  of  course  prepared  to  admit  that  her 
quietness  might  mean  volumes.  She  had  told  Morris  Townsend  that  she 
would  not  mention  him  to  her  father,  and  she  saw  no  reason  to  retract 
this  vow  of  discretion.  It  was  no  more  than  decently  civil,  of  course, 
that  after  having  dined  in  Washington  Square,  Morris  should  call 
there  again  :  and  it  was  no  more  than  natural  that,  having  been  kindly 
received  on  this  occasion,  he  should  continue  to  present  himself.  He 
had  had  plenty  of  leisure  on  his  hands ;  and  thirty  years  ago,  in  New 
York,  a  young  man  of  leisure  had  reason  to  be  thankful  for  aids  to  self- 
oblivion.  Catherine  said  nothing  to  her  father  about  these  visits,  though 
they  had  rapidly  become  the  most  important,  the  most  absorbing  thing 
in  her  life.  The  girl  was  very  happy.  She  knew  not  as  yet  what  would 
come  of  it ;  but  the  present  had  suddenly  grown  rich  and  solemn.  If 
she  had  been  told  she  was  in  love,  she  would  have  been  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised ;  for  she  had  an  idea  that  love  was  an  eager  and  exacting  passion, 
and  her  own  heart  was  filled  in  these  days  with  the  impulse  of  self- 
effacement  and  sacrifice.  Whenever  Morris  Townsend  had  left  the 
house,  her  imagination  projected  itself,  with  all  its  strength,  into  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  Ill 

idea  of  his  soon  coming  back ;  but  if  she  had  been  told  at  such  a  moment 
that  he  would  not  return  for  a  year,  or  even  that  he  would  never  return, 
she  would  not  have  complained  nor  rebelled,  but  would  have  humbly 
accepted  the  decree,  and  sought  for  consolation  in  thinking  over  the 
times  she  had  already  seen  him,  the  words  he  had  spoken,  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  of  his  tread,  the  expression  of  his  face.  Love  demands  certain 
things  as  a  right ;  but  Catherine  had  no  sense  of  her  rights ;  she  had 
only  a  consciousness  of  immense  and  unexpected  favours.  Her  very 
gratitude  for  these  things  had  hushed  itself;  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
there  would  be  something  of  impudence  in  making  a  festival  of  her 
secret.  Her  father  suspected  Morris  Townsend's  visits,  and  noted  her 
reserve.  She  seemed  to  beg  pardon  for  it ;  she  looked  at  him  constantly 
in  silence,  as  if  she  meant  to  say  that  she  said  nothing  because  she  was 
afraid  of  irritating  him.  But  the  poor  girl's  dumb  eloquence  ii'ritatcd 
him  more  than  anything  else  would  have  done,  and  he  caught  himself 
murmuring  more  than  once  that  it  was  a  grievous  pity  his  only  child 
was  a  simpleton.  His  murmurs,  however,  were  inaudible ;  and  for  a 
while  he  said  nothing  to  any  one.  He  would  have  liked  to  know  exactly 
how  often  young  Townsend  came ;  but  he  had  determined  to  ask  no 
questions  of  the  girl  herself — to  say  nothing  more  to  her  that  would 
show  that  he  watched  her.  The  Doctor  had  a  great  idea  of  being 
largely  just :  he  wished  to  leave  his  daughter  her  liberty,  and  interfere 
only  when  the  danger  should  be  proved.  It  was  not  in  his  manners  to 
obtain  information  by  indirect  methods,  and  it  never  even  occurred  to 
him  to  question  the  servants.  As  for  Lavinia,  he  hated  to  talk  to  her 
about  the  matter ;  she  annoyed  him  with  her  mock  romanticism.  But 
he  had  to  come  to  this.  Mrs.  Penniman's  convictions  as  regards  the 
relations  of  her  niece  and  the  clever  young  visitor  who  saved  appearances 
by  coming  ostensibly  for  both  the  ladies — Mrs.  Penniman's  convictions 
had  passed  into  a  riper  and  richer  phase.  There  was  to  be  no  crudity  in 
Mrs.  Penniman's  treatment  of  the  situation  ;  she  had  become  as  uncom- 
municative as  Catherine  herself.  She  was  tasting  of  the  sweets  of  con- 
cealment ;  she  had  taken  up  the  line  of  mystery.  "  She  would  be 
enchanted  to  be  able  to  prove  to  herself  that  she  is  persecuted,"  said  the 
Doctor ;  and  when  at  last  he  questioned  her,  he  was  sure  she  would 
contrive  to  extract  from  his  words  a  pretext  for  this  belief. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know  what  is  going  on  in  the  house,"  he 
said  to  her,  in  a  tone  which,  under  the  circumstances,  he  himself  deemed 
genial. 

"  Going  on,  Austin  1 "  Mrs.  Penniman  exclaimed.  "  Why,  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know  !  I  believe  that  last  night  the  old  grey  cat  had  kittens  ?  " 

"  At  her  age  1 "  said  the  Doctor.  "  The  idea  is  startling — almost 
shocking.  Be  so  good  as  to  see  that  they  are  all  drowned.  But  what 
else  has  happened  1 " 

"  Ah,  the  dear  little  kittens  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  I  wouldn't 
have  them  drowned  for  the  world  !  " 


112  WASHINGTON  SQTJAKE. 

Her  brother  puffed  his  cigar  a  few  moments  in  silence.  "Your 
sympathy  with  kittens,  Lavinia,"  he  presently  resumed,  "  arises  from  a 
feline  element  in  your  own  character." 

"  Cats  are  very  graceful,  and  very  clean,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  smiling. 

"  And  very  stealthy.  You  are  the  embodiment  both  of  grace  and  of 
neatness ;  but  you  are  wanting  in  frankness." 

"  You  certainly  are  not,  dear  brother." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be  graceful,  though  I  try  to  be  neat.  "Why 
haven't  you  let  me  know  that  Mr.  Morris  Townsend  is  coming  to  the 
house  four  times  a  week  ?  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  lifted  her  eyebrows.     "  Four  times  a  week  1 " 

"  Three  times,  then,  or  five  times,  if  you  prefer  it.  I  am  away  all 
day,  and  I  see  nothing.  But  when  such  things  happen,  you  should  let 
me  know." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  with  her  eyebrows  still  raised,  reflected  intently. 
"  Dear  Austin,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  am  incapable  of  betraying  a  confi- 
dence. I  would  rather  suffer  anything." 

"  Never  fear ;  you  shall  not  suffer.  To  whose  confidence  is  it  you 
allude  1  Has  Catherine  made  you  take  a  vow  of  eternal  secresy  ? " 

"  By  no  means.  Catherine  has  not  told  me  as  much  as  she  might. 
She  has  not  been  very  trustful." 

"  It  is  the  young  man,  then,  who  has  made  you  his  confidant  ?  Allow 
me  to  say  that  it  is  extremely  indiscreet  of  you  to  form  secret  alliances 
with  young  men.  You  don't  know  where  they  may  lead  you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  an  alliance,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"I  take  a  great  interest  in  Mr.  Townsend;  I  won't  conceal  that.  But 
that's  all." 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  that  is  quite  enough.  What  is  the  source 
of  your  interest  in  Mr.  Townsend  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  musing,  and  then  breaking  into  her 
smile,  "  that  he  is  so  interesting !  " 

The  Doctor  felt  that  he  had  need  of  his  patience.  "  And  what  makes 
him  interesting  1 — his  good  looks  1 " 

"  His  misfortunes,  Austin." 

"  Ah,  he  has  had  misfortunes  ?  That,  of  course,  is  always  interesting. 
Are  you  at  liberty  to  mention  a  few  of  Mr.  Townsend's  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  that  he  would  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "He 
has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  himself — he  has  told  me,  in  fact,  his 
whole  history.  But  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  repeat  those  things.  He 
would  tell  them  to  you,  I  am  sure,  if  he  thought  you  would  listen  to  him 
kindly.  With  kindness  you  may  do  anything  with  him." 

The  Doctor  gave  a  laugh.  "  I  shall  request  him  very  kindly,  then, 
to  leave  Catherine  alone." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  shaking  her  forefinger  at  her  brother, 
with  her  little  finger  turned  out,  "  Catherine  has  probably  said  something 
to  him  kinder  than  that ! " 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  113 

"  Said  that  she  loved  him  ?     Do  you  mean  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  floor.  "  As  I  tell  you,  Austin, 
she  doesn't  confide  in  me." 

"  You  have  an  opinion,  I  suppose,  all  the  same.  It  is  that  I  ask 
you  for ;  though  I  don't  conceal  from  you  that  I  shall  not  regard  it  as 
conclusive." 

Mrs.  Penniman's  gaze  continued  to  rest  on  the  carpet ;  but  at  last 
she  lifted  it,  and  then  her  brother  thought  it  very  expressive.  "  I  think 
Catherine  is  very  happy ;  that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"  Townsend  is  trying  to  marry  her — is  that  what  you  mean  ? " 

"  He  is  greatly  interested  in  her." 

"  He  finds  her  such  an  attractive  girl  1 " 

"  Catherine  has  a  lovely  nature,  Austin,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  "  and 
Mr.  Townsend  has  had  the  intelligence  to  discover  that." 

"  With  a  little  help  from  you,  I  suppose.  My  dear  Lavinia,"  cried 
the  Doctor,  "  you  are  an  admirable  aunt !  " 

"  So  Mr.  Townsend  says,"  observed  Lavinia,  smiling. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  sincere  ?  "  asked  her  brother. 

"  In  saying  that  ?  " 

"  No ;  that's  of  course.     But  in  his  admiration  for  Catherine  1 " 

"  Deeply  sincere.  He  has  said  to  me  the  most  appreciative,  the  most 
charming  things  about  her.  He  would  say  them  to  you,  if  he  were  sure 
you  would  listen  to  him — gently." 

"  I  doubt  whether  I  can  undertake  it.  He  appears  to  require  a  great 
deal  of  gentleness." 

"  He  is  a  sympathetic,  sensitive  nature,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

Her  brother  puffed  his  cigar  again  in  silence.  "  These  delicate  quali- 
ties have  survived  his  vicissitudes,  eh  ?  All  this  while  you  haven't  told 
me  about  his  misfortunes." 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  "  and  I  regard  it  as  a 
sacred  trust.  But  I  suppose  there  is  no  objection  to  my  saying  that  he 
has  been  wild — he  frankly  confesses  that.  But  he  has  paid  for  it." 

"  That's  what  has  impoverished  him,  eh  1,  " 

"  I  don't  mean  simply  in  money.  He  is  very  much  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  has  behaved  so  badly  that  his  friends  have 
given  him  up  1 " 

"  He  has  had  false  friends,  who  have  deceived  and  betrayed  him." 

"  He  seems  to  have  some  good  ones  too.  He  has  a  devoted  sister, 
and  half  a  dozen  nephews  and  nieces." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  a  minute.  "  The  nephews  and  nieces  are 
children,  and  the  sister  is  not  a  very  attractive  person." 

"  I  hope  he  doesn't  abuse  her  to  you,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  for  I  am 
told  he  lives  upon  her." 

"  Lives  upon  her  1  " 

"  Lives  with  herf  and  dpes  nothing  for  himself;  it  is  about  the  same 
thing." 

6-A 


114  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  He  is  looking  for  a  position — most  earnestly,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"He  hopes  every  day  to  find  one." 

"  Precisely.  He  is  looking  for  it  here — over  there  in  the  front 
parlour.  The  position  of  husband  of  a  weak-minded  woman  with  a  large 
fortune  would  suit  him  to  perfection  !  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  truly  amiable,  but  she  now  gave  signs  of  temper. 
She  rose  with  much  animation,  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her 
brother.  "  My  dear  Austin,"  she  remarked,  "  if  you  regard  Catherine  as 
a  weak-minded  woman,  you  are  particularly  mistaken  !  "  And  with  this 
she  moved  majestically  away. 

IX. 

It  was  a  regular  custom  with  the  family  in  Washington  Square  to  go 
and  spend  Sunday  evening  at  Mrs.  Almond's.  On  the  Sunday  after  the 
conversation  I  have  just  narrated,  this  custom  was  not  intermitted;  and 
on  this  occasion,  towards  the  middle  of  the  evening,  Doctor  Sloper  found 
reason  to  withdraw  to  the  library,  with  his  brother-in-law,  to  talk  over  a 
matter  of  business.  He  was  absent  some  twenty  minutes,  and  when  he 
came  back  into  the  circle,  which  was  enlivened  by  the  presence  of  several 
friends  of  the  family,  he  saw  that  Morris  Townsend  had  come  in  and  had 
lost  as  little  time  as  possible  in  seating  himself  on  a  small  sofa,  beside 
Catherine.  In  the  large  room,  where  several  different  groups  had  been 
formed,  and  the  hum  of  voices  and  of  laughter  was  loud,  these  two  young 
persons  might  confabulate,  as  the  Doctor  phrased  it  to  himself,  without 
attracting  attention.  He  saw  in  a  moment,  however,  that  his  daughter 
was  painfully  conscious  of  his  own  observation.  She  sat  motionless,  with 
her  eyes  bent  down,  staring  at  her  open  fan,  deeply  flushed,  shrinking 
together  as  if  to  minimise  the  indiscretion  of  which  she  confessed  herself 
guilty. 

The  Doctor  almost  pitied  her.  Poor  Catherine  was  not  defiant ;  she 
had  no  genius  for  bravado,  and  as  she  felt  that  her  father  viewed  her  com- 
panion's attentions  with  an  unsympathising  eye.  there  was  nothing  but 
discomfort  for  her  in  the  accident  of  seeming  to  challenge  him.  The 
Doctor  felt,  indeed,  so  sorry  for  her  that  he  turned  away,  to  spare  her  the 
sense  of  being  watched ;  and  he  was  so  intelligent  a  man  that,  in  his 
thoughts,  he  rendered  a  sort  of  poetic  justice  to  her  situation. 

"  It  must  be  deucedly  pleasant  for  a  plain,  inanimate  girl  like  that  to  have 
a  beautiful  young  fellow  come  and  sit  down  beside  her  and  whisper  to  her 
that  he  is  her  slave — if  that  is  what  this  one  whispers.  No  wonder  she 
likes  it,  and  that  she  thinks  me  a  cruel  tyrant ;  which  of  course  she  does, 
though  she  is  afraid — she  hasn't  the  animation  necessary — to  admit  it  to 
herself.  Poor  old  Catherine  !"  mused  the  Doctor;  "I  verily  believe  she  is 
capable  of  defending  me  when  Townsend  abuses  me ! " 

And  the  force  of  this  reflection,  for  the  moment,  was  such  in  making 
him  feel  the  natural  opposition  between  his  point  of  view  and  that  of  an 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  115 

infatuated  child,  that  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was  perhaps  after  all 
taking  things  too  hard  and  crying  out  before  he  was  hurt.  He  must  not 
condemn  Morris  Townsend  unheard.  He  had  a  great  aversion  to  taking 
things  too  hard  ;  he  thought  that  half  the  discomfort  and  many  of  the 
disappointments  of  life  come  from  it ;  and  for  an  instant  he  asked  him- 
self whether,  possibly,  he  did  not  appear  ridiculous  to  this  intelligent 
young  man,  whose  private  perception  of  incongruities  he  suspected  of 
being  keen.  At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Catherine  had  got  rid 
of  him,  and  Townsend  was  now  standing  before  the  fireplace  in  conver- 
sation with  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  We  will  try  him  again,"  said  the  Doctor.  And  he  crossed  the 
room  and  joined  his  sister  and  her  companion,  making  her  a  sign  that 
she  should  leave  the  young  man  to  him.  She  presently  did  so,  while 
Morris  looked  at  him,  smiling,  without  a  sign  of  evasiveness  in  his 
affable  eye. 

"  He's  amazingly  conceited  !  "  thought  the  Doctor ;  and  then  he  said 
aloud  :  "  I  am  told  you  are  looking  out  for  a  position." 

"  Oh,  a  position  is  more  than  I  should  presume  to  call  it,"  Morris 
Townsend  answered.  "  That  sounds  so  fine.  I  should  like  some  quiet 
work — something  to  turn  an  honest  penny." 

"  What  sort  of  thing  should  you  prefer  1  " 

"  Do  you  mean  what  am  I  fit  for  ?  Very  little,  I  am  afraid.  I  have 
nothing  but  my  good  right  arm,  as  they  say  in  the  melodramas." 

"  You  are  too  modest,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  In  addition  to  your  good 
right  arm,  you  have  your  subtle  brain.  I  know  nothing  of  you  but 
what  I  see ;  but  I  see  by  your  physiognomy  that  you  are  extremely  in- 
telligent." 

"  Ah,"  Townsend  murmured,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  answer  when 
you  say  that !  You  advise  me,  then,  not  to  despair  ?  " 

And  he  looked  at  his  interlocutor  as  if  the  question  might  have  a 
double  meaning.  The  Doctor  caught  the  look  and  weighed  it  a  moment 
before  he  replied.  "  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  admit  that  a  robust  and 
well-disposed  young  man  need  ever  despair.  If  he  doesn't  succeed  in  one 
thing,  he  can  try  another.  Only,  I  should  add,  he  should  choose  his 
line  with  discretion." 

"  Ah,  yes,  with  discretion,"  Morris  Townsend  repeated,  sympathe- 
tically. "  Well,  I  have  been  indiscreet,  formerly ;  but  I  think  I  have 
got  over  it.  I  am  very  steady  now."  And  he  stood  a  moment,  looking 
down  at  his  remarkably  neat  shoes.  Then  at  last,  "  Were  you  kindly 
intending  to  propose  something  for  my  advantage  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking 
up  and  smiling. 

"  Damn  his  impudence  !  "  the  Doctor  exclaimed,  privately.  But  in  a 
moment  he  reflected  that  he  himself  had,  after  all,  touched  first  upon  this 
delicate  point,  and  that  his  words  might  have  been  construed  as  an  offer 
of  assistance.  "  I  have  no  particular  proposal  to  make,"  lie  presently 
said  ;  "  but  it  occurred  to  me  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  you  in  my  mind. 


116  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

Sometimes  one  hears  of  opportunities.  For  instance,  should  you  object  to 
leaving  New  York — to  going  to  a  distance  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  manage  that.  I  must  seek  my 
fortune  here  or  nowhere.  You  see,"  added  Morris  Townsend,  "  I  have 
ties — I  have  responsibilities  here.  I  have  a  sister,  a  widow,  from  whom 
I  have  been  separated  for  a  long  time,  and  to  whom  I  am  almost  every- 
thing. I  shouldn't  like  to  say  to  her  that  I  must  leave  her.  She  rather 
depends  upon  me,  you  see." 

"Ah,  that's  very  proper;  family  feeling  is  very  proper,"  said  Doctor 
Sloper.  "  I  often  think  there  is  not  enough  of  it  in  our  city.  I  think  I 
have  heard  of  your  sister." 

"  It  is  possible,  but  I  rather  doubt  it ;  she  lives  so  very  quietly." 

"  As  quietly,  yon  mean,"  the  Doctor  went  on,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  as  a  lady  may  do  who  has  several  young  children." 

"  Ah,  my  little  nephews  and  nieces — that's  the  very  point !  I  am 
helping  to  bring  them  up,"  said  Morris  Townsend.  "  I  am  a  kind  of 
amateur  tutor;  I  give  them  lessons." 

"  That's  very  proper,  as  I  say  ;  but  it  is  hardly  a  career." 

"  It  won't  make  my  fortune  !  "  the  young  man  confessed. 

"You  must  not  be  too  much  bent  on  a  fortune,"  said  the  Doctor. 
"  But  I  assure  you  I  will  keep  you  in  mind ;  I  won't  lose  sight  of  you !  w 

"  If  my  situation  becomes  desperate  I  shall  perhaps  take  the  liberty 
of  reminding  you  !  "  Morris  rejoined,  raising  his  voice  a  little,  with  a 
brighter  smile,  as  his  interlocutor  turned  away. 

Before  he  left  the  house  the  Doctor  had  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  his  sister,"  he  said.  "What  do  you  call  her? 
Mrs.  Montgomery.  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her." 

"  I  will  try  and  manage  it,"  Mrs.  Almond  responded.  "  I  will  take 
the  first  opportunity  of  inviting  her,  and  you  shall  come  and  meet  her. 
Unless,  indeed,"  Mrs.  Almond  added,  "  she  first  takes  it  into  her  head  to 
be  sick  and  to  send  for  you." 

"  Ah,  no,  not  that ;  she  must  have  trouble  enough  without  that. 
But  it  would  have  its  advantages,  for  then  I  should  see  the  children.  I 
should  like  very  much  to  see  the  children." 

"  You  are  very  thorough.  Do  you  want  to  catechise  them  about 
their  uncle  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  Their  uncle  tells  me  he  has  charge  of  their  education, 
that  he  saves  their  mother  the  expense  of  school-bills.  I  should  like  to 
ask  them  a  few  questions  in  the  commoner  branches." 

"He  certainly  has  not  the  cut  of  a  schoolmaster !"  Mrs.  Almond 
said  to  herself  a  short  time  afterwards,  as  she  saw  Morris  Townsend  in  a 
corner  bending  over  her  niece,  who  was  seated. 

And  there  was,  indeed,  nothing  in  the  young  man's  discourse  at  this 
moment  that  savoured  of  the  pedagogue. 

"  "Will  you  meet  me  somewhere  to-morrow  or  next  day  ? "  he  said,  in 
a  low  tone,  to  Catherine. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  117 

"  Meet  you  ?  "  she  asked,  lifting  her  frightened  eyes. 

"  I  have  something  particular  to  say  to  you — very  particular." 

"  Can't  you  come  to  the  house  ?     Can't  you  say  it  there  ?  " 

Townsend  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "I  can't  enter  your  doors 
again ! " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Townsend  !  "  murmured  Catherine.  She  trembled  as  she 
wondered  what  had  happened,  whether  her  father  had  forbidden  it. 

"  I  can't,  in  self-respect,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Your  father  has 
insulted  me." 

"  Insulted  you  ? " 

"  He  has  taunted  me  with  my  poverty." 

"  Oh,  you  are  mistaken — you  misunderstood  him  !  "  Catherine  spoke 
with  energy,  getting  up  from  her  chair. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  too  proud — too  sensitive.  But  would  you  have  me 
otherwise  ? "  he  asked,  tenderly. 

"  Where  my  father  is  concerned,  you  must  not  be  sure.  He  is  full  of 
goodness,"  said  Catherine. 

"  He  laughed  at  me  for  having  no  position  !  I  took  it  quietly ;  but 
only  because  he  belongs  to  you." 

<:  I  don't  know,"  said  Catherine  ;  "  I  don't  know  what  he  thinks.  I 
am  sure  he  means  to  be  kind.  You  must  not  be  too  proud." 

"  I  will  be  proud  only  of  you,"  Morris  answered.  "  Will  you  meet 
me  in  the  Square  in  the  afternoon  ?  " 

A  great  blush  on  Catherine's  part  had  been  the  answer  to  the  declara- 
tion I  have  just  quoted.  She  turned  away,  heedless  of  his  question. 

"  Will  you  meet  me  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  It  is  very  quiet  there ;  no  one 
need  see  us — towards  dusk  ? " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  unkind,  it  is  you  who  laugh,  when  you  say  such 
things  as  that." 

"  My  dear  girl !  "  the  young  man  murmured. 

"  You  know  how  little  there  is  in  me  to  be  proxid  of.  I  am  ugly  and 
stupid." 

Morris  greeted  this  remai-k  with  an  ardent  murmur,  in  which  she 
recognised  nothing  articulate  but  an  assurance  that  she  was  his  own 
dearest. 

But  she  went  on.     "  I  am  not  even — I  am  not  even "     And  she 

paused  a  moment. 

"  You  are  not  what  ?  " 

'•  I  am  not  even  brave." 

"  Ah,  then,  if  you  are  afraid,  what  shall  we  do  ? " 

She  hesitated  awhile ;  then  at  last — "  You  must  come  to  the  house," 
she  said  ;  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  that." 

"  I  would  rather  it  were  in  the  Square,"  the  young  man  urged. 
"  You  know  how  empty  it  is,  often.  No  one  will  see  us." 

"  I  don't  care  who  sees  us  !     But  leave  me  now." 

He  left  her  resignedly ;  he  had  got  what  he  wanted.     Fortunately 


118  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

he  was  ignorant  that  half  an  hour  later,  going  home  with  her  father  and 
feeling  him  near,  the  poor  girl,  in  spite  of  her  sudden  declaration  of 
courage,  began  to  tremble  again.  Her  father  said  nothing  ;  but  she  had 
an  idea  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  in  the  darkness.  Mrs.  Penniman 
also  was  silent ;  Morris  Townsend  had  told  her  that  her  niece  preferred, 
unromantically,  an  interview  in  a  chintz-covered  parlour  to  a  senti- 
mental tryst  beside  a  fountain  sheeted  with  dead  leaves,  and  she  was  lost 
in  wonderment  at  the  oddity — almost  the  perversity — of  the  choice. 


X. 

Catherine  received  the  young  man  the  next  day  on  the  ground  she 
had  chosen — amid  the  chaste  upholstery  of  a  New  York  drawing-room 
furnished  in  the  fashion  of  fifty  years  ago.  Morris  had  swallowed  his 
pride  and  made  the  effort  necessary  to  cross  the  threshold  of  her  too 
derisive  parent — an  act  of  magnanimity  which  could  not  fail  to  render 
him  doubly  interesting. 

"We  must  settle  something — we  must  take  a  line,"  he  declared, 
passing  his  hand  through  his  hair  and  giving  a  glance  at  the  long 
narrow  mirror  which  adorned  the  space  between  the  two  windows,  and 
which  had  at  its  base  a  little  gilded  bracket  covered  by  a  thin  slab  of 
white  marble,  supporting  in  its  turn  a  backgammon  board  folded 
together  in  the  shape  of  two  volumes,  two  shining  folios  inscribed  in 
greenish  gilt  letters,  History  of  England.  If  Morris  had  been  pleased  to 
describe  the  master  of  the  house  as  a  heartless  scoffer,  it  is  because  he 
thought  him  too  much  on  his  guard,  and  this  was  the  easiest  way  to 
express  his  own  dissatisfaction — a  dissatisfaction  which  he  had  made  a 
point  of  concealing  from  the  Doctor.  It  will  probably  seem  to  the 
reader,  however,  that  the  Doctor's  vigilance  was  by  no  means  excessive 
and  that  these  two  young  people  had  an  open  field.  Their  intimacy  was 
now  considerable,  and  it  may  appear  that  for  a  shrinking  and  retiring 
person  our  heroine  had  been  liberal  of  her  favours.  The  young  man, 
within  a  few  days,  had  made  her  listen  to  things  for  which  she  had  not 
supposed  that  she  was  prepared;  having  a  lively  foreboding  of  difii- 
culties,  he  proceeded  to  gain  as  much  ground  as  possible  in  the  present. 
He  remembered  that  fortune  favours  the  brave,  and  even  if  he  had  for- 
gotten it,  Mrs.  Penniman  would  have  remembered  it  for  him.  Mrs. 
Penniman  delighted  of  all  things  in  a  drama,  and  she  flattered  herself 
that  a  drama  would  now  be  enacted.  Combining  as  she  did  the  zeal  of 
the  prompter  with  the  impatience  of  the  spectator,  she  had  long  since 
done  her  utmost  to  pull  up  the  curtain.  She,  too,  expected  to  figure  in 
the  performance — to  be  the  confidant,  the  Chorus,  to  speak  the  epilogue. 
It  may  even  be  said  that  there  were  times  when  she  lost  sight  altogether 
of  the  modest  heroine  of  the  play,  in  the  contemplation  of  certain  great 
scenes  which  would  naturally  occur  between  the  hero  and  herself. 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  119 

What  Morris  had  told  Catherine  at  last  was  simply  that  he  loved 
her,  or  rather  adored  her.  Virtually,  he  had  made  known  as  much 
already — his  visits  had  been  a  series  of  eloquent  intimations  of  it.  But 
now  he  had  affirmed  it  in  lover's  vows,  and,  as  a  memorable  sign  of  it, 
he  had  passed  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist  and  taken  a  kiss.  This 
happy  certitude  had  come  sooner  than  Catherine  expected,  and  she 
had  regarded  it,  very  naturally,  as  a  priceless  treasure.  It  may  even  be 
doubted  whether  she  had  ever  definitely  expected  to  possess  it ;  she  had 
not  been  waiting  for  it,  and  she  had  never  said  to  herself  that  at  a  given 
moment  it  must  come.  As  I  have  tried  to  explain,  she  was  not  eager 
and  exacting ;  she  took  what  was  given  her  from  day  to  day ;  and  if 
the  delightful  custom  of  her  lover's  visits,  which  yielded  her  a  happiness 
in  which  confidence  and  timidity  were  strangely  blended,  had  suddenly 
come  to  an  end,  she  would  not  only  not  have  spoken  of  herself  as  one  of 
the  forsaken,  but  she  would  not  have  thought  of  herself  as  one  of  the 
disappointed.  After  Morris  had  kissed  her,  the  last  time  he  was  with 
her,  as  a  ripe  assurance  of  his  devotion,  she  begged  him  to  go  away,  to 
leave  her  alone,  to  let  her  think.  Morris  went  away,  taking  another 
kiss  first.  But  Catherine's  meditations  had  lacked  a  certain  coherence. 
She  felt  his  kisses  on  her  lips  and  on  her  cheeks  for  a  long  time  after- 
wards ;  the  sensation  was  rather  an  obstacle  than  an  aid  to  reflection. 
She  would  have  liked  to  see  her  situation  all  clearly  before  her,  to  make 
up  her  mind  what  she  should  do  if,  as  she  feared,  her  father  should  tell 
her  that  he  disapproved  of  Morris  Townsend.  But  all  that  she  could 
see  with  any  vividness  was  that  it  was  terribly  strange  that  any  one 
should  disapprove  of  him  ;  that  there  must  in  that  case  be  some  mistake, 
some  mystery,  which  in  a  little  while  would  be  set  at  rest.  She  put  off 
deciding  and  choosing ;  before  the  vision  of  a  conflict  with  her  father  she 
dropped  her  eyes  and  sat  motionless,  holding  her  breath  and  waiting.  It 
made  her  heart  beat,  it  was  intensely  painful.  When  Morris  kissed  her 
and  said  these  things — that  also  made  her  heart  beat;  but  this  was 
worse,  and  it  frightened  her.  Nevertheless,  to-day,  when  the  young  man 
spoke  of  settling  something,  taking  a  line,  she  felt  that  it  was  the  truth, 
and  she  answered  very  simply  and  without  hesitating. 

"  We  must  do  our  duty,"  she  said ;  "we  must  speak  to  my  father.  I 
will  do  it  to-night ;  you  must  do  it  to-morrow." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  do  it  first,"  Morris  answered.  "  The  young 
man — the  happy  lover — generally  does  that.  But  just  as  you  please  !  " 

It  pleased  Catherine  to  think  that  she  should  be  brave  for  his  sake, 
and  in  her  satisfaction  she  even  gave  a  little  smile.  "  Women  have  more 
tact,"  she  said ;  "  they  ought  to  do  it  first.  They  are  more  conciliating  ; 
they  can  persuade  better." 

"  You  will  need  all  your  powers  of  persuasion.  But  after  all,"  Morris 
added,  "  you  are  irresistible." 

"  Please  don't  speak  that  way — and  promise  me  this.  To-morrow, 
when  you  talk  with  father,  you  will  be  very  gentle  and  respectful." 


120  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  As  much  so  as  possible,"  Morris  promised.  "  It  won't  be  much 
use,  but  I  shall  try.  I  certainly  would  rather  have  you  easily  than  have 
to  fight  for  you  " 

"  Don't  talk  about  fighting ;  we  shall  not  fight." 

"  Ah,  we  must  be  prepared,"  Morris  rejoined ;  "  you  especially, 
because  for  you  it  must  come  hardest.  Do  you  know  the  first  thing 
your  father  will  say  to  you  ? " 

"  No,  Morris ;  please  tell  me." 

"  He  will  tell  you  I  am  mercenary." 

"  Mercenary  1 " 

"  It's  a  big  word  ;  but  it  means  a  low  thing.  It  means  that  I  am 
after  your  money." 

"  Oh  !  "  murmured  Catherine,  softly. 

The  exclamation  was  so  deprecating  and  touching  that  Morris 
indulged  in  another  little  demonstration  of  affection.  "  But  he  will  be 
sure  to  say  it,"  he  added. 

"  It  will  be  easy  to  be  prepared  for  that,"  Catherine  said.  "  I  shall 
simply  say  that  he  is  mistaken — that  other  men  may  be  that  way,  but 
that  you  are  not." 

"  You  must  make  a  great  point  of  that,  for  it  will  be  his  own  great 
point." 

Catherine  looked  at  her  lover  a  minute,  and  then  she  said,  "  I  shall 
persuade  him.  But  I  am  glad  we  shall  be  rich,"  she  added. 

Morris  turned  away,  looking  into  the  crown  of  his  hat.  "  No,  it's 
a  misfortune,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  is  from  that  our  difficulty  will 
come." 

"  Well,  if  it  is  the  worst  misfortune,  we  are  not  so  unhappy.  Many 
people  would  not  think  it  so  bad.  I  will  persuade  him,  and  after  that 
we  shall  be  very  glad  we  have  money." 

Morris  Townsend  listened  to  this  robust  logic  in  silence.  "  I  will 
leave  my  defence  to  you ;  it's  a  charge  that  a  man  has  to  stoop  to  defend 
himself  from." 

Catherine  on  her  side  was  silent  for  a  while ;  she  was  looking  at  him 
while  he  looked,  with  a  good  deal  of  fixedness,  out  of  the  window. 
"  Morris,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "  are  you  very  sure  you  love  me  1 " 

He  turned  round,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  bending  over  her.  "  My 
own  dearest,  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  only  known  it  five  days,"  she  said ;  "  but  now  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  could  never  do  without  it." 

"  You  will  never  be  called  xipon  to  try  ! "  And  he  gave  a  little 
tender,  reassuring  laugh.  Then,  in  a  moment,  he  added,  "  There  is  some- 
thing you  must  tell  me,  too."  She  had  closed  her  eyes  after  the  last 
words  she  uttered,  and  kept  them  closed ;  and  at  this  she  nodded  her 
head,  without  opening  them.  "  You  must  tell  me,"  he  went  on,  "  that 
if  your  father  is  dead  against  me,  if  he  absolutely  forbids  our  marriage, 
you  will  still  be  faithful." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  121 

Catherine  opened  her  eyes,  gazing  at  him,  and  she  could  give  no 
better  promise  than  what  he  read  there. 

"  You  will  cleave  to  me  1 "  said  Morris.  "  You  know  you  are  your 
own  mistress — you  are  of  age." 

"  Ah,  Morris  !  "  she  murmured,  for  all  answer.  Or  rather  not  for 
all ;  for  she  put  her  hand  into  his  own.  He  kept  it  awhile,  and  pre- 
sently he  kissed  her  again.  This  is  all  that  need  be  recorded  of  their 
conversation  ;  but  Mrs.  Penniman,  if  she  had  been  present,  would  pro- 
bably have  admitted  that  it  was  as  well  it  had  not  taken  place  beside 
the  fountain  in  Washington  Square. 

XI. 

Catherine  listened  for  her  father  when  he  came  in  that  evening,  and  she 
heard  him  go  to  his  study.  She  sat  quiet,  though  her  heart  was  beating 
fast,  for  nearly  half  an  hour ;  then  she  went  and  knocked  at  his  door — a 
ceremony  without  which  she  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  this  apart- 
ment. On  entering  it  now  she  found  him  in  his  chair  beside  the  fire, 
entertaining  himself  with  a  cigar  and  the  evening  paper. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  began  very  gently ;  and  she 
sat  down  in  the  first  place  that  offered. 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  hear  it,  my  dear,"  said  her  father.  He 
waited — waited,  looking  at  her,  while  she  stared,  in  a  long  silence,  at  the 
fire.  He  was  curious  and  impatient,  for  he  was  sure  she  was  going  to 
speak  of  Morris  Townsend ;  but  he  let  her  take  her  own  time,  for  he 
was  determined  to  be  veiy  mild. 

"  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  !  "  Catherine  announced  at  last,  still 
staring  at  the  fire. 

The  Doctor  was  startled ;  the  accomplished  fact  was  more  than  he 
had  expected.  But  he  betrayed  no  surprise.  "  You  do  right  to  tell  me," 
he  simply  said.  "And  who  is  the  happy  mortal  whom  you  have 
honoured  with  your  choice  it  " 

"  Mr.  Morris  Townsend."  And  as  she  pronounced  her  lover's  name, 
Catherine  looked  at  him.  What  she  saw  was  her  father's  still  grey  eye 
and  his  clear-cut,  definite  smile.  She  contemplated  these  objects  for  a 
moment,  and  then  she  looked  back  at  the  fire ;  it  was  much  warmer. 

"  When  was  this  arrangement  made  ? "  the  Doctor  asked. 

"  This  afternoon — two  hours  ago." 

"  Was  Mr.  Townsend  here  ? " 

"  Yes,  father ;  in  the  front  parlour."  She  was  very  glad  that  she 
was  not  obliged  to  tell  him  that  the  ceremony  of  their  betrothal  had 
taken  place  out  there  under  the  bare  alanthus  trees. 

"Is  it  serious  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Very  serious,  father." 

Her  father  was  silent  a,  moment.  "  Mr.  Townsend  ought  to  have 
told  me." 


122  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

"  He  means  to  tell  you  to-morrow." 

"  After  I  know  all  about  it  from  you  1  He  ought  to  have  told  me 
before.  Does  he  think  I  didn't  care — because  I  left  you  so  much 
liberty?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Catherine  ;  "  he  knew  you  would  care.  And  we  have 
been  so  much  obliged  to  you  for — for  the  liberty." 

The  Doctor  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  You  might  have  made  a  better  use 
of  it,  Catherine." 

"  Please  don't  say  that,  father,"  the  girl  urged,  softly,  fixing  her  dull 
and  gentle  eyes  upon  him. 

He  puffed  his  cigar  awhile,  meditatively.  "You  have  gone  very 
fast,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  Catherine  answered  simply ;  "  I  think  we  have." 

Her  father  glanced  at  her  an  instant,  removing  his  eyes  from  the  fire. 
"  I  don't  wonder  Mr.  Townsend  likes  you.  You  are  so  simple  and  so 
good." 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is — but  he  does  like  me.     I  am  sure  of  that." 

"And  are  you  very  fond  of  Mr.  Townsend  ?  " 

"  I  like  him  very  much,  of  course — or  I  shouldn't  consent  to  marry 
him." 

"  But  you  have  known  him  a  very  short  time,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,"  said  Catherine,  with  some  eagerness,  "  it  doesn't  take  long  to 
like  a  person — when  once  you  begin." 

"  You  must  have  begun  very  quickly.  Was  it  the  first  time  you  saw 
him — that  night  at  your  aunt's  party  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  the  girl  answered.  "  I  can't  tell  you  about 
that." 

"  Of  course ;  that's  your  own  affair.  You  will  have  observed  that  I 
have  acted  on  that  principle.  I  have  not  interfered,  I  have  left  you  your 
liberty,  I  have  remembered  that  you  are  no  longer  a  little  girl — that  you 
have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion." 

"  I  feel  very  old — and  very  wise,"  said  Catherine,  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  before  long  you  will  feel  older  and  wiser  yet.  I 
don't  like  your  engagement." 

"  Ah  !  "  Catherine  exclaimed,  softly,  getting  up  from  her  chair. 

"  No,  my  dear.  I  am  sorry  to  give  you  pain ;  but  I  don't  like  it. 
You  should  have  consulted  me  before  you  settled  it.  I  have  been  too 
easy  with  you,  and  I  feel  as  if  you  had  taken  advantage  of  my  indulgence. 
Most  decidedly,  you  should  have  spoken  to  me  first." 

Catherine  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then — "  It  was  because  I  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it !  "  she  confessed. 

"  Ah,  there  it  is  !     You  had  a  bad  conscience." 

"  No,  I  have  not  a  bad  conscience,  father !  "  the  girl  cried  out,  with 
considerable  energy.  "  Please  don't  accuse  me  of  anything  so  dreadful." 
These  words,  in  fact,  represented  to  her  imagination  something  very 
terrible  indeed,  something  base  and  cruel,  which  she  associated  with 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  123 

malefactors  and  prisoners.     "  It  was  because  I  was  afraid — afraid " 

she  went  on. 

"  If  you  were  afraid,  it  was  because  you  had  been  foolish  !  " 

"  I  was  afraid  you  didn't  like  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  You  were  quite  right.     I  don't  like  him." 

"  Dear  father,  you  don't  know  him,"  said  Catherine,  in  a  voice  so 
timidly  argumentative  that  it  might  have  touched  him. 

"Very  true;  I  don't  know  him  intimately.  But  I  know  him 
enough.  I  have  my  impression  of  him.  You  don't  know  him 
either." 

She  stood  before  the  fire,  with  her  hands  lightly  clasped  in  front  of 
her;  and  her  father,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  looking  up  at  her,  made 
this  remark  with  a  placidity  that  might  have  been  irritating. 

I  doubt,  however,  whether  Catherine  was  irritated,  though  she  broke 
into  a  vehement  protest.  "  I  don't  know  him  ? "  she  cried.  "  Why,  I 
know  him — better  than  I  have  ever  known  any  one  !  " 

"  You  know  a  part  of  him — what  he  has  chosen  to  show  you.  But 
you  don't  know  the  rest." 

"  The  rest  ?     What  is  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Whatever  it  may  be.     There  is  sure  to  be  plenty  of  it." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Catherine,  remembering  how  Morris 
had  forewarned  her.  "You  mean  that  he  is  mercenary." 

Her  father  looked  up  at. her  still,  with  his  cold,  quiet,  reasonable  eye, 
"  If  I  meant  it,  my  dear,  I  should  say  it !  But  there  is  an  error  I  wish 
particularly  to  avoid — that  of  rendering  Mr.  Townsend  more  interesting 
to  you  by  saying  hard  things  about  him." 

"  I  won't  think  them  hard,  if  they  are  true,"  said  Catherine. 

"  If  you  don't,  you  will  be  a  remarkably  sensible  young  woman  !  " 

"  They  will  be  your  reasons,  at  any  rate,  and  you  will  want  me  to 
hear  your  reasons." 

The  Doctor  smiled  a  little.  "  Very  true.  You  have  a  perfect  right 
to  ask  for  them."  And  he  puffed  his  cigar  a  few  moments.  "  Very  well, 
then,  without  accusing  Mr.  Townsend  of  being  in  love  only  with  your 
fortune — and  with  the  fortune  that  you  justly  expect — I  will  say  that 
there  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  these  good  things  have  entered  into 
his  calculation  more  largely  than  a  tender  solicitude  for  your  happiness 
strictly  requires.  There  is  of  course  nothing  impossible  in  an  intelligent 
young  man  entertaining  a  disinterested  affection  for  you.  You  are  an 
honest,  amiable  girl,  and  an  intelligent  young  man  might  easily  find  it 
out.  But  the  principal  thing  that  we  know  about  this  young  man — who 
is,  indeed,  very  intelligent — leads  us  to  suppose  that,  however  much  he 
may  value  your  personal  merits,  he  values  your  money  more.  The 
principal  thing  we  know  about  him  is  that  he  has  led  a  life  of  dissipa- 
tion, and  has  spent  a  fortune  of  his  own  in  doing  so.  That  is  enough 
for  me,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  to  marry  a  young  man  with  other  an- 
tecedents— a  young  man  who  could  give  positive  guarantees.  If  Morris 


124  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

Townsend  has  spent  his  own  fortune  in  amusing  himself,  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  would  spend  yours." 

The  Doctor  delivered  himself  of  these  remarks  slowly,  deliberately, 
with  occasional  pauses  and  prolongations  of  accent,  which  made  no  great 
allowance  for  poor  Catherine's  suspense  as  to  his  conclusion.  She  sat 
down  at  last,  with  her  head  bent  and  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  him  ;  and 
strangely  enough — I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  it — even  while  she  felt  that 
what  he  said  went  so  terribly  against  her,  she  admired  his  neatness  and 
nobleness  of  expression.  There  was  something  hopeless  and  oppressive 
in  having  to  argue  with  her  father;  but  she  too,  on  her  side,  must  try 
to  be  clear.  He  was  so  quiet ;  he  was  not  at  all  angry ;  and  she,  too, 
must  be  quiet.  But  her  very  effort  to  be  quiet  made  her  tremble. 

"  That  is  not  the  principal  thing  we  know  about  him,"  she  said ;  and 
there  was  a  touch  of  her  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  There  are  other  things 
— many  other  things.  He  has  very  high  abilities — he  wants  so  much  to 
do  something.  He  is  kind,  and  generous,  and  true,"  said  poor  Catherine, 
who  had  not  suspected  hitherto  the  resources  of  her  eloquence.  "  And 
his  fortune — his  fortune  that  he  spent — was  very  small !  " 

"  All  the  more  reason  he  shouldn't  have  spent  it,"  cried  the  Doctor 
getting  up  with  a  laugh.  Then  as  Catherine,  who  had  also  risen  to  her 
feet  again,  stood  there  in  her  rather  angular  earnestness,  wishing  so  much 
and  expressing  so  little,  he  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed  her. 
"  You  won't  think  me  cruel  f  he  said,  holding  her  a  moment. 

This  question  was  not  reassuring ;  it  seemed  to  Catherine,  on  the 
contrary,  to  suggest  possibilities  which  made  her  feel  sick.  But  she 
answered  coherently  enough — "  No,  dear  father ;  because  if  you  knew 
how  I  feel — and  you  must  know,  you  know  everything — you  would  be 
so  kind,  so  gentle." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  know  how  you  feel,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  I  will  be 
very  kind — be  sure  of  that.  And  I  will  see  Mr.  Townsend  to-morrow. 
Meanwhile,  and  for  the  present,  be  so  good  as  to  mention  to  no  one  that 
you  are  engaged." 

XII. 

On  the  morrow,  in  the  afternoon,  he  stayed  at  home,  awaiting  Mr. 
Townsend's  call — a  proceeding  by  which  it  appeared  to  him  (justly  per- 
haps, for  he  was  a  very  busy  man)  that  he  paid  Catherine's  suitor  great 
honour  and  gave  both  these  young  people  so  much  the  less  to  complain 
of.  Morris  presented  himself  with  a  countenance  sufficiently  serene — he 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  the  "insult"  for  which  he  had  solicited 
Catherine's  sympathy  two  evenings  before,  and  Dr.  Sloper  lost  no  time 
in  letting  him  know  that  he  had  been  prepared  for  his  visit. 

"  Catherine  told  me  yesterday  what  has  been  going  on  between  you," 
he  said.  "  You  must  allow  me  to  say  that  it  would  have  been  becoming 
of  you  to  give  me  notice  of  your  intentions  before  they  had  gone  so  far." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  125 

"  I  should  have  done  so,"  Morris  answered,  "  if  you  had  not  had  so 
much  the  appearance  of  leaving  your  daughter  at  liberty.  She  seems  to 
me  quite  her  own  mistress." 

"Literally,  she  is.  But  she  has  not  emancipated  herself  morally 
quite  so  far,  I  trust,  as  to  choose  a  husband  without  consulting  me.  I 
have  left  her  at  liberty,  but  I  have  not  been  in  the  least  indifferent.  The 
truth  is  that  your  little  affair  has  come  to  a  head  with  a  rapidity  that 
surprises  me.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  Catherine  made  your 
acquaintance." 

"It  was  not  long  ago,  certainly,"  said  Morris,  with  great  gravity. 
"  I  admit  that  we  have  not  been  slow  to — to  arrive  at  an  understanding. 
But  that  was  very  natural,  from  the  moment  we  were  sure  of  ourselves 
— and  of  each  other.  My  interest  in  Miss  Sloper  began  the  first  time  I 
saw  her." 

"  Did  it  not  by  chance  precede  your  first  meeting  ?  "  the  Doctor  asked. 

Morris  looked  at  him  an  instant.  "  I  certainly  had  already  heard 
that  she  was  a  charming  girl." 

"  A  charming  girl — that's  what  you  think  her  1 " 

"Assuredly.     Otherwise  I  should  not  be  sitting  here." 

The  Doctor  meditated  a  moment.  "  My  dear  young  man,"  he  said  at 
last,  "  you  must  be  very  susceptible.  As  Catherine's  father,  I  have,  I 
trust,  a  just  and  tender  appreciation  of  her  many  good  qualities  ;  but  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  have  never  thought  of  her  as  a  charming 
girl  and  never  expected  any  one  else  to  do  so. 

Morris  Townsend  received  this  statement  with  a  smile  that  was  not 
wholly  devoid  of  deference.  "I  don't  know  what  I  might  think  of  her 
if  I  were  her  father.  I  can't  put  myself  in  that  place.  I  speak  from  my 
own  point  of  view." 

"  You  speak  very  well,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  but  that  is  not  all  that  is 
necessary.  I  told  Catherine  yesterday  that  I  disapproved  of  her  engage- 
ment." 

"  She  let  me  know  as  much,  and  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  am 
greatly  disappointed."  And  Moms  sat  in  silence  awhile,  looking  at  the 
floor. 

"  Did  you  really  expect  I  would  say  I  was  delighted,  and  throw  my 
daughter  into  your  arms  1  " 

"Oh,  no;  I  had  an  idea  you  didn't  like  me." 

"  What  gave  you  the  idea  ?  " 

"  The  fact  that  I  am  poor." 

"  That  has  a  harsh  sound,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  but  >  it  is  about  the 
truth — speaking  of  you  strictly  as  a  son-in-law.  Your  absence  of  means, 
of  a  profession,  of  visible  resources  or  prospects,  places  you  in  a  category 
from  which  it  would  be  imprudent  for  me  to  select  a  husband  for  my 
daughter,  who  is  a  weak  young  woman  with  a  large  fortune.  In  any 
other  capacity  I  am  perfectly  prepared  to  like  you.  Asa  son-in-law,  I 
abominate  you ! " 


126  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Morris  Townsend  listened  respectfully.  "  I  don't  think  Miss  Sloper 
is  a  weak  woman,"  he  presently  said. 

"  Of  course  you  must  defend  her — it's  the  least  you  can  do.  But  I 
have  known  my  child  twenty  years,  and  you  have  known  her  six  weeks. 
Even  if  she  were  not  weak,  however,  you  would  still  be  a  penniless 
man." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  that  is  my  weakness  !  And  therefore,  you  mean,  I  am 
mercenary — I  only  want  your  daughter's  money." 

"  I  don't  say  that.  I  am  not  obliged  to  say  it ;  and  to  say  it,  save 
un^r  stress  of  compulsion,  would  be  very  bad  taste.  I  say  simply  that 
you  belong  to  the  wrong  category." 

"  But  your  daughter  doesn't  marry  a  category,"  Townsend  urged, 
with  his  handsome  smile.  "  She  marries  an  individual — an  individual 
whom  she  is  so  good  as  to  say  she  loves." 

II  An  individual  who  offers  so  little  in  return  !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  to  offer  more  than  the  most  tender  affection  and  a  life- 
long devotion  1 "  the  young  man  demanded. 

"  It  depends  how  we  take  it.  It  is  possible  to  offer  a  few  other  things 
besides,  and  not  only  it  is  possible,  but  it  is  the  custom.  A  life-long 
devotion  is  measured  after  the  fact ;  and  meanwhile  it  is  usual  in  these 
cases  to  give  a  few  material  securities.  What  are  yours?  A  very  hand- 
some face  and  figure,  and  a  very  good  manner.  They  are  excellent  as 
far  as  they  go,  but  they  don't  go  far  enough." 

"  There  is  one  thing'you  should  add  to  them,"  said  Morris  :  "  the  word 
of  a  gentleman  ! " 

"  The  word  of  a  gentleman  that  you  will  always  love  Catherine  ? 
You  must  be  a  very  fine  gentleman  to  be  sure  of  that." 

"  The  word  of  a  gentleman  that  I  am  not  mercenary ;  that  my  affec- 
tion for  Miss  Sloper  is  as  pure  and  disinterested  a  sentiment  as  was  ever 
lodged  in  a  human  breast !  I  care  no  more  for  her  fortune  than  for  the 

D 

ashes  in  that  grate." 

"  I  take  note — I  take  note,"  said  the  Doctor.  "But,  having  done 
so,  I  turn  to  our  category  again.  Even  with  that  solemn  vow  on  your 
lips,  you  take  your  place  in  it.  There  is  nothing  against  you  but  an 
accident,  if  you  will ;  but  with  my  thirty  years'  medical  practice,  I  have 
seen  that  accidents  may  have  far-reaching  consequences." 

Morris  smoothed  his  hat — it  was  already  remarkably  glossy — and 
continued  to  display  a  self-control  which,  as  the  Doctor  was  obliged  to 
admit,  was  extremely  creditable  to  him.  But  his  disappointment  was 
evidently  keen. 

"  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  to  make  you  believe  in  me  ?  " 

"  If  there  were,  I  should  be  sorry  to  suggest  it,  for — don't  you  see  ? — I 
don't  want  to  believe  in  you  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  smiling. 

II 1  would  go  and  dig  in  the  fields." 
"  That  would  be  foolish." 

"  I  will  take  the  first  work  that  offers,  to-morrow." 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  127 

"  Do  so  by  all  means — but  for  your  own  sake,  not  for  mine." 
"  I  see ;  you  think  I  am  an  idler !  "  Morris  exclaimed,  a  little  too 
much  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  made  a  discovery.     But  he  saw  his 
error  immediately  and  blushed. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  think,  when  once  I  have  told  you  I  don't 
think  of  you  as  a  son-in-law." 

But  Morris  persisted.     "  You  think  I  would  squander  her  money  ? " 
The  Doctor  smiled.     "  It  doesn't  matter,  as  I  say  j  but  I  plead  guilty 
to  that." 

"  That's  because  I  spent  my  own,  I  suppose,"  said  Morris.  "  I  frankly 
confess  that.  I  have  been  wild.  I  have  been  foolish.  I  will  tell  you 
every  crazy  thing  I  ever  did,  if  you  like.  There  were  some  great  follies 
among  the  number — I  have  never  concealed  that.  But  I  have  sown  my 
wild  oats.  Isn't  there  some  proverb  about  a  reformed  rake  1  I  was 
not  a  rake,  but  I  assure  you  I  have  reformed.  It  is  better  to  have 
amused  oneself  for  a  while  and  have  done  with  it.  Your  daughter 
would  never  care  for  a  milksop  ;  and  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  saying 
that  you  would  like  one  quite  as  little.  Besides,  between  my  money  and 
hers  there  is  a  great  difference.  I  spent  my  own  ;  it  was  because  it  was 
my  own  that  I  spent  it.  And  I  made  no  debts  ;  when  it  was  gone  I 
stopped.  I  don't  owe  a  penny  in  the  world." 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire  what  you  are  living  on  now — though  I  admit," 
the  Doctor  added,  "  that  the  question,  on  my  part,  is  inconsistent." 

"I  am  living  on  the  remnants  of  my  property,"  said  Morris  Town- 
send. 

"  Thank  you  ! "  the  Doctor  gravely  replied. 

Yes,  certainly,  Morris's  self-control  was  laudable.  "  Even  admit- 
ting I  attach  an  undue  importance  to  Miss  Sloper's  fortune,"  he  went  on, 
"  would  not  that  be  in  itself  an  assurance  that  I  would  take  good  care 
of  it?" 

"  That  you  should  take  too  much  care  would  be  quite  as  bad  as  that 
you  should  take  too  little.  Catherine  might  suffer  as  much  by  your 
economy  as  by  your  extravagance." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unjust ! "  The  young  man  made  this  declara- 
tion decently,  civilly,  without  violence. 

"  It  is  your  privilege  to  think  so,  and  I  surrender  my  reputation  to 
you  !  I  certainly  don't  natter  myself  I  gratify  you." 

"  Don't  you  care  a  little  to  gratify  your  daughter  1  Do  you  enjoy  the 
idea  of  making  her  miserable  1 " 

"  I  am  perfectly  resigned  to  her  thinking  me  a  tyrant  for  a  twelve- 
month." 

"  For  a  twelvemonth  ! "  exclaimed  Morris,  with  a  laugh. 

"  For  a  lifetime,  then  !  She  may  as  well  be  miserable  in  that  way  as 
in  the  other." 

Here  at  last  Morris  lost  his  temper.  "  Ah,  you  are  not  polite,  sir !  " 
he  cried. 


128  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

"  You  push  me  to  it — you  argue  too  much." 
"  I  have  a  great  deal  at  stake." 

"  Well,  whatever  it  is,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you  have  lost  it !  " 
"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? "  asked  Morris ;  "  are  you  sure  your  daughter 
will  give  me  up  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  you  have  lost  it  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  As 
for  Catherine's  giving  you  up — no,  I  am  not  sure  of  it.  But  as  I  shall 
strongly  recommend  it,  as  I  have  a  great  fund  of  respect  and  affection  in 
my  daughter's  mind  to  draw  upon,  and  as  she  has  the  sentiment  of  duty 
developed  in  a  very  high  degree,  I  think  it  extremely  possible." 

Morris  Townsend  began  to  smooth  his  hat  again.  "  I,  too,  have  a 
fund  of  affection  to  draw  upon  !  "  he  observed  at  last. 

The  Doctor  at  this  point  showed  his  own  first  symptoms  of  irritation. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  defy  me  I  " 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,  sir !  I  mean  not  to  give  your  daughter 
up." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  haven't  the  least  fear  of  your  pining 
away  your  life.  You  are  made  to  enjoy  it." 

Morris  gave  a  laugh.  "  Your  opposition  to  my  marriage  is  all  the 
more  cruel,  then !  Do  you  intend  to  forbid  your  daughter  to  see  me 
again  ? " 

"  She  is  past  the  age  at  which  people  are  forbidden,  and  I  am  not  a 
father  in  an  old-fashioned  novel.  But  I  shall  strongly  urge  her  to  break 
with  you." 

"  I  don't  think  she  will,"  said  Morris  Townsend. 

"Perhaps  not.     But  I  shall  have  done  what  I  could." 

"  She  has  gone  too  far,"  Morris  went  on. 

"  To  retreat?     Then  let  her  stop  where  she  is." 

"  Too  far  to  stop,  I  mean." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  a  moment ;  Morris  had  his  hand  on  the 
door.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  impertinence  in  your  saying  it." 

"  I  will  say  no  more,  sir  !  "  Morris  answered  ;  and,  making  his  bow, 

he  left  the  room. 

HENEY  JAMES,  JR. 


•  DON'T  LET  HER  MARRY  HIM  !  " 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


AUGUST,  1880. 


XIII. 

T  may  be  thought  the  Doc- 
wl  tor  was  too  positive,  and 
Mrs.  Almond  intimated  as 
much.  But  as  he  said,  he 
had  his  impression;  it 
seemed  to  him  sufficient, 
and  he  had  no  wish  to 
modify  it.  He  had  passed 
his  life  in  estimating 
people  (it  was  part  of  the 
medical  trade),  and  in 
nineteen  cases  out  of 
twenty  he  was  right. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Towns- 
end  is  the  twentieth  case," 
said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  Perhaps  he  is,  though 
he  doesn't  look  to  me  at 
all  like  a  twentieth  case. 
But  I  will  give  him  the 

benefit  of  the   doubt,  and,  to  make  sure,  I  will  go  and  talk  with   Mrs. 

Montgomery.     She  will  almost  certainly  tell  me  I.  have  done  right;  but 

*  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1880,  l>y  Henry  James,  Jr., 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 

VOL.  XL!  I. — NO.  248.  7. 


130  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

it  is  just  possible  that  she  will  prove  to  me  that  I  have  made  the  greatest 
mistake  of  my  life.  If  she  does,  I  will  beg  Mr.  Townsend's  pardon. 
You  needn't  invite  her  to  meet  me,  as  you  kindly  proposed ;  I  will  write 
her  a  frank  letter,  telling  her  how  matters  stand,  and  asking  leave  to 
come  and  see  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  the  frankness  will  be  chiefly  on  your  side.  The  poor 
little  woman  will  stand  up  for  her  brother,  whatever  he  may  be." 

"  Whatever  he  may  be  ?  I  doubt  that.  People  are  not  always  so 
fond  of  their  brothers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  "  when  it's  a  question  of  thirty  thousand 
a  year  coming  into  a  family " 

"  If  she  stands  up  for  him  on  account  of  the  money,  she  will  be  a 
humbug.  If  she  is  a  humbug  I  shall  see  it.  If  I  see  it,  I  won't  waste 
time  with  her." 

"  She  is  not  a  humbug — she  is  an  exemplary  woman.  She  will  not 
wish  to  play  her  brother  a  trick  simply  because  he  is  selfish." 

"  If  she  is  worth  talking  to,  she  will  sooner  play  him  a  trick  than 
that  he  should  play  Catherine  one.  Has  she  seen  Catherine,  by  the  way — 
does  she  know  her  1 " 

11  Not  to  my  knowledge.  Mr.  Townsend  can  have  had  no  particular 
interest  in  bringing  them  together." 

"  If  she  is  an  exemplary  woman,  no.  But  we  shall  see  to  what 
extent  she  answers  your  description." 

"  I  shall  be  curious  to  hear  her  description  of  you  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Almond,  with  a  laugh.  "  And,  meanwhile,  how  is  Catherine  taking  it  1 " 

"  As  she  takes  everything — as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  Doesn't  she  make  a  noise  ?     Hasn't  she  made  a  scene  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  scenic." 

"  I  thought  a  love-lorn  maiden  was  always  scenic." 

"  A  ridiculous  widow  is  more  so.  Lavinia  has  made  me  a  speech  ; 
she  thinks  me  very  arbitrary." 

"  She  has  a  talent  for  being  in  the  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Almond.  "  But 
I  am  very  sorry  for  Catherine,  all  the  same." 

"  So  am  I.     But  she  will  get  over  it." 

"  You  believe  she  will  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  I  count  upon  it.     She  has  such  an  admiration  for  her  father." 

"  Oh,  we  know  all  about  that !  But  it  only  makes  me  pity  her  the 
more.  It  makes  her  dilemma  the  more  painful,  and  the  effort  of 
choosing  between  you  and  her  lover  almost  impossible." 

"  If  she  can't  choose,  all  the  better." 

"Yes;  but  he  will  stand  there  entreating  her  to  choose,  and  Lavinia 
will  pull  on  that  side. " 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  not  on  my  side ;  she  is  capable  of  ruining  an 
excellent  cause.  The  day  Lavinia  gets  into  your  boat  it  capsizes.  But 
she  had  better  be  careful,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  will  have  no  treason  in 
my  house !  " 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  131 

"  I  suspect  she  will  be  careful ;  for  she  Is  at  bottom  very  much 
afraid  of  you." 

"They  are  both  afraid  of  me — harmless  as  I  am  !  "  the  Doctor 
answered.  "  And  it  is  on  that  that  I  build — on  the  salutary  terror  I 
inspire  ! " 

XIV. 

He  wrote  his  frank  letter  to  Mrs.  Montgomery,  who  punctually 
answered  it,  mentioning  an  hour  at  which  he  might  present  himself  in 
the  Second  Avenue.  She  lived  in  a  neat  little  house  of  red  brick,  which 
had  been  freshly  painted,  with  the  edges  of  the  bricks  very  sharply 
marked  out  in  white.  It  has  now  disappeared,  with  its  companions,  to 
make  room  for  a  row  of  structures  more  majestic.  There  were  green 
shutters  upon  the  windows,  without  slats,  but  pierced  with  little  holes, 
arranged  in  groups ;  and  before  the  house  was  a  diminutive  "  yard," 
ornamented  with  a  bush  of  mysterious  character,  and  surrounded  by  a 
low  wooden  paling,  painted  in  the  same  green  as  the  shutters.  The 
place  looked  like  a  magnified  baby-house,  and  might  have  been  taken 
down  from  a  shelf  in  a  toy-shop.  Dr.  Sloper,  when  he  went  to  call, 
said  to  himself,  as  he  glanced  at  the  objects  I  have  enumerated,  that 
Mrs.  Montgomery  was  evidently  a  thrifty  and  self-respecting  little 
person — the  modest  proportions  of  her  dwelling  seemed  to  indicate  that 
she  was  of  small  stature — who  took  a  virtuous  satisfaction  in  keeping 
herself  tidy,  and  had  resolved  thaf,  since  she  might  not  be  splendid,  she 
would  at  least  be  immaculate.  She  received  him  in  a  little  parlour, 
which  was  precisely  the  parlour  he  had  expected  :  a  small  unspeckled 
bower,  ornamented  with  a  desultory  foliage  of  tissue-paper,  and  with 
clusters  of  glass  drops,  amid  which — to  carry  out  the  analogy — the  tem- 
perature of  the  leafy  season  was  maintained  by  means  of  a  cast-iron 
stove,  emitting  a  dry,  blue  flame  and  smelling  strongly  of  varnish. 
The  walls  were  embellished  with  engravings  swathed  in  pink  gauze, 
and  the  tables  ornamented  with  volumes  of  extracts  from  the  poets, 
usually  bound  in  black  cloth  stamped  with  florid  designs  in  jaundiced 
gilt.  The  Doctor  had  time  to  take  cognisance  of  these  details  ;  for  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  whose  conduct  he  pronounced  under  the  circumstances 
inexcusable,  kept  him  waiting  some  ten  minutes  before  she  appeared. 
At  last,  however,  she  rustled  in,  smoothing  down  a  stiff  poplin  dress, 
with  a  little  frightened  flush  in  a  gracefully  rounded  cheek. 

She  was  a  small,  plump,  fair  woman,  with  a  bright,  clear  eye,  and  an 
extraordinary  air  of  neatness  and  briskness.  But  these  qualities  were 
evidently  combined  with  an  unaffected  humility,  and  the  Doctor  gave 
her  his  esteem  as  soon  as  he  had  looked  at  her.  A  brave  little  person, 
with  lively  perceptions,  and  yet  a  disbelief  in  her  own  talent  for  social, 
as  distinguished  from  practical,  affairs — this  was  his  rapid  mental  resume 
of  Mrs.  Montgomery,  who,  as  he  saw,  was  flattered  by  what  she  re- 

7—2 


132  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE, 

garded  as  the  honour  of  his  visit.  Mrs.  Montgomery,  in  her  little 
red  house  in  the  Second  Avenue,  was  a  person  for  whom  Dr.  Sloper  was 
one  of  the  great  men,  one  of  the  fine  gentlemen  of  New  York ;  and 
while  she  fixed  her  agitated  eyes  upon  him,  while  she  clasped  her 
mittened  hands  together  in  her  glossy  poplin  lap,  she  had  the  appearance 
of  saying,  to  herself  that  he  quite  answered  her  idea  of  what  a  distin- 
guished guest  would  naturally  be.  She  apologised  for  being  late ;  but 
he  interrupted  her. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said ;  "  for  while  I  sat  here  I  had  time  to 
think  over  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  and  to  make  up  my  mind  how  to 
begin." 

"  Oh,  do  begin  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  It  is  not  so  easy,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling.  "  You  will  have 
gathered  from  my  letter  that  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,  and  you 
may  not  find  it  very  comfortable  to  answer  them." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  thought  what  I  should  say.     It  is  not  very  easy." 

"But  you  must  understand  my  situation — my  state  of  mind.  Your 
brother  wishes  to  marry  my  daughter,  and  I  wish  to  find  out  what  sort 
of  a  young  man  he  is.  A  good  way  to  do  so  seemed  to  be  to  come  and 
ask  you,  which  I  have  proceeded  to  do.:> 

Mrs.  Montgomery  evidently  took  the  situation  very  seriously ;  she 
was  in  a  state  of  extreme  moral  concentration.  She  kept  her  pretty 
eyes,  which  were  illumined  by  a  sort  of  brilliant  modesty,  attached  to 
his  own  countenance,  and  evidently  paid  the  most  earnest  attention  to 
each  of  his  words.  Her  expression  indicated  that  she  thought  his  idea 
of  coming  to  see  her  a  very  superior  conception,  but  that  she  was  really 
afraid  to  have  opinions  on  strange  subjects. 

"  I  am  extremely  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  which  seemed 
to  admit,  at  the  same  time,  that  this  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question. 

The  Doctor  took  advantage  of  this  admission.  "  I  didn't  come  to 
see  you  for  your  pleasure ;  I  came  to  make  you  say  disagreeable  things 
— and  you  can't  like  that.  What  sort  of  a  gentleman  is  your  brother  1 " 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  illuminated  gaze  grew  vague,  and  began  to 
wander.  She  smiled  a  little,  and  for  some  time  made  no  answer,  eo 
that  the  Doctor  at  last  became  impatient.  And  her  answer,  when  it 
came,  was  not  satisfactory.  "  It  is  difficult  to  talk  about  one's  brother." 

"  Not  when  one  is  fond  of  him,  and  when  one  has  plenty  of  good 
to  say." 

"  Yes,  even  then,  when  a  good  deal  depends  on  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Montgomery. 

"  Nothing  depends  on  it,  for  you." 

"  I  mean  for — for "  and  she  hesitated. 

"  For  your  brother  himself.     I  see  !  " 

"  I  mean  for  Miss  Sloper,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

The  Doctor  liked  this ;  it  had  the  accent  of  sincerity.     "  Exactly  ; 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  133 

that's  the  point.  If  my  poor  girl  should  marry  your  brother,  everything 
— as  regards  her  happiness — would  depend  on  his  being  a  good  fellow. 
She  is  the  best  creature  in  the  world,  and  she  could  never  do  him  a  grain 
of  injury.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  should  not  be  all  that  we  de- 
sire, might  make  her  very  miserable.  That  is  why  I  want  you  to  throw 
some  light  upon  his  character,  you  know.  Of  course,  you  are  not  bound 
to  do  it.  My  daughter,  whom  you  have  never  seen,  is  nothing  to  you ; 
and  I,  possibly,  am  only  an  indiscreet  and  impertinent  old  man.  It  is 
perfectly  open  to  you  to  tell  me  that  my  visit  is  in  very  bad  taste  and 
that  I  had  better  go  about  my  business.  But  I  don't  think  you  will  do 
this ;  because  I  think  we  shall  interest  you,  my  poor  girl  and  I.  I  am 
sure  that  if  you  were  to  see  Catherine,  she  would  interest  you  very 
much.  I  don't  mean  because  she  is  interesting  in  the  usual  sense  of  the 
word,  but  because  you  would  feel  sorry  for  her.  She  is  so  soft,  so 
simple-minded,  she  would  be  such  an  easy  victim  !  A  bad  husband 
would  have  remarkable  facilities  for  making  her  miserable  ;  for  she 
would  have  neither  the  intelligence  nor  the  resolution  to  get  the  better 
of  him,  and  yet  she  would  have  an  exaggerated  power  of  suffering.  I 
see,"  added  the  Doctor,  with  his  most  insinuating,  his  most  professional 
laugh,  "  you  are  already  interested  !  " 

"  I  have  been  interested  from,  the  moment  he  told  me  he  was 
engaged,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  Ah  !  he  says  that — he  calls  it  an  engagement?  " 
"  Oh,  he  has  told  me  you  didn't  like  it." 
"  Did  he  tell  you  that  I  don't  like  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  that  too.  I  said  I  couldn't  help  it !  "  added  Mrs. 
Montgomery. 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  But  what  you  can  do  is  to  tell  me  I  am  right 
— to  give  me  an  attestation,  as  it  were."  And  the  Doctor  accompanied 
this  remark  with  another  professional  smile. 

Mrs.  Montgomery,  however,  smiled  not  at  all ;  it  was  obvious  that 
she  could  not  take  the  humorous  view  of  his  appeal.  "  That  is  a  good 
deal  to  ask,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  I  must,  in  conscience,  remind 
you  of  the  advantages  a  young  man  marrying  my  daughter  would  enjoy. 
She  has  an  income  of  ten  thousand  dollars  in  her  own  right,  left  her  by 
her  mother ;  if  she  marries  a  husband  I  approve,  she  will  come  into 
almost  twice  as  much  more  at  my  death." 

Mrs.    Montgomery  listened  in   great   earnestness   to   this   splendid 
financial   statement ;    she   had    never    heard   thousands   of  dollars   so 
familiarly  talked  about.     She  flushed  a  little  with  excitement.     "  Your 
daughter  will  be  immensely  rich,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Precisely — that's  the  bother  of  it." 

"  And  if  Morris  should  marry  her,  he — he "     And  she  hesitated 

timidly. 

"  He  would  be  master  of  all  that  money  1     By  no  means.     He  would 


134  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

be  master  of  the  ten  thousand  a  year  that  she  has  from  her  mother;  but 
I  should  leave  every  penny  of  my  own  fortune,  earned  in  the  laborious 
exercise  of  my  profession,  to  my  nephews  and  nieces." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  dropped  her  eyes  at  this,  and  sat  for  some  time 
gazing  at  the  straw  matting  which  covered  her  floor. 

"  I  suppose  it  seems  to  you,"  said  the  Doctor,  laughing,  "  that  in  so 
doing  I  should  play  your  brother  a  very  shabby  trick." 

"  Not  at  all.  That  is  too  much  money  to  get  possession  of  so  easily, 
by  marrying.  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right." 

"  It's  right  to  get  all  one  can.  But  in  this  case  your  brother  wouldn't 
be  able.  If  Catherine  marries  without  my  consent,  she  doesn't  get  a 
penny  from  my  own  pocket." 

"  Is  that  certain  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Montgomery,  looking  up. 
"  As  certain  as  that  I  sit  here  ! " 
"  Even  if  she  should  pine  away  1 " 

"  Even  if  she  should  pine  to  a  shadow,  which  isn't  probable. " 
"  Does  Morris  know  this  1 " 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  inform  him  !  "  the  Doctor  exclaimed. 
Mrs.  Montgomery  resumed  her  meditations,  and  her  visitor,  who  was 
prepared  to  give  time  to  the  affair,  asked  himself  whether,  in  spite  of  her 
little  conscientious  air,  she  was  not  playing  into  her  brother's  hands.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  half  ashamed  of  the  ordeal  to  which  he  had  sub- 
jected her,  and  was  touched  by  the  gentleness  with  which  she  bore  it. 
"  If  she  were  a  humbug,"  he  said,  "  she  would  get  angry ;  unless  she  be 
very  deep  indeed.  It  is  not  probable  that  she  is' as  deep  as  that." 

"  What  makes  you  dislike  Morris  so  much  1 "  she  presently  asked, 
emerging  from  her  reflections. 

"  I  don't  dislike  him  in  the  least  as  a  friend,  as  a  companion.  He 
seems  to  me  a  charming  fellow,  and  I  should  think  he  would  be  excellent 
company.  I  dislike  him,  exclusively,  as  a  son-in-law.  If  the  only  office 
of  a  son-in-law  were  to  dine  at  the  paternal  table,  I  should  set  a  high 
value  upon  your  brother.  He  dines  capitally.  But  that  is  a  small  part 
of  his  function,  which,  in  general,  is  to  be  a  protector  and  care-taker  of 
my  child,  who  is  singularly  ill-adapted  to  take  care  of  herself.  It  is 
there  that  he  doesn't  satisfy  me.  I  confess  I  have  nothing  but  my  im- 
pression to  go  by ;  but  I  am  in  the  habit  of  trusting  my  impression.  Of 
course  you  are  at  liberty  to  contradict  it  flat.  He  strikes  me  as  selfish 
and  shallow." 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  eyes  expanded  a  little,  and  the  Doctor  fancied  he 
saw  the  light  of  admiration  in  them.  "  I  wonder  you  have  discovered 
he  is  selfish  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  think  he  hides  it  so  well  1 " 

"  Very  well  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery.  "  And  I  think  we  are 
all  rather  selfish,"  she  added  quickly. 

"  I  think  so  too ;  but  I  have  seen  people  hide  it  better  than  he.  You 
see  I  am  helped  by  a  habit  I  have  of  dividing  people  into  classes,  into 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  135 

types.  I  may  easily  be  mistaken  about  your  brother  as  an  individual, 
but  his  type  is  written  on  his  whole  person." 

"  He  is  very  good-looking,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

The  Doctor  eyed  her  a  moment.  "  You  women  are  all  the  same  ! 
But  the  type  to  which  your  brother  belongs  was  made  to  be  the  ruin  of 
you,  and  you  were  made  to  be  its  handmaids  and  victims.  The  sign 
of  the  type  in  question  is  the  determination — sometimes  terrible  in  its 
quiet  intensity — to  accept  nothing  of  life  but  its  pleasures,  and  to  secure 
these  pleasures  chiefly  by  the  aid  of  your  complaisant  sex.  Young  men 
of  this  class  never  do  anything  for  themselves  that  they  can  get  other 
people  to  do  for  them,  and  it  is  the  infatuation,  the  devotion,  the  super- 
stition of  others,  that  keeps  them  going.  These  others  in  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred  are  women.  What  our  young  friends  chiefly  in- 
sist upon  is  that  some  one  else  shall  suffer  for  them ;  and  women  do  that 
sort  of  thing,  as  you  must  know,  wonderfully  well."  The  Doctor 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  he  added  abruptly — "  You  have  suffered 
immensely  for  your  brother ! " 

This  exclamation  was  abrupt,  as  I  say,  but  it  was  also  perfectly  cal- 
culated. The  Doctor  had  been  rather  disappointed  at  not  finding  his 
compact  and  comfortable  little  hostess  surrounded  in  a  more  visible 
degree  by  the  ravages  of  Morris  Townsend's  immorality ;  but  he  had 
said  to  himself  that  this  was  not  because  the  young  man  had  spared  her, 
but  because  she  had  contrived  to  plaster  up  her  wounds.  They  were 
aching  there,  behind  the  varnished  stove,  the  festooned  engravings,  be- 
neath her  own  neat  little  poplin  bosom ;  and  if  he  could  only  touch  the 
tender  spot,  she  would  make  a  movement  that  would  betray  her.  The 
words  I  have  just  quoted  were  an  attempt  to  put  his  finger  suddenly 
upon  the  place ;  and  they  had  some  of  the  success  that  he  looked  for. 
The  tears  sprang  for  a  moment  to  Mrs.  Montgomery's  eyes,  and  she  in- 
dulged in  a  proud  little  jerk  of  the  head. 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  have  found  that  out !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  By  a  philosophic  trick — by  what  they  call  induction.  You  know 
you  have  always  your  option  of  contradicting  me.  But  kindly  answer 
me  a  question.  Don't  you  give  your  brother  money  ?  I  think  you 
ought  to  answer  that." 

"  Yes,  I  have  given  him  money,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  And  you  have  not  had  much  to  give  him  1 " 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  If  you  ask  me  for  a  confession  of 
poverty,  that  is  easily  made.  I  am  very  poor." 

"  One  would  never  suppose  it  from  your — your  charming  house,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "  I  learned  from  my  sister  that  your  income  was  moderate 
and  your  family  numerous." 

"  I  have  five  children,"  Mrs.  Montgomery  observed ;  "  but  I  am 
happy  to  say  I  can  bring  them  up  decently." 

"  Of  course  you  can — accomplished  and  devoted  as  you  are !  But 
your  brother  has  counted  them  over,  I  suppose  1 " 


136  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

"  Counted  them  ovw  ? " 

"  He  knows  there  are  five,  I  mean.  He  tells  me  it  is  he  that  brings 
them  up." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stared  a  moment,  and  then  quickly — "  Oh,  yes ;  he 
teaches  them Spanish." 

The  Doctor  laughed  out.  "  That  must  take  a  great  deal  off  your 
hands !  Your  brother  also  knows,  of  course,  that  you  have  very  little 
money." 

"  I  have  often  told  him  so  !  "  Mrs.  Montgomery  exclaimed,  more  un- 
reservedly than  she  had  yet  spoken.  She  was  apparently  taking  some 
comfort  in  the  Doctor's  clairvoyance. 

"  Which  means  that  you  have  often  occasion  to,  and  that  he  often 
sponges  on  you.  Excuse  the  crudity  of  my  language ;  I  simply  express 
a  fact.  I  don't  ask  you  how  much  of  your  money  he  has  had,  it  is  none 
of  my  business.  I  have  ascertained  what  I  suspected — what  I  wished." 
And  the  Doctor  got  up,  gently  smoothing  his  hat.  "  Your  brother  lives 
on  you,"  he  said  as  he  stood  there. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  quickly  rose  from  her  chair,  following  her  visitor's 
movements  with  a  look  of  fascination.  But  then,  with  a  certain  incon- 
sequence— "  I  have  never  complained  of  him  !"  she  said. 

"  You  needn't  protest — you  have  not  betrayed  him.  But  I  advise 
you  not  to  give  him  any  more  money." 

"  Don't  you  see  it  is  in  my  interest  that  he  should  marry  a  rich  per- 
son ? "  she  asked.  "  If,  as  you  say,  he  lives  on  me,  I  can  only  wish  to 
get  rid  of  him,  and  to  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  marrying  is  to  in- 
crease my  own  difficulties." 

"  I  wish  very  much  you  would  come  to  me  with  your  difficulties," 
said  the  Doctor.  "  Certainly,  if  I  throw  him  back  on  your  hands,  the 
least  I  can  do  is  to  help  you  to  bear  the  burden.  If  you  will  allow  me 
to  say  so,  then,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  placing  in  your  hands,  for  the 
present,  a  certain  fund  for  your  brother's  support." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  stared;  she  evidently  thought  he  was  jesting;  but 
she  presently  saw  that  he  was  not,  and  the  complication  of  her  feelings 
became  painful.  "  It  seems  to  me  tnat  I  ought  to  be  very  much  offended 
with  you,"  she  murmured. 

"  Because  I  have  offered  you  money  ?  That's  a  superstition,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "  You  must  let  me  come  and  see  you  again,  and  we  will 
talk  about  these  things.  I  suppose  that  some  of  your  children  are  girls." 

"  I  have  two  little  girls,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"Well,  when  they  grow  up,  and  begin  to  think  of  taking  husbands, 
you  will  see  how  anxious  you  will  be  about  the  mora1  character  of  these 
husbands.  Then  you  will  understand  this  visit  of  mine  !  " 

"  Ah,  you  are  not  to  believe  that  Morris's  moral  character  is  bad !  " 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  a  little,  with  folded  arms.  "  There  is 
something  I  should  greatly  like — -as  a  moral  satisfaction.  I  should  like 
to  hear  you  say — '  He  is  abominably  selfish  ! ' " 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  137 

The  words  came  out  with  the  grave  distinctness  of  his  voice,  and  they 
seemed  for  an  instant  to  create,  to  poor  Mrs.  Montgomery's  troubled 
vision,  a  material  image.  She  gazed  at  it  an  instant,  and  then  she 
turned  away.  "  You  distress  me,  sir  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  He  is,  after 

all,  my  brother,  and  his  talents,  his  talents "  On  these  last  words 

her  voice  quavered,  and  before  he  knew  it  she  had  burst  into  tears. 

"  His  talents  are  first-rate  !  "  said  the  Doctor.  "We  must  find  the 
proper  field  for  them !  "  And  he  assured  her  most  respectfully  of  his 
regret  at  having  so  greatly  discomposed  her.  "  It's  all  for  my  poor 
Catherine,"  he  went  on.  <;  You  must  know  her,  and  you  will  see." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  brushed  away  her  tears  and  blushed  at  having 
shed  them.  "  I  should  like  to  know  your  daughter,"  she  answered  ;  and 
then,  in  an  instant — "  Don't  let  her  marry  him  !  " 

Dr.  Sloper  went  away  with  the  words  gently  humming  in  his  ears 
— "Don't  let  her  marry  him!"  They  gave  him  the  moral  satisfaction 
of  which  he  had  just  spoken,  and  their  value  was  the  greater  that  they 
had  evidently  cost  a  pang  to  poor  little  Mrs.  Montgomery's  family  pride. 


He  had  been  puzzled  by  the  way  that  Catherine  carried  herself;  her 
attitude  at  this  sentimental  crisis  seemed  to  him  unnaturally  passive. 
She  had  not  spoken  to  him  again  after  that  scene  in  the  library,  the  day 
before  his  interview  with  Morris;  and  a  week  had  elapsed  without 
making  any  change  in  her  manner.  There  was  nothing  in  it  that  ap- 
pealed for  pity,  and  he  was  even  a  little  disappointed  at  her  not  giving 
him  an  opportunity  to  make  up  for  his  harshness  by  some  manifestation 
of  liberality  which  should  operate 'as  a  compensation.  He  thought  a 
little  of  offering  to  take  her  for  a  tour  in  Europe ;  but  he  was  deter- 
mined to  do  this  only  in  case  she  should  seem  mutely  to  reproach  him. 
He  had  an  idea  that  she  would  display  a  talent  for  mute  reproaches,  and 
he  was  surprised  at  not  finding  himself  exposed  to  these  silent  batteries, 
She  said  nothing,  either  tacitly  or  explicitly,  and  as  she  was  never  very 
talkative,  there  was  now  no  especial  eloquence  in  her  reserve.  And  poor 
Catherine  was  not  sulky — a  style  of  behaviour  for  which  she  had  too 
little  histrionic  talent ;  she  was  simply  very  patient.  Of  course  she  was 
thinking  over  her  situation,  and  she  was  apparently  doing  so  in  a  deli- 
berate and  unimpassioned  manner,  with  a  view  of  making  the  best  of  it. 

"  She  will  do  as  I  have  bidden  her,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  he  made  the 
further  reflection  that  his  daughter  was  not  a  woman  of  a  great  spirit. 

I  know  not  whether  he  had  hoped  for  a  little  more  resistance  for  the 
sake  of  a  little  more  entertainment ;  but  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  had 
said  before,  that  though  it  might  have  its  momentary  alarms,  paternity 
was,  after  all,  not  an  exciting  vocation. 

Catherine  meanwhile  had  made  a  discovery  of  a  very  different  sort ; 
it  had  become  vivid  to  her  that  there  Avas  a  great  excitement  in  trying  to 

7-5 


138  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

be  a  good  daughter.  She  had  an  entirely  new  feeling,  which  may  be 
described  as  a  state  of  expectant  suspense  about  her  own  actions.  She 
watched  herself  as  she  would  have  watched  another  person,  and  wondered 
what  she  would  do.  It  was  as  if  this  other  person,  who  was  both  herself 
and  not  herself,  had  suddenly  sprung  into  being,  inspiring  her  with  a 
natural  curiosity  as  to  the  performance  of  untested  functions. 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  such  a  good  daughter,"  said  her  father,  kissing 
her,  after  the  lapse  of  several  days. 

"  I  am  trying  to  be  good,"  she  answered,  turning  away,  with  a  con- 
science not  altogether  clear. 

"  If  there  is  anything  you  would  like  to  say  to  me,  you  know  you 
must  not  hesitate.  You  needn't  feel  obliged  to  be  so  quiet.  I  shouldn't 
care  that  Mr.  Townsend  should  be  a  frequent  topic  of  conversation,  but 
whenever  you  have  anything  particular  to  say  about  him  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Catherine ;  "  I  have  nothing  particular  at 
present." 

He  never  asked  her  whether  she  had  seen  Morris  again,  because  he 
was  sure  that  if  this  had  been  the  case  she  would  tell  him.  She  had  in 
fact  not  seen  him,  she  had  only  written  him  a  long  letter.  The  letter 
at  least  was  long  for  her ;  and,  it  may  be  added,  that  it  was  long  for 
Morris ;  it  consisted  of  five  pages,  in  a  remarkably  neat  and  handsome 
hand.  Catherine's  handwriting  was  beautiful,  and  she  was  even  a  little 
proud  of  it ;  she  was  extremely  fond  of  copying,  and  possessed  volumes 
of  extracts  which  testified  to  this  accomplishment ;  volumes  which  she 
had  exhibited  one  day  to  her  lover,  when  the  bliss  of  feeling  that  she 
was  important  in  his  eyes  was  exceptionally  keen.  She  told  Morris  in 
writing  that  her  father  had  expressed  the  .wish  that  she  should  not  see 
him  again,  and  that  she  begged  he  would  not  come  to  the  house  until 
she  should  have  "  made  up  her  mind."  Morris  replied  with  a  passionate 
epistle,  in  which  he  asked  to  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  she  wished  to  make 
up  her  mind.  Had  not  her  mind  been  made  up  two  weeks  before,  and 
could  it  be  possible  that  she  entertained  the  idea  of  throwing  him  off?  Did 
she  mean  to  break  down  at  the  very  beginning  of  their  ordeal,  after  all 
the  promises  of  fidelity  she  had  both  given  and  extracted  1  And  he  gave 
an  account  of  his  own  interview  with  her  father — an  account  not  identical 
at  all  points  with  that  offered  in  these  pages.  "  He  was  terribly  violent," 
Morris  wrote  ;  "  but  you  know  my  self-control.  I  have  need  of  it  all 
when  I  remember  that  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  break  in  upon  your 
cruel  captivity."  Catherine  sent  him  in  answer  to  this,  a  note  of  three 
lines.  "  I  am  in  great  trouble ;  do  not  doubt  of  my  affection,  but  let  me 
wait  a  little  and  think."  The  idea  of  a  struggle  with  her  father,  of 
setting  up  her  will  against  his  own,  was  heavy  on  her  soul,  and  it  kept 
her  quiet,  as  a  great  physical  weight  keeps  us  motionless.  It  never 
entered  into  her  mind  to  throw  her  lover  off;  but  from  the  first  she 
tried  to  assure  herself  that  there  would  be  a  peaceful  way  out  of  their 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  139 

difficulty.     The   assurance  was  vague,  for  it   contained  no  element  of 
positive  conviction  that  her  father  would  change  his  mind.     She  only 
had  an  idea  that  if  she  should  be  very  good,  the  situation  would  in  some 
mysterious  manner  improve.     To  be  good,  she  must  be  patient,  outwardly 
submissive,  abstain  from  judging  her  father  too  harshly  and  from  com- 
mitting any  act  of  open  defiance.     He  was  perhaps  right,  after  all,  to 
think  as  he  did ;  by  which  Catherine  meant  not  in  the  least  that  his 
judgment  of  Morris's  motives  in  seeking  to  marry  her  was  perhaps  a  just 
one,  but  that  it  was  probably  natural  and  proper  that  conscientious 
parents  should  be  suspicious  and  even  unjust.     There  were  probably 
people  in  the  world  as  bad  as  her  father  supposed  Morris  to  be,  and  if 
there  were  the  slightest  chance  of  Morris  being  one  of  these  sinister 
persons,  the  Doctor  was  right  in  taking  it  into  account.     Of  course  he 
could  not  know  what  she  knew,  how  the  purest  love  and  truth  were 
seated  in  the  young  man's  eyes  ;  but  Heaven,  in  its  time,  might  appoint 
a  way  of  bringing  him  to  such  knowledge.     Catherine  expected  a  good 
deal  of  Heaven,  and  referred  to  the  skies  the  initiative,  as  the  French 
say,  in  dealing  with  her  dilemma.     She  could  not  imagine  herself  impart- 
ing any  kind  of  knowledge  to  her  father,  there  was  something  superior 
even  in  his  injustice  and  absolute  in  his  mistakes.     But  she  could  at  least 
be  good,  and  if  she  were  only  good  enough,  Heaven  would  invent  some 
way  of  reconciling  all  things — the  dignity  of  her  father's  errors  and  the 
sweetness  of  her  own  confidence,  the   strict  performance  of  her  filial 
duties  and  the  enjoyment  of  Morris  Townsend's  affection.     Poor  Catherine 
would  have  been  glad  to  regard  Mrs.  Penniman  as  an  illuminating  agent, 
a  part  which  this  lady  herself  indeed  was  but  imperfectly  prepared  to 
play.       Mrs.    Penniman  took  too  much  satisfaction  in  the  sentimental 
shadows  of  this  little  drama  to  have,  for  the  moment,  any  great  interest 
in  dissipating  them.     She  wished  the  plot  to  thicken,  and  the  advice  that 
she  gave  her  niece  tended,  in  her  own  imagination,  to  produce  this  result. 
It  was  rather  incoherent  counsel,  andfrom  one  day  to  another  it  contradicted 
itself;  but  it  was  pervaded  by  an  earnest  desire  that  Catherine  should 
do  something  striking.     "  You  must  act,  my  dear ;  in  your  situation  the 
great  thing  is  to  act,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  found  her  niece  alto- 
gether beneath  her  opportunities.    Mrs.  Penniman's  real  hope  was  that  the 
girl  would  make  a  secret  marriage,  at  which  she  should  officiate  as  brides- 
worn  an  or  duenna.     She  had  a  vision  of  this  ceremony  being  performed  in 
some  subterranean  chapel — subterranean  chapels  in  New  York  were  not 
frequent,  but  Mrs.  Penniman's  imagination  was  not  chilled  by  trifles — and 
of  the  guilty  couple — she  liked  to  think  of  poor  Catherine  and  her  suitor 
as  the  guilty  couple — being  shuffled  away  in  a  fast-whirling  vehicle  to  some 
obscure  lodging  in  the  suburbs,  where  she  would  pay  them  (in  a  thick 
veil)  clandestine  visits,  where  they  would  endure  a  period  of  romantic 
privation,  and  where  ultimately,  after  she  should  have  been  their  earthly 
providence,  their  intercessor,  their  advocate,  and  their  medium  of  com- 
munication with  the  world,  they  would  be  reconciled  to  her  brother  in 


140  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

an  artistic  tableau,  in  which  she  herself  should  be  somehow  the  central 
figure.  She  hesitated  as  yet  to  recommend  this  course  to  Catherine,  but 
she  attempted  to  draw  an  attractive  picture  of  it  to  Morris  Townsend. 
She  was  in  daily  communication  with  the  young  man,  whom  she  kept 
informed  by  letters  of  the  state  of  affairs  in  Washington  Square.  As  he 
had  been  banished,  as  she  said,  from  the  house,  she  no  longer  saw  him  ; 
but  she  ended  by  writing  to  him  that  she  longed  for  an  interview.  This 
interview  could  take  place  only  on  neutral  ground,  and  she  bethought 
herself  greatly  before  selecting  a  place  of  meeting.  She  had  an  inclina- 
tion for  Greenwood  Cemetery,  but  she  gave  it  up  as  too  distant ;  she 
could  not  absent  herself  for  so  long,  as  she  said,  without  exciting 
suspicion.  Then  she  thought  of  the  Battery,  but  that  was  rather  cold 
and  windy,  besides  one's  being  exposed  to  intrusion  from  the  Irish 
emigrants  who  at  this  point  alight,  with  large  appetites,  in  the  New 
World;  and  at  last  she  fixed  upon  an  oyster  saloon  in  the  Seventh 
Avenue,  kept  by  a  negro — an  establishment  of  which  she  knew  nothing 
save  that  she  had  noticed  it  in  passing.  She  made  an  appointment  with 
Morris  Townsend  to  meet  him  there,  and  she  went  to  the  tryst  at  dusk, 
enveloped  in  an  impenetrable  veil.  He  kept  her  waiting  for  half-an-hour 
— he  had  almost  the  whole  width  of  the  city  to  traverse — but  she  liked 
to  wait,  it  seemed  to  intensify  the  situation.  She  ordered  a  cup  of  tea, 
which  proved  excessively  bad,  and  this  gave  her  a  sense  that  she  was 
suffering  in  a  romantic  cause.  When  Morris  at  last  arrived,  they  sat 
together  for  half  an  hour  in  the  duskiest  corner  of  the  back  shop  ;  and  it  is 
hardly  too  much  to  say  that  this  was  the  happiest  half-hour  that  Mrs. 
Penniman  had  known  for  years.  The  situation  was  really  thrilling,  and 
it  scarcely  seemed  to  her  a  false  note  when  her  companion  asked  for  an 
oyster-stew,  and  proceeded  to  consume  it  before  her  eyes.  Morris,  indeed, 
needed  all  the  satisfaction  that  stewed  oysters  could  give  him,  for  it  may 
be  intimated  to  the  reader  that  he  regarded  Mrs.  Penniman  in  the  light  of 
a  fifth  wheel  to  his  coach.  He  was  in  a  state  of  irritation  natural  to  a 
gentleman  of  fine  parts  who  had  been  snubbed  in  a  benevolent  attempt 
to  confer  a  distinction  upon  a  young  woman  of  inferior  characteristics, 
and  the  insinuating  sympathy  of  this  somewhat  desiccated  matron 
appeared  to  offer  him  no  practical  relief.  He  thought  her  a  humbug, 
and  he  judged  of  humbugs  with  a  good  deal  of  confidence.  He  had 
listened  and  made  himself  agreeable  to  her  at  first,  in  order  to  get  a 
footing  in  Washington  Square ;  and  at  present  he  needed  all  his  self- 
command  to  be  decently  civil.  It  would  have  gratified  him  to  tell  her 
that  she  was  a  fantastic  old  woman,  and  that  he  should  like  to  put  her 
into  an  omnibus  and  send  her  home.  We  know,  however,  that  Morris 
possessed  the  virtue  of  self-control,  and  he  had  moreover  the  constant 
habit  of  seeking  to  be  agreeable ;  so  that,  although  Mrs.  Penniman's 
demeanour  only  exasperated  his  already  unquiet  nerves,  he  listened  to 
her  with  a  sombre  deference  in  which  she  found  much  to  admire, 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  141 


XVI. 

They  had  of  course  immediately  spoken  of  Catherine.  "  Did  she 
send  me  a  message,  or — or  anything  ?  "  Morris  asked.  He  appeared  to 
think  that  she  might  have  sent  him  a  trinket  or  a  lock  of  her  hair. 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  slightly  embarrassed,  for  she  had  not  told  her 
niece  of  her  intended  expedition.  "  Not  exactly  a  message,"  she  said ; 
"  I  didn't  ask  her  for  one,  because  I  was  afraid  to — to  excite  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  she  is  not  very  excitable  !  "  And  Morris  gave  a  smile 
of  some  bitterness. 

"  She  is  better  than  that.     She  is  steadfast — she  is  true  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  hold  fast  then  ?  " 

"  To  the  death  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  won't,  come  to  that,"  said  Morris. 

"  We  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst,  and  that  is  what  I  wish  to 
speak  to  you  about  " 

"  What  do  you  call  the  worst  1 " 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  "  my  brother's  hard,  intellectual 
nature." 

"  Oh,  the  devil !  " 

"  He  is  impervious  to  pity,"  Mrs.  Penniman  added,  by  way  of  ex- 
planation. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  won't  come  round  ? " 

"  He  will  never  be  vanquished  by  argument.  I  have  studied  him. 
He  will  be  vanquished  only  by  the  accomplished  fact." 

"  The  accomplished  fact  1 " 

"  He  will  come  round  afterwards,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  ex- 
treme significance.  "  He  cares  for  nothing  but  facts- — he  must  be  met 
by  facts !  " 

"  Well,"  rejoined  Morris,  "  it  is  a  fact  that  I  wish  to  marry  his 
daughter.  I  met  him  with  that  the  other  day,  but  he  was  not  at  all 
vanquished." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  a  little,  and  her  smile  beneath  the  shadow 
of  her  capacious  bonnet,  on  the  edge  of  which  her  black  veil  was  ar- 
ranged curtainwise,  fixed  itself  upon  Morris's  face  with  a  still  more 
tender  brilliancy.  "  Marry  Catherine  first  and  meet  him  afterwards  !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  recommend  that  ?  "  asked  the  young  man,  frowning  heavily. 

She  was  a  little  frightened,  but  she  went  on  with  considerable  bold- 
ness. "  That  is  the  way  I  see  it  :  a  private  marriage — a  private  mar- 
riage." She  repeated  the  phrase  because  she  liked  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  carry  Catherine  off]  What  do  they 
call  it — elope  with  her  1 " 

"  It  is  not  a  crime  when  you  are  driven  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"  My  husband,  as  I  have  told  you,  was  a  distinguished  clergyman — one 


142  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

of  the  most  eloquent  men  of  his  day.  He  once  married  a  young  couple 
that  had  fled  from  the  house  of  the  young  lady's  father ;  he  was  so 
interested  in  their  story.  He  had  no  hesitation,  and  everything  came 
out  beautifully.  The  father  was  afterwards  reconciled,  and  thought 
everything  of  the  young  man.  Mr.  Penniman  married  them  in  the 
evening,  about  seven  o'clock.  The  church  was  so  dark,  you  could 
scarcely  see;  and  Mr.  Penniman  was  intensely  agitated — he  was  so 
sympathetic.  I  don't  believe  he  could  have  done  it  again." 

"  Unfortunately  Catherine  and  I  have  not  Mr.  Penniman  to  marry 
us,"  said  Mori-is. 

"  No,  but  you  have  me ! "  rejoined  Mrs.  Penniman,  expressively. 
"  I  can't  perform  the  ceremony,  but  I  can  help  you  ;  I  can  watch  !  " 

"  The  woman's  an  idiot !."  thought  Morris  ;  but  he  was  obliged  to  say 
something  different.  It  was  not,  however,  materially  more  civil.  "  Was 
it  in  order  to  tell  me  this  that  you  requested  I  would  meet  you  here  1 " 

Mrs.  Penniman  had  been  conscious  of  a  certain  vagueness  in  her 
errand,  and  of  not  being  able  to  offer  him  any  very  tangible  reward  for 
his  long  walk.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  one  who  is 
so  near  to  Catherine,"  she  observed,  with  considerable  majesty.  "  And 
also,"  she  added,  "  that  you  would  value  an  opportunity  of  sending  her 
something." 

Morris  extended  his  empty  hands  with  a  melancholy  smile.  "  I  am 
greatly  obliged  to  you,  but  I  have  nothing  to  send !  " 

"  Haven't  you  a  word  ?  "  asked  his  companion,  with  her  suggestive 
smile  coming  back. 

Morris  frowned  again.  "  Tell  her  to  hold  fast,"  he  said,  rather  curtly. 

"  That  is  a  good  word — a  noble  word.  It  will  make  her  happy  for 
many  days.  She  is  very  touching,  very  brave,"  Mrs.  Penniman  went 
on,  arranging  her  mantle  and  preparing  to  depart.  While  she  was  so 
engaged  she  had  an  inspiration ;  she  found  the  phrase  that  she  could 
boldly  offer  as  a  vindication  of  the  step  she  had  taken.  "  If  you  marry 
Catherine  at  all  risks,"  she  said,  "  you  will  give  my  brother  a  proof  of 
your  being  what  he  pretends  to  doubt." 

"  What  he  pretends  to  doubt  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  what  that  is  1 "  Mrs.  Penniman  asked,  almost  play- 
fully. 

"  It  does  not  concern  me  to  know,"  said  Morris,  grandly. 

"  Of  course  it  makes  yoii  angry." 

"  I  despise  it,"  Morris  declared. 

"  Ah,  you  know  what  it  is,  then  ? "  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  shaking 
her  fincrer  at  him.  "  He  pretend*  that  you  like — you  like  the  money." 

Morris  hesitated  a  moment ;  and  then,  as  if  he  spoke  advisedly,  "  I 
do  like  the  money  !  " 

"Ah,  but  not — but  not  as  he  means  it.  You  don't  like  it  more 
than  Catherine  ]  " 

He  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 


WASHINGTON   SQUAKE.  143 

i 

"  You  torture  me  !  "  he  murmured.  And,  indeed,  this  was  almost  the 
effect  of  the  poor  lady's  too  importunate  interest  in  his  situation. 

But  she  insisted  on  making  her  point.  "  If  you  marry  her  in  spite 
of  him,  he  will  take  for  granted  that  you  expect  nothing  of  him,  and 
are  prepared  to  do  without  it.  And  so  he  will  see  that  you  are  disin- 
terested." 

Morris  raised  his  head  a  little,  following  this  argument.  "  And  what 
shall  I  gain,  by  that  1 " 

"  Why,  that  he  will  see  that  he  has  been  wrong  in  thinking  that  you 
wished  to  get  his  money." 

"  And  seeing  that  I  wish  he  would  go  to  the  deuce  with  it,  he  will 
leave  it  to  a  hospital.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Morris. 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that ;  though  that  would  be  very  grand  !  "  Mrs. 
Penniman  quickly  added.  "  I  mean  that  having  done  you  such  an  injus- 
tice, he  will  think  it  his  duty,  at  the  end,  to  make  some  amends." 

Morris  shook  his  head,  though  it  must  be  confessed  he  was  a  little 
struck  with  this  idea.  "  Do  you  think  he  is  so  sentimental  ? " 

"  He  is  not  sentimental,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman  ;  "  but,  to  be  perfectly 
fair  to  him,  I  think  he  has,  in  his  own  narrow  way,  a  certain  sense 
of  duty." 

There  passed  through-  Morris  Townsend's  mind  a  rapid  wonder  as  to 
what  he  might,  even  under  a  remote  contingency,  be  indebted  to  from 
the  action  of  this  principle  in  Dr.  Sloper's  breast,  and  the  inquiry 
exhausted  itself  in  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  "  Your  brother  has  no 
duties  to  me,"  he  said  presently,  "  and  I  none  to  him." 

"  Ah,  but  he  has  duties  to  Catherine." 

"  Yes,  but  you  see  that  on  that  principle  Catherine  has  duties  to 
him  as  well." 

Mrs.  Penniman  got  up,  with  a  melancholy  sigh,  as  if  she  thought 
him  very  unimaginative.  "  She  has  always  performed  them  faithfully ; 
and  now  do  you  think  she  has  no  duties  to  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Penniman 
always,  even  in  conversation,  italicised  her  personal  pronouns. 

"  It  would  sound  harsh  to  say  so  !  I  am  so  grateful  for  her  love," 
Morris  added. 

"  I  will  tell  her  you  said  that !  And  now,  remember  that  if  you 
need  me  I  am  there."  And  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  could  think  of  nothing 
more  to  say,  nodded  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  Washington  Square. 

Morris  looked  some  moments  at  the  sanded  floor  of  the  shop ;  he 
seemed  to  be  disposed  to  linger  a  moment.  At  last,  looking  up  with  a 
certain  abruptness,  "  It  is  your  belief  that  if  she  marries  me  he  will  cut 
her  off1?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Penniman  stared  a  little,  and  smiled.  "Why;  I  have  ex- 
plained to  you  what  I  think  would  happen — that  in  the  end  it  would  be 
the  best  thing  to  do." 

"  You  mean  that,  whatever  she  does,  in  the  long  run  she  will  get  the 
money  ? " 


144  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  It  doesn't  depend  upon  her,  but  upon  yon.  Venture  to  appear  as 
disinterested  as  you  are ! "  said  Mrs.  Penniman  ingeniously.  Morris 
dropped  his  eyes  on  the  sanded  floor  again,  pondering  this;  and  she 
pursued.  "  Mr.  Penniman  and  I  had  nothing,  and  we  were  very  happy. 
Catherine,  moreover,  has  her  mother's  fortune,  which,  at  the  time  my 
sister-in-law  married,  was  considered  a  very  handsome  one." 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  that !  "  said  Morris  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  quite 
superfluous,  for  he  had  contemplated  the  fact  in  all  its  lights. 

"  Austin  married  a  wife  with  money — why  shouldn't  you  1 " 

"  Ah  !  but  your  brother  was  a  doctor,"  Morris  objected. 

"  Well,  all  young  men  can't  be  doctors  !  " 

"  I  should  think  it  an  extremely  loathsome  profession,"  said  Morris, 
with  an  air  of  intellectual  independence  ;  then,  in  a  moment,  he  went  on 
rather  inconsequently,  "  Do  you  suppose  there  is  a  will  already  made  in 
Catherine's  favour  ? " 

"  I  suppose  so — even  doctors  must  die ;  and  perhaps  a  little  in 
mine,"  Mrs.  Peuniman  frankly  added. 

"  And  you  believe  he  would  certainly  change  it — as  regards  Cathe- 
rine?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  then  change  it  back  again." 

"  Ah,  but  one  can't  depend  on  that !  "  said  Morris. 

"  Do  you  want  to  depend  on  it  1 "  Mrs.  Penniman  asked. 

Morris  blushed  a  little.  "  Well,  I  am  certainly  afraid  of  being  the 
cause  of  an  injury  to  Catherine." 

"  Ah  !  you  must  not  be  afraid.  Be  afraid  of  nothing,  and  everything 
will  go  well !  " 

And  then  Mrs.  Penniman  paid  for  her  cup  of  tea,  and  Morris  paid 
for  his  oyster  stew,  and  they  went  out  together  into  the  dimly-lighted 
wilderness  of  the  Seventh  Avenue.  The  dusk  had  closed  in  completely, 
and  the  street  lamps  were  separated  by  wide  intervals  of  a  pavement  in 
which  cavities  and  fissures  played  a  disproportionate  part.  An  omnibus, 
emblazoned  with  strange  pictures,  went  tumbling  over  the  dislocated 
cobble-stones. 

"  How  will  you  go  home  ? "  Morris  asked,  following  this  vehicle  with 
an  interested  eye.  Mrs.  Penniman  had  taken  his  arm. 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  think  this  manner  would  be  pleasant," 
she  said ;  and  she  continued  to  let  him  feel  the  value  of  his  support. 

So  he  walked  with  her  through  the  devious  ways  of  the  west  side  of 
the  town,  and  through  the  bustle  of  gathering  nightfall  in  populous 
streets,  to  the  quiet  precinct  of  Washington  Square.  They  lingered  a 
moment  at  the  foot  of  Dr.  Sloper's  white  marble  steps,  above  which 
a  spotless  white  door,  adorned  with  a  glittering  silver  plate,  seemed  to 
figure,  for  Morris,  the  closed  portal  of  happiness ;  and  then  Mrs.  Penni- 
man's  companion  rested  a  melancholy  eye  upon  a  lighted  window  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  house. 

"  That  is  my  room — my  clear  little  room  !  "  Mrs.  Penniman  remarked. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  145 

Morris  started.  "  Then  I  needn't  come  walking  round  the  square  to 
gaze  at  it." 

"  That's  as  you  please.  But  Catherine's  is  behind ;  two  noble 
windows  on  the  second  floor.  I  think  you  can  see  them  from  the  other 
street." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  them,  ma'am  ! "  And  Morris  turned  his  back 
to  the  house. 

"  I  will  tell  her  you  have  been  here,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man,  pointing  to  the  spot  where  they  stood ;  "  and  I  will  give  her  your 
message — that  she  is  to  hold  fast !  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  of  course.     You  know  I  write  her  all  that." 

"  It  seems  to  say  more  when  it  is  spoken  !  And  remember,  if  you 
need  me,  that  I  am  there ; "  and  Mi's.  Penniman  glanced  at  the  third 
floor. 

On  this  they  separated,  and  Morris,  left  to  himself,  stood  looking  at 
the  house  a  moment ;  after  which  he  turned  away,  and  took  a  gloomy 
walk  round  the  Square,  on  the  opposite  side,  close  to  the  wooden  fence. 
Then  he  came  back,  and  paused  for  a  minute  in  front  of  Dr.  Sloper's 
dwelling.  His  eyes  travelled  over  it;  they  even  rested  on  the  ruddy 
windows  of  Mrs.  Penniman's  apartment.  He  thought  it  a  devilish  com- 
fortable house. 

XVII. 

Mrs.  Penniman  told  Catherine  that  evening — the  two  ladies  were 
sitting  in  the  back  parlour — that  she  had  had  an  interview  with  Morris 
Townsend  ;  and  on  receiving  this  news  the  girl  started  with  a  sense  of 
pain.  She  felt  angry  for  the  moment ;  it  was  almost  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  felt  angry.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  aunt  was  meddlesome ; 
and  from  this  came  a  vague  apprehension  that  she  would  spoil  something. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  have  seen  him.  I  don't  think  it  was 
right,"  Catherine  said. 

"  I  was  so  sorry  for  him — it  seemed  to  me  some  one  ought  to  see 
him." 

"  No  one  but  I,"  said  Catherine,  who  felt  as  if  she  were  making  the 
most  presumptuous  speech  of  her  life,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  had  an 
instinct  that  she  was  right  in  doing  so. 

"  But  you  wouldn't,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Lavinia  rejoined ;  "  and  I  didn't 
know  what  might  have  become  of  him." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  because  my  father  has  forbidden  it,"  Catherine 
said,  very  simply. 

There  was  a  simplicity  in  this,  indeed,  which  fairly  vexed  Mrs. 
Penniman.  "If  your  father  forbade  you  to  go  to  sleep,  I  suppose  you 
would  keep  awake !  "  she  commented. 

Catherine  looked  at  her.  "  I  don't  understand  you.  You  seem  to 
me  very  strange." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  will  understand  me  some  day  ! "     And  Mrs. 


146  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Penniman,  who  was  reading  the  evening  paper,  which  she  perused  daily 
from  the  first  line  to  the  last,  resumed  her  occupation.  She  wrapped 
herself  in  silence ;  she  was  determined  Catherine  should  ask  her  for  an 
account  of  her  interview  with  Morris.  But  Catherine  was  silent  for  so 
long,  that  she  almost  lost  patience ;  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  remark- 
ing to  her  that  she  was  very  heartless,  when  the  girl  at  last  spoke. 

"  What  did  he  say  1 "  she  asked. 

"  He  said  he  is  ready  to  marry  you  any  day,  in  spite  of  everything." 

Catherine  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  almost  lost 
patience  again. ;  owing  to  which  she  at  last  volunteered  the  information 
that  Morris  looked  very  handsome,  but  terribly  haggard. 

"  Did  he  seem  sad  1 "  asked  her  niece. 

"  He  was  dark  under  the  eyes,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  So  different 
from  when  I  first  saw  him ;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  if  I  had  seen 
him  in  this  condition  the  first  time,  I  should  not  have  been  even  more 
struck  with  him.  There  is  something  brilliant  in  his  very  misery." 

This  was,  to  Catherine's  sense,  a  vivid  picture,  and  though  she  dis- 
approved, she  felt  herself  gazing  at  it.  "  Where  did  you  see  him  ? "  she 
asked  presently. 

"  In — in  the  Bowery  ;  at  a  confectioner's,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  who 
had  a  general  idea  that  she  ought  to  dissemble  a  little. 

"  Whereabouts  is  the  place?  "  Catherine  inquired,  after  another  pause. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go  there,  my  dear  1 "  said  her  aunt. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  And  Catherine  got  up  from  her  seat  and  went  to  the 
fire,  where  she  stood  looking  awhile  at  the  glowing  coals. 

"  Why  are  you  so  dry,  Catherine  ? "  Mrs.  Penniman  said  at  last. 

"So  dry?" 

"  So  cold — so  irresponsive." 

The  girl  turned,  very  quickly.     "  Did  he  say  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  will  tell  you  what  he  said. 
He  said  he  feared  only  one  thing — that  you  would  be  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Afraid  of  your  father." 

Catherine  turned  back  to  the  fire  again,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  she 
said — "  I  am  afraid  of  my  father." 

Mrs.  Penniman  got  quickly  up  from  her  chair  and  approached  her 
niece.  "  Do  you  mean  to  give  him  up,  then  ? " 

Catherine  for  some  time  never  moved ;  she  kept  her  eyes  on  the 
coals.  At  last  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  her  aunt.  "  Why  do 
you  push  me  so  1  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  push  you.     When  have  I  spoken  to  you  before  ? " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  several  times." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  necessary,  then,  Catherine,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman, 
with  a  good  deal  of  solemnity.  "  I  am  afraid  you  don't  feel  the  import- 
ance  "  She  paused  a  little ;  Catherine  was  looking  at  her.  ''The 

importance  of  not  disappointing  that  gallant  young  heart ! "     And  Mrs. 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  147 

Penniman  went  back  to  her  chair,  by  the  lamp,  and,  with  a  little  jerk, 
picked  up  the  evening  paper  again. 

Catherine  stood  there  before  the  fire,  with  her  hands  behind  her, 
looking  at  her  aunt,  to  whom  it  seemed  that  the  girl  had  never  had  just 
this  dark  fixedness  in  her  gaze.  "I  don't  think  you  understand — or 
that  you  know  me,"  she  said. 

"  If  I  don't,  it  is  not  wonderful ;  you  trust  me  so  little." 
Catherine  made  no  attempt  to  deny  this  charge,  and  for  some  time 
more  nothing  was  said.     But  Mrs.  Penniman's  imagination  was  restless, 
and  the  evening  paper  failed  on  this  occasion  to  enchain  it. 

"  If  you  succumb  to  the  dread  of  your  father's  wrath,"  she  said,  "  I 
don't  know  what  will  become  of  us." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  to  say  these  things  to  me  1 " 
"  He  told  me  to  use  my  influence." 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,"  said  Catherine.     "  He  trusts  me." 
"  I  hope  he  may  never  repent  of  it !  "     And  Mrs.  Penniman  gave  a 
little  sharp  slap  to  her  newspaper.     She  knew  not  what  to  make  of 
her  niece,  who  had  suddenly  become  stern  and  contradictious. 

This  tendency  on  Catherine's  part  was  presently  even  more  apparent. 
"  You  had  much  better  not  make  any  more  appointments  with  Mr. 
Townsend,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  it  is  right." 

Mrs.  Penniman  rose  with  considerable  majesty.  "  My  poor  child, 
are  you  jealous  of  me  1 "  she  inquired. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Lavinia  !  "  murmured  Catherine,  blushing. 
"  I  don't  think  it  is  your  place  to  teach  me  what  is  right." 
On  this  point  Catherine  made  no  concession.     "  It  can't  be  right  to 
deceive." 

"  I  certainly  have  not  deceived  you  !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  promised  my  father ' 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  promised  your  father.  But  I  have  promised 
him  nothing  ! " 

Catherine  had  to  admit  this,  and  she  did  so  in  silence.     "  I  don't 
believe  Mr.  Townsend  himself  likes  it,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  Doesn't  like  meeting  me  ] " 
"  Not  in  secret." 

"  It  was  not  in  secret;  the  place  was  full  of  people." 
"  But  it  was  a  secret  place — away  off  in  the  Bowery." 
Mrs.  Penniman  flinched  a  little.     "  Gentlemen  enjoy  such  things," 
she  remarked,  presently.     "  I  know  what  gentlemen  like." 
"  My  father  wouldn't  like  it,  if  he  knew." 

"  Pray,  do  you  propose  to  inform  him  1 "  Mrs.  Penniman  inquired. 
"  No,  Aunt  Lavinia.     But  please  don't  do  it  again." 
"  If  I  do  it  again,  you  will  inform  him  :  is  that  what  you  mean  1     I 
do  not  share  your  dread  of  my  brother ;  I  have  always  known  how  to 
defend  my  own  position.     But  I  shall  certainly  never  again  take  any 
step  on  your  behalf;   you  are  much  too  thankless.     I  knew  you  were 


148  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

not  a  spontaneous  nature,  but  I  believed  you  were  firm,  and  I  told  your 
father  that  he  would  find  you  so.  I  am  disappointed — but  your  father 
will  not  be  !  "  And  with  this,  Mrs.  Penniman  offered  her  niece  a  brief 
good-night,  and  withdrew  to  her  own  apartment. 

XVIII. 

Catherine  sat  alone  by  the  parlour  fire — sat  there  for  more  than  an 
hour,  lost  in  her  meditations.  Her  aunt  seemed  to  her  aggressive  and 
foolish,  and  to  see  it  so  clearly — to  judge  Mrs.  Penniman  so  positively — 
made  .her  feel  old  and  grave.  She  did  not  resent  the  imputation  of 
weakness ;  it  made  no  impression  on  her,  for  she  had  not  the  sense  of 
weakness,  and  she  was  not  hurt  at  not  being  appreciated.  She  had  an 
immense  respect  for  her  father,  and  she  felt  that  to  displease  him  would 
be  a  misdemeanour  analogous  to  an  act  of  profanity  in  a  great  temple  : 
but  her  purpose  had  slowly  ripened,  and  she  believed  that  her  prayers 
had  purified  it  of  its  violence.  The  evening  advanced,  and  the  lamp 
burned  dim  without  her  noticing  it ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
terrible  plan.  She  knew  her  father  was  in  his  study — that  he  had 
been  there  all  the  evening ;  from  time  to  time  she  expected  to  hear  him 
move.  She  thought  he  would  perhaps  come,  as  he  sometimes  came,  into 
the  parlour.  At  last  the  clock  struck  eleven,  and  the  house  was 
wrapped  in  silence ;  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed.  Catherine  got  up 
and  went  slowly  to  the  door  of  the  library,  where  she  waited  a  moment, 
motionless.  Then  she  knocked,  and  then  she  waited  again.  Her  father 
had  answered  her,  but  she  had  not  the  courage  to  turn  the  latch.  What 
she  had  said  to  her  aunt  was  true  enough — she  was  afraid  of  him  ;  and 
in  saying  that  she  had  no  sense  of  weakness  she  meant  that  she  was  not 
afraid  of  herself.  She  heard  him  move  within,  and  he  came  and  opened 
the  door  for  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  the  Doctor.  "  You  are  standing  there 
like  a  ghost." 

She  went  into  the  room,  but  it  was  some  time  before  she  contrived 
to  say  what  she  had  come  to  say.  Her  father,  who  was  in  his  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  had  been  busy  at  his  writing-table,  and  after  looking 
at  her  for  some  moments,  and  waiting  for  her  to  speak,  he  went  and 
seated  himself  at  his  papers  again.  His  back  was  turned  to  her — she 
began  to  hear  the  scratching  of  his  pen.  She  remained  near  the  door, 
with  her  heart  thumping  beneath  her  bodice ;  and  she  was  very  glad  that 
his  back  was  turned,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  more  easily 
address  herself  to  this  portion  of  his  person  than  to  his  face.  At  last 
she  began,  watching  it  while  she  spoke. 

"  You  told  me  that  if  I  should  have  anything  more  to  say  about  Mr. 
Townsend  you  would  be  glad  to  listen  to  it." 

"  Exactly,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  not  turning  round,  but  stopping 
his  pen. 


WASHINGTON  SQUABE.  149 

Catherine  wished  it  would  go  on,  but  she  herself  continued.  "  I 
thought  I  would  tell  you  that  I  have  not  seen  him  again,  but  that  I 
should  like  to  do  so." 

"  To  bid  him  good-bye  1 "  asked  the  Doctor. 
The  girl  hesitated  a  moment.     "  He  is  not  going  away." 
The  Doctor  wheeled  slowly  round  in  his  chair,  with  a  smile  that 
seemed  to  accuse  her  of  an  epigram ;  but  extremes  meet,  and  Catherine 
had  not  intended  one.     "  It  is  not  to  bid  him  good-bye,  then  t "  her 
father  said. 

"  No,  father,  not  that ;  at  least  not  for  ever.  I  have  not  seen  him 
again,  but  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  Catherine  repeated. 

The  Doctor  slowly  rubbed  his  under-lip  with  the  feather  of  his  quill. 
"  Have  you  written  to  him  1  " 
"  Yes,  four  times." 

"  You  have  not  dismissed  him,  then.     Once  would  have  done  that." 
"  No,"  said  Catherine;.  "I  have  asked  him — asked  him  to  wait." 
Her  father  sat  looking  at  her,  and  she  was  afraid  he  was  going  to 
break  out  into  wrath  ;  his  eyes  were  so  fine  and  cold. 

"  You  are  a  dear,  faithful  child,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Come  here  to 
your  father."  And  he  got  up,  holding  out  his  hands  towards  her. 

The  words  were  a  surprise,  and  they  gave  her  an  exquisite  joy.     She 
went  to  him,  and  he  put  his  arm  round  her  tenderly,  soothingly ;  and 
then  he  kissed  her.     After  this  he  said — 
"  Do  you  wish  to  make  me  very  happy  1  " 

"  I  should  like  to — but  I  am  afraid  I  can't,"  Catherine  answered. 
"  You  can  if  you  will.     It  all  depends  on  your  will." 
"  Is  it  to  give  him  up  1  "  said  Catherine. 
"  Yes,  it  is  to  give  him  up." 

And  he  held  her  still,  with  the  same  tenderness,  looking  into  her  face 
and  resting  his  eyes  on  her  averted  eyes.  There  was  a  long  silence ;  she 
wished  he  would  release  her. 

"  You  are  happier  than  I,  father,"  she  said,  at  last. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  unhappy  just  now.     But  it  is  better  to  be 
unhappy  for  three  months  and  get  over  it,  than  for  many  years  arid  never 
get  over  it." 

"Yes,  if  that  were  so,"  said  Catherine. 

"  It  would  be  so  ;  I  am  sure  of  that."  She  answered  nothing,  and 
he  went  on  :  "  Have  you  no  faith  in  my  wisdom,  in  my  tenderness,  in 
my  solicitude  for  your  future  1 " 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  murmured  the  girl. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know  something  of  men  :  their  vices,  their 
follies,  their  falsities  ?  " 

She  detached  herself,  and  turned  upon  him.  "  He  is  not  vicious — he 
is  not  false  !  " 

Her  father  kept  looking  at  her  with  his  sharp,  pure  eye.  "  You  make 
nothing  of  my  judgment,  then  ?  " 


150  WASHINGTON  SQUARE, 

"  I  can't  believe  that !  " 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  it,  but  to  take  it  on  trust." 

Catherine  was  far  from  saying  to  herself  that  this  was  an  ingenious 
sophism ;  but  she  met  the  appeal  none  the  less  squarely.  "  What  has  he 
done — what  do  you  know  ? " 

"  He  has  never  done  anything — he  is  a  selfish  idler." 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  abuse  him  !  "  she  exclaimed,  pleadingly. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  abuse  him ;  it  would  be  a  great  mistake.  You 
may  do  as  you  choose,"  he  added,  turning  away. 

"  I  may  see  him  again  1 " 

<(  Just  as  you  choose." 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  ? " 

"  By  no  means." 

"  It  will  only  be  for  once." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  once.  You  must  either  give  him 
up  or  continue  the  acquaintance." 

"  I  wish  to  explain — to  tell  him  to  wait." 

"  To  wait  for  what  ?  " 

"  Till  you  know  him  better — till  you  consent." 

"  Don't  tell  him  any  such  nonsense  as  that.  I  know  him  well  enough, 
and  I  shall  never  consent." 

"  But  we  can  wait  a  long  time,"  said  poor  Catherine,  in  a  tone  which 
was  meant  to  express  the  humblest  conciliation,  but  which  had  upon 
her  father's  nerves  the  effect  of  an  iteration  not  characterised  by  tact. 

The  Doctor  answered,  however,  quietly  enough  :  "  Of  course  you  can 
wait  till  I  die,  if  you  like." 

Catherine  gave  a  cry  of  natural  horror. 

"  Your  engagement  will  have  one  delightful  effect  upon  you ;  it  will 
make  you  extremely  impatient  for  that  event." 

Catherine  stood  staring,  and  the  Doctor  enjoyed  the  point  he  had 
made.  It  came  to  Catherine  with  the  force — or  rather  with  the  vague 
impressiveness — of  a  logical  axiom  which  it  was  not  in  her  province  to 
controvert ;  and  yet,  though  it  was  a  scientific  truth,  she  felt  wholly 
unable  to  accept  it. 

"  I  would  rather  not  marry,  if  that  were  true,"  she  said. 

"  Give  me  a  proof  of  it,  then ;  for  it  is  beyond  a  question  that  by  en- 
gaging yourself  to  Morris  Townsend  you  simply  wait  for  my  death." 

She  turned  away,  feeling  sick  and  faint ;  and  the  Doctor  went  on  : 
"  And  if  you  wait  for  it  with  impatience,  judge,  if  you  please,  what 
his  eagerness  will  be  !  " 

Catherine  turned  it  over — her  father's  words  had  such  an  authority 
for  her  that  her  very  thoughts  were  capable  of  obeying  him.  There  was 
a  dreadful  ugliness  in  it,  which  seemed  to  glare  at  her  through  the  inter- 
posing medium  of  her  own  feebler  reason.  Suddenly,  however,  she  had 
an  inspiration — she  almost  knew  it  to  be  an  inspiration. 

"  If  I  don't  marry  before  your  death,  I  will  not  after,"  she  said. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  151 

To  her  father,  it  must  be  admitted,  this  seemed  only  another  epi- 
gram ;  and  as  obstinacy,  in  unaccomplished  minds,  does  not  usually  select 
such  a  mode  of  expression,  he  was  the  more  surprised  at  this  wanton  play 
of  a  fixed  idea. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  for  an  impertinence  ? "  he  inquired  ;  an  inqiiiry 
of  which,  as  he  made  it,  he  quite  perceived  the  grossness. 

"  An  impertinence"?     Oh  father,  what  terrible  things  you  say  !  " 

"  If  you  don't  wait  for  my  death,  you  might  as  well  marry  imme- 
diately ;  there  is  nothing  else  to  wait  for." 

For  some  time  Catherine  made  no  answer ;  but  finally  she  said — 

"  I  think  Morris — little  by  little — might  persuade  you." 

"  I  shall  never  let  him  speak  to  me  again.     I  dislike  him  too  much." 

Catherine  gave  a  long,  low  sigh ;  she  tried  to  stifle  it,  for  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  wrong  to  make  a  parade  of  her  trouble, 
and  to  endeavour  to  act  upon  her  father  by  the  meretricious  aid  of 
emotion.  Indeed,  she  even  thought  it  wrong — in  the  sense  of  being  in- 
considerate— to  attempt  to  act  upon  his  feelings  at  all ;  her  part  was 
to  effect  some  gentle,  gradual  change  in  his  intellectual  perception  of 
poor  Morris's  character.  But  the  means  of  effecting  such  a  change  were 
at  presented  shrouded  in  mysteiy,  and  she  felt  miserably  helpless  and 
hopeless.  She  had  exhausted  all  arguments,  all  replies.  Her  father 
might  have  pitied  her,  and  in  fact  he  did  so ;  but  he  was  sure  he  was 
right. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  can  tell  Mr.  Townsend,  when  you  see  him 
again,"  he  said  :  "  that  if  you  marry  without  my  consent,  I  don't  leave 
you  a  farthing  of  money.  That  will  interest  him  more  than  anything 
else  you  can  tell  him." 

"  That  would  be  very  right,"  Catherine  answered.  "  I  ought  not  in 
that  case  to  have  a  farthing  of  your  money." 

"  My  dear  child,"  the  Doctor  observed,  laughing,  "  your  simplicity 
is  touching.  Make  that  remark,  in  that  tone,  and  with  that  expression 
of  countenance,  to  Mr.  Townsend  and  take  a  note  of  his  answer.  It 
won't  be  polite — it  will  express  irritation ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  of  that, 
as  it  will  put  me  in  the  right ;  unless,  indeed — which  is  perfectly  possible 
— you  should  like  him  the  better  for  being  rude  to  you." 

"  He  will  never  be  rude  to  me,"  said  Catherine,  gently. 

"  Tell  him  what  I  say,  all  the  same." 

She  looked  at  her  father,  and  her  quiet  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"I  think  I  will  see  him,  then,"  she  murmured,  in  her  timid  voice. 

"  Exactly  as  you  choose  !  "  And  he  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it 
for  her  to  go  out.  The  movement  gave  her  a  terrible  sense  of  his  turn- 
ing her  off. 

"  It  will  be  only  once,  for  the  present,"  she  added,  lingering  a 
moment. 

"  Exactly  as  you  choose,"  he  repeated,  standing  there  with  his  hand 
on  the  door.  "  I  have  told  you  what  I  think.  If  you  see  him,  you  will 


152  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

be  an  ungrateful,  cruel  child;  you  will  have  given  your  old  father  the 
greatest  pain  of  his  life." 

This  was  more  than  the  poor  girl  could  bear ;  her  tears  overflowed, 
and  she  moved  towards  her  grimly  consistent  parent  with  a  pitiful  cry. 
Her  hands  were  raised  in  supplication,  but  he  sternly  evaded  this 
appeal.  Instead  of  letting  her  sob  out  her  misery  on  his  shoulder,  he 
simply  took  her  by  the  arm  and  directed  her  course  across  the  threshold, 
closing  the  door  gently  but  firmly  behind  her.  After  he  had  done  so,  he 
remained  listening.  For  a  long  time  there  was  no  sound  ;  he  knew  that 
she  was  standing  outside.  He  was  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  said ;  but  he 
was  so  sure  he  was  right.  At  last  he  heard  her  move  away,  and  then  her 
footstep  creaked  faintly  upon  the  stairs. 

The  Doctor  took  several  turns  round  his  study,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  a  thin  sparkle,  possibly  of  irritation,  but  partly  also  of 
something  like  humour,  in  his  eye.  "  By  Jove,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I 
believe  she  will  stick — I  believe  she  will  stick  ! "  And  this  idea  of 
Catherine  "  sticking "  appeared  to  have  a  comical  side,  and  to  offer  a 
prospect  of  entertainment.  He  determined,  as  he  said  to  himself,  to  see 
it  out. 

HENRY  JAMES,   JH. 


153 


[Jjjr  bib  Sjrdtspan  font* 


STUDENTS  of  Shakspeare  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Furnivall, 
both  for  the  many  scarce  books  bearing  on  their  subject  that  have  been 
brought  within  their  reach,  and  for  the  progress  that  has  been  made  in 
ascertaining  the  dates  of  his  several  writings  ;  which  are  all  we  can  be 
said  to  know  about  him — all,  at  least,  that  makes  him  memorable.  The 
dates  are  still  in  many  cases  doubtful ;  but  the  order  of  succession,  which 
is  the  most  important  point,  is  already  determined  with  tolerable  cer- 
tainty, and  the  problem  is,  to  learn  from  it  the  history  of  his  mind. 

Before  the  New  Shakspere  Society  can  deal  with  that  problem  in 
its  corporate  capacity,  it  has  a  great  deal  of  preparatory  business  to  get 
through,  and  a  great  deal  of  leisure  for  consideration.  But  Mr.  Furnivall 
has,  in  the  meantime,  explained  his  personal  views  about  it  in  his  Intro- 
duction to  the  Leopold  Shakspere.  To  some  of  these  I  have,  as  he  is 
aware,  a  strong  objection ;  and  as  his  original  design  in  founding  the 
New  Society  was  to  have  every  disputable  question  concerning  Shakspeare 
fought  out  and  settled  by  general  agreement  before  any  final  resolutions 
were  taken,  I  propose  to  offer  as  my  contribution  to  the  debate  a  state- 
ment of  the  principal  points  on  which,  as  at  present  advised,  I  differ 
with  him. 

The  following  sentences,  extracted  from  his  "  Introduction,"  will  ex- 
plain what  the  question  is,  as  I  understand  it  :  * 

I  believe,  nay,  assert,  that  down  each  side-edge  of  every  one  of  Shakspere's  plays 
are  several  hooks  and  eyes  of  special  patterns,  which  as  soon  as  their  play  is  put  in  its 
right  place  will  find  a  set  of  eyes  and  hooks  of  the  same  pattern  in  the  adioinino-plav 
to  fit  into  .... 

The  only  exception  to  the  rule  is,  where  an  entirely  new  or  different  subject  . 
is  started,  after  such  a  succession  of  comedies  as  closes  Shakspere's  Second  Period  ;  'in 
this  case  the  links,  the  hooks  and  eyes,  on  the  left  edge  of  the  new  play  may  be  want- 
ing. 

Note,  too,  that  as  in  conjunctions  we  have  both  copulative  and  disjunctive  ones,  so 
in  links  we  have  both  bonds  of  likeness  and  contrast  .  .  .  These 'links  ....  are 
only  what  must  naturally  exist  between  works  written  by  the  same  man,  nearl'y'at  the 
same  time  of  his  life,  and  in  the  same  mood. 

From  evidence  of  like  kind,  comparing  the  general  tone  of  the  Four  Periods  of  his 
works,  I  hold  that  Shakspore's  plays,  when  looked  at  broadly  in  their  successive 
periods,  represent  his  own  prevailing  temper  of  ruind,  as  man  as  well  as  artist,  in  the 
succeeding  stages  of  his  life.f 

There  are  two  or  three  points  upon  which  Mr.  Furnivall  tells  me  that  I  have 
misunderstood  him.  His  explanations  will  be  founl  in  the  footnotes  where  they 
occur. 

t  Introduction  to  the  Leopold  Sltakspere,  p.  Ciix. 
VOL.    XLII. — NO.    248.  o 


154  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

Now  if  this  means  only  that  Shakspeare  preserved  his  personal  iden- 
tity from  his  birth  to  his  death, — that  he  continued  to  be  the  same  man, 
with  only  such  changes  as  accompany  growth  in  a  healthy  human  sub- 
ject, that  his  successive  works  are  all  related  to  each  other,  as  the  suc- 
cessive actions  of  one  man  must  always  be  related,  through  their  common 
relation  to  himself — that  as  what  a  man  does  must  always  correspond  with 
what  at  the  time  of  doing  it  he  is,  so  whatever  he  writes  must  bear  some 
mark  (if  we  could  but  read  it)  of  his  condition,  mental  and  bodily,  at  the 
time  of  writing — and  therefore  that  when  all  we  know  of  him  is  what  he 
has  written,  our  only  chance  of  finding  out  what  kind  of  man  he  was  is 
to  read  what  he  has  written  with  due  consideration  of  all  the  circum- 
stances, order  of  succession  being  one  : — if  this  be  all,  it  seems  a  harmless 
proposition  which  nobody  can  dispute,  and  for  which  nobody  can  be  the 
wiser.     And  when  all  the  conditions  here  specified  are  duly  taken  into 
account  and  set  out  in  their  proper  places,  it  may  almost  seem  that  no 
more  was  meant.     For  it  appears  that  the  hooks  are  to  fit  the  eyes,  only 
in  the  writings  (1)  of  "  the  same  man  "  ;  (2)  "  nearly  at  the  same  time  of 
his  life"  ;  (3)  "  in  the  same  mood  " ;  and  (4)  dealing  with  the  same  class 
of  "  subjects  ";  for,  "  when  an  entirely  new  or  different  subject  is  started," 
we  are  expressly  warned  that  the  rule  does  not  hold ;  and  as  we  are  not 
in  that  case  to  expect  that  the  eyes  of  the  last  writing  will  fit  the  hooks 
of  the  last  preceding,  so  if  it  should  happen  that  another  "  entirely  new 
or  diilereiit  subject"  should  be  started  in  the  next  succeeding,  we  must 
not  expect  them  to  fit  with  it  either.     Now  that  the  same  man,  at  the 
same  age,  dealing  with  the  same  kind  of  subjects  in  the  same  mood,  will 
probably  leave  upon  them  marks  of  the  same  hand,  is  so  indisputable 
that  it  seems  superfluous  to  assert  it.     And  though  it  is  not  so  certain 
that  works  composed  under  these  conditions  will  reflect  faithfully  either 
"  the  prevailing  temper  of  his  mind  "  or  the  actual  conditions  of  his  life 
(for  in  his  imaginative  mood  a  man  sees  himself  not  as  he  is,  but  as  he 
would  be),  yet  a  judicious  reader  may  collect  something  from  them  in 
this  way  too.     But  what  are  we  to  infer  when,  we  find  two  plays  in  which 
the  same  subjects  are  not  treated  in  the  same  way  1     Shall  we  say  that 
they  cannot  have  been  written  by  the  same  man,  nearly  at  the  same  time 
of  his  life,  and  in  the  same  mood ;  because  the  inevitable  "  links  "  are 
wanting1?     By  no  means.     "  Links,"  like  conjunctions,  are  of  different 
kinds.     Our  hooks  and  eyes  may  be  either  "  copulative  or  disjunctive" — 
either  fit  or  refuse  to  fit.     Now  where  in  two  plays  the  subjects  are  dif- 
ferent, or  being  similar  are  differently  treated,  if  we  find  no  hooks  and 
eyes  that  fit,  we  can  hardly  fail  to  find  some  that  do  not  fit ;  these  are 
the  "  disjunctive  links,"  the  "  bonds  of  contrast,"  which  in  some  mys- 
terious way  serve  the  same  purpose  as  the  "  bonds  of  likeness,"  and  help 
to  teach  us  (if  we  do  not  know  it  already)  that  the  successive  productions 
of  the  same  man  are  apt  to  be  like  each  other  in  some  things  and  unlike  in 
others ;  and  that  both  the  like  and  the  unlike,  being  the  expression  of  some- 
thing in  himself,  will,  if  rightly  understood,  tell  us  something  about  him. 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WRITE  TEAGEDIES  ?  155 

More  than  this  we  cannot  reasonably  expect  to  establish  by  this  kind 
of  evidence ;  and  if  more  is  promised  by  the  propounder,  I  think  it  is  be- 
cause he  assumed  two  things  besides — which  cannot,  however,  be  so  readily 
granted  :  one,  that  each  of  Shakspeare's  works  was  meant  to  be  taken 
as  part  of  a  whole ;  being  connected  with  those  that  came  before  and 
after,  not  merely  as  a  product  of  the  same  mind,  but  as  holding  a  place 
in  a  general  scheme  designed  by  that  mind  ;  *  the  other,  that  each  of 
them  reflects  some  personal  experience  of  the  writer's  own — whatever 
passion  is  in  any  of  them  represented  with  apparent  force  and  truth  being 
presumably  a  passion  to  which  he  had  been  himself  subject  at  or  about 
that  time. 

With  the  help  of  these  large  and  bold,  and  by  me  altogether  inad- 
missible assumptions,  a  knowledge  of  the  order  in  which  the  several  plays 
were  composed  would  no  doubt  tell  us  a  great  deal ;  and  if  the  hooks  and 
eyes  could  find  it  out  for  us,  the  inquiry  after  them  could  hardly  be 
too  searching.  Even  without  their  help  it  would  tell  us  something. 
Every  man  changes  more  or  less  with  age  and  experience,  and, 
therefore,  the  true  dates  of  his  successive  productions  will  always 
throw  some  light  both  upon  them  and  upon  him.  But  though  the  true 
dates,  or  at  least  the  true  order  of  succession,  may  be  otherwise  found 
within  certain  limits  with  a  certain  degree  of  probability,  I  do  not  see 
how  it  can  be  done  by  the  mere  discovery  of  resemblances  and  contrasts, 
unless  it  can  be  shown  that  the  contrast  implies  some  difference  due  to 
time,  and  that  the  resemblance  implies  some  limit  to  the  time  which  may 
have  passed  between  the  one  and  the  other.  "  Links," — in  the  shape  of 
similar  situations,  characters  bearing  the  same  relation  to  each  other, 
similar  ideas,  images,  tricks  of  expression,  and  the  like — will  always  be 

*  '  The  groat  defect  of  the  English  school  of  Shaksperians  is  their  neglect  to 
study  Shakspere  as  a  whole.  They  have  too  much  looked  on  his  •works  as  a  con- 
glomerate of  isolated  plays,  -without  order  or  succession  ....  whereas  the  first  ne- 
cessity is  to  regard  Shakspere  as  a  whole,  his  works  as  a  living  organism,  each  a 
member  of  one  created  unity  ....  the  successive  shoots  of  one  great  mind  which 
can  never  be  seen  in  its  full  glory  ....  unless  it  be  viewed  in  its  oneness,'  p.  xvii. 
The  words,  "  Each  a  member  of  one  created  unity,"  I  took  to  mean  that  each  formed 
part  of  a  general  scheme  designed  by  the  author.  In  this  Mr.  Furnivall  tells  me  that 
I  was  mistaken.  His  true  meaning  he  explains  in  the  following  note.  "  I  look  on 
the  work  of  any  great  artist,  Turner,  Beethoven,  Shakspere,  as  a  whole,  a  unity, 
created  by  him,  and  on  each  work  as  a  part  of  that  whole  or  unity.  But  of  course  I 
never  thought  that  any  artist  started  with  the  design  of  that  whole  or  unity  in  his 
head,  and  produced  his  successive  works  to  fit  into  his  design.  His  works  just  came 
out  of  him  as  his  nature  from  time  to  time  put  them  forth,  and  they  formed  a  whole 
or  unity  never  designed  or  dreamt  of  by  him  at  first,  though  he  created  it." — F.  J.  F. 
But  the  question  will  still  be  whether  he  created  the  unity  by  chance  or  by  design. 
Though  he  did  not  start  with  any  general  scheme  in  his  head,  he  may  have  meant  each 
successive  work,  as  he  went  on,  to  be  taken  in  connection  with  its  predecessors,  and 
so  form  a  "  unity"  with  them  ;  or  he  may  have  thought  nothing  about  it  from  first  to 
last;  but  treated  each  story  simply  with  reference  to  its  capacity  for  making  a  good 
play. 

8—2 


156  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

discoverable  in  the  writings  of  the  same  man,  in  whatever  order  they  are 
taken.  How  else  could  we  pretend  to  recognise  a  man's  style  in  two  dif- 
ferent works,  or  reject  portions  of  any  single  work  as  not  bearing  the 
mark  of  his  hand  1  And  if  the  inquiry  were  worth  the  time  it  would 
cost,  I  think  I  could  undertake  to  produce  from  any  two  plays  in  the 
whole  Shakspearian  theatre  points  of  resemblance  as  plausible  as  those 
which  Mr.  Furnivall  produces  to  prove  the  contiguity  in  date  of  compo- 
sition of  any  which  for  other  reasons  he  believes  to  have  been  composed 
about  the  same  time.  A  single  example,  by  way  of  illustration,  may 
perhaps  be  worth  its  time  and  space,  because  it  will  relieve  us  from  the 
duty  of  spending  any  over  the  others. 

Passing  by  the  first  four  plays,  in  which  the  common  subject  of  "  the 
fickleness  of  love"  (p.  xxvii.)  supplies  (as  might  have  been  expected) 
many  situations  which  bear  a  resemblance  to  each  other;  as  well  as 
Richard  II.  and  Romeo  and  Juliet,  between  which  Mr.  Furnivall  men- 
tions only  one  link,  though  he  says  it  is  a  strong  one,  "  in  the  up-and- 
downness  of  the  character,  of  Richard  II.  and  Romeo  "  (p.  xxxvii.) — 
meaning,  I  suppose,  the  variety  of  fortune,  or  perhaps  the  sensibility  to 
changes  of  fortune,  in  the  principal  characters — let  us  take  King  John 
(p.  xl.),  which  is  linked  on  one  side  to  Richard  III.,  on  the  other  to  the 
Merchant  of  Venice. 

The  links  with  Richard  III.,  which  is  supposed  to  have  come  next 
before  it,  are  these.  We  find  in  both — 

1.  A  cruel  uncle  planning  the  murder  of  a  nephew  who  stood  in  his 
way. 

2.  A  distracted  mother. 

3.  A  prophecy  of  ruin  and  a  curse  on  the  murderer,  denounced  and 
fulfilled. 

4.  A  civil  war. 

5.  A  lesson  of  warning  as  to  the  danger  of  divisions. 

6.  An  instrument  tempted  by  subtle  suggestions  to  undertake  the 
murder. 

7.  A  cynical  avowal  of  an  immoral  purpose  by  a  principal  character 
(Faulconbridge  in  one  proclaiming  that  gain  shall  be  the  object  of  his 
worship  ;  Richard  himself  on  the  other   declaring  that  he  is  determined 
to  prove  a  villain.) 

The  links  with  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  which  is  supposed  to  have 
come  next  after,  are  these.  We  find  in  both — 

1.  An  outbreak  of  parental  passion.     (Constance  weeping  for  her 
son's  murder  in  one  ;  Shylock  cursing  his  daughter  for  eloping  with  his 
ducats  and  jewels  in  the  other.) 

2.  A  plea  for  mercy  to  the  helpless.    (Prince  Arthur  in  one  pleading 
for  mercy  to  himself ;  Portia,  in  the  other,  for  mercy  to  Antonio.) 

3.  Prince  Arthur's  recollection  of  the  young  gentlemen  in  France 
affecting  sadness  for  the  fashion,    "  echoed  "  (says  Mr.  Furnivall)   by 
Antonio  in  the  first  scene  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  and  "  repeated  "  in 
Portia  and  Jessica. 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEABE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES?  157 

4.  A  young  gentleman  of  high  spirits  and  gay  humour. 

5.  A  struggle  between  two  duties  :  in  the  Lady  Blanche,  between  the 
claims  of  her  husband  and  her  uncle,  which  she  shall  pray  for  ;  in  Portia, 
between  pleasure  in  her  husband's  company  and  a  sense  of  what  is  due 
to  his  honour  ;  whether  she  shall  keep  him  with  her  for  her  pleasure  or 
let  him  go  to  save  the  life  of  his  benefactor. 

6.  Losses  by  the  action  of  water.     King  John's  forces  drowned  in  the 
Wash  of  Lincoln ;  Antonio's  ship  wrecked  on  the  Goodwin  Sands. 

This  seems  a  long  list,  and  must  have  been  the  fruit  of  much  pains  in 
the  search.  But  before  we  accept  these  "  links  "  as  evidence  that  the 
three  plays  were  composed  "  nearly  at  the  same  time  of  Shakspeare's  life," 
we  must  consider  how  many  of  them  would  have  been  sure  to  be  found 
where  they  are,  at  whatever  time  of  his  life  the  plays  were  composed. 
Suppose  Shakspeare  to  have  written  a  play  about  Richard  III.  in  his 
first  period,  and  a  play  about  King  John  in  his  last,  other  differences 
there  would  have  been,  of  many  kinds  and  much  larger ;  but  all  the 
"  links  "  here  enumerated — or  all  but  one — would  have  been  there  just 
the  same.  The  cruel  uncle,  the  murdered  nephew,  the  distracted  mother, 
the  procurement  of  the  murderer,  the  civil  war,  the  lesson  of  warning, 
all  these  would  certainly  have  been  prominent  features  in  both.  Nor 
is  it  at  all  likely  that  either  of  the  mothers  would  have  forgotten  to 
pray  for  evil  to  the  murderer  of  her  son,  or  to  predict  it.  All  these, 
therefore,  we  must  set  aside.  They  cannot  prove  anything  as  to  date, 
because  their  presence  does  not  depend  upon  the  date.  The  solitary 
link  remaining  to  be  accounted  for  would  be  the  cynical  avowal  of  an 
immoral  purpose  by  a  principal  character  :  which  is  in  fact  a  "  link  dis- 
junctive ;  "  a  "  bond  of  contrast ;  "  for  when  Richard  avows  that  he  is  de- 
termined to  prove  a  villain,  he  means  what  he  says ;  when  Faulconbridge 
proposes  to  make  gain  his  object  of  worship,  he  means  the  very  reverse. 

The  resemblance  or  contrast  between  these  two  passages  is  all,  then, 
that  remains  to  prove,  or  help  to  prove,  that  King  John  was  written 
not  long  after  Richard  III.  Let  us  now  see  what  evidence  we  can 
obtain  by  the  same  process,  that  it  was  written  not  long  before  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice :  and  let  us  begin,  as  before,  by  supposing  that  it  was 
written  as  long  before  as  possible ; — that  Shakspeare  took  the  story  of 
the  reign  of  King  John  for  the  subject  of  a  tragedy  in  his  first  period, 
and  the  story  of  the  pound  of  flesh,  as  told  by  Ser  Giovanni,  for  the 
subject  of  a  comedy  in  his  last ;  and  see  whether  any  of  the  "  links  " 
offer  any  resistance  to  such  a  supposition. 

1.  In  both  we  find  an  outburst  of  parental  passion.     Constance  dis- 
tracted for  the  loss  of  her  son,  that  was  murdered,  in  the  first ;  Shy  lock 
raging  at  the  elopement  of  his  daughter  with  his  ducats  and  jewels  (an 
incident  not  necessarily  suggested  by  the  story)  in  the  last. 

2.  In  both  we  find  an  eloquent  pleading  for  mercy.     Prince  Arthur, 
in  the  first,  endeavouring  to  persuade  Hubert  not  to  burn  out  his  eyes ; 
Portia,  in  the  last,  endeavouring  to  persuade  Shylock  not  to  cut  his 


158  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

forfeit  out  of  Antonio.  But  in  this  case  the  coincidence  was  to  be  ex- 
pected under  any  circumstances.  In  the  original  story  which  Shakspeare 
was  dramatising,  the  Lady  says  to  the  Jew,  "  I  must  have  you  take  the 
100,000  ducats,  and  release  this  innocent  man,  who  will  always  have  a 
grateful  sense  of  the  favour  done  to  him."  'Shakspeare  was  as  unlikely, 
at  any  time  of  his  life,  to  have  omitted  such  an  incident,  or  introduced 
it  without  some  persuasive  argument  in  behalf  of  mercy,  as  to  have 
allowed  Prince  Arthur  to  submit  to  Hubert's  hot  irons  without  an 
attempt  to  move  pity  in  him.  The  two  plays  would  therefore  have  cer- 
tainly had  this  feature  in  common,  though  they  had  been  quite  uncon- 
nected with  each  other ;  and  this  link  must  be  set  aside. 

3.  In  both  we  find  the   recognition  among  human  infirmities  of  a 
peculiar  kind  of  sadness — sadness  without  apparent  cause.     And  though 
I  think  that  the  introduction  of  this  feature  into  the  character  of  Antonio 
was  a  fact  suggested  by  the  behaviour  of  the  Merchant  in  the  original 
story,  I  cannot  say  that  it  was  inevitable.     But  when  Mr.  Furnivall 
calls  it  an  "  echo  "  of  the  passage  in  Prince  Arthur's  speech  to  Hubert, 
he  surely  overlooks  a  difference  so  broad  as  to  preclude  all  suspicion  of 
any  connection  between  them.     The  sadness  alluded  to  in  King  John  was 
not  real  sadness,  but  a  fashionable  affectation :  the  sadness  of  Antonio 
was  a  real  depression  of  spirits,  and  quite  out  of  fashion  among  the  young 
gentlemen  of  Venice.     And  as  for  the  "  repetition  of  the  same  thought," 

that  is,  of  the 

Young  gentlemen  that  could  be  sad  as  night 
Only  for  wantonness ; 

first  in  Portia,  when  her  "  little  body  was  weary  of  this  great  world  "  for 
a  passing  moment,  and  for  the  very  substantial  reason  that  it  was  placed 
in  a  very  anxious  and  disagreeable  position  in.  it ;  and  next  in  Jessica, 
whose  sadness  consisted  in  not  being  made  merry  by  sweet  music — if 
there  is  any  connection  between  these  several  modes  of  sadness,  what 
two  conditions  in  humanity  can  be  said  to  be  unconnected  1 

4.  In  both  we  find  a  young  gentleman  of  high  spirits  and  gay  humour. 
And  it  is  true  that  there  is  no  such  character  as  Gratiano  in  the  story 
from  which  the  plot  was  taken.     The  question,  therefore,  which  we  have 
to  consider  is,  whether  the  relation  of  Gratiano  to  Faulconbridge  is  close 
enough  to  prove  them  products  of  the  same  period. 

5.  In  both  we  find  a  struggle  between  two  duties.     But  Portia's 
struggle,  such  as  it  was  (for  it  was  really  a  struggle  between  her  own 
pleasure  and  her  husband's  duty)  was  involved  in  the  story.     The  Lady 
of  Belmonte,  the  moment   she    heard  of  the   case,  desired  her   newly- 
married  husband  to  set  out  immediately,  and  not  stop  till  he  arrived 
at  Venice.     Her  dilemma  therefore  would  have  been  found  in  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,   if  Shakspeare  had  never   explained  or  heard  of  the 
Lady  Blanche's. 

6.  In  both  are  found  losses  by  the  action  of  water.     But  as  the  ruin 
of  the  Merchant  in  the  old  story  is  distinctly  referred  to  the  loss  of  ships 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE   WRITE  TRAGEDIES?  159 

at  sea,  it  is  not  necessary  to  inquire  whether  the  wreck  of  one  of  them 
on  the  Goodwins  is  an  incident  so  remarkably  like  the  loss  of  King 
John's  army  in  the  Wash,  that  we  should  have  been  obliged  otherwise 
to  account  for  it  by  supposing  that  both  must  have  been  invented  by 
Shakspeare  "  nearly  at  the  same  time  of  his  life,  and  in  the  same  mood." 
This  is  all ;  and  having  now  examined  all  the  hooks  and  eyes  which 
Mr.  Furnivall  has  collected,  let  us  ask  what  reason  they  would  supply 
for  dating  the  composition  of  King  John  between  that  of  Richard  III. 
and  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  if  the  succession  were  otherwise  uncertain  1 
The  answer  must  be  that  King  John  was  probably  written  soon  after 
King  Richard  III.,  because  in  the  last  Richard  says  to  himself — 

And  therefore  since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, 
I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 

While  in  the  other,  Faulconbridge  says  to  himself — 

Well,  while  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail 
And  say  there  is  no  sin  but  to  be  rich. 
And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be, 
To  say  there  is  no  vice  but  beggary. 
Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity, 
Gain,  be  my  lord,  for  I  will  worship  thee. 

Or  (to  take  Mr.  Furnivall's  own  account  of  it)  because  "  the  Bastard's 
statement  of  his  motives  (!) — '  Gain,  be  my  lord,'  &c.,  is  like  that  of 
Richard  the  Third  about  his  villainy." 

On  the  other  side,  the  Merchant  of  Venice  must  have  been  written 
soon  after  King  John  for  two  reasons. 

1 .  Because  as  Constance  in  King  John  mourns  for  her  murdered  son, 
and  will  not  be  comforted  though  she  should  meet  him  in  heaven,  if  he 
rose  without  the  native  beauty  on  his  cheek,  so  Shylock  in  the  Merchant 
mourns  for  the  loss  of  the  jewels  and  ducats  which  his  daughter  had  run 
away  with,  and  will   not  be  comforted — unless  they  are  brought  back, 
though  it  be  in  her  coffin. 

2.  Because  Gratiano,  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  "  may  be  compared  " 
with  Faulconbridge   in  King  John ;  being  both  young  men  of  humour 
and  animal  spirits,  though  in  all  other  respects  as  different  as  two  men 
could  be. 

Now  as  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  these  three  plays  were  actually 
composed  in  this  order,  and  within  a  few  years  of  each  other,  and  such 
link-evidence  as  can  be  counted  on  must  therefore  certainly  be  there, 
they  ought  to  show  the  hook-and-eye  test  to  advantage.  But  if  this  is 
a  fair  sample  of  the  help  it  would  have  given  had  the  case  been  doubtful, 
it  is  clear  that  it  cannot  be  trusted  for  a  guide. 

For  the  order  of  succession,  therefore,  we  must  appeal  to  more  trust- 
worthy tests  ;  which  are  not  altogether  wanting.  Having  ascertained 
the  order,  we  come  upon  the  question  as  to  the  relation  of  the  successive 


160  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

plays  to  each  other ;  were  they  meant  to  be  regarded  as  parts  of  a  \vhole, 
"  each  a  member  of  one  created  unity  "  ?  A  created  unity  means,  I  sup- 
pose, a  unity  resulting  from  a,  conscious  design,  formed  in  the  beginning 
and  carried  out  consistently  to  the  end ;  such  a  unity  in  all  the  parts 
together  as  we  recognise  in  each  part  taken  separately.  But  though 
Mr.  Furnivall  claims  for  them  a  unity  of  this  kind,  he  has  not  attempted 
to  trace  it  in  detail,  or  to  show  how  the  pieces  are  to  be  put  together ; 
and  as  I  cannot  myself  invent  any  hypothesis  upon  which  it  can  be 
made  to  seem  probable  that  Shakspeare  meant  them  to  combine  into  a 
complete  whole,  I  must  wait  till  somebody  else  propounds  one.  The 
unity  which  Mr.  Furnivall  practically  recognises  in  the  whole  body  of 
Shakspeare's  works  is  of  a  different  nature.  He  thinks  that  each  play, 
poem,  song,  and  sonnet,  represents  the  condition  of  his  own  soul  when 
he  wrote  it ;  and  therefore  that  the  whole  series,  taken  in  the  right 
order,  must  contain  a  true  history  of  the  growth  and  progress  of  Shak- 
speare's soul ;  "  his  own  pervading  temper  of  mind,  as  man  as  well  as 
artist,  in  the  succeeding  stages  of  his  life."  * 

Now  as  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  man's  prevailing  temper  of  mind 
varies  with  his  age,  cultivation,  and  knowledge,  it  is  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  a  corresponding  change  will  be  traceable  in  the  works  of  his 
mind,  and  that  each  will  throw  light  upon  the  other.     If,  on  the  one 
hand,  we  knew  what  sort  of  changes  Shakspeare's  prevailing  temper  of 
mind  went  through  in  the  succeeding  stages  of  his  life,  we  could  partly 
determine  from  the  prevailing  temper  of  his  works  to  which  stage  each 
belonged.     If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  knew  at  what  stage  of  his  life  each 
work  was  produced,  we  could  partly  determine  what  the  prevailing 
temper  of  his  mind  was  at  each   stage.      The  difficulty  in  Shakspeare's 
case  is,  that  we  have  so  few  data  for  either..    Of  the  particulars  of  his 
life  in  its  several  stages  we  know  hardly  anything.     Of  the  dates  at 
which  his  several  plays  were  composed,  and  even  of  the  order  in  which 
they  succeeded  each  other,  we  know  little  for  certain.     The  problem, 
therefore,  which  they  present  is  analogous  to  that  of  arranging  a  bundle 
of  letters  written  by  the  same  hand  at  different  times,  of  which  many 
are  undated.  And  the  method  of  solution  is  the  same.  When  I  have  first 
arranged  in  order  those  letters  which  are  dated,  I  probably  find  a  pro- 
gressive change  in  the  character  of  the  handwriting ;  and  by  observing 
the  stage  in  that  progressive  change  to  which  the  handwriting  of  each 
undated  letter  appears  to  correspond,  I  determine,  with  more  or  less 
accuracy  and  confidence,  its  place  in  the  series.     So  with  regard  to  the 
order  of  Shakspeare's  plays.     Beginning  with  those  of  which  we  know 
the  date  upon  external  evidence,  I  observe  in  them  a  change  of  style  in- 
dicating a  catural  progress,  and  I  infer  the  date  of  the  composition  of 
those  concerning  which  I  have  no  external  evidence  from  the  stage  in 
that  progress  to  which  the  style  corresponds.     Placing  them  accordingly, 

*  P,  ciix. 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WHITE  TRAGEDIES?  161 

and  going  through  the  series,  I  find  that  the  changes  follow  a  kind  of 
law,  corresponding  to  the  changes  in  a  man's  tastes,  moral  and  intel- 
lectual, which  ordinarily  and  naturally  take  place  as  he  grows  older ; 
and  as  the  continuous  changes  in  a  man's  growth  are  roughly  divided 
into  certain  periods,  the  continuous  succession  of  his  productions  may  be 
divided  into  corresponding  groups.  In  early  youth  the  affections  are 
commonly  divided  between  farce  and  deep  tragedy.  As  the  mind  ex- 
pands and  ripens,  the  broader  humours  of  farce  and  the  simpler  horrors 
of  tragedy  lose  their  attraction,  and  give  place  to  the  richer,  chaster,  and 
more  delicata  humours  of  high  comedy,  and  the  deeper  mysteries  of 
tragic  passion.  As  advancing  years  cool  the  blood,  and  decreasing 
activity  makes  the  pleasures  of  a  quiet  life  more  attractive  than  those 
of  a  stirring  one,  it  is  probable  that  %he  taste  will  incline  to  the  calmer 
and  more  soothing  kind  of  pathos,  in  which  the  feeling  is  too  profound 
and  tender  for  what  is  called  comedy,  and  yet  the  final  impression  is  too 
peaceful  for  what  is  called  tragedy.  Tastes  so  changing  would  no  doubt 
induce  changes  both  in  the  choice  of  subjects  and  the  treatment  of  them ; 
and  if  we  take  Shakspeare's  plays  in  the  order  of  their  dates,  as  deter- 
mined upon  independent  grounds,  we  shall  find  that  the  differences  in 
choice  and  treatment  suit  very  naturally  with  the  natural  changes  in 
a  man's  mind  as  he  grows  older,  and  that  the  whole  series  divides  very 
well  into  four  groups.  Between  twenty-four  and  thirty  he  had  a  young 
man's  tastes,  both  in  the  light  and  the  heavy  line — a  taste  for  merriment, 
and  absurdity,  and  ingenious  conceits,  and  slang  and  loose  jests  in  the 
light  line  ;  and  for  love,  in  the  "  sighing-like-furnace "  and  bowl-and- 
dagger  stage,  in  the  serious.  After  thirty  he  lost  his  relish  for  these 
puerilities,  aimed  at  a  higher  order  of  wit  and  humour  in  comedy,  and 
a  higher  moral  standard  altogether  ;  while  for  the  true  elements  of  human 
tragedy  he  turned  to  history.  Five  or  six  years  of  such  work  led  him 
upwards  into  a  still  higher  region.  In  comedy,  though  the  vein  was  as 
rich  as  ever,  and  as  full  of  enjoyment,  yet  the  pathetic  element  spring- 
ing from  the  tender  and  serious  feeling  with  which  he  had  come  to  regard 
all  human  things,  became  more  and  more  predominant,  and  so  prevailed 
over  the  other  in  the  general  effect,  that  his  later  works  which  end  happily 
are  hardly  to  be  called  comedies.  I  suppose  nobody  ever  thought  of 
Measure  for  Measure  as  a  comedy,  though  everybody  in  it  except  Lucio 
is  happily  disposed  of,  and  the  effect  of  his  sentence  is  rather  comic  than 
otherwise.  All's  Well  is  allied  to  tragedy  rather  than  comedy,  by  the  pity 
and  serious  interest  with  which  we  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  heroine  ;  and 
Tioelfth  Night,  in  spite  of  the  number  and  perfection  of  the  comic  scenes, 
and  the  wonderful  liveliness  and  rapidity  and  variety  of  incident  and 
action,  is  nevertheless  to  me  one  of  the  most  pathetic  plays  I  know,  and 
would  draw  tears  far  sooner  than  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Shakspeare  may  be 
said,  therefore,  to  have  taken  leave  of  comedy  proper  in  the  Merry  Wives, 
and  to  have  grown  out  of  it  before  he  was  forty  years  old.  In  the  mean- 
time his  exercises  in  tragedy  proper  had  led  him  into  the  region  of  the 

8—0 


162  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

great  passions  which,  disclose  the  heights  and  depths  of  humanity — a 
region  which  was  destined  to  become  and  remain  his  own.  These  pas- 
sions— for  the  benefit  of  the  theatre,  the  glory  of  Burbage,  the  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  of  the  playgoing  public,  and  partly  it  may  be  for 
the  satisfaction  and  relief  of  his  own  genius — he  brought  (by  means  of 
such  stories  as  he  could  find,  suitable  for  showing  them  in  action)  upon 
the  stage.  And  to  this  we  owe  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Othello,  Lear,  and  the 
rest,  which  occupied  what  Mr.  Furnivall  calls  "  the  unhappy  Third 
Period."  The  fourth  group  follows  naturally  enough.  He  was  forty- 
four  years  old  ;  he  had  made  money  enough ;  he  had  retired  from 
business;  he  had  passed  the  period  when  the  mind  takes  pleasure  in 
violent  agitations  ;  and  he  employed  himself  upon  such  subjects  as  suited 
— or  treated  such  subjects  as  he  found  so  as  to  make  them  suit — the 
autumnal  days ;  witness  the  Winter's  Tale  and  the  Tempest. 

Classing  his  plays  according  to  their  general  character,  I  find  that 
they  fall  naturally  into  these  broad  divisions,  and  that  they  have  a  kind 
of  correspondence  with  the  divisions  which  are  observable  in  the  life  of 
man.  And  if  Mr.  Furnivall  had  been  content  to  rest  upon  this,  and  apply 
himself  to  discover  the  progressive  conditions  of  Shakspeare's  mind  in 
the  manner  in  which  he  treated  the  subjects  which  he  successively  took 
in  hand,  he  would  have  been  profitably  employed.  But  when  he  pro- 
ceeds to  separate  these  broad  natural  divisions  into  subordinate  groups, 
according  to  the  particular  feature  which  happens  to  be  prominent  in 
each  play — to  seek  in  the  temper,  tone,  character,  or  subject  of  each  for 
a  correspondence  with  some  presumed  condition  of  Shakspeare's  mind, 
induced  by  some  personal  experience  at  some  particular  time — he  has  no 
longer  any  substantial  ground  to  go  upon.  The  distinguishing  feature 
of  each  would  depend  upon  many  things  besides  the  Avriter's  state  of 
mind.  It  would  depend  upon  the  story  which  he  had  to  tell ;  while  the 
choice  of  the  story  would  depend  upon  the  requirements  of  the  theatre, 
the  taste  of  the  public,  the  popularity  of  the  different  actors,  the  strength 
of  the  company.  A  new  part  might  be  wanted  for  Burbage  or  Kempe. 
The  two  boys  that  acted  Hermia  and  Helena — the  tall  and  the  short  one 
— or  the  two  men  who  were  so  like  that  they  might  be  mistaken  for  each 
other,  might  want  new  pieces  to  appear  in  (which  last  would  be  a  pro- 
bable and  sufficient  explanation  of  the  production  about  the  same  time 
of  two  or  three  plays  the  humour  of  which  turns  upon  such  mistakes — 
Mr.  Furnivall's  "  mistaken-identity  group "),  and  so  on.  The  stories 
would  be  selected  from  such  as  were  to  be  had  (and  had  not  been  used 
up)  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  frequenters  of  the  theatre,  and  the  characters 
and  incidents  would  be  according  to  the  stories. 

When  Shakspeare  created  or  perfected  the  part  of  Petruchio,  we 
need  not  suppose  that  he  was  describing  the  way  he  would  have  set  about 
the  taming  of  a  shrew  himself,  or  that  he  would  have  recommended  it  to 
a  friend  as  the  best.  But  if  he  had  preferred  to  tame  her  after  the 
fashion  of  Tennyson's  Princess  in  his  Midsummer-Day's  tale,  he  would 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WEITE  TRAGEDIES?  163 

have  had  to  tell  a  different  story,  much  too  sentimental  for  the  taste  of 
a  Bishopsgate  audience.  The  real  Petruchio's  was  one  way  of  doing  it, 
and  made  a  livelier  entertainment,  with  a  sufficiently  good  moral — from 
which  the  Katharines  at  any  rate  might  profit,  even  if  the  Petruchios 
received  too  much  encouragement. 

Still  less,  when  he  describes  the  great  abnormal  conditions  of  human- 
ity which  are  the  soul  of  tragedy, — the  restless  and  relentless  ambition, 
without  pity,  love,  or  fear,  of  Hichard  ;  the  fiendish  malignity  of  lago  ; 
the  struggle  of  the  better  nature  and  triumph  of  the  worse  in  Macbeth ; 
the  desecration  of  all  the  sanctities  of  humanity  in  Regan  and  Groneril ; 
the  shameless  disloyalty  and  barbarity  of  Edmund ;  the  blind  and  savage 
jealousy  of  Othello,  Leontes,  and  Posthumus ;  or  the  conversion  in  Timon 
of  an  indiscriminate  love  of  all  mankind  into  as  undiscriminating  a 
hatred,  by  the  unexpected  discovery  that  some  of  them  could  be  ungrate- 
ful ; — need  we  suppose  that  he  is  describing  conditions  which  he  had 
himself  experienced  in  the  flesh.  Every  man  who  ever  read  a  newspaper 
or  a  novel  must  be  conscious  of  some  power  of  imagining  a  situation,  an 
emotion,  a  condition  of  hope,  fear,  or  desire,  of  which  he  has  had  no  per- 
sonal experience.  This  power — "  the  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  " — 
the  power  of  turning  to  shapes  the  forms  of  things  unknown,  as  imagi- 
nation bodies  them  forth — has  always  been  thought  to  be  the  special  gift  of 
poets  as  distinguished  from  other  men,  and  of  Shakspeare  as  distin- 
guished from  other  poets.  "  His  fine  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  soul," 
says  Hartley  Coleridge,  "  which  his  imagination  extended  to  all  conceivable 
cases  and  circumstances,  informed  him,"  <kc.*  Mr.  Furnivall,  however, 
not  believing  in  the  existence  of  any  such  faculty,  lays  it  down  as  a 
foundation  for  the  study  of  Shakspeare's  life  and  character  that  what- 
ever he  describes  vividly  he  must  be  supposed  to  have  experienced  per- 
sonally. "  As  to  the  question  how  far  we  are  justified  in  assuming  that 
Shakspere  put  his  own  feelings — himself — into  his  own  plays,  some 
men,"  he  says,  "  scorn  the  notion ;  ask  you  triumphantly  which  of  his 
characters  represent  him,  assert  that  he  himself  is  in  none  of  them,  but 
sits  apart,  serene,  unruffled,  himself  by  earthly  passion,  making  his 
puppets  move.  /  believe,  on  the  contrary,  that  all  the  deepest  and  greatest 
work  of  an  artist — playwright,  orator,  painter,  poet,  <fec. — is  based  on 
personal  experience,  on  his  own  emotions  and  passions,  and  not  merely 
on  his  observation  of  things  or  feelings  outside  him,  on  which  his  fancy 
and  imagination  work.  ...  I  find  that  Milton's  Satan  has  Milton's 
noble  nature  pervei*ted — is  no  devil,  &c.  ;  but  that  Dante  can  paint  hell, 
because  he  has  felt  it.  Shakspere  tells  me  he  has  felt  hell :  and  in  his 
Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Coriolanus,  Timon,  /  see  the  evidence  of  his 
having  done  so  ....  I  see  him  laying  bare  his  own  soul  as  he  strips 
the  covering  off  other  men's  ....  He  himself,  his  own  nature  and  life, 


*  Essays,  i.  146. 


164  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

are  in  all  his  plays,  to  the  man  who  has  eyes,  and  chooses  to  look  for  him 
and  them  there."  * 

Now,  if  this  means  no  more  than  that  Shakspeare  derived  his  know- 
ledge of  what  was  in  man  from  his  knowledge  of  what  was  in  himself; 
that  he  knew  what  another  man  might,  under  conceivable  conditions,  do, 
from  consciousness  of  what  he  himself,  under  conceivable  conditions, 
might  be  tempted  to  do,  my  only  objection  to  it  is  that  it  tells  me 
nothing  to  the  purpose.  It  tells  me  that  his  nature  was  capable  of  what 
is  possible  in  humanity,  whether  to  do  or  to  refrain  from  doing,  and  that 
he  knew  what  it  was  capable  of ;  it  does  not  tell  me  what  he  did  and 
what  he  refrained  from  at  any  particular  time  ;  but  only  that  at  the  time 
when  each  play  was  composed  he  was  in  a  condition  to  imagine  the  pas- 
sions which  were  represented  in  it.  But  when  Mr.  Furnivall  asserts 
that  he  sees  in  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Coriolauus,  and  Timon, 
evidence  that  Shakspeare  had  "felt  hell,"  he  must  be  supposed  to 
mean  something  more  than  this.  He  must  mean  that  Shakspeare 
had  himself  been  subject  to  the  passions  which  are  represented  there. 
And  when  he  proceeds  to  assume  that  this  personal  experience  of  hell 
coincided  in  time  with  the  composition  of  that  group  of  plays — that  he  had 
passed  at  that  time  from  "  the  abounding,  the  overflowing  happy  life  "  of 
the  Second  Period  into  "  the  bitterness,  the  world-weariness,  of  this  ter- 
rible Third  Period."  a  temper  which  made  him  "  see  God  as  a  blind  and 
furious  fate,  cutting  men  off  in  their  sins,  involving  the  innocent  with 
the  guilty  " — and  then  demands  "  whether  this  change  was  one  of  artist 
only  or  one  of  man  too ;  "  we  must  suppose  him  to  mean  that  this  in- 
fernal experience  was  a  condition  necessary  then  and  there  for  the  com- 
position of  those  plays ;  for  if  it  had  been  enough  to  have  once  "  felt  hell," 
there  could  have  been  no  reason  for  inferring  that  he  was  more  in  hell  be- 
tween forty  and  forty-five  than  at  any  earlier  period  of  his  life.  It  would 
seem,  therefore,  according  to  Mr.  Furnivall,  that  wherever  we  find  in  any 
of  his  plays  a  "  deep  and  great"  representation  of  a  bad  state  of  mind,  we 
may  conclude  that  he  was  at  that  time  in  that  state  of  mind  himself. 
But  here  I  meet  a  difficulty.  As  the  same  must  for  the  same  reason  be 

*  P.  cxx.  By  this  passage  I  understood  Mr.  Furnivall  to  mean  that  Shak- 
speare's  imaginative  power  was  limited  by  his  personal  experiences.  He  explains  his 
true  meaning  in  the  following  note  : — "This  is  news  to  me.  I  was,  and  am,  under 
the  impression,  1st,  that  I  believed  and  believe  Shakspere  to  possess  higher  imagina- 
tion than  any  other  mind  I  have  ever  come  across,  and  that  it  has  stirred  and  lifted 
me  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world ;  2nd,  that  I  bad  written  of  Shakspere's 
raried  powers  (p.  cxv.)  as  'the  agents  of  that  imagination  which  made  him  the  greatest 
poet  of  the  world'  (p.  cxvi.).  I  intend  to  keep  up  these  delusions.  I  still  believe  that 
the  greatest  work  of  every  great  artist  is  '  based  on  '  what  he  has  felt  himself.  But  as 
for  saving  that  this  '  based  on  '  is  equivalent  to  'limited  to,'  so  that  Shakspere  could 
produce  no  'great  and  deep'  work  unless  it  represented  his  own  experience,  I  never 
have  said  it  and  I  never  meant  to  say  it." — F.  J.F.  So  I  should  have  supposed  : 
but  if  so,  where  in  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Coriolanus,  or  Timon,  is  the  evidence  that 
he  had  "felt  hell?" 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES?  165 

true  with  regard  to  his  "  deep  and  great  "  representations  of  other  states 
of  mind,  what  are  we  to  do  when  we  find  good  and  bad  states  of  mind 
delineated  with  equal  depth  and  greatness  in  the  same  play  1  How  shall 
we  escape  the  conclusion  that  he  was  himself  at  the  same  time  in  a  good 
state  of  mind  1  To  represent  Isabella  to  the  life  must  have  required 
quite  as  much  personal  experience  as  to  represent  Claudio ;  but  such  ex- 
perience must  have  been  obtained  in  the  other  place ;  and  though  it  is 
easy  to  understand  how  he  may  have  imagined  both  at  the  same  time,  I 
do  not  see  how  he  can  in  any  other  sense  have  been  both. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  determine  by  this  method  the  condition  of  his 
soul  when  he  was  writing  Measure  for  Measure,  it  is  important  to 
know  which  of  these  two  characters  is  to  be  taken  as  that  into  which  he 
was  "putting  his  own  feelings — himself."  But  Mr.  Furnivall  does  not 
attempt  to  explain  by  what  process  we  are  to  discover  this.  I  should 
myself  have  looked  for  it  in  the  character  that  he  most  approved  and 
was  most  in  sympathy  with,  and  found  it  therefore  in  Isabella.  Mr. 
Furnivall  finds  it  in  Claudio,  whom  he  promotes  (on  what  ground  I 
cannot  divine,  unless  it  be  that  it  supplied  him  with  a  "link")  into  the 
hero  of  the  play.*  And  as  there  is  hardly  one  of  the  series  without 
half  a  dozen  prominent  characters,  all  like  life  and  unlike  each  other — • 
if  we  may  choose  which  we  please  for  the  representative  of  Shakspeare's 
"  prevailing  temper  of  mind,"  as  a  man,  for  the  time  being,  it  is  plain 
that  we  may  make  of  him  whatever  we  like.  The  principal  character 
is  not  necessarily  the  one  with  which  he  is  most  in  sympathy.  Horatio 
in  Hamlet,  Banquo  in  Macbeth,  Cordelia,  Kent,  and  Edgar  in  Lear,  the 
steward  in  Timon,  Menenius  in  Coriolanus,  are  the  persons  who  say  and 
do  what  he  most  approves  in  each  of  those  plays.  And  if  it  be  asked 
why  he  should  have  chosen  for  a  hero  a  man  whose  sayings  and  doings 
he  did  not  altogether  approve,  it  seems  hardly  necessary  to  answer  that 
perhaps  he  wished  to  show  what  came  of  them. 

That  we  may  and  do  judge  which  character  he  is  most  in  sympathy 
with  by  some  other  test  than  a  preconceived  opinion  as  to  his  own,  is 
proved  by  the  many  cases  in  which  we  feel  surprised  at  his  apparent  in- 
sensibility to  faults  which  we  should  have  thought  most  likely  to  offend 
him.  But  though  to  a  disengaged  mind  the  indications  of  sympathy 
are  mostly  clear  enough,  they  may  become  invisible  under  the  light  of  a 
strong  prepossession  :  and  I  suspect  that  it  was  not  either  in  the  choice 
or  in  the  handling  of  his  dramatic  subjects  that  Mr.  Furnivall  discovered 
the  history  of  Shakspeare's  "  nature  and  life  "  as  a  man.  He  found  it 
in  them  afterwards ;  but  when  he  "  chose  to  look  for  him  and  them 

*  "  The  centre  of  Measure  for  Measure  is  the  scene  of  Isabella  with  Claudio  in  the 
prison,  where  his  unfit,  nature  fails  under  the  burden  of  coming  death  laid  upon  him  " 
(p.  Ixxv).  "Julius  Ccesar,  Hamlet,  and  Measure  for  Measure  are  most  closely 
allied  by  the  unfitness  of  Brutus,  Hamlet,  and  Claudio  to  bear  the  burden  put  on 
them"  (p.  cxx). 


166  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WEITE  TRAGEDIES? 

there"  I  suspect  that  he  knew  quite  well  what  he  wanted  to  find.*  His 
account  (pp.  xl.-lxiii.)  of  "  the  abounding,  the  overflowing  happy  life  " 
of  "  the  delightful  Second  Period  "  is  separated  from  "  the  bitterness,  the 
world-weariness  of  the  terrible  Third  Period  "  by  an  account  (pp.  Ixiv.- 
Ixvii.)  of  the  Sonnets. 

"  The  great  question  is,"  he  says,  "  do  Shakspere's  Sonnets  speak  his 
own  heart  and  thoughts  or  not  ?  And  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  many 
critics  really  deserving  the  name  of  Shakspere  students,  and  not  Shak- 
spere  fools,  have  held  the  Sonnets  to  be  merely  dramatic,  I  could  not 
have  conceived  that  poems  so  intensely  and  evidently  autobiographic  and 
self-revealing — poems  so  one  with  the  spirit  and  inner  meaning  of  Shak- 
spere's growth  and  life  could  ever  have  been  conceived  to  be  other  than 
what  they  are,  the  records  of  his  own  loves  and  fears." 

Assuming  that  they  contain  a  record  of  his  own  story,  he  finds  in 
them  these  facts  which  follow  : 

1.  He  was  passionately  attached  to  a  beautiful  youth,  whose  Christian 
name,   Mr.  Furnivall  says,  was  "  Will "  (inferring  the  fact  from  what 
seems  to  me  the  misinterpretation  of  a  pun,  in  a  sonnet  distinguished  by 
the  absence  of  every  quality  characteristic  of  Shakspeare),  and  his  sur- 
name unknown. 

2.  He  was  anxious  that  this  youth  should  marry,  in  order  that  his 
beauty  might  not  die  with  him. 

3.  Having  on  some  occasion  to  leave  London,  he  was  parted  from 
him  for  a  while. 

4.  While  he  was  away  his  friend  committed  some  "  sensual  fault," 
for  which  he  blamed,  but  forgave  him. 

5.  He  himself  committed   a   fault,  the   nature   of  which  does  not 
appear,  further  than  that  it  was  one  that  would  "  separate  "  them. 

6.  He  had  a  "  swarthy  mistress,"  whom  his  friend  "  took  away " 
from  him. 

7.  His  friend  being  called  away  somewhither,  they  were  parted  a 
second  time ;  and  he  now  grew  jealous,  on  account  of  supposed  rivals. 

8.  He  grew  tired  of  the  world,  because  his  friend  "  had  mixed  with 
bad  company."     Yet  he  excused  him. 

9.  Finding  his  most  formidable  rival  to  be  a  poet,  he  prepared  to 
take  a  final  leave  of  his  friend. 

10.  He  was  troubled  because  his  friend  became  "vicious." 

11.  A  third  period  of  absence  followed,  during  which  they  "  com- 


*  "  Indeed,  I  did  not  come  with  any  theory  to  Shakspere.  I  did  look  to  find 
Shakspere  in  his  works,  but  had  no  idea  what  kind  of  man  I  should  find  there.  I 
honestly  asked  the  plays  what  Shakspere  was,  and  honestly  set  down  their  answer  as 
I  heard  it." — F.  J.  F.  [I  hope  I  have  said  nothing  which  implies  any  doubt  on  this 
point.  But  did  Mr.  Furnivall  ask  the  question  and  hear  the  answer,  concerning 
Shakspeare's  state  of  mind  during  the  Third  Period  (cstat.  40-45),  before  he  read  the 
Sonnets  ?] 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WHITE  TEAGEDIES?  167 

mitted   faults   on   both   sides,"  and  separated;  but  upon   the  friend's 
motion  made  it  up  again. 

12.  During  the  last  term   of  separation,   he  had   been   so   much 
" shaken"  by  his  friend's  " unkindness,"  that  he  told   him  "he  had 
passed  a  hell  of  time." 

13.  This  friendship,  with  these  vicissitudes,  had  now  lasted  three 
years,  and  the  renewal  of  love  which  took  place  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth  was  expected  to  make  it  firmer  than  ever,  and  is  supposed  by 
Mr.  Furnivall  to  have  held  good  for  a  long  time — his  reason  being  that 
some  of  the  Sonnets  are  so  difficult  to  construe  that  they  cannot  have 
been  composed  before  the  Third  Period.     But  all  we  know  about  it  is 
that  the  first  group  concludes,  soon  after  the  reconciliation,  with  Shak- 
speare  "  excusing  himself  for  giving  away  his  friend's  present  of  some 
tables,"  "  again  describing  his  love  for  him,"  and  "  warning  him  that  he 
too  must  grow  old."  * 

This  first  group,  which  has  a  kind  of  continuity  and  coherency  that 
gives  it  the  appearance  of  being  meant  for  one  poem,  closes  with  the 
126th  Sonnet.  The  remaining  twenty-seven  have  neither  coherency  nor 
consistency,  nor  (with  two  or  three  exceptions)  anything  which  I  should 
take  for  real  passion.  For  anything  I  can  see,  they  may  be  a  miscel- 
laneous collection,  picked  up  anywhere,  put  together  anyhow,  suggested 
by  different  occasions,  addressed  to  different  persons,  the  work  of  diffe- 
rent hands.  Mr.  Furnivall,  however,  accepts  them  as  a  second  group, 
addressed  by  Shakspeare  to  his  "  swarthy  mistress,"  and  containing  a 
faithful  record  of  his  relation  to  her  :  a  very  strange  one  for  any  man  to 
celebrate  in  a  series  of  sonnets,  whether  for  his  own  pleasure  or  hers, 
even  if  they  were  meant  to  go  no  further — stranger  still,  if  meant  for 
posterity;  for  they  merely  describe  a  passion  discreditable  to  both 
parties — a  passion,  felt  to  be  senseless  and  sinful,  for  an  object  known 
and  proclaimed  to  be  unworthy — a  passion  which  his  own  Thersites 
would  have  had  great  pleasure  in  describing  truly.  But  one  or  two  of 
them  seem  to  carry  an  allusion  to  an  incident  shadowed  forth  in  the 
first  group,  that  of  his  friend  having  been  a  favoured  rival ;  and  as  the 
word  "  hell "  occurs  in  them  more  than  once,  the  great  biographical  fact 
that  Shakspeare  had  "  felt  hell,"  and  thereby  qualified  himself  to  write 
Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  Coriolanus,  and  Timon,  is  considered  to  be  esta- 
blished. "  I  always  ask,"  says  Mr.  Furnivall,  "  that  the  sonnets  should 
be  read  between  the  Second  and  Third  Periods  ;  for  the  '  hell  of  time ' 
of  which  they  speak  is  the  best  preparation  for  the  temper  of  that  Third 
Period,  and  enables  us  to  understand  it.  The  fierce  and  stern  decree  of 
that  period  seems  to  me  to  be,  '  There  shall  be  vengeance,  death,  for 
misjudgment,  failure  in  duty,  self-indulgence,  sin,'  and  the  innocent  who 
belong  to  the  guilty  shall  suffer  with  them  :  Portia,  Ophelia,  Desdemona, 
Cordelia,  lie  beside  Brutus,  Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear."  f 

*  I  quote  from  Mr.  Furnivall's  own  analysis  of  the  contents  of  the  Sonnets  con- 
sidered as  records  of  facts  in  Shakspeare's  personal  history.  f  P.  Ixvii. 


168  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WHITE  TRAGEDIES? 

Now  if  the  temper  of  the  Third  Period  has  to  be  explained  by  the 
personal  experiences  spoken  of  in  the  Sonnets,  we  must  suppose  that  it 
depended  upon,  and  therefore  could  not  have  existed  before,  those  ex- 
periences ;  and,  as  Mr.  Furnivall  asks  us  to  read  the  Sonnets  after  the 
Second  Period,  it  seems  to  follow  that,  according  to  his  view,  none  of  the 
effects  which  he  attributes  to  that  temper  should  be  found  in  the  plays 
which  were  produced  before  the  Third.  How,  then,  are  we  to»  explain 
the  temper  implied  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  in  King  Richard  III.,  and  in 
King  John  1  He  supposes  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  have  been  written  be- 
tween 1591  and  1593,  Richard  III.  in  1594,  King  John  in  1595.  His 
Third  Period  begins  in  1601.  If,  then,  the  experience  acquired  and  the 
temper  generated  during  the  period  of  his  friend's  "  unkindness  "  (which 
by  Mr.  Furnivali's  reckoning  cannot  be  dated  before  1595) — the  period 
when  he  "  felt  hell " — was  a  pre-requisite  for  the  composition  of  tragedies 
in  which  vengeance  and  death,  indiscriminately  inflicted  on  the  guilty 
and  the  innocent,  was  represented  as  the  inevitable  consequence  of 
human  error  and  crime,  Shakspeare — "the  man" — must  have  had  it 
before  he  wrote  those  three  plays ;  for  it  will  not  be  disputed  that 
vengeance  and  death  are  inflicted  indiscriminately  enough  in  all  of 
them ;  and  yet,  if  so,  it  must  have  been  compatible  with  the  happier 
and  healthier  temper  to  which  we  owe  the  "  sunny  or  sweet-time 
comedies"*  of  the  "delightful  Second  Period,"  which,  according  to 
Mr.  Furnivall,  came — in  point  of  time — after.  He  must,  therefore, 
have  been  capable  either  of  having  that  temper  without  having  had 
that  taste  of  hell,  or  of  having  had  that  taste  without  continuing  in  that 
temper ;  and  either  way  we  escape  the  necessity  of  supposing  that  the 
great  creations  of  his  Third  Period  were  the  offspring  of  a  soul  degraded 
and  demoralised — "  built  in  the  eclipse,  and  -rigged  with  curses  dark." 

Nor  is  there  any  difficulty  in  accounting  for  them  otherwise.  If  Mr. 
Furnivall  could  have  been  content  with  his  four  groups,  answering  gene- 
rally to  the  four  natural  stages  of  human  life,  he  would  have  seen  that 
that  phase  in  the  progressive  work  of  the  imagination  came  in  the 
natural  order  of  things.  Those  early  experiments  in  the  delineation  of 
tragic  passion  had  made  Shakspeare  acquainted  with  the  capabilities  of 
that  department  of  his  art,  and  also  with  its  difficulties  and  defects  as 
then  practised.  He  found  out  how  to  overcome  the  difficulties  and  do 
more  justice  to  the  capabilities,  and  looked  about  for  subjects  to  try  it 
on.  Fit  subjects  for  tragedy  of  course  involved  errors,  failures,  crimes, 
sins,  vengeance,  and  death ;  for  if  everything  had  been  sweet,  and  sunny, 
and  delightful,  the  elements  of  tragedy  would  have  been  wanting.  He 
found  them  both  in  real  history  and  in  poetic  tradition,  and  he  treated 
them  according  to  their  kind.  But  Mr.  Furnivall  is  not  satisfied  with 
so  commonplace  an  account  of  so  simple  a  matter.  He  must  separate 
these  natural  divisions  into  subordinate' groups  of  two  or  three,  by  pick- 

*  P.  vii. 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEAKE   WEITE  TKAGEBIES?  169 

ing  out  some  common  peculiarity  and  referring  it  to  some  corresponding 
peculiarity  in  Shakspeare's  own  inward  or  outward  life,  which  he  first 
imagines  and  then  offers  in  confirmation.  He  supposes  him,  for  instance, 
to  have  laboured  at  one  time  under  a  sense  of  inability  to  do  some  duty 
that  was  laid  upon  him.  The  "  mood  "  induced  by  this  experience  de- 
termined him  to  choose  for  his  hero  Brutus,  upon  whom  was  laid  "  the 
burden  of  setting  right  the  time,"  under  which  he,  being  "  unfit "  to  bear 
it — together  with  his  wife,  who  "  shared  the  strain  of  that  burden  on 
him  " — "  died,  self-slaughtered."  * 

The  same  mood  continuing,  suggested  for  his  next  hero  Hamlet,  upon 
whom  also  is  laid  "the  burden  of  setting  right  the  times  out  of  joint ;  " 
who  also  "knows  himself  unfit"  for  it,  and  who,  "  in  bearing  it,  brings 
death  to  himself  and  the  woman  who  loved  him — her  mind  giving  way 
under  the  strain ; "  and  the  way  in  which  he  "  brought  death  to  him- 
self "  points  the  moral  of  the  lesson.  Hearing  that  he  has  not  half  an 
hour  to  live  in  the  course  of  nature,  he  "at  last  does  sweep  to  his 
revenge,  and  sends  his  father's  murderer  to'hell."  This  "  involved  the 
doing  of  his  duty ;  under  the  burden  of  that  his  unfit  nature  sank."  f 
It  was  the  moral  effort,  not  the  poison  on  the  foil,  that  killed  him. 

Requiring  still  another  instance  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  this  mood, 
he  chose  a  more  ordinary  man  overpowered  by  a  more  ordinary  burden. 
Claudio,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  is  condemned  to  lose  his  head.  His 
"  unfit  nature"  shrinks  from  the  apprehension  of  death  :  he  proposes  a 
shameful  surrender;  and  though  he  repents  immediately,  and  declares 
himself  "  so  out  of  love  with  life  that  he  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it ; "  and 
shortly  after  receives  the  warrant  for  his  death  with  manly  composure 
(Act  iv.  sc.  2),  and  escapes  the  inevitable  penalty  after  all,  he  stands  for 
the  third  and  last  representative  of  this  infirmity,  and  winds  up  the 
trilogy,  which  is  to  be  called  "  The  unfit-nature  or  under-burden-failing 
group  "  ;  J  the  moral  of  which  appears  to  be,  that  the  best  man  should 
not  attempt  to  set  the  time  right,  unless  he  is  sure  to  succeed  and  not 
perish  in  the  attempt ; — that  a  son  should  not  allow  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded by  his  father's  ghost  that  it  is  his  duty  to  kill  his  uncle,  unless 
he  can  trust  himself  to  do  it  without  scruple ; — and  that  an  ordinary 
man  should  not  commit  a  capital  offence  unless  his  nature  is  fit  to  bear 
the  burden  of  the  duty  of  undergoing  capital  punishment. 

But  the  liability  of  human  nature  to  fail  under  burdens  which  it  is 
not  strong  enough  to  bear  was  not  all  that  Shakspeare  learned  in  that 
unhappy  time.  He  learned  also  that  it  was  liable  to  yield  to  temptation  : 
and  to  this  discovery  we  owe  Othello  and  Macbeth.  Othello  suffered 
himself  to  be  tempted  by  lago  to  think  that  it  was  his  duty  to  kill  his 
wife.  Macbeth  suffered  himself  to  be  tempted  by  the  witches  to  believe 
that  he  was  fated  to  be  king.  And  the  "  vengeance  of  death  "  falls  on 

*  P.  Ixviii.  f 

f  P.  Ixxxr. 


170  WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

both.  What  particular  experience  enabled  Shakspeare  to  describe  those 
forms  of  temptation  we  are  not  informed,  no  confession  of  the  kind 
being  quoted  from  the  Sonnets.  But  these  two  plays  are  to  be  called 
"  The  Tempter-yielding  group." 

Another  discovery  of  the  same  period  was  the  prevalence  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  ingratitude  in  human  nature,  and  the  violence  of  the  resent- 
ment it  provokes  in  those  who  suffer  from  it.  By  what  personal 
experience  Shakspeare  qualified  himself  to  exhibit  these  phenomena, 
we  are  again  left  to  find  out  or  conjecture  for  ourselves.  The  worst 
ingratitude  which  he  complains  of  in  the  Sonnets  is  that  of  his  "  swarthy 
mistress,"  in  not  being  more  faithful  and  loving  to  one  who  loves  her 
so  much  in  spite  of  her  unworthiness  and  unatti-activeness ;  and  the 
strongest  expression  of  resentment  is  contained  in  the  terms  of  the  com- 
plaint. But  by  some  means  or  other  he  was  oppressed  (it  seems)  about 
this  time  with  a  sense  of  the  wickedness  of  ingratitude  and  the  mischief 
which  it  caused ;  and  this  induced  the  mood  which  manifested  itself  in 
the  composition  of  two  "  Ingratitude  and  Cursing  groups " ;  the  first 
consisting  of  the  single  tragedy  of  King  Lear,  the  second  of  Coriolanus 
and  Timon  of  Athens ;  these  two  groups  being,  however,  separated  from 
each  other  by  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra — the 
"  Lust  and  False-Love  group" — his  qualification  for  which  he  owed  no 
doubt  to  the  swarthy  mistress. 

These  complete  "  the  terrible  Third  Period  lesson  " — that  "  for  mis- 
judgment,  unreasoning  jealousy,  crime, — death  is  the  penalty;  no  time 
for  repentance  is  allowed ;  the  innocent  must  suffer  with  the  guilty." 
"  Look,"  says  Mr.  Furnivall,  "  at  Csesar,  Brutus,  and  the  noble  Portia, 
dead  :  Hamlet  and  Ophelia  dead  too :  likewise  Othello,  Desdemona, 
and  Emilia ;  Macbeth  and  his  wife,  Banquo,  Macduff's  wife  and  her  little 
ones,  Lear,  Cordelia,  and  eyeless  Gloster,  beside  Regan,  Goneril,  Cornwall, 
Edmund,  Hector's  gory  corpse,  Antony  self-slain,  Cleopatra  too,  Corio- 
lanus murdered,  Timon  miserably  dead.  Think  of  the  temper  in  which 
Shakspere  held  the  scourge  of  the  avenger  in  his  hand,  in  which  he 
felt  the  baseness,  calumny,  and  injustice  of  the  world  around  him,  in  which 
he  saw  as  it  were  the  heavens  as  iron  above  him,  and  God  as  a  blind  and 
furious  fate,"  *  &c.  "  Compare  for  a  minute  your  memories,"  &c. ;  "  and 
then  decide  for  yourselves  whether  this  change  in  Shakspere  was  one 
of  artist  only,  or,  as  I  believe,  one  of  man  too  :  and  whether  many  of  the 
Sonnets  do  not  help  you  to  explain  it  with  that  '  hell  of  time '  through 
which  their  writer  past : 

For  if  you  were  by  my  unkindness  shaken 

As  I  by  yours,  you  have  passed  a  hell  of  time." 

To  the  obvious  question  whether  Mr.  Furnivall  ever  took  the  trouble 
to  count  up  the  deaths,  with  the  manner  of  them,  in  any  nine  tragedies 
by  any  writer  or  writers  whatever, — to  mark  the  proportions  of  the  in- 

*  P.  Ixxxvii. 


WHY  DID  SHAKSPEARE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES?  171 

nocent  and  the  guilty, — and  then  compare  that  list  with  this — he  pre- 
pares us  in  a  note  for  what  he  has  to  say  in  reply.  "  /  do  not  admit  as 
a  sufficient  reason  that  which,  of  course  rises  in  one's  mind — that  the 
change  from  Comedy  to  Tragedy,  and  then  to  Romantic  Drama,  involved 
this  change  of  tone  and  temper,  independent  of  the  author's  own  moods. 
/  feel  that  Shakspere's  change  of  subject  in  his  different  periods  was 
made  because  it  suited  his  moods — the  different  ways  in  which  on  the 
whole,  from  Period  to  Period,  he  looked  on  the  world."  When  a 
man  feels  that  a  thing  is  so,  without  being  able  to  give  his  neigh- 
bour a  reason  for  thinking  that  it  is  so,  there  is  no  more  to  be 
said.  But  in  this  case  I  think  he  must  also  feel  that,  though  the 
change  may  have  been  really  due  to  a  change  in  Shakspeare's  own 
temper,  induced  by  his]  own  personal  experiences,  yet  without  any 
such  experiences  or  any  such  alteration  of  temper,  the  same  change 
would  certainly  have  occurred,  if  for  any  reason  it  had  suited  him 
to  write  tragedies  instead  of  comedies.  The  notion  that  the  "  mood  "  of 
that  dark  period  compelled  him  to  choose  subjects  through  which  he 
could  "  wield  the  scourge  of  the  avenger  "  is  the  more  remarkable  when 
we  observe  that  two  of  the  ten — Measure  for  Measure  and  Troilus  and 
Cressida — supply  occasions  for  the  use  of  it  both  numerous  and  inviting ; 
and  yet  it  is  either  not  applied  or  misapplied.  In  Measure  for  Measure 
there  is  plenty  of  "  misjudgment,  failure  in  duty,  self-indulgence,  sin,"  yet 
it  contributes  no  instance  of"  vengeance  and  death  "  to  swell  Mr.  Furni- 
vall's  list.  In  Troilus  and  Cressida  the  scourge  passes  by  Cressida, 
Pandarus,  Diomed,  and  Troilus,  and  falls  on  the  man  who  least  deserved 
it.  It  seems,  therefore,  that  in  the  very  depth  of  the  dark  period  it 
suited  Shakspeare's  "  mood,  and  the  way  in  which,  on  the  whole,  he 
looked  on  the  world,"  to  choose  for  his  subject,  on  two  several  occasions, 
a  story  that  was  not  to  end  with  the  death  of  the  principal  characters, 
and  in  which,  therefore,  "  the  terrible  Third  Period  lesson  "  could  not  be 
taught.  To  me,  the  indulgence  shown  to  the  guilty  in  Measure  for 
Measure — an  indulgence  worthy  of  the  Fourth  Period,  when  "  the  God  of 
forgiveness  and  reconciliation  has  taken  the  avenger's  place,"  and  seeks 
"  repentance,  not  vengeance  "  (p.lxxxvii) — is  sufficiently  explained  by  the 
fact  that  the  story  which  he  was  dramatising  ends  with  marriages  instead 
of  deaths;  and  the  imperfect  execution  of  poetical  justice  in  Troilus 
and  Cressida  by  the  fact  that  he  had  no  authority  for  killing  (during  the 
time  allotted  to  the  action)  any  of  the  company  except  Hector. 

Whether  the  circumstances  hinted  in  the  Sonnets  are  to  be  taken  for 
incidents  in  Shakspeare's  own  life,  is  a  question  interesting  as  regards 
him,  but  not  as  regards  the  matter  under  discussion ;  for  I  do  not  find 
that  any  of  them,  or  all  together,  help  at  all  to  explain  how  he  came  by 
the  power,  the  temper,  or  the  insight  which  are  shown  in  his  productions 
of  the  Third  Period.  Assume  them  to  be  biographical,  and  consider  how 
much  they  imply.  Suppose  it  true  that,  for  the  space  of  three  years  at 
least,  he  was  possessed  by  a  passionate  friendship  for  a  beautiful  youth ; 


172  WHY' DID  SHAKSPEAEE  WRITE  TRAGEDIES? 

that  during  those  years  he  suffered  the  usual  penalties  of  such  a  passion 
• — jealousies,  misunderstandings,  unkindnesses,  expostulations,  quarrels, 
partings,  and  reconciliations ;  that  he  was  often  very  unhappy  in  con- 
sequence ;  that  he  had  at  the  same  time  fallen  into  another  passion  of  a 
more  earthly  kind,  an  irrepressible  affection  or  appetite  for  a  woman 
•whom  he  felt  to  be  neither  beautiful,  nor  good,  nor  true,  nor  attractive, 
yet  who  had  some  indescribable  power  over  both  himself  and  his  friend,  and 
that  one  of  their  quarrels  was  about  her ;  lastly,  that  from  the  world  at 
large  he  had  met  with  disgraces,  injuries,  and  disgusts,  and  having  little 
respect  for  it,  found  it  often  very  tiresome.  Take  all  this  for  prosaic 
fact,  judicially  established  by  his  own  confession,  and  consider  how  far 
such  experiences  as  these  would  go  to  furnish  a  man  whose  imagination 
could  not  travel  beyond  the  range  of  his  own  experience  (which  being, 
according  to  Mr.  Furnivall,  the  case  of  all  great  artists,  we  must  suppose 
to  have  been  eminently  thel  case  of  Shakspeare)  with  insight  into  the 
souls  of  Brutus,  Hamlet,  Claudio,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear  and  his  daugh- 
ters, Mark  Antony,  Cleopatra,  Coriolanus,  and  Timon.  For  Angelo, 
Troilus,  Cressida,  and  Mark  Antony,  they  might  perhaps  (if  the  author 
of  Venus  and  Adonis  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece  can  be  supposed  to  have 
stood  in  need  of  instruction  to  qualify  him  for  the  "  False  Love  or  Pas- 
sion group  ")  have  furnished  hints  :  but  the  mysteries  of  passion  in  the 
others  lie  surely  far  beyond  the  sphere  not  only  of  any  experiences  indicated 
in  the  Sonnets,  but  of  any  personal  experiences  that  he  can  be  supposed 
to  have  had  anywhere  or  at  any  time.  To  imagine  him  exhibiting  men 
and  women  under  conditions  which  he  had  not  proved  by  trial  is,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Furnivall,  to  degrade  him  into  the  master  of  a  puppet- 
show.*  To  me,  on  the  contrary,  it  seems  certain  that  he  could  not  have 
exhibited  those  conditions  as  he  has  done  while  he  was  himself  subject 
to  them ;  and  that  whatever  perturbations  his  spirit  may  have  gone 
through,  it  had  risen  above  them  before  he  wrote  his  great  tragedies, 
into — 

The  brightest  heaven  of  invention, 

from  which  he  could  look  down  with  pity  upon  all  the  disorders  of  man- 
kind. J.  S. 

*  See  p.  cxx.     "  Some  men  ....  assert  ....  that  he  sits  apart,  serene,  un- 
ruffled himself  by  earthly  passion,  making  his  puppets  move." 


173 


Snrlptuxe  in  1880, 


IT  would  seem  as  though  comparatively  few  people  had  observed  that  the 
general  revival  of  the  arts  amongst  us  has  extended  to  the  domain  of 
sculpture.  In  the  face  of  an  annual  exhibition,  gradually  but  surely 
increasing  in  merit  year  by  year,  we  are  constantly  confronted  by  the 
dictum  that  sculpture  is  dead  in  England.  It  is  not  a  new  complaint, 
it  marks  no  studied  conviction  on  the  part  of  the  public,  it  is  merely 
one  of  the  time-honoured  commonplaces  of  newspaper  criticism.  It  was 
never  expressed  more  loudly  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  Bacon  and 
Nollekens  were  founding  our  national  sculpture  with  their  robust  and 
original  work ;  it  was  sounded  a  generation  later  in  the  ears  of  Flaxman. 
it  greeted  Alfred  Stevens  in  his  solitude,  and  Foley  in  the  circle  of  his 
disciples.  Whenever  English  sculpture  has  breathed  strongly  after  one 
of  its  periodical  trances,  whenever  it  has  stretched  a  limb  or  fluttered  a 
pulse,  criticism  has  hastened  to  assure  it  that  it  is  as  dead  as  a  door-nail, 
and  should  permit  itself  to  be  borne  decently  and  swiftly  to  the  tomb. 
Thus  encouraged,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  it  fails  to  gain  strength,  or  to 
throw  off  the  sluggishness  consistent  with  so  complete  a  hypochondria. 
Since  everyone  busily  informs  him  that  he  is  dead,  the  courteous  invalid 
can  do  no  less  than  close  his  eyes  and  compose  his  limbs,  and  be  as 
comatose  as  possible.  Sculpture  is  not  dead  in  England,  let  us  distinctly 
say ;  but  whose  is  the  fault  if  it  appear  to  be  so  1 

The  fault  would  seem  to  lie  with  three  responsible  bodies,  .each 
charged  with  the  duty  of  observing  and  encouraging  contemporary  art — 
the  public,  the  critics,  the  Royal  Academy.  Each  of  these  can  hardJy 
be  acquitted  of  a  determined  neglect  of  the  interests  of  sculpture,  and 
each  has  had  a  reflex  influence  in  prejudicing  the  other  two.  The  body 
of  which  artists  complain  the  most,  and  which  has,  in  fact,  less  fault  in 
this  particular  case  than  any  other,  is  the  Royal  Academy.  The  painters 
do  not  depend  wholly  upon  the  annual  show  at  Burlington  House ;  it  is 
but  the  largest  and  most  important  of  a  variety  of  exhibitions  at  which, 
throughout  the  year,  the  public  is  invited  to  observe  their  productions. 
Some  of  the  most  celebrated  painters  of  our  day  have  never  exhibited  at 
the  Royal  Academy,  and  have  successfully  summoned  their  admirers 
around  them  at  other  galleries.  But  the  sculptor  has  no  public  audience 
except  at  Burlington  House,  and  the  critic  who  desires  to  follow  the 
progress  of  sculpture  in  England  has  no  means  of  doing  so  except  by  a 
careful  study,  year  after  year,  of  the  three  rooms  devoted  to  that  art  at 
the  Academy,  which  becomes,  in  this  way,  the  sole  medium  between  the 


174  ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN   1880. 

public  and  the  sculptor.  With  all  their  faults,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
the  Academicians  have  ever  denied  the  dignity  of  this  particular  art. 
They  have  given  it  a  measure  of  encouragement  in  their  schools,  they 
have  admitted  its  followers  to  a  fair  share  of  the  honours  of  their  foun- 
dation, and,  above  all,  whatever  resistance  has  been  made  to  the  endow- 
ment of  false  and  meretricious  popular  work,  has  been  made  by  the 
Academy.  Where  a  just  complaint  may  be  brought  against  the  Council, 
is  in  the  matter  of  the  space  allotted  to  the  works  in  sculpture  year  by 
year.  When  the  Academy  first  arrived  in  Burlington  House,  so  few 
works  in  this  branch  of  art  were  exhibited  that  the  three  rooms,  or 
rather  two  rooms  and  a  half,  were  by  no  means  unduly  crowded.  At 
present,  on  the  contrary,  the  crush  is  very  great,  and  most  injurious  to 
the  effect  of  each  individual  statue,  which,  drawn  so  close  as  it  is  to  two 
uncongenial  neighbours,  is  apt  to  lose  much  of  the  harmony  of  its  pro- 
portions. The  whole  principle  upon  which  works  of  sculpture  are  now 
arranged  at  the  Academy  is  injudicious.  The  long,  flat  line  of  busts 
set  dose  to  one  another  on  a  ledge  half-way  up  a  blank  wall,  is  one  of 
the  most  uncomely  features  of  the  whole  exhibition,  and  the  arrange- 
ment by  which  weary  visitors  are  encouraged  to  sit  and  rest  with  their 
backs  to  the  principal  statues  in  the  Central  Hall,  must  surely  be  the 
grim  pleasantry  of  some  elderly  painter  of  past  times.  A  few  ottomans 
cosily  arranged  dos-ct-dos  with  Sir  Frederick  Leighton's  nymphs,  and  a 
sofa  wheeled  up  against  Mr.  Poynter's  "  ^sculapius,"  would  form  the 
best  possible  comment  on  the  present  manner  of  treating  sculpture  in 
the  Academy.  Everyone  remarks  the  ease  and  comfort  with  which 
sculpture  is  seen  in  the  garden  of  the  Salon,  and  may  ask  why  the 
Royal  Academy  is  unable  to  contrive  something  more  creditable  to  its 
fine  rooms  than  the  present  array  of  "  wall-flowers  "  in  marble. 

But  if  the  Royal  Academy  has  failed  to  do  justice  to  sculpture,  con- 
temporary criticism  has  been  still  more  neglectful.  There  are  not  a  few 
writers  amongst  us  at  the  present  time  who  have  given  to  the  history 
and  practice  of  painting  that  exact  and  sympathetic  study  which  makes 
a  critical  survey  of  an  exhibition  a  fine  intellectual  exercise.  It  was 
never  so  little  admissible  as  it  now  is  to  treat  a  collection  of  paintings  by 
a  merely  personal  and  accidental  standard,  approving  of  the  intention  of 
this  and  the  subject  of  that,  and  making  the  individuality  of  the  visitor 
the  final  canon  of  taste.  We  have  by  no  means  escaped  from  criticism 
of  this  helpless  kind,  but  it  is  much  that  we  possess  several  accredited 
critics  of  painting  who  set  their  faces  against  such  a  treatment  of  art, 
and  who  have  introduced  with  prestige  a  mode  more  exact  and  scientific. 
But  none  of  these  writers  seem  to  have  been  drawn  to  the  study  of  con- 
temporary sculpture,  and  we  meet,  in  the  best  reviews,  with  a  most  judi- 
cious survey  of  the  painting  of  the  year  side  by  side  with  a  short  para- 
graph on  sculpture,  composed  in  the  old  haphazard  fashion  of  twenty 
years  ago.  We  submit  that  before  the  critics  condemn  with  contempt 
the  whole  production  of  a  country,  they  should  give  themselves  the 


ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN   1880.  175 

trouble  to  examine  with  some  little  care  the  works  exhibited.  The  con- 
noisseur who  shows  in  one  paragraph  that  he  has  not  mastered  the  ele- 
mentary principles  of  the  practice  of  bas-relief,  gives  occasion  to  the 
sculptor  to  blaspheme  when,  in  the  next,  he  is  pleasantly  reminded  of 
Luca  della  Robbia  by  the  most  slovenly  work  of  the  year.  Sculpture 
is  an  art  the  technical  character  of  which  is  less  easily  observed  than 
that  of  painting,  and  the  eye  of  a  critic  who  has  a  fine  natural  taste  for 
art  may  very  easily  be  deceived  if  he  trusts  to  that  alone,  without 
any  practical  study.  Without  doubt,  our  accomplished  art-critics  will 
readily  acknowledge  this,  and  consent  to  give  to  sculpture  that  special 
attention  which  would  render  their  criticism  equally  beneficial  to  the 
artist  and  to  the  public.  At  present,  it  must  frankly  be  said  that  what 
is  written  in  our  newspapers  about  the  art  is  simply  void  to  the  one 
and  misleading  to  the  other. 

A  more  general  suffusion  of  critical  knowledge  would  preserve  the 
public  also  from  many  errors  of  judgment  and  selection.  Sculpture 
ought  to  be  the  most  popular  of  all  the  arts.  It  appeals  to  the  eye  of 
the  spectator  even  more  directly  than  architecture  itself;  it  does  not 
require  to  be  visited,  in  a  gallery,  like  painting,  but  it  stands  before  the 
workman  as  he  goes  to  his  daily  labour ;  its  form  approaches  nearer  to 
reality  than  a  picture  does,  and  it  has  a  meaning  from  every  point  of 
view,  not  from  one  only.  Yet  so  true  is  it  that  we  need  to  be  taught  to 
see  the  most  obvious  features  of  the  world  around  us,  that  ninety-nine 
people  out  of  a  hundred  will  pass  a  statue  without  observation,  when  a 
picture,  being  a  work  of  art  which  they  have  been  taught  to  understand, 
will  catch  their  attention  at  once,  notwithstanding  its  far  more  artificial 
qualities.  The  very  simplicity  and  monochromatic  character  of  sculp- 
ture, so  far  from  assisting  an  untaught  eye,  seem  to  confound  and  per- 
plex it.  In  France,  the  only  modern  country  where  sculpture  can  really 
be  said  to  flourish,  the  public  is  very  likely  equally  indifferent  to  the 
niceties  of  the  art,  but  the  misfortunes  from  which  we  suffer  in  England 
are  prevented  by  the  copious  patronage  of  the  State.  Every  year  the 
French  Government  gives  large  commissions  to  the  best  sculptors,  and 
by  this  means  the  art  is  enabled  to  exist  in  prosperity  without  being  at 
the  mercy  of  popular  taste.  But  it  is  not  likely,  or  perhaps  desirable, 
that  this  system  should  ever  largely  prevail  in  England,  although  the  few 
occasions  in  which  the  State  has  patronised  sculpture  have  been  singu- 
larly beneficial  to  the  art.  Most  of  our  public  groups  and  figures  are  due 
to  private  enterprise  in  combination,  and  the  particular  manner  in  which 
these  commissions  are  worked,  is  one  of  the  crying  evils  of  the  art- life  of 
the  day.  It  is  perhaps  not  undesirable  to  dwell  a  little  on  a  point  which 
has  a  very  practical  importance  to  our  whole  group  of  sculptors.  When 
a  corporation  or  a  company  desires  to  raise  a  monument  to  some  public 
man,  the  system  now  in  vogue  requires  that  it  should  subscribe  a  certain 
amount  of  money,  and  then  advertise  for  sketches  to  be  sent  in  by  any 
sculptoi's  who  like  to  compete.  No  man,  however,  whose  time  has  any 


176  ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN    1880. 

value,  can  be  expected  to  give  his  work  for  nothing ;  and  so,  to  secure 
good  studies,  a  primary  selection  is  made  among  the  competitors,  and  a 
fee  has  to  be  paid  to  each  of  these.  By  this  means  a  tenth  of  the 
sum  collected  is  wasted  before  any  decision  has  been  reached.  At 
last  the  selected  models  are  placed  before  a  professional  committee, 
usually  quite  unaccustomed  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  works  of  art,  and 
by  this  committee  the  final  choice  is  made.  Now,  everyone  familiar 
with  the  process  of  art  knows  that  the  sketch  of  a  work  by  a  master  is 
precisely  what  an  outsider  finds  it  most  difficult  to  comprehend.  The 
smooth  and  conventional  model  of  a  mediocre  man  looks  less  surprising 
and  more  effective  to  an  unpractised  eye  than  the  rough  sketch  of  a  great 
artist.  So  the  professional  committee,  truly  desiring  to  do  the  best  thing 
for  its  clients,  and  unwilling  to  trust  to  the  advice  of  any  technical 
authority,  falls  into  the  trap  that  mediocrity  lays  for  it,  and  selects  the 
smooth  and  feeble  de&ign.  But  this  danger,  upon  which  six  committees 
out  of  seven  strike,  is  not  the  only  one  involved  in  the  system  of  com- 
petitions now  in  fashion.  One  still  more  serious  to  the  art  of  the  country 
is  the  unavoidable  jealousy  that  it  engenders  among  artists,  and  the  iso- 
lation in  which  it  forces  sculptors  to  live.  No  man  is  able  to  frequent 
the  studio  of  his  contemporaries  when  he  and  they  are  alike  at  work  for 
a  competition.  His  mind  and  hand  must  labour  in  solitude,  he  must 
forego  all  the  advantage  that  accrues  from  the  amiable  discussion  of 
ways  and  means.  His  colleagues,  instead  of  welcoming  his  skilled  criti- 
cism and  his  fresh  practised  eye,  close  their  studio  doors  with  suspicion 
to  a  possible  rival.  As  long  as  such  a  system  is  in  vogue  among  us, 
individuals  of  genius  may  rise  here  and  there  above  the  throng  of  work- 
men, but  we  shall  never  enjoy  the  possession  of  a  national  school.  This 
will  appear  more  clearly  when  our  age  has  become  history ;  but  we  re- 
quire no  distant  perspective  to  show  us  that,  ugly  as  many,  of  our  public 
statues  are,  none  are  so  deplorable  as  those  that  owe  their  existence  to 
competitions ;  even  as  we  write  these  lines,  London  is  being  disgraced  by 
a  competitive  statue  of  Byron  which  will  be  laughed  at,  as  long  as  it 
exists,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  another. 

A  great  deal  of  nonsense  is  talked  about  the  impossibility  of  pre- 
serving sculpture  out  of  doors  in  England.  The  destructive  action  of 
the  atmosphere  has  been  greatly  exaggerated,  and  in  the  case  of  works 
in  bronze  does  not,  properly  speaking,  exist  at  all.  Grinling  Gibbons' 
statue  of  James  II.,  in  Whitehall  Yard,  has  borne  the  disintegrating 
stress  of  rain  and  fog  for  two  hundred  years,  and  does  not  seem  any  the 
worse  for  it  The  surface  of  bronze  is,  indeed,  almost  indestructible. 
The  rudest  navvy  might  be  set  to  scrape  a  statue  with  a  brick-end,  and 
he  would  be  found  to  have  done  it  less  harm  than  the  accumulations  of 
the  dirt  of  years.  It  is  less  a  matter  of  complaint  that  the  English 
climate  destroys  sculpture  than  that  the  English  public  takes  no  trouble 
to  cleanse  it.  The  only  public  figure  which  it  seems  anybody's  business  to 
scour  and  keep  decent  is  Foley's  beautiful  statue  of  Sidney  Herbert  in  front 


ENGLISH   SCULPTUKE  IN   1880.  177 

of  the  "War  Office  in  Pall  Mall,  one  of  the  best  of  our  monumental  figures, 
indeed,  but  not  the  only  one  that  is  worthy  of  a  washing.*  In  1785, 
Peter  Pindar,  lashing  the  unfortunate  Sir  William  Chambers,  accused 
him  of  encouraging  the  election,  as  Academicians,  of  such  persons 

As  can  wash  best  the  larger  statues'  faces, 
And  clean  the  dirty  linen  of  the  Graces, 
Scour  best  the  skins  of  the  young  marble  brats, 
Trap  mice,  and  clear  the  Academy  from  rats. 

What  was  then  suggested  in  jest  might  really  be  now  carried  out  in 
earnest.  It  would  be  by  no  means  an  unworthy  extension  of  the  scope 
of  the  Academy,  if  it  were  empowered  by  the  Office  of  Works  to  appoint 
one  of  its  members  to  superintend  the  periodical  cleansing  of  all  public 
monuments,  to  the  great  indulgence  of  sensitive  and  aesthetic  persons. 
The  reliefs  at  the  base  of  the  Nelson  column  would  be  the  first  to  respond 
to  the  invitation  to  let  themselves  be  seen. 

Not  only  is  it  a  fallacy  to  suppose  that  bronze  is  destructible  in  our 
climate,  marble  itself  may,  with  a  very  little  care,  be  preserved  from 
decay  in  the  open  air.  Two  kinds  of  marble  are  used  in  the  art,  and 
they  are  distinguished  as  Statuary  and  Sicilian.  The  former  is  set  apart 
for  indoor  work  only,  the  latter  is  almost  always  of  a  bluish  tint,  and 
somewhat  uneven  in  colour  and  density.  It  is  hard,  sometimes  intensely 
hard,  especially  the  variety  known  as  campanella,  from  its  bell-like 
resonance.  These  Sicilian  marbles  are  thoroughly  appropriate  for  out- 
door art,  and  their  uneven  colour  and  the  faint  veins  that  run  through 
the  blocks  form  no  disadvantage  to  a  work  of  large  size.  These  marbles 
are  dense  enough  to  carry  out  Gautier's  charge  to  the  artist — 

Que  ton  re ve  flottant 

Se  scelle 
Dans  le  bloc  resistant, 

and:  yield  nothing  of  their  delicacy  of  surface  to  the  ordinary  attacks  of 
such  a  climate  as  ours.  In  the  centre  of  the  City  of  London  there  are 
two  alto-relievos,  with  life-sized  figures,  which  were  executed  in  Sicilian 
marble  fifteen  years  ago,  and  which  have  been  kept  as  bright,  sharp,  and 
interesting  as  they  were  the  day  they  were  put  up,  by  being  played  upoa 
every  now  and  then  by  the  hose  of  a  fire-engine.  It  may  be  added  that 
the  same  durable  and  beautiful  material  was  employed  in  the  Albert 
Memorial. 

Another  great  drawback  to  the  progress  of  popular  taste  in  sculp- 
ture is  the  curious  prejudice  in  favour  of  Italian  work  which  came  into 
fashion  half  a  century  ago,  with  the  successes  of  Canova,  and  which  has 
survived  the  final  decadence  of  the  Roman  school.  We  are  glad  to  see 

*  This  spring  a  bird  has  successfully  built  a  nest  and  reared  a  brood  in  the 
draperies  of  Westmacott's  statue  of  Canning,  in  New  Palace  Yard,  without  tiie 
smallest  disturbance  from  the  Office  of  Works. 

TOL.  xui. — NO.  248.  9. 


178  ENGLISH  SCULPTUKE  IN   1880. 

that  the  Royal  Academy  discourages  more  and  more  the  exhibition  in 
its  rooms  of  those  flimsy  and  meretricious  productions  which  do  so  much 
to  lead  away  our  weaker  brethren.  The  London  exhibitions  this  year 
do  not  contain  a  single  work  done  in  Italy  or  after  the  Italian  manner 
which  deserves  any  serious  consideration.  Design  has  totally  abandoned 
the  Italian  sculptors,  and  they  depend  for  their  success  on  their  extra- 
ordinary skill  in  under-cutting  and  treating  the  surfaces  of  marble  on 
the  one  hand,  and  their  vulgar  use  of  genre  on  the  other.  We  are  stimu- 
lated by  no  insular  or  provincial  jealousy  in  begging  the  Italians  to  keep 
within  the  confines  of  their  own  country,  and  to  prove  it  we  may  say,  before 
having  mentioned  the  name  of  one  living  native  sculptor,  that  we  should 
welcome  with  open  arms  the  exhibition  in  London  of  works  by  such 
Frenchmen  as  Dubois,  Chapu,  or  Mercie.  The  serious  and  learned  work 
of  the  French  might  indeed  put  much  of  our  cold  and  dry  sculpture  to 
the  blush,  but  the  lesson  it  would  teach  would  be  of  inestimable  value 
to  us.  But  while  we  speak  of  the  French  school  of  to-day  with  a 
becoming  modesty,  we  acknowledge  no  such  supremacy  in  the  Italians. 
They  make  good  workmen,  but  bad  artists ;  they  know  how  to  wield 
the  chisel,  but  they  are  powerless  with  the  modelling- tool,  and  above  all 
they  seem  absolutely  incapable,  at  present,  as  a  nation,  of  that  elevation 
of  the  spirit  and  intellectual  nobility  without  which  sculpture  is  like  a 
musical  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  has  no  ear.  It  may 
safely  be  contended  that  we  have  at  least  half-a-dozen  sculptors  in 
England  who  can  beat  the  most  accomplished  Italian  in  everything 
except  the  mere  bravura  of  execution.  Subjects  which  an  English,  and 
still  more  a  French  master,  would  inspire  with  dignity  and  grandeur, 
descend  in  the  hands  of  an  Italian  to  pettiness  and  prettiness,  and  the 
soft,  over-chiselled  statue,  when  it  is  finished,  has  lost  all  vestige  of  style 
or  character.  Yet  the  public  is  constantly  seduced  by  the  charming 
brilliance  of  surface  and  affected  elegance  of  pose,  and  the  trade  in 
Italian  statuary  is  a  perpetual  danger  to  the  vitality  of  our  native 
sculpture. 

It  is  doubtless  owing  to  the  want  of  style  and  true  charm  in  the 
common  chamber  statuary  of  the  Italians,  that  sculpture  has  been  so 
little  invited  to  take  a  share  in  the  recent  movement  in  favour  of 
beautifying  the  dwelling-house.  This  movement  arose  in  the  Gothic 
camp,  and  its  founder  expressed  himself  with  terrible  vigour  against  the 
unfortunate  art  of  sculpture.  Doubtless  he  had  in  his  mind  some  smirk- 
ing nymph  or  effeminate  deity  of  modern  Roman  work,  and  he  was 
specifically  right,  though,  as  we  hold,  generically  wrong.  The  desire  for 
"  art  in  the  house  "  has  widely  extended,  and  has  come  to  outgrow  all 
specially  Gothic  bias ;  but  the  claims  of  the  statue,  and  still  more  of  the 
statuette,  have  been  too  much  neglected.  Nothing  gives  more  refinement 
and  style  to  a  large  room,  somewhat  severely  furnished,  than  a  few 
beautiful  specimens  of  sculpture.  There  is  now  being  exhibited  at  the 
Grosvenor  Gallery  the  model  of  a  statuette  some  three  feet  high,  a  Naiad 


ENGLISH  SCULPTUKE  IN   1880.  179 

negligently  pouring  water  from  a  slender  urn,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
see  without  wishing  that  one  had  the  opportunity  to  invite  Mr.  MacLean, 
its  author,  to  execute  it  in  marble  for  the  centre  of  a  dwelling-room.  In 
corners  where  there  now  stands  a  gorgeous  Indian  vase  or  Japanese  pot, 
space  might  be  found  for  figures  that  would  be  intellectually  more  worthy 
of  attention,  and  no  less,  decorative  in  character.  The  conventional 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  of  a  rich  room  might  very  advantageously  be 
exchanged  for  one  of  those  vigorous  little  figures  in  bronze  for  which  one 
or  two  of  our  younger  sculptors  show  a  special  aptitude,  and  indeed  the 
deep  and  picturesque  colour  of  fine  bronze  makes  it  perhaps  more 
thoroughly  in  harmony  with  the  tones  of  a  modern  artistic  house  than 
marble,  which  requires  considerable  brightness  of  surrounding,  and  a 
tone  not  sinking  below  grissaille,  to  escape  a  certain  glaring  whiteness. 
But  those  who  deny  or  disregard  the  value  of  fine  sculpture  in  a  dwelling- 
house,  should  inspect  the  drawing-room  at  Osborne,  where  the  presence 
of  at  least  a  dozen  statues,  arranged  in  different  parts  of  the  room,  gives 
an  air  of  dignity  and  serenity  which  is  wholly  pleasurable. 

It  will  perhaps  be  observed  that  we  speak  of  marble  and  bronze  as  if 
no  other  substances  existed  which  found  their  place  in  the  art  of  sculp- 
ture. We  are  not  unconscious  of  the  charm  which  many  find  in  the  naive 
and  accentuated  character  of  terra-cotta,  a  substance  that  seems  to  lend 
itself  to  improvisation  in  the  art.     Without  sharing  this  fascination,  we 
can  admit  that  terra-cotta  may  legitimately  please  those  who  crave  for  a 
link  between  the  coloured  variety  of  painting   and  the  monochromatic 
simplicity  of  sculpture.     Yet  we  regard  it  as  a  dangerous  licence,  tending 
rather  to  rhetoric  than  to  poetiy,  and  safely  to  be  admitted  only  in  bas- 
relief,  which,  as  the  dramatic  side  of  sculpture,  demands  a  form  less 
exact  than  any  other,  as  we  admit  prose  and  a  lax  system  of  versification 
into  dramatic  poetry  only.     It  is  well  to  keep  this  analogy  clearly  before 
us.     We  offer  no  dishonour  to  the  infinitely  versatile  and  brilliant  art  of 
painting  when  we  assert  that  it  is  the  prose  of  art,  and  that  sculpture  is 
the  poetry.     Painting,  like  prose,  is  free  to  treat  any  theme  in  nature,  in 
literature,  in  history.     It  may  revive  the  glories  of  the  past  or  sketch 
the  humdrum  features  of  to-day ;  the  world  is  all  before  it,  where  to 
choose  ;  it  may  adopt  any  subject,  any  style ;   nothing  is  too  ambitious, 
nothing  too  trivial  for  it  to  treat ;  it  is  equally  well  employed  upon  the  fall 
of  empires  or  on  the  shadows  of  a  morning  cloud.     Sculpture,  on  the 
other  hand,  like  poetry,  is  bound   by  ancient  and  immovable  laws  to 
move  within  a  certain  range  of  exact  form.     These  technical  restrictions 
tramel  only  those  who  are  not  born   to  contend  with  and  to  overthrow 
them.     To  the  born  artist,  to  the  poet  or  sculptor,  they  give  an  intensity 
of  inspiration,  a  severe  beauty  of  style  that  lifts  his  best  work  at  once  to 
the  level  of  that  of  the  masters  of  prose  or  painting.     With  fewer  means 
he  arrives  at  an  end  no  less  brilliant  than  theirs,  and  is  crowned,  if 
crowned  at  all,  with  a  more  delicate  wreath  by  the  Muses.     This  hope 
of  supreme  attainment  supports  him  in  contending  against  difficulties 

9—2 


180  ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN   1880. 

and  restrictions  unknown  in  the  more  facile  art,  and  he  comforts  himself 
that  if  the  painter  and  the  proseman  strike  nineteen  times  while  he  is 
motionless,  the  twentieth,  which  is  his,  will  more  than  reverse  their 
position.  And  as,  in  the  art  of  poetry,  no  real  master  of  verse  rejects 
the  power  and  prestige  with  which  the  traditional  limits  of  his  art  endow 
him,  but  leaves  to  experimentalists  and  rhapsodists  the  craving  to  revo- 
lutionise the  form  of  poetry,  so  the  master  of  sculpture  will  mainly  leave 
to  the  novice  and  the  charlatan  the  more  prosaic  substances  which  allow 
themselves  to  be  carved  and  moulded,  fearing  even  in  the  use  of  terra- 
cotta to  lose  something  of  the  serious  and  tragic  force  of  sculpture. 
Plaster  is  permitted  as  the  necessary  mould  and  matrix  of  the  tragic 
idea,  not  regarded  at  all  as  a  durable  or  self-sufficient  class  in  sculp- 
ture, but  only  as  the  humble  form  through  which  the  type  must  pass 
on  its  way  to  immortality  in  bronze  or  marble.  Many  a  fine  work, 
unhappily,  never  passes  beyond  the  plaster  form,  but  this  is  a  mere  acci- 
dent of  unpopularity,  the  stigma  of  financial  ill-success.  No  sculptor 
regards  his  plaster  figure  as  anything  but  the  chrysalis  out  of  which  the 
Psyche  of  his  art  will  evolve,  and  to  the  eye  of  an  artist  of  refined  per- 
ceptions something  of  the  same  unripeness  and  insufficiency  clings  to  the 
frailty  of  terra-cotta. 

We  have  hitherto  confined  ourselves  to  the  consideration  of  those 
general  principles  of  style  which  act  upon  the  sculptor  from  without,  and 
of  the  assistance  or  hindrance  that  he  receives  from  the  public.  This  has 
been  necessary^as  a  preliminary  exercise,  although  not  bearing  exclusively 
on  the  art  of  the  present  year  or  of  the  present  decade.  It  is  time,  how- 
ever, to  turn  from  the  abstract  to  the  concrete,  and  to  survey  the  actual 
condition  of  sculpture  among  us.  Setting  aside  any  estimate  founded 
upon  mere  popular  success,  we  hold  the  condition  of  the  art  in  England 
in  1880  to  afford  material  less  of  performance  than  of  promise,  and  to 
call  for  hope  rather  than  for  self-congratulation.  The  influence  of  the 
Albert  Memorial  has  been  at  work  in  generating  a  bolder  and  more  con- 
fident treatment,  a  juster  sense  of  design,  a  franker  sentiment  in  composi- 
tion. We  look  back  to  the  sculpture  of  twenty  years  ago  with  a  sense  of 
extreme  relief.  The  deadly  smoothness  of  Chantrey,  the  awkwardness  of 
Behnes,  the  pedantry  of  Gibson,  the  whole  evil  genius  of  the  dark  age 
that  succeeded  the  dawn  of  Flaxman,  all  seems  to  have  past  away,  or  to 
be  traced  only  in  the  work  of  two  or  three  artists  who  no  longer  assert 
an  influence  over  public  taste.  The  errors  that  led  astray  alike  the  most 
opposite  talents  of  the  last  generation  have  lost  their  fascination  for 
the  new  race  of  sculptors,  and  the  signs  of  revival  are  clearly  to  be  ob- 
served by  any  eyes  that  are  open  to  perceive  them.  Still,  the  old  dry 
manner,  the  cold  and  pedantic  mode  of  misinterpreting  the  antique,  are 
not  lost  in  a  day,  when  they  have  ruled  a  people  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
We  have  dated  the  revival  from  the  unveiling  of  the  Albert  Memorial, 
and  we  believe  that  the  future  historian  of  the  English  art  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  will  find  for  that  event  a  position  much  more  prominent 


ENGLISH   SCULPTURE  IN   1880.  181 

than  was  given  to  it  in  the  criticism  of  the  hour.  It  was  the  first  great 
protest  against  the  evil  system  of  competition  ;  it  forced  the  individual 
artists  of  an  age  to  combine  in  a  great  design,  and  drew  them  together 
out  of  their  isolation  into  something  more  Like  a  school  than  England 
had  ever  previously  seen.  The  architectural  genius  that  presided  at  the 
birth  of  the  general  design  is  now  pretty  widely  admitted  to  have  been 
an  unlucky  one,  but  it  lies  outside  our  province  to  discuss  that  question 
here.  Enough  to  say  that  nothing  can  be  conceived  more  beneficial  for 
plastic  art  in  this  country  than  the  scheme  which  invited  eight  or  ten  of 
our  best  sculptors  to  unite,  without  rivalry  or  fear  of  criticism,  in  a  great 
imaginative  work.  The  years  so  spent  were  even  more  fertile  in  their 
effect  upon  the  future  of  art  than  in  the  merit  of  the  groups  then 
immediately  produced,  although  the  value  of  some  of  these  is  intrinsically 
very  high.  The  relievos  of  Mr.  Armstead,  in  particular,  will  continue 
to  be  admired  and  studied  as  long  as  they  remain  in  existence,  and  mark, 
historically,  the  artistic  coming-of-age  of  the  most  accomplished  sculptor 
that  we  now  possess. 

In  reviewing  the  art  of  the  year,  it  is  natural  to  consider  what  has 
been  achieved  or  attempted  in  the  domain  of  the  Group.  The  group  is 
in  sculpture  what  the  epic  poem  is  in  poetry,  it  is  the  final  ambition  and 
supreme  exercise  of  the  artist.  As  the  world  gets  older  the  power  of 
commanding  this  sustained  action  of  mind  and  hand  seems  to  grow  less 
and  less,  yet  even  among  the  ancients  it  would  seem  that  the  number  of 
single  figures  immensely  overbalanced  the  number  of  groups.  By  a 
group  we  understand  a  collection  of  two  or  more  human  beings,  or 
animals  to  whom  we  attribute  the  importance  and  individuality  of  men, 
in  distinct  relation  to  each  other.  The  mere  introduction  of  an  animal 
into  a  work  of  art,  such  as  the  horse  in  an  equestrian  figure,  does  not 
render  it  a  group,  for  it  is  but  an  accessory  to  the  man,  but  if  the  man 
were  represented  on  the  ground,  struggling  with  the  horse,  or  in  relation 
to  it  in  any  centaur -form,  we  permit  to  the  work  the  title  of  a  group. 
So  Mr.  Brock's  "  A  Moment  of  Peril,"  in  the  Royal  Academy,  is  a  group, 
because,  although  it  depicts  a  Red  Indian  on  horseback  repelling  the 
advances  of  a  great  snake,  and  contains  no  other  human  figure,  yet  the 
serpent  is  so  important  in  the  composition,  so  menacing  and  thrilling  in 
its  independent  attitude,  that  the  eye  accedes  to  it  the  rank  of  a  human 
figure,  and  acknowledges  that  it  is  of  equal  value  with  the  figure  of  the 
Indian.  It  is  about  fifty  years  since  Barye  introduced  to  the  French 
public,  with  startling  originality,  his  compositions  of  animals  and  men  in 
juxtaposition  ;  in  some  of  his  grandest  works  the  human  element,  though 
not  the  human  interest,  was  entirely  absent,  and  one  vast  creature  met 
another  in  mortal  shock.  A  very  special  talent  is  needed  to  carry  out  so 
rough  a  design  without  offending  against  the  canon  of  beauty,  and  what 
Barye  did  supremely  well,  it  cannot  be  said  that  all  his  disciples  have 
succeeded  in  doing.  The  disciples  of  Foley,  of  whom  Mr.  Brock  is  one 
of  the  most  distinguished,  are  wanting  neither  in  spirit  nor  in  ambition. 


182  ENGLISH  SCULPTUEE  IN   1880. 

They  attempt  to  scale  the  highest  peaks  of  their  art  with  an  audacity  that 
they  are  almost  alone  in  possessing,  but  the  best  of  them  seem  lacking  in 
poetic  invention  and  originality,  while  the  less  gifted  ones  fall  on  every 
hand  into  the  sin  of  plagiarism.  It  would  be  easy  to  point  to  the  pre- 
vious works  which  rise  to  the  spectator's  memory,  and  remove,  one  by 
one,  the  pleasure  he  would  else  receive  from  Mr.  Brock's  spirited  and 
well-executed  group.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  in  the  ultimate  success, 
in  any  very  large  sense,  of  an  artist  so  little  able  to  see  things  from  his 
own  point  of  view.  Another  pupil  of  Foley,  Mr.  Birch,  may  attain  to 
higher  things,  because,  although  his  work  is  awkward  where  Mr.  Brock's 
is  accomplished,  he  has  more  invention,  and  assumes  a  style  of  his  own. 
He  has  passed  from  the  ideal  work,  by  which  he  first  became  known,  to 
the  realistic  study  of  military  subjects,  which  he  treats  too  farcically,  and 
with  too  little  depth  of  feeling.  His  soldiers  are  apt  to  look  like  acrobats 
in  uniform,  yet  the  public,  which  has  been  attracted  to  his  name  this 
spring  at  an  unfortunate  moment,  will  hardly  suppose  that  his  unlucky 
group  of  this  year,  but  rather  his  previous  statues,  have  gained  him  the 
distinction  of  A.R.A.  When  all  is  said,  it  is  probably  to  Mr.  Birch 
to  whom  the  State  would  do  best  to  apply,  if  some  feat  of  British  arms 
had  to  be  commemorated  in  a  becoming  monument.  He  would  no  doubt 
do  better  rather  than  worse  on  such  an  occasion  than  has  been  done  in 
past  times  by  Wyatt  and  Behnes.  What  talent  our  sculptors  possess  in 
the  composition  of  a  group  is  u  hardly  indicated  by  their  productions  in 
the  Academy  this  year. 

It  is  "  in  the  round,"  in  solitary  figures,  that  the  higher  forms  of 
sculpture  now  chiefly  subsist.  The  group  is  too  ambitious  for  constant 
use ;  its  nature  demands  more  intellectual  tension  and  a  stricter  selec- 
tion of  theme  than  is  generally  convenient  to  the  sculptor,  and  the  con- 
fusion of  its  lines  and  broken  silhouette  against  the  sky  are  practical 
difficulties  that  are  apt  to  intimidate  him.  Among  monumental  or 
iconic  figures  of  full  size,  in  modern  dress,  Mr.  Boehm's  Lord  John 
Russell  is  the  example  which  we  select  from  the  work  of  the  year.  This 
statue  has  been  much  objected  to  by  some  of  the  reviewers;  but,  we 
think,  with  injustice.  The  statesman  was  not  a  person  of  commanding 
height  or  exquisite  feature,  and  to  have  attempted  to  give  these  qualities 
to  his  statue  would  have  been  absurd.  No  doubt  Chantrey  would  have 
lifted  the  head,  and  given  to  the  face  a  flattering  sweetness  of  outline ; 
but  even  he  could  not  have  risked  positive  height  or  beauty,  and  the 
result  of  such  idealism  would  have  been  neither  true  nor  charming.  Mr. 
Boehm  gives  us  the  earnestness  of  attitude,  the  fire  in  the  eye ;  and, 
although  this  statue  will  never  be  his  masterpiece,  there  is  nothing 
weak  or  tame  about  it,  and  it  sustains  his  reputation  for  modern  portrait- 
figures.  The  Hungarian  artist  has  been  settled  among  us  so  long  that 
we  may  consider  him  one  of  ourselves,  and  enjoy  the  credit  due  to  his 
learning,  energy,  and  skill.  His  portrait  statue  of  Mr.  Carlyle,  a  few 
years  ago,  was  a  work  such  as  is  seldom  produced  in  England,  and  which 


ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN   1880.  183 

any  modern  master  might  have  been  proud  to  sign.  But  though  Mr. 
Boehm's  talent  is  genuine,  it  is  narrow.  "We  do  not  remember  a  single 
instance  in  which  this  fecund  artist  has  left  the  domain  of  portraiture, 
and  we  should  be  sorry  to  see  his  interesting,  but  prosaic  manner,  too 
closely  followed  by  younger  men.  Imaginative  work  must  always  take 
the  first  place,  and  the  sculpture  of  a  country  would  scarcely  be  worth 
writing  about  if  it  dealt  with  nothing  but  realistic  portraits. 

In  "  ideal "  sculpture — as  work  of  the  imagination  has  rather  unfor- 
tunately grown  to  be  termed — the  present  year  has  seen  the  production 
of  a  statue  so  remarkable  that  it  gives  a  fresh  pulse  to  our  hopes  for  the 
future  of  the  art  in  England.     Mr.  Hamo  Thornycroft's  performances 
during  the  last  four  or  five  years  have  been  spirited  enough  to  draw 
general  attention  to  the  young  sculptor,  but  not  to  prepare  us  for  the 
singular  excellence  of  his  "  Artemis  "  this  year.     H«  has  been  noticeable 
from  the  first  for  his  freshness  of  manner,  and  for  a  certain  dignity  of 
conception  rare  among  English  sculptors.     His  "  Lot's  Wife,"  in  1878, 
was  admirably  invented  and  executed ;  but  his  work  last  year  gave  us 
reason  to  fear  that  his  might  be  one  of  those  ephemeral  lyric  talents  that 
evaporate  with  the  first  dew  of  youth.   His  "  Artemis  "  has  nobly  proved 
that  we  were  wrong,  and  that  the  fountain  of  his  invention  is  still  unex- 
hausted.    But  he  has  more  than  invention,  precious  a  gift  as  that  is ;  he 
has  the  rarer  attribute  of  style.     In  saying  this  we  do  not  mean  that  he 
has  mastered  all  the  mysteries  of  his  art :  we  find  traces  in  his  work  of 
youth,  of  inexperience.     He  has  thrown  aside  the  conventional  range  of 
draperies,  and  has  found  the  difficulties  of  original  treatment  of  folds 
greater  than  he  had  anticipated.     Fired  with  a  just  disdain  of  prettiness 
and  sleekness,  he  has  not  given  to  his  goddess  the  full  grace  of  a  supple 
and  undulating  motion.     But  it  must  be  a  very  unsympathetic  criticism 
that  should  blame  an  artist  for  such  faults  as  these — restrictions  of  which 
he  is  probably  more  sensitively  conscious  than  any  of  his  judges.     Mr. 
Thornycroft  has  produced  a  figure  that  lifts  him  to  the  front  rank  of 
contemporary  sculptors,  a  figure  full  of  simplicity  and  dignity,  modern 
in  sentiment  and  antique  in  form,  blending  the  present  and  the  past  by 
sympathy  rather  than  by  antiquarian  study,  and  answering  to  the  usual 
mock-antique  of  sculpture  as  a  poem  of  Andre  Chenier,  or  Keats,  answers 
to  an  ode  of  Akenside.     Mr.  Thornycroft  is  to  be  congratulated  on  his 
high  sense  of  stately  and  virginal  beauty  in  woman.     The  "  Artemis  " 
is  the  best,  but  not  the  first  example  of  his  remarkable  feeling  for  female 
beauty — a  gift  that  should  lead  him  far,  and  be  popularly  welcome,  in  an 
age  when  a  tendency  to  prefer  oddity  or  picturesqueness  to  beauty  in 
art  threatens  to  become  a  snare.     We  look  forward  with  anxiety  to  Mr. 
Thornycroft's  future,  because  it  has  been  our  misfortune,  especially  in 
the  art  of  painting,  to  see  not  a  few  young  men  exhibit  extraordinary 
power  in  some  one  direction,  be  overwhelmed  with  recognition  by  the 
public,  and  then  subside,  in  the  heyday  of  youth,  into  inaction,  instead 
of  pushing  on  to  fresh  triumphs  and  more  durable  successes.     It  would 


384  ENGLISH  SCULPTUEE   IN   1880. 

be  an  unfortunate  thing  if  the  success  of  his  works  this  year  should  in 
any  way  persuade  Mr.  Thornycroft  to  rest  on  his  oars.  What  he  has 
done  is  more  than  remarkable;  biit  we  believe  he  has  the  ability  to  do 
far  better  than  this,  and  to  take  the  lead  among  English  sculptors  of 
imagination.  Such  a  reputation,  however,  is  not  built  in  a  day.  For 
the  time  being,  in  Mr.  G.  A.  Lawson,  whose  male  figures,  illustrative  of 
poetic  literature,  are  delicate  without  ever  being  effeminate  or  fatuous, 
he  has  a  possible  rival. 

An  annual  exhibition  is  hardly  the  best  place  to  study  bas-relief,  that 
charming  art  which  does  not  properly  exist  except  as  the  ornament  of 
architecture.  "We  ought  to  judge  an  entablature  or  a  frieze  when  it  is 
fixed  in  its  place  upon  the  building,  the  harmony  of  which  it  completes 
and  emphasises.  But  the  Royal  Academy  this  year  gives  the  critic  an 
unusually  favourable  opportunity  of  studying,  in  extreme  contrast,  the 
two  classes  into  which  work  of  this  kind  is  naturally  divided.  Histori- 
cally, the  Nineveh  friezes  and  the  relievo  panels  of  fifteenth  century 
Florentine  work  supply  us  with  the  most  familiar  instances  of  these 
opposite  styles.  In  one  the  object  of  the  artist  is  decorative,  in  the  other 
pictorial ;  in  one  he  produces  his  effects  by  broad  low  planes,  securing 
large  masses  of  light  and  pencilled  shadows ;  in  the  other  his  figures 
start  from  the  background  with  animation,  and  he  aims  at  gaining  the 
most  picturesque  effect  possible  by  rounded  forms,  a  rich  broken  surface, 
and  deep  chasms  of  shadow.  Between  these  two  extremes  the  lovely 
dramatic  art  of  bas-relief  has  always  oscillated,  the  latter  class  having 
been  most  in  vogue  since  the  Italian  Renaissance.  In  the  Academy,  as 
we  have  said,  we  find  this  year  a  fine  typical  example  of  each.  We  are 
far  from  placing  Mr.  Tinworth  on  a  level  with  Mr.  Armstead ;  but  his 
"  Going  to  Calvary  "  is  so  spirited  that  we  do  the  more  eminent  sculptor 
no  injustice  in  comparing  or  contrasting  it  with  "  The  Courage  of  David." 
Mr.  Tin  worth's  frieze  of  coarse  and  animated  figures,  hurrying  the 
Saviour  to  His  execution,  is  conceived  in  the  full  spirit  of  the  school  of 
Ghiberti.  It  teems  with  life  and  excitement,  and  sacrifices  almost  every 
purely  sculpturesque  quality  to  secure  picturesqueness.  The  only  way 
in  which  we  can  imagine  it  to  attain  architectural  propriety  is  by  sup- 
posing it  to  be  the  centre-piece  of  an  entablature  indefinitely  continued 
round  a  building.  It  is  the  weakness  of  this  class  of  work  to  seem  frag- 
mentary, and  an  anecdote  rather  than  a  complete  narrative.  Mr. 
Armstead's  decorative  marble,  notwithstanding  its  curious  archaic  air,  is 
more  truly  an  independent  work,  and  much  more  wisely  designed  for  an 
architectural  position.  It  is  a  work  of  singular  ingenuity  and  beauty, 
and  exhibits  those  qualities  of  style  which  make  Mr.  Armstead,  from  a 
technical  point  of  view,  distinctly  the  best  of  our  living  English  sculp- 
tors. His  modelling  has  a  sharpness  and  a  bright,  strong  touch,  that  we 
look  for  in  vain  elsewhere,  and  that  have  never  been  much  cultivated  in 
England.  Probably  few  of  the  thousands  who  pass  up  and  down  White- 
hall every  day  have  ever  stopped  to  look  up  at  Mr.  Armstead's  reliefs  on 


ENGLISH  SCULPTURE  IN    1880.  185 

the  facade  of  the  Colonial  Office,  or  in  doing  so  have  reflected  how 
exceedingly  rare  such  beautiful  work  is,  not  merely  with  us,  but  in  any 
modern  country  of  Europe. 

A  survey  of  the  busts  exhibited  this  year  does  not  leave  upon  us  the 
impression  that  we  have  any  striking  genius  for  portraiture  amongst  us. 
There  is  one  head  by  Mr.  Woolner  that  is  very  delicately  finished,  but 
one  swallow  does  not  make  a  summer.  Most  of  the  artists  whose  names 
we  have  already  mentioned  contribute  one  or  more  busts  in  which  it  is 
easy  to  discover  some  merit  of  vigour  or  grace.  But  we  confess  that  we 
think  that  one  of  Weekes'  good  portrait  heads  would  have  shone  out 
among  the  work  of  the  present  year  with  distinction,  and  yet  Weekes  had 
talent  rather  than  genius.  The  fact  is  that  English  sculpture  neglects 
the  requirements  of  portraiture,  and  is  in  no  other  department  in  so  great 
need  of  revival  as  in  this.  "We  see  little  effort  made  to  read  the  inside  as 
well  as  the  outside  of  a  head  of  intellect.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  sculptor 
very  often  to  have  to  model  the  portraits  of  persons  devoid  of  beauty, 
charm,  or  elevation.  It  is  the  most  tedious  part  of  his  business,  and  he 
has  not  the  opportunity,  which  the  painter  enjoys,  of  adding  picturesque- 
ness  to  the  accessories,  or  richness  to  the  surrounding  colour.  A  first- 
rate  sculptor,  however,  will  succeed  in  adding  points  of  interest,  even  to 
a  poor  head,  by  some  delicacy  of  treatment  or  brilliancy  of  execution. 
Mr.  Boehm  used  to  know  how  to  do  this,  but  Mr.  Boehm  seems  to  have 
grown  languid.  Towards  heads  of  this  class,  however,  criticism  is  lenient, 
for  the  artist  is  not  responsible  for  the  hopeless  mediocrity  of  his  sitter. 
We  are  not  so  indulgent  when  the  sculptor  has  a  man  of  real  intellectual 
ability  to  pourtray.  We  then  expect  that  he  should  give  us,  not  merely 
the  form  of  the  skull,  but  the  kindling  of  the  features,  and  project  upon 
his  marble  the  glow  of  the  great  mind  with  which  he  has  been  in  contact 
while  the  work  progressed.  But  this  is  just  what  the  portrait  sculptors 
of  our  day  do  not  seem  able  to  do.  The  Royal  Academy  this  year  con- 
tains two  marble  busts  of  the  President  of  the  Royal  Society,  each  to  a 
certain  degree  like  the  original,  yet  each  wholly  valueless  as  a  record  of 
his  appearance.  We  cannot  help  fancying,  from  the  expression  of  the 
busts,  that  one  of  these  gentlemen  frightened  Mr.  Spottiswoode,  and  that 
the  other  fatigued  him  consumedly.  Neither  can  have  had  any  sympathy 
with  his  mind  or  curiosity  to  investigate  its  working. 

It  may  be  noticed  that  we  have  succeeded  in  bringing  these  remarks 
to  a  close  without  any  reference  to  the  antique.  In  our  opinion  the 
comparison  of  modern  with  ancient  work  in  sculpture,  especially  a,ny 
one  single  statue  with  the  bulk  of  Greek  statuary,  is  exceedingly  unfair 
and  discouraging  to  the  modern  artist.  The  sculptor  himself  can  hardly 
contemplate  too  lovingly  the  relics  of  antique  perfection,  so  long  as  he 
withholds  himself  from  imitation  and  plagiarism,  but  the  critic  should 
judge  his  contemporaries  by  the  gentler  standard  of  modem  production, 
and  need  not  deny  all  merit  to  a  Dubois  or  a  Foley  because  he  is  not  a 
Pheidias.  Artists  and  connoisseurs  have  grown  modest  since  Horace 


186  ENGLISH  SCULPTUKE  IN   1880. 

"VValpole  thought  it  necessary  to  write  on  one  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darner's 

statues : — 

Non  me  Praxiteles  fecit,  at  Anna  Darner, 

nor  is  any  good  sculptor  at  the  present  day  likely  to  underrate  the  im- 
mense chasm  that  divides  his  own  work  from  the  magnificence  of  the 
Olympian  Hermes  or  of  the  Venus  of  Milos.  He  knows  that  even  were 
he  to  rise  for  once  to  the  level  of  the  Greeks,  and  carve  a  figure  as  strong 
and  beautiful  as  one  of  the  historical  masterpieces,  his  marble  would  not 
have  the  harmony  of  tone,  his  idea  would  not  have  the  freshness,  his  age 
would  not  have  the  enthusiasm  that  would  enable  him  to  compete  with 
the  ancients  in  prestige.  It  is  better,  in  specific  criticism,  to  let  the 
Greeks  alone,  and  rather  inquire  whether  English  sculptors  have  got 
further  in  their  art,  achieved  a  truer  sense  of  its  aims,  arrived  at  loftier 
and  juster  forms,  than  Wilton  and  Nollekens  had  a  century  ago.  It 
must,  moreover,  be  recollected  that  it  was  not  every  year,  even  in  Greece, 
that  a  Venus  of  Milos  was  produced,  and  that  it  is  mere  ignorance  to 
suppose  that  all  the  statues  annually  executed  there  enjoyed  the  same 
exquisite  perfection.  Meanwhile  the  sculptors  should  work  hopefully  on, 
unflagging  in  their  ambition,  constantly  occupied  with  those  great  and 
simple  thoughts  upon  which  the  masters  of  their  art  have  always  been 
nourished.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  exactly  defined  the  attitude  which  a 
sculptor  should  preserve  towards  ancient  art,  when  he  passed  upon  Banks 
the  fine  eulogy  that  "  his  mind  was  ever  dwelling  upon  subjects  worthy 
of  an  ancient  Greek."  Modern  artists  lose  not  a  little  by  the  unfortunate 
indifference  they  show  to  literature.  To  sculptors,  above  all  others,  the 
cultivation  of  an  imaginative  temperament,  and  the  study  of  the  best 
poetry  is  essential ;  without  this  they  can  scarcely  fail  to  yield  to  trite 
inspirations  and  to  the  fatal  fascination  of  genre. 


is; 


limtete* 


FEW  persons,  perhaps,  have  ever  considered  that  the  minuet,  notwith- 
standing its  solemn  triviality  and  dignified  affectation,  was  really  in  its 
essence  and  origin  a  reaction  of  decorum  and  dignity  against  the  licen- 
tious dances  in  vogue  amidst  the  highest  society  during  the  first  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  is  sufficient  to  read  any  French  memoirs 
of  this  period  to  perceive  how  scandalous — both  from  the  point  of  view 
of  good  morals  and  good  taste — were  the  ballets  and  dances  performed 
at  the  Court  of  the  Tuileries  by  princes  and  princesses  of  the  blood,  in 
company  with  hired  opera-dancers,  male  and  female.  For  this  species 
of  exhibition  the  minuet  was  undoubtedly  an  excellent  substitute.  And 
although  considered  simply  in  itself  the  minuet,  with  its  elegant  atti- 
tudinising and  pompous  affectation,  has  a  ridiculous  side  to  it,  yet  we 
must  remember  that  at  its  beginning  it  was  welcomed  as  being  far 
more  modest  and  decent  than  the  dances  then  in  fashion.  The  minuet, 
in  fact,  raised  a  distinct  line  of  demarcation  between  stage  dancing  and 
society  dancing  ;  and  this  was  for  many  reasons  a  gain  to  morality. 

But  it  was  during  the  eighteenth  century  that  the  minuet  reached 
the  height  of  its  popularity.  In  France  and  Italy  it  became  an  absolute 
passion ;  and  many  English  readers  will  be  surprised  to  hear  of  ecclesi- 
astical dignitaries,  princes  of  the  Church,  dancing  minuets  in  the  Eternal 
City !  Yet  such  was  undoubtedly  the  case.  Abbes,  who  swarmed  in 
Rome,  and  held  as  it  were  only  a  brevet  rank  in  the  ecclesiastical  army, 
used  to  dance  minuets  with  the  powdered  and  patched  dames  of  the 
period.  Eminent  cardinals  did  not  quite  go  that  length,  but  went 
through  the  dignified  evolutions  of  the  minuet  with  each  other  !  There 
exists  a  very  curious  production,  never  printed,  although  pretty  widely 
circulated,  of  which  a  MS.  copy  now  lies  before  me.  It  is  a  drama,  with 
music  and  dancing,  entitled  II  Conclave  deU  1774;  the  scene  is  the 
Vatican  Palace;  the  interlocutors,  their  eminences  the  cardinals;  and 
the  argument,  the  intrigues  and  incidents  of  the  conclave  which  met  in 
October  1774  to  elect  a  successor  to  Pope  Clement  XIV.  !  The  drama 
was  represented  during  the  carnival  of  1775,  at  a  private  theatre.  That 
such  a  production  should  be  written  and  circulated — not  to  say  prepared 
— is  the  most  curious  and  striking  commentary  on  the  state  of  feeling  as 
to  ecclesiastical  matters  in  Rome  at  that  period.  When  one  considers 
what  is  the  orthodox  theory  of  a  papal  conclave,  and  what  divine  influ- 
ences are  (officially)  supposed  to  prevail  in  it,  this  crudely  realistic  pic- 
ture is  indeed  amazing.  And  not  less  noteworthy  is  the  progress  which 


188  MINUETS. 

has  been  made  during  the  last  century  in  earnestness  about  earnest 
things.  The  most  uncompromising  enemies  of  the  Church  would  admit 
that  the  conclave  which  elected  Pope  Leo  XIII.  was  composed  of  men 
penetrated  with  the  conviction  of  the  grave  importance  of  their  task ; 
whilst  her  most  devoted  adherents  could  scarcely  pretend  so  much  for 
the  conclave  which  elected  Braschi  to  the  chair  of  St.  Peter,  under  the 
title  of  Pius  VI. 

But  to  return  to  our  minuets :  in  the  above-mentioned  drama 
(Scene  v.  Act  I.)  occurs  the  following  dialogue  between  Cardinals 
D'Elci  and  Calino  : — 

Card.  D'Elci. —  dirci  che  per  passar  il  tedio 

A  giuocar  ci  mettessimo  il  Tresette.* 
Card.  Calino. — No  ;  e  meglio  che  balliamo  un  minuette. 

Cos!  si  fa  del  moto, 

Cosi  1'ipocondria  si  scaccia. 
Card.  D'Elci.—  Prenee  mio,  vuoi  cosi,  cosi  si  faccia. 

Ecco  Corsini !     Egli  potra  sonando 

Guidare  il  ballo  nostro  ; 

II  ballo  non  fe'  mai  vergogna  all'  ostro. 

Of  which  the  following  is  a  translation  : — • 

Card.  D'Elci. — I  would  suggest  we  set  ourselves  to  play 

Tresette,  as  a  refuge  from  ennui. 
Card.  Calino. — Nay ;  it  were  best  to  dance  a  minuet. 

Thus  we  get  exercise,  and  chase  away 

Black  hypochondria. 
Card.  D'Elci. —  'Tis  well,  my  prince ; 

Since  thus  you  wish,  so  be  it !     Lo,  Corsini ! 

He  will  accompany  our  rhythmic  steps 

With  music.     Never  has  the  dance  disgraced 

The  purple ! 

In  order  to  realise  to  our  imagination  the  abyss  which  separates  our 
sentiments  and  manners  on  such  subjects  from  the  sentiments  and  man- 
ners of  a  hundred  years  ago,  let  us  picture  to  ourselves  an  author  (and 
that  author  an  abbe  !)  representing  their  Eminences  Cardinals  Manning 
and  Hohenlohe  going  through  a  figure  of  the  Lancers  to  the  lively 
fiddling  of  Cardinal  Nina !  But,  at  any  rate,  the  above  passage  will 
serve  to  prove  the  universal  passion  for  the  minuet  which  prevailed 
during  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  learned  are  divided  as  to  the  origin  of  the  minuet,  and  the 
derivation  of  the  word.  An  Italian  writer  says  that  the  name  assuredly 
came  from  France,  whatever  might  be  the  .  origin  of  the  dance ;  and 
derives  it  from  menu — small,  minute — which  epithet  was  applied  to  it 
on  account  of  its  small  neat  steps.  Sebastian  Brossard  gives  Poitou  as 
its  native  country.  Others,  again,  declare  that  it  was  a  rustic  dance  in 
vogue  amongst  the  peasants  of  Anjou,  and  from  thence  introduced  at  the 

*  A  game  of  cards  very  fashionable  at  the  period. 


MINUETS.  189 

French  court  by  the  celebrated  musician  Lully ;  and  that  Louis  XIV. 
became  extravagantly  fond  of  it,  and  brought  it  into  fashion  by  dancing 
it  at  Versailles  in  1660.  But  the  period  of  its  greatest  glory  and  influ- 
ence Avas,  as  has  been  said,  the  eighteenth  century.  The  names  of  many 
of  its  chief  professors  and  performers  have  been  preserved  for  the  grati- 
fication of  the  curious.  In  Italy  a  certain  Monsieur  Dufort  was  one  of 
the  most  celebrated  teachers  of  the  minuet ;  and  Monsieur  Liepig 
received  incredible  ovations  for  his  performance  of  that  dance  at  the 
theatre  of  San  Carlo,  in  Naples,  during  the  carnival  of  1773.  Several 
female  dancers  made  large  fortunes  by  the  minuet.  There  was  Made- 
moiselle Coupe,  with  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand  francs  a  year ; 
Mademoiselle  Vestris,  the  most  graceful  and  languishing  of  all  minuet- 
dancers,  also  very  rich  ;  Mademoiselle  Allard,  the  ruin  of  many  princely 
fortunes;  and,  finally,  Mademoiselle  Guimard,  celebrated  for  her 
caprices  and  her  sumptuousness.  The  name  of  minuet  was  applied  in 
the  eighteenth  century  to  a  certain  species  of  air,  in  three-four  time, 
which  was  sung  in  the  opera ;  and  still  signifies  a  melody  with  a  special 
rhythm  and  movement  familiar  to  all  musicians.  One  Gennaro  Magri, 
who  wrote  just  about  a  century  ago,  styles  himself  "  Maitre  de  ballet  of 
the  royal  diversions  of  his  Sicilian  Majesty,  and  of  the  Royal  Military 
Academy."  And  he  assures  us  that  of  all  dances  the  minuet  was  the 
most  noble,  and  ought  to  be  learned  by  all,  even  by  the  military  (!). 
From  Magri's  official  title  of  "  Dancing  Master  to  the  Royal  Military 
Academy,"  it  would  seem  as  though  his  Sicilian  Majesty  had  not 
neglected  this  part  of  his  army's  education.  The  same  writer  discourses 
of  his  art  with  an  amount  of  fervour  and  a  minute  attention  to  details 
which  betray  his  undoubting  belief  in  its  importance.  The  rules  about 
the  minuet  alone  would  fill  a  volume.  But  we  may  lay  before  the 
reader  Magri's  five  indispensable  requisites  for  making  a  good  figure  in 
the  minuet.  These  are  namely  : — "  A  languishing  eye,  a  smiling  mouth, 
an  imposing  carriage,  innocent  hands,  and  ambitious  feet." 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  there  died  in  Paris  a  dancing 
master,  named  Marcello,  who  may  be  called  the  genius  of  the  minuet. 
His  lessons  were  extremely  dear,  and  eagerly  sought  after.  He  treated 
his  subject  with  vast  profundity  and  solemnity,  and  his  pupils  with 
autocratic  arrogance.  There  was  a  whimsical  contrast  between  the 
pompous  elegance  of  his  outward  bearing  and  the  extremely  rough  and 
blunt  utterances  to  which  he  treated  his  noble  scholars.  He  would 
make  a  lady  a  bow,  expressive  of  high-bred  courtesy,  and  call  out  the 
next  moment,  "  Duchess,  you  waddle  like  a  goose  !  Stand  upright,  do  ! 
You  have  the  air  of  a  servant-maid  !  "  or,  "  Prince,  what  are  you  about  1 
You  look  like  a  street-porter  ! "  But  nobody  resented  these  speeches, 
for  Marcello  was  privileged  to  say  what  he  chose.  In  his  later  years  he 
relinquished  teaching  the  minuet,  and  devoted  himself  to  what  he  called 
"  the  most  sublime  part  of  his  art,"  namely,  la  reverence.  He  taught 
two  hundred  and  thirty-six  different  species  of  bow  and  curtsey  for  the 


190  MINUETS. 

two  sexes,  each  of  which  expressed  the  condition,  and  frequently  the 
mood,  of  the  person  who  made  it.  There  was  the  court  bow,  the  city 
bow,  the  bow  of  a  gentleman  to  his  equal,  the  minister's  bow,  the 
curtsey  of  a  young  lady  in  church,  on  the  presentation  of  her  fiancee, 
<kc.  Curtseys  on  presentation  at  court  were  taught  at  twenty-five 
Louis  d'ors  the  course  !  During  the  lesson  Marcello  represented  the 
king,  and  took  care  to  comport  himself  with  all  the  overwhelming 
majesty  belonging  to  the  part,  with  a  view  to  strengthen  the  nerves  of 
his  pupils  for  an  interview  with  the  Grand  Monarque  in  person.  It 
may  be  safely  assumed,  however,  that  magnificent  as  was  Louis  XIV., 
he  was  not  so  magnificent  as  Marcello. 

Dufort,  in  his  essay  On  Noble  Dancing  (published  at  Naples  1728), 
consecrates  one  entire  chapter  to  the  minuet ;  describing  its  whole  cere 
monial  with  scientific  minuteness.  But  here  is  a  somewhat  less  verbose 
description,  taken  from  a  work  published  during  the  most  acute  period 
of  the  passion  for  this  dance  : 

"  The  cavalier  takes  his  lady  by  the  hand,  and  makes  two  steps 
forward  with  her,  both  keeping  on  the  same  line ;  after  which  he  causes 
her  to  describe  a  circle  around  him,  which  brings  her  back  to  the  same 
spot  whence  she  started.  They  then  cross  each  other  during  four  or  five 
minutes,  looking  at  each  other  as  they  pass,  and  ending  with  a  profound 
genuflexion ;  the  whole  gravely,  and  without  laughing,  since  the  minuet 
in  Europe  is  the  most  serious  diversion  known  in  society." 

The  words  "in  Europe"  are  rather  mysterious,  and  make  one 
wonder  what  the  author  conceived  about  minuets  in  Asia  and  Africa. 
As  to  America,  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  as  a  scene  for  courtly 
dancing  in  those  days. 

The  author  of  an  amusing  and  erudite  monograph  on  the  minuet, 
Count  Alessandro  Moroni,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  several  of  the 
foregoing  anecdotes,  observes  that  the  music  of  the  minuet  obtained  its 
best  effects  from  the  long-drawn  cadences  and  pauses,  which  were  then  a 
great  novelty.  Formerly  the  precise  contrary  had  been  the  case.  Not 
only  had  music  been  a  torrent  of  notes,  but  dancing  had  become  a  mere 
twinkling  of  legs  !  and  the  tours  deforce  of  agility  in  song  had  introduced 
the  same  taste  into  the  dance.  It  was  reserved  for  the  phlegmatic  minuet  to 
put  an  end  to  this  whirlwind  of  vocal  and  terpsichorean  difficulties,  and 
to  restore  calm  to  the  legs,  and  peace  to  the  throats,  of  the  performers. 
Thanks  to  this  new  fashion,  dancers  were  dispensed  from  running  after 
the  notes,  and  imitating  the  trills  of  the  voice  with  the  tips  of  their  toes. 
And  thus,  too,  foreigners  were  no  longer  able  to  declare  of  the  Italians, 
"  qu'ils  gambaderent  comme  leur  chant" — that  they  capered  with  their 
legs  as  with  their  voice !  This  criticism  appears  in  a  work  called 
Remarques  sur  la  Musique  et  la  Danse,  published  at  Venice  in  1773. 

In  our  own  country,  however,  although  the  majority  of  dances  were 
brisk  and  lively  as  the  tunes  to  which  they  were  performed  still  attest, 
there  existed  a  precursor  of  the  minuet.  In  1581  the  dances  in  vogue 


MINUETS.  191 

were  measures,  galliards,  jigs,  brawls,  rounds,  and  hornpipes.  "  The 
measure,"  says  Mr.  Chappell,  in  his  Popular  Music  of  the  Olden  Time, 
"  was  a  grave  and  solemn  dance,  with  slow  and  measured  steps  like  the 
minuet.  To  tread  a  measure  was  the  usual  term,  like  to  walk  a  minuet." 
Sir  John  Davies  says — 

Yet  all  the  feet  whereon  these  measures  go, 
Are  only  spondees — solemn,  grave,  and  slow. 

The  melody  of  the  minuet  is  in  three-four  time,  and  consists  of  two 
members  of  eight  bars  each.  To  give  more  life  and  colour  to  the  music 
a  second  part  was  added  and  alternated  with  the  first.  This  second 
movement  bore  the  name  of  trio,  because  it  was  written  for  three  parts 
(technically  voices)  only;  whilst  the  principal  movement  was  executed 
by  the  full  orchestra.  The  conductor  was  careful  above  everything  to 
emphasize  the  divisions  of  the  melody  into  groups  of  four  bars  each,  and 
to  pay  careful  attention  to  the  pauses  which  occurred  at  regular  intervals. 
"  These  pauses,"  observes  the  Comte  Moroni,  "  allowed  the  ear  to  perceive 
the  sonorous  wave  of  the  last  chords  die  and  fade  slowly  into  air,  which 
gave  the  dance  a  sort  of  languor  and  affected  softness,  peculiarly 
belonging  to  the  fashion  of  those  times.  The  pause  was  the  signal  for  a 
profound  reverence  on  the  part  of  the  dancers.  When  all  is  said,  the 
minuet  was  a  poor  and  stupid  dance,  but  an  important  pantomimic 
action." 

A  vast  number  of  memoirs  are  extant  which  give  minute  descriptions 
of  great  balls  and  celebrated  minuets  at  the  French  Court  during  the 
whole  of  the  eighteenth,  and  even  part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
These  are  for  the  most  part  not  difficult  of  access  to  the  readers  of 
French  literature,  and  have  been  copiously  cited  in  many  works  on  the 
social  history  and  manners  of  those  times.  But  very  few  persons  are 
acquainted  with  an  extremely  curious  description  of  a  celebrated  masked 
ball  given  in  Rome  on  November  24,  1751,  at  the  Palazzo  Farnese. 
The  description  appeared  in  a  flying  sheet  (foglio  volante)  which  has 
now  become  very  rare,  and  bears  the  following  title  : — 

Descrizione  distinta  delle  feste  celebrate  in  Roma  da  S.  E.  il  signor 
Duca  di  Nivernois,  ambasciatore  di  S.  M.  il  Re  cristianissimo  presso  la 
S.  di  A".  S.  Papa  Benedetto  XIV.  nelli  giorni  22,  23,  24  del  mese  di 
Novembre  1751  per  la  nascita  del  serenissimo  Real  Duca  di  Borgogna, 
fedelmente  descritta  da  Giovanni  Reffino.  Roma  1752,  per  il  Salomoni. 
(A  detailed  description  of  the  festival  celebrated  in  Rome  by  his 
Excellency  the  Lord  Duke  of  Nivernois,  Ambassador  of  his  Majesty  the 
Most  Christian  King  at  the  Court  of  the  Holiness  of  our  Lord  Pope 
Benedict  XIV.,  the  22,  23,  and  24  of  the  month  of  November,  1751,  for 
the  birth  of  the  most  serene  royal  Duke  of  Burgundy,  faithfully  described 
(sic)  by  Giovanni  Reffino.) 

This  most  serene  royal  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  the  elder  brother  of 
Louis  XVI.,  and  died  in  his  childhood  at  little  more  than  nine  years  old. 
The  flying  sheet  of  Reffino  is  now  so  extremely  rare  that  Moroni,  who 


192  MINUETS. 

quotes  it,  says  it  may  be  considered  practically  new  to  the  world  of 
readers,  and  adds  that  he  is  not  acquainted  with  a  single  writer  who 
names  it. 

Reffino's  detailed  account  gives  us  a  vivid  idea  of  the  grandiose  spec- 
tacle afforded  by  the  stately  minuet  executed  in  the  splendid  saloons  of 
the  Homan  aristocracy.  And  supremely  splendid  are  the  saloons  of  the 
Palazzo  Farnese,  now  as  then  the  seat  of  the  French  Ambassador ;  but 
of  an  ambassador  accredited  to  a  monarch  undreamt  of  in  the  philosophy 
of  the  eighteenth  century — namely,  to  the  King  of  United  Italy.  Its  noble 
apartments  are  admirable  for  vastness,  proportion,  and  the  masterpieces 
of  painting  with  which  they  have  been  adorned  by  Annibale  Carracci, 
Guido,  Domenichino,  Daniele  da  Volterra,  and  others.  In  this  magnifi- 
cent theatre  the  brilliant  figures  of  the  Due  de  Nivernois'  ball  must 
have  appeared  to  surprising  advantage.  The  entertainment  was  remark- 
able from  several  circumstances.  Firstly,  from  the  lavish  magnificence  of 
the  decorations ;  secondly,  because  it  was  renewed  and  continued  during 
three  successive  evenings,  in  order  to  allow  the  bourgeoisie,  as  well  as  the 
nobles,  to  enjoy  it;  and  thirdly,  because  it  was  honoured  by  the  presence 
of  the  Pope  and  his  court !  This  latter  circumstance  is  probably  unique. 
It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Benedict  XIV.  and  his  reverend  car- 
dinals and  monsignori  absolutely  assisted  at  the  ball ;  but  so  great  was 
the  fame  of  its  splendours  that  his  Holiness's  curiosity  was  excited,  and 
he  repaired  to  Palazzo  Farnese  on  the  morning  after  the  last  ball,  to  see 
the  decorations,  &c.  Not  long  after  the  last  maskers  had  left  the  palace 
where  they  had  danced  until  daylight,  the  ambassador  caused  the  shutters 
to  be  reclosed,  the  lights  renewed,  the  musicians  recalled  to  their  posts, 
in  honour  of  the  new  and  unexpected  guests.  But  we  will  let  RefE.no 
speak  for  himself: — 

So  magnificent,  an  entertainment  merited  the  observation  even  of  the  Supreme 
Pontiff,  and  on  Thursday,  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  November,  his  Holiness  deigned  to 
go  and  see  it.  His  Eminence  Cardinal  Valenti,  and  the  Ambassador  in  Court  dressr 
received  his  Holiness  and  attended  him  to  the  great  saloon,  which  was  illuminated,  and 
where  there  were  the  musicians ;  and  to  the  apartment  where  there  was  erected  a 
throne  for  his  Blessedness,  who  repaired  thither  with  all  the  Camera  Segreta  (domestic 
prelates,  chamberlains,  &c.).  Sumptuous  refreshments  were  distributed  to  the  noble 
household,  and  to  the  military  officers,  and  there  were  various  tobies  with  collations 
for  the  lower  members  of  the  household,  and  the  Swiss  guard  and  cuirassiers. 

But  the  best  part  of  the  spectacle  could  not  be  repeated.  The  fes- 
tival, with  its  dancers  in  gorgeous  costumes  distributed  in  five  great  and 
splendid  ball-rooms,  was  past  and  gone,  and  the  Roman  Pontiff  and  his  court 
could  only  reconstruct  it  in  imagination.  It  has,  however,  been  faithfully 
recorded  for  us  by  the  eye-witness  Reffino,  whose  hyperboles  and  incorrect 
diction  may  be  easily  pardoned,  considering  that  we  owe  to  him  a  careful 
description  of  the  dresses  of  the  nobler  gentlewomen  who  graced  the 
entertainment.  "To  see  those  fair  dames  perform  the  minuet  in  all 
their  braveiy  must  have  been  enough  to  melt  the  icy  heart  of  an  ancho- 


MINUETS.  193 

i-ite."     So  at  least  says  Count  Alessandro  Moroni !     Here  is  another 
quotation  from  Reffino  : — 

In  order  to  receive  without  disorder  the  infinite  number  of  maskers  who  filled 
that  vast  apartment  with  its  five  ball-rooms,  the  Palazzo  Farnese  was  provided  with  a 
guard  of  soldiers.  At  three  o'clock  *  was  opened  the  great  saloon  destined  for  the 
nobility,  who  appeared  in  truly  superb  pomp.  The  princesses  and  all  the  ladies 
were  dressed  in  habits  of  singular  richness  adorned  with  copious  jewels,  and  distin- 
guished by  a  great  variety  of  masquerade  costumes.  Foremost  for  majesty  of  appear- 
ance was  her  Excellency  the  Ambassadress  of  Venice,  in  a  charming  costume  after  the 
German  fashion,  and  perfectly  supporting  the  graceful  character  of  a  Tyrolese 
peasantxwoman.  She  wore  a  superb  petticoat  of  white  satin,  with  bouquets  of  natural 
flowers  ;  a  tighly-fitting  bodice,  with  chemisette  and  sleeves  of  the  finest  muslin  dotted 
over  with  symmetrical  groups  of  embroidered  flowers ;  on  her  head  a  black  Tyrolese 
cnp  enriched  with  various  and  tastefully  divided  groups  of  jewels ;  to  all  which  pleas- 
ing and  rich  adornment  new  charms  were  added  by  the  deportment  of  her  Excellency, 
who  attracted  the  respectful  admiration  of  all  present.  Then  came  the  Princess  di 
Viano  in  a  most  charming  dress  of  rose-colour  with  festoons  of  the  rarest  Flanders  lace, 
On  the  left  side  of  her  bosom  she  had  a  group  of  diamonds,  emeralds,  and  rubies  in 
an  ingenious  design,  and  a  large  pear-shaped  pearl  surrounded  by  smaller  ones.  Her 
hair  was  adorned  with  similar  precious  stones,  which  formed  a  head-dress  very  suit- 
able to  the  noble  bearing  of  her  Excellency.  The  Duchess  Salviati  appeared  glittering 
in  a  rich  hussar  costume,  with  a  brocade  petticoat.  The  ground  of  the  brocade  was  of 
purple  damask  worked  with  silver  branches  and  flowers  in  natural  colours.  She  wore 
a  hussar  jacket  hanging  loose  from  one  shoulder,  of  sky-blue  velvet,  and  a  hussar  cap 
to  match,  both  trimmed  with  rare  furs  of  Muscovy.  She  wore  a  golden-hilted 
sabre,  and  a  diamond  sword-knot ;  and  strings  of  large  pearls  round  her  throat  and 
mixed  with  the  tassel  of  her  cap.  And  the  effect  of  this  brilliant  costume  was 
enhanced  by  the  spirltuel  affability  of  her  Excellency.  The  Marchesa  Virginia 
Patrizi  was  very  distinguished  in  a  dragoon  costume  of  jonquil-coloured  satin  entirely 
trimmed  with  silver  lace  ;  a  baldrick  studded  with  gems  across  her  shoulders,  support- 
ing an  elegant  dagger,  and  a  head-dress  similarly  adorned.  Next  appeared  the  Mar- 
chesa Sacripanti,  superbly  attired  in  white  and  gold  brocade  with  natural-coloured 
flowers ;  a  bodice  of  the  same,  from  the  back  of  which  fell  long  folds  of  crimson 
velvet,  with  sleeves  to  match  ;  and  a  small  black  velvet  hat  adorned  with  jewels  to 
match  her  necklace.  The  Marchesa  Costaguti  was  also  in  white  and  gold  brocade, 
with  a  Turkish  turban  of  cloth  of  silver  fastened  by  a  half-moon  in  diamonds,  The 
Contessa  Carpegua  wore  a  white  train  with  a  petticoat  delicately  painted  with  various 
rural  landscapes,  and  very  fine  jewels  on  her  breast  and  in  her  hair.  The  guards  on 
duty  very  properly  presented  arms  on  the  appearance  of  the  goddess  Minerva  (!).  This 
was  the  young  bride,  Marchesa  Gaucci,  with  breastplate  and  helmet  wreathed  with 
laurel,  and  enriched  with  groups  of  jewels  and  rows  of  pearls.  She  had  her  hair 
dressed  in  short  curls  like  a  man's,  and  wore  a  baldrick  set  with  superb  jewels.  Her 
petticoat  was  white,  sprinkled  with  spots  of  gold  and  blue  embroidery,  and  the 
sleeves  a  la  gucrriere,  were  also  blue ;  so  that  (sic)  she  received  well-merited 
applause.  Very  charming  and  attractive  was  the  Marchesa  Gabrielli  in  a  tight-fitting 
gown  of  rose-coloured  satin,  trimmed  with  Flanders  lace  and  long  wreaths  of  silver 
vine-leaves.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  bandeau  of  brilliants,  terminating  at  the 

*  At  the  date  at  which  Eeffino  writes,  the  hours  were  universally  reckoned  in 
Italy  from  sunset  to  sunset,  which  latter  was  the  venti-guattro,  or  twenty-four 
o'clock.  Thus  three  o'clock  in  Rome  at  the  end  of  November  would  be  between  seven 
and  eight  in  the  evening  according  to  our  manner  of  reckoning,  which  is  now  ako 
.generally  adopted  in  Italy. 

VOL.  XLII. NO.   248.  10. 


194  MINUETS. 

sides  in  little  rosettes,  extremely  well  suited  to  the  dignified  vivacity  of  this  kdy. 
The  Marchesa  del  Bufalo  was  much  admired  in  a  white  satin  gown  with  little  groups 
of  Cupids  painted  on  it,  and  edged  with  gold  embroidery  and  flowers  painted  in 
natural  colours.  The  bodice  was  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  she  wore  a  mass  of  superb 
diamonds  on  her  bosom  and  in  her  hair.  Then  arrived  the  Princess  Ruspoli  in  a 
majestic  costume  a  V Imperial,  consisting  of  a  petticoat  and  train  of  rose-coloured 
velvet  trimmed  with  great  festoons  of  the  richest  gold  lace,  and  a  head-dress  and  neck- 
lace of  large  pearls,  which  caused  this  Princess  to  be  highly  admired.  General  sur- 
prise was  caused  amongst  the  noble  company  by  the  apparition  of  the  rising  sun, 
represented  in  a  lively  manner  by  the  Lady  Mobilia  Falconieri.  On  the  right  side  of 
her  bodice,  which  was  entirely  covered  with  diamonds,  appeared  a  rising  sun,  whose 
golden  rays  illuminated  the  hemisphere  which  was  designed  upon  the  skirt  of  tl.e 
gown,  together  with  the  signs  of  the  zodiac.  There  was  also  the  moon  embroidered 
in  silver,  to  signify  that  she  had  paled  in  the  light  of  the  greater  luminary,  which 
shone  upon  various  terrestrial  scenes  skilfully  painted  round  the  edge  of  the  skirt. 
And  to  show  that  the  sun  left  darkness  behind  him,  the  night  was  excellently  symbo- 
lised by  a  hanging  drapery  of  black,  studded  with  silver  stars,  which  fell  negligently 
from  the  shoulder.  Golden  sun-rays  mixed  with  precious  stones  formed  the  head- 
dress, and  there  were  similar  ornaments  at  the  throat  and  breast.  But  the  greatest 
splendour  of  this  rising  sun  was  derived  from  the  majestic  bearing  of  the  noble  lady 
who  wore  it. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  the  worthy  Reffino  further  into  the 
minutiae  of  this  singular  entertainment.  It  is  certain  that  the  fame  of  it 
passed  the  Alps;  and  probably,  as  Count  Moroni  observes,  did  not 
wholly  fade  away  as  long  as  one  survivor  remained  of  those  who  had 
witnessed  its  splendours. 

One  very  marked  peculiarity  of  Roman  society  in  the  eighteenth 
century  was  the  great  number  of  abbes  who  frequented  it.  It  must  not 
be  supposed  that  the  majority  of  these  abati  and  abatini  had  any  real 
ecclesiastical  rank  or  function.  The  learned  Cistercian  monks  in  the 
work  entitled  Antichita  Longobardico-Milanesi,  published  at  Milan  in 
1793,  deplore  the  abuse  of  this  title,  which,  they  say,  has  become  a  mere 
fashion,  imported  from  France,  and  unfortunately  spread  throughout 
Italy.  The  fact  is  that  as  in  a  military  state  every  man  finds  it  useful 
to  don  a  uniform,  so  in  the  states  of  the  church  the  little  silk  mantle  of 
the  abbe  was  jvistly  considered  as  a  desirable  badge  of  some  connection, 
however  remote,  with  the  great  ecclesiastical  army.  Up  to  comparatively 
recent  times  there  were  to  be  met  with,  in  old-fashioned  Roman  houses, 
specimens  of  the  genuine  abate  ;  familiar  faces  at  christenings,  weddings, 
birthdays,  at  other  festive  occasions ;  indispensable  purveyors  of  social 
gossip  ;  excellent  partners  at  the  whist- table ;  harmless  flatterers ;  dis- 
creet confidants ;  formidable  trenchermen  at  a  feast ;  and  critics  of 
cookery  from  whose  experienced  judgment  there  was  no  appeal !  Now-a- 
days  the  race  is  well-nigh  extinct.  There  are  abbes  still,  but  they  wear 
their  cue  with  a  difference.  In  the  eighteenth  century  one  of  the 
clievaux  de  bataitte  of  the  abbe  was  the  minuet.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem  to  our  views,  the  characteristic  silk  mantelet  of  the  able  fluttered 
through  that  stately  and  languishing  dance,  in  the  most  aristocratic 


MINUETS.  195 

ball-rooms.  A  ballet-master  named  Rota,  very  celebrated  in  his  day, 
composed  a  ballet  of  which  one  of  the  most  effective  scenes  was  a  minuet 
danced  by  Abatini  and  Contessine — gentlemen  with  the  smartest  and 
neatest  of  black  silk  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  and  ladies  powdered, 
patched,  and  hooped  in  the  height  of  the  fashion. 

The  great  storm  of  the  French  Revolution  swept  away  these  slight 
creatures  with  its  first  breath.  An  active  imagination  might  picture  to 
itself  a  whole  cloud  of  loupes  chignons  &  la  Du  Barry,  high-heeled  shoes, 
pig-tails,  and  diamond  snuff-boxes,  fluttering  forlornly  across  Europe  like 
leaves  before  the  wind.  With  these  accessories  the  minuet,  too,  dis- 
appeared. It  belongs  to  the  history  of  the  past.  Count  Moroni  says 
that  "  the  eighteenth  century  was  truly  pourtrayed  in  the  minuet,  which 
was,  so  to  speak,  the  expression  of  that  Olympic  calm  and  that  universal 
languor  which  were  reflected  in  everything,  even  in  social  pleasures." 

But  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  portrait,  however  true  so  far  as  it 
went,  was  a  very  partial  one;  and  the  frivolous,  pompous,  graceful 
minuet  was  no  complete  epitome  of  that  marvellous  century  which 
expired  amidst  the  convulsions  of  the  great  French  Revolution. 


10—2 


196 


Skluuss. 


TOWARDS  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  a  terrible  malady  made 
its  first  appearance  within  our  island,  causing  the  greatest  danger  to  life 
wherever  its  pestilential  breath  infected  the  multitude.  The  origin  of 
the  evil  was  supposed  to  be  wrapped  in  mystery ;  the  disease  was  looked 
upon  as  one  of  those  visitations  which  have  so  often  been  attributed  to 
an  offended  Providence  instead  of  to  the  true  causes  of  their  existence — 
the  ignorance  and  negligence  of  a  people  as  to  the  first  principles  of  sani- 
tary science.  Illumined  by  the  light  of  modern  teaching,  we  can  enter- 
tain but  little  doubt  that  the  dreaded  sweating  sickness — the  Sudor 
Anglicus — which  created  such  havoc  throughout  England  in  the  reigns  of 
Henry  VIII.  and  his  son,  was  entirely  due  to  the  almost  Eastern  condi- 
tion of  things  then  apparent  in  our  system  of  drainage  and  ventilation. 
The  houses,  even  of  the  great,  harboured  filth  and  dirt  which  were 
allowed  to  remain  unremoved,  and  thus  to  exhale  their  noxious  gases 
in  fatal  freedom.  The  narrow  streets  were  the  receptacles  for  all 
garbage,  whilst  open  sewers  on  either  side  slowly  rolled  their  contents 
towards  a  polluted  river.  Pure  water  for  drinking  purposes  was  scarcely 
to  be  had ;  the  brewers  monopolised  the  springs  for  their  trade,  whilst 
the  conduits,  which  even  a  century  before  the  accession  of  bluff  King 
Hal  had  been  insufficient  for  the  wants  of  the  people,  now  simply 
mocked  the  requirements  of  the  town.  Meat  was  cheap,  and  the  English 
were  notorious  for  their  robust  appetites.  It  is  not,  therefore,  sur- 
prising that  men,  breathing  in  their  own  homes  and  out  of  doors  a  fetid 
atmosphere,  with  their  blood  heated  by  heavy  consumptions  of  animal 
food,  should  fall  easy  victims  to  a  pestilence  which  their  own  offensive 
habits  had  helped  to  engender  and  encourage.  The  subject  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  one  of  the  keenest  observers  of  his  day. 

I  am  frequently  astonished  and  grieved  (writes  Erasmus  to  Wolsey's  physician) 
to  think  how  it  is  that  England  has  been  now  for  so  many  years  troubled  by  a  con- 
tinual pestilence,  especially  by  a  deadly  sweat,  which  appears  in  a  great  measure  to  bo 
peculiar  to  your  country.  I  have  read  how  a  city  was  once  delivered  from  a  plague 
by  a  change  in  the  houses,  made  at  the  suggestion  of  a  philosopher.  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  this  also  must  be  the  deliverance  for  England.  First  of  all,  Englishmen 
sever  consider  the  aspect  of  their  doors  or  windows  ;  next,  their  chambers  are  built  in 
such  a  way  as  to  admit  of  no  ventilation.  Then  a  great  part  of  the  walls  of  the  house 
is  occupied  with  glass  casements,  which  admit  light  but  exclude  the  air,  and  yet  they 
let  in  the  draught  through  holes  and  corners,  which  is  often  pestilential  and  stagnates 
there.  The  floors  are  in  general  laid  with  white  clay,  and  are  covered  with  rushes, 
occasionally  removed,  but  so  imperfectly  that  the  bottom  layer  is  left  undisturbed, 
sometimes  for  twenty  years,  harbouring  expectorations,  vomitings,  ale-droppings, 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS.  197 

scraps  offish,  and  other  abominations  not  fit  to  be  mentioned.  "Whenever  the  weather 
changes  a  vapour  is  exhaled  which  I  consider  very  detrimental  to  health.  ...  I  am 
confident  the  island  would  be  imich  more  salubrious  if  the  use  of  rushes  were  aban- 
doned, and  if  the  rooms  were  built  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  exposed  to  the  sky  on  two 
or  three  sides,  and  all  the  windows  so  built  as  to  be  opened  or  closed  at  once,  and  so 
completely  closed  as  not  to  admit  the  foul  air  through  chinks  ;  for,  as  it  is  beneficial 
to  health  to  admit  the  air,  so  it  is  equally  beneficial  at  times  to  exclude  it.  The 
common  people  laugh  at  you  if  you  complain  of  a  cloudy  or  foggy  day.  Thirty  years 
ago,  if  ever  I  entered  a  room  which  had  not  been  occupied  for  some  months,  I  was 
sure  to  take  a  fever.  More  moderation  in  diet,  and  especially  in  the  use  of  salt  meats, 
might  be  of  service  ;  more  particularly  were  public  aediles  appointed  to  see  the  streets 
cleaned  and  the  suburbs  kept  in  better  order. 

The  sweating  sickness  made  its  first  appearance  in  England  a  few- 
days  before  the  battle  of  Bosworth. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  1485  (writes  a  Dr.  Caius,  a  "Welsh  physician,  who  had 
made  the  disease  his  special  study),  shortly  after  the  seventh  day  of  August,  at 
which  time  King  Henry  VII.  arrived  at  Milford,  in  Wales,  out  of  France,  and  in  the 
first  year  of  his  reign,  there  chanced  a  disease  among  the  people,  lasting  the  rest  of 
that  month  and  all  September,  which  for  the  sudden  sharpness  and  unwont  cruelness 
passed  the  pestilence.  For  this  commonly  giveth  in  four,  often  seven,  sometime 
nine,  sometime  eleven,  and  sometime  fourteen  days,  respite  to  whom  it  vexetln 
But  that  immediately  killed  some  in  opening  their  windows,  some  in  playing  with 
children  in  their  street  doors  ;  some  in  one  hour,  many  in  two,  it  destroyed ;  and,  at 
the  lo'ngest,  to  them  that  merrily  dined  it  gave  a  sorrowful  supper.  As  it  found 
them,  so  it  took  them :  some  in  sleep,  some  in  wake,  some  in  mirth,  some  in  care, 
some  fasting  and  some  full,  some  busy  and  some  idle ;  and  in  one  house  sometime 
three,  sometime  five,  sometime  more,  sometime  all ;  of  the  which  if  the  half  in 
every  town  escaped,  it  was  thought  great  favour.  This  disease,  because  it  most  did 
stand  in  sweating  from  the  beginning  until  the  ending,  was  called  The  Sweatuig 
Sickness ;  and  because  it  first  began  in  England,  it  was  named  in  other  countries 
"  The  English  Sweat." 

In  the  summers  of  1506,  1517,  and  1528  this  curious  epidemic  re- 
appeared, and  it  again  broke  out  at  Shrewsbury,  where  it  raged  from. 
April  to  September,  1551,  spreading  afterwards  throughout  the  whole 
kingdom.  We  read  that  in  1619  great  dread  of  its  return  prevailed,  but 
happily  the  fears  of  the  country  proved  groundless. 

One  of  the  strange  features  of  this  disease  was  its  partiality  for 
Englishmen.  Wherever  Englishmen  congregated,  there  it  attacked 
them,  "following  them,  as  the  shadow  does  the  body,  in  all  countries, 
albeit  not  at  all  times."  In  Calais,  Antwerp,  and  Brabant  it  generally 
singled  out  the  English  residents  and  visitors,  whilst  the  native  popula- 
tion escaped  unaffected.  The  chief  victims  were  the  robust  and  the 
powerful,  whose  sound  digestions  permitted  them  to  indulge  in  the  plea- 
sures of  the  table  ;  "  thin-dieted  "  men  it  rarely  attacked.  The  illness 
began  with  a  fever,  followed  by  severe  internal  struggles,  which  caused  a, 
profuse  perspiration  to  break  out.  If  the  constitution  proved  strong 
enough  to  expel  the  poison,  the  sufferer  escaped.  One  of  the  chief 
results  of  the  malady  was  to  cause  such  an  utter  prostration  of  the 
nervous  system  that  the  patient  often  yielded  without  a  struggle  ;  "  seeing 


198  THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS. 

how  it  began  fearfully  to  invade  them,  furiously  handle  them,  speedily 
oppress  them,  unmercifully  choke  them,  and  that  in  no  small  numbers  ; 
and  such  persons  so  notably  noble  in  birth,  goodly  conditions,  grave 
sobriety,  singular  wisdom,  and  great  learning."  The  State  Papers  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  "VIII.  are  full  of  allusions  to  the  epidemic.  When  it 
first  appeared  every  precaution  was  taken  to  cut  off  infection.  The 
inhabitants  of  houses  in  which  the  disease  had  broken  out  were  ordered  to 
keep  within  doors,  to  hang  out  wisps  of  straw,  and  when  convalescent  to 
carry  white  rods.  The  peers  and  richer  gentry  put  down  their  establish- 
ments, and  hastened,  as  best  they  could,  to  isolate  themselves  from  their 
neighbour.  "  Tell  your  master,"  said  "VVolsey  to  the  chaplain  of  the  Earl 
of  Shrewsbury,  "  to  get  him  into  clean  air,  and  divide  his  household  in 
sundry  places."  Fairs  were  put  down ;  the  country,  panic-stricken,  was 
indifferent  to  amusements ;  and  business  was  in  a  great  measure  at  a 
standstill.  No  one  knew  whether  his  own  turn  might  be  the  next. 
The  palace  was  no  more  exempt  than  the  cottage.  A  man  was  in  perfect 
health  one  moment,  the  next  he  felt  a  little  feverish,  and  in  a  few  hours 
he  was  dead.  An  open  window,  accidental  contact  in  the  streets,  a 
beggar  asking  for  alms,  might  disseminate  the  infection,  and  a  whole 
family  be  laid  low  by  the  terrible  visitor.  Where  the  sickness  once 
appeared  men  preferred  to  take  refuge  in  flight ;  and  the  traveller,  as  he 
passed  through  England,  often  entered  a  village  in  which  every  house 
was  deserted.  The  rapidity  with  which  the  hale  and  hearty  were  struck 
down  added  all  the  more  to  the  reign  of  terror  that  then  prevailed. 
Ammonius,  the  Latin  secretary,  the  friend  of  Erasmus,  was  dining  one 
day  with  an  acquaintance ;  they  had  arranged  to  meet  on  the  morrow 
and  ride  to  Merton  to  escape  the  infection.  The  next  morning,  before 
his  friend  had  time  to  get  out  of  bed  and  dress  himself,  a  messenger 
arrived  to  announce  the  death  of  Ammonius.  He  had  been  carried  off 
in  eight  hours.* 

This  sweat  (writes  Du  Bellay,  the  French  Ambassador  to  Montmorency),  which 
has  made  its  appearance  within  these  four  days,  is  a  most  perilous  disease.  One 
has  a  little  pain  in  the  head  and  heart ;  suddenly  a  sweat  breaks  out,  and  a  doctor 
is  useless ;  for  whether  you  wrap  yourself  up  much  or  little,  in  four  hours,  and  some- 
times in  two  or  three,  you  are  despatched  without  languishing,  as  in  those  troublesome 
fevers.  However,  only  about  two  thousand  have  caught  it  in  London.  Yesterday  we 
saw  them  as  thick  as  flies  rushing  from  the  streets  and  shops  into  their  houses  to 
take  the  sweat,  whenever  they  felt  ill.  I  found  the  Ambassador  of  Milan  leaving  his 
lodgings  in  great  haste  because  two  or  three  had  been  sxiddenly  attacked.  In  London, 
I  assure  you,  the  priests  have  a  better  time  of  it  than  the  doctors,  except  that  the 
latter  do  not  help  to  bury.  If  the  thing  goes  on  corn  will  soon  be  cheap.  .  .  .  The 
King  keeps  moving  about  for  fear  of  the  plague.  ...  Of  40,000  attacked  in  London, 
only  2,000  are  dead,  but  if  a  man  only  put  his  hand  out  of  bed  during  twenty-four 
hours  it  becomes  as  stiff  as  a  pane  of  glass. 

Various  remedies  were  employed,  and  it  may  amuse  modern  pharmacy 
to  study  a  few  of  the  prescriptions  then  made  out  to  check  the  ravages  of 

*  State  Papers,  Henry  VIII.  Vol.  1515-1518.    Preface.    Eev.  J.  S.  Brewer. 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS.  199 

the  pestilence.  "  Take  endive,"  says  one,  "  sowthistle,  marygold,  m'oney, 
and  nightshade,  three  handfuls  of  all,  and  seethe  them  in  conduit  water 
from  a  quart  to  a  pint,  then  strain  it  in  a  fair  vessel,  then  delay  it  with 
a  little  sugar  to  put  away  the  tartness,  and  then  drink  it  when  the  sweat 
taketh  you,  and  keep  you  warm ;  and  by  the  grace  of  God  ye  shall  be 
whole." 

My  Lord  (writes  Lady  "Whethyll  to  Lord  Darcy),  in  my  best  manner  I  recom- 
mend me  unto  your  Lordship,  and  very  sorry  I  am  of  your  great  heaviness.  My 
Lord,  the  cause  of  my  writing  to  you  at  this  time  is  to  advertise  yoiir  Lordship  of  a 
proved  medicine  ;  that  is,  to  take  treacle  and  vinegar  and  temper  them  together,  and 
put  thereto  some  running  water  to  allay  the  vinegar  •with,  and  take  three  or  four  good 
spoonfuls  fasting,  you  and  all  yours,  four  or  five  mornings,  and  fast  an  hour  after  it ; 
and  by  the  grace  of  God  ye  shall  find  it  shall  do  great  good;  and  then,  my  good  Lord, 
I  beseech  our  Lord  to  preserve  you  and  all  yours,  and  send  you  as  good  health  as  I 
\roll  myself.  This  medicine  have  I  proved  myself. 

Herbs  of  all  kinds — rue,  wormwood,  sage,  balm,  rosemary,  dragons, 
burnet,  sorrel,  elecampane,  pimpernel,  &c. — enter  largely  into  the  pre- 
scriptions; as  do  crushed  eggs,  treacle,  vinegar,  and  "unicorns'  horn,"  "if 
it  be  possible  to  be  gotten."  Nor  were  the  prayers  of  the  Church  to  be 
omitted  : 

Another  very  true  medicine  is  to  say  every  day,  at  seven  parts  of  your  body,  7 
Paternosters  and  7  Ave  Marias,  with  1  Credo  at  the  last.  Ye  shall  begyn  at  the 
ryght  syde,  under  the  ryght  ere,  saying  the  Paternoster  qui  cs  in  ccelis,  sanctificetur 
women  tunm,  with  a  cross  made  there  with  your  thumb,  and  so  say  the  Paternoster 
full  complete,  and  1  Ave  Maria,  and  then  under  the  left  ear,  and  then  under  the  left 
armhole,  and  then  under  the  left  thigh-hole,  and  then  the  last  at  the  heart,  with  1 
Paternoster,  Ave  Maria,  with  1  Credo ;  and  these  thus  said  daily,  with  the  grace  of 
God  is  there  no  manner  drede  hym. 

To  avoid  falling  victims  to  the  sickness  all  persons  were  enjoined 
"  to  keep  fro  outrage  and  excess  in  meat  and  eke  drink,  ne  use  no 
baths,  ne  sweat  not  too  much,  for  all  these  openeth  the  pores  of  the 
body  and  maketh  the  venemous  airs  to  enter,  and  destroyeth  the  lively 
spirit  in  man  and  enfeebleth  the  body."  The  diet  was  to  be  very  simple. 
"  They  should  not  eat  much  flesh,  but  chickens  sodden  with  water,  or 
fresh  fish  roasted  to  eat  with  vinegar.  Pottage  of  almonds  is  good,  and 
for  drink  tysan,  or  in  the  heat  small  ale.  If  they  wish  wine,  give  them 
vinegar  and  water ;  white  wine  is  better  than  red."  * 

When  the  epidemic  was  at  its  height,  all  remedies  and  precautions 
seemed  useless  to  arrest  its  progress.  It  spread  through  the  little  vil- 
lages as  well  as  through  the  large  towns.  The  noble  in  his  secluded 
mansion  was  as  liable  to  infection  as  the  most  miserable  pauper.  Ladies 
in  waiting  and  pages  of  the  Household  fell  victims  to  the  sickness  whilst 
in  the  performance  of  their  duties  at  the  palace.  Some  of  the  foreign 
ambassadors,  who  had  attributed  the  disease  entirely  to  English  over- 

*  A  Book  of  Receipts,  Additional  MSS.,  British  Museum,  State  Papers,  Hen.  VIII. 
Vol.  1515-1518. 


200  THE   SWEATING-  SICKNESS. 

feeding  and  English  timidity,  were  seized  with  the  terrible  fever,  and  on 
partial  recovery  hastened  to  quit  the  infected  kingdom.  The  health  of 
Wolsey  was  permanently  undermined  from  four  severe  attacks.  The 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  Marquis  of  Dorset,  and  young  Lord  Grey,  were 
not  permitted  to  escape  the  contagion.  The  king,  like  many  men  whose 
courage  is  undoubted,  was  terribly  concerned  about  his  own  health ;  he 
would  die  like  the  bravest  on  the  field  of  battle,  but  to  perish  ingloriously 
from  an  infectious  illness  was  an  end  which  made  him  as  fearful  as  the- 
most  craven.  He  shifted  his  Court  from  Richmond  to  Reading,  then 
from  Reading  to  Abingdon,  then  to  Woodstock,  or  Wallingford,  or  Farn- 
ham,  according  as  the  sickness  dogged  his  steps.  The  peers  and  mem- 
bers of  Council  hastily  quitted  London  and  left  the  State  to  take  care 
of  itself.  One  man,  however,  remained  true  to  his  post.  In  spite  of 
failing  health  and  repeated  attacks,  Wolsey  continued  to  attend  dili- 
gently to  his  duties  as  Chief  Minister  and  Lord  Chancellor.  Henry, 
safe  in  the  seclusion  of  Woodstock,  praised  the  Cardinal  for  his  wisdom 
and  diligence,  and  vowed  that  "  there  was  no  man  living  who  pondered 
more  the  surety  of  the  Royal  person  and  the  commonwealth  of  the 
realm,"  but  at  the  same  time  he  begged  him  to  repair  to  Woodstock ;  "  for 
here  is  clear  air,"  writes  the  Court  physician  to  His  Eminence,  "  which 
His  Grace  thinketh  you  will  like  very  well." 

Myne  awne  good  Cardinall  (addresses  the  King  to  him  in  his  own  hand),  I 
recomande  me  unto  yow  with  all  my  hart,  and  thanke  yow  for  the  grette  payne  and 
labour  that  yow  do  dayly  take  in  my  bysynes  and  maters,  desyryng  yow  (that  wen 
yow  have  well  establysshyd  them)  to  take  summe  pastyme  and  comfort,  totheintente 
yow  may  the  lenger  endure  to  serve  us ;  for  allways  payne  can  nott  be  induryd. 
Surly  yow  have  so  substancyally  orderyd  oure  matters  bothe  off  thys  syde  the  see 
and  byonde,  that  in  myne  oppynion  lityll  or  no  thyng  can  be  addyd.  .  .  .  The  Queue 
my  wyff  hathe  desyrd  me  to  make  har  most  harty  recommendations  to  yow,  as  ta 
hym  that  she  lovethe  very  well,  and  bothe  she  and  I  wolde  knowe  fayne  when  yow 
wyll  repayer  to  us.  No  more  to  yow  at  thys  tyme,  but  that  wyth  God's  helpe  I 
trust  we  shall  dysapoynte  our  enymys  off  theyre  intendyd  purpose.  Wryttyn  with 
the  hand  off  your  lovyng  Master,  HENRY  E. 

But  there  was  one  who  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  sickness,  in  whom 
Henry  felt  a  far  keener  interest.  The  great  beauty  of  the  Court,, 
whose  wondrous  grey  eyes  were  then  playing  such  havoc  in  the  too 
susceptible  heart  of  the  monarch,  had  been  suddenly  seized  with  the 
malady,  and  was  now  lying  ill  of  fever.  When  the  news  reached 
Woodstock  that  the  incomparable  Anne  Boleyn  had  not  been  spared  by 
the  epidemic,  but  was  now  in  a  critical  condition,  the  grief  of  the  royal 
lover  was  intense.  Henry  could  not  have  been  more  concerned  if  he 
himself  had  been  the  victim. 

There  came  to  me  (he  writes  to  her  in  one  of  his  love-letters  preserved  among' 
the  State  Papers — he  wrote  to  her  sometimes  in  French  and  sometimes  in  English) — 
there  came  to  me  in  the  night  the  most  afflicting  news  possible.  I  have  to  grieve 
for  three  causes  :  first,  to  hear  of  my  mistress'  sickness,  whose  health  I  desire  as  my 
own,  and  would  willingly  bear  the  half  of  yours  to  cure  yon.  Secondly,  because  I 


THE  SWEATING  SICKNESS.  201 

fear  to  suffer  yet  longer  that  absence  which  has  already  caused  me  so  much  pain. 
God  deliver  me  from  such  an  importunate  rebel !  Thirdly,  because  the  physician  I 
trust  most  is  at  present  absent,  when  he  could  do  me  the  greatest  pleasure.  How- 
ever, in  his  absence  I  send  you  the  second :  I  beseech  you  to  be  governed  by  his 
advice,  and  then  I  shall  hope  soon  to  see  you  again. 

A  few  days  later  he  continues  the  correspondence  : — • 

My  doubts  of  your  health  have  disturbed  and  troubled  me  extremely,  and  I 
should  scarcely  have  had  any  quiet  had  I  not  received  some  news  of  you.  But  as 
you  have  felt  nothing  of  it  hitherto,  I  hope  you  are  as  well  as  we  are.  ...  I  think 
if  you  would  retire  from  the  Surrey  side,  as  we  did,  you  would  escape  all  danger. 
There  is  another  thing  for  your  comfort,  that  few  or  no  women  have, suffered  from  it : 
what  is  more,  none  of  our  Court,  and  few  elsewhere,  have  died  of  it.  [A  more  un- 
blushing falsehood  royal  lips  never  uttered !]  Wherefore  I  beg  of  you,  my  entirely 
beloved,  to  put  away  fear  and  not  be  too  uneasy  at  our  absence  ;  for  wherever  I  am  I 
am  yours.  ...  I  hope  for  your  speedy  return.  No  more  for  the  present,  for  lack  of 
time,  except  that  I  wish  you  in  my  arms,  to  banish  your  unreasonable  thoughts. 

And  then  he  signs  himself  "  MA  H.  R.  AIMABLE." 

Seldom  a  day  was  allowed  to  pass  without  the  fair  invalid  receiving 

«/  IT 

a  letter  or  gift  from  her  "  H.  R.  aimable"  "  The  cause  of  my  writing 
at  this  time,  good  sweetheart,"  he  writes  to  her  on  one  occasion,  when 
she  was  rapidly  becoming  convalescent,  "  is  only  to  understand  of  your 
good  health  and  prosperity.  .  .  .  And  seeing  my  darling  is  absent,  I  can 
no  less  do  than  send  her  some  flesh  representing  my  name,  which  is 
hart's  flesh  for  Harry,  prognosticating  that  hereafter  you  must  enjoy 
some  of  mine.  .  .  .  No  more  to  you  at  this  time,  mine  own  darling,  but 
that  awhile  I  would  we  were  together  of  an  evening."  As  the  cor- 
respondence proceeds,  and  absence  causes  the  heart  to  grow  the  fonder, 
Henry  becomes  more  and  more  enamoured.  From  the  respectful  address 
of  "  mistress,"  or  "  mistress  and  friend,"  he  deepens  into  "  mine  own 
sweetheart,"  "  darling,"  "  mine  own  darling,"  and  other  expressions  of 
endearment,  somewhat  too  plain  and  glowing  for  these  civilised  days. 
Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  the  unhappy  woman  had  she  never 
risen  from  that  bed  of  sickness  to  share  the  dazzling  glories  of  a  throne 
and  to  trust  to  the  fickle  fondness  of  her  "  H.  R.  aimabl0,  "  1 

It  has  been  computed  that  during  the  five  visitations  of  the  Sweating 
Sickness  over  one  hundred  thousand  persons  were  enrolled  amongst  its 
victims. 

ALEX.  CHARLES  EWALD. 


202 


Cities. 


A  GOOD  many  misconceptions  prevail  in  England  on  the  subject  of 
foreign  titles :  one  section  of  society  rating  them  too  highly,  another 
unduly  depreciating  them.  Another  common  mistake  is  to  suppose  that 
the  grades  of  nobility  abroad  are  as  precisely  denned  as  with  us.  In 
France  there  are  dukes  who  rank  before  princes,  and  indeed  prince  is 
often  the  title  of  the  eldest  son  of  a  duke  in  that  country  :  the  Due  de 
Broglie's  eldest  son  is  styled  Prince  "Victor  de  Broglie — and  his  other  sons 
are  likewise  princes,  the  Duke  happening  to  be  a  Prince  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire ;  but  of  that  by-and-bye.  Sometimes  father  and  son  enjoy  the 
same  title  ;  the  present  Due  de  Gramont  was  styled  Due  de  Quiche  in 
his  father's  lifetime.  He  might,  had  he  pleased,  have  called  himself 
Prince  de  Bidache.  As  a  rule,  however,  the  eldest  son  of  a  French  duke 
bears  the  same  name  as  his  father,  with  the  title  of  marquis,  e.g.  Due 
d'Avaray,  Marquis  d'Avaray.  The  next  son  would  be  Comte  d'Avaray, 
the  third  Vicomte,  and  so  on. 

The  names  just  cited  are  among  the  greatest  in  France,  and  entitled 
to  all  such  honour  as  birth  can  claim ;  but  there  are  aboiit  five  hundred 
French  dukes,  and  all  Englishmen  cannot  be  expected  to  discern  between 
them.  The  table  of  precedence  assigns  no  place  to  foreign  noblemen, 
but  the  rule  generally  observed  in  society  is  this  :  the  head  of  a  foreign 
house  of  authentic  nobility,  be  he  prince,  duke,  or  count,  walks  out  of  a 
room  after  an  English  duke.  The  same  precedence  is  accorded  to 
"  envoys  extraordinary "  and  "  ministers  plenipotentiary,"  as  distin- 
guished from  "  ambassadors,"  who  rank  immediately  after  members  of 
the  Royal  Family.  Only  France,  Austria,  Prussia,  Russia,  Italy,  and 
Turkey  are  represented  by  ambassadors  at  the  Court  of  St.  James's. 

As  for  the  cadets  of  foreign  houses,  they  are  as  little  thought  of  as 
they  think  of  themselves.  Many  drop  their  titles  altogether,  contenting 
themselves  with  the  prefix  "  de  "  or  "  von  "  before  their  family  names, 
just  to  mark  its  nobility.  And  here  it  may  be  remarked  that  English 
gentlemen  abroad,  especially  in  Germany,  should  be  careful  how  they 
answer  the  question  which  may  any  day  be  put  to  them,  "Are  you  noble  1 " 
You  may  be,  like  most  of  us,  plain  Mister,  but  you  should  answer 
"  Yes  "  if  you  are,  however  remotely,  descended  from  a  peer  or  a  baronet 
(contrary  to  the  popular  belief,  baronets  are  distinctly  "noblemen," 
according  to  the  Institution  of  James  I.),  or  even  if  you  are  merely 
entitled  to  a  coat  of  arms  either  by  grant  to  yourself  from  the  Sovereign 
or  by  inheritance.  The  matter  grows  year  by  year  of  less  importance ; 


FOREIGN  TITLES.  203 

but  at  Berlin  and  Vienna  you  may  still  lose  access  to  some  pleasant 
clubs  and  social  gatherings,  if  not  of  the  privileged  caste.  And  the  con- 
ditions of  nobility,  as  recognised  on  the  Continent,  are  simply  those 
stated  above.  It  is  ludicrous  to  recollect  that  the  younger  son  of  an 
English  duke  replied  "  No  "  to  the  shibboleth  question  of  a  small  Prussian 
Freiherr,  thus  losing  a  great  deal  of  fun  during  his  stay  in  King 
William's  dominions.  Lord  A's  rank,  had  he  known  it,  was  precisely 
the  equivalent  of  that  of  a  German  prince's  son :  English  dukes,  mar- 
quises, and  earls  being  all  (heraldically)  "  princes."  The  Duke  of 
Norfolk's  full  style,  to  take  an  example,  would  be — "  The  most  high, 
most  noble,  and  most  puissant  prince,  Henry,  Duke  of  Norfolk,"  &c. 
The  fact  is,  Lord  A  mistook  his  legal  status  of  "  commoner  "  for  his  social 
status  of  "  noble." 

The  highest  order  of  foreign  nobility  is  that  of  the  mediatised 
princes  of  Germany.  They  represent  houses  which  once  exercised 
sovereign  power,  and  are  still  accorded  semi-regal  honours.  Of  these  is 
the  Prince  of  Leiningen,  Her  Majesty's  nephew,  and  a  Rear- Admiral  in 
the  British  Navy ;  also  Count  Gleichen  (he  too  is  a  Rear-Admiral,  and 
Governor  of  Windsor  Castle).  Prince  Victor  of  Hohenlohe-Langenburg, 
brother  of  the  "  reigning  "  prince,  assumed  the  title  of  Count  Gleichen 
on  his  marriage  with  a  daughter  of  the  late  Admiral  Sir  George  Sey- 
mour, father  of  the  present  Marquis  of  Hertford.  Mediatised  princes 
are  entitled  to  the  style  of  Serene  Highness  (Durchlaucht),  though  there 
appears  to  be  some  doubt  as  to  whether  all  their  descendants  can  claim 
the  same  style.  "  Princes  "  they  would  seem  to  be  down  to  any  gene- 
ration. On  this  point,  again,  Britons  caring  for  these  things  should 
beware  of  supposing  that  every  foreign  "  prince  "  is  a  Highness.  The 
vast  number  of  them  are  entitled  to  no  other  recognition  of  their  rank 
than  "  Prince  "  or  "  Mon  Prince,"  and  this  need  not  be  repeated  more 
than  once  in  the  conversation.  One  says  advisedly  the  vast  number,  for 
Russian  princes  alone  can  be  counted  by  thousands,  not  to  say  tens  of 
thousands.  There  are  said  to  be  600  of  the  house  of  Galitzin  alone. 

Scarcely  inferior  in  dignity  to  the  mediatised  princes  are  the  members 
of  those  Comital  Houses  the  chiefs  of  which,  by  a  decision  of  the 
German  Diet  of  1829,  have  right  to  the  title  of  "  Most  Illustrious  Count " 
(Erlaucht).  They  are  all  counts — father,  son,  grandson,  great-grandson, 
they  and  all  their  male  descendants  ad  infinitum.  Of  course  the  descen- 
dants of  princes  or  counts  in  the  female  line  are  not,  as  such,  noble. 
The  heraldic  canon,  that  le  venire  n'anoblit  pas,  is  of  almost  universal 
acceptation.  This  is  even  the  case  in  England,  with  a  few  exceptions. 

One  of  the  most  famous  of  the  Comital  Houses  is  that  of  Bentinck, 
which  is  not  without  interest  for  Englishmen.  Its  head,  a  few  years 
ago,  was  Colonel  Bentinck  (of  the  British  Army),  who,  however,  in  1874 
resigned  his  rights  in  favour  of  Mr.  William  Bentinck,  of  the  Diplo- 
matic Service,  who  had  not,  any  more  than  his  elder  brother,  borne  any 
title  till  that  time.  Count  William  was  a  great  favourite  at  Christ 


204  FOREIGN   TITLES. 

Church ;  and  few  were  aware  that  the  pale,  fair-haired,  rather  shy  lad 
belonged  to  one  of  the  proudest  families  in  Europe.  Count  Bentinck 
and  the  present  Duke  of  Portland  both  descend  lineally  from  the  fidus 
Achates  of  William  III.  The  House  has  further  given  England  a  Prime 
Minister,  and  India  one  of  her  best  Governor- Generals. 

The  serene  and  illustrious  compose  a  mighty  host  occupying  127 
closely  printed  pages  of  the  Almanach  de  Gotha.  Next  to  them  in  uni- 
versally recognised  rank  are  those  princes  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire 
(all  the  sovereign  and  mediatised  princes  of  Germany  are  princes  of  the 
empire  :  the  emperors  of  Germany  having  been  also  emperors  of  the 
Romans)  whose  titles  were  honorary  from  the  first.  Three  English 
peers,  the  Dukes  of  Marlborough  and  Leeds  and  Earl  Cowper,  are  princes 
of  the  empire.  It  may  be  added  that  the  Earl  of  Denbigh  and  Lord 
Arundell  of  Wardour  are  counts  of  the  empire.  Lord  Denbigh  claims 
to  come  of  the  same  stock  as  the  Emperor  of  Austria ;  but  the  best  title 
of  his  family  to  fame  is  that  it  produced  the  author  of  "  Tom  Jones." 

Lord  ArundelPs  ancestor  got  into  serious  trouble  for  accepting  the 
title  of  count,  conferred  on  him  by  the  Emperor  in  grateful  recognition  of 
services  in  the  war  against  the  Ottomans.  On  his  arrival  in  England, 
Count  Arundell  was  sent  without  ceremony  to  the  Tower,  and  questioned 
before  the  Star  Chamber  as  to  wherefore  he  had  dared  to  accept  a  title 
from  a  foreign  prince,  to  the  contempt  of  the  Queen's  grace.  He  pleaded 
that  the  empire  was  communis  patria,  an  argument  more  pleasing  to  the 
Emperor,  whose  style  was  mundi  dominus,  than  to  an  English  sovereign. 
He  was  released  after  a  time,  but  made  to  understand  that  he  could  not  be 
permitted  to  assume  his  title  in  England.  To  this  day  it  is  necessary  to 
obtain  the  Queen's  permission  to  bear  a  foreign  title ;  nor  is  it  ever 
granted  without  the  proviso  that  no  precedence  whatsoever  shall  be 
claimed  in  respect  of  it. 

Amongst  other  British  subjects  enjoying  foreign  titles  are  the  Duke 
of  Hamilton,  who  is  Duke  of  Chatelherault  in  France ;  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  who  is  Prince  of  Waterloo  in  the  Netherlands,  and  Duke  of 
Vittoria  and  Grandee  of  the  first  class  in  Spain ;  Earl  Nelson,  who  is 
Duke  of  Bronte  in  Italy ;  the  Earl  of  Clancarty,  Marquis  of  Hensden  in 
the  Netherlands ;  Sir  Nathaniel  Rothschild,  an  Austrian  baron ;  Mr. 
Albert  Grant,  an  Italian  baron  ;  and  Sir  Edward  Thornton,  Count  of  Cas- 
silhas  in  Portugal.  This  last  title  may  be  called  semi-hereditary,  having 
been  granted  to  Sir  Edward's  father  for  three  lives  and  no  more.  Sir 
Edward's  is  the  second  life. 

Several  French  noblemen  are  also  princes  of  the  empire.  All  the 
lineal  descendants  (in  the  male  line)  of  such  princes  being  themselves 
princes,  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  that  there  are  nineteen  princes  of 
the  House  of  Broglie  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  eight  princesses.  The 
family  has  given  to  France  thi'ee  marshals.  It  is  of  Italian  origin,  the 
name  having  originally  been  written  Broglio.  The  pronunciation  of  the 
modern  form  is  "  Broil." 


FOKEIGN   TITLES.  205 

Perhaps  the  greatest  name  in  the  roll  of  the  French  nobility  is  that 
of  Rohan.  A  device  of  this  family  was  "  King  am  not,  Prince  disdain 
to  be,  Rohan  am."  Nevertheless,  princes  they  became  without  abating 
one  jot  of  their  pride.  The  wife  of  one  of  them  was  asked  when  she  ex- 
pected to  lie-in  1  "I  hope  to  have  that  honour  in  six  weeks,"  replied  the 
lady.  The  "  honour  "  was  to  be  delivered  of  a  Rohan.  In  spite  of  some 
distinguished  scions  of  this  house,  it  is  to  be  feared  the  two  best  known  to 
history  are  the  Cardinal  who  did  his  best  to  ruin  the  reputation  of  Marie- 
Antoinette,  and  the  Marshal  Prince  of  Soubise,  so  egregiously  beaten  by 
Frederic  at  Rosbach.  "  Ce  pauvre  Soubise,"  said  Louis  XY.  when  he 
heard  the  news,  "  il  ne  lui  manque  plus  que  d'etre  content."  The  prince 
had  been  unfortunate  in  his  domestic  relations. 

The  head  of  the  Rohans  migrated  to  Austria  at  the  time  of  the  first 
Revolution,  and  the  elder  branch  is  no  longer  French.  Doubtless  there 
were  Rohans  in  the  field  against  their  old  country  at  Magenta  and  Solfe- 
rino.  There  are  at  least  five  in  the  armies  of  Francis- Joseph  at  the  present 
day.  The  Rohan-Chabots,  a  younger  branch,  have  remained  faithful  to 
the  fatherland.  They  are  all,  by  right,  "  cousins  of  the  king  " — a  dignity 
more  highly  prized  than  it  would  be  in  England,  where  it  is  enjoyed  by 
every  peer  down  to  viscounts  inclusive.  Should,  however,  "  the  king  " 
ever  return,  and  the  old  order  of  things  be  re-established,  the  Duke  of 
Uzes  would  be  entitled  to  take  precedence  of  the  whole  aristocracy  of 
France.  An  Uzes  was  already  premier  duke  (after  the  princes  of  the 
blood)  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.  The  late  duke  died  a  year  or  two 
ago,  and  a  little  child  is  now  the  heir  of  this  splendid  title — and  of 
many  hopes.  He  dwells  in  the  chateau  of  Uzes,  which  still  stands,  and 
which  the  family  have  managed  to  keep. 

Another  famous  French  house  is  that  of  the  Levis,  now  represented 
by  the  Due  de  Mirepoix,  "  hereditary  marshal  of  the  Faith."  Their 
pedigree  stretches  back  to  Levi,  son  of  Jacob,  and  consequently  up  to 
Adam,  whose  arms  every  one  has  not  the  right  to  quarter :  purity  as 
well  as  directness  of  descent  having  to  be  proved.  Whether  the  Levis 
have  established  theirs  is  another  matter.  There  was  once  a  picture  in 
the  possession  of  the  family  in  which  a  Levis  appeared  taking  off  his 
hat  to  the  Blessed  Virgin.  From  her  lips  issued  a  scroll  with  the  words, 
11  Cover  yourself,  my  cousin." 

The  historic  names  of  Noailles,  Richelieu,  Rochechouart,  La  Roche- 
foucauld, Luynes,  and  many  others  still  figure  in  the  roll  of  the  French 
peerage.  The  Due  de  la  Rochefoucauld-Bisaccia,  be  it  observed  in  passing, 
who  made  himself  so  conspicuous  in  the  National  Assembly  as  a  partisan  of 
Henry  V.,  has  but  a  doubtful  right  to  the  title  he  assumes.  In  France  he 
is  simply  Chevalier  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  and  Due  de  Bisaccia  in  Italy. 

The  title  of  marquis  carries  more  prestige  with  it  nowadays  in 
France  than  that  of  the  duke ;  and  for  this  reason.  The  Empire  made  no 
marquises,  ergo,  a  marquis  (unless  the  son  of  an  Imperialist  duke)  must 
derive  his  title  from  the  old  dynasty ;  and  it  is  unquestionably  more 


206  FOEEIGN   TITLES. 

honourable  to  have  been  ennobled  by  the  Pompadour  than  by  Napoleon. 
The  first  emperor  created  some  thirty  dukes  and  princes,  all  more  or 
less  men  of  talent ;  but  none  of  their  sons  or  grandsons  appear  to  have 
done  anything.  Nor  is  this  because  they  were  frowned  upon  by  the 
monarchy.  On  the  contrary,  everything  was  done  by  the  Bourbons  to 
conciliate  the  marshals.  Soult  was  President  of  the  Council  to  Louis- 
Philippe,  and  ultimately  glorified  with  the  magnificent  title  of  Marshal- 
General  of  the  Armies  of  France.  His  son,  the  Marquis  of  Dalmatia, 
was  named  Secretary  of  Legation  at  Vienna,  whence  arose  an  unforeseen 
difficulty.  The  Court  of  Austria  objected  to  receive  a  man  whose  title 
was  taken  from  an  Austrian  province,  though  the  matter  was  ultimately 
arranged.  By  the  courtesy  of  nations  a  sovereign  is  allowed  in  one 
instance  (and  one  only)  to  confer  a  title  taken  from  a  locality  in  a 
brother  sovereign's  dominions.  A  soldier  who  has  won  a  victory  may 
be  ennobled  by  the  name  of  the  battle-field.  Thus  Austria  would  cheer- 
fully accord  their  full  honours  to  a  Prince  of  Wagram  or  a  Duke  of 
Magenta.  The  same  rule  holds  good  in  the  case  of  naval  victories. 
Spain  would  have  no  right  to  object  to  a  Viscount  Trafalgar,  or  Holland 
to  an  Earl  of  Camperdown. 

A  propos  of  Holland,  it  is  not  generally  known  that  the  old  Earls  of 
Holland — the  English  Earls  of  the  house  of  Rich — and  the  late  Lords 
Holland  (House  of  Fox)  derived  their  title  from  a  district  of  Lincoln- 
shire called  Holland.  Holland  was  probably  a  common  name  enough  at 
one  time,  signifying  Hollow  Land,  or  Valley,  though  some  say  it  meant 
wooded  land.  The  first  English  title  derived  from  a  place  out  of 
England  was  that  of  Viscount  Barfleur,  conferred,  together  with  the 
Earldom  of  Oxford,  on  Admiral  Russell,  the  victor  of  La  Hogue.  It 
was  near  Cape  Barfleur  that  the  battle  was  won,  but  the  French  fleet 
was  followed  up  into  the  Bay  of  La  Hogue  and  terribly  handled  there. 
But  there  is  another  Anglo-foreign  title  which  has  no  such  martial  origin, 
yet  against  which  no  protest  was  ever  raised. 

When  William  III.  raised  his  favourite  Keppel  to  the  peerage,  the 
title  chosen  was  Earl  of  Abbemarle,  avowedly  from  Abbemarle,  a  town 
in  Normandy.  The  title  is  still  borne  by  his  descendants.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  the  Kings  of  England  were  then  titular  Kings  of 
France  as  well ;  nor  did  the  Court  of  Versailles  ever  quarrel  with  them 
for  quartering  the  lilies  with  the  leopards.  It  was  reserved  for  Napoleon, 
as  First  Consul,  to  object  to  this  style  of  the  British  Sovereign ;  and  the 
union  with  Ireland  presented  a  convenient  occasion  for  dropping  it. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  France.  What  serious  student  of  history 
but  must  regret  that  the  present  condition  of  its  aristocracy  can  be  best 
described  in  the  mournful  motto  of  the  Bruces — "  Fuimus  "  1  Gone  for 
ever  is  the  power  and  the  splendour  :  nothing  left  but  pride.  Gallant,  of 
course,  French  gentlemen  must  always  be  according  to  both  inflexions  of 
the  word.  But  seven  thousand  of  the  type  of  Alcibiades,  though  they 
had  never  bowed  the  knee  to  the  Republic,  would  hardly  restore  their 


FOREIGN   TITLES.  207 

order  to  its  old  place,  or  greatly  benefit  France  if  they  did.  Yet  have 
they  a  brilliant  past  to  remember.  So  many  of  them  were  paragons  of 
wit,  of  chivalry,  of  munificence,  of  loyalty.  And  with  all  their  faults 
one  cannot  help  thinking  that  they  worshipped  the  golden  calf  less  than 
any  other  nobility  of  whom  history  makes  mention.  A  youthful  Due 
d'Enghien,  whom  his  relatives  frequently  tipped,  laid  by  his  pocket- 
money  till  he  had  amassed  fifty  louis,  when  he  took  the  purse  to  his 
father  and  proudly  exhibited  its  contents,  expecting  to  be  praised  for  his 
economical  habits.  The  Prince  of  Conde  emptied  the  purse  and  flung 
the  money  out  of  the  window.  "  Let  that  be  a  lesson  to  you,  sir,"  he  then 
said,  turning  to  his  son,  "  to  think  and  act  more  like  a  gentleman."  Too 
many  of  the  peers  of  England  descend  from  merchants  or  lawyers  to 
make  it  likely  that  one  of  them  should  ever  exhibit  such  a  reckless  con- 
tempt for  the  stamped  effigy  of  the  monarch.  Still  the  act  of  Conde 
must  not  be  too  hastily  condemned.  "  This  money  might  have  been 
given  to  the  poor  1 "  Yes — but  who  once  used  those  words'?  And  on 
what  occasion  ?  It  was  when  money  had  been  lavishly  spent  "  for  an 
idea  ! " — as  the  world  would  say. 

There  is  a  finer  story,  though,  of  a  Spanish  grandee,  where  the  senti- 
ment of  noblesse  oblige  and  the  highest  commercial  spirit  (in  its  true 
essence)  are  happily  blended.  Somebody  forged  the  Duke  of  Ossuiia's 
name,  appending  it  to  a  bill  for  10,000  ducats.  On  the  bill  being  pre- 
sented, the  duke  saw  that  the  signature  was  counterfeited,  but  paid 
the  money  at  once.  The  name  of  Ossuna  was  not  to  be  dishonoured 
by  a  rascal.  It  would  be  uncharitable  to  ask  whether  a  second  forged 
bill  of  the  same  amount  would  have  been  equally  honoured.  Non  omnia 
possumus. 

Talking  of  the  Spanish  aristocracy,  it  may  be  observed  that  the  titled 
part  of  it  is  by  no  means  so  large  as  is  supposed.  The  heads  of  noble 
families  number  about  2,000,  and  they  alone,  as  a  rule,  bear  titles. 
Even  the  eldest  son  of  a  duke  (say  of)  Alicante  would  only  be  called 
Don  Juan  or  Don  Alfonso  d'Alicante  during  his  father's  lifetime.  The 
younger  sons  remain  simple  Dons — the  Spanish  equivalent  of  Esquires. 
As  to  the  qualificatives  of  titles,  they  are  lightly  esteemed,  inasmuch  as 
even  a  beggar  must  be  addressed  as  "  Your  Grace "  (Merced).  The 
superscription  on  an  envelope  addressed  to  a  duke  would  be,  "  A  1'eccel- 
lentissimo  Seuor  Duque  de  la  Torre."  So  at  least  the  wife  of  Marshal 
Serrano  writes  to  her  lord. 

A  Spanish  title  is  an  expensive  luxury.  An  ordinary  Castilian  one 
costs  QOQL  The  dignity  of  grandee  is  rated  at  1,0001.  With  us  a 
dukedom  costs  about  1,300^.  or  1,4:001.  in  fees  to  its  recipient,  and  minor 
titles  are  rated  in  proportion :  but  then  it  is  the  first  grantee  of  the 
honour  alone  who  pays.  In  Spain  the  fine  has  to  be  renewed  with  each 
succession  to  the  title.  Moreover,  it  has  to  be  paid  in  full  on  each 
separate  title  which  a  man  may  bear;  e.g.  a  Duke  of  Richmond  and 
Gordon,  had  he  the  blessing  to  be  subject  of  his  Catholic  Majesty,  would 


208  FOREIGN  TITLES. 

have  to  pay  9,000£.  into  the  Treasury  on  his  accession  to  the  family  titles, 
which  are  nine  in  number.  The  Dukes  of  Ossufia  and  Medina  Cceli 
contribute  12,000£  or  15,000?.  apiece  to  the  necessities  of  Spain,  every 
generation,  merely  under  this  particular  head  of  taxation. 

Grandees  of  Spain  of  the  first  class  have  the  privilege  of  remaining 
covered  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign,  an  honour  enjoyed  in  the 
United  Kingdom  by  Lord  Kingsdale  and  Lord  Forester.  It  may  not  be 
generally  known  that  one  great  family,  that  of  the  Princes  of  Lara,  are 
claimants  to  the  Crown  of  Spain.  They  content  themselves,  however, 
with  filing  a  protest  at  the  accession  of  each  new  king  or  queen  :  after- 
which  record  of  their  wrongs  they  return  to  cigarettes  and  leisure  of  a 
more  or  less  dignified  kind.  Possibly,  since  Byron  sang,  the  name  of 
Lara  is  better  known  in  Britain  than  Castile. 

Italy  has  a  power  of  nobles,  mostly  marquises  when  they  are  not 
princes.  Some  domains,  notably  that  of  San  Donato  (now  in  the 
market),  confer  titles.  It  was  from  his  estate  of  San  Donato  that  Count 
Anathole  Demidoff,  who  married  the  Princess  Mathilde  Bonaparte, 
derived  his  style  of  Prince.  Similarly  the  tenure  of  Arundel  Castle 
confers  an  English  earldom,  but  Parliament  has  taken  very  good  care 
that  it  shall  never  be  sold — at  any  rate  till  the  heirs  of  the  old  earls  are 
extinct,  and  their  name  is  legion. 

In  the  north  of  Italy  the  younger  son  of  a  marquis  is  generally  styled 
simply  "  cavaliere,"  e.g.  "  il  Cavaliere  Massimo  d'Azeglio."  In  Southern 
Italy,  and  in  the  Roman  States,  he  would  be  accorded  the  same  title  as 
his  father.  A  cadet  of  a  princely  family  frequently  contents  himself 
with  putting  on  his  card  his  Christian  and  surname,  adding  "  of  the 

Princes  of ;  "  thus,"  Felice  Barberini,  de'  Principi  Barberini,"  often 

with  a  little  princely  coronet  surmounting  the  whole. 

Speaking  of  Massimo  d'Azeglio  reminds  one  of  what  excellent  service 
the  Piedmontese  nobility  have  rendered  their  country.  They  were  never 
wealthy  as  a  class,  nor  attempted  to  vie  with  the  aristocracy  of  France 
in  splendour  of  hospitality ;  nor  were  they  renowned  for  wit,  or  for  ex- 
quisite polish  of  manner.  But  if  Florence  was  the  Athens,  Turin  was 
the  Sparta,  of  Italy  in  the  days  of  old.  Piedmontese  gentlemen  were 
renowned  for  the  hardy  virtues,  for  courage,  manliness  of  life,  integrity, 
unswerving  loyalty  to  their  sovereign.  If  any  one  wishes  to  realise 
an  idea  of  what  the  Italian  character  is  at  its  best,  he  should  read  the 
"  Life  of  the  Marquis  Costa  de  Beauregard,"  which  has  been  translated 
into  English  by  Miss  Yonge.  The  Marquis  was  all  that  a  man  can  be 
— a  good  son,  a  trusty  friend,  a  brave  soldier,  an  ardent  patriot,  a 
humble-minded  Christian.  Had  there  been  more  of  his  stamp  in  Tuscany 
and  Naples  at  the  commencement  of  the  century,  Italy  might  have 
achieved  her  independence  at  the  fall  of  Napoleon. 

It  has  long  been  the  fashion  to  sneer  at  Papal  titles,  it  being  com- 
monly supposed  that  they  can  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  a  lump  sum 
down.  This  is  an  error,  at  all  events  as  far  as  the  later  practice  of  the 


FOREIGN  TITLES.  •        .       209 

Court  of  Rome.     Titles  have  to  be  paid  for,  as  everywhere,  but  they  are 
not  granted  to  any  moneyed  man  who  may  choose  to  apply  for  one. 
Some  zeal  for  the  faith,  some  services  rendered  to  the  Church,  or  to 
humanity,  must  be  proved  before  a  candidate's  claim  can  be  admitted. 
Of  course  a  fortune  of  the  first  magnitude  will  virtually  command  a 
title  ;  but  here,  again,  the  Supreme  Pontiffs  are  not  more  facile  than  an 
Emperor  of  Austria  or  even  a  Queen  of  England.     The  most  famous 
house  of  banker-nobles  in  Rome  is  that  of  the  Dukes  and  Princes  Tor- 
Ionia — for  there  are  two  lines,  the  ducal  being  the  elder.     The  first  duke 
was  ennobled  by  Pius  VII.,  who  may  very  well  have  been  under  obliga- 
tions to  him.     Shrewd  in  finance,  he  was  otherwise  dull,  and  prouder  of 
his  rank  than  ambitious  to  illustrate  it  by  amiability  or  munificence. 
Still,  he  could  be  generous  on  occasion,  and  was  sensible  enough  not  to 
be  ashamed  of  his  humble  origin.     A  young  Roman  noble  was   once 
playing  for  high  stakes  in  his  presence.     Torlonia  waited  till  he  had  won 
a  considerable  sum,  then,   stepping  up  to  the  gamester,  and  laying  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  said  in  a  fatherly  way,  "  My  son,  it  was  not  in 
that  way  that  I  made  a  fortune."     It  is  amusing  to  read  in  the  diary  of 
the  first  Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Chandos  how  Torlonia  humbly  ten- 
dered his  services  to  His  Grace,  not  venturing  to  approach  so  great  a 
man  as  an  equal.     The  English  duke  received  the  advances  of  his  Italian 
brother  with  extreme  coldness,  and  even  suspicion.     "  Evidently  Tor- 
lonia wanted  his  connection." 

The  Roman  nobility  of  to-day  is  smitten  with  Anglomania.  They 
hunt,  they  dress  as  much  as  possible  like  Englishmen,  and  they  talk 
English  even  among  themselves,  often,  too,  with  the  purest  accent. 
This  facility  for  pronouncing  our  language  correctly  is  shared  with  them 
by  the  Maltese.  The  nobility  of  this  little  island,  by  the  way,  has  given 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  English  Governors  and  Secretaries  of  State. 
Lord  Carnarvon  finally  accorded  them  a  distinct  official  status,  recog- 
nising the  number  of  noble  families  as  twelve.  They  take  precedence 
among  themselves  by  the  dates  of  their  patents,  irrespective  of  titular 
rank — a  baron  of  the  seventeenth  century  ranking  before  a  prince  of  the 
eighteenth. 

All  Monacans  are  noble,  this  distinction  having  been  conferred  on  the 
inhabitants  of  the  principality  by  the  Emperor  Charles  II.  The  Republic 
of  San  Mavino  claims  and  exercises  the  right  to  confer  titles.  These  are 
to  be  bought  at  reasonable  prices,  and  with  no  troublesome  examinations 
into  character  or  antecedents.  A  year  or  two  ago  San  Marino  created  an 
apothecary  "  Due  de  Bruc,"  and  named  him  "  Envoy  Extraordinary  and 
Minister  Plenipotentiary  "  to  the  French  Republic.  The  Duke  gave  up 
the  medical  profession,  announcing  that  he  had  been  summoned  to  "  high 
diplomatic  functions,"  but  was  not  above  starting  a  kind  of  Universal 
Pill  Company,  of  which  His  Grace  constituted  himself  chairman.  As 
usual,  there  was  no  lack  of  persons  willing  to  take  shares  in  the  new 
enterprise. 

VOL.  XTJT. — NO.  248.  11. 


210  FOKEIGN  TITLES. 

A  word  as  to  the  Belgian  nobility.  It  must  be  divided  into  two 
classes  :  1.  Those  who  derive  their  titles  from.  Emperors  or  from  Kings 
of  Spain ;  2.  Those  ennobled  by  the  King  of  the  Netherlands  (between 
1815  and  1830),  or  by  Leopold  I.  and  his  son.  It  is  no  disparagement 
to  the  latter  to  say  that  they  derive  their  grandeur,  like  Cromwell,  from 
themselves  alone.  As  nobles,  they  are  of  no  account.  But  the  Duke  of 
Orenberg,  a  mediatised  prince  of  the  empire,  the  Prince  de  Ligne  (who 
is  a  Knight  of  the  Golden  Fleece),  the  Prince  de  Caraman-Chimay,  and 
others,  belong  to  the  first  order  of  European  society.  In  fact  their 
country  is  Europe,  and  they  attach  no  more  importance  to  the  fact  of 
their  Belgian  nationality  than  a  Devonshire  man  amongst  us  would  to 
the  circumstance  that  he  was  born  in  the  Queen  of  the  Western  counties. 
One  D'Orenberg  serves  in  the  French  army,  a  De  Ligne  in  the  Austrian. 
It  is  related  of  the  present  head  of  the  Lignes  (who  is  President  of  the 
Belgian  Senate)  that  he  once  took  his  hat  off  (quite  for  his  own  con- 
venience) in  the  presence  of  a  German  Grand-Duke.  "  Cover  yourself, 
Prince,"  affably  commanded  the  Serenity.  "  Cover  myself ! "  replied  the 
Prince  de  Ligne.  "  I  shall  cover  myself  when  I  please." 

Nobility  in  Belgium,  as  in  Russia,  can  be  conferred  for  life.  Needless 
to  say,  no  true  herald  could  take  cognisance  of  such  blazonry.  The  very 
essence  of  nobility  has  always  consisted  in  its  hereditary  character.  Sir 
Bernard  Burke  discusses  the  question  as  to  whether  the  son  or  daughter 
of  a  "  Lord  of  Appeal  in  Ordinary  "  (who  is  a  baron'  for  life)  can  assume 
the  style  of  "  Honourable,"  and  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  they  cannot. 
A  peer  accused  of  felony  must  be  tried  by  his  peers ;  a  bishop,  though  a 
"  lord  of  Parliament,  is  tried  by  an  ordinary  jury  as  not  having  the 
privilege  of  nobility."  Why  ?  Simply  because  his  dignity  is  not  here- 
ditary. 

Russia  has  650,000  hereditary  nobles,  and  380,000  whose  nobility 
expires  with  them.  But  a  noble  has  few,  if  any,  civil  privileges  as  such. 
He  must  enter  the  army  or  the  civil  service  to  obtain  precedence  in 
society.  There  are  ten  grades  in  the  civil  service  roughly  corresponding 
to  the  ten  grades  of  commissioned  ofiicers  in  the  army,  and  military  or 
civil  appointments  alone  confer  social  standing  in  Russia.  The  priest- 
hood is  more  despised  than  was  the  Anglican  clergy  under  the  later 
Stuarts.  Only  the  metropolitans,  archbishops,  and  other  high  dignitaries 
are  accorded  any  sort  of  honour. 

Most  countries  constitutionally  governed  entrust  the  legislative 
power  to  an  assembly  composed  of  two  chambers.  In  England  alone  is 
one  chamber  almost  entirely  composed  of  hereditary  members.  Never- 
theless the  hereditary  principle  is  recognised  to  a  limited  extent  in  some 
other  countries.  The  Austrian  Upper  House  is  thus  made  up  :  Arch- 
dukes who  are  of  age  (now  thirteen  in  number),  fifty-three  hereditary 
nobles,  seventeen  archbishops  and  prince-bishops,  and  105  life-members. 

The  Prussian  House  of  Lords  has  also  a  considerable  hereditary 
element  in  it ;  so  has  the  Upper  Chamber  of  the  Spanish  Cortes,  of  which 


FOREIGN  TITLES.  211 

Princes  of  the  Blood  and  Grandees  of  the  first  class  are  members  by 
birth. 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  Due  de  Broglie,  who  once  drew  up  a 
constitution  for  France,  while  dividing  the  legislature  in  two,  according 
to  the  approved  method,  did  not  venture,  even  with  a  restored  monarchy 
in  view,  to  introduce  an  hereditary  element  into  the  Upper  House.  He 
frankly  avows,  in  the  preamble  to  his  Project  of  Law,  that  such  an  in- 
stitution as  that  of  hereditary  law-makers  would  be  impossible  in  the 
France  of  to-day.  The  Duke's  authority  on  such  a  point  is  unimpeach- 
able. And  from  all  one  can  see,  the  axiom  he  lays  down  will  soon  be 
true  of  every  country  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  In  a  word,  foreign 
titles  are  fast  becoming  purely  ornamental  appendages  to  large  fortunes, 
and  incumbrances  on  small  ones. 


11—2 


212 


<mtr  ' 

v_<*- 
NOTES   ON   THE    SUPERNATURAL   IN   ART. 


THERE  is  a  story,  well  known  throughout  the  sixteenth  century,  which 
tells  how  Doctor  Faustus  of  Wittenberg,  having  made  over  his  soul 
to  the  fiend,  employed  him  to  raise  the  ghost  of  Helen  of  Sparta,  in 
order  that  she  might  become  his  paramour.  The  story  has  no  historic 
value,  no  scientific  meaning ;  it  lacks  the  hoary  dignity  of  the  tales  of 
heroes  and  demigods,  wrought,  vague  and  colossal  forms,  out  of  cloud  and 
sunbeam,  of  those  tales  narrated  and  heard  by  generations  of  men  deep 
hidden  in  the  stratified  ruins  of  lost  civilisations,  carried  in  the  migrations 
of  races  from  India  to  Hellas  and  to  Scandinavia.  Compared  with  them, 
this  tale  of  Faustus  and  Helena  is  paltry  and  brand-new ;  it  is  not  a  myth, 
nay,  scarcely  a  legend ;  it  is  a  mere  trifling  incident  added  by  humanistic 
pedantry  to  the  ever-changing  mediseval  story  of  the  man  who  barters 
his  soul  for  knowledge,  the  wizard,  alchemist,  philosopher,  printer, 
Albertus,  Bacon,  or  Faustus.  It  is  a  part,  an  unessential,  subordinate 
fragment,  valued  in  its  day  neither  more  nor  less  than  any  other  part  of 
the  history  of  Doctor  Faustus  ;  narrated  cursorily  by  the  biographer  of 
the  wizard,  overlooked  by  some  of  the  ballad-rhymers,  alternately  used 
and  rejected  by  the  playwrights  of  puppet-shows ;  given  by  Marlowe 
himself  no  greater  importance  than  the  other  marvellous  deeds,  the 
juggling  tricks  and  magic  journeys  of  his  hero. 

But  for  us  the  incident  of  Faustus  and  Helena  has  a  meaning,  a 
fascination  wholly  different  from  any  other  portion  of  the  story  :  the 
other  incidents  owe  everything  to  artistic  treatment;  this  one  owes 
nothing.  The  wizard  Faustus,  awaiting  the  hour  which  will  give  him 
over  to  Hell,  is  the  creation  of  Marlowe ;  Gretchen  is  even  more  completely 
the  creation  of  Goethe ;  the  fiend  of  the  Englishman  is  occasionally  grand, 
the  fiend  of  the  German  is  throughout  masterly ;  in  all  these  cases  we 
are  in  the  presence  of  true  artistic  work,  of  stuff  rendered  valuable  solely 
by  the  hand  of  the  artist,  of  figures  well  defined  and  finite,  and  limited 
also  in  their  power  over  the  imagination.  But  the  group  of  Faustus  and 
Helena  is  different;  it  belongs  neither  to  Marlowe  nor  to  Goethe,  it 
belongs  to  the  legend.  It  does  not  give  the  complete  and  limited  satis- 
faction of  a  work  of  art ;  it  has  the  charm  of  the  fantastic  and  fitful 
shapes  formed  by  the  flickering  firelight  or  the  wreathing  mists  ;  it  haunts 
like  some  vague  strain  of  music,  drowsily  heard  in  half-sleep.  It  fills 
the  fancy,  it  oscillates  and  transforms  itself;  the  artist  may  see  it,  attempt 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  213 

to  seize  and  embody  it  for  evermore  in  a  definite  and  enduring  shape,  but 
it  vanishes  out  of  his  grasp,  and  the  forms  which  should  have  inclosed  it 
are  mere  empty  sepulchres,  haunted  and  charmed  merely  by  the  evoking 
power  of  our   own  imagination.     If  we  are  fascinated  by  the   Lady 
Helen  of  Marlowe,  walking,  like  some  Florentine  goddess,  with  em- 
broidered kirtle  and  madonna  face,  across  the  study  of  the  old  wizard  of 
Wittenberg ;  if  we  are  pleased  by  the  stately  pseudo-antique  Helena  of 
Goethe,  draped  in  the  drapery  of  Thorwaldsen's  statues  and  speaking  the 
language  of  Goethe's  own  Iphigenia,  as  she  meets  the  very  modern  Faust, 
gracefully  masqued  in  mediaeval  costume;  if  we  find  in  these  attempts, 
the  one  unthinking  and  imperfect,  the  other  laboured  and  abortive,  some- 
thing which  delights  our  fancy,  it  is  because  our  thoughts  wander  off 
from  them  and  evoke  a  Faustus  and  Helena  of  our  own,  different  from 
the  creations  of  Marlowe  and  of  Goethe ;  it  is  because  in  these  definite 
and  imperfect  artistic  forms,  there  yet  remains  the  suggestion  of  the 
subject  with  all  its  power  over  the  imagination.     We  forget  Marlowe 
and  we  forget  Goethe,  to  follow  up  the  infinite  suggestion  of  the  legend ; 
we  cease  to  see  the  Elizabethan  and  the  pseudo-antique  Helen ;  we  lift  our 
imagination  from  the  book  and  see  the  medieval  street  at  Wittenberg, 
the   gabled  house  of  Faustus,  all  sculptured  with  quaint  devices  and 
grotesque  forms  of  apes  and  cherubs  and  flowers  ;  we  penetrate  through 
the  low  brown  rooms,  filled  with  musty  books  and  mysterious  ovens  and 
retorts,  redolent  with  strange  scents  of  alchemy,  to  that  innermost  secret 
chamber,  where  the  old  wizard  hides,  in  the  depths  of  his  mediaeval 
house,  the   immortal  woman,  the  god-born,   the  fatal,  the  beloved  of 
Theseus  and  Paris  and  Achilles ;  we  are  blinded  by  this  sunshine  of 
antiquity  pent  up  in  the  oaken-panelled  chamber,  such  as  Diirer  might 
have  etched  ;  and  all  around  we  hear  circulating  the  mysterious  rumours 
of  the  neighbours,  of  the  burghers  and  students,  whispering  shyly  of 
Dr.  Faustus  and  his  strange  guest,  in  the  beer  cellars  and  in  the  cloisters 
of  the  old  university  town.    And  gazing  thus  into  the  fantastic  intellectual 
mist  which  has  risen  up  between  us  and  the  book  we  were  reading,  be  it 
Marlowe  or  Goethe,  we  cease  after  a  while  to  see  Faustus  or  Helena,  we 
perceive  only  a  chaotic  fluctuation  of  incongruous  shapes :  scholars  in 
furred  robes  and  caps  pulled  over  their  ears,  burghers'  wives  with  high 
sugar-loaf  coif  and  slashed  boddices,  with  hands  demurely  folded  over  their 
prayer-books,  and  knights  in  armour  and  immense  plumes,  and  haggling 
Jews  and  tonsured  monks,  descended  out  of  the  panels  of  Wohlgemiith  and 
the  engravings  of  Diirer,  mingling  with,  changing  into,  processions  of 
naked   athletes  on  foaming  short-maned   horses,  of  draped   Athenian 
maidens,  carrying  baskets  and  sickles,  and  priests  bearing  oil-jars  and 
torches,  all  melting  into  each  other,  indistinct,  confused  like  the  images 
in  a  dream ;  vague  crowds,  phantoms  following  in  the  wake  of  the  spectre 
woman  of  antiquity,  beautiful,  unimpassioned,  ever  young,  luring  to  Hell 
the  wizard  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

Why  does  all  this  vanish  as  soon  as  we  once  more  fix  our  eyes  upon 


214  FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA. 

the  book?  Why  can  our  fancy  show  us  more  than  can  the  artistic 
genius  of  Marlowe  and  of  Goethe  1  Why  does  Marlowe,  believing  in 
Helen  as  a  satanic  reality,  and  Goethe,  striving  after  her  as  an  artistic 
vision,  equally  fail  to  satisfy  us  1  The  question  is  intricate  :  it  requires 
a  threefold  answer,  dependent  on  the  fact  that  this  tale  of  Faxistus  and 
Helena  is  in  fact  a  tale  of  the  supernatural — a  weird  and  colossal  ghost- 
story  in  which  the  actors  are  the  spectre  of  Antiquity,  ever  young,  beau- 
tiful, radiant,  though  risen  from  the  putrescence  of  two  thousand  years, 
and  the  Middle  Ages,  alive,  but  toothless,  palsied,  and  tottering.  Why 
neither  Marlowe  nor  Goethe  have  succeeded  in  giving  a  satisfactory 
artistic  shape  to  this  tale  is  explained  by  the  necessary  relations  be- 
J  tween  art  and  the  supernatural,  between  our  creative  power  and  our 
imaginative  faculty ;  why  Marlowe  has  failed  in  one  manner  and 
Goethe  in  another  is  explained  by  the  fact  that,  as  we  said,  for  the 
first  the  tale  was  a  supernatural  reality,  for  the  second  a  supernatural 
fiction. 

What  are  the  relations  between  art  and  the  supernatural  ?  At  first 
sight  the  two  appear  closely  allied  :  like  the  supernatural,  art  is  born  of 
imagination ;  the  supernatural,  like  art,  conjures  up  unreal  visions. 
The  two  have  been  intimately  connected  during  the  great  ages  of  the 
supernatural,  when  instead  of  existing  merely  in  a  few  disputed  tra- 
ditional dogmas,  and  in  a  little  discredited  traditional  folklore,  it  consti- 
tuted the  whole  of  religion  and  a  great  part  of  philosophy.  Gods  and 
demons,  saints  and  spectres,  have  afforded  at  least  one-half  of  the  subjects 
for  art.  The  supernatural,  in  the  shape  of  religious  mythology,  had  art 
bound  in  its  service  in  Antiquity  and  the  Middle  Ages ;  the  supernatural, 
in  the  shape  of  spectral  fancies,  regained  its  dominion  over  art  with  the 
advent  of  romanticism.  From  the  gods  of  the  Iliad  down  to  the  Com- 
mander in  Don  Giovanni,  from  the  sylvan  divinities  of  Praxiteles  to  the 
fairies  of  Shakespeare,  from  the  Furies  of  -^schylus  to  the  Archangels  of 
Perugino,  the  supernatural  and  the  artistic  have  constantly  appeared 
linked  together.  Yet,  in  reality,  the  hostility  between  the  supernatural 
and  the  artistic  is  well-nigh  as  great  as  the  hostility  between  the  super- 
natural and  the  logical.  Critical  reason  is  a  solvent,  it  reduces  the 
phantoms  of  the  imagination  to  their  most  prosaic  elements ;  artistic 
power,  on  the  other  hand,  moulds  and  solidifies  them  into  distinct  and 
palpable  forms  :  the  synthetical  definiteness  of  art  is  as  sceptical  as  the 
analytical  definiteness  of  logic.  For  the  supernatural  is  necessarily 
essentially  vague,  and  art  is  necessarily  essentially  distinct :  give  shape 
to  the  vague  and  it  ceases  to  exist.  The  task  set  to  the  artist  by  the 
dreamer,  the  prophet,  the  priest,  the  ghost-seer  of  all  times,  is  as  difiicult, 
though  in  the  opposite  sense,  as  that  by  which  the  little  girl  in  the  Vene- 
tian fairy  tale  sought  to  test  the  omnipotence  of  the  emperor.  She  asked 
him  for  a  very  humble  dish,  quite  simple  and  not  costly — a  pat  of  butter 
broiled  on  a  gridiron.  The  emperor  desired  his  cook  to  place  the  butter 
on  the  gridiron  and  light  the  fire ;  all  was  going  well,  when,  behold  ! 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  215 

the  butter  began  to  melt,  trickled  off,  and  vanished.  The  artists  were 
asked  to  paint,  or  model,  or  narrate  the  supernatural ;  they  set  about  the 
work  in  good  conscience ;  but  see,  the  supernatural  became  the  natural, 
the  gods  turned  into  men,  the  madonnas  into  mere  mothers,  the  angels 
into  armed  striplings,  the  phantoms  into  mere  creatures  of  flesh  and 
blood. 

There  are  in  reality  two  sorts  of  supernatural,  although  only  one 
really  deserves  the  name.  A  great  number  of  beliefs  in  all  mythologies 
are  in  reality  mere  scientific  errors — abortive  attempts  to  explain  phe- 
nomena by  causes  with  which  they  have  no  connection — the  imagination 
plays  not  more  part  in  them  than  in  any  other  sort  of  theorising,  and  the 
notions  that  unlucky  accidents  are  due  to  a  certain  man's  glance,  that 
certain  formula  will  bring  rain  or  sunshine,  that  miraculous  images  will 
dispel  pestilence,  and  kings  of  England  cure  epilepsy,  must  be  classed 
under  the  head  of  mistaken  generalisations,  not  very  different  in  point 
of  fact  from  exploded  scientific  theories,  such  as  Descartes'  vortices,  or 
the  innate  ideas  of  scholasticism.  That  there  was  a  time  when  animals 
spoke  with  human  voice  may  seem  to  us  a  piece  of  fairy-lore,  but  it  was 
in  its  day  a  scientific  hypothesis  as  brilliant  and  satisfying  as  Darwin's 
theory  of  evolution.  We  must,  therefore,  in  examining  the  relations 
between  art  and  the  supernatural,  eliminate  as  far  as  possible  this  species 
of  scientific  speculation,  and  consider  only  that  supernatural  which  really 
deserves  the  name,  which  is  beyond  and  outside  the  limits  of  the  possible, 
the  rational,  the  explicable — that  supernatural  which  is  due  not  to  the 
logical  faculties,  arguing  from  wrong  premisses,  but  to  the  imagination 
wrought  upon  by  certain  kinds  of  physical  surroundings.  The  divinity 
of  the  earlier  races  is  in  some  measure  a  mistaken  scientific  hypothesis  of 
the  sort  we  have  described,  an  attempt  to  explain  phenomena  otherwise 
inexplicable.  But  it  is  much  more  :  it  is  the  effect  on  the  imagination 
of  certain  external  impressions,  it  is  those  impressions  brought  to  a  focus, 
personified,  but  personified  vaguely,  in  a  fluctuating,  ever- changing 
manner ;  the  personification  being  continually  altered,  reinforced,  blurred 
out,  enlarged,  restricted  by  new  series  of  impressions  from  without,  even 
as  the  shape  which  we  puzzle  out  of  congregated  cloud-masses  fluctuates 
with  their  every  movement — a  shifting  vapour  now  obliterates  the  form, 
now  compresses  it  into  greater  distinctness  :  the  wings  of  the  fantastic 
monster  seem  now  flapping  leisurely,  now  extending  bristling  like  a 
griffon's ;  at  one  moment  it  has  a  beak  and  talons,  at  others  a  mane 
and  hoofs;  the  breeze,  the  sunlight,  the  moonbeam,  form,  alter,  and 
obliterate  it. 

Thus  is  it  with  the  supernatural :  the  gods,  moulded  out  of  cloud 
and  sunlight  and  darkness,  are  for  ever  changing,  fluctuating  between  a 
human  or  animal  shape,  god  or  goddess,  cow,  ape,  or  horse,  and  the  mere 
natural  phenomenon  which  impresses  the  fancy.  Pan  is  the  weird, 
shaggy,  cloven-footed  shape  which  the  goatherd  or  the  huntsman  has 
seen  gliding  among  the  bushes  in  the  grey  twilight ;  his  is  the  piping 


216  FAUStUS  AHD  HELENA. 

heard  in  the  tangle  of  reeds,  marsh,  lily,  and  knotted  nigh.tsh.ade  by  the 
river  side  :  but  Pan  is  also  the  wood,  with  all  its  sights  and  noises,  the 
solitude,  the  gloom,  the  infinity  of  rustling  leaves,  and  cracking  branches ; 
he  is  the  greenish-yellow  light  stealing  in  amid  the  boughs ;  he  is  the 
breeze  in  the  foliage,  the  murmur  of  unseen  waters,  the  mist  hanging 
over  the  damp  sward;  i he  ferns  and  grasses  which  entangle  the  feet, 
the  briars  which  catch  in  the  hair  and  garments  are  his  grasp ;  and  the 
wanderer  dashes  through  the  thickets  with  a  sickening  fear  in  his  heart, 
and  sinks  down  on  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  gasping,  with  sweat-clotted 
hah',  overcome  by  this  glimpse  of  the  great  god. 

In  this  constant  renewal  of  the  impressions  on  the  fancy,  in  this 
unceasing  shaping  and  reshaping  of  its  creations,  consisted  the  vitality  of 
the  myths  of  paganism,  from  the  scorching  and  pestilence-bearing  gods 
of  India  to  the  divinities  shaped  out  of  tempest  and  snowdrift  of  Scandi- 
navia ;  they  were  constantly  issuing  out  of  the  elements,  renewed, 
changed,  ever  young,  under  the  exorcism  not  only  of  the  priest  and  of 
the  poet,  but  of  the  village  boor ;  and  on  this  unceasing  renovation  de- 
pended the  sway  which  they  maintained,  without  ethical  importance  to 
help  them.  Scholastic  theology,  born  in  an  age  of  speculation  and 
eclecticism,  removed  its  mystic  figures  out  of  the  cosmic  surroundings 
of  paganism ;  it  forbade  the  imagination  to  touch  or  alter  them,  it 
regularised,  defined,  explained,  placed  the  saints  and  angels  in  a 
kind  of  supersensuous  world  of  logic,  logic  adapted  to  Heaven,  and 
different  therefore  from  the  logic  of  earth,  but  logic  none  the  less. 
Thus  the  genuine  supernatural  was  well-nigh  banished,  regulated  as 
it  was  by  a  sort  of  congress  of  men  of  science,  who  eliminated,  to 
the  best  of  their  powers,  any  vagaries  of  the  imagination  which  might 
show  themselves  in  their  mystico-logic  system.  But  the  imagination 
did  work  nevertheless,  and  the  supernatural  did  reappear.  The  Heaven 
of  theology  was  too  ethical,  too  logical,  too  positive,  too  scientific,  in 
accordance  with  the  science  of  the  Middle  Ages,  for  the  minds  of 
humanity  at  large ;  the  scholars  and  learned  clergy  might  study  and 
expound  it,  but  it  was  insufficient  for  the  ignorant.  The  imagination 
reappeared  once  more.  To  the  monk  arose,  out  of  the  silence  and 
gloom  of  the  damp,  lichen-grown  crypt,  out  of  the  foetid  emanations  of 
the  charnel-house,  strange  forms  of  horror  which  lurked  in  his  steps  and 
haunted  his  sleep  after  fasting  and  scourging  and  vigils :  devils  and 
imps  horrible  and  obscene,  which  the  chisel  of  the  stonecutter  vainly 
attempted  to  reproduce,  in  their  fluctuating  abomination,  on  the  capitals 
and  gargoyles  of  cloister  and  cathedral.  To  the  artisan,  the  weaver  pent 
up  in  some  dark  cellar  into  which  the  daylight  stole  grey  and  faint  from 
the  narrow  strip  of  blue  sky  between  the  overhanging  eaves,  for  him, 
the  hungry  and  toil-worn  and  weary  of  soul,  there  arose  out  of  the  hum 
of  the  street  above,  out  of  the  half-lit  dust,  the  winter  damp  and  summer 
suffocation  of  the  underground  workshop,  visions  and  sounds  of  sweetness 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  217 

and  glory,  misty  clusters  of  white-robed  angels  shedding  radiance  around 
them,  swaying  in  mystic  linked  dances ;  mingling  with  the  sordid  noises 
of  toil  seraphic  harmonies,  now  near,  now  dying  away  into  distance, 
voices  singing  of  the  sunshine  and  flowers  of  Paradise.  And  for  others, 
for  the  lean  and  tattered  peasant,  with  the  dull,  apathetic  resignation  of 
the  starved  and  goaded  ox  or  horse,  sleeping  on  the  damp  clay  of  his  hut 
and  eating  strange  flourless  bread,  and  stranger  carrion  flesh,  there  comes  a 
world  of  the  supernatural,  different  from  that  of  the  monk  or  the  artisan, 
at  once  terrifying  and  consoling  :  the  divinities  cast  out  by  Christianity, 
the  divinities  for  ever  newly  begotten  by  nature,  but  begotten  of  a  nature 
miserably  changed,  born  in  exile  and  obloquy  and  persecution,  fostered  by 
the  wretched  and  the  brutified  ;  differing  from  the  gods  of  antiquity  as 
the  desolate  heath,  barren  of  all  save  stones  and  prickly  furze  and  thistle, 
differs  from  the  fertile  pasture-land ;  as  the  forests  planted  over  the  corn- 
field, whence  issue  wolves  and  the  Baron's  harvest-trampling  horses,  differ 
from  the  forests  which  gave  their  oaks  and  pines  to  Tyrian  ships ; 
divinities  warped,  and  crippled,  grown  hideous  and  malignant  and  unhappy 
in  the  likeness  of  their  miserable  votaries. 

This  is  the  real  supernatural,  born  of  the  imagination  and  its  sur- 
roundings, the  vital,  the  fluctuating,  the  potent ;  and  it  is  this  which  the 
artist  of  every  age,  from  Phidias  to  Giotto,  from  Giotto  to  Blake,  has 
been  called  upon  to  make  known  to  the  multitude.  And  there  had  been 
artistic  work  going  on  unnoticed  long  before  the  time  of  any  painter  or 
sculptor  or  poet  of  whom  we  have  any  record ;  mankind  longed  from 
the  first  to  embody,  to  fix  its  visions  of  wonder,  it  set  to  work  with  rough 
unskilful  fingers  moulding  into  shape  its  divinities.  Rude  work,  ugly, 
barbarous :  blundering  scratchings  on  walls,  kneaded  clay  vessels,  notched 
sticks,  nonsense  rhymes ;  but  work  nevertheless  which  already  showed 
that  art  and  the  supernatural  were  at  variance ;  the  beaked  and  clawed 
figures  outlined  on  the  wall  were  compromises  between  the  man  and  the 
beast,  but  definite  compromises — so  much  and  no  more  of  the  man,  so 
much  and  no  more  of  the  beast ;  the  goddess  on  the  clay  vessels  became 
a  mere  little  owl ;  the  divinities  even  in-  the  nonsense  verses  were  pre- 
sented now  as  very  distinct  cows,  now  as  very  distinct  clouds,  or  very 
distinct  men  and  women ;  the  vague,  fluctuating  impressions  oscillating 
before  the  imagination  like  the  colours  of  a  dove's  wing  or  the  pattern  of 
a  shot  silk,  interwoven,  unsteady,  never  completely  united  into  one,  never 
completely  separated  into  several,  were  rudely  seized,  disentangled  by 
art;  part  was  taken,  part  thrown  aside;  what  remained  was  homo- 
geneous, definite,  unchanging ;  it  was  what  it  was,  and  could  never  be 
aught  else. 

Goethe  has  remarked,  with  a  subjective  simplicity  of  irreverence 
which  is  almost  comical,  that  as  God  created  man  in  his  image,  it  was 
only  fair  that  man,  in  his  turn,  should  create  God  in  his  image.  But 
the  decay  of  pagan  belief  was  not,  as  Hegel  imagines,  clue  to  the  fact 

11—5 


218  FATTSTUS  AND  SELENA. 

that  Hellenic  art  was  anthropomoi-phic.  The  gods  ceased  to  be  gods  not 
merely  because  they  became  too  like  men,  but  because  they  became  too 
like  anything  definite.  If  the  ibis  on  the  amulet,  or  the  owl  on  the 
terra-cotta,  represents  a  more  vital  belief  in  the  gods  than  does  the 
Venus  of  Milo  or  the  Giustiniani  Minerva,  it  is  not  because  the  idea  of 
divinity  is  more  compatible  with  an  ugly  bird  than  with  a  beaiitiful 
woman ;  but  because  whereas  the  beautiful  woman,  exquisitely  wrought 
by  a  consummate  sculptor,  occupied  the  mind  of  the  artist  and  of  the 
beholder  with  the  idea  of  her  beauty,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  the 
rudely-engraven  ibis,  or  the  badly-modelled  owlet,  on  the  other  hand, 
served  merely  as  a  symbol,  as  the  recaller  of  an  idea ;  the  mind  did  not 
pause  in  contemplation  of  the  bird,  but  wandered  off  in  search  of  the 
god  :  the  goggle  eyes  of  the  owl  and  the  beak  of  the  ibis  were  soon  for- 
gotten in  the  contemplation  of  the  vague,  ever  transmuted  visions  of  phe- 
nomena of  sky  and  light,  of  semi-human  and  semi-bestial  shapes,  of 
confused  half-embodied  forces ;  in  short,  of  the  supernatural.  But  the 
human  shape  did  most  mischief  to  the  supernatural  merely  because  the 
human  shape  was  the  most  absolute,  the  most  distinct  of  all  shapes :  a 
god  might  be  symbolised  as  a  beast,  but  he  could  only  be  portrayed  as  a 
man ;  and  if  the  portrait  was  correct,  then  the  god  was  a  man,  and 
nothing  more.  Even  the  most  fantastic  among  pagan  supernatural 
creatures,  those  strange  monsters  who  longest  kept  their  original  dual 
nature — the  centaurs,  satyrs,  and  tritons — became  beneath  the  chisel  of  the 
artist  mere  aberrations  from  the  normal,  rare  and  curious  types  like  cer- 
tain fair-booth  phenomena,  but  perfectly  intelligible  and  rational;  the 
very  Chimsera,  she  who  was  to  give  her  name  to  every  sort  of  unintelli- 
gible fancy,  became,  in  the  bas-reliefs  of  the  .story  of  Bellerophon  a  mere 
singular  mixture  between  a  lion,  a  dog,  and  a  bird — a  cross-breed  which 
happens  not  to  be  possible,  but  which  an  ancient  might  well  have  con- 
ceived as  adorning  some  distant  zoological  collection.  How  much  more 
rationalised  were  not  the  divinities  in  whom  only  a  peculiar  shape  of  the 
eye,  a  certain  structure  of  the  leg,  or  a  definite  fashion  of  wearing  the 
hair,  remained  of  their  former  nature  ?  Learned  men,  indeed,  tell  us  that 
we  need  only  glance  at  Hera  to  see  that  she  is  at  bottom  a  cow ;  at 
Apollo,  to  recognise  that  he  is  but  a  stag  in  human  shape ;  or  at  Zeus, 
to  recognise  that  he  is,  in  point  of  fact,  a  lion.  Yet  it  remains  ti»ue  that 
we  need  only  walk  down  the  nearest  street  to  meet  ten  ordinary  men 
and  women  who  look  more  like  various  animals  than  do  any  antique 
divinities,  and  who  can  yet  never  be  said  to  be  in  reality  cows,  stags,  or 
lions.  The  same  applies  to  the  violent  efforts  which  are  constantly 
beino1  made  to  show  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets  a  distinct  recollection 
of  the  cosmic  nature  of  the  gods,  construing  the  very  human  movements, 
looks,  and  dress  of  divinities  into  meteorological  phenomena,  as  has  been 
done  even  by  Mr.  Ruskin,  in  his  Queen  of  the  Air,  despite  his  artist's 
sense,  which  should  have  warned  him  that  no  artistic  figure,  like 
Homer's  divinities,  can  possibly  be  at  the  same  time  a  woman  and  a 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  219 

whirlwind.  The  gods  did  originally  partake  of  the  character  of  cosmic 
phenomena,  as  they  partook  of  the  characters  of  beasts  and  birds,  and  of 
every  other  species  of  transformation,  such  as  we  may  watch  in  dreams ; 
but  as  soon  as  they  were  artistically  embodied  this  transformation 
ceased,  the  nature  had  to  be  specified  in  proportion  as  the  form  became 
distinct ;  and  the  drapery  of  Pallas,  although  it  had  inherited  its  purple 
tint  from  the  storm-cloud,  was  none  the  less,  when  it  clad  the  shoulders 
of  the  goddess,  not  a  storm-cloud,  but  a  piece  of  purple  linen.  "  What 
do  you  want  of  me  1 "  asks  the  artist.  "  A  god,"  answers  the  believer. 
"  What  is  your  god  to  be  like  1 "  asks  the  artist.  "  My  god  is  to  be  a 
very  handsome  warrior,  a  serene  heaven,  which  is  occasionally  overcast 
with  clouds,  which  clouds  are  sometimes  very  beneficial,  and  become 
(and  so  does  the  god  at  those  moments)  heavy-uddered  cows ;  at  others 
they  are  dark,  and  cause  annoyance,  and  then  they  capture  the  god,  who 
is  the  light  (but  he  is  also  the  clouds,  remember),  and  lock  him  up  in  a 
tower,  and  then  he  frees  himself,  and  he  is  a  neighing  horse,  and  he  is 
sitting  on  the  prancing  horse  (which  is  himself,  you  know,  and  is  the  sky 

too),  in  the  shape  of  two  warriors,  and   also "     "  May  Cerberus 

devour  you  ! "  cries  the  artist.  "  How  can  I  represent  all  this  ]  Do 
you  want  a  warrior,  or  a  cow,  or  the  heavens,  or  a  horse ;  or  do  you  want 
a  warrior  with  the  hoofs  of  a  horse  and  the  horns  of  a  cow  1  Explain, 
for,  by  Juno,  I  can  give  you  only  one  of  these  at  a  time." 

Thus,  in  proportion  as  the  gods  were  subjected  to  artistic  manipula- 
tion, whether  by  sculptor  or  poet,  they  lost  their  supernatural  powers. 
A  period  there  doubtless  was  when  the  gods  stood  out  quite  distinct 
from  nature,  and  yet  remained  connected  with  it,  as  the  figures  of  a  high 
relief  stand  out  from  the  background;  but  gradually  they  were  freed 
from  the  chaos  of  impressions  which  had  given  them  birth,  and  then, 
little  by  little,  they  ceased  to  be  gods ;  they  were  isolated  from  the  world 
of  the  wonderful,  they  were  respectfully  shelved  off  into  the  region  of 
the  ideal,  where  they  were  contemplated,  admired,  discussed,  but  not 
worshipped,  even  like  their  statues  by  Praxiteles  and  their  pictures  by 
Parrhasius.  The  divinities  who  continued  to  be  reverenced  were  the 
rustic  divinities  and  the  foreign  gods  and  goddesses ;  the  divinities 
which  had  been  safe  from  the  artistic  desecration  of  the  cities,  and  the 
divinities  which  were  imported  from  hieratic,  unartistic  countries  like 
Egypt  and  Syria ;  on  the  one  hand,  the  gods  shaped  with  the  pruning- 
knife  out  of  figwood,  and  stained  with  ochre  or  wine-lees,  grotesque 
mannikins,  standing  like  scarecrows,  in  orchard  or  corn-field,  to  which 
the  peasants  crowded  in  devout  procession,  leading  their  cleanly-dressed 
little  ones,  and  carrying  gifts  of  fruit  and  milk,  while  the  listless 
Tibullus,  fresh  from  sceptical  Rome,  looked  on  from  his  doorstep,  a 
vague,  childish  veneration  stealing  over  his  mind;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  monstrous  goddesses,  hundred-breasted  or  ibis-headed,  half  hidden  in 
the  Syrian  and  Egyptian  temples,  surrounded  by  mysterious  priests, 
swarthy  or  effeminate,  in  mitres  and  tawny  robes,  jangling  their  sistra 


220  FAUSTtfS  AND  HELENA. 

and  clashing  tlieir  cymbals,  moving  in  mystic  or  frenzied  dances,  weird, 
obscene,  and  unearthly,  to  the  melancholy  drone  of  Phrygian  or  Egyptian 
music,  sending  a  shudder  through  the  atheist  Catullus,  and  filling  his 
mind  with  ghastly  visions  of  victims  of  the  great  goddess,  bleeding, 
fainting,  lashed  on  to  madness  by  the  wrath  of  the  terrible  divinity. 
These  were  the  last  survivors  of  paganism,  and  to  their  protection  clung 
the  old  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome,  reduced  to  human  level  by  art, 
stripped  naked  by  sculptor  and  poet,  and  muffling  themselves  in  the 
homely  or  barbaric  garments  of  low-born  or  outlandish  usurpers.  Art 
had  been  a  worse  enemy  than  scepticism  ;  Apelles  and  Scopas  had  done 
more  mischief  than  Epicurus. 

Christian  art  was  perhaps  more  reverent  in  intention,  but  not  less 
desecrating  in  practice ;  even  the  Giottesques  turned  Christ,  the  Virgin, 
and  the  Saints,  into  mere  Florentine  men  and  women ;  even  Angelico 
himself,  although  a  saint,  was  unable  to  show  Paradise  except  as  a 
flowery  meadow,  under  a  highly  gilded  sky,  through  which  moved 
ladies  and  youths  in  most  artistic  but  most  earthly  embroidered  gar- 
ments; and  Hell  except  as  a  very  hot  place  where  men  and  women 
were  being  boiled  and  broiled  and  baked  and  fried  and  roasted,  by  very 
comic  little  weasel-snouted  fiends,  which  on  a  carnival  car  would  have 
made  Florentines  roar  with  laughter.  The  real  supernatural  was  in 
the  cells  of  fever-stricken,  starved  visionaries ;  it  was  in  the  contagious 
awe  of  the  crowd  sinking  down  at  the  sight  of  the  stained  napkin  of 
Bolsena ;  in  that  soiled  piece  of  linen  was  Christ,  and  God,  and  Para- 
dise ;  in  that,  and  not  in  the  panels  of  Angelico  and  Perugino,  or  in  the 
frescoes  of  Signorelli  and  Filippino. 

Why  1  Because  the  supernatural  is  nothing  but  ever-renewed  im- 
pressions, ever-shifting  fancies;  and  that  art  is  the  definer,  the  em- 
bodier,  the  analytic  and  synthetic  force  of  form.  Every  artistic  embo- 
diment of  impressions  or  fancies  implies  isolation  of  those  impressions 
or  fancies,  selection,  combination  and  balancing  of  them ;  that  is  to 
say,  diminution — nay,  destruction  of  their  inherent  power.  As,  in  order 
to  be  moulded,  the  clay  must  be  separated  from  the  mound ;  as,  in 
order  to  be  carved,  the  wood  must  be  cut  off  from  the  tree ;  as,  in 
order  to  be  reshaped  by  art,  the  mass  of  atoms  must  be  rudely  severed  ; 
so  also  the  mental  elements  of  art,  the  mood,  the  fancy,  must  be  severed 
from  the  preceding  and  succeeding  moods  of  fancies ;  artistic  manipula- 
tion requires  that  its  intellectual,  like  its  tangible  materials,  cease  to  be 
vital.  But  the  materials,  mental  or  physical,  are  not  only  deprived  of 
vitality  and  power  of  self-alteration  :  they  are  combined  in  given  pro- 
portions, the  action  of  the  one  on  the  other  destroys  in  great  part  the 
special  power  of  each ;  art  is  proportion,  and  proportion  is  restriction. 
Last  of  all,  but  most  important,  these  isolated,  no  longer  vital  materials, 
neutralised  by  each  other,  are  further  reduced  to  insignificance  by  be- 
coming parts  of  a  whole  conception ;  their  separate  meaning  is  effaced 
by  the  general  meaning  of  the  work  of  art ;  art  bottles  lightning  to  use 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  221 

it  as  white  colour,  and  measures  out  thunder  by  the  beat  of  the  chapel- 
master's  roll  of  notes.  But  art  does  not  merely  restrict  impressions 
and  fancies  within  the  limits  of  form ;  in  its  days  of  maturity  and  inde- 
pendence it  restricts  yet  closer  within  the  limits  of  beauty.  Partially 
developed  art,  still  unconscious  of  its  powers  and  aims,  still  in  childish 
submission  to  religion,  sets  to  work  conscientiously,  with  no  other  ob- 
ject than  to  embody  the  supernatural ;  if  the  supernatural  suffers  in  the 
act  of  embodiment,  if  the  fluctuating  fancies  which  are  Zeus  or  Pallas  are 
limited  and  curtailed,  rendered  logical  and  prosaic  even  in  the  wooden 
prehistoric  idol  or  the  roughly  kneaded  clay  owlet,  it  is  by  no  choice  of 
the  artist — his  attempt  is  abortive,  because  it  is  thwarted  by  the  very 
nature  of  his  art.  But  when  art  is  mature,  things  are  different ;  the 
artist,  conscious  of  his  powers,  instinctively  recognising  the  futility  of 
aiming  at  the  embodiment  of  the  supernatural,  dragged  by  an  irresistible 
longing  to  the  display  of  his  skill,  to  the  imitation  of  the  existing  and 
to  the  creation  of  beauty,  ceases  to  strain  after  the  impossible,  and  refuses 
to  attempt  anything  beyond  the  possible.  The  art,  which  was  before  a 
mere  insufficient  means,  is  now  an  all-engrossing  aim ;  unconsciously, 
perhaps,  to  himself,  the  artist  regards  the  subject  merely  as  a  pretext  for 
the  treatment ;  and  where  the  subject  is  opposed  to  such  treatment  as 
he  desires,  he  sacrifices  it.  He  may  be  quite  as  conscientious  as  his 
earliest  predecessor,  but  his  conscience  has  become  an  artistic  conscience, 
he  sees  only  as  much  as  is  within  art's  limits  ;  the  gods,  or  the  saints, 
which  were  cloudy  and  supernatural  to  the  artist  of  immature  art,  are 
definite  and  artistic  to  the  artist  of  mature  art ;  he  can  think,  imagine, 
feel  only  in  a  given  manner ;  his  religious  conceptions  have  taken  the 
shape  of  his  artistic  creations ;  art  has  destroyed  the  supernatural,  and 
the  artist  has  swallowed  up  the  believer.  The  attempts  at  super- 
natural effects  are  almost  always  limited  to  a  sort  of  symbolical  abbre- 
viation,  which  satisfies  the  artist  and  his  public  respecting  the  subject 
of  the  work,  and  lends  it  a  traditional  association  with  the  supernatural ; 
a  few  spikes  round  the  head  of  a  young  man  are  all  that  remains 
of  the  solar  nature  of  Apollo ;  the  little  budding  horns  and  pointed 
ears  of  the  satyr  must  suffice  to  recall  that  he  was  once  a  mystic  fusion 
of  man  and  beast  and  forest ;  a  gilded  disc  behind  the  head  is  all  that 
shows  that  Giotto's  figures  are  immortals  in  glory;  and  a  pair  of  wings 
is  all  that  explains  that  Perugino's  St.  Michael  is  not  a  mere  dainty 
mortal  warrior ;  the  highest  mysteries  of  Christianity  are  despatched 
with  a  triangle  and  an  open  book,  to  draw  which  Raphael  might  employ 
his  colour-grinder,  while  he  himself  drew  the  finely-draped  baker's 
daxighter  from  Trastevere. 

If  we  would  bring  home  to  ourselves  the  action  of  art  on  the 
supernatural,  we  must  examine  the  only  species  of  supernatural  which 
still  retains  vitality,  and  can  still  be  deprived  of  it  by  art.  That  which 
remains  to  us  of  the  imaginative  workings  of  the  past  is  traditional 
and  well-nigh  effete  :  we  have  poems  and  pictures,  Vedic  hymns, 


222  FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA. 

and  Egyptian  symbols;  we  have  folklore  and  dogma;  remnants  of 
the  supernatural,  some  labelled  in  our  historic  museums,  where  they 
are  scrutinised,  catalogue  and  eye-glass  in  hand;  others  dusty  on 
altars  and  in  chapels,  before  which  we  uncover  our  heads  and  cast  down 
our  eyes;  relics  of  dead  and  dying  faiths,  of  which  some  are  daily 
being  transferred  from  the  church  to  the  museum ;  art  cannot  deprive 
any  of  these  of  that  imaginative  life  and  power  which  they  have  long 
ceased  to  possess.  We  have  forms  of  the  supernatural  in  which  we 
believe  from  acquiescence  of  habit,  but  they  are  not  vital ;  we  have  a 
form  of  the  supernatural  in  which,  from  logic  and  habit,  we  disbelieve, 
but  which  is  vital ;  and  this  form  of  the  supernatural  is  the  ghostly.  We 
none  of  us  believe  in  ghosts  as  logical  possibilities,  but  we  most  of  us 
conceive  them  as  imaginative  probabilities  ;  we  can  still  feel  the  ghostly, 
and  thence  it  is  that  a  ghost  is  the  only  thing  which  can  in  any  respect 
replace  for  us  the  divinities  of  old,  and  enable  us  to  understand,  if  only 
for  a  minute,  the  imaginative  power  which  they  possessed,  and  of  which 
they  were  despoiled  not  only  by  logic,  but  by  art.  By  ghost  we  do  not 
mean  the  vulgar  apparition  which  is  seen  or  heard  in  told  or  written 
tales ;  we  mean  the  ghost  which  slowly  rises  up  in  our  mind ;  the 
haunter,  not  of  corridors  and  staircases,  but  of  our  fancies.  Just  as  the 
gods  of  primitive  religions  were  the  undulating  bright  heat  which  made 
midday  solitary  and  solemn  as  midnight ;  the  warm  damp,  the  sap-riser 
and  expander  of  life ;  the  sad  dying  away  of  the  summer,  and  the  leaden, 
suicidal  sterility  of  winter ;  so  the  ghost,  their  only  modern  equivalent, 
is  the  damp,  the  darkness,  the  silence,  the  solitude ;  a  ghost  is  the  sound 
of  our  steps  through  a  ruined  cloister,  where  the  ivy -berries  and  convol- 
vulus growing  in  the  fissures  sway  up  and  down  among  the  sculptured 
foliage  of  the  windows,  it  is  the  scent  of  mouldering  plaster  and  moulder- 
ing bones  from  beneath  the  broken  pavement;  a  ghost  is  the  bright 
moonlight  against  which  the  cypresses  stand  out  like  black  hearse- 
plumes,  in  which  the  blasted  grey  olives  and  the  gnarled  fig-trees  stretch 
their  branches  over  the  broken  walls  like  fantastic,  knotted,  beckoning 
fingers,  and  the  abandoned  villas  on  the  outskirts  of  Italian  towns,  with 
the  birds  flying  in  and  out  of  the  unglazed  windows,  loom  forth  white 
and  ghastly  ;  a  ghost  is  the  long-closed  room  of  one  long  dead,  the  faint 
smell  of  withered  flowers,  the  rustle  of  long-unmoved  curtains,  the  yellow 
paper  and  faded  ribbons  of  long -unread  letters  .  .  .  each  and  all  of  these 
things,  and  a  hundred  others  besides,  according  to  our  nature,  is  a  ghost, 
a  vague  feeling  we  can  scarcely  describe,  a  something  pleasing  and 
terrible  which  invades  our  whole  consciousness,  and  which,  confusedly 
embodied,  we  half  dread  to  see  behind  us,  we  know  not  in  what  shape, 
if  we  look  round. 

Call  we  in  our  artist,  or  let  us  be  our  own  artist ;  embody,  let  us  see 
or  hear  this  ghost,  let  it  become  visible  or  audible  to  others  besides  our- 
selves ;  paint  us  that  vagueness,  mould  into  shape  that  darkness,  modulate 
into  chords  that  silence — tell  us  the  character  and  history  of  those  vague 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  223 

beings  ....  set  to  work  boldly  or  cunningly.  What  do  we  obtain  t 
A  picture,  a  piece  of  music,  a  story ;  but  the  ghost  is  gone.  In  its  stead 
we  get  oftenest  the  mere  image  of  a  human  being ;  call  it  a  ghost  if  you 
will,  it  is  none.  And  the  more  complete  the  artistic  work,  the  less 
remains  of  the  ghost.  Why  do  those  stories  affect  us  most  in  which  the 
ghost  is  heard  but  not  seen  1  Why  do  those  places  affect  us  most  of  which 
we  merely  vaguely  know  that  they  are  haunted  ?  Why  most  of  all  those 
which  look  as  if  they  might  be  haunted  1  Why,  as  soon  as  a  figure  is 
seen,  is  the  charm  half- lost  1  And  why,  even  when  there  is  a  figure,  is 
it  kept  so  vague  and  mist-like  1  Would  you  know  Hamlet's  father  for  a 
ghost  unless  he  told  you  he  was  one,  and  can  you  remember  it  long 
while  he  speaks  in  mortal  words  ?  and  what  would  be  Hamlet's  father 
without  the  terrace  of  Elsinore,  the  hour,  and  the  moonlight.  Do  not 
these  embodied  ghosts  owe  what  little  effect  they  still  possess  to  their 
surroundings,  and  are  not  the  surroundings  the  real  ghost  1  Throw  sun- 
shine on  to  them,  and  what  remains  1 

Thus  we  have  wandered  through  the  realm  of  the  supernatural  in  a 
manner  neither  logical  nor  business-like,  for  logic  and  business-likeness 
are  rude  qualities,  and  scare  away  the  ghostly ;  very  far  away  do  we 
seem  to  have  rambled  from  Dr.  Faustus  and  Helen  of  Sparta ;  but  in 
this  labyrinth  of  the  fantastic  there  are  sudden  unexpected  turns — and 
see,  one  of  these  has  suddenly  brought  "us  back  into  their  presence. 
For  we  have  seen  why  the  supernatural  is  always  injured  by  artistic 
treatment,  why  therefore  the  confused  images  evoked  in  our  mind  by 
the  mere  threadbare  tale  of  Faustus  and  Helena  are  superior  in  ima- 
ginative power  to  the  picture  carefully  elaborated  and  shown  us  by 
Goethe.  We  can  now  understand  why  under  his  hand  the  infinite 
charm  of  the  weird  meeting  of  Antiquity  and  the  Middle  Ages  has 
evaporated.  We  can  explain  why  the  strange  fancy  of  the  classic 
Walpurgis-night,  in  the  second  part  of  Faust,  at  once  stimulates  the 
imagination  and  gives  it  nothing.  If  we  let  our  mind  dwell  on  that 
mysterious  Pharsalian  plain,  with  its  glimmering  fires  and  flamelets  alone 
breaking  the  darkness,  where  Faust  and  Mephistopheles  wandering  about 
meet  the  spectres  of  Antiquity,  shadowy  in  the  gloom — the  sphinxes 
crouching,  the  sirens,  the  dryads  and  oreads,  the  griffons  and  cranes 
flapping  their  unseen  wings  overhead ;  where  Faust  springs  on  the  back 
of  Chiron,  and  as  he  is  borne  along  sickens  for  sudden  joy  when  the 
centaur  tells  him  that  Helen  has  been  carried  on  that  back,  has  clasped 
that  neck ;  when  we  let  our  mind  work  on  all  this,  we  are  charmed  by 
the  weird  meetings,  the  mysterious  shapes  which  elbow  us ;  but  let  us 
take  up  the  volume  and  we  return  to  barren  prose,  without  colour  or 
perfume.  Yet  Goethe  felt  the  supernatural  as  we  feel  it,  as  it  can  be  felt 
only  in  days  of  disbelief,  when,  the  more  logical  we  become  in  our  ideas, 
the  more  we  view  nature  as  a  prosaic  machine  constructed  by  no  one  in 
particular,  the  more  poignantly,  on  the  other  hand,  do  we  feel  the  delight 
of  the  transient  belief  in  the  vague  and  the  impossible ;  when,  the  greater 


224  FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA. 

the  distinctness  with  which  we  see  and  understand  all  around  us,  the 
greater  the  longing  for  a  momentary  half-light  in  which  forms  may  appear 
stranger,  grander,  vaguer  than  they  are.  We  moderns  seek  in  the  world 
of  the  supernatural  a  renewal  of  the  delightful  semi-obscurity  of  vision 
and  keenness  of  fancy  of  our  childhood ;  when  a  glimpse  into  fairyland 
was  still  possible,  when  things  appeared  in  false  lights,  brighter,  more 
important,  more  magnificent  than  now.  Art  indeed  can  afford  us  calm 
and  clear  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful — enjoyment  serious,  self-possessed, 
wideawake,  such  as  befits  mature  intellects  ;  but  no  picture,  no  symphony, 
no  poem,  can  give  us  that  delight,  that  delusory,  imaginative  pleasure 
which  we  received  as  children  from  a  tawdry  engraving  or  a  hideous 
doll ;  for  around  that  doll  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  glory.  In  certain 
words,  in  certain  sights,  in  certain  snatches  of  melody,  words,  sights  and 
sounds  which  we  now  recognise  as  trivial,  commonplace,  and  vulgar,  there 
was  an  ineffable  meaning;  they  were  spells  which  opened  doors  into 
realms  of  wonder ;  they  were  precious  in  proportion  as  they  were  mis- 
appreciated.  We  now  appreciate  and  despise  :  we  see,  we  no  longer 
imagine.  And  it  is  to  replace  this  uncertainty  of  vision,  this  liberty  of 
seeing  in  things  much  more  than  there  is,  which  belongs  to  man  and  to 
mankind  in  its  childhood,  which  compensated  the  Middle  Ages  for 
starvation  and  pestilence,  and  compensates  the  child  for  blows  and  lessons  ; 
it  is  to  replace  this  that  we  crave  after  the  supernatural,  the  ghostly — 
no  longer  believed,  but  still  felt.  It  was  from  this  sickness  of  the  prosaic, 
this  turning  away  from  logical  certainty,  that  the  men  of  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  and  the  beginning  of  this  century,  the  men  who  had  finally 
destroyed  belief  in  the  religious  supernatural,  who  were  bringing  light 
with  new  sciences  of  economy,  philology,  and  history — Schiller,  Goethe, 
Herder,  Coleridge — left  the  lecture-room  and  the  laboratory,  and  set 
gravely  to  work  on  ghostly  tales  and  ballads.'  It  was  from  this  rebellion 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  possible  that  Goethe  was  charmed  with  that 
culmination  of  all  impossibilities,  that  most  daring  of  ghost  stories,  the 
story  of  Faustus  and  Helena.  He  felt  the  seduction  of  the  supernatural, 
he  tried  to  embody  it — and  he  failed. 

The  case  was  different  with  Marlowe.  The  bringing  together  of 
Faustus  and  Helena  had  no  special  meaning  for  the  man  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  too  far  from  antiquity  and  too  near  the  Middle  Ages  to  pei-ceive 
as  we  do  the  strange  difference  between  them ;  and  the  supernatural  had 
no  fascination  in  a  time  when  it  was  all  permeating  and  everywhere 
mixed  with  prose.  The  whole  play  of  Dr.  Faustus  is  conceived  in  a 
thoroughly  realistic  fashion  ;  it  is  tragic,  but  not  ghostly.  To  Marlowe's 
aiidience,  and  probably  to  Marlowe  himself,  despite  his  atheistic  repu- 
tation, the  story  of  Faustus's  wonders  and  final  damnation  was  quite 
within  the  realm  of  the  possible  ;  the  intensity  of  the  belief  in  the  tale  is 
shown  by  the  total  absence  of  any  attempt  to  give  it  dignity  or  weird- 
ness.  Faustus  evokes  Lucifer  with  a  pedantic  semi-biblical  Latin  speech ; 
he  goes  about  playing  the  most  trumpery  conjuror's  tricks — snatching 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  225 

•with  invisible  hands  the  food  from  people's  lips,  clapping  horns  and 
tails  on  to  courtiers  for  the  Emperor's  amusement,  letting  his  legs  be 
pulled  off  like  boots,  selling  wisps  of  straw  as  horses,  doing  and  saying 
things  which  could  appear  tragic  and  important,  nay,  even  serious,  only 
to  people  who  took  every  second  cat  for  a  witch,  who  burned  their  neigh- 
bours for  vomiting  pins,  who  suspected  devils  at  every  turn,  as  the  great 
witch-expert  Sprenger  shows  them  in  his  horribly  matter-of-fact  manual. 
We  moderns,  disbelieving  in  devilries,  would  require  the  most  elaborately 
romantic  and  poetic  accessories — a  splendid  lurid  background,  a  magni- 
ficent Byronian  invocation  of  the  fiend.  The  Mephistophilis  of  Marlowe, 
in  those  days  when  devils  still  dwelt  in  people,  required  none  of  Goethe's 
wit  or  poetiy ;  the  mere  fact  of  his  being  a  devil,  with  the  very  real 
association  of  flame  and  brimstone  in  this  world  and  the  next,  was  suffi- 
cient to  inspire  interest  in  him;  whereas  in  1800,  with  Voltaire's 
novels  and  Hume's  treatises  on  the  table,  a  dull  devil  was  no  more 
endurable  than  any  other  sort  of  bore.  The  very  superiority  of  Marlowe 
is  due  to  this  absence  of  weirdness,  to  this  complete  realism ;  the  last 
scene  of  the  English  play  is  infinitely  above  the  end  of  the  second  part  of 
Faust  in  tragic  grandeur,  just  because  Goethe  made  abortive  attempts 
after  a  conscious  and  artificial  supernatural,  while  Marlowe  was  satisfied 
with  perfect  reality  of  situation.  The  position  of  Faustus,  when  the  years 
of  his  pact  have  expired,  and  he  awaits  midnight,  which  will  give  him 
over  to  Lucifer,  is  as  thoroughly  natural  in  the  eyes  of  Marlowe  as  is  in 
the  eyes  of  Shelley  the  position  of  Beatrice  Cenci  awaiting  the  moment 
of  execution.  The  conversation  between  Faustus  and  the  scholars,  after 
he  has  made  his  will,  is  terribly  life-like ;  they  disbelieve  at  first,  pooh- 
pooh  his  danger,  then,  half-convinced,  beg  that  a  priest  may  be  fetched  ; 
but  Faustus  cannot  deal  with  priests.  He  bids  them,  in  agony,  go  pray 
in  the  next  room.  "  Ay,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me,  and  what  noise 
soever  you  hear,  come  not  unto  me,  for  nothing  can  save  me.  .  .  . 
Gentlemen,  farewell ;  if  I  live  till  morning,  I'll  visit  you  ;  if  not,  Faustus 
is  gone  to  hell."  Faustus  remains  alone  for  the  one  hour  which  separates 
him  from  his  doom ;  he  clutches  at  the  passing  time,  he  cries  to  the  hours 
to  stop  with  no  rhetorical  figure  of  speech,  but  with  a  terrible  reality  of 
agony  : 

Let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day, 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 

Time  to  repent,  time  to  recoil  from  the  horrible  gulf  into  which  he  is 
being  sucked.  He  would  leap  up  to  heaven  and  cling  fast,  but 
Lucifer  drags  him  down.  He  would  seek  annihilation  in  nature,  be 
sucked  into  its  senseless,  feelingless  mass,  .  .  .  and  meanwhile  the  time 
is  passing,  the  interval  of  respite  is  shrinking  and  dwindling.  Would 
that  he  were  a  soulless  brute  and  might  perish,  or  that  at  least 
eternal  hell  were  finite — a  thousand,  a  hundred  thousand  years  let 
him  suffer,  but  not  for  ever  and  without  end  !  Midnight  begins  strik- 


226  FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA. 

ing.  With  convulsive  agony  he  exclaims,  as  the  rain  patters  against 
the  window : 

0  soul,  be  changed  into  small  water-drops, 

And  fall  into  the  ocean,  ne'er  be  found. 

But  the  twelfth  stroke  sounds  ;  Lucifer  and  his  crew  enter ;  and  when 
next  morning  the  students,  frightened  by  the  horrible  tempest  and  ghastly 
noises  of  the  night,  enter  his  study,  they  find  Faustus  lying  dead,  torn 
and  mangled  by  the  demon.  All  this  is  not  supernatural  in  our  sense ; 
such  scenes  as  this  were  real  for  Marlowe  and  his  audience.  Such  cases 
were  surely  not  unfrequent;  more  than  one  man  certainly  watched 
through  such  a  night  in  hopeless  agony,  conscious  like  Faustus  of  pact 
with  the  fiend — awaiting,  with  earth  and  heaven  shut  and  bolted  against 
him,  eternal  hell. 

In  this  story  of  Doctor  Faustus,  which,  to  Marlowe  and  his  contem- 
poraries, was  not  a  romance  but  a  reality,  the  episode  of  the  evoking  of 
Helen  is  extremely  secondary  in  interest.  To  raise  a  dead  woman  was 
not  more  wonderful  than  to  turn  wisps  of  straw  into  horses,  and  it  was 
perhaps  considered  the  easier  of  the  two  miracles  ;  the  sense  of  the  ordi- 
nary ghostly  is  absent,  and  the  sense  that  Helen  is  the  ghost  of  a  whole 
long-dead  civilisation,  that  sense  which  is  for  us  the  whole  charm  of  the 
tale,  could  not  exist  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Goethe's  Faust  feels  for 
Helen  as  Goethe  himself  might  have  felt,  as  Winckelmann  felt  for  a  lost 
antique  statue,  as  Schiller  felt  for  the  dead  Olympus  :  a  passion  intensely 
imaginative  and  poetic,  born  of  deep  appreciation  of  antiquity,  the  essen- 
tially modern,  passionate,  nostalgic  craving  for  the  past.  In  Marlowe's 
play,  on  the  contrary,  Faustus  and  the  students  evoke  Helen  from  a 
confused  pedantic  impression  that  an  ancient  lady  must  be  as  much 
superior  to  a  modern  lady  as  an  ancient  poem,  be  it  even  by  Statius  or 
Claudian,  must  be  superior  to  a  modern  poem — it  is  a  humanistic  fancy 
of  the  days  of  the  revival  of  letters.  But,  by  a  strange  phenomenon, 
Marlowe,  once  realising  what  Helen  means,  that  she  is  the  fairest  of 
women,  forgets  the  scholarly  interest  in  her.  Faustus,  once  in  presence 
of  the  wonderful  woman,  forgets  that  he  had  summoned  her  up  to  gratify 
his  and  his  friends'  pedantry ;  he  sees  her,  loves  her,  and  bursts  out  into 
the  splendid  tirade  full  of  passionate  fancy  : 

Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium .' 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss  ! 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul !     See  where  it  flies ! 
Come  Helen,  come  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  Heaven  is  in  these  lips, 
And  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris,  and  for  love  of  thee, 
Instead  of  Troy  shall  Wittenberg  be  sacked 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  thy  colours  on  my  plumed  crest 
Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 


FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA.  227 

And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh  !  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air 
Olad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars ; 
Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter 
When  he  appeared  to  hapless  Semele ; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sky 
In  -wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms : 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour. 

This  is  a  real  passion  for  a  real  woman,  a  woman  very  different  from  the 
splendid  semi- vivified  statue  of  Goethe,  the  Helen  with  only  the  cold, 
bloodless,  intellectual  life  which  could  be  infused  by  enthusiastic  studies 
of  ancient  literature  and  art,  gleaming  bright  like  marble  or  a  spectre. 
This  Helena  of  Marlowe  is  no  antique ;  the  Elizabethan  dramatist,  like 
the  painters  of  the  fifteenth  century,  could  not  conceive  the  purely  antique, 
despite  all  the  translating  of  ancient  writers  and  all  the  drawing  from 
ancient  marbles.  One  of  the  prose  versions  of  the  story  of  Faustus  con- 
tains a  quaint  account  of  Helen,  which  sheds  much  light  on  Marlowe's 
conception : 

This  lady  appeared  before  them  in  a  most  rich  gowne  of  purple  velvet,  costly 
imbrodered ;  her  haire  hanged  downe  loose,  as  fairo  as  the  beaten  gold,  and  of  such 
length  that  it  reached  downe  to  her  hammes  ;  having  most  amorous  cole-black  eyes, 
a  sweet  and  pleasant  round  face,  with  lips  as  red  as  a  cherry ;  her  cheeks  of  a  rose 
colour,  her  mouth  small,  her  neck  white  like  a  swan ;  tall  and  slender  of  personage  ; 
in  summe,  there  was  no  imperfect  place  in  her ;  she  looked  around  about  with  a 
rolling  hawk's  eye,  a  smiling  and  wanton  countenance,  which  neerehand  inflamed  the 
hearts  of  all  the  students,  but  that  they  persuaded  themselves  she  was  a  spirit,  which 
make  them  lightly  passe  away  such  fancies. 

This  fair  dame  in  the  velvet  embroidered  gown,  with  the  long,  hanging 
hair,  this  Helen  of  the  original  Faustus  legend,  is  antique  only  in  name  ; 
she  belongs  to  the  race  of  mediaeval  and  modern  women — the  Lauras, 
Fiammetfcas,  and  Simonettas  of  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  and  Lorenzo  dei 
Medici  :  she  is  the  sister  of  that  slyly  sentimental  coquette,  the  Monna 
Lisa  of  Leonardo.  The  strong  and  simple  women  of  Homer,  and  even 
of  Euripides,  majestic  and  matronly  even  in  shame,  would  repudiate 
this  slender,  smiling,  ogling  beauty;  Briseis,  though  the  captive  of 
Achilles'  spear,  would  turn  with  scorn  from  her.  The  antique  woman 
has  a  dignity  due  to  her  very  inferiority  and  restrictedness  of  position ; 
she  has  the  simplicity,  the  completeness,  the  absence  of  everything 
suggestive  of  degradation,  like  that  of  some  stately  animal,  pure  in  its 
animal  nature.  The  modern  woman,  with  more  freedom  and  more 
ideal,  rarely  approaches  to  this  character;  she  is  too  complex  to  be 
perfect,  she  is  frail  because  she  has  an  ideal,  she  is  dubious  because  she 
is  free,  she  may  fall  because  she  may  rise.  Helen  deserted  Menelaus 
and  brought  ruin  upon  Troy,  therefore,  in  the  eyes  of  antiquity,  she  was 
the  -victim  of  fate,  she  might  be  unruffled,  spotless,  majestic ;  but  to  the 
man  of  the  sixteenth  century  she  was  merely  frail  and  false.  The  rolling 
hawk's  eye  and  the  wanton  smile  of  the  old  legend-monger  would  have 


228  FAUSTUS  AND  HELENA. 

perplexed  Homer,  but  they  were  necessary  for  Marlowe ;  his  Helen  was 
essentially  modern,  he  had  probably  no  inkling  that  an  antique  Helen  as 
distinguished  from  a  modern  could  exist.  In  the  paramour  of  Faustus 
he  saw  merely  the  most  beautiful  woman,  some  fair  and  wanton  crea- 
ture, dressed  not  in  chaste  and  majestic  antique  drapery,  but  in  fantastic 
garments  of  lawn,  like  those  of  Hero  in  his  own  poem  : 

The  lining  purple  silk,  with  gilt  stars  drawn ; 

Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  bordered  with  a  grove 

Where  Venus  in  her  naked  glory  strove 

To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 

Of  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies  ; 

Her  kirtle  blue  .... 

Upon  her  head  she  wore  a  myrtle  wreath 

From  whence  her  veil  reached  to  the  ground  beneath ; 

Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves 

Whose  workmanship  both  man  and  beast  deceives. 

Some  slim  and  dainty  goddess  of  Botticelli,  very  mortal  withal,  long  and 
sinuous,  tightly  clad  in  brocaded  garments  and  clinging  cobweb  veils, 
beautiful  with  the  delicate,  diaphanous  beauty,  rather  emaciated  and 
hectic,  of  high  rank,  and  the  conscious,  elaborate  fascination  of  a  woman 
of  fashion — a  creature  whom,  like  the  Gioconda,  Leonardo  might  have 
spent  years  in  decking  and  painting,  ever  changing  the  ornaments  and 
ever  altering  the  portrait ;  to  whom  courtly  poets  like  Bembo  and 
Castiglione  might  have  written  scores  of  sonnets  and  canzoni — to  her 
hands,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips — a  fanciful  inventory  to  which  she 
listened  languidly  under  the  cypresses  of  Florentine  gardens.  Some 
such  being,  even  rarer  and  more  dubious  for  being  an  exotic  in  the 
England  of  Elizabeth,  was  Marlowe's  Helen ;  such,  and  not  a  ghostly 
figure,  descended  from  a  pedestal,  white  and  marblelike  in  her  unruffled 
drapery,  walking  with  solid  step  and  unswerving,  placid  glance  through 
the  study,  crammed  with  books,  and  vials,  and  strange  instruments,  of 
the  mediaeval  wizard  of  Wittenberg.  Marlowe  deluded  himself  as  well 
as  Faustus,  and  palmed  off  on  to  him  a  mere  modern  lady.  To  raise  a 
real  spectre  of  the  antique  is  a  craving  of  our  own  century.  Goethe 
attempted  to  do  it  and  failed,  for  what  reasons  we  have  seen,  but  we  all 
of  us  possess  the  charm  wherewith  to  evoke  for  ourselves  a  real  Helena, 
on  condition  that,  unlike  Faustus  and  unlike  Goethe,  we  seek  not  to 
show  her  to  others,  and  remain  satisfied  if  the  weird  and  glorious  figure 
haunt  only  our  own  imagination. 

VERNON  LEE. 


229 


of  Jf 00k" 


NOTHING  perhaps  more  distinctly  marks  the  gulf  between  our  mode  of 
thought  and  that  of  our  forefathers  than  the  total  disappearance  of 
allegorical  writing  from  modern  literature.  Parables  or  apologues  have 
furnished  in  all  nations  the  primitive  exercise  of  the  inventive  faculty ; 
and  their  universal  use,  whether  as  a  vehicle  of  instruction  or  a  source 
of  entertainment,  proves  their  power  of  appealing  to  some  common 
instinct  of  humanity.  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  is  the  last  of  this 
class  of  compositions  which  has  attained  to  anything  like  widespread  popu- 
larity, but  in  the  preceding  centuries  all  productions  addressed  to  the 
taste  of  the  masses,  whether  in  poetry,  art,  or  drama,  took  this  symbolical 
or  representative  form.  Unadorned  human  nature  was  considered  too 
mean  and  common  a  thing  to  occupy  the  attention  of  author  or  public ; 
the  stage  was  filled  by  impersonal  abstractions  who  discoursed  in  dialogue 
as  insipid  as  it  was  edifying ;  poets  personified  nature  instead  of  describ- 
ing her ;  painters  were  not  satisfied  to  portray  a  woman  without  symbo- 
lising a  virtue ;  Folly  was  held  up  to  derision,  and  Wisdom  spoke  her 
trite  moral,  amid  the  mummeries  of  carnival  masquerade ;  and  the 
skeleton  grinning  from  the  wall  reiterated  in  still  more  emphatic 
language  the  preacher's  lesson  of  the  vanity  and  brevity  of  life. 

But  the  irrepressible  human  element  thus  studiously  excluded  from 
the  higher  realms  of  art  was  apt  to  assert  itself  in  the  most  unforeseen 
directions,  and  the  secondary  episodes  in  which  it  was  admitted,  as  it 
were  on  sufferance,  developed  an  astonishing  tendency  to  growth  and 
expansion  quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  humble  place  assigned  to  them. 
Gods  and  Goddesses,  Vices  and  Virtues,  and  all  the  exalted  though  shadowy 
train  of  abstractions  and  personifications  found  themselves  unexpectedly 
eclipsed  by  some  unworthy  intruder  on  their  Olympic  society ;  and  the 
occasional  touches  of  broad  caricature,  or  interludes  of  comic  buffoonery, 
introduced  by  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  clowns  and  ostlers,  tavern- 
keepers  and  assassins,  proved  more  interesting  to  the  public  than  the 
heroic  platitudes  they  interrupted. 

The  famous  satire  of  Sebastian  Brant  no  doubt  owed  its  universal  and 
unprecedented  popularity  to  the  happy  inconsistency  of  its  author,  who, 
while  adopting  for  it  the  form  of  an  allegory,  out  of  deference  to  the 
prevailing  fashion  of  the  age,  immediately  cast  aside  the  restrictions 
imposed  by  symbolical  composition,  and  set  himself  in  downright  earnest 
and  straightforward  simplicity  to  stigmatise  the  vices  of  his  contempo- 
raries. The  Ship  of  Fools  appears,  indeed,  in  the  frontispiece  with 
disordered  rigging  and  motley  crew  all  jabbering  and  gesticulating,  but 


230  "THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS." 

•we  do  not  follow  the  incidents  of  her  voyage,  or  learn  how  those  on 
board  comported  themselves  on  the  high-seas,  passing  instead  to  a 
descriptive  catalogue  of  the  various  classes  of  men  whose  departure  from, 
the  ways  of  wisdom  might  entitle  them  to  wear  the  cap  and  bells, 
distinctive  of  her  passengers.  We  may  be  sure  that  it  is  the  failings 
prevalent  among  the  poet's  fellow-citizens  that  are  here  enumerated,  and 
that  the  good  burghers  of  Basle  and  Strasburg  easily  recognised  the 
errors  of  their  neighbours  in  pages  where  they  never  detected  any 
allusion  to  their  own. 

Brant,  thus  outraging  the  prescriptions  of  high  art  as  understood  in 
the  fifteenth  century,  wrote  a  poem  which  made  an  epoch  in  German 
literature,  marking  the  transition  from  the  formal  conventionalities  of 
mysticism  to  the  free  interpretation  of  homely  nature.  Its  publication 
created  an  immense  sensation  not  only  in  Germany,  where  it  ran  through 
several  editions,  but  all  over  Europe.  It  was  translated  into  Latin, 
French,  English,  and  Dutch,  was  published  in  various  adaptations  and 
followed  by  innumerable  imitations,  was  used  as  a  text  by  preachers  and 
a  theme  by  moralists,  being  looked  on  almost  in  the  light  of  a  new 
religious  revelation,  and  won  for  its  author  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of 
Erasmus,  whose  most  famous  work,  the  treatise  entitled  "  The  Praise  of 
Folly,"  it  is  believed  to  have  suggested. 

Sebastian  Brant  led  a  prosperous  and  active  life,  and  made  a  con- 
spicuous figure  of  that  homely  burgher  type  which  comprised  all  that 
was  best  in  mediaeval  Germany.  He  was  born  at  Strasburg  in  1457  (or 
1458),  the  son  of  Diebolt  Brant,  a  well-to-do  citizen,  and  went  in  1475  to 
study  philosophy  at  the  University  of  Basle,  then  only  fifteen  years 
established.  Here  he  was  plunged  into  that  atmosphere  of  theological 
controversy  which  the  famous  council  had  bequeathed  as  a  legacy  to  the 
scene  of  its  discussions.  Party  feeling  in  society  still  ran  high  on  the 
points  debated  by  the  fathers,  and  the  University  was  divided  into  two 
sects,  the  Realists,  headed  by  Johannes  a  Lapide,  and  the  Nominalists,  a 
more  advanced  school  of  thinkers,  who  advocated  philosophical  progress 
and  ecclesiastical  reform.  Our  young  student  became  an  ardent  dis- 
ciple of  the  former,  or  more  conservative,  party,  and  was  all  his  life  a 
zealous  upholder  of  divinely  constituted  authority  in  Church  and  State. 

Like  Dante,  his  dream  of  an  ideal  society  was  based  on  the  dazzling 
conception  of  a  restored  and  perfected  Roman  Empire,  and  he  dedicated 
a  number  of  works  both  in  prose  and  verse  to  the  service  of  the  hero  of 
his  Utopia,  Maximilian,  King  of  the  Romans,  under  whom  he  hoped  to 
see  his  scheme  for  the  reunion  of  Christendom  carried  into  effect.  Thus 
imbued  with  the  political  passions  of  his  day,  he  early  abandoned  the 
abstractions  of  philosophy  for  the  more  practical  study  of  jurisprudence, 
and  taking  his  degree  in  canon  law  in  1484,  married  in  the  following 
year  Elizabeth  Burg,  and  established  himself  in  Basle  for  the  practice  of 
his  profession.  He  was  an  active  publicist  as  well  as  author,  for  he 
edited  many  works  of  eminent  writers  on  civil  and  ecclesiastical  law, 


"THE  SHIP  OF  FOOI3."  231 

and  had  a  share  in  preparing  the  celebrated  edition  of  the  Bible,  in  six 
folios,  with  the  commentary  of  Nicholas  a  Lyro. 

His  political  dreams  and  aspirations  were  shattered  by  the  battle  of 
Dornach  in  1498,  when  his  hero  Maximilian  was  defeated  by  the  Swiss  ; 
and  as  Basle  then  ceased  to  form  a  portion  of  the  empire,  he  left  it  in 
disgust,  and  removed  with  his  family  to  his  native  town  of  Strasburg. 
He  soon  took  a  prominent  part  in  its  affairs,  becoming  in  1501  syndic 
and  public  advocate,  and,  two  years  later,  Stadtschreiber,  or  city 
notary.  He  calls  himself  by  the  more  dignified  title  of  chancellor,  and 
held  indeed  an  office  of  considerable  importance,  as  he  was  charged  with 
the  keeping  of  the  archives,  the  record,  in  the  shape  of  protocols,  of  the 
sittings  of  the  civic  council,  and  the  maintenance  of  its  correspondence 
with  foreign  states.  Amid  these  avocations  he  found  time  to  compile 
from  ancient  documents  the  annals  of  the  town,  which  were  kept  in  the 
public  library,  and  destroyed,  with  other  valuable  records,  by  the  great 
fire  produced  by  the  Prussian  bombardment  in  1870. 

The  Emperor  Maximilian  recognised  Brant's  services  by  creating  him 
a  Councillor  of  the  Empire.  Nor  was  the  title  a  mere  illusory  one,  as  he 
was  more  than  once  summoned  to  the  imperial  camp  while  the  Concordat 
with  the  Holy  See  was  being  negotiated,  that  he  might  take  part  in  the 
deliberations  on  it.  Unlike  most  of  the  poets  of  his  age,  he  received  a 
larger  share  of  appreciation  from  his  contemporaries  than  from  posterity ; 
and  the  celebrated  Erasmus,  among  other  critics,  paid  a  public  tribute 
to  his  genius  when,  during  his  visit  to  Strasburg  in  1514,  he  repeatedly 
expressed  to  the  assembled  citizens  his  admiration  of  "  the  incomparable 
Brant." 

His  popularity  was  probably  due  in  some  degree  to  his  personal 
qualities,  as  the  portraits  of  him  prefixed  to  the  various  editions  of  his 
works  are  not  without  a  certain  fascination.  We  see  him  there  in 
furred  cap  and  civic  robes,  with  a  type  of  face  more  Italian  than  German, 
and  suggesting  aristocratic  lineage  rather  than  the  respectable  third 
estate  from  which  he  sprang.  The  nose  is  long  but  delicately  cut,  and 
on  the  slight  mobile  lips  hovers  an  incipient  smile,  in  which  a  touch  of 
sarcastic  humour  is  tempered  by  sweetness  and  geniality. 

The  "  Narrenschiff  "  was  first  published  in  Basle,  in  1494,  and  quickly 
attained  a  European  celebrity.  It  is  divided  into  110  chapters,  each 
describing  a  separate  type  of  human  folly,  and  each  illustrated  by  a 
woodcut,  of  which  the  poet  is  supposed  to  have  suggested  the  design  to 
the  artist.  In  the  execution  of  these  illustrations  critics  believe  they 
can  detect  the  work  of  five  several  hands,  representing  as  many  different 
degrees  of  skill,  and  some  are  attributed  to  Martin  Schbn  of  Colmar. 
They  are  full  of  spirit  and  vigour,  and  the  action  in  them  is  conveyed 
with  such  dramatic  efficiency  that  they  have  the  interest  of  a  series  of 
scenes  in  a  comedy  of  manners.  They  represent  the  humorous  side  of 
the  satire  much  more  strongly  than  does  the  text ;  where  the  author's 
earnestness  in  enforcing  his  moral  overpowers  the  comic  view  of  the 


232  "THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS." 

subject  in  his  mind,  and  makes  him  rather  a  censor  than  satirist.  The 
composition  doubtless  owed  its  popularity  as  much  to  its  pictorial 
as  to  its  poetical  merits,  and  we  may  safely  presume  that  the  mere 
literary  work  would  long  since  have  passed  into  oblivion  had  it  been 
separated  from  its  artistic  embellishments.  In  asking  the  reader  then  to 
follow  us  in  turning  over  its  pages,  we  shall  direct  his  attention  princi- 
pally to  these,  as  the  more  entertaining  portion  of  the  subject,  giving  only 
a  few  short  extracts  as  a  sample  of  the  poem. 

The  frontispiece  represents  the  "  Narrenschiff"  as  a  top-heavy  galley, 
with  high  poop  and  prow,  about  to  start  on  her  voyage  "  Ad  Narra- 
goniam,"  as  the  motto  declares,  with  an  obvious  pun  on  Narr,  a  fool. 
Streamers  are  fluttering  from  masts  and  rigging,  and  the  crew,  all  wear- 
ing the  livery  of  Folly,  the  hood  with  jangling  bells  and  projecting  horns 
in  the  shape  of  asses'  ears,  are  vociferating  "  Gaudeamus  omnes  "  with 
exaggerated  gestures  of  hilarity.  One  standing  on  the  prow  beckons, 
meantime,  to  a  smaller  boat,  whose  crew,  with  outstretched  hands,  are 
imploring  the  ship  to  wait,  har  noch.  Zu  schyff,  zu  schyff,  briider  ;  ess 
gat,  ess  gat !  (On  board,  on  board,  brothers ;  it  goes,  it  goes !)  are  the 
words  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  spokesman  of  the  larger  vessel,  to 
hurry  their  arrival.  In  the  upper  half  of  the  page  a  cart  is  seen  con- 
veying another  company  of  fools  by  land  to  the  same  destination.  In 
the  text,  sledges  and  wheeled  vehicles  are  classed  with  boats  and  galleys, 
as  equally  coming  under  the  definition  ship. 

This  confusion  of  terms,  and  other  hints  in  the  poem,  have  given 
German  commentators  the  idea  that  the  Ship  of  Fools  was  not  alto- 
gether a  creation  of  the  author's  imagination,  but  had  an  actual  existence 
as  part  of  the  popular  shows  and  mummeries  at  carnival-tide.  They 
trace  the  institution  as  far  back  as  the  ancient  Teutonic  worship  of  Isis 
as  the  spring  goddess,  whose  car  or  ship,  borne  along  the  rivers  or  into  the 
mountains,  was  supposed  to  carry  peace  and  fruitfulness  in  its  train. 
The  image  of  the  goddess,  those  of  other  divinities,  and  the  priests  con- 
secrated to  her  service,  were  at  first  the  sole  occupants  of  her  mystic  car, 
but  later  it  was  invaded  by  the  people,  and  doubtless  originated  some 
forms  of  Shrovetide  revelry.  Somewhat  far-fetched,  however,  seems 
the  suggested  derivation  of  carnival  from  car  navale,  notwithstanding 
the  coincidence  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  were  accustomed  to  offer 
a  ship  to  Isis  on  March  5. 

A  monkish  chronicle  records  a  strange  procession  as  having  taken 
place  in  the  year  1133,  seemingly  showing  that  the  memory  of  the  elder 
worship  still  lingered  in  the  popular  mind  through  the  Middle  Ages. 
On  the  occasion  in  question,  a  ship  was  built  in  a  forest  in  the  district 
of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  placed  on  wheels,  and  drawn  through  the  country 
escorted  by  singing  and  dancing  crowds  of  both  sexes.  At  Maastricht 
it  was  provided  with  a  mast  and  sail,  and  so  continued  its  way  by 
water,  received  with  acclamation  and  rejoicing  by  the  inhabitants  of 
each  town  it  passed,  and  by  them  forwarded  the  next  stage  in  its  pro- 


"THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS."  233 

gress.  The  monk  who  chronicles  this  singular  celebration  speaks  of 
it  in  terms  of  the  strongest  reprobation  as  an  act  of  pagan  worship, 
while  a  line  in  Brant's  poem,  saying  that  the  "  Narrenschiff "  was  to 
be  found  in. the  neighbourhood  of  Aix,  seems  to  indicate  the  survival  of 
a  similar  custom  down  to  his  own  days,  and  its  embodiment  in  the 
framework  of  his  allegory. 

The  framework  only,  or  rather  the  introduction,  for  all  nautical 
symbolism  is  dropped  after  the  first  page,  and  the  subsequent  illustra- 
tions of  the  various  types  of  folly  are  not  in  any  way  wrought  into 
the  original  design.  The  action  portrayed  in  the  woodcuts  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  generally  figurative  or  emblematic  in  independent  fashion, 
so  that  we  follow,  in  point  of  fact,  a  series  of  pictorial  allegories,  with 
explanatory  texts.  Some  of  these  are  conceived  in  a  highly  poetic  and 
imaginative  spirit,  like  that  which  personifies  the  presumptuous  and 
reckless  fool  as  a  man  looking  idly  out  of  an  upper  window,  while  his 
roof  is  smitten  by  the  thunderbolts  of  heaven.  The  way  in  which  the 
calamity  shattering  his  dwelling  is  made  visible,  in  the  shape  of  a 
hammer  wielded  by  a  gigantic  hand  stretching  from  the  clouds,  is  not 
without  a  certain  rude  force  of  expression,  while  its  effects  are  shown  in 
the  flames  bursting  from  doors  and  windows  on  the  ground  floor.  In 
contrast  to  this  type  of  overweening  carelessness  we  have  in  the  next 
page  the  picture  of  the  meddlesome  and  officious  fool,  who  is  seen  in 
the  attitude  of  Atlas,  bowed  down  by  the  self-imposed  burden  of  the 
universe,  the  circle  of  the  sphere  resting  on  his  shoulders,  framing  like 
a  vignette  a  panorama  of  trees,  towns,  estuaries,  and  mountains. 

In  the  illustration  prefixed  to  the  chapter  on  worldly  ambition, 
Fortune's  wheel  is  seen,  guided  in  its  revolution  by  a  hand  extended 
from  the  sky,  while  three  asses,  decked  with  Folly's  cap  and  bells,  repre- 
sent, in  their  different  positions,  the  various  stages  of  a  human  career. 
One  is  being  borne  rapidly  upwards,  the  second  is  triumphantly  but 
insecurely  perched  on  the  temporary  summit,  grasping  in  his  forepaws 
the  orb  of  sovereignty,  and  the  third  is  whirled  downwards  in  precipi- 
tate descent.  There  is  both  humour  and  vigorous  design  in  the  variety 
of  attitudes  and  expression  assigned  to  the  aspiring  quadrupeds,  and 
the  moral  is  pointed  by  a  skull  and  grave-stone  in  the  foreground, 
suggesting  the  common  end  of  all  Fortune's  changes.  It  is  worthy  of 
remark  that  this  design  is  almost  a  facsimile,  with  the  substitution  only 
of  asses  for  apes  and  dogs,  of  the  Wheel  of  Fortune  as  represented  on 
the  old  tarots,  or  emblematical  playing  cards,  although  they  are  not 
supposed  to  have  been  much  used  in  Germany. 

The  lesson  of  remaining  uninfluenced  by  empty  and  foolish  talking 
is  enforced  by  a  singular  image  :  a  bell  standing  on  the  ground,  mouth 
upwards,  has  a  fox's  brush  in  the  place  of  a  clapper,  to  signify  at  once 
the  impotence  and  malignity  of  evil  speakers ;  while  the  hopelessness  of 
attempting  to  stop  their  mouths  by  kindness  is  indicated  by  a  man 
taking  flour  with  both  hands  out  of  a  sack.  The  figure  holding  a 
VOL.  XLIL— NO.  248.  12. 


234  "THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS." 

balance  in  his  hand,  the  heavier  scale  containing  a  turreted  feudal  castle, 
the  lighter  the  celestial  sphere,  emblazoned  with  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
is  emblematical  of  the  folly  which  consists  in  preferring  temporal  to 
eternal  happiness. 

In  another  woodcut  a  fool  is  seen  riding  on  a  cray-fish,  his  hand 
pierced  by  a  reed  he  has  leant  on,  his  mouth  gaping  for  a  dove  flying 
towards  him  ready  roasted  ;  and  the  text  explains  this  allegory  as  signi- 
fying those  who  expect  rewards  they  have  not  earned  either  in  this- 
world  or  the  next.  The  figure  who  appears  complacently  playing  the 
bagpipes,  while  a  harp  and  lute  lie  neglected  at  his  feet,  is,  we  find, 
intended  for  those  empty-minded  prattlers  who  prefer  their  own  frivo- 
lous babble  to  anything  better  or  more  improving.  Samson,  shorn  by 
Dalilah,  is,  as  we  see  at  a  glance,  a  type  of  that  numerous  class  who 
cannot  keep  their  own  counsels ;  while  the  group  round  a  table  with 
cards  and  dice,  the  vain  fool  contemplating  himself  in  a  mirror,  and  the 
officious  one  who  runs  to  put  out  the  fire  in  his  neighbour's  house, 
leaving  his  own  in  flames,  point  equally  obvious  morals.  One  of  the 
most  striking  illustrations  is  that  prefixed  to  the  section  on  those  who 
withhold  the  truth  from  human  respect,  and  this  failing  is  symbolised 
with  considerable  dramatic  force  by  a  monk  in  the  pulpit  who  holds  his 
finger  to  his  lips  with  a  sanctimonious  expression,  while  some  of  the 
congregation  threaten  him  with  swords  and  sticks,  and  others  sleep  in 
various  attitudes  on  benches,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  pulpit. 

The  only  illustration  in  which  the  actual  Ship,  the  titular  subject  of 
the  allegory,  reappears,  is  a  sufficiently  striking  one.  In  this  it  is  seen 
capsized  in  a  tempestuous  sea,  with  the  gigantic  figure  of  Antichrist 
seated  on  its  reversed  keel ;  he  holds  a  scourge  in  one  hand,  a  sack  of 
gold  in  the  other,  and  a  monstrous  flying  fiend  blows  into  his  ear  with 
a  bellows.  The  fools  are  struggling  in  the  waves,  or  seeking  refuge  in 
a  crazy  boat,  while  another,  freighted  with  a  pious  crew  in  various  atti- 
tudes of  devotion,  and  labelled  as  the  bark  of  Peter,  is  drawn  to  the 
shore  by  the  saint  himself,  his  key  serving  very  opportunely  as  a  boat- 
hook.  The  sea  is  strewn  with  books,  and  the  text  refers  to  the  abuse 
of  the  printing-press  in  spreading  heretical  doctrines. 

If  there  were  any  attempt  at  logical  arrangement  in  the  poem,  this 
catastrophe  would  naturally  bring  it  to  a  conclusion,  instead  of  oc- 
curring, as  it  does,  at  a  comparatively  early  stage.  The  same  absence 
of  constructive  skill  is  manifest  throughout,  and  the  various  vices  and 
failings  stigmatised  by  the  author  are  jumbled  indiscriminately  together, 
without  any  pretence  at  classification  or  general  plan,  while  some  of  the 
chapters  are  so  nearly  repetitions  of  subjects  already  dealt  with,  that 
the  same  woodcut  does  duty  a  second  time.  This  failure  in  artistic 
symmetry  is,  however,  counterbalanced  by  lively  vigour  of  language, 
fluent  versification,  and  inexhaustible  fertility  of  imagery  and  illustration ; 
the  moral  of  each  chapter  being  pointed  by  a  string  of  instances,  biblical, 
classical,  and  legendary,  grouped  together  with  naive  unconsciousness  of 


"THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS."  235 

incongruity.  The  poem,  which  was  written  in  the  Swabian  dialect, 
contains,  in  many  parts,  antiquated  and  obsolete  turns  of  speech,  but 
the  modernised  version,  published  at  Berlin  in  1872,  offers  no  difficulty 
of  language,  while  it  preserves  the  racy  terseness  of  the  original. 

Each  chapter  begins  with  a  sort  of  motto  in  a  rhyming  triplet, 
generally  explanatory  of  the  accompanying  woodcut,  as,  for  instance, 
the  lines  on  men  who  are  foolishly  suspicious  and  watchful  of  their 
wives,  which  open  thus  : — 

'Twere  wiser  grasshoppers  to  count, 

Or  pour  fresh  water  in  the  fount, 

Than  over  women  guard  to  mount. 

He  finds  much  pain  and  little  pleasure, 

Who  keeps  his  wife  like  hidden  treasure  : 

If  good,  she  wants  no  guide  nor  pastor 

If  bad,  will  cheat  both  man  and  master. 

The  illustration  represents  a  man  carefully  tending  a  flock  of  grass- 
hoppers, and  another  energetically  pouring  a  jug  of  water  down  a  well ; 
while  a  woman,  looking  out  of  an  upper  window,  watches  their  futile 
labours,  with  a  slyly  sarcastic  expression  of  countenance. 

The  prologue  describes  the  work  as  evoked  by  the  genera  insensi- 
bility of  the  public  to  other  teaching,  and  after  setting  forth  the  author's 
aim  to  be  a  reformer  of  morals,  dilates  on  the  universal  applicability  of 

the  satire. 

We  well  may  call  it  Folly's  Mirror, 
Since  every  fool  there  sees  his  error. 
His  proper  worth  would  each  man  know, 
The  Glass  of  Fools  the  truth  will  show. 
Who  meets  his  image  on  the  page, 
May  learn  to  deem  himself  no  sage. 
Nor  shrink  his  nothingness  to  see, 
Since  naught  that  lives  from  fault  is  free, 
And  who  in  conscience  dare  be  sworn, 
That  cap  and  bells  he  ne'er  hath  worn. 
He  who  his  foolishness  descries 
Alone  deserves  to  rank  as  wise, 
While  who  doth  wisdom's  airs  rehearse 
May  stand  godfather  to  my  verso. 

The  same  facile  versification  and  fluent  sententious  cadence  run 
through  page  after  page,  and  chapter  after  chapter,  nor  does  the  metre 
ever  vary  from  its  pithy  brevity.  It  resembles  that  of  "  Hudibras  "  ; 
but  Brant  falls  far  short  of  the  point  and  polish  of  language  achieved  by 
Butler.  The  following  lines,  however,  taken  also  from  the  prologue,  have 
something  of  his  ringing  cadence  : — 

For  jest  and  earnest,  use  and  sport, 

Here  fools  abound  of  every  sort. 

The  sage  may  here  find  Wisdom's  rules, 

And  Folly  learn  the  ways  of  fools, 

Dolts  rich  and  poor  my  verse  doth  strike, 

The  bad  find  badness,  like  finds  like. 

12—2 


236  "THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS." 

A  cap  on  many  a  one  I  fit, 
Who  fain  to  wear  it  would  omit, 
Were  I  to  mention  him  by  name, 
"  I  know  you  not,"  he  would  exclaim. 

The  "  Narrenschiff  "  is  full  of  indications  of  the  manners  of  the  day, 
and  the  woodcuts  are  a  curious  study  of  its  costumes.  In  one  a  fashion- 
ably dressed  lady  is  coming  out  of  church,  and  is  met  in  the  courtyard 
by  a  knight  about  to  enter,  his  falcon  perched  on  the  wrist,  his  dogs 
yelping  and  snarling  at  his  heels.  Thus  attended,  the  gallant  sportsman's 
devotions  are  likely  to  be  a  greater  source  of  distraction  to  his  neigh- 
bours than  of  profit  to  himself,  and  accordingly  the  text  rebukes  this  dis- 
respectful fashion  of  assisting  at  service.  The  long  peaked  shoes  which 
were  the  prevailing  fashion  of  the  time  figure  universally  in  the  illus- 
trations, and  in  the  chapter  on  the  desecration  of  feast  days  by  servile 
labour,  having  the  toes  of  these  "  Schnabelschuhe "  stuffed  with  cotton 
so  as  to  make  them  wearable,  is  enumerated  as  one  of  the  unnecessary 
tasks  frequently  imposed  on  servants. 

The  fifteenth  century  would  seem  to  have  been  no  whit  behindhand 
in  the  tricks  of  trade — a  special  section  is  devoted  to  their  reprobation; 
and  false  weights,  short  measure,  light  money,  copper  gilt  to  pass  as 
gold,  inferior  furs  dyed  in  imitation  of  real,  lame  horses  fitted  with 
padded  shoes  to  appear  sound,  are  enumerated  among  the  forms  of 
deceit  in  vogue.  Nor  is  the  adulteration  of  food  a  modern  inven- 
tion, for  in  the  woodcut  we  have  the  wine  merchant  introducing  all 
manner  of  foreign  substances,  "  saltpetre,  sulphur,  bones,  mustard,  and 
ashes,"  into  the  barrel,  while  the  alchymist,  busy  with  retorts  and 
crucibles,  is  seen  carrying  on  another  form  of  imposture,  now  happily 
exploded. 

The  long  chapter  which  reprehends  over-indulgence  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  table  gives  a  curious  view  of  the  social  customs  of  the  time,  and 
the  author's  nai've  hints  on  good  manners  imply  a  considerable  lack  of 
them  among  his  contemporaries.  Some,  he  says,  are  too  nice  to  help 
themselves  to  salt  with  their  fingers,  but  he  for  his  part  would  prefer 
seeing  a  clean  hand  thrust  into  the  salt-cellar  to  a  knife,  which,  for  aught 
he  knows,  may  have  last  been  used  in  skinning  a  cat.  The  nice  point  of 
etiquette  thus  raised  seems  to  imply  that  the  simple  expedient  of  a 
common  salt-spoon  had  not  yet  been  hit  upon,  while  we  also  infer  from 
the  context  that  each  guest  brought  his  own  table  battery,  consisting 
probably  of  a  large  clasp  knife.  The  poet  ako  condemns  as  a  breach  of 
politeness  the  device  of  blowing  into  a  glass  to  clear  away  any  particles 
fallen  in,  as  well  as  the  introduction  of  a  knife,  or  even  of  a  piece  of 
bread  to  remove  them,  though  the  latter  passed  for  the  more  genteel 
solution  of  the  difficulty.  Among  gentlefolk  he  evidently  thinks  the 
correct  thing  would  be  to  call  for  a  fresh  glass,  though  he  considerately 
remarks  that  from  a  poor  man  such  a  costly  piece  of  refinement  would 
be  too  much  to  expect,  and  he  would  apparently  give  him  a  dispensation 


"THE  SHIP  OF  FOOLS."  237 

for  some  slight  deviation  from  the  strict  laws  of  good  breeding.  The 
carver  who  in  helping  his  neighbours  selects  the  worse  portions  for  them, 
reserving  the  better  for  himself,  he  who  turns  the  dish  round  when  it 
is  set  before  him  in  order  to  take  a  leisurely  survey  and  choose  the  most 
inviting  morsels,  the  man  who  eats  too  fast,  speaks  too  loud,  or  mono- 
polises the  general  conversation,  all  come  in  for  their  share  of  reprobation ; 
and  these  trifling  instances  show  how  narrowly  the  satirist  scanned 
human  nature,  and  how  keenly  he  ridiculed  its  smallest  failings  and 
weaknesses. 

This  minuteness  of  detail  characterises  the  poem  throughout,  and, 
while  it  adds  to  its  interest  as  an  antiquarian  relic,  undoubtedly  detracts 
from  its  literary  merit.  The  sense  of  proportion  seems  to  have  been 
wanting  in  the  author's  mind,  and  he  allots  no  greater  space  to  the 
denunciation  of  wickedness  than  to  the  analysis  of  mere  social  selfishness. 
Yet  this  very  condescension  to  trifles  which  militated  against  him  as  an 
artist,  doubtless  increased  his  usefulness  as  a  preacher ;  for  while  actual 
vice  is  almost  impregnable  to  satire,  the  enforcement  of  the  minor 
moralities  comes  fairly  within  its  scope.  Thus  if  Sebastian  Brant's  sen- 
tentious wisdom  helped  nothing  to  the  observance  of  the  Decalogue,  it 
might  at  least  hinder  breaches  of  the  social  code ;  and  if  gamesters,  cheats, 
and  drunkards  were  impervious  to  his  ridicule,  the  man  who  inconveni- 
enced his  neighbours  at  dinner  might  fear  to  find  its  shafts  borrowed  by 
their  tongues,  in  revenge  for  his  greediness  or  garrulity.  At  any  rate  our 
author  did  his  best  to  deprive  wickedness  of  its  prestige  by  classing  it 
with  folly,  and  so  far  deserved  well  of  his  generation. 

The  English  version  of  the  "  Narrenschiff,"  published  in  1509, 
attained  to  nearly  as  great  a  celebrity  as  the  German  text.  It  is  rather 
an  adaptation  than  a  translation,  and  ranks  almost  as  an  original  poem, 
but  its  prolixity  of  style  and  tedious  versification  give  no  idea  of  the 
pithy  terseness  which  gives  point  and  incisiveness  to  Brant's  satire.  Its 
author,  Alexander  Barclay,  was  a  Dominican  monk  or  Black  Friar, 
whose  conscience  in  matters  of  doctrine  was  evidently  as  elastic  as  that 
of  the  Vicar  of  Bray  in  politics,  since  he  acquiesced  calmly  in  the  Refor- 
mation, and  received  preferment  under  Edward  VI.  Having*  travelled 
on  the  continent  in  his  youth,  he  was  familiar  with  foreign  tongues,  and 
was  a  man  of  considerable  attainments.  Besides  his  translation  of  Brant, 
he  is  best  known  as  the  author  of  a  series  of  Eclogues,  which  held  a  good 
place  in  the  literature  of  the  time.  Barclay's  "  Ship  of  Fools  "  is  chiefly 
interesting  as  a  study  of  language,  being  the  only  important  work  in 
English  verse  produced  in  the  interval  between  Chaucer  and  Spenser. 
It  is  written  in  strong  idiomatic  vernacular,  and  embodies  many  popular 
proverbial  phi-ases  still  in  use,  and  here  found  for  the  first  time  in  litera- 
ture, as  the  earliest  collection  of  English  proverbs — that  of  Hey  wood — was 
not  published  till  1546.  Thus  we  read  in  its  pages,  "  When  the  stede  is 
stolyn  to  shyt  the  stable  door."  "  Better  is  a  frend  in  courte  than  a  peny 
in  purse."  "  A  crowe  to  pull."  "  Better  haue  one  birde  sure  within 


238  "THE  SHIP   OF  FOOLS." 

thy  wall,  or  fast  in  a  cage  than  twenty  score  without,"  while  the  Eclogues 
are  still  more  rich  in  the  homely  wit  of  the  popular  idiom. 

Barclay's  poem  furnished  Sir  Edward  Coke's  caustic  wit  with  a 
metaphor  for  a  sneer  at  his  great  rival.  The  first  edition  of  the  "  Novum 
Organttm  "  had  on  its  title-page  a  woodcut  of  a  ship  passing  the  Straits 
of  Hercules,  to  signify  the  new  realms  about  to  be  explored  by  philo- 
sophy ;  and  on  the  presentation  copy  given  to  Coke  the  following  doggrel 
rhyme  was  inscribed  in  his  handwriting,  above  the  proud  device  of  the 
author : — 

It  deserveth  not  to  be  read  in  schools, 

But  to  be  freighted  in  the  Ship  of  Fools. 

In  modern  English  literature  the  "  Ship  of  Fools  "  is  more  rarely 
introduced,  and  probably  the  latest  allusion  to  it  occurs  in  a  now  nearly 
forgotten  novel  called  "  Crotchet  Castle,"  by  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  a 
writer  of  the  last  generation.  The  principal  characters  of  the  work  are 
discussing  a  projected  pleasure  voyage  up  the  Thames  and  by  the  head 
waters  of  the  Severn  into  the  Ellesmere  Canal,  when  Lord  Bossnowl, 
the  butt  of  the  party,  expresses  a  hope  that  if  he's  to  be  one  of  the  com- 
pany the  ship  is  not  to  be  the  ship  of  fools,  thereby,  of  course,  raising  a 
universal  laugh  against  himself. 

This  imaginary  expedition  had  actually  been  rnaae  by  Peacock,  who 
here  describes  it,  in  company  with  the  poet  Shelley,  the  explorers  follow- 
ing the  windings  of  the  Thames  until,  as  the  former  graphically  puts  it 
in  a  letter,  its  entire  volume  had  dwindled  to  so  narrow  a  thread  as  to 
be  turned  aside  by  a  cow  lying  placidly  recumbent  across  its  course.  It 
was  during  this  excursion  that  Shelley  visited  Lechdale  in  Gloucester- 
shire, the  scene  commemorated  by  the  beautiful  lines  on  "  A  Summer 
Evening  Churchyard,"  beginning — 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 
Each  vapour  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray  ; 

And  pallid  evening  twines  its  beaming  hair 

In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day  ; 

Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 

Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

It  would  seem  that  an  additional  wave  of  Lethe  has  rolled  over  the 
work  of  Brant  and  Barclay  in  the  generation  intervening  between 
Shelley's  time  and  our  own,  for  a  passing  reference  like  the  above  would 
scarcely  be  understood  by  the  novel-reading  public  of  the  present  day. 
The  famous  satire  is  at  last  forgotten,  amid  the  multitude  of  ephemeral 
novelties  that  burden  the  library  shelves,  and  few  care  to  explore  its 
antiquated  pages.  Yet  the  picture  parables  and  homely  truisms  in 
verse  with  which  their  author  seeks  to  illustrate  and  enforce  his  plain 
old-world  morality  might  be  found  more  entertaining  than  the  stereo- 
typed conventionalities  of  many  a  modern  volume. 


239 


(WE  lay  our  story  in  the  East. 
Because  'tis  Eastern?     Not  the  least. 
We  place  it  there  because  we  fear 
To  bring  its  parable  too  near, 
And  touch  with  an  unguarded  hand 
Our  dear,  confiding  native  land.) 

A  certain  Calipb,  in  the  days 
The  race  affected  vagrant  ways, 
And  prowled  at  eve  for  good  or  bad 
In  lanes  and  alleys  of  BAGDAD, 
Once  found,  at  edge  of  the  bazaar, 
E'en  where  the  poorest  workers  are, 
A  Carver. 

Fair  his  work  and  fine 
With  mysteries  of  inlaced  design, 
And  shapes  of  shut  significance 
To  aught  but  an  anointed  glance, — 
The  dreams  and  visions  that  grow  plain 
In  darkened  chambers  of  the  brain. 

But  all  day  busily  he  wrought 

From  dawn  to  eve,  and  no  one  bought; — 

Save  when  some  Jew  with  look  askant, 

Or  keen-eyed  Greek  from  the  Levant, 

Would  pause  awhile, — depreciate, — 

Then  buy  a  month's  work  by  the  weight, 

Bearing  it  swiftly  over  seas 

To  garnish  rich  men's  treasuries. 

And  now  for  long  none  bought  at  all, 
So  lay  he  sullen  in  his  stall. 
Him  thus  withdrawn  the  Caliph  found, 
And  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground — 


240  THE  CAEVER  AND  THE  CALIPH. 

"  Ho,  there,  within  !     Hast  wares  to  sell  1 
Or  slumber'st,  having  dined  too  well  1 " 
"'Dined,'"  quoth  the  man,  with  angry  eyes, 
"  How  should  I  dine  when  no  one  huys  1 " 
"  Nay,"  said  the  other,  answering  low, — 
"  Nay,  I  but  jested.     Is  it  so  ? 
Take  then  this  coin,  but  take  beside 
A  counsel,  friend,  thou  hast  not  tried. 
This  craft  of  thine,  the  mart  to  suit, 
Is  too  refined, — remote, — minute; 
These  small  conceptions  can  but  fail; 
'Twere  best  to  work  on  larger  scale, 
And  rather  choose  such  themes  as  wear 
More  of  the  earth  and  less  of  air. 
The  fisherman  that  hauls  his  net, — 
The  merchants  in  the  market  set, — 
The  couriers  posting  in  the  street, — 
The  gossips  as  they  pass  and  greet, — 
These  things  are  plain  to  all  men's  eyes, 
Therefore  with  these  they  sympathise. 
Further  (neglect  not  this  advice  !) 
Be  sure  to  ask  three  times  the  price." 

The  Carver  sadly  shook  his  head; 
He  knew  'twas  truth  the  Caliph  said. 
From  that  day  forth  his  work  was  planned 
So  that  the  world  might  understand. 
He  carved  it  deeper,  and  more  plain ; 
He  carved  it  thrice  as  large  again; 
He  sold  it,  too,  for  thrice  the  cost; 
— Ah,   but  the  Artist  that  was  lost ! 

AUSTIN  DOBSOX. 


241 


Ifthtp :  %  gac|jim0  Romance. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 
BACKWARD  THOUGHTS. 

HAT  was  a  beautiful 
morning  on  which  we 
got  up  at 'an  unearthly 
hour  to  see  the  Youth 
depart — all  of  us,  that  is 
to  say,  except  Mary 
Avon.  And  yet  she  was 
not  usually  late.  The 
Laird  could  not  under- 
stand it.  He  kept  walk- 
ing from  one  room  to  an- 
other, or  hovering  about 
the  hall ;  and  when  the 
breakfast  gong  sounded, 
he  refused  to  come  in 
and  take  his  place  with- 
out his  accustomed  com- 
panion. But  just  at 
this  moment  whom 
should  he  behold  enter- 
ing by  the  open  door  but  Mary  Avon  herself — laden  with  her  artistic 
impedimenta.  He  pounced  on  her  at  once,  and  seized  the  canvas. 

"  Bless  me,  lassie,  what  have  ye  been  about  ?  Have  ye  done  all  this 
this  morning  1  Ye  must  have  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night !  " 

It  was  but  a  rough  sketch,  after  all — or  the  beginnings  of  a  sketch, 
rather — of  the  wide,  beautiful  sea  and  mountain  view  from  the  garden 
of  Castle  Osprey. 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  said  she,  in  a  somewhat  hesitating  way,  "  that  you 
might  perhaps  be  so  kind  as  to  accept  from  me  those  sketches  I  have 
made  on  board  the  White  Dove — and — and  if  they  were  at  Denny-mains, 
I  should  like  to  have  the  series  complete — and — and  it  would  naturally 

begin  with  a  sketch  from  the  garden  here " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  with  a  grave,  perhaps  wistful,  kind- 
ness in  his  face. 

"  My  lass,  I  would  rather  have  seen  you  at  Denny-mains." 
That  was  the  very  last  word  ho  ever  uttered  concerning  the  dream 

12—5 


242  WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

that  had  just  been  disturbed.  And  it  was  only  about  this  time,  I 
thin'k,  that  we  began  to  recognise  the  simple,  large,  noble  nature  of 
this  man.  We  had  been  too  much  inclined  to  regard  the  mere  husks 
and  externals  of  his  character — to  laugh  at  his  assumption  of  parochial 
importance,  his  solemn  discussions  of  the  Semple  case,  his  idiotic  stories 
about  Homesh.  And  it  was  not  a  mere  freak  of  generosity  that  revealed 
to  us  something  of  the  finer  nature  of  this  old  Scotchman.  People  as 
rich  as  he  have  often  paid  bigger  sums  than  10,300£.  for  the  furtherance 
of  a  hobby.  But  it  was  to  put  away  his  hobby — it  was  to  destroy  for 
ever  the  "  dream  of  his  old  age  " — that  he  had  been  thus  munificent 
towards  this  girl.  And  there  was  no  complaint  or  regret.  He  had  told 
us  it  was  time  for  him  to  put  away  childish  things.  And  this  was  the 
last  word  said — "My  lass,  I  would  rather  have  seen  you  at  Denny- 
mains." 

The  Laird  was  exceedingly  facetious  at  this  breakfast-party,  and  his 
nephew  had  a  bad  time  of  it.  There  were  mysterious  questions  about 
Messrs.  Hughes,  Barnes,  and  Barnes ;  as  to  whether  consultations  were 
best  held  in  stubble  or  in  turnips ;  or  whether  No.  5  shot  was  the  best 
for  bringing  down  briefs  ;  and  so  forth. 

"  Never  mind,  uncle,"  said  the  Youth  good-naturedly.  "  I  will  send 
you  some  partridges  for  the  larder  of  the  yacht." 

"  You  need  not  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  said  the  Laird ;  "  before 
you  are  in  Bedfordshire  the  White  Dove  will  be  many  a  mile  away  from 
the  course  of  luggage  steamers." 

"  Oh,  are  you  ready  to  start,  then,  sir  ?  "  said  his  hostess. 

"  This  very  meenute,  if  it  pleases  you,"  said  he. 

She  looked  rather  alarmed,  but  said  nothing.  In  the  meantime  the 
waggonette  had  come  to  the  door. 

By-and-by  there  was  a  small  party  assembled  on  the  steps  to  see 
the  Youth  drive  off.  And  now  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  make  that 
speech  of  thanks  which  his  tincle  had  pointed  out  was  distinctly  due 
from  him.  The  Laird,  indeed,  regarded  his  departure  with  a  critical 
air ;  and  no  doubt  waited  to  see  how  his  nephew  would  acquit  him- 
self. 

Perhaps  the  Youth  had  forgotten.  At  all  events,  having  bidden 
good-bye  to  the  others,  he  shook  hands  last  of  all  with  his  hostess,  and 
said  lightly — 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  I  have  enjoyed  the  whole  thing  tre- 
mendously." 

Then  he  jumped  into  the  waggonette,  and  took  off  his  cap  as  a  parting 
salute  ;  and  away  he  went.  The  Laird  frowned.  When  he  was  a  young 
man  that  was  not  the  way  in  which  hospitality  was  acknowledged. 

Then  Mary  Avon  turned  from  regarding  the  depai-ting  waggonette. 

"  Are  we  to  get  ready  to  start  ?  "  said  she. 

"  What  do  you  say,  sir  V  asks  the  hostess  of  the  Laird. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  he  replies. 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  243 

And  so  it  appeared  to  be  arranged.  But  still  Queen  Titania  looked 
irresolute  and  uneasy.  She  did  not  at  once  set  the  whole  house  in  an 
uproar  ;  or  send  down  for  the  men  ;  or  begin  herself  to  harry  the  garden. 
She  kept  loitering  about  the  door  ;  pretending  to  look  at  the  signs  of 
the  weather.  At  last  Mary  said  — 

"  Well,  in  any  case,  you  will  be  more  than  an  hour  in  having  the 
things  carried  down  ;  so  I  will  do  a  little  bit  more  to  that  sketch  in  the 
meantime." 

The  moment  she  was  gone,  her  hostess  says  in  a  hurried  whisper  to 
the  Laird  — 

"  Will  you  come  into  the  Library,  sir,  for  a  moment  1  " 

He  obediently  followed  her  ;  and  she  shut  the  door. 

"  Are  we  to  start  without  Angus  Sutherland  1  "  she  asked,  without 
cinmmlocution. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  the  wily  Laird. 

Then  she  was  forced  to  explain,  which  she  did  in  a  somewhat  nervous 
manner.  . 

"  Mary  has  told  me,  sir,  of  your  very,  very  great  generosity  to  her. 
I  hope  you  will  let  me  thank  you,  too." 

"  There  is  not  another  word  to  be  said  about  it,"  he  said  simply. 
"  I  found  a  small  matter  wrong  in  the  world  that  I  thought  I  could  put 
right  ;  and  I  did  it  •  and  now  we  start  fresh  and  straight  again.  That 
is  all." 

"  But  about  Angus  Sutherland,"  said  she  still  more  timidly.  "  You 
were  quite  right  in  your  conjectures  —  at  least,  I  imagine  so  —  indeed,  I 
am  sure  of  it.  And  now.  don't  you  think  we  shoiild  send  for  him  ?  " 

"  The  other  day,  ma'am,"  said  he  slowly,  "  I  informed  ye  that  when 
I  considered  my  part  done  I  would  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands 
entirely.  I  had  to  ask  some  questions  of  the  lass,  no  doubt,  to  make 
sure  of  my  ground  ;  though  I  felt  it  was  not  a  business  fit  for  an  old 
bachelor  like  me  to  intermeddle  wi'.  I  am  now  of  opinion  that  it  would 
be  better,  as  I  say,  to  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands  entirely." 

The  woman  looked  rather  bewildered. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do?  "  said  she.  "  Mary  will  never  allow  me  to 
send  for  him  —  and  I  have  not  his  address  in  any  case  -  " 


Laird  took  a  telegram  from  his  breast-pocket. 

"  There  it  is,"  said  he,  "  until  the  end  of  this  week,  at  all  events." 

She  looked  at  it  hesitatingly  ;  it  was  from  the  office  of  the  magazine 
that  Angus  Sutherland  edited  ;  and  was  in  reply  to  a  question  of  the 
Laird's.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  ask  Mary  herself1?" 

"  That  is  for  a  woman  to  decide,"  said  he  ;  and  again  she  was  thrown 
back  on  her  own  resources. 

Well,  this  midge  of  a  woman  has  some  courage,  too.  She  began  to 
reflect  on  what  the  Laird  had  adventured,  and  done,  for  the  sake  of  this 
girl  ;  and  was  she  not  prepared  to  risk  something  also  ?  After  all,  if 


244  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

these  two  had  been  fostering  a  vain  delusion,  it  would  be  better  to  have 
it  destroyed  at  once. 

And  so  she  went  out  into  the  garden,  where  she  found  Miss  Avon 
again  seated  at  her  easel.  She  went  gently  over  to  her ;  she  had  the 
telegram  in  her  hand.  For  a  second  or  two  she  stood  irresolute ;  then 
she  boldly  walked  across  the  lawn,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  girl's 
shoulder.  With  the  other  hand  she  held  the  telegram  before  Mary 
Avon's  eyes. 

"  Mary,"  said  she,  in  a  very  low  and  gentle  voice.  "  Will  you  write 
to  him  now  and  ask  him  to  come  back  ?  " 

The  girl  dropped  the  brush  she  had  been  holding  on  to  the  grass,  and 
her  face  got  very  pale. 

"Oh,  how  could  I  do  that1?"  said  she,  in  an  equally  low — and 
frightened — voice. 

"  You  sent  him  away." 

There  was  no  answer.  The  elder  woman  waited ;  she  only  saw 
that  Mary  Avon's  fingers  were  working  nervously  with  the  edge  of  the 
palette. 

"  Mary,"  said  she  at  length,  "  am  I  right  in  imagining  the  cause 
of  your  sending  him  away  ?  May  I  write  and  explain,  if  you  will 
not?" 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  explain  1 "  the  girl  said,  almost  piteously.  "  It  is 
better  as  it  is.  Did  you  not  hear  what  the  kindest  friend  I  ever  found 
in  the  world  had  to  say  of  me  yesterday,  about  young  people  who  were 
too  prudent,  and  were  mercenary ;  and  how  he  had  no  respect  for  young 
people  who  thought  too  much  about  money " 

"  Mary,  Mary  !  "  the  other  said,  "  he  was  not  speaking  about  you. 
You  mercenary !  He  was  speaking  about  a  young  man  who  would 
throw  over  his  sweetheart  for  the  sake  of  money.  You  mercenary  I 
Well,  let  me  appeal  to  Angus  !  When  I  explain  to  him,  and  ask  him 
what  he  thinks  of  you,  I  will  abide  by  his  answer." 

"  Well,  I  did  not  think  of  myself;  it  was  for  his  sake  I  did  it,"  said 
the  girl,  in  a  somewhat  broken  voice ;  and  tears  began  to  steal  down 
her  cheeks,  and  she  held  her  head  away. 

"  Well,  then,  I  won't  bother  you  a,ny  more,  Mary,"  said  the  other,  in 
her  kindliest  way.  "  I  won't  ask  you  to  do  anything,  except  to  get 
ready  to  get  down  to  the  yacht." 

"  At  once?"  said  the!' girl,  instantly  getting  up,  and  drying  her  eyes. 
She  seemed  greatly  relieved  by  this  intimation  of  an  immediate  start. 

"  As  soon  as  the  men  have  the  luggage  taken  down." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  very  pleasant,"  said  she,  immediately  beginning  to 
put  away  her  colours.  "  What  a  fine  breeze  !  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  ready 
in  fifteen  minutes." 

Then  the  usual  bustle  began  ;  messages  flying  up  and  down,  and  the 
gig  and  dingay  racing  each  other  to  the  shore  and  back  again.  By  twelve 
o'clock  everything  had  been  got  on  board.  Then  the  White  Dove  gently 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  245 

glided  away  from  her  moorings ;  we  had  started  on  our  last  and  longest 
voyage. 

It  seemed  innumerable  ages  since  we  had  been  in  our  sea-home.  And 
that  first  glance  round  the  saloon — as  our  absent  friend  the  Doctor  had 
remarked — called  up  a  multitude  of  recollections,  mostly  converging  to 
a  general  sense  of  snugness,  and  remoteness,  and  good  fellowship.  The 
Laird  sank  down  into  a  corner  of  one  of  the  couches,  and  said — 

"  Well,  I  think  I  could  spend  the  rest  of  my  days  in  this  yacht.  It 
seems  as  if  I  had  lived  in  it  for  many,  many  years." 

But  Miss  Avon  would  not  let  him  remain  below ;  it  was  a  fine 
sailing  day ;  and  very  soon  we  were  all  on  deck.  A  familiar  scene  ? — this 
expanse  of  blue  sea,  curling  with  white  here  and  there ;  with  a  dark 
blue  sky  overhead,  and  all  around  the  grand  panorama  of  mountains  in 
their  rich  September  hues  1  The  sea  is  never  familiar.  In  its  constant 
and  moving  change,  its  secret  and  slumbering  power,  its  connection  with 
the  great  unknown  beyond  the  visible  horizon,  you  never  become  familiar 
with  the  sea.  We  may  recognise  the  well-known  landmarks  as  we  steal 
away  to  the  north — the  long  promontory  and  white  lighthouse  of  Lis- 
more,  the  ruins  of  Duart,  the  woods  of  Scallasdale,  the  glimpse  into  Loch 
Aline — and  we  may  use  these  things  only  to  calculate  our  progress ;  but 
always  around  us  is  the  strange  life,  and  motion,  and  infinitude  of  the 
sea,  which  never  becomes  familiar. 

We  had  started  with  a  light  favourable  wind,  of  the  sort  that  we  had 
come  to  call  a  Mary- Avon-steering  breeze ;  but  after  luncheon  this  died 
away,  and  we  lay  idly  for  a  long  time  opposite  the  dark  green  woods  of 
Fuinary.  However,  there  was  a  wan  and  spectral  look  about  the  sun- 
shine of  this  afternoon,  and  there  were  some  long,  ragged  shreds  of  cloud 
in  the  southern  heavens — just  over  the  huge  round  shoulders  of  the  Mull 
mountains — that  told  us  we  were  not  likely  to  be  harassed  by  any  pro- 
tracted calms.  And,  in  fact,  occasional  puffs  and  squalls  came  over  from 
the  south  which,  if  they  did  not  send  us  on  much  farther,  at  least  kept 
everybody  on  the  alert. 

And  at  length  we  got  it.  The  gloom  over  the  mountains  had 
deepened,  and  the  streaks  of  sunlit  sky  that  were  visible  here  and  there 
had  a  curious  coppery  tinge  about  them.  Then  we  heard  a  hissing  in 
towards  the  shore,  and  the  darkening  band  on  the  sea  spread  rapidly  out 
to  us ;  then  there  was  a  violent  shaking  of  blocks  and  spars,  and,  as  the 
White  Dove  bent  to  the  squall,  a  most  frightful  clatter  was  heard  below, 
showing  that  some  careless  people  had  been  about.  Then  away  went 
the  yacht  like  an  arrow  !  We  cared  little  for  the  gusts  of  rain  that 
came  whipping  across  from  time  to  time.  We  would  not  even  go  down 
to  see  what  damage  had  been  done  in  the  cabins.  John  of  Skye,  with 
his  savage  hatred  of  the  long  calms  we  had  endured,  refused  to  lower  his 
gaff  topsail.  At  last  he  was  "  letting  her  have  it." 

We  spun  along,  with  the  water  hissing  away  from  our  wake ;  but 
the  squall  had  not  had  time  to  raise  anything  of  a  sea,  so  there  was  but 


246  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

little  need  for  the  women  to  duck  their  heads  to  the  spray.  Promontory 
after  promontory,  bay  after  bay  was  passed,  until  far  ahead  of  us, 
through  the  driving  mists  of  rain,  we  could  make  out  the  white  shaft  of 
Ru-na-Gaul  lighthouse.  But  here  another  condition  of  affairs  confronted 
us.  When  we  turned  her  nose  to  the  south,  to  beat  in  to  Tobermory 
harbour,  the  squall  was  coming  tearing  out  of  that  cup  among  the  hills 
with  an  exceeding  violence.  When  the  spray  sprang  high  at  the  bows, 
the  flying  shreds  of  it  that  reached  us  bore  an  uncommon  resemblance 
to  the  thong  of  a  whip.  The  topsail  was  got  down,  the  mizen  taken  in, 
and  then  we  proceeded  to  fight  our  way  into  the  harbour  in  a  series  of 
tacks  that  seemed  to  last  only  a  quarter  of  a  second.  What  with  the 
howling  of  the  wind,  that  blew  back  his  orders  in  his  face ;  and  what 
with  the  wet  decks,  that  caused  the  men  to  stumble  now  and  again ;  and 
what  with  the  number  of  vessels  in  the  bay,  that  cut  short  his  tacks  at 
every  turn,  Captain  John  of  Skye  had  an  exciting  time  of  it.  But  we 
knew  him  of  old.  He  "  put  on  "  an  extra  tack,  when  there  was  no 
need  for  it,  and  slipped  through  between  a  fishing-smack  and  a  large 
schooner,  merely  for  the  sake  of  "  showing  off."  And  then  the  WJdte 
Dove  was  allowed  to  go  up  to  the  wind,  and  slowly  slackened  her  pace, 
and  the  anchor  went  out  with  a  roar.  We  were  probably  within  a  yard 
of  the  precise  spot  where  we  had  last  anchored  in  the  Tobbermorry  bay. 

It  blew  and  rained  hard  all  that  evening,  and  we  did  not  even  think 
of  going  on  deck  after  dinner.  We  were  quite  content  as  we  were. 
Somehow  a  new  and  secret  spirit  of  cheerfulness  had  got  possession  of 
certain  members  of  this  party,  without  any  ostensible  cause.  There  was 
no  longer  the  depression  that  had  prevailed  about  West  Loch  Tarbert. 
When  Mary  Avon  played  bezique  with  the  Laird,  it  was  to  a  scarcely 
audible  accompaniment  of  "  The  Queen's  Maries." 

Nor  did  the  evening  pass  without  an  incident  worthy  of  some  brief 
mention.  There  is,  in  the  White  Dove,  a  state-room  which  really  acts  as 
a  passage,  during  the  day,  between  the  saloon  and  the  forecastle ;  and, 
when  this  state-room  is  not  in  use,  Master  Fred  is  in  the  habit  of  con- 
verting it  into  a  sort  of  pantry,  seeing  that  it  adjoins  his  galley.  Now, 
on  this  evening,  when  our  shifty  Friedrich  d'or  came  in  with  soda-water 
and  such  like  things,  he  took  occasion  to  say  to  the  Rear-Admiral  of  the 
Fleet  on  board — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mem,  but  there  is  no  one  now  in  this  state-room, 
and  will  I  use  it  for  a  pantry  1  " 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  Fred,"  said  she  quite  sharply. 


^  CHAPTER  XLII. 

A  TOAST. 

"  I  AM  almost  afraid  of  what  I  have  done ;  but.  it  is  past  recall  now :  " 
this  is  the  mysterious  sentence  one  hears  on  climbing  up  the  companion 
next  morning.  It  is  Queen  Titania  and  the  Laird  who  are  talking ;  but 


WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  247 

as  soon  as  a  third  person  appears  they  become  consciously  and  guiltily 
silent.  What  does  it  matter1?  We  have  other  work  on  hand  than  pry- 
ing into  twopenny-halfpenny  secrets. 

For  we  have  resolved  on  starting  away  for  the  north  in  spite  of  this 
fractious  weather.  A  more  unpromising-looking  morning  indeed  for  setting 
out  could  not  well  be  imagined — windy,  and  wet,  and  squally  ;  the  driven 
green  sea  outside  springing  white  where  it  meets  the  line  of  the  coast ; 
Loch  Sunart  and  its  mountains  hidden  away  altogether  behind  the  mists 
of  rain  ;  wan  flashes  of  sunlight  here  and  there  only  serving  to  show  how 
swiftly  the  clouds  are  flying.  But  the  White  Dove  has  been  drying  her 
wings  all  the  summer ;  she  can  afford  to  face  a  shower  now.  And  while 
the  men  are  hoisting  the  sail  and  getting  the  anchor  hove  short,  our  two 
women-folk  array  themselves  in  tightly-shaped  ulsters,  with  hoods  drawn 
over  their  heads  ;  and  the  Laird  appears  in  a  waterproof  reaching  to  his 
heels ;  and  even  the  skylights  have  their  tarpaulins  thrown  over.  Dirty 
weather  or  no,  we  mean  to  start. 

There  are  two  or  three  yachts  in  the  bay,  the  last  of  the  summer-fleet 
all  hastening  away  to  the  south.  There  is  no  movement  on  the  decks  of 
any  one  of  them.  Here  and  there,  however,  in  sheltered  places — under 
a  bit  of  awning,  or  standing  by  the  doors  of  deck-saloons — we  can  make 
out  huddled  groups  of  people,  who  are  regarding,  with  a  pardonable 
curiosity,  the  operations  of  John  of  Skye  and  his  merry  men. 

"  They  take  us  for  maniacs,"  says  Queen  Titania  from  out  of  her 
hood,  "  to  be  setting  out  for  the  north  in  such  weather." 

And  we  were  nearly  affording  those  amiable  spectators  a  pretty  sight. 
The  wind  coming  in  variable  gusts,  the  sails  failed  to  fill  at  the  proper 
moment,  and  the  White  Dove  drifted  right  on  to  the  bows  of  a  great 
schooner,  whose  bowsprit  loomed  portentous  overhead.  There  was  a 
wild  stampede  for  boathooks  and  oars ;  and  then  with  arms,  and  feet, 
and  poles — aided  by  the  swarming  crew  of  the  schooner — :we  managed  to 
clear  her  with  nothing  more  serious  than  an  ominous  grating  along  the 
gig.  And  then  the  wind  catching  her,  she  gradually  came  under  the 
control  of  Captain  John  ;  and  away  we  went  for  the  north,  beating  right 
in  the  teeth  of  the  gusts  that  came  tearing  over  from  the  mouth  of 
Loch  Sunart. 

"  It's  a  bad  wind,  mem,  for  getting  up  to  Isle  Ornsay,"  says  John  of 
Skye  to  the  Admiral.  "  Ay,  and  the  ^ea  pretty  coorse,  too,  when  we  get 
outside  Ardnamurchan." 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  John,"  she  says  severely,  and  with  an  air  of 
authority — as  much  authority,  that  is  to  say,  as  can  be  assumed  by  a 
midge  enclosed  in  an  ulster.  "  I  am  not  going  to  have  any  of  that.  I 
know  you  of  old.  As  soon  as  you  get  out  of  Tobermory,  you  imme- 
diately discover  that  the  wind  is  against  our  going  north ;  and  we  turn 
round  and  run  away  down  to  lona  and  the  Bull-hole.  I  will  not  go  to 
the  Bull-hole.  If  I  have  "to  sail  this  yacht  myself,  night  and  day,  I  will 
go  to  Isle  Ornsay." 


248  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

"  If  ye  please,  mem,"  says  John  of  Skye,  grinning  with  great  delight 
over  her  facetiousness.  "  Oh,  I  will  tek  the  yat  to  Isle  Ornsay  very 
well,  if  the  leddies  not  afraid  of  a  little  coorse  sea.  And  you  will  not 
need  to  sail  the  yat  at  all,  mem.  But  I  not  afraid  to  let  you  sail  the 
yat.  You  will  know  about  the  sailing  now  shist  as  much  as  Mr.  Suther- 
land." 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Queen  Titania  glanced  at  Mary  Avon, 
perceived  she  was  not  listening,  and  went  nearer  to  John  of  Skye,  and 
said  something  to  him  in  a  lower  voice.  There  was  a  quick  look  of  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  on  the  handsome,  brown-bearded  face. 

"  Oh,  I  ferry  glad  of  that,  mem,"  said  he. 

"  Hush,  John  !     Not  a  word  to  anybody,"  said  she. 

By  this  time  we  had  beat  out  of  the  harbour,  and  were  now  getting 
longer  tacks  ;  so  that,  when  the  sheets  were  properly  coiled,  it  was  pos- 
sible for  the  Laird  and  Miss  Avon  to  attempt  a  series  of  short  prome- 
nades on  the  wet  decks.  It  was  an  uncertain  and  unstable  performance, 
to  be  sure  ;  for  the  sea  was  tumultuous  ;  but  it  served. 

"  Mutual  help — that's  the  thing,"  said  the  Laird  to  his  companion,  as 
together  they  staggered  along,  or  stood  steady  to  confront  a  particularly 
fierce  gust  of  wind.  "We  are  independent  of  the  world — this  solitary 
vessel  out  in  the  waste  of  waters — but  we  are  not  independent  of  each 
other.  It  just  reminds  me  of  the  small  burghs  outside  Glasgow ;  we 
wish  to  be  independent  of  the  great  ceety  lying  near  us ;  we  prefer  to 
have  a  separate  existence ;  but  we  can  help  each  other  for  all  that  in  a 
most  unmistakeable  way " 

Here  the  Laird  was  interrupted  by  the  calling  out  of  Captain 
John — "  Ready  about !  " — and  he  and  his  companion  had  to  get  out  of  the 
way  of  the  boom.  Then  they  resumed  their  promenade,  and  he  his  dis- 
course. 

"  Do  ye  think,  for  example,"  said  this  profound  philosopher,  "  that  any 
one  burgh  would  have  been  competent  to  decide  on  a  large  question  like 
the  clauses  of  the  Police  Act  that  refer  to  cleansing  and  lighting  1 " 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  Miss  Avon  admitted. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he  confidently,  "  large  questions  should  be  considered 
in  common  council — with  every  opportunity  of  free  discussion.  I  do 
not  much  like  to  speak  about  local  matters,  or  of  my  own  share  in  them, 
but  I  must  take  credit  for  this,  that  it  was  myself  recommended  to  the 
Commissioners  to  summon  a  public  meeting.  It  was  so,  and  the  meet- 
ing was  quite  unanimous.  It  was  Provost  McKendrick,  ye  must  under- 
stand, who  formally  made  the  proposal  that  the  consideration  of  those 
clauses  should  be  remitted  to  the  clerks  of  the  various  burghs,  who 
were  to  report ;  but  the  suggestion  was  really  mine — I  make  no  scruple 
in  claiming  it.  And  then,  see  the  result !  When  the  six  clerks  were 
agreed,  and  sent  in  their  report,  look  at  the  authority  of  such  a  docu- 
ment !  Who  but  an  ass  would  make  freevolous  objections  ?  " 

The  Laird  laughed  aloud. 


WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  249 

"  It  was  that  crayture,  Johnnie  Guthrie,"  said  he,  "as  usual !  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  have  mentioned  his  name  to  ye  before  1 " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so,  sir,"  remarked  Miss  Avon. 

"  It  was  that  crayture,  Johnnie  Guthrie — in  the  face  of  the  unanimous 
report  of  the  whole  six  clerks  !  Why,  what  could  be  more  reasonable 
than  that  the  lighting  of  closes  and  common  stairs  should  fall  on  the 
landlords,  but  with  power  to  recover  from  the  tenants ;  while  the 
cleansing  of  back  courts — being  a  larger  and  more  general  measure — 
should  be  the  work  of  the  Commissioners  and  chargeable  in  the  police 
rates  1  It  is  a  great  sanitary  work  that  benefits  every  one ;  why  should 
not  all  have  a  hand  in  paying  for~it  ]  " 

Miss  Avon  was  understood  to  assent;  but  the  fact  was  that  the 
small  portion  of  her  face  left  uncovered  by  her  hood  had  just  then 
received  an  unexpected  bath  of  salt  water ;  and  she  had  to  halt  for  a 
moment  to  get  out  a  handkerchief  from  some  sub-ulsterian  recess. 

"Well,"  continued  the  Laird,  as  they  resumed  their  walk,  "what  does 
this  body  Guthrie  do  but  rise  and  propose  that  the  landlords — mind  ye, 
the  landlords  alone — should  be  rated  for  the  expense  of  cleaning  the 
back-courts  !  I  declare  there  are  some  folk  seem  to  think  that  a  land- 
lord is  made  of  nothing  but  money,  and  that  it  is  everybody's  business  to 
harry  him,  and  worry  him,  and  screw  every  farthing  out  of  him.  If 
Johnnie  Guthrie  had  half  a  dozen  lands  of  houses  himself,  what  would 
he  say  about  the  back-courts  then  1 " 

This  triumphant  question  settled  the  matter ;  and  we  hailed  the 
Laird  below  for  luncheon.  Our  last  glance  round  showed  us  the  Atlantic 
of  a  silvery  grey,  and  looking  particularly  squally;  with  here  and  there 
a  gleam  of  pale  sunshine  falling  on  the  long  headland  of  Ardnamurchan. 

There  was  evidently  some  profound  secret  about. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  and  where  will  we  get  to  the  night,  do  ye  think  ? ' 
said  the  Laird,  cheerfully,  as  he  proceeded  to  carve  a  cold  fowl. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  the  other,  with  equal  carelessness. 
"  You  know  we  must  idle  away  a  few  days  somewhere." 

Idle  away  a  few  days  1 — and  this  White  Dove  bent  on  a  voyage  to 
the  far  north  when  the  very  last  of  the  yachts  were  fleeing  south  ? 

"  I  mean,"  said  she  hastily,  in  order  to  retrieve  her  blunder,  "  that 
Captain  John  is  not  likely  to  go  far  away  from  the  chance  of  a  harbour 
until  he  sees  whether  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  equinoctials  or  not." 

"  The  equinoctials  !  "  said  the  Laird,  anxiously. 

"  They  sometimes  begin  as  early  as  this ;  but  not  often.  However, 
there  will  always  be  some  place  where  we  can  run  in  to." 

The  equinoctials,  indeed  !  When  we  went  on  deck  again  we  found 
not  only  that  those  angry  squalls  had  ceased,  but  that  the  wind  had 
veered  very  considerably  in  our  favour,  and  we  were  now  running  and 
plunging  past  Ardnamurchan  Point.  The  rain  had  ceased,  too;  the 
clouds  bad  gathered  themselves  up  in  heavy  folds ;  and  their  reflected 
blackness  lay  over  the  dark  and  heaving  Atlantic  plain.  Well  was  it 


250  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

for  these  two  "women  that  luncheon  had  been  taken  in  time.  "What  one 
of  them  had  dubbed  the  Ardnamurchan  "Wobble — which  she  declared  to 
be  as  good  a  name  for  a  waltz  as  the  Liverpool  Lurch — had  begun  in 
good  earnest ;  and  the  White  Dove  was  dipping,  and  rolling,  and  spring- 
ing in  the  most  lively  fashion.  There  was  not  much  chance  for  the 
Laird  and  Mary  Avon  to  resume  their  promenade  ;  when  one  of  the  men 
came  aft  to  relieve  John  of  Skye  at  the  wheel,  he  had  to  watch  his 
chance,  and  come  clambering  along  by  holding  on  to  the  shrouds,  the 
rail  of  the  gig,  and  so  forth.  But  Dr.  Sutherland's  prescription  had  its 
effect.  Despite  the  Ardnanmrchan  Wobble  and  all  its  deeds,  there  was 
no  ghostly  and  silent  disappearance. 

And  so  we  ploughed  on  our  way  during  the  afternoon,  the  Atlantic 
appearing  to  grow  darker  and  darker,  as  the  clouds  overhead  seemed  to 
get  banked  up  more  thickly.  The  only  cheerful  bit  of  light  in  this 
gloomy  picture  was  a  streak  or  two  of  sand  at  the  foot  of  the  sheer  and 
rocky  cliffs  north  of  Ardnamurchan  Light ;  and  those  we  were  rapidly 
leaving  behind  as  the  brisk  breeze — with  a  kindness  to  which  we  were 
wholly  strangers — kept  steadily  creeping  round  to  the  south. 

The  dark  evening  wore  on,  and  we  were  getting  well  up  towards 
Eigg,  when  a  strange  thing  became  visible  along  the  western  horizon. 
Eirst  the  heavy  purple  clouds  showed  a  tinge  of  crimson,  and  then  a 
sort  of  yellow  smoke  appeared  close  down  at  the  sea.  This  golden 
vapour  widened,  cleared,  until  there  was  a  broad  belt  of  lemon-coloured 
sky  all  along  the  edge  of  the  world  ;  and  in  this  wonder  of  shining  light 
appeared  the  island  of  Hum — to  all  appearance  as  transparent  as  a  bit 
of  the  thinnest  gelatine,  and  in  colour  a  light  purple  rose.  It  was 
really  a  most  extraordinary  sight.  The  vast  bulk  of  this  mountainous 
island,  including  the  sombre  giants  Haleval  and  Haskeval,  seemed  to 
have  less  than  the  consistency  of  a  cathedral  window ;  it  resembled 
more  a  pale,  rose-coloured  cloud ;  and  the  splendour  of  it,  and  the  glow 
of  the  golden  sky  beyond,  were  all  the  more  bewildering  by  reason  of  the 
gloom  of  the  overhanging  clouds  that  lay  across  like  a  black  bar. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  Laird,  and  here  he  paused,  for  the  amazement  in 
his  face  could  not  at  once  find  fitting  words.  "  That  beats  a' !  " 

And  it  was  a  cheerful  and  friendly  light,  too,  that  now  came  streaming 
over  to  us  from  beyond  the  horizon-line.  It  touched  the  sails  and  the 
varnished  spars  with  a  pleasant  colour.  It  seemed  to  warm  and  dry  the 
air,  and  tempted  the  women  to  put  aside  their  ulsters.  Then  began  a 
series  of  wild  endeavours  to  achieve  a  walk  on  deck,  interrupted  every 
second  or  two  by  some  one  or  other  being  thrown  against  the  boom,  or 
having  to  grasp  at  the  shrouds  in  passing.  But  it  resulted  in  exercise, 
at  all  events ;  and  meanwhile  we  were  still  making  our  way  northward, 
with  the  yellow  star  of  Isle  Ornsay  lighthouse  beginning  to  be  visible  in 
the  dusk. 

That  evening  at  dinner  the  secret  came  out.  There  cannot  be  the 
slightest  doubt  that  the  disclosure  of  it  had  been  carefully  planned  by 


WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  251 

these  two  conspirators ;  and  that  they  considered  themselves  amazingly 
profound  in  giving  to  it  a  careless  and  improvised  air. 

"  I  never  sit  down  to  dinner  now,  ma'am,"  observed  the  Laird,  in  a 
light  and  graceful  manner,  "  without  a  feeling  that  there  is  something 
wanting  in  the  saloon.  The  table  is  not  symmetrical.  That  should 
occur  to  Miss  Mary's  eye  at  once.  One  at  the  head,  one  my  side,  two 
yours ;  no,  that  is  not  as  symmetrical  as  it  used  to  be." 

"  Do  you  think  I  do  not  feel  that,  too  1 "  says  his  hostess.  "  And 
that  is  not  the  only  time  at  which  I  wish  that  Angus  were  back  with 
us." 

No  one  had  a  word  to  say  for  poor  Howard  Smith,  who  used  to  sit 
at  the  foot  of  the  table,  in  a  meek  and  helpful  capacity.  No  one  thought 
of  summoning  him  back  to  make  the  arrangement  symmetrical.  Per- 
haps he  was  being  consoled  by  Messrs.  Hughes,  Barnes,  and  Barnes. 

"  And  the  longer  the  nights  are  growing,  I  get  to  miss  him  more  and 
more,"  she  says,  with  a  beautiful  pathos  in  her  look.  "  He  was  always 
so  full  of  activity  and  cheerfulness — the  way  he  enjoyed  life  on  board 
the  yacht  was  quite  infectious,  and  then  his  constant  plans  and  sugges- 
tions. And  how  he  looked  forward  to  this  long  trip  !  though,  to  be 
sure,  he  struggled  hard  against  the  temptation.  I  know  the  least  thing 
would  have  turned  the  scale,  Italy  or  no  Italy." 

"Why,  ma'am,"  says  the  Laird,  laughing  prodigiously,  "I  should 
not  wonder,  if  you  sent  him  a  message  at  this  minute,  to  find  him  coming 
along  post-haste  and  joining  us,  after  all.  What  is  Eetaly  1  I  have  been 
in  Eetaly  myself.  Ye  might  live  there  a  hundred  years,  and  never 
see  anything  so  fine  in  colour  as  that  sunset  we  saw  this  very  evening. 
And  if  it  is  business  he  is  after,  bless  me  !  cannot  a  young  man  be  a 
young  man  sometimes,  and  have  the  courage  to  do  something  impru- 
dent ?  Come  now,  write  to  him  at  once  !  I  will  take  the  responsibility 
myself." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,"  said  the  other  timidly — but  she  pretends 
she  is  very  anxious  about  the  safety  of  a  certain  distant  wine-glass — "  I 
took  a  sudden  notion  into  my  head  yesterday  morning,  and  sent  him  a 
message." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  he  cries.     The  hypocrite  ! 

And  Mary  Avon  all  the  while  sits  mute,  dismayed,  not  daring  to 
turn  her  face  to  the  light.  And  the  small  white  hand  that  holds  the 
knife  :  why  does  it  tremble  so  1 

"  The  fact  is,"  says  Queen  Titania  carelessly,  just  as  if  she  were 
reading  a  bit  out  of  a  newspaper,  "  I  sent  him  a  telegram,  to  save  time. 
And  I  thought  it  would  be  more  impressive  if  I  made  it  a  sort  of  round- 
robin,  don't  you  know — as  far  as  that  can  be  done  on  a  square  telegraph- 
form — and  I  said  that  each,  and  all  of  us  demanded  his  instant  return, 
and  that  we  should  wait  about  Isle  Ornsay  or  Loch  Hourn  until  he 
joined  us.  So  you  see,  sir,  we  may  have  to  try  your  patience  for  a  day 
or  two." 


252  "WHITE  WINQS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

"  Ye  may  try  it,  but  ye  will  not  find  it  wanting,"  said  the  Laird,  with 
serious  courtesy.  "  I  do  not  care  how  long  I  wait  for  the  young,  man,  so 
long  as  I  am  in  such  pleasant  society.  Ye  forget,  ma'am,  what  life  one 
is  obliged  to  live  at  Denny-mains,  with  public  affairs  worrying  one  from 
the  morning  till  the  night.  Patience?  I  have  plenty  of  patience.  But 
all  the  same  I  would  like  to  see  the  young  man  here.  I  have  a  great 
respect  for  him,  though  I  consider  that  some  of  his  views  may  not  be 
quite  sound — that  will  mend — that  will  mend ;  and  now,  my  good 
friends,  I  will  take  leave  to  propose  a  toast  to  ye." 

We  knew  the  Laird's  old-fashioned  ways,  and  had  grown  to  humour 
them.  There  was  a  pretence  of  solemnly  filling  glasses. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  the  Laird,  in  a  formal  manner,  "  to  propose  to  ye 
the  quick  and  safe  return  of  a  friend.  May  all  good  fortune  attend  him 
on  his  way,  and  may  happiness  await  him  at  the  end  of  his  journey ! " 

There  was  no  dissentient ;  but  there  was  one  small  white  hand  some- 
what unsteady,  as  the  girl,  abashed  and  trembling  and  silent,  touched  the 
glass  with  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 
EXPECTATIONS. 

IT  was  a  fine  piece  of  acting.  These  two  continued  to  talk  about  the 
coming  of  our  young  Doctor  as  if  it  were  the  most  simple  and  ordinary 
affair  possible.  All  its  bearings  were  discussed  openly,  to  give  you  to 
understand  that  Mary  Avon  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  it. 
It  was  entirely  a  practical  arrangement  for  -the  saving  of  time.  By 
running  across  to  Paris  he  would  jump  OA^er  the  interval  between  our 
leaving  West  Loch  Turbert  and  this  present  setting-out  for  the  north. 
Mary  Avon  was  asked  about  this  point  and  that  point :  there  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  not  talk  about  Angus  Sutherland  just  like  any 
other. 

And,  indeed,  there  was  little  call  for  any  pale  apprehension  on  the 
face  of  the  girl,  or  for  any  quick  look  round  when  a  sudden  sound  was 
heard.  It  was  not  possible  for  Angus  to  be  anywhere  in  our  neigh- 
bourhood as  yet.  When  we  went  on  deck  next  morning,  we  found 
that  we  had  been  idly  drifting  about  all  night,  and  that  we  were  now 
far  away  from  any  land.  The  morning  sun  was  shining  on  the  dark 
green  woods  of  Armadale,  and  on  the  little  white  sharp  point  of  Isle 
Ornsay  lighthouse,  and  on  the  vast  heather-purpled  hills  in  the  north ; 
while  over  there  the  mountains  above  Loch  Hourn  were  steeped  in  a 
soft  mysterious  shadow.  And  then,  by-and-by,  after  breakfast,  some 
light  puffs  of  westerly  wind  began  to  ruffle  the  glassy  surface  of  the  sea ; 
and  the  White  Dove  almost  insensibly  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
entrance  of  that  winding  loch  that  disappeared  away  within  the  dusky 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  253 

shadows  of  those  overhanging  hills.  Late  on  as  it  was  in  the  autumn, 
the  sun  was  hot  on  the  sails  and  the  deck ;  and  these  cool  breezes  were 
welcome  in  a  double  sense. 

We  saw  nothing  of  the  accustomed  gloom  of  Loch  Hourn.  The 
sheer  sides  of  the  great  mountains  were  mostly  in  shadow,  it  is  true ;  but 
then  the  ridges  and  plateaus  were  burning  in  the  sunlight;  and  the 
waters  of  the  loch  around  us  were  blue,  and  lapping,  and  cheerful.  We 
knew  only  that  the  place  was  vast,  and  still,  and  silent;  we  could  make 
out  scarcely  any  sign  of  habitation. 

Then,  as  the  White  Dove  still  glided  on  her  way,  we  opened  out  a 
little  indentation  of  the  land  behind  an  island ;  and  there,  nestled  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  we  descried  a  small  fishing-village.  The  cottages, 
the  nets  drying  on  the  poles,  the  tiny  patches  of  cultivated  ground  be- 
hind, all  seemed  quite  toy-like  against  the  giant  and  overhanging  bulk 
of  the  hills.  But  again  we  drew  away  from  Camus  Ban — that  is,  the 
White  Bay — and  got  further  and  further  into  the  solitudes  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  away  from  any  traces  of  human  life.  When  about  mid-day 
we  came  to  anchor,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  sort  of  cup  within  the  hills, 
apparently  shut  off  from  all  the  outer  world,  and  in  a  stillness  so  intense 
that  the  distant  whistle  of  a  curlew  was  quite  startling.  A  breath  of 
wind  that  blew  over  from  the  shore  brought  us  a  scent  of  honeysuckle. 

At  luncheon  we  found  to  our  amazement  that  a  fifth  seat  had  been 
placed  at  table,  and  that  plates,  glasses,  and  what  not  had  been  laid  for 
a  guest.  A  guest  in  these  wilds  1 — there  was  not  much  chance  of  such 
a  thing,  unless  the  King  of  the  Seals  or  the  Queen  of  the  Mermaids 
were  to  come  on  board. 

But  when  we  had  taken  our  seats,  and  were  still  regarding  the 
vacant  chair  with  some  curiosity,  the  Laird's  hostess  was  pleased  to 
explain.  She  said  to  him,  with  a  shy  smile — 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  what  you  said ;  and  I  quite  agree  with  you 
that  it  balances  the  table  better." 

"  But  not  an  empty  chair,"  said  the  Laird  severely ;  perhaps  thinking 
it  was  an  evil  omen. 

"  You  know  the  German  song,"  said  she,  "  and  how  the  last  remaining 
of  the  comrades  filled  the  glasses  with  wine,  and  how  the  ghosts  rattled 
the  glasses.  Would  you  kindly  fill  that  glass,  sir  ? " 

She  passed  the  decanter. 

"  I  will  not,  begging  your  pardon,"  said  the  Laird  sternly,  for  he 
did  not  approve  of  these  superstitions.  And  forthwith  he  took  the  deck- 
chair  and  doubled  it  up,  and  threw  it  on  the  couch.  "  We  want  the 
young  man  Sutherland  here,  and  not  any  ghost.  I  doubt  not  but  that 
he  has  reached  London  by  now." 

After  that  a  dead  silence.  Were  there  any  calculations  about  time ; 
or  were  we  wondering  whether,  amid  the  roar  and  whirl  and  moving 

O  '  O 

life  of  the  great  city,  he  was  thinking   of  the  small  floating-home  far 
away,  amid  the  solitude  of  the  seas  and  the  hills  ?   The  deck-chair  was 


254  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  KOMANCE. 

put  aside,  it  is  true,  for  the  Laird  shrank  from  superstition;  but  the 
empty  glass,  and  the  plates  and  knives,  and  so  forth,  remained  •  and 
they  seemed  to  say  that  our  expected  guest  was  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"  Well,  John,"  said  Queen  Titania,  getting  on  deck  again,  and  lookin^ 
round,  "I  think  we  have  got  into  Fairyland  at  last." 

John  of  Skye  did  not  seem  quite  to  understand,  for  his  answer 
was — 

"  Oh,  yes,  mem,  it  is  a  fearful  place  for  squahls." 
"  For  squalls  !  "  said  she. 

No  wonder  she  was  surprised.  The  sea  around  us  was  so  smooth 
that  the  only  motion  visible  on  it  was  caused  by  an  exhausted  wasp  that 
had  fallen  on  the  glassy  surface  and  was  making  a  series  of  small  ripples 
in  trying  to  get  free  again.  And  then  could  anything  be  more  soft  and 
beautiful  than  the  scene  around  us — the  great  mountains  clad  to  the 
summit  with  the  light  foliage  of  the  birch ;  silver  water-falls  that  made 
a  vague  murmur  in  the  air ;  an  island  right  ahead  with  picturesquely 
wooded  rocks  ;  an  absolutely  cloudless  sky  above — altogether  a  wonder 
of  sunlight  and  fair  colours  1  Squalls  ?  The  strange  thing  was,  not  that 
we  had  ventured  into  a  region  of  unruly  winds,  but  that  we  had  got 
enough  wind  to  bring  us  in  at  all.  There  was  now  not  even  enough  to 
bring  us  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  from  the  shore. 

In  the  afternoon  we  set  out  on  an  expedition,  nominally  after  wild- 
duck,  but  in  reality  in  exploration  of  the  upper  reaches  of  the  loch.  We 
found  a  narrow  channel  between  the  island  and  the  mainland,  and  pene- 
trated into  the  calm  and  silent  waters  of  Loch  Hourn  Beg.  And  still 

less  did  this  offshoot  of  the  larger  loch  accord  with  that  gloomy  name 

the  Lake  of  Hell.  Even  where  the  mountains  were  bare  and  forbidding 
the  warm  evening  light  touched  the  granite  with  a  soft  rose-grey ;  and 
reflections  of  this  beautiful  colour  were  here  and  there  visible  amid 
the  clear  blue  of  the  water.  We  followed  the  windings  of  the  narrow 
and  tortuous  loch ;  biit  found  no  wild-duck  at  all.  Here  and  there  a 
seal  stared  at  us  as  we  passed.  Then  we  found  a  crofter's  cottage,  and 
landed,  to  the  consternation  of  one  or  two  handsome  wild-eyed  children. 
A  purchase  of  eggs  ensued,  after  much  voluble  Gaelic.  We  returned  to 
the  yacht. 

That  evening,  as  we  sate  on  deck,  watching  the  first  stars  beginning 
to  tremble  in  the  blue,  some  one  called  attention  to  a  singular  light  that 
was  beginning  to  appear  along  the  summits  of  the  mountains  just  over 
us— a  silvery-grey  light  that  showed  us  the  soft  foliage  of  the  birches, 
while  below  the  steep  slopes  grew  more  sombre  as  the  night  fell.  And 
then  we  guessed  that  the  moon  was  somewhere  on  the  other  side  of  the 
loch,  as  yet  hidden  from  us  by  those  black  crags  that  pierced  into  the 
calm  blue  vault  of  the  sky.  This  the  Lake  of  Hell,  indeed  !  By-and- 
by  we  saw  the  silver  rim  appear  above  the  black  line  of  the  hills  ;  and 
a  pale  glory  was  presently  shining  around  us,  particularly  noticeable 


WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  255 

along  the  varnished  spars.  As  the  white  moon  sailed  up,  this  solitary 
cup  in  the  mountains  was  filled  with  the  clear  radiance,  and  the  silence 
seemed  to  increase.  "We  could  hear  more  distinctly  than  ever  the  various 
waterfalls.  The  two  women  were  walking  up  and  down  the  deck ;  and 
each  time  that  Mary  Avon  turned  her  profile  to  the  light  the  dark  eye- 
brows and  dark  eyelashes  seemed  darker  than  ever  against  the  pale,  sen- 
sitive, sweet  face. 

But  after  a  while  she  gently  disengaged  herself  from  her  friend,  and 
came  and  sate  down  by  the  Laird  :  quite  mutely,  and  waiting  for  him  to 
speak.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  she  had  been  in  any  way  more  demon- 
strative towards  him  since  his  great  act  of  kindness ;  or  that  there  was  any 
need  for  him  to  have  purchased  her  affection.  That  was  of  older  date. 
Perhaps,  if  the  truth  were  told,  she  was  rather  less  demonstrative  now ; 
for  we  had  all  discovered  that  the  Laird  had  a  nervous  horror  of  any- 
thing that  seemed  to  imply  a  recognition  of  what  he  had  done.  It  was 
merely,  he  had  told  us,  a  certain  wrong  thing  he  had  put  right :  there 
was  no  more  to  be  said  about  it. 

However,  her  coming  and  sitting  down  by  him  was  no  unusual  cir- 
cumstance ;  and  she  meekly  left  him  his  own  choice,  to  speak  to  her  or 
not  as  he  pleased.  And  he  did  speak — after  a  time. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "  what  a  strange  feeling  ye  get  in  living  on 
board  a  yacht  in  these  wilds  :  it  is  just  as  if  ye  were  the  only  craytures 
in  the  world.  Would  ye  not  think,  now,  that  the  moon  there  belonged 
to  this  circle  of  hills,  and  could  not  be  seen  by  anyone  outside  it  ?  It 
looks  as  if  it  were  coming  close  to  the  topmast ;  how  can  ye  believe  that 
it  is  shining  over  Trafalgar  Square  in  London  ?  " 

"  It  seems  very  close  to  us  on  so  clear  a  night,"  says  Mary  Avon. 

"And  in  a  short  time  now,"  continued  the  Laird,  "this  little  world 
of  ours — I  mean  the  little  company  on  board  the  yacht — must  be  dashed 
into  fragments,  as  it  were  ;  and  ye  will  be  away  in  London ;  and  I  will 
be  at  Denny-mains ;  and  who  knows  whether  we  may  ever  see  each 
other  again  ?  We  must  not  grumble.  It  is  the  fate  of  the  best  friends. 
But  there  is  one  grand  consolation — think  what  a  consolation  it  must 
have  been  to  many  of  the  poor  people  who  were  driven  away  from  these 
Highlands — to  Canada,  and  Australia,  and  elsewhere — that  after  all  the 
partings  and  sorrows  of  this  world  there  is  the  great  meeting-place  at 
last.  I  would  just  ask  this  favour  frae  ye,  my  lass,  that  when  ye  go  back 
to  London,  ye  would  get  a  book  of  our  old  Scotch  psalm-tunes,  and  learn 
the  tune  that  is  called  Comfort.  It  begins  '  Take  comfort,  Christians, 
when  your  friends.'  It  is  a  grand  tune  that :  I  would  like  ye  to  learn 
it." 

"  Oh,  certainly  I  will,"  said  the  girl. 

"  And  I  have  been  thinking,"  continued  the  Laird,  "  that  I  would 
get  Tom  Galbraith  to  make  ye  a  bit  sketch  of  Denny-mains,  that  ye 
might  hang  up  in  London,  if  ye  were  so  minded.  It  would  show  ye 
what  the  place  was  like ;  and  after  some  years  ye  might  begin  to  believe 


256  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

that  ye  really  had  been  there,  and  that  ye  were  familiar  with  it,  as  the 
home  of  an  old  friend  o'  yours." 

"  But  I  hope  to  see  Denny-mains  for  myself,  sir,"  said  she,  with  some 
surprise. 

A  quick,  strange  look  appeared  for  a  moment  on  the  old  Laird's  face. 
But  presently  he  said — 

"  No,  no,  lass,  ye  will  have  other  interests  and  other  duties.  That 
is  but  proper  and  natural.  How  would  the  world  get  on  at  all  if  we 
were  not  to  be  dragged  here  and  there  by  diverse  occupations  1 " 

Then  the  girl  spoke,  proudly  and  bravely — 

"  And  if  I  have  any  duties  in  the  word,  I  think  I  know  to  whom  I 
owe  them.  And  it  is  not  a  duty  at  all,  but  a  great  pleasure ;  and  you 
promised  me,  sir,  that  I  was  to  see  Denny-mains ;  and  I  wish  to  pay 
you  a  long,  long,  long  visit." 

"  A  long,  long,  long  visit  1 "  said  the  Laird  cheerfully.  "  No,  no, 
lass.  I  just  couldna  be  bothered  with  ye.  Ye  would  be  in  my  way. 
What  interest  could  ye  take  in  our  parish  meetings,  and  the  church 
soirees,  and  the  like?  No,  no.  But  if  ye  like  to  pay  me  a  short, 
short,  short  visit — at  your  own  convenience — at  your  own  convenience, 
mind — I  will  get  Tom  Galbraith  through  from  Edinburgh,  and  I  will 
get  out  some  of  the  younger  Glasgow  men  ;  and  if  we  do  not,  you  and 
me,  show  them  something  in  the  way  of  landscape-sketching  that  will 
just  frighten  them  out  of  their  very  wits,  why  then  I  will  give  ye  leave 
to  say  that  my  name  is  not  Mary  Avon." 

He  rose  then  and  took  her  hand,  and  began  to  walk  with  her  up 
and  down  the  moonlit  deck.  We  heard  something  about  the  Haughs  o' 
Cromdale.  The  Laird  was  obviously  not  ill-pleased  that  she  had  boldly 
claimed  that  promised  visit  to  Denny-mains. 


THE 


SEPTEMBEE,  1880. 


Ijjitc 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
"  YE  ARE  WELCOME,  GLENOGIE  !  " 

HEN,  after  nearly  three 
months  of  glowing  sum- 
mer weather  the  heavens 
begin  to  look  as  if  they 
meditated  revenge  ; 
when,  in  a  dead  calm,  a 
darkening  gloom  appears 
behind  the  further  hills, 
and  slight  puffs  of  wind 
come  down  vertically, 
spreading  themselves  out 
on  the  glassy  water  ; 
when  the  air  is  sultry, 
and  an  occasional  low 
rumble  is  heard,  and  the 
sun  looks  white ;  then 
the  reader  of  these  pages 
may  thank  his  stars  that 
he  is  not  in  Loch  Hourn. 
And  yet  it  was  not  alto- 
gether our  fault  that  we  were  nearly  caught  in  this  dangerous  cup  among 
the  hills.  We  had  lain  in  these  silent  and  beautiful  waters  for  two  or 
three  days,  partly  because  of  the  exceeding  loveliness  of  the  place,  partly 
VOL.  XLII. — NO.  249.  13. 


258  WHITE  WINGS  t   A  YACHTING  KOMANCE. 

because  we  had  to  allow  Angus  time  to  get  up  to  Isle  Ornsay,  but  chiefly 
because  we  had  not  the  option  of  leaving.  To  get  through  the 
narrow  and  shallow  channel  by  which  we  had  entered,  we  wanted  both 
wind  and  tide  in  our  favour ;  and  there  was  scarcely  a  breath  of  air 
during  the  long,  peaceful,  shining  days.  At  length,  when  our  sovereign 
mistress  made  sure  that  the  young  Doctor  must  be  waiting  for  us  at 
Isle  Ornsay,  she  informed  Captain  John  that  he  must  get  us  out  of  this 
place  somehow. 

"  'Deed,  I  not.  sorry  at  all,"  said  John  of  Skye,  who  had  never  ceased 
to  represent  to  us  that,  in.  the  event  of  bad  weather  coming  on,  we  should 
find  ourselves  in  the  lion's  jaws. 

"Well,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  it  became  very  obvious  that 
something  serious  was  about  to  happen.  Clouds  began  to  bank  \\p  be- 
hind the  mountains  that  overhung  the  upper  reaches  of  the  loch,  and  an 
intense  purple  gloom  gradually  spread  along  those  sombre  hills — all  the 
more  intense  that  the  little  island  in  front  of  us,  crossing  the  loch,  burned 
in  the  sunlight  a  vivid  strip  of  green.  Then  little  puffs  of  wind  fell 
here  and  there  on  the  blue  water,  and  broadened  out  in  a  silvery  grey. 
We  noticed  that  all  the  men  were  on  deck. 

As  the  strange  darkness  of  the  loch  increased,  as  these  vast  moun- 
tains overhanging  the  inner  cup  of  the  loch  grew  more  and  more  awful 
in  the  gloom,  we  began  to  understand  why  the  Celtic  imagination  had 
called  this  place  the  Lake  of  Hell.  Captain  John  kept  walking  up  and 
down  somewhat  anxiously,  and  occasionally  looking  at  his  watch.  The 
question  was,  whether  we  should  get  enough  wind  to  take  us  through  the 
narrows  before  the  tide  turned.  In  the  meantime  mainsail  and  jib  were 
set,  and  the  anchor  hove  short. 

At  last  the  welcome  flapping  and  creaking  and  rattling  of  blocks  ! 
What  although  this  brisk  breeze  came  dead  in  our  teeth  1  John  of 
Skye,  as  he  called  all  hands  to  the  windlass,  gave  us  to  understand  that 
he  would  rather  beat  through  the  neck  of  a  bottle  than  lie  in  Loch 
Houm  that  night. 

And  it  was  an  exciting  piece  of  business  when  we  got  further  down 
the  loch,  and  approached  this  narrow  passage.  On  the  one  side  sharp 
and  sheer  rocks,  on  the  other  shallow  banks  that  shone  through  the 
water;  behind  us  the  awful  gloom  of  gathering  thunder,  ahead  of  us  a 
breeze  that  came  tearing  down  from  the  hills  in  the  most  puzzling  and 
varying  squalls.  With  a  steady  wind  it  would  have  been  bad  enough  to 
beat  through  those  narrows  ;  but  this  wind  kept  shifting  about  anyhow. 
Sharp  was  the  word  indeed.  It  was  a  question  of  seconds  as  we  sheered 
away  from  the  rocks  on  the  one  side,  or  from  the  shoals  on  the  other. 
And  then,  amidst  it  all,  a  sudden  cry  from  the  women 

"  John,  John  !  " 

John  of  Skye  knows  his  business  too  well  to  attend  to  the  squealing 
of  women. 

"  Eeady  about !  "  he  roars  ;  and  all  hands  are  at  the  sheets,  and  even 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  259 

Master  Fred  is  leaning  over  the  bows,  to  watch  the  shallowness  of  the 
water. 

"  John,  John  ! "  the  women  cry. 

"  Haul  up  the  main  tack,  Hector  !  Ay,  that'll  do.  Eeady  about,  boys  !" 

But  this  starboard  tack  is  a  little  bit  longer,  and  John  manages  to 
cast  an  impatient  glance  behind  him.  The  sailor's  eye  in  an  instant 
detects  that  distant  object.  What  is  it  1  Why,  surely  some  one  in  the 
stern  of  a  rowing-boat,  standing  up  and  violently  waving  a  white  hand- 
kerchief, and  two  men  pulling  like  mad  creatures. 

"  John,  John  !  Don't  you  see  it  is  Angus  Sutherland  1 "  cries  the 
elder  woman  pitifully. 

By  this  time  we  are  going  bang  on  to  a  sandbank ;  and  the  men, 
standing  by  the  sheets,  are  amazed  that  the  skipper  does  not  put  his 
helm  down.  Instead  of  that — and  all  this  happens  in  an  instant — he 
eases  the  helm  up,  the  bows  of  the  yacht  fall  away  from  the  wind,  and 
just  clear  the  bank.  Hector  of  Moidart  jumps  to  the  mainsheet  and 
slacks  it  out,  and  then,  behold  !  the  White  Dove  is  running  free,  and  there 
is  a  sudden  silence  on  board. 

"  Why,  he  must  have  come  over  from  the  Caledonian  Canal ! "  says 
Queen  Titania,  in  great  excitement.  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  ! " 

But  John  of  Skye  takes  advantage  of  this  breathing  space  to  have 
another  glance  at  his  watch. 

"  We'll  maybe  beat  the  tide  yet,"  he  says  confidently. 

And  who  is  this  who  comes  joyously  clambering  up,  and  hauls  his 
portmanteau  after  him,  and  throws  a  couple  of  half-crowns  into  the 
bottom  of  the  black  boat  1 

"  Oh,  Angus,"  his  hostess  cries  to  him,  "  you  will  shake  hands  with 
us  all  afterwards.  We  are  in  a  dreadful  strait.  Never  mind  us — help 
John  if  you  can." 

Meanwhile  Captain  John  has  again  put  the  nose  of  the  White  Dove 
at  these  perilous  narrows ;  and  the  young  Doctor — perhaps  glad  enough 
to  escape  embarrassment  among  all  this  clamour — has  thrown  his  coat 
off  to  help ;  and  the  men  have  got  plenty  of  anchor-chain  on  deck,  to 
let  go  the  anchor  if  necessary ;  and  then  again  begins  that  manoeuvring 
between  the  shallows  and  the  rocks.  What  is  this  new  sense  of  com- 
pleteness— of  added  life* — of  briskness  and  gladness  1  Why  do  the  men 
seem  more  alert  ?  and  why  this  cheeriness  in  Captain  John's  shouted 
commands  ?  The  women  are  no  longer  afraid  of  either  banks  or  shoals  ; 
they  rather  enjoy  the  danger ;  when  John  seems  determined  to  run  the 
yacht  through  a  mass  of  conglomerate  they  know  that  with  the  precision 
of  clock-work  she  will  be  off  on  the  other  tack ;  and  they  are  laughing 
at  these  narrow  escapes.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate  to  say  that 
only  one  of  them  laughs.  Mary  Avon  is  somewhat  silent,  and  she  holds 
her  friend's  hand  tight. 

Tide  or  no  tide,  we  get  through  the  narrow  channel  at  last ;  and 
every  one  breathes  more  freely  when  we  are  in  the  open.  But  we  are 

13—2 


260  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

still  far  from  being  out  of  Loch  Hourn ;  and  now  the  mountains  in  the 
south,  too — one  of  them  apparently  an  extinct  volcano — have  grown 
black  as  thunder ;  and  the  wind  that  comes  down  from  them  in  jerks 
and  squalls  threatens  to  plunge  our  bulwarks  under  water.  How  the 
White  Dove  flees  away  from  this  gathering  gloom !  Once  or  twice  we 
hear  behind  us  a  roar,  and  turning  we  can  see  a  specially  heavy  squall 
tearing  across  the  loch ;  but  here  with  us  the  wind  continues  to  keep  a 
little  more  steady,  and  we  go  bowling  along  at  a  welcome  pace.  Angus 
Sutherland  comes  aft,  puts  on  his  coat,  and  makes  his  formal  entry  into 
our  society. 

"  You  have  just  got  out  in  time,  "says  he,  laughing  somewhat  nervously, 
to  his  hostess.  "  There  will  be  a  wild  night  in  Loch  Hourn  to-night." 

"  And  the  beautiful  calm  we  have  had  in  there  !  "  she  says.  "  We 
were  beginning  to  think  that  Loch  Hourn  was  Fairyland." 

"  Look !  "  he  said. 

And  indeed  the  spectacle  behind  us  was  of  a  nature  to  make  us 
thankful  that  we  had  slipped  out  of  the  lion's  jaws.  The  waters  of  the 
loch  were  being  torn  into  spindrift  by  the  squalls ;  and  the  black  clouds 
overhead  were  being  dragged  into  shreds  as  if  by  invisible  hands ;  and  in 
the  hollows  below  appeared  a  darkness  as  if  night  had  come  on  prema- 
turely. And  still  the  White  Dove  flew  and  flew,  as  if  she  knew  of  the 
danger  behind  her ;  and  by-and-by  we  were  plunging  and  racing  across 
the  Sound  of  Sleat.  We  had  seen  the  last  of  Loch  Hourn. 

The  clear  golden  ray  of  Isle  Ornsay  lighthouse  was  shining  through 
the  dusk  as  we  made  in  for  the  sheltered  harbour.  We  had  lun  the 
dozen  miles  or  so  in  a  little  over  the  hour ;  and  now  dinner-time  had 
arrived ;  and  we  were  not  sorry  to  be  in  comparatively  smooth  water. 
The  men  were  sent  ashore  with  some  telegram— the  sending  off  of  which 
was  the  main  object  of  our  running  in  here  ;  and  then  Master  Fred's  bell 
summoned  us  below  from  the  wild  and  windy  night. 

How  rich  and  warm  and  cheerful  was  this  friendly  glow  of  the 
candles,  and  how  compact  the  table  seemed  now,  with  the  vacant  space 
filled  at  last !  And  every  one  appeared  to  be  talking  hard,  in  order  to 
show  that  Angus  Sutherland's  return  was  a  quite  ordinary  and  familiar 
thing ;  and  the  Laird  was  making  his  jokes  ;  and  the  young  Doctor  tell- 
ing his  hostess  how  he  had  been  sending  telegrams  here  and  there  until 
he  had  learned  of  the  White  Dove  having  been  seen  going  into  Loch 
Hourn.  Even  Miss  Avon,  though  she  said  but  little,  shared  in  this 
general  excitement  and  pleasure.  We  could  hear  her  soft  laughter  from 
time  to  time.  But  her  eyes  were  kept  away  from  the  corner  where 
Angus  Sutherland  sate. 

"  Well,  you  are  lucky  people,"  said  he.  "  If  you  had  missed  getting 
out  of  that  hole  by  half  an  hour,  you  might  have  been  shut  up  in  it  a 
fortnight.  I  believe  a  regular  gale  from  the  south  has  begun." 

"  It  is  you  who  have  brought  it  then,"  said  his  hostess.  "  You  are 
the  stormy  petrel.  And  you  did  your  best  to  make  us  miss  the  tide." 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  261 

"  I  think  we  shall  have  some  sailing  now,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands 
in  great  delight — he  pretends  to  be  thinking  only  of  the  yacht.  "  John 
talks  of  going  on  to-night,  so  as  to  slip  through  the  Kyle  Rhea  narrows 
with  the  first  of  the  flood-tide  in  the  morning." 

"  Going  out  to-night !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  you  who  have  put 
that  madness  into  his  head  1  It  must  be  pitch  dark  already.  And  a 
gale  blowing ! " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  There  is  not  much  of  a  gale.  And 
it  cannot  be  very  dark  with  the  moon  behind  the  clouds." 

Here  a  noise  above  told  us  the  men  had  come  back  from  the  small 
village.  They  brought  a  telegram,  too;  but  it  was  of  no  consequence. 
Presently — in  fact,  as  soon  as  he  decently  could — Angus  left  the  dinner- 
table,  and  went  on  deck.  He  had  scarcely  dared  to  glance  at  the  pale 
sensitive  face  opposite  him. 

By-and-by  Queen  Titania  said,  solemnly  : 

"  Listen  !  " 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it ;  the  men  were  weighing  anchor. 

"  That  madman,"  said  she,  "  has  persuaded  Captain  John  to  go  to  sea 
again — at  this  time  of  night !  " 

"  It  was  Captain  John's  own  wish.  He  wishes  to  catch  the  tide  in 
the  morning,"  observed  Miss  Avon,  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"  That's  right,  my  lass,"  said  the  Laird.  "  Speak  up  for  them  who 
are  absent.  But,  indeed,  I  think  I  will  go  on  deck  myself  now,  to  see 
what's  going  on." 

We  all  went  on  deck,  and  there  and  then  unanimously  passed  a  vote 
of  approval  on  Captain  John's  proceedings,  for  the  wind  had  moderated 
very  considerably ;  and  there  was  a  pale  suffused  light  telling  of  the  moon 
being  somewhere  behind  the  fleecy  clouds  in  the  south-east.  With  much 
content  we  perceived  that  the  White  Dove  was  already  moving  out  of  the 
dark  little  harbour.  We  heard  the  rush  of  the  sea  outside  without  much 
concern. 

It  was  a  pleasant  sailing  night  after  all.  When  we  had  stolen  by 
the  glare  of  the  solitary  lighthouse,  and  got  into  the  open,  we  found  there 
was  no  very  heavy  sea  running,  while  there  was  a  steady,  serviceable 
breeze  from  the  south.  There  was  moonlight  abroad  too,  though  the 
moon  was  mostly  invisible  behind  the  thin  drifting  clouds.  The  women, 
wrapped  up,  sate  hand-in-hand,  and  chatted  to  each  other ;  the  Doctor  was 
at  the  tiller ;  the  Laird  was  taking  an  occasional  turn  up  and  down,  some- 
times pausing  to  challenge  general  attention  by  some  profound  remark. 

And  very  soon  we  began  to  perceive  that  Angus  Sutherland  had  by 
some  inscrutable  means  got  into  the  Laird's  good  graces  in  a  most  marked 
degree.  Denny-mains,  on  this  particular  night,  as  we  sailed  away  north- 
ward, was  quite  complimentary  about  the  march  of  modern  science,  and 
the  service  done  to  humanity  by  scientific  men.  He  had  not  even  an  ill 
word  for  the  Vestiges  of  Creation.  He  went  the  length  of  saying  that  he 
wag  not  scholar  enough  to  deny  that  there  might  be  various  ways  of 


262  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

interpreting  the  terms  of  the  Mosaic  chronology ;  and  expressed  a  great 
interest  in  the  terribly  remote  people  who  must  have  lived  in  the  lake- 
dwellings. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  believe  that,"  said  our  steersman  good-naturedly. 
"  The  scientifics  are  only  humbugging  the  public  about  those  lake-dwell- 
ings. They  were  only  the  bath-houses  and  wash-houses  of  a  compara- 
tively modem  and  civilised  race,  just  as  you  see  them  now  on  the  Lake 
of  a  Thousand  Islands,  and  at  the  mouths  of  the  Amazon,  and  even  on  the 
Rhine.  Surely  you  know  the  bath-houses  built  on  piles  on  the  Rhine  1 " 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  Laird,  "  that  is  extremely  interesting.  It  is  a 
novel  view — a  most  novel  view.  But  then  the  remains — what  of  the 
remains  1  The  earthen  cups  and  platters  :  they  must  have  belonged  to  a 
very  preemitive  race  1  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  profound  scientific  authority,  with,  a  laugh. 
"  They  were  the  things  the  children  amused  themselves  with,  when  their 
nurses  took  them  down  there  to  be  out  of  the  heat  and  the  dust.  They 
were  a  very  advanced  race  indeed.  Even  the  children  could  make 
earthen  cups  and  saucers,  while  the  children  now-a-days  can  only  make 
mud-pies." 

"  Don't  believe  him,  sir,"  their  hostess  called  out,  "  he  is  only  making 
a  fool  of  us  all." 

"  Ay,  but  there's  something  in  it — there's  something  in  it,"  said  the 
Laird  seriously ;  and  he  took  a  step  or  two  up  and  down  the  deck,  in 
deep  meditation.  "  There's  something  in  it.  It's  plausible.  If  it  is  not 
sound,  it  is  an  argument.  It  would  be  a  good  stick  to  break  over  an 
ignorant  man's  head." 

Suddenly  the  Laird  began  to  laugh  aloud. 

"  Bless  me,"  said  he,  "  if  I  could  only  inveigle  Johnnie  Guthrie  into 
an  argument  about  that !  I  would  give  it  him  !  I  would  give  it  him  !  " 

This  was  a  shocking  revelation.  What  had  come  over  the  Laird's 
conscience  that  he  actually  proposed  to  inveigle  a  poor  man  into  a 
controversy  and  then  to  hit  him  over  the  head  with  a  sophistical  argu- 
ment 1  We  could  not  have  believed  it.  And  here  he  was  laughing  and 
chuckling  to  himself  over  that  shameful  scheme. 

Our  attention,  however,  was  at  this  moment  suddenly  drawn  away 
from  moral  questions.  The  rapidly-driving  clouds  just  over  the  wild 
mountains  of  Loch  Hourn  parted,  and  the  moon  glared  out  on  the 
tumbling  waves.  But  what  a  curious  moon  it  was  ! — pale  and  watery, 
with  a  white  halo  around  it,  and  with  another  faintly-coloured  halo  out- 
side that  again  whenever  the  slight  and  vapoury  clouds  crossed.  John 
of  Skye  came  aft. 

"  I  not  like  the  look  of  that  moon,"  said  John  of  Skye  to  the  Doctor, 
but  in  an  undertone  so  that  the  women  should  not  hear. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  the  other,  in  an  equally  low  voice.  "  Do 
you  think  we  are  going  to  have  the  equinoctials,  John  1 " 

"  Oh,  no,  not  yet.     It  not  the  time  for  the  equinoctials  yet." 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE.  263 

And  as  we  crept  on  through  the  night,  now  and  again,  from  amid  the 
wild  and  stoi-my  clouds  above  Loch  Hourn,  the  wan  moon  still  shone 
out;  and  then  we  saw  something  of  the  silent  shores  we  were  passing, 
and  of  the  awful  mountains  overhead,  stretching  far  into  the  darkness 
of  the  skies.  Then  preparations  were  made  for  coming  to  anchor ;  and 
by-and-by  the  White  Dove  was  brought  round  to  the  wind.  We  were  in 
a  bay — if  bay  it  could  be  called — just  south  of  Kyle  Rhea  narrows. 
There  was  nothing  visible  along  the  pale  moonlit  shore. 

"  This  is  a  very  open  place  to  anchor  in,  John/'  our  young  Doctor 
ventured  to  remark. 

"  But  it  is  a  good  holding-ground ;  and  we  will  be  away  early  in  the 
morning  whatever." 

And  so,  when  the  anchor  was  swung  out,  and  quiet  restored  over  the 
vessel,  we  proceeded  to  get  below.  There  were  a  great  many  things  to 
be  handed  down ;  and  a  careful  search  had  to  be  made  that  nothing 
was  forgotten — we  did  not  want  to  find  soaked  shawls  or  books  lying  on 
the  deck  in  the  morning.  But  at  length  all  this  was  settled  too,  and  we 
were  assembled  once  more  in  the  saloon. 

We  were  assembled — all  but  two. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Mary  1 "  said  the  Laird  cheerfully  :  he  was  always 
the  first  to  miss  his  companion. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  in  her  cabin,"  said  his  hostess  somewhat  nervously. 

"  And  your  young  Doctor — why  does  he  not  come  down  and  have 
his  glass  of  toddy  like  a  man  1 "  said  the  Laird,  getting  his  own  tumbler. 
"  The  young  men  now-a-days  are  just  as  frightened  as  children.  What 
with  their  chemistry,  and  their  tubes,  and  their  percentages  of  alcohol : 
there  was  none  of  that  nonsense  when  I  was  a  young  man.  People 
took  what  they  liked,  so  long  as  it  agreed  with  them ;  and  will  anybody 
tell  me  there  is  any  harm  in  a  glass  of  good  Scotch  whiskey  1  " 

She  does  not  answer ;  she  looks  somewhat  preoccupied  and  anxious. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  continues  the  Laird,  reaching  over  for  the  sugar ;  "  if  people 
would  only  stop  there,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  makes  such  an 
excellent  night-cap  as  a  single  glass  of  good  Scotch  whiskey.  Now, 
ma'am,  I  will  just  beg  you  to  try  half  a  glass  of  my  brewing." 

She  pays  no  attention  to  him.  For  first  of  all  she  now  hears  a  light 
step  on  the  companion-way,  and  then  the  door  of  the  ladies'  cabin  is  opened, 
and  shut  again.  Then  a  heavy  step  on  the  companion-way,  and  Dr. 
Sutherland  comes  into  the  saloon.  There  is  a  strange  look  on  his  face — 
not  of  dejection ;  but  he  tries  to  be  very  reticent  and  modest,  and  is  inor- 
dinately eager  in  handing  a  knife  to  the  Laird  for  the  cutting  of  a  lemon. 

"  Where  is  Mary,  Angus  1 "  said  his  hostess,  looking  at  him. 

"  She  has  gone  into  your  cabin,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  a  sort  of 
wistful  appeal  in  his  eyes.  As  plainly  as  possible  they  said,  "  Won't  you 
-go  to  her  ] " 

The  unspoken  request  was  instantly  answered;  she  got  up  and 
quietly  left  the  saloon. 


264  WHITE  WINGS  :   A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

"  Come,  lad,"  said  the  Laird.  "  Are  ye  afraid  to  try  a  glass  of  Scotch 
whiskey  1  You  chemical  men  know  too  much  :  it  is  not  wholesome ; 
and  you  a  Scotchman,  too— take  a  glass,  man !  " 

"  Twelve,  if  you  like,"  said  the  Doctor,  laughing ;  "  but  one  will  do 
for  my  purpose.  I'm  going  to  follow  your  example,  sir ;  I  am  going  to 
propose  a  toast.  It  is  a  good  old  custom." 

This  was  a  proposal  after  the  Laird's  own  heart.  He  insisted  on  the 
women  being  summoned ;  and  they  came.  He  took  no  notice  that  Mary 
Avon  was  rose-red,  and  downcast  of  face ;  and  that  the  elder  woman 
held  her  hand  tightly,  and  had  obviously  been  crying  a  little  bit — not 
tears  of  sorrow.  When  they  were  seated,  he  handed  each  a  glass.  Then 
he  called  for  silence,  waiting  to  hear  our  Doctor  make  a  proper  and 
courtly  speech  about  his  hostess,  or  about  the  White  Dove,  or  John  of 
Skye,  or  anything. 

But  what  must  have  been  the  Laird's  surprise  when  he  found  that 
it  was  his  own  health  that  was  being  proposed !  And  that  not  in  the 
manner  of  the  formal  oratory  that  the  Laird  admired,  but  in  a  very 
simple  and  straightforward  speech,  that  had  just  a  touch  of  personal 
and  earnest  feeling  in  it.  For  the  young  Doctor  spoke  of  the  long 
days  and  nights  we  had  spent  together,  far  away  from  human  ken ;  and 
how  intimately  associated  people  became  on  board  ship ;  and  how 
thoroughly  one  could  learn  to  know  and  love  a  particular  character 
through  being  brought  into  such  close  relationship.  And  he  said  that 
friendships  thus  formed  in  a  week  or  a  month  might  last  for  a  lifetime. 
And  he  could  not  say  much,  before  the  very  face  of  the  Laird,  about  all 
those  qualities  which  had  gained  for  him  something  more  than  our 
esteem — qualities  especially  valuable  on  board  ship — good  humour, 
patience,  courtesy,  light-heartedness 

"  Bless  me  !  "  cried  the  Laird,  interrupting  the  speaker  in  defiance  of 
all  the  laws  that  govern  public  oratory,  "  I  maun  stop  this — I  maun 
stop  this  !  Are  ye  all  come  together  to  make  fun  of  me — eh  ?  Have  a 
care — have  a  care ! " 

He  looked  round  threateningly ;  and  his  eye  lighted  with  a  darker 
warning  on  Mary  Avon. 

"  That  lass,  too,"  said  he ;  "  and  I  thought  her  a  friend  of  mine ; 
and  she  has  come  to  make  a  fool  of  me  like  the  rest  ?  And  so  ye  want 
to  make  me  the  Homesh  o'  this  boat  1  "Well,  I  may  be  a  foolish  old  man ; 
but  my  eyes  are  open.  I  know  what  is  going  on.  Come  here,  my  lass, 
until  I  tell  ye  something." 

Mary  Avon  went  and  took  the  seat  next  him ;  and  he  put  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Young  people  will  have  their  laugh  and  their  joke,"  said  he. 

"  It  was  no  joke  at  all !  "  said  she  warmly. 

"  Whisht,  now.  I  say  young  people  will  have  their  laugh  and  their 
joke  at  a  foolish  old  man  ;  and  who  is  to  prevent  them  1  Not  me.  But 
I'll  tell  ye  what :  ye  may  have  your  sport  of  me,  on  one  condition." 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE.  265 

He  patted  her  once  or  twice  on  the  shoulder,  just  as  if  she  -was  a 
child. 

"  And  the  condition  is  this,  my  lass — that  ye  have  the  wedding  at 
Denny-mains." 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 
THE  EQUINOCTIALS  AT  LAST. 

THERE  was  no  dreaming  of  weddings  at  Denny-mains,  or  elsewhere,  for 
some  of  us  that  night.  It  had  been  blowing  pretty  hard  when  we 
turned  in ;  but  towards  two  or  three  o'clock  the  wind  increased  to  half 
a  gale,  while  heavy  showers  kept  rattling  along  the  decks.  Then  there 
were  other  sounds.  One  of  the  men  was  heard  to  clamber  up  the  iron 
ladder  of  the  forecastle;  and  as  soon  he  had  put  his  head  out,  his 
contented  exclamation  was,  "Oh,  ferry  well;  go  on!"  Then  he  came 
below  and  roused  his  companions ;  presently  there  was  a  loud  commotion 
on  deck.  This  was  enough  for  our  Doctor.  One  could  hear  him  rapidly 
dressing  in  his  little  state-room — then  staggering  through  the  saloon, 
for  the  wind  was  knocking  about  the  White  Dove  considerably — then 
groping  his  way  up  the  dark  companion.  For  some  time  there  was  a 
fine  turmoil  going  on  above.  Another  anchor  was  thrown  out.  The 
gig  and  dingay  were  brought  in  on  deck.  All  the  skylights  were  fastened 
down,  and  the  tarpaulins  put  over.  Then  a  woman's  voice, 

"  Angus !   Angus  !  " 

The  Doctor  came  tumbling  down  the  companion ;  by  this  time  we 
had  got  a  candle  lit  in  the  saloon. 

"  What  is  it  1 "  was  heard  from  the  partly  opened  door  of  the  ladies' 
cabin. 

"  Nothing  at  all.     A  bit  of  a  breeze  has  sprung  up." 

"  Mary  says  you  must  stay  below.  Never  mind  what  it  is.  You 
are  not  to  go  on  deck  again." 

"  Very  well." 

He  came,  into  the  saloon — all  wet  and  dripping,  but  exceedingly 
pleased  to  have  been  thus  thought  of — and  then  he  said  in  a  tragic 
whisper  : 

"  We  are  in  for  it  at  last." 

"  The  equinoctials?" 

«  Yes." 

So  we  turned  in  again,  leaving  the  WJdte  Dove  to  haul  and  strain  at 
her  cables  all  through  the  night — swaying,  pitching,  groaning,  creaking, 
as  if  she  would  throw  herself  free  of  her  anchors  altogether,  and  sweep 
away  over  to  Glenelg. 

Then,  in  the  early  morning,  the  gale  had  apparently  increased. 
While  the  women-folk  remained  in  their  cabin,  the  others  of  us  ad- 
ventured up  the  companion-way,  and  had  a  look  out.  It  was  not  a 

13—5 


266  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

cheerful  sight.  All  around  the  green  sea  was  being  torn  along  by  the 
heavy  wind ;  the  white  crests  of  the  waves  being  whirled  up  in  smoke  ; 
the  surge  springing  high  on  the  rocks  over  by  Glenelg ;  the  sky  almost 
black  overhead ;  the  mountains  that  ought  to  have  been  quite  near  us 
invisible  behind  the  flying  mists  of  the  rain.  Then  how  the  wind 
howled !  Ordinarily  the  sound  was  a  low,  moaning  bass — even  lower 
than  the  sound  of  the  waves ;  but  then  again  it  would  increase  and  rise 
into  a  shrill  whistle,  mostly  heard,  one  would  have  said,  from  about  the 
standing  rigging  and  the  crosstrees.  But  our  observation  of  these  phe- 
nomena was  brief,  intermittent,  and  somewhat  ignominious.  We  had  to 
huddle  in  the  companion-way  like  Jacks-in-the-box ;  for  the  incautiously 
protruded  head  was  liable  to  .be  hit  by  a  blast  of  rain  that  came  along 
like  a  charge  of  No.  6  shot.  Then  we  tumbled  below  for  breakfast ; 
and  the  scared  women-folk  made  their  appearance. 

"  The  equinoctials,  Angus  1 "  said  Queen  Titania,  with  some  solem- 
nity of  face. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  he  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  I  have  been  through  them  two  or  three  times  before,"  said 
she,  "  but  never  in  an  exposed  place  like  this." 

"  We  shall  fight  through  it  first-rate,"  said  he — and  you  should  have 
seen  Mary  Avon's  eyes  ;  she  was  clearly  convinced  that  fifteen  equinoc- 
tial gales  could  not  do  us  the  slightest  harm  so  long  as  this  young  Doctor 
was  on  board.  "  It  is  a  fine  stroke  of  luck  that  the  gale  is  from  the 
south-west.  If  it  had  come  on  from  the  east  we  should  have  been  in  a 
bad  way.  As  it  is,  there  is  not  a  rock  between  here  and  the  opposite 
shore  at  Glenelg.  and  even  if  we  drag  our  anchors  we  shall  catch  up 
somewkere  at  the  other  side." 

"  I  hope  we  shall  not  have  to  trust  to  that,"  says  Queen  Titania,  who 
in  her  time  has  seen  something  of  the  results  of  vessels  dragging  their 
anchors. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  fury  of  the  gale  still  increased :  the  wind 
moaning  and  whistling  by  turns,  the  yacht  straining  at  her  cables,  and  roll- 
ing and  heaving  about.  Despite  the  tender  entreaties  of  the  women, 
Dr.  Angus  would  go  on  deck  again;  for  now  Captain  John  had  re- 
solved on  lowering  the  topmast,  and  also  on  getting  the  boom  and  main- 
sail from  their  crutch  down  on  to  the  deck.  Being  above  in  this  weather 
was  far  from  pleasant.  The  showers  occasionally  took  the  form  of  hail ; 
and  so  fiercely  were  the  pellets  driven  by  the  wind  that  they  stung  where 
they  hit  the  face.  And  the  outlook  around  was  dismal  enough — the 
green  sea  and  its  whirling  spindrift ;  the  heavy  waves  breaking  all  along 
the  Glenelg  shores ;  the  writhing  of  the  gloomy  sky.  We  had  a  com- 
panion, by  the  way,  in  this  exposed  place — a  great  black  schooner  that 
heavily  rolled  and  pitched  as  she  strained  at  her  two  anchors.  The 
skipper  of  her  did  not  leave  her  bows  for  a  moment  the  whole  day, 
watching  for  the  first  symptom  of  dragging. 

Then  that  night.     As  the  darkness  came  over,  the  wind  increased  in 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE.  267 

shrillness  until  it  seemed  to  tear  with  a  scream  through  the  rigging ; 
and  though  \ve  were  fortunately  under  the  lee  of  the  Skye  hills,  we 
could  hear  the  water  smashing  on  the  bows  of  the  yacht.  As  night  fell 
that  shrjll  whistling  and  those  recurrent  shocks  grew  in  violence,  until 
we  began  to  wonder  how  long  the  cables  would  hold. 

"And  if  our  anchors  give,  I  wonder  where  we  shall  go  to,"  said 
Queen  Titania,  in  rather  a  low  voice. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Miss  Avon,  quite  contentedly. 

She  was  seated  at  dinner ;  and  had  undertaken  to  cut  up  and  mix 
some  salad  that  Master  Fred  had  got  at  Loch  Hourn.  She  seemed 
wholly  engrossed  in  that  occupation.  She  offered  some  to  the  Laird, 
very  prettily ;  and  he  would  have  taken  it  if  it  had  been  hemlock. 
But  when  she  said  she  did  not  care  where  the  White  Dove  might  drift 
to,  we  knew  very  well  what  she  meant.  And  some  of  us  may  have 
thought  that  a  time  would  perhaps  arrive  when  the  young  lady  would  not 
be  able  to  have  everything  she  cared  for  in  the  world  within  the  compass 
of  the  saloon  of  a  yacht. 

Now  it  is  perhaps  not  quite  fair  to  tell  tales  out  of  school ;  but  still 
the  truth  is  the  truth.  The  two  women  were  on  the  whole  very  brave 
throughout  this  business ;  but  on  that  particular  night  the  storm  grew 
more  and  more  violent,  and  it  occurred  to  them  that  they  would  escape 
the  risk  of  being  rolled  out  of  their  berths  if  they  came  along  into  the 
saloon  and  got  some  rugs  laid  on  the  floor.  This  they  did ;  and  the 
noise  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  was  so  great  that  none  of  the  occupants  of 
the  adjoining  state-rooms  heard  them.  But  then  it  appeared  that  no 
sooner  had  they  lain  down  on  the  floor — it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
they  were  dressed  and  ready  for  any  emergency — than  they  were  mightily 
alarmed  by  the  swishing  of  water  below  them. 

"  Mary  !  Mary  !  "  said  the  one,  "  the  sea  is  rushing  into  the  hold." 

The  other,  knowing  less  about  yachts,  said  nothing ;  but  no  doubt, 
with  the  admirable  unselfishness  of  lovers,  thought  it  was  not  of  much 
consequence,  since  Angus  Sutherland  and  she  would  be  drowned  together. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  The  only  way  to  the  forecastle  was 
through  the  Doctor's  state-room.  There  was  no  help  for  it ;  they  first 
knocked  at  his  door,  and  called  to  him  that  the  sea  was  rushing  into 
the  hold ;  and  then  he  bawled  into  the  forecastle  until  Master  Fred,  the 
first  to  awake,  made  his  appearance,  rubbing  his  knuckles  into  his  eyes 
and  saying,  "  Very  well,  sir ;  is  it  hot  water  or  cold  water  ye  want  ?" 
and  then  there  was  a  general  commotion  of  the  men  getting  on  deck  to 
try  the  pumps.  And  all  this  brave  uproar  for  nothing.  There  was 
scarcely  a  gallon  of  water  in  the  hold ;  but  the  women,  by  putting  their 
heads  close  to  the  floor  of  the  saloon,  had  imagined  that  the  sea  was 
rushing  in  on  them.  Such  is  the  story  of  this  night's  adventures  as  it 
was  subsequently — and  with  some  shamefacedness — related  to  the  writer 
of  these  pages.  There  are  some  people  who,  when  they  go  to  sleep, 
sleep,  and  refuse  to  pay  heed  to  twopenny-halfpenny  tumults. 


268  WHITE  WINGS  :   A  YACHTING-  KOMANCE. 

Next  morning  the  state  of  affairs  was  no  better ;  but  there  was  this 
point  in  our  favour,  that  the  White  Dove,  having  held  on  so  long,  was 
not  now  likely  to  drag  her  anchors  and  precipitate  us  on  the  Glenelg 
shore.  Again  we  bad  to  pass  the  day  below,  with  the  running  accom- 
paniment of  pitching  and  groaning  on  the  part  of  the  boat,  and  of  the 
shrill  clamour  of  the  wind,  and  the  rattling  of  heavy  showers.  But  as 
we  sat  at  luncheon,  a  strange  thing  occurred.  A  burst  of  sunlight 
suddenly  came  through  the  skylight  and  filled  the  saloon,  moving  back- 
wards and  forwards  on  the  blue  cushions  as  the  yacht  swayed,  and  de- 
lighting everybody  with  the  unexpected  glory  of  colour.  You  may 
suppose  that  there  was  little  more  thought  of  luncheon.  There  was  an 
instant  stampede  for  waterproofs  and  a  clambering  up  the  companion- 
way.  Did  not  this  brief  burst  of  sunlight  portend  the  passing  over  of 
the  gale  I  Alas  !  alas  !  when  we  got  on  deck,  we  found  the  scene  around 
us  as  wild  and  stormy  as  ever,  with  even  a  heavier  sea  now  racing  up 
the  Sound  and  thundering  along  Glenelg.  Hopelessly  we  went  below 
again.  The  only  cheerful  feature  of  our  imprisonment  was  the  obvious 
content  of  those  two  young  people.  They  seemed  perfectly  satisfied 
with  being  shut  up  in  this  saloon ;  and  were  always  quite  surprised 
when  Master  Fred's  summons  interrupted  their  draughts  or  bezique. 

On  the  third  day  the  wind  came  in  intermittent  squalls,  which  was 
something ;  and  occasionally  there  was  a  glorious  burst  of  sunshine  that 
went  flying  across  the  grey-green  driven  sea.  But  for  the  most  part  it 
rained  heavily ;  and  the  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  business  was  continued 
with  much  content.  The  Laird  had  lost  himself  in  "  Municipal  London." 
Our  Admiral-in-chief  was  writing  voluminous  letters  to  two  youths  at 
school  in  Surrey,  which  were  to  be  posted  if  ever  we  reached  land  again. 

That  night  about  ten  o'clock  a  cheering  incident  occurred.  We  heard 
the  booming  of  a  steam-whistle.  Getting  up  on  deck,  we  could  make 
out  the  lights  of  a  steamer  creeping  along  by  the  Glenelg  shore.  That 
was  the  Clydesdale  going  north.  Would  she  have  faced  Ardnamurchan 
if  the  equinoctials  had  not  moderated  somewhat  1  These  were  friendly 
lights. 

Then  on  the  fourth  day  it  became  quite  certain  that  the  gale  was 
moderating.  The  bursts  of  sunshine  became  more  frequent ;  patches  of 
brilliant  blue  appeared  in  the  sky ;  a  rainbow  from  time  to  time  ap- 
peared between  us  and  the  black  clouds  in  the  east.  With  what  an  in- 
toxication of  joy  we  got  out  at  last  from  our  long  imprisonment,  and 
felt  the  warm  sunlight  around  us,  and  watched  the  men  get  ready  to 
lower  the  gig  so  as  to  establish  once  more  our  communications  with 
the  land.  Mary  Avon  would  boldly  have  adventured  into  that  tum- 
bling and  rocking  thing — she  implored  to  be  allowed  to  go — if  the  Doctor 
were  going  to  pull  stroke,  why  should  she  not  be  allowed  to  steer  1  But 
she  was  forcibly  restrained.  Then  away  went  the  shapely  boat  through 
the  plunging  waters — showers  of  spray  sweeping  her  from  stem  to 
stern — until  it  disappeared  into  the  little  bight  of  Kyle  Rhea. 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  KOMANCE.  269 

The  news  brought  back  from  the  shore  of  the  destruction  wrought 
by  this  gale — the  worst  that  had  visited  these  coasts  for  three-and- 
twenty  years — was  terrible  enough ;  and  it  was  coupled  with  the  most 
earnest  warnings  that  we  should  not  set  out.  But  the  sunlight  had  got 
into  the  brain  of  these  long  imprisoned  people,  and  sent  them  mad. 
They  implored  the  doubting  John  of  Skye  to  get  ready  to  start.  They 
promised  that  if  only  he  would  run  up  to  Kyle  Akin,  they  would  not 
ask  him  to  go  further,  unless  the  weather  was  quite  fine.  To  move— to 
move — that  was  their  only  desire  and  cry. 

John  of  Skye  shook  his  head ;  but  so  far  humoured  them  as  to  weigh 
one  of  the  anchors.  By-and-by,  too,  he  had  the  topmast  hoisted  again  : 
all  this  looked  more  promising.  Then,  as  the  afternoon  came  on,  and 
the  tide  would  soon  be  turning,  they  renewed  their  entreaties.  John, 
still  doubting,  at  length  yielded. 

Then  the  joyful  uproar !  All  hands  were  summoned  to  the  hal- 
yards, for  the  mainsail,  soaked  through  with  the  rain,  was  about  as  stiff 
as  a  sheet  of  iron.  And  the  weighing  of  the  second  anchor — that  was  a 
cheerful  sound  indeed.  We  paid  scarcely  any  heed  to  this  white  squall 
that  was  coming  tearing  along  from  the  south.  It  brought  both  rain  and 
sunlight  with  it ;  for  a  second  or  two  we  were  enveloped  in  a  sort  of 
glorified  mist — then  the  next  minute  we  found  a  rainbow  shining  be- 
tween us  and  the  black  hull  of  the  smack ;  presently  we  were  in  glow- 
ing sunshine  again.  And  then  at  last  the  anchor  was  got  up,  and  the 
sails  filled  to  the  wind,  and  the  main-sheet  slackened  out.  The  White 
Dove,  released  once  more,  was  flying  away  to  the  northern  seas ! 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
"  FLIEH  !  AUF.!  HINAUS  ! " 

THIS  splendid  sense  of  life,  and  motion,  and  brisk  excitement !  We  flew 
through  the  narrows  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow ;  we  had  scarcely  time  to 
regard  the  whirling  eddies  of  the  current.  All  hands  were  on  the  alert, 
too,  for  the  wind  came  in  gusts  from  the  Skye  hills,  and  this  tortuous 
strait  is  not  a  pleasant  place  to  be  taken  unawares  in.  But  the  watching 
and  work  were  altogether  delightful,  after  our  long  imprisonment.  Even 
the  grave  John  of  Skye  was  whistling  "  Fhir  a  bhata "  to  himself — 
somewhat  out  of  tune. 

The  wild  and  stormy  sunset  was  shining  all  along  the  shores  of  Loch 
Alsh  as  we  got  out  of  the  narrows  and  came  in  sight  of  Kyle  Akin. 
And  here  were  a  number  of  vessels  all  storm-stayed,  one  of  them,  in  the 
distance,  with  her  sail  set.  We  discovered  afterwards  that  this  schooner 
had  dragged  her  anchors  and  run  ashore  at  Balmacara ;  she  was  more 
fortunate  than  many  others  that  suffered  in  this  memorable  gale,  and 
was  at  the  moment  we  passed  returning  to  her  former  anchorage. 

The  sunlight  and  the  delight  of  moving  had  certainly  got  into  the 


270  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE. 

heads  of  these  people.  Nothing  -would  do  for  them  but  that  John  of  Skye 
should  go  on  sailing  all  night.  Kyle  Akin  ?  they  would  not  hear  of  Kyle 
Akin.  And  it  was  of  no  avail  that  Captain  John  told  them  what  he  had 
heard  ashore — that  the  Glencoe  had  to  put  back  with  her  bulwarks 
smashed ;  that  here,  there,  and  everywhere  vessels  were  on  the  rocks  ; 
that  Stornoway  harbour  was  full  of  foreign  craft,  not  one  of  which  would 
put  her  nose  out.  They  pointed  to  the  sea,  and  the  scene  around  them. 
It  was  a  lovely  sunset.  Would  not  the  moon  be  up  by  eleven  1 

"  Well,  mem,"  said  John  of  Skye,  with  a  humorous  smile,  "  I  think 
if  we  go  on  the  night,  there  not  mich  chance  of  our  rinning  against 
anything." 

And  indeed  he  was  not  to  be  outbraved  by  a  couple  of  women. 
When  we  got  to  Kyle  Akin,  the  dusk  beginning  to  creep  over  land  and 
sea,  he  showed  no  signs  of  running  in  there  for  shelter.  We  pushed 
through  the  narrow  straits,  and  came  in  view  of  the  darkening  plain  of 
the  Atlantic,  opening  away  up  there  to  the  north,  and  as  far  as  we  could 
see  there  was  not  a  single  vessel  but  ourselves  on  all  this  world  of  water. 
The  gloom  deepened;  in  under  the  mountains  of  Skye  there  was  a 
darkness  as  of  midnight.  But  one  could  still  make  out  ahead  of  us  the 
line  of  the  Scalpa  shore,  marked  by  the  white  breaking  of  the  waves. 
Even  when  that  grew  invisible  we  had  Rona  light  to  steer  by. 

The  stormy  and  unsettled  look  of  the  sunset  had  prepared  us  for 
something  of  a  dirty  night,  and  as  we  went  on  both  wind  and  sea 
increased  considerably.  The  south-westerly  breeze  that  had  brought  us 
so  far  at  a  spanking  rate  began  to  veer  round  to  the  north,  and  came  in 
violent  squalls,  while  the  long  swell  running  down  between  Raasay  and 
Scalpa  and  the  mainland  caused  the  White  Dove  to  labour  heavily. 
Moreover,  the  night  got  as  black  as  pitch,  the  moon  had  not  arisen,  and 
it  was  lucky,  in  this  laborious  beating  up  against  the  northerly  squalls, 
that  we  had  the  distant  Rona  light  by  which  to  judge  of  our  where- 
abouts. 

The  two  women  were  huddled  together  in  the  companion-way  ;  it 
was  the  safest  place  for  them ;  we  could  just  make  out  the  two  dark 
figures  in  the  ruddy  glow  coming  up  from  the  saloon. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  to  be  going  like  this,"  said  Miss  Avon,  "  after  lying 
at  anchor  so  long  1 " 

Her  friend  did  not  answer.  She  had  been  chiefly  instrumental  in 
persuading  Captain  John  to  keep  on  during  the  night,  and  she  did  not 
quite  like  the  look  of  things.  For  one  thing,  she  had  perceived  that  the 
men  were  all  now  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  oilskins,  though  as  yet  there 
was  nothing  but  spray  coming  on  board. 

Our  yoxing  Doctor  came  aft,  and  tried  to  get  down  the  companion- 
way  without  disturbing  the  two  women. 

"  I  am  going  below  for  my  waterproof  and  leggings,"  said  he,  with  a 
slight  laugh.  "  There  will  be  some  fun  before  this  night  is  over." 

The  tone  of  the  girl  altered  in  a  moment. 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE.  271 

"  Oh,  Angus,"  said  she,  grasping  him  by  the  arm.  "  Pray  don't  do 
that !  Leave  the  men  to  work  the  boat.  If  there  is  any  danger  why 
don't  they  make  away  for  the  land  somewhere  1 " 

"  There  is  no  danger,"  said  he,  "  but  there  will  be  a  little  water 
by-and-by." 

The  volume  of  the  great  waves  was  certainly  increasing,  and  a 
beautiful  sight  it  was  to  mark  the  red  port-light  shining  on  the  rushing 
masses  of  foam  as  they  swept  by  the  side  of  the  vessel.  Our  whereabouts 
by  this  time  had  become  wholly  a  matter  of  conjecture  with  the  amateurs, 
for  the  night  was  quite  black ;  however,  Rona  light  still  did  us  good 
service. 

When  Angus  Sutherland  came  on  deck  again,  she  was  on  the  port 
tack,  and  the  wind  had  moderated  somewhat.  But  this  proved  to  be  a 
lull  of  evil  omen.  There  was  a  low  roar  heard  in  the  distance,  and 
almost  directly  a  violent  squall  from  the  east  struck  the  yacht,  sending 
the  boom  flying  over  before  the  skipper  could  get  hold  of  the  main  sheet. 
Away  flew  the  White  Dove  like  an  arrow,  with  the  unseen  masses  of 
water  smashing  over  her  bows  ! 

"  In  with  the  mizen,  boys  !  "  called  out  John  of  Skye,  and  there  was 
a  hurried  clatter  and  stamping,  and  flapping  of  canvas. 

But  that  was  not  enough,  for  this  unexpected  squall  from  the  east 
showed  permanence,  and  as  we  were  making  in  for  the  Sound  of  Scalpa 
we  were  now  running  free  before  the  wind. 

"  We'll  tek  the  foresail  off  her,  boys  !  "  shouted  John  of  Skye  again, 
and  presently  there  was  another  rattle  down  on  the  deck. 

Onwards  and  onwards  we  flew,  in  absolute  darkness  but  for  that 
red  light  that  made  the  sea  shine  like  a  foaming  sea  of  blood.  And  the 
pressure  of  the  wind  behind  increased  until  it  seemed  likely  to  tear  the 
canvas  off  her  spars. 

"  Down  with  the  jib,  then  ! "  called  out  John  of  Skye ;  and  we  heard, 
but  could  not  see,  the  men  at  work  forward.  And  still  the  White  Dove 
flew  onwards  through  the  night,  and  the  wind  howled  and  whistled 
through  the  rigging,  and  the  boiling  surges  of  foam  swept  away  from  her 
•  side.  There  was  no  more  of  Rona  light  to  guide  us  now ;  we  were 
tearing  through  the  Sound  of  Scalpa ;  and  still  this  hurricane  seemed  to 
increase  in  fury.  As  a  last  resource,  John  of  Skye  had  the  peak 
lowered.  We  had  now  nothing  left  but  a  mainsail  about  the  size  of  a 
pocket-handkerchief. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  we  got  into  more  sheltered  waters,  being  under 
the  lee  of  Scalpa ;  and  we  crept  away  down  between  that  island  and 
Skye,  seeking  for  a  safe  anchorage.  It  was  a  business  that  needed  a 
sharp  look-out,  for  the  waters  are  shallow  here,  and  we  discovered  one 
or  two  smacks  at  anchor,  with  no  lights  up.  They  did  not  expect  any 
vessel  to  run  in  from  the  open  on  a  night  like  this. 

And  at  last  we  chose  our  place  for  the  night,  letting  go  both 
anchors.  Then  we  went  below,  into  the  saloon. 


272  WHITE  WINGS  :  A  YACHTING-  EOMANCE. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  sailing  in  the  equinoctials,  Mary  ?  "  said  our 
hostess. 

"  I  am  glad  we  are  all]  round  this  table  again,  and  alive,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  I  thought  you  said  the  other  day  you  did  not  care  whether  the 
yacht  went  down  or  not  ? " 

"  Of  the  two,"  remarked  Miss  Avon  shyly,  "  it  is  perhaps  better 
that  she  should  be  afloat." 

Angus  was  passing  at  the  moment.  He  put  his  hand  lightly  on  her 
shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  kind  way 

"  It  is  better  not  to  tempt  the  unknown,  Mary.  Remember  what 
the  French  proverb  says,  '  Quand  on  est  mort,  c'est  pour  longtemps.' 
And  you  know  you  have  not  nearly  completed  that  great  series  of  White 
Dove  sketches  for  the  smoking-room  at  Denny-mains." 

"  The  smoking-room  !  "  exclaimed  the  Laird,  indignantly.  "  There 
is  not  one  of  her  sketches  that  will  not  have  a  place — an  honoured  place 
— in  my  dining-room  :  depend  on  that.  Ye  will  see — both  of  ye — 
what  I  will  do  with  them ;  and  the  sooner  ye  come  to  see  the  better." 

"We  this  evening  resolved  that  if,  by  favour  of  the  winds  and  the 
valour  of  John  of  Skye,  we  got  up  to  Portree  next  day,  we  should  at 
once  telegraph  to  the  island  of  Lewes  (where  we  proposed  to  cease  these 
summer  wanderings)  to  inquire  about  the  safety  of  certain  friends  of  ours 
whom  we  meant  to  visit  there,  and  who  are  much  given  to  yachting ; 
for  the  equinoctials  must  have  blown  heavily  into  Loch  Roag,  and  the 
little  harbour  at  Borva  is  somewhat  exposed.  However,  it  was  not 
likely  that  they  would  allow  themselves  to  be  caught.  They  know 
something  about  the  sea,  and  about  boats,  at  Borva. 


273 


0f 


ORDINARY  conceptions  of  art  are  apt  to  be  a  good  deal  warped  by  the 
prevailing  impression  among  artists  and  critics  that  the  origin  of  all 
things  is  to  be  sought  for  in  Italy  and  Hellas,  or,  at  best,  in  Egypt  and 
Assyria.  Take  up  an  average  History  of  Sculpture,  such  as  Liibke's,  and 
you  will  find  that  the  author  imagines  he  has  brought  you  face  to  face 
with  the  cradle  of  art  when  he  introduces  you  to  the  polished  granite 
statues  of  Thebes,  or  the  lively  alabaster  bas-reliefs  of  Kouyunjik. 
From  the  point  of  view  generally  adopted  by  the  aesthetic  world,  Egypt 
and  Assyria  are  the  absolute  beginning  of  every  earthly  art  or  science. 
But  with  the  rapid  advance  of  anthropology  and  of  what  may  be  called 
pre-historic  archaeology  during  the  last  few  years,  a  new  school  of  aesthetics 
has  become  inevitable — a  school  which  should  judge  of  art-products  not 
by  the  transcendental  and  often  dogmatic  principles  of  Lessing  or 
Winckelmann,  but  by  the  sober  light  of  actual  evolution.  So  to  judge, 
we  must  push  back  our  search  far  beyond  the  days  of  Sennacherib  and 
Barneses,  to  the  nameless  artists  who  carved  the  figures  of  animals  upon 
bits  of  mammoth-tusks  under  the  shade  of  pre-glacial  caves.  We  must 
consider  the  Egyptian  and  Assyrian  sculptures  not  as  rudimentary 
works,  but  as  advanced  products  of  highly  developed  art.  We  must 
trace  the  long  course  of  previous  evolution  by  which  the  rude  figures  of 
primaeval  men  were  brought  to  the  comparative  technical  perfection  of 
Memphian  or  Ninevite  monuments  ;  a  perfection  which  sometimes  only 
just  falls  short  of  the  Hellenic  model  by  its  want  of  the  very  latest  and 
lightest  touch — artistic  grace  and  freedom.  In  short,  we  must  allow 
that  barbaric  art  is  but  a  step  below  the  civilised,  while  it  is  very  many 
steps  above  the  lowest  savage. 

In  the  present  paper,  however,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  do  more  than 
sketch  very  briefly,  and  in  a  merely  prefatory  manner,  the  primitive 
stages  of  plastic  art.  I  wish,  rather,  here  to  point  out  sundry  influences 
which,  as  it  seems  to  me,  have  conspired  to  give  their  peculiar  charac- 
teristics to  the  very  advanced  sculpture  of  Egypt,  Assyria,  Greece,  and 
India.  But,  as  a  preliminary  to  such  an  exposition,  it  will  be  well  to 
touch  lightly  upon  sundry  prior  and  necessary  stages  of  early  imi- 
tative art. 

When  a  child  begins  spontaneously  to  draw,  its  first  attempt  is 
generally  a  rough  representation  of  the  human  form.  It  draws  a  man,  and 
a  man  in  the  abstract  only.  He  is  "  bilaterally  symmetrical,"  as  the 
naturalists  say ;  a  full-faced  figure,  with  all  the  limbs  and  features 


274  THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

displayed  entire.  He  has  a  round  face,  two  goggle  eyes,  a  nose  and 
mouth,  a  cylindrical  body,  two  arms  held  out  at  a  more  or  less  acute  angle, 
with  five  fingers  on  each,  and  two  legs,  also  divergent,  with  a  pair  of 
terminal  knobs  to  represent  the  feet.  This  is  the  very  parent  of  art,  a 
symbolical  or  mathematical  man,  a  rough  diagram  of  humanity,  reduced 
to  its  simplest  component  elements.  It  still  survives  as  the  sole  repre- 
sentation of  a  man  amongst  our  own  street  boys  and  amongst  many 
savage  races.  Moreover,  it  affords  us  a  good  clue  to  all  the  faults  and 
errors,  the  partial  successes  and  tentative  improvements,  of  subsequent 
artists.  An  Egyptian  or  Assyrian  pond  always  consists  of  a  square 
diagram  of  some  water,  surrounded  by  diagrams  of  trees,  pointing  out- 
ward from  it  in  every  direction,  so  that  some  of  them  are  placed  side- 
ways, and  some  of  them  upside  down.  So,  too,  if  you  ask  any  educated 
European  who  is  ignorant  of  drawing,  to  sketch  you  the  figure  of  a  chair, 
you  will  find  that  he  fails  just  where  the  street  boy  fails  in  representing 
the  human  face.  He  is  too  abstract  and  mathematical;  he  lets  his 
intellectual  appreciation  of  the  chair  as  possessing  four  legs  and  a  back 
and  a  seat,  all  at  right  angles  and  in  certain  determinate  planes,  carry 
away  his  judgment  to  the  detriment  of  the  visual  chair,  whose  angles 
are  all  irregular,  and  whose  planes  interfere  with  one  another  in  extra- 
ordinary ways.  He  turns  you  out  a  diagram,  a  section,  or  an  elevation 
of  a  chair,  not  a  picture  in  the  true  sense.  That  is  the  stumbling-block 
of  all  early  painters  and  sculptors,  the  difficulty  which  they  had  slowly 
to  overcome  before  they  could  arrive  at  the  modern  truthfulness  of 
delineation. 

In  the  technical  language  of  painting,  such  truthfulness  of  delineation, 
such  correct  imitation  of  the  visual  object  in  its  visible  as  opposed  to  its 
geometrical  relations,  is  known  as  drawing.  It  includes  perspective, 
foreshortening,  and  all  the  other  devices  by  which  we  represent  the 
visual  field  on  a  flat  surface.  But  the  term  cannot,  of  course,  be  applied 
to  sculpture,  where  something  analogous  nevertheless  exists,  especially  in 
bas-relief.  Accordingly,  I  propose  in  the  present  paper  to  employ  the 
word  Imitation  in  this  general  sense  as  including  accuracy  of  representa- 
tion in  either  art.  And  such  accuracy  of  imitation  we  may  take  as  the 
real  and  objective  test  of  artistic  evolution,  at  least  so  far  as  the  imitative 
arts  are  concerned.  I  shall  give  examples  hereafter  which  will  illustrate 
the  difference  between  the  application  of  this  test  and  of  those  shadowy 
and  artificial  standards  so  generally  employed  by  the  transcendental 
school. 

So  far  as  I  know,  the  Polynesians  and  many  other  savages  have  not 
progressed  beyond  the  full-face  stage  of  human  portraiture  above 
described.  Next  in  rank  comes  the  drawing  of  a  profile,  as  we  find  it 
among  the  Eskimos  and  the  Bushmen.  Our  own  children  soon  attain 
to  this  level,  which  is  one  degree  higher  than  that  of  the  full  face,  as  it 
implies  a  special  point  of  view,  suppresses  half  the  features,  and  is  not 
diagrammatic  or  symbolical  of  all  the  separate  parts.  Negroes  and 


THE  GKOWTH  OF  SCULPTUEE.  275 

North  American  Indians  cannot  understand  profile  :  they  ask  what  has 
become  of  the  other  eye.  At  this  second  degree  may  also  be  placed  the 
representation  of  animals  as  the  Eskimos  represent  them — a  single  side 
view,  with  the  creature  in  what  may  be  called  an  abstract  position ;  that 
is  to  say,  doing  nothing  particular.  Third  in  rank  we  may  put  the 
rudimentary  perspective  stage,  where  limbs  are  represented  in  drawing  or 
bas-relief  as  standing  one  behind  another,  and  where  one  body  or  portion 
of  a  body  is  permitted  to  conceal  another.  Still,  the  various  figures  are 
seen  all  on  one  plane,  and  stand  side  by  side,  in  a  sort  of  processional 
order  (like  that  of  the  Bayeux  tapestry),  with  little  composition  and  no 
background ;  nor  have  they  yet  much  variety  of  attitude.  Successively 
higher  steps  show  us  the  figures  in  different  positions,  as  walking, 
running,  sitting,  or  lying  down  ;  then,  again,  as  performing  complicated 
actions  ;  finally,  as  showing  emotion,  expression,  and  individuality  in 
their  faces.  At  the  same  time  the  processional  order  disappears; 
perspective  begins  to  come  into  use,  and  the  limbs  betray  some  attention 
to  rough  anatomical  proprieties.  Thus,  by  slow  degrees,  the  symbolical 
and  mathematical  drawing  of  savages  evolves  into  the  imitative  painting 
and  sculpture  of  civilised  races. 

I  wish  to  catch  this  evolving  and  yet  undifferentiated  art  at  the  point 
where  it  is  still  neither  painting  nor  sculpture,  and  where  it  has  just  passed 
the  fourth' stage  in  the  course  of  development  here  indicated.  From  this 
point  I  wish  to  observe  the  causes  which  made  it  assume  its  well-known 
national  plastic  forms  in  Egypt,  Assyria,  Hellas,  and  India  respectively.  To 
do  so,  it  will  be  necessary  shortly  to  recapitulate  some  facts  in  the  history 
of  its  evolution,  familiar  to  most  aesthetic  students,  but  less  so,  perhaps, 
to  the  mass  of  general  readers.  Painting  and  sculpture,  then,  in  their 
western  shape  at  least,  started  from  a  common  origin  in  such  processional 
pictures  as  those  above  described — pictures  of  whose  primitive  peculiari- 
ties the  Egyptian  wall  paintings  and  Etruscan  vases  will  give  us  a  fair 
idea,  though  in  a  more  developed  form.  Setting  out  from  this  original 
mode,  sculpture  first  diverged  by  the  addition  of  incised  lines,  marking 
the  boundaries  of  the  coloured  figures  standing  out  flat  in  very  low  relief. 
Then  the  edges  being  rounded  and  the  details  incised  as  well  as  painted, 
bas-relief  proper  comes  into  existence.  Corner  figures,  like  those  of  the 
Assyrian  bulls  and  gods,  give  us  the  earliest  hint  of  the  statue.  At  first 
seated  or  erect,  with  arms  placed  directly  down  the  side  to  the  thighs, 
and  legs  united  together,  the  primitive  statues  formed  a  single  piece 
with  the  block  of  stone  behind  them.  Becoming  gradually  higher  and 
higher  in  relief,  they  atjast  stood  out  as  almost  separate  figures,  with  a 
column  at  the  back  to  support  their  weight.  At  last  they  assumed  the 
wholly  separate  position.  Side  by  side  with  these  changes,  the  arms  are 
cut  away  from  the  sides,  and  the  legs  are  opened  and  placed  one  before 
the  other.  Gradually  more  action  is  thrown  into  the  limbs,  and  more 
expression  into  the  features ;  till,  finally,  the  cat-faced  Egyptian  Pasht,  with 
her  legs  firmly  set  together,  and  her  hands  laid  flat  upon  her  knees,  gives 


276  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

place  to  the  free  Hellenic  Discobolus,  with  every  limb  admirably 
moulded  into  exact  imitation  of  an  ideally  beautiful  human  form,  in  a 
speaking  attitude  of  graceful  momentary  activity. 

Now  if  we  look  for  a  minute  at  a  few  of  the  criticisms  already  passed 
by  aesthetic  authorities  upon  works  of  national  art,  we  shall  see  how  far 
they  differ  from  those  which  must  be  passed  by  the  application  of  this 
objective  imitative  test.  There  are  in  the  British  Museum  some  Assy- 
rian bas-reliefs  from  Kouyunjik,  of  the  age  of  Asshur-bani-pal,  or  Sar- 
danapalus,  concerning  which  no  less  a  writer  than  Sir  A.  H.  Layard 
delivers  himself  after  this  fashion  : — "  In  that  which  constitutes  the 
highest  quality  of  art,  in  variety  of  detail  and  ornament,  in  attempts  at 
composition,  in  severity  of  style,  and  purity  of  outline,  they  are  inferior 
to  the  earliest  Assyrian  monuments  with  which  we  are  acquainted — 
those  from  the  north-west  palace  at  Nimroud.  They  bear,  indeed,  the 
same  relation  to  them  as  the  later  Egyptian  monuments  do  to  the  earlier." 
But  the  fact  is  that,  if  we  accept  imitation  as  our  test,  we  must  rank  these 
very  bas-reliefs  as  the  highest  products  of  Assyrian  art.  Any  one  who 
will  look  at  the  original  works  in  the  Museum  can  judge  for  himself. 
The  animals  in  them  are  represented  in  very  truthful  and  unsymmetrical 
attitudes,  and  often  show  considerable  expression.  A  wounded  lion 
seizing  a  chariot-wheel  has  its  face  and  two  paws  given  with  a 
fidelity  and  an  attention  to  perspective  truly  astonishing.  The  parts  of 
bodies  passing  in  front  of  one  another  are  managed  with  high  technical 
skill.  A  lion  enclosed  in  a  cage  is  seen  through  the  bars  in  an  admir- 
able manner.  And  though  conventionalism  is  allowed  to  reign  for  the 
most  part  in  the  human  figure,  especially  in  the  sacred  case  of  the  king, 
yet  the  muscles  are  brought  out  with  considerable  anatomical  correct- 
ness, and  the  inferior  personages  are  often  in  really  decent  drawing, 
even  when  judged  as  Europeans  now  judge.  All  these  points  betoken 
advance  upon  the  older  works.  To  put  it  plainly,  Sir  A.  H.  Layard 
seems  to  have  set  up  as  a  standard  certain  rather  ideal  characters  of  art, 
to  have  erected  the  archaic  Assyrian  type  with  which  he  was  familiar 
into  an  absolute  model,  and  then  to  have  found  fault  with  these  parti- 
cular bas-reliefs  because  they  were  less  "  severe  "  and  "  pure  " — that  is  to 
say,  more  highly  evolved — than  his  artificial  standard  of  national  excel- 
lence. 

Similarly,  I  find  Herr  Liibke  placing  Indian  sculpture  far  below  that 
of  Egypt  and  Assyria.  For  this  singular  judgment  he  gives  merely 
fanciful  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  mystical  reasons.  "  It  might,  indeed,  be 
asserted,"  he  says,  "  that  a  touch  of  naive  grace  marks  the  best  of  these 
works,  but  this  grace  breathes  no  animation  of  mind  nor  power  of 
thought  or  will ;  at  the  most  it  may  be  compared  with  the  loveliness  of 
the  flowers  of  the  field ;  there  is  nothing  in  it  of  moral  consciousness." 
I  confess  I  find  it  hard  to  discover  traces  of  moral  consciousness  in  the 
Memnon  or  the  winged  bulls ;  but  any  child  can  see  that  while  Egyptian 
statues  are  stiff,  unnatural,  symmetrical,  and  absolutely  devoid  of  anato  • 


THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  277 

mical  detail,  many  Indian  statues  are  free  in  position,  stand  with  arms 
and  legs  in  natural  and  graceful  attitudes,  show  in  their  faces  indivi- 
duality or  even  expression,  and  represent  the  limbs  with  anatomical 
correctness  only  idealised  into  a  somewhat  voluptuous  smoothness  and 
rotundity.  Here,  again,  we  must  suppose  that  a  preconceived  transcen- 
dental idea  has  blinded  the  critic  to  obvious  excellence  of  imitation.* 

One  word  to  prevent  misapprehension.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
such  a  rough  test  as  that  here  employed  can  be  used  to  measure  the 
respective  value  of  the  highest  artistic  work.  It  can  merely  be  employed 
to  weigh  nation  against  nation.  In  our  own  days,  when  good  imitation 
is  almost  universal,  when  drawing,  and  perspective,  and  anatomy,  are 
taught  systematically  to  all  our  artists,  we  necessarily  judge  of  aesthetic 
products  by  higher  and  mainly  emotional  standards.  Mr.  Frith  does  not 
differ  much  from  Mr.  Burne  Jones,  or  M.  Legros,  or  Sir  Frederic 
Leighton  in  mere  technical  ability  to  represent  what  he  sees  on  a  flat 
surface ;  but  he  differs  greatly  in  sentiment  and  feeling.  What  we  admire 
in  one  modern  work  of  art,  as  compared  with  another,  is  its  colouring,  its 
composition,  its  beauty  of  thought  and  expression,  its  power  of  stirring 
the  higher  and  finer  chords  of  our  emotional  nature.  What  we  dislike  is 
vulgarity  of  subject  or  treatment,  crude  or  discordant  colouring,  low  or 
commonplace  emotion,  and  all  the  other  outward  signs  of  poverty  in 
intellectual  and  emotional  endowment.  These  higher  tests  can  some- 
times be  applied  even  where  the  technique  is  far  from  perfect,  as  amongst 
many  mediaeval  Italian  painters,  whose  drawing,  especially  of  animals, 
is  often  ludicrously  incorrect,  while  they  nevertheless  display  a  fine  sense 
of  colouring,  deep  feeling,  and  profound  power  of  expression.  But  they 
cannot  be  applied  to  Egyptian  or  Assyrian  handicraft,  which  thus  falls 
short  entirely  of  the  specific  fine-art  quality  as  understood  by  modern 

*  In  justice  to  Liibke  I  should  like  to  add  that  he  differs  totally  from  Sir  A.  H. 
Layard  as  to  the  Kouyunjik  sculptures,  and  agrees,  on  the  whole,  with  my  indepen- 
dently-formed opinion.     To  show  how  greatly  our  doctors  disagree  on  such  points,  I 
venture  to  transcribe  the  whole  of  his  remarks  on  this  subject.     "If  the  works  at 
Khorsabad,"  he  says,  "  mark  the  transition  from  the  strict  old  style  to  one  of  greater 
freedom,  the  latter  acquires  its  full  sway  in  the  palace  of  Kujjundschik.     It  is  true 
even  here,  the  extent  of  subject-matter,   the   idea   and   its   intellectual  importance, 
remain  unchanged.     The  Assyrian  artists  were  compelled  to  restrict  themselves,  as 
their  forefathers  had  done  for  centuries,  to  the  glorification  of  the  life  and  actions  of 
their  princes.     But,  while  the  ideas  wcro  limited  to  the  old  narrow  circle,  the  obser- 
vation of  nature  had  increased  so  considerably  in  acutencss,  extent,  and  delicacy,  the 
representations  had  gained  such  case,  freshness,  and  variety,  and  the  power  of  charac- 
terisation had  become  so  enlarged  by  the  study  of  individual  life,  that  an  advance  pro- 
claims itself  everywhere.     At  the  same  time,  the  art  had  lost  nothing  of  its  earlier 
excellencies,  except,  perhaps,  the  powerful  gloomy  grandeur  of  the  principal  figures  ; 
this  was  exchanged  for  the  softer  but  in  nowise  feeble  grace  of  a  more  animated 
style,  and  for  the  wealth  of  an  imagination  that  had  thrown  aside  its  fetters  in 
various  new  ideas  and  pregnant  subjects."     Here  Lubke's  own  transcendental  canons 
do  not  mislead  him,  and  ho   therefore  avoids  tho  fanciful  error  into  which  Layard's 
canons  have  led  the  great  explorer. 


278  THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTUKE. 

aesthetic  critics.  The  total  absence  of  feeling  and  expression  reduces  the 
art  of  Egypt  and  Assyria  to  the  purely  barbaric  level.  That  of  Hellas, 
on  the  contrary,  rises  to  the  first  rank.  The  origin  of  this  remarkable 
difference  forms  the  subject  of  our  present  inquiry. 

A  cheap  and  easy  mode  of  accounting  for  such  peculiarities,  much  in 
vogue  amongst  critics,  is  to  refer  them  to  "  the  national  character ; " 
which  is  about  as  explanatory  as  to  say  that  opium  puts  one  to  sleep 
because  it  possesses  a  soporific  virtue.  If  we  take  a  single  individual, 
the  absurdity  becomes  obvious — no  one  would  account  for  the  excellence 
of  Shakspeare's  plays  by  saying  that  he  possessed  a  play- writing  charac- 
ter— but  when  we  talk  of  a  whole  nation,  the  trick  of  language  imposes 
upon  everybody.  The  real  question,  however,  lurks  behind  all  these 
shallow  subterfuges,  and  it  is  this  :  Why  is  the  national  character  artistic 
or  inartistic,  free  or  slavish,  individual  or  conventional,  as  the  case  may 
be  ?  The  only  possible  answer  lies  in  the  physical  condition  arid  antece- 
dents of  each  particular  people.  To  put  the  concrete  instance,  Egyptian 
sculpture  was  what  we  know  it  to  be,  first,  because  the  people  were 
Egyptians,  that  is  to  say  Negroids ;  secondly,  because  they  lived  in 
Egypt ;  and,  thirdly,  because  they  had  no  stone  to  work  in  but  granite 
or  porphyry.  Conversely,  Hellenic  sculpture  was  what  we  know  it  to 
be,  first,  because  the  people  were  Hellenes,  that  is  to  say,  Aryans ; 
secondly,  because  they  lived  in  Hellas;  and,  thirdly,  because  they 
worked  mainly  in  white  and  fine-grained  Parian  marble. 

The  first  element,  that  of  heredity,  was  the  one  which  poor  dogmatic, 
puzzle-headed  Buckle  so  stoutly  refused  to  take  into  consideration.  But 
it  is  undoubtedly  one  of  prime  importance,  though  I  cannot  here  find 
room  to  lay  much  stress  upon  it.  Of  course  heredity  itself  is  ultimately 
explicable  by  the  previous  physical  circumstances  of  each  race  ;  it  means 
the  persistent  mental  twist  given  to  a  nation  by  the  long  habits  of  its 
ancestors  in  their  dealings  with  nature  and  surrounding  peoples,  which 
latter  factor  must  in  the  last  resort  be  accepted  as  a  result  of  their  geo- 
graphical position.  This  mental  twist  is  physically  registered  in  the 
brain.  Now  the  Negroid  race  (perhaps  because  it  is  cooped  up  in  a 
large  and  compact  continent,  Africa,  with  no  intersecting  seas  and  little 
outlet  for  intercourse  with  surrounding  peoples)  has  never  displayed 
much  plasticity  of  intelligence,  and  has  only  produced  a  civilised  nation 
in  its  extreme  north-eastern  branch,  where  it  spreads  over  the  rich  allu- 
vial valley  of  the  Nile,  and  borders  most  closely  upon  the  Semitic  and 
Aryan  races.  Somewhat  similar  is  the  position  of  the  great  Mongoloid 
family,  which  has  developed  a  civilisation  in  China  alone,  among  the  fer- 
tile plains  of  the  Hoang-Ho  and  the  Yang-tse-Kiang.  Both  these  races 
seem  to  represent  an  early  checked  development ;  their  type  of  social 
organisation  remains  low  and  stereotyped  (though  in  different  degrees) ; 
their  ancestors  appear  never  to  have  been  placed  in  favourable  conditions 
for  calling  forth  the  latent  adaptability,  the  susceptibility  to  culture 
and  evolution,  of  the  human  species.  If  we  look  at  China  especially, 


THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  279 

•we  see  that  its  monosyllabic  language,  its  religion  of  ancestor-worship,  its 
ideographic  mode  of  writing,  its  social  system,  all  belong  to  an  early  and 
strangely  fossilised  type.  The  Aryans,  on  the  contrary  (and  we  might 
perhaps  add,  the  Semites),  have  passed  ancestrally  through  some  unknown 
circumstances  which  have  rendered  them  hereditarily  the  most  plastic, 
the  most  intelligent,  the  most  aesthetic,  and  probably  the  most  organi- 
cally moral  of  all  human  races.  Thus,  at  the  point  where  history  first 
discovers  them,  the  great  families  of  men  are  already  unequal  in  poten- 
tialities and  in  actual  culture.  The  Aryan  starts  in  the  race  with  five 
ounces  more  of  brain  than  the  negro.  The  Bushman  starts  with  five 
ounces  less.  It  is  by  no  means  a  matter  of  indifference,  therefore,  to  the 
philosophy  of  history  whether  Egypt  was  peopled  by  Negroids  or  Aryans, 
whether  China  was  occupied  by  Turanians  or  Andamanese,  and  whether 
the  first  Hellenic  colonists  settled  down  in  Central  Africa  or  in  the  islands 
of  the  ^Egean.  Each  race  is  what  it  is  partly  in  virtue  of  the  peculiar 
brain  and  the  correlated  individuality  handed  down  to  it  by  descent  from 
its  remotest  human  ancestors. 

Here  the  second  element,  which  I  must  also  pass  over  rapidly,  steps 
in  to  complicate  the  account.  Given  a  certain  relatively  homogeneous 
mass  of  Aryans,  Turanians,  or  Negroids,  that  mass,  as  it  splits  up  into 
minor  tribes  or  groups,  will  again  be  further  differentiated  by  the  special 
physical  conditions  which  surround  it  in  its  separate  life.  While  each 
will  retain  the  chief  Aryan  or  Turanian  peculiarities,  as  compared  with 
other  non- Aryan  or  non-Turanian  tribes,  it  will  acquire  certain  new 
characteristics  of  its  own  in  virtue  of  its  new  environment.  The  primitive 
Aryan  nucleus,  for  example,  divides  into  several  hordes  or  colonies,  each 
of  which  goes  its  own  way  from  the  common  Central  Asian  home  to  find 
itself  a  new  dwelling-place  in  some  unknown  land.  A  part  threads  its 
way  through  the  passes  of  the  Hindu  Kush  to  the  alluvial  flats  of  the 
Indus  and  the  Ganges  ;  and  there,  settling  down  to  a  purely  agricultural 
life,  and  mixing,  in  its  lower  castes  at  least,  with  the  flat-faced  Aborigines, 
produces  the  modern  Indian  people — from  the  pure  light-brown  Aryan 
Brahman,  with  his  intellectual  features  and  profound  speculative  brain, 
to  the  degraded,  almost  non-Aryan,  Chumar,  with  his  flat  nose,  thick 
lips,  and  dull  material  mind.  Another  colony  strikes  westward,  and, 
making  its  home  among  the  nearest  islands  and  peninsulas  of  the 
Mediterranean,  becomes  the  great  civilised  and  commercial  Helleno- 
Italic  race,  the  true  founder  of  our  modern  arts,  our  modern  science,  and 
our  modern  philosophy.  A  third  branch  lingers  longer  in  the  primitive 
home,  and  then  ripens  more  slowly  its  intelligence  among  the  forests  of 
the  Danube  and  the  Rhine,  till  at  length,  borrowing  a  new  civilisation 
from  its  intercourse  with  falling  Rome,  ib  blossoms  finally  forth  as  the 
conquering  Teutonic  stock,  which  now  divides  with  the  Keltic  all  the 
culture  of  Western  Europe.  To  trace  in  detail  for  each  case  the  endless 
interaction  of  land  on  people,  and  of  people  on  surrounding  tribes,  would 
be  a  task  for  innumerable  volumes  and  encyclopaedic  knowledge ;  but 


280  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

that  to  such  interactions,  however  undiscoverable,  the  whole  national 
character  is  due,  no  consistent  evolutionist  can  reasonably  doubt.  While 
we  allow  that  the  Aryan  blood  of  the  Hellenes  had  much  to  do  with  the 
differences  which  mark  them  off  from  the  Negroid  Egyptians,  must  we 
not  equally  grant  that  Hellenic  civilisation  would  have  been  very  different 
if  the  settlers  of  Attica  had  happened  rather  to  occupy  the  valley  of  the 
Nile ;  and  that  the  Egyptians  would  have  become  a  race  of  enterprising 
sailors  and  foreign  merchants  if  they  had  chosen  to  make  their  homes  on 
the  shores  of  the  Cyclades  and  the  Corinthian  Gulf?  The  factors  of  the 
problem,  though  never,  perhaps,  actually  determined,  are  yet  in  the 
abstract  potentially  determinable. 

In  every  evolution  the  question  of  time  is  all-important,  for  each 
fresh  step  depends  upon  the  steps  already  taken.  At  the  moment  when 
our  investigation  begins,  the  main  centre  of  civilisation  lay  around  the 
eastern  Mediterranean.  The  other  isolated  civilisations — India,  China, 
Mexico,  Peru — had  some  of  them  little,  and  others  no,  connection  with 
the  Egyptian,  Assyrian,  and  Hellenic  culture.  Navigation  needed  to  be 
nursed  first  in  the  ^Egean  and  then  in  the  wider  Mediterranean  before  it 
could  trust  itself  upon  the  vast  Atlantic,  and  initiate  that  momentous 
revolution  whereby  the  civilisation  of  the  world  has  been  transferred 
from  the  Nile,  the  Archipelago,  and  the  Tiber  to  the  Seine,  the  Thames, 
the  Rhine,  and  the  Hudson.  This  important  element  of  time  is  a  factor 
whose  value  we  must  never  forget  in  the  history  of  evolution. 

Now,  just  as  the  Aryan  individuality  is  antithetical  to  the  Negroid, 
so  are  the  physical  circumstances  of  Hellas  antithetical  to  those  of  Egypt. 
When  an  Aryan  colony  settled  among  the  islands  and  peninsulas  of  the 
JEgean,  it  settled  (as  it  seems  to  me)  in  the  very  place  which  was,  at  that 
exact  moment  of  time,  best  fitted  to  develop  the  Aryan  type  to  its  highest 
existing  potential  culture.  As  granite  is  to  marble,  and  as  the  raw  negro 
is  to  the  raw  Hellene,  such,  I  believe,  was  Egypt  to  Hellas. 

The  valley  of  the  Nile,  a  long,  narrow  alluvial  strip,  lies  between  two 
enclosing  granite  or  limestone  ranges,  which  cut  it  naturally  off  from  all 
surrounding  homes  of  men.  On  either  side  stretches  the  desert.  Between 
them  runs  the  great  river,  whose  mud  fills  the  valley  and  forms  the  Delta, 
whose  water  annually  inundates  and  fertilises  the  fields,  and  whose  influ- 
ence alone  causes  the  difference  between  the  belt  of  verdure,  a  few  miles 
wide,  and  the  dreary  expanse  of  sand  to  right  and  left.  This  alluvial  plain, 
like  all  other  alluvial  plains,  was  naturally  predestined  by  its  physical  pecu- 
liarities to  become  the  seat  of  an  early  agricultural  community.  As  soon 
as  evolving  man  had  passed  the  stage  of  the  mere  hunter  or  shepherd,  he 
necessarily  made  his  first  essays  in  tillage  on  the  rich  levels  watered  by 
the  Indus,  the  Ganges,  the  Euphrates,  the  Hoang-Ho,  and  the  Nile.  As 
navigation  must  begin  on  rivers,  lakes,  and  inland  seas  before  it  tempts 
the  stormy  ocean,  so  agriculture  must  begin  on  fertile  and  naturally 
irrigated  lowland  plains  before  it  can  drive  its  steam  ploughs  along  the 
bleak  hillsides  of  the  Lothians  or  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Alleghanies. 


THE  GBOWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  281 

Now,  Egypt  was  specially  marked  out,  even  among  such  alluvial  plains, 
as  the  natural  seat  of  a  great  empire.  All  alluvial  countries  lend  them- 
selves readily  to  despotism :  it  is  easy  to  overrun  them,  hard  to  defend 
them,  difficult  to  encourage  the  natural  growth  of  small  nationalities. 
In  Egypt  the  ease  of  consolidation,  the  difficulty  of  separation,  reaches  a 
maximum.  From  the  Cataracts  to  the  sea  the  country  is  naturally  (like 
the  French  Republic)  one  and  indivisible.  Hence  the  distinguishing 
mark  of  Egypt  is  that  it  was  a  primitive,  despotic,  homogeneous  Negroid 
community,  organised  on  an  essentially  military  type,  but  comprising  a 
mainly  agricultural  populace.  Whatever  else  than  this  it  has  ever  been 
has  depended  upon  changes  brought  about  by  the  time  element ;  but  this 
at  bottom  it  has  really  always  remained.  The  Egyptian  cultivator  was 
ever  and  is  now  a  soulless  clod,  born  to  till  the  soil  and  pay  the  taxes. 

Developing  freely  at  first,  apart  from  foreign  interference,  the  Egyp- 
tian community  produced  its  own  social  system  and  its  own  artistic 
school  in  accordance  with  its  own  genius  and  the  genius  of  the  place. 
The  richness  of  the  soil  permitted  the  reaping  of  harvests  far  greater  than 
sufficed  for  the  cultivators'  use ;  but  those  harvests,  instead  of  being 
exported  (as  at  later  dates)  to  feed  the  masses  of  Rome  or  England,  were 
used  to  support  vast  bodies  of  native  workmen.  Then,  as  now,  the 
despotic  ruler  appropriated  to  his  own  enjoyment  all  the  surplus  wealth 
of  the  country  •  but  while  the  Khedive  employs  it  in  buying  English 
yachts  and  hiring  French  opera  companies,  Rameses  or  Usertesen  em- 
ployed it  in  building  splendid  tombs,  gorgeous  palaces,  and  magnificent 
temples  to  their  deified  ancestors  by  the  hands  of  Egyptian  workmen  alone. 
Thus  Egyptian  painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture  became  wholly  sub- 
servient to  the  royal  pleasure,  and  the  two  former  arts  grew  up  simply 
as  accessories  to  the  latter  in  the  decoration  of  the  vast  royal  buildings. 

I  am  afraid  the  reader  will  have  fancied,  during  this  long  digression, 
that  I  have  forgotten  my  promise  to  discourse  concerning  the  growth  of 
sculpture  altogether.  But  I  have  really  been  keeping  it  in  view  the 
whole  time.  We  now  arrive  at  the  third  element  in  the  evolution  of 
Egyptian  plastic  art — the  material  with  which  it  had  to  deal.  This,  I 
believe,  is  one  of  the  most  important  factors  in  the  whole  problem,  and 
yet  it  is  the  one  most  persistently  overlooked.  The  idealists  who  write 
so  glibly  about  the  national  character  of  Egypt  and  of  Greece  forget  that 
even  an  Athenian  sculptor  could  have  done  little  with  the  hard  granite 
masses  of  Syene,  while  even  Egyptians  would  in  all  probability  have 
produced  far  more  truthful  and  natural  works  if  they  had  always  dealt 
with  the  fine  and  plastic  marble  of  Paros  and  Pentelicus.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  Egyptian  sculpture  has  been  profoundly  modified  by 
the  abundance  of  granite,  Assyrian  sculpture  by  the  abundance  of 
alabaster,  and  Hellenic  sculpture  by  the  abundance  of  marble. 

Practically  speaking,  there  are  only  two  plastic  materials  in  Egypt. 
The  one  is  the  mud  of  Nile,  from  which  bricks  can  bo  made ;  the  other 
is  the  hard  igneous  rock — granite,  syenite,  or  porphyry — of  the  boundary 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  249.  14. 


282  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

ranges.  The  geology  of  Egypt  is  as  monotonous  as  its  scenery.  Marble  or 
soft  limestone  nowhere  occurs  in  any  quantity.  Granite,  therefore,  became 
the  material  from  which  the  sculptured  parts  of  temples,  palaces,  and  tombs 
were  constructed  (though  a  soft  durable  sandstone  was  also  employed  for 
the  ordinary  building) ;  and  the  national  art,  being  all  at  bottom  archi- 
tectural, took  its  main  impress  from  the  artistic  capabilities  of  this 
material.  Even  in  our  own  times,  granite  makes  an  awkward  statue ; 
though  by  dint  of  long  practice  upon  marble,  and  still  more  owing  to 
the  modern  habit  of  modelling  the  original  in  clay,  we  are  now  able  to 
turn  out  as  good  a  figure  as  the  rigid  nature  of  the  stone  allows.  But 
the  Egyptians,  so  to  speak,  founded  all  their  art  on  granite,  and  it 
accordingly  coloured  even  their  painting,  as  I  hope  hereafter  to  show. 
"  A  sitting  statue,"  says  Sir  Gardner  Wilkinson,  "  was  represented  with 
the  hands  placed  upon  the  knees,  or  held  across  the  breast ;  and,  when 
standing,  the  arms  were  placed  directly  down  the  sides  to  the  thighs,  one 
foot  being  advanced  before  the  other,  as  if  in  the  attitude  of  walking,  but 
without  any  attempt  to  separate  the  legs."  "  The  parts  between  the 
legs,"  says  Dr.  Birch,  "  in  statues  made  of  stone  are  reserved  or  not  cut 
away,  said  to  be  owing  to  the  manner  of  working  by  stunning  out  the 
limbs."  These  peculiarities  were  almost  necessitated  by  the  nature  of 
the  stone  itself,  and  they  are  familiar  to  all  of  us  from  the  specimens  in 
the  courts  of  the  Louvre  and  of  the  British  Museum.* 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  mean  to  deny  that  the  national  character, 
formed  by  the  national  circumstances,  did  much  to  determine  the  low 
grade  of  development  in  Egyptian  plastic  art ;  but  I  think  it  almost 
certain  that  the  nature  of  the  material  also  reacted  upon  the  national 
character  with  considerable  effect.  In  the  first  place,  painting  itself 
advanced  in  many  ways  beyond  sculpture,  and  was  probably  retarded  in 
its  development  by  the  fixity  of  its  sister  art.  For  instance,  its  choice  of 
attitude  was  far  more  free  and  unrestricted ;  it  represented  arms  and  legs 
in  positions  which  would  have  been  impossible  for  granite  statues.  In 
the  wall-paintings,  figures  act ;  in  the  sculptures,  they  passively  exist. 
Then,  again,  as  most  of  the  highest  architecture  had  also  granite  or  sand- 
stone for  its  "  physical  basis,"  the  whole  national  art  could  never  attain 
the  plasticity  of  Hellenic  genius — could  never  reach  the  grade  of  develop- 
ment which  was  naturally  reached  in  the  free  and  gracious  marble 
temples  of  Ionia  or  Attica.  But,  above  all,  there  are  signs  that  Egyptian 
art  did  not  always  assume  so  rigid  a  form,  and  that  in  its  earlier  days  it 
could  sometimes  attain  far  greater  freedom  and  individuality,  especially 
in  connection  with  more  plastic  materials.  There  is  a  little  terra-cotta 
group  in  the  British  Museum — a  man  and  woman  seated — attributed  to 
the  ninth  dynasty  (a  comparatively  early  period),  in  which  the  pose  of 

*  The  Egyptians  did  very  sparingly  employ  a  native  coarse  black  marble ;  but  no 
quarries  of  this  stone  existed  at  all  comparable  to  the  great  masses  of  rosso  antico 
porphyry  at  Syene. 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  283 

the  figures  is  so  natural  and  unrestrained  that  one  feels  almost  inclined 
at  first  to  doubt  their  antiquity,  and  to  suspect  Hellenic  influence.  This 
group  and  a  few  like  it  used  to  puzzle  me  for  many  years,  until  I  learned 
from  late  discoveries  that  the  sculpture  of  the  third  and  other  early 
dynasties  was  decidedly  more  individualised  and  imitative  than  that  of 
the  great  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  dynasties,  under  which  the  ever 
increasing  conventionalism  of  Egyptian  art  reached  its  highest  develop  - 
ment.  Besides  the  reaction  of  the  solid  material,  which  naturally  induced 
stiffness  of  conception,  we  must  attribute  this  increasing  rigidity  of 
Egyptian  sculpture  to  its  hieratic  character. 

In  all  despotisms  a  certain  sacredness  invests  the  king.  In  des- 
potisms of  the  Oriental  model,  military  societies  which  have  crystallised 
at  an  early  stage  of  development,  this  sacredness  affects  everything  that 
concerns  the  king.  In  Egypt  especially  the  concentration  of  all  the 
energies  of  the  country  around  the  descendant  of  the  sun  made  the 
sacred  character  of  royal  art  very  apparent.  "  Rameses  conquering  a  city," 
"  Amenoph  driving  his  enemies  before  him,"  "  Thothmes  receiving  the  tri- 
bute of  the  Ethiopians  " — these  form  the  subjects  of  half  the  bas-reliefs  and 
wall-paintings  on  tombs  or  palaces.  Art  being  mostly  restricted  to  the 
adornment  of  royal  buildings,  a  caste  of  royal  aitlsts  grew  up,  who 
learned  from  one  another  the  conventional  principles  of  their  art.  For 
conventionalism  means  the  continuous  copying  of  a  primitive  and 
inaccurate  attempt  at  imitation  of  nature.  Hence  both  sculptors  and 
painters  worked  by  a  hieratic  canon,  which  prescribed  the  relative  pro- 
portions of  the  body,  and  from  which  it  would  have  been  sacrilegious  to 
diverge.  Especially  in  dealing  with  the  gods  and  the  king,  the  fixed 
models  alone  could  be  permitted,  and  no  variation  even  in  posture  or 
feature  could  be  allowed.  In  mediaeval  Europe  somewhat  the  same 
fixity  prevailed  in  the  representation  of  the  Madonna  and  the  saints,  as 
it  still  prevails  in  the  wooden  pietas  and  bambinos  of  Continental 
churches.  A  like  fixity  also  existed,  apparently,  in  pre-historic  Hellas. 
But  while  in  Italy  a  Cimabue,  a  Giotto,  and  a  Lionardo  could  be  found 
successively  to  break  through  the  various  conventional  ideas  of  their 
age ;  while  in  Hellas  a  series  of  nameless  sculptors  could  discard  the 
cow-faced  Here  and  the  owl-headed  Athene  for  ideal  human  figures, 
which  grow  into  individuality  under  the  hands  of  Dipeenus  and  Scyllis ; 
in  Egypt  no  single  original  plastic  genius  ever  ventured  to  omit  the 
panther  features  of  Pasht  or  the  ibis  beak  of  Thoth,  to  sever  the  arms 
and  legs  of  a  Memnon,  or  to  throw  expression  into  the  lifeless  eyes  of  a 
Sesostris. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Everywhere  the  total  amount  of 
originality  is  small,  and  the  number  of  innovators  is  infinitesimal  com- 
pared with  the  number  of  those  who  follow  "  the  best  models."  The 
history  of  Greek  sculpture  or  Italian  painting  shows  us  how  each  epoch- 
making  artist  only  advanced  a  trifle  upon  the  work  of  those  who  pre- 
ceded him.  Yet,  to  get  even  such  slow  improvement,  the  elements  of 

14—2 


284  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

progress  must  be  at  -work  throughout  an  entire  nation,  leavening  the 
whole  mass.  These  elements  were  as  wholly  wanting  in  ancient  Egypt 
as  they  are  in  modern  China.  The  Egyptian  peasant  or  artisan  lived  in 
a  monotonous  and  narrow  plain,  studded  with  little  villages,  each  of 
which,  like  those  of  the  Gangetic  plateau  in  our  own  days,  contained 
absolutely  identical  social  factors — the  cultivators,  the  potters,  the 
weavers,  the  bakers,  and  the  priests.  Up  and  down  the  river,  life  was 
exactly  the  same.  There  was  no  intercourse  with  unlike  communities, 
no  foreign  trade,  no  exchange  with  neighbouring  villages,  nothing  to 
arouse  thought,  individuality,  original  effort.  Each  man  learnt  his 
craft  from  those  who  went  before,  and  the  sculptor  or  the  painter  learnt 
his  like  the  rest.  Thus  there  was  no  advance,  no  progress,  no  alteration 
almost.  The  whole  of  life  crystallised  naturally  into  a  set  conventional 
system,  controlled  from  above  by  the  king,  in  which  spontaneous  indi- 
viduality would  have  seemed  very  like  a  disease.  Yet  it  is  noticeable 
that  in  art  this  fixed  system,  with  its  regular  canons,  affected  most  the 
high  personages  of  the  stereotyped  governmental  and  religious  hierarchy, 
while  it  left  the  lower  ranks  comparatively  free.  The  stiffest  and  most 
invariable  figures  are  those  of  the  gods,  where  innovation  is  absolutely 
inadmissible.  Next  comes  the  sacred  form  of  the  king,  always  repre- 
sented in  certain  conventional  attitudes  as  performing  certain  ordinary 
official  acts,  but  still  allowing  of  some  variation  in  detail.  The  priests 
and  high  functionaines  may  be  permitted  a  certain  relaxation  from  the 
absolutely  formal  attitudes  ;  and  when  we  reach  the  bas-reliefs  or 
pictures  which  show  us  the  people  engaged  in  everyday  work,  we  meet 
with  comparative  freedom  of  treatment.  Lastly,  animal  shapes,  the 
least  common  of  all,  and  so  the  least  liable  to  harden  down  into  con- 
ventionality, are  often  represented  with  much  technical  skill,  and  occa- 
sionally even  with  something  approaching  to  spirit. 

When  we  turn  to  Assyria,  we  arrive  at  a  sort  of  intermediate  stage 
between  Memphis  and  Athens.  Judged  by  the  imitative  standard,  the 
plastic  art  of  Nineveh  is  decidedly  in  advance  of  that  of  Egypt.  The 
human  face  and  figure  are  far  more  naturally  treated.  A  rude  perspec- 
tive is  suggested,  and  sometimes  realised  with  considerable  skill.  The 
muscles  are  represented  with  some  approach  to  accuracy.  In  Egyptian 
art,  figures  walking  always  have  the  soles  of  both  feet  planted  flat  upon 
the  ground;  in  Assyrian  bas-reliefs,  the  toe  alone  of  the  hinder  or 
retreating  foot  touches  the  earth.  "  Assyrian  art,"  says  Lubke  justly, 
"  is  distinguished  even  in  its  earliest  works  from  the  Egyptian  by  greater 
power,  fulness,  and  roundness  in  the  reliefs,  by  a  fresher  conception  of 
nature,  and  by  a  more  energetic  delineation  of  life ;  but  it  lacks  on  the 
other  hand  the  more  delicate  sense  of  form,  and  the  stricter  architectural 
law  that  marked  the  other."  I  think,  if  we  regard  the  question  from 
the  evolutionary  standpoint,  we  shall  admit  that  even  the  last-named 
points  are  really  marks  of  freedom  and  progress.  "  This  may  be  traced," 
continues  the  historian,  with  a  rare  outburst  of  common  sense,  "  in  the 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  285 

first  place  to  a  difference  of  character,  of  their  relations  to  nature,  and  of 
their  artistic  taste ;  but  it  was  induced  also,  undoubtedly,  by  the  slighter 
connection  with  architecture,  and  by  the  more  tractable  material  for 
work  afforded  by  alabaster."  There  we  get  the  whole  solution  of  the 
problem  summed  up  in  a  nutshell. 

Moreover,  Assyria  differs  also  from  Egypt  in  this,  that  from  the 
earliest  monuments  at  Kalah  Sherghat  to  the  latest  at  Kouyunjik  we 
can  trace  a  continuous  and  constant  improvement.  The  despotism  of 
Nineveh  never  became  so  conventionalised  and  crystallised  as  that  of 
Thebes.  Egypt  was  stationary  or  retrograde ;  Assyria  was  slowly  pro- 
gressive. 

The  valley  of  the  Tigris,  like  that  of  the  Nile,  naturally  gave  rise  at 
an  early  period  to  a  great  semi-civilised  agricultural  community.  But 
the  Assyrians  were  a  Semitic  people,  and  the  difference  of  race  counted 
for  something  in  Mesopotamia,  even  as  it  has  counted  for  something 
among  the  monotonous  flats  of  Upper  India.  In  addition  to  this 
primary  differentiating  cause,  there  was  a  second  cause  in  the  physical 
conditions.  Assyria  is  not  so  wholly  isolated  as  Egypt.  Though  an 
inland  country,  it  is  not  utterly  cut  off  by  the  desert  from  all  mankind, 
and  compelled  to  mature  its  own  self-contained  civilisation  within  its 
own  limits  like  China  or  Peru.  The  great  river  formed  a  highway  for 
communication  with  the  kindred  culture  of  Babylon,  while  lines  of 
commerce  connected  the  Assyrian  capital  with  the  Phoenician,  Hellenic, 
and  Hebrew  worlds,  as  well  as  with  the  primitive  Persian,  Median,  and 
Indian  empires.  Hence,  while  the  type  of  organisation  remains,  as  in 
Egypt,  military  and  despotic,  there  is  more  individual  thought  and 
action  amongst  the  people.  It  is  true  the  existing  remains  of  Assyrian 
art  refer  even  more  exclusively  to  the  life  and  deeds  of  rulers  than  do 
those  of  Egypt ;  but  then  they  are  mere  fragments  from  royal  palaces, 
far  less  numerous  and  varied  than  the  rich  relics  of  Karnak  or  Beni- 
Hassan ;  and  they  display  far  greater  originality  and  individuality  on 
the  part  of  the  artists  than  any  of  the  Egyptian  remains. 

"  Strata  of  alabaster  abound  in  Assyria."  This  geological  fact  gives 
us  the  one  remaining  point  necessary  to  the  comprehension  of  Ninevite 
work.  Using  limestone  instead  of  granite  in  their  purely  architectural 
work,  the  Assyrians  used  alabaster  for  their  strictly  plastic  compositions. 
Starting  thus  from  the  same  primitive  basis  as  the  Egyptians — the 
incised  bas-relief  painting — it  is  easy  to  see  how  the  nature  of  their 
material,  combined  with  the  greater  freedom  of  their  intellects,  led  them 
soon  to  higher  flights.  The  archaic  sculptures  at  Arban,  wrought  in  a 
coarse  limestone,  show  us  the  gradual  attempt  at  emancipation  on  the 
part  of  the  early  artists.  The  features  display  a  Negroid  type,  which, 
perhaps,  points  back  to  Egyptian  models,*  and  the  treatment  is  far  more 

*  In  like  manner  the  earliest  Greek  sculpture  gives  Semitic  or  Assyrian  features 
to  its  figures, 


286  THE  GROWTH   OF  SCULPTURE. 

angular  than  in  later  works.  One  of  the  lions — a  corner  statue,  forming 
part  of  a  slab  flanking  a  doorway — has  a  carious  peculiarity  which  marks 
transition  from  a  still  more  ancient  and  conventional  style  to  a  compa- 
ratively free  and  modern  treatment.  It  has  five  legs.  Four  of  these 
are  visible  as  you  view  the  animal  in  profile,  and  they  are  placed  one 
behind  the  other,  as  though  the  creature  was  advancing ;  but  two  are 
also  visible  in  front,  one  being  the  foremost  of  the  previous  four,  and 
the  other  an  abnormal  fifth  leg,  which  gives  it  the  appearance  of  standing 
still  when  viewed  from  this  aspect.  Evidently  the  sculptor  could  not 
reconcile  his  mind  to  giving  up  the  proper  complement  of  legs  from  any 
point  of  view,  and  so  compromised  the  matter  by  running  two  contra- 
dictory conceptions  into  one.  In  the  well-known  winged  bulls,  this 
anomaly  settles  down  into  a  regular  conventional  practice,  owing  to 
their  architectural  position.  The  sculpture  of  these  colossal  figures  in 
their  best  day  is,  however,  far  more  rounded,  and  the  detail  much  more 
exquisitely  carved,  than  would  be  possible  in  granite  figures.  But  Assy- 
rian statues  seldom  attain  any  great  importance,  because  they  have 
never  wholly  emancipated  themselves  from  architectural  trammels,  and 
it  is  only  in  a  few  isolated  figures  that  we  get  an  idea  of  what  the  artists 
might  have  done.  It  is  in  the  soft  alabaster  bas-reliefs,  however,  that  the 
Assyrian  genius  finds  its  fuWest  development.  Their  delicacy  of  carving, 
frequent  truth  of  delineation,  and  occasional  glimpses  of  spirited  treat- 
ment, place  them  second  only  to  the  archaic  Greek  sculptures. 

Even  in  alabaster,  however,  the  Assyrian  hand  was  cramped  by 
hieratic  conventionality.  The  deities  retain  their  eagle-heads  or  bulls' 
bodies.  The  sacred  figure  of  the  king  and  those  of  the  attendant 
eunuchs  never  lose  their  primitive  stiffness.  In  the  monuments  of  Sar- 
cfanapakis  himself,  only  the  huntsmen  and  other  inferior  personages 
show  any  approach  to  free  treatment.  "  The  human  form  maintains  its 
old  typical  and  conventional  constraint,  and,  with  all  their  genius,  the 
artists  of  this  last  Assyrian  period  never  succeeded  in  breaking  through 
the  ban  which  frustrated  in  the  East  the  representation  of  free  thought- 
ful human  life.  The  animals  of  the  late  Assyrian  art  are  far  superior 
to  the  men  in  nobleness  of  structure,  in  power  and  grace  of  action,  and 
even  in  depth  of  expression."  But  it  was  something  if  only  to  have 
attained  to  the  ease  and  faithfulness  of  representation  which  we  find  in 
the  well-known  wounded  lioness  of  Kouyunjik. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  wish  to  measure  the  effect  produced  by  so 
plastic  a  material  as  alabaster,  we  have  but  to  look  at  the  contemporary 
Assyrian  "  cylinders  "  in  hard  stones  such  as  jasper,  onyx,  and  agate. 
These,  though  cut  with  immense  care,  display  a  primitive  and  almost 
savage  style  of  art  which  contrasts  ludicrously  with  the  finished  sculp- 
ture of  the  bas-reliefs. 

But  no  place  could  better  illustrate  the  importance  of  material  than 
Babylon.  More  commercial  and  probably  more  civilised  than  Nineveh, 
Babylon  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  far  wider  alluvial  plain,  where  no  build- 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTUEE.  287 

ing  material  except  brick  was  procurable.  Marble,  alabaster,  granite 
were  all  unknown.  Building  stone,  Sir  A.  H.  Layarcl  tells  us,  could 
only  be  brought  from  a  distance,  and  it  consisted  chiefly  of  black  basalt 
from  the  Kurdish  mountains,  used  for  ornamental  details  alone.  The 
city,  as  a  whole,  was  built  of  brick  and  mud.  Hence  no  plastic  art  ever 
developed  in  Babylon.  Its  ruins  consist  of  mere  shapeless  mounds,  en- 
closing coloured  enamelled  tiles,  and  other  traces  of  varied  {esthetic 
handicraft ;  but  sculpture  utterly  failed  for  want  of  a  "  physical  basis." 
No  doubt  pictorial  and  industrial  arts  took  somewhat  diverse  develop- 
ments from  those  which  they  would  have  taken  had  the  architectural 
style  been  more  similar  to  that  of  the  Assyrian  capital.  Tapestry 
seems  to  have  been  to  Babylon  what  sculpture  was  to  Athens  and  paint- 
ing to  Florence. 

Turning  at  last  to  Hellas,  we  have  to  deal  with  a  very  different 
people,  a  different  country,  a  different  material.  The  Aryan  Hellenes 
took  with  them  to  their  island  homes  the  same  primitive  intellectual, 
philosophical,  and  subtle  minds  which  the  Brahmans  took  to  India  and 
the  Kelts  to  Ireland.  All  we  know  of  the  Aryan  race  shows  us  that  it 
could  nowhere  be  content  with  such  a  purely  external  life  as  that  of  the 
Egyptians  and  Assyrians.  Men  of  that  race  must  reflect  more  and  feel 
more,  and  their  art  must,  therefore,  mirror  more  of  their  internal  life. 
But  these  universal  Aryan  qualities  are  not  by  themselves  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  specific  Hellenic  art.  We  must  look  for  that  in  the 
physical  peculiarities  of  Hellas  itself. 

I  say  Hellas  because  I  do  not  mean  Greece  in  its  modern  geographical 
sense.  Dr.  Curtius  has  taught  us  that  the  true  Hellas  of  the  old 
Hellenes  was  not  the  peninsula,  but  the  ^Egean.  It  included  Ephesus, 
Miletus,  Mitylene,  Rhodes,  and  the  Cyclades  :  it  did  not  include  ^Etolia, 
Acarnania,  or  the  wild  Epirote  mountains.  This  true  maritime  Hellas — 
a  labyrinth  of  landlocked  bays,  narrow  straits,  long  headlands,  grouped 
or  scattered  islets,  and  peninsular  heights — was  bound  together  every- 
where by  the  interlacing  sea.  Argos,  Corinth,  Athens,  Thebes,  the 
Chalcidian  and  Thracian  colonies,  Delos,  the  Sporades,  the  Ionian  bays, 
Crete,  and  Corcyra  formed  its  natural  boundaries.  The  water  did  duty 
as  its  highway,  and  ships  as  its  beasts  of  burden.  It  was  the  true 
cradle  of  navigation  for  Phoenician  and  Hellene  alike.  Its  outliers 
soon  spread,  always  by  sea,  to  Sicily  and  Campania,  North  Africa  and 
the  Rhone,  the  Euxine  and  the  Bosphorus.  Cyrene,  Massalia,  Sinope 
formed  its  advanced  outposts.  No  land  was  ever  better  adapted  to 
stimulate  the  intellect  and  the  energies  of  its  people,  to  foster  originality 
and  individual  effort.  Mountain  ranges,  shutting  off  each  little  basin 
from  its  neighbours,  rendered  impossible  the  rise  of  a  great  central 
despotism,  such  as  those  which  spread  so  easily  over  the  wide  Asiatic 
plains.  Only  when  military  science  had  greatly  advanced,  and  roads 
through  mountain  countries  had  become  practicable,  could  a  Philip 
overrun  the  free  valleys  of  Attica  and  Bceotia.  Xerxes  wasted  his 


288  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

enormous  strength  in  vain  on  the  narrow  guts  of  the  Euripus  and  the 
miniature  passes  of  Thermopylae.  Thus  each  Hellenic  city  remained 
always  a  separate  state.  On  the  other  hand,  the  merchants  and  sailors 
of  the  Hellenic  people  early  acquired  that  wealth  which  makes  subjects 
the  practical  equals  of  kings,  that  freedom  of  mind  which  comes  from 
intercourse  with  many  nations,  that  knowledge  which  naturally  arose 
from  constant  commercial  relations  with  the  older  culture  of  the  Asiatic 
coast  and  interior.  Hence  the  separate  Greek  states  quickly  threw  off 
the  regal  form  of  government  in  favour  of  the  oligarchic,  and  finally  of 
the  democratic,  type.  With  it  they  threw  off  the  monarchical  organi- 
sation— an  organisation  always  limited  among  the  primitive  Aryans  by 
the  council  of  freemen,  but  which  the  example  of  Persia  and  India 
shows  us  to  be  capable,  even  amongst  Aryan  nations,  of  easily  assuming 
the  purely  despotic  form  under  favourable  conditions.  Henceforth, 
their  progress  in  all  industrial  or  aesthetic  arts  was  rapid  and  splendid. 
The  Homeric  poems  show  us  the  primitive  Achaeans  in  a  stage  of  culture 
hardly  superior  to  that  of  the  common  Aryan  stock  :  the  era  of  Pericles 
shows  us  the  unexampled  development  of  a  wholly  new  and  utterly  un- 
rivalled culture,  containing  elements  quite  unknown  in  the  older  civilisa- 
tions of  Egypt  and  Assyria. 

Such  I  believe  to  be  the  true  secret  of  the  magnificent  Hellenic 
nationality.  It  was  an  Aryan  race,  starting  with  all  the  advantage  of 
the  noble  Aryan  endowments ;  and  it  occupied  the  most  favourable  situa- 
tion in  the  world  for  the  development  of  navigation,  commerce,  and  free 
institutions,  at  that  particular  stage  of  human  evolution.  At  an  earlier 
date,  navigation  would  have  been  impossible  :  at  a  later,  it  must  fix  its 
centre  in  Italy  (the  focal  point  of  the  Mediterranean  basin),  in  northern 
Europe  (the  focal  point  of  the  Atlantic  basin),  and,  perhaps,  hereafter  in 
some  unknown  region  of  the  Pacific.  But  just  at  that  moment  Hellas 
formed  its  natural  home.  It  was  the  great  emporium  where  met  the 
tin  of  Cornwall,  the  gold  of  Iberia,  the  amber  of  the  Baltic,  the  myrrh 
of  Arabia,  the  silphium  of  Libya,  the  glass  of  Egypt,  the  pottery  of 
Phoenicia,  the  lapis  lazuli  of  Persia,  and  the  ivory  of  Ethiopia  or  the 
East.  The  free  and  plastic  Hellenic  genius  was  formed  by  the  action  of 
a  natural  commercial  focus,  a  maritime  position,  and  an  individual  poli- 
tical life  upon  the  free  and  plastic  but  less  developed  old  Aryan  subjecti- 
vity. 

The  material,  however,  which  mainly  contributed  to  the  due  aesthetic 
development  of  this  free  Hellenic  genius  was  undoubtedly  marble.  Had 
the  Greeks,  with  all  their  other  circumstances  left  the  same,  possessed 
no  stone  to  sculpture  except  the  hard  porphyry  or  syenite  of  Egypt,  can 
we  for  a  moment  suppose  that  they  could  ever  have  produced  the  Aphro- 
dite of  Melos  or  the  torsos  of  the  Parthenon  ?  Indeed,  what  little  we 
know  of  their  chryselephantine  work  leads  us  to  suppose  that  even  in 
this  comparatively  manageable  material  their  plastic  art  fell  decidedly 
short  of  their  marble  figures.  But  if  the  Hellenes  had  been  entirely 


THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE,  289 

deprived  of  the  pure  and  even-grained  stone  from  which  they  constructed 
not  only  their  statues  but  also  their  great  architectural  works,  can  we 
possibly  believe  that  their  whole  {esthetic  development  would  not  have 
been  something  entirely  different  from  that  which  we  actually  know  it 
to  have  been  ]  Amongst  ourselves,  the  sculptor  is  a  specially  trained 
artist,  who  supplies  a  purely  aesthetic  want,  felt  only  by  a  small  fraction 
of  our  cultivated  classes.  But  in  Hellas,  where  noble  marble  temples 
continually  rose  on  every  side,  and  where  the  demand  for  images  of  the 
gods  was  a  common  demand  of  ordinary  life,  every  craftsman  in  wood 
or  stone  grew  naturally  into  an  artist.  The  material  upon  which  the 
stone-cutter  worked  gave  free  play  to  the  native  genius  of  the  race. 
Those  who  seek  to  explain  Athenian  art  by  the  Athenian  character 
alone,  forget  to  take  into  account  this  important  physical  factor  given  us 
in  the  white  cliffs  of  Paros  and  Pentelicus. 

"Without  going  too  deeply  into  the  vexed  question  of  the  exact  links 
— Phoenician,  Hittite,  Lydian,  and  Ionian — which  are  variously  supposed 
to  connect  Oriental  with  Hellenic  sculpture,  we  may  recognise  the  fact 
that  the  earliest  Greek  art  started  from  the  same  primitive  form  as  the 
Egyptian  and  Assyrian.  The  most  ancient  Greek  bas-reliefs,  like  those 
from  the  temple  of  Assos  now  in  the  Louvre  (for  the  famous  Lion 
Gate  at  Mycense  may  possibly  be  the  relic  of  a  still  earlier  race),  are 
thoroughly  Assyrian  in  type,  but  far  inferior  in  execution  and  imitative 
skill  to  the  Ninevite  works.  They  show  us  figures  in  the  same  proces- 
sional style,  sculptured  in  coarse  limestone,  extremely  disproportionate 
in  size,  and  grotesquely  angular  in  attitude.  But,  as  the  Italians  after 
Cimabue  altered  and  vivified  the  conventional  Byzantine  models  which 
they  imitated,  eo  the  Hellenes  altered  and  vivified  Assyrian  sculpture. 
In  the  marble  monument  of  Aristion  at  Athens,  a  bas-relief  of  the 
archaic  type,  we  find  a  distinct  advance.  Though  the  hair  and  beard 
strikingly  recall  the  stiff  rows  of  Assyrian  curls,  the  pose  of  the  arms  is 
natural  and  almost  graceful.  In  the  similar  monument  of  Orchomenus, 
probably  a  trifle  later,  the  limbs  and  the  drapery  display  marked  freedom 
and  character,  though  the  face  is  still,  to  a  great  extent,  devoid  of  in' 
dividuality  or  expression.  The  exquisite  reliefs  from  Thasos,  in  the 
Louvre,  attributed  to  the  sixth  century,  finally  show  us  almost  perfect 
technical  command  over  the  presentation  of  the  human  figure — a  com- 
mand which  becomes  supreme  a  hundred  years  later  in  the  frieze  of  the 
Parthenon.  Such  rapid  advance  bears  the  impress  of  the  quick  Hel- 
lenic originality ;  but  it  also  marks  the  collateral  value  of  so  plastic  a 
material  as  marble. 

It  was  not  in  bas-relief,  however,  but  in  isolated  statues,  that  the 
Hellenic  genius  and  the  quarries  of  Paros  were  to  prove  their  united 
potentialities.  The  statue,  I  believe,  has  two  separate  origins.  The 
one  origin,  from  the  bas-relief  through  the  seated  or  supported  figure,  I 
have  already  traced,  and  its  history  is  now  a  commonplace  of  sesthetic 
chronicles.  But  the  true  relations  of  the  second  have  apparently  been 

14—5 


290  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

hitherto  little  noticed  in  connection  with  the  first.  All  nations  make 
themselves  images  of  their  gods  in  wood  or  clay,  and  where  these  mate- 
rials are  unattainable,  in  feathers,  like  the  Hawaiians.  Now  the  earliest 
Greek  gods  were  in  wood  ;  and  from  these  doll-like  wooden  gods,  as  has 
often  been  noticed,  descended  the  chryselephantine  statues  of  Phidias, 
overlaid  with  ivory  to  form  the  face  and  limbs,  and  with  gold  to  repre- 
sent the  drapery.  It  is  quite  in  accordance  with  the  usual  archaism  of 
all  religious  usages  that  these  essentially  wooden  statues  continued  to 
the  last  the  representatives  of  the  chief  gods  in  the  most  important 
temples — the  protecting  Athene  of  the  Parthenon,  and  the  Pan-Hellenic 
Zeus  of  Olympia.  Nor  is  it  a  less  striking  fact  that  the  chryselephantine 
statues  seem  always  to  have  retained  some  traces  of  archaic  conven- 
tionalism ;  that  their  drapery  hung  in  folds  which  concealed  the  whole 
figure ;  and  that  the  Zeus  of  Olympia  himself,  the  most  reverend  god  of 
universal  Hellas,  was  represented,  like  most  very  ancient  statues,  in  a 
sitting  attitude.  It  is  the  glory  of  Hellenic  sculpture  that  it  ventured 
even  in  its  gods  to  discard  the  sacred  forms  sanctified  by  antique  usage  : 
yet  even  in  Hellas  itself  some  traces  of  the  conservatism  natural  to 
religion  must  inevitably  be  expected  to  exist. 

But  the  marble  statues^ — which  form,  after  all,  the  real  symbol  of 
Hellas  in  all  our  minds — are  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  bas-reliefs,  and 
so  had  a  purely  architectural  origin.     Whereas,  however,  in  Egypt  and 
Assyria  the  separata  stone  statue  flanking  a  doorway  or  gate  always 
remained  more  or  less  architectural   in  character  and  use,   and   never 
really  took  the  place  of  the  wooden  image,  in  Greece  the  marble  figure 
• — owing  no  doubt  in  part  to  the  plasticity  of  the  material — became  at 
last    wholly    individualised,    separated   itself  on   a   pedestal   from   the 
architectural  background,  and   practically   superseded   the   wooden   or 
chryselephantine  figure  for  all  but  the  most  venerable  purposes.     The 
archaic  marble  colossi  from.  Miletus  in  the  British  Museum  represent 
Hellenic  sculpture  in  an  almost  Egyptian  stage,  the  stage  in  which  Hellas 
received  the  rudiments  of  art  from  Assyria.     The  figures  are  seated  in 
the  attitude  which  we  all  know  so  well  as  that  of  Pasht.     "  They  are 
stiff  and  motionless,  the  arms  closely  attached  to  the  body,  and  the  hands 
placed  on  the  knees ;  the  physical   proportions  are  heavy  and  almost 
awkward,  the  execution  is  throughout  architecturally  massive,  and  the 
organic   structure   is   but    slightly    indicated. ''     The    drapery    wholly 
conceals  the  human  form.     There  is  not  a  touch  in  these  ungainly  figures 
which  at  all  foreshadows  the  coming  freedom  of  Greek  art.     They  are 
simply  conventional,  and  nothing  more.     But  the  ancient  sitting  statue 
of  Athene  preserved  in  the  Acropolis  at  Athens,  though  much  mutilated, 
shows  an  immense  advance.     The  attitude  is  unconventionalised ;  the 
foot,  instead  of  being  planted  flat  as  in  the  Miletan  colossi,  is  lightly 
poised   upon  the  toes   alone ;  the  limbs   are  partially  uncovered ;  und 
the  undulating  folds  of  the  drapery  are  clearly  prophetic  of  the  later 
Athenian  grace.     The  nude  standing  figure  known  as  the  Apollo  0f 


THE  GEOWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  291 

Tenea  (in  the  Glyptothek  at  Munich)  gives  us  in  some  respects  a  still 
further  progress.  The  anatomy  is  excellent ;  and  the  attitude,  though 
stiff,  is  surprisingly  free  for  an  unsupported  and  isolated  figure  of  so 
early  date.  The  arms  still  hang  by  the  side;  but  they  hang  free  in 
marble,  instead  of  being  "welded  to  the  body  as  in  porphyry.  Both  soles 
are  firmly  planted,  but  one  foot  is  in  advance.  Altogether  we  have  here 
a  statue  caught  in  the  very  act  of  becoming  Greek.  It  is,  in  fact,  an 
accurate  but  awkward  a.nd  ungraceful  representation  of  a  real  man, 
standing  in  a  possible  but  ugly  attitude.  Note,  too,  the  important  fact 
that  this  figure  is  nude.  Most  of  the  archaic  Greek  statues  are  fully 
draped,  and  the  conventionality  of  religious  art  kept  many  of  the  greater 
gods  draped  to  the  last.  The  Zeus  of  Phidias  wore  vestments  of  gold, 
and,  even  in  the  freest  days,  no  sculptor  ever  ventured  to  disrobe  the 
wedded  majesty  of  Her6,  or  the  maiden  majesty  of  Pallas.  But  there 
were  two  great  gods  whom  even  the  antique  conventionalism  represented 
in  the  nude — Apollo,  and  perhaps  Aphrodite  ;  while,  with  Hermes  and 
Eros,  as  well  as  in  the  lesser  figures  of  Heracles,  Theseus,  and  the  heroes 
generally,  individual  imagination  took  freer  flights.  The  bronze  Apollo 
of  Canachus,  to  judge  from  preserved  copies,  though  still  largely  adhering 
to  a  conventional  type,  yields  evidence  of  some  feeling  for  beauty  of  nude 
form.  Thenceforward  Hellenic  sculpture  rapidly  advanced,  especially  in 
its  nude  productions,  towards  the  perfect  grace  of  the  Periclean  period. 
The  isolated  nude  statue  is,  in  fact,  the  true  ideal  of  plastic  art :  it 
represents  the  beauty  of  form  in  its  purest  organic  type.  The  groups 
from  the  pediment  of  the  temple  at  ^Egina  are  admirable  examples  of 
the  struggle  between  conventionalism  and  freedom  in  the  developing 
Hellenic  mind.  In  the  very  centre  stands  a  fully  draped  Athene, 
conventional  in  treatment  and  awkward  in  proportions,  with  a  lifeless 
countenance,  and  graceless  figure  wholly  concealed  by  the  stiff  folds  of 
the  robe.  The  great  goddess  still  retains  her  archaic  and  time-honoured 
type.  But  at  her  feet  lies  a  nude  warrior  of  exquisite  idealised  propor- 
tions, in  a  natural  and  graceful  posture,  and  carved  with  anatomical 
accuracy  which  would  not  have  disgraced  the  glorious  sculptor  of 
the  Parthenon  himself.  To  trace  the  growth  of  the  art  from  this  point 
on  to  the  age  of  Phidias  would  involve  questions  of  that  higher  aesthetic 
criticism  which  I  wish  in  the  present  paper  to  avoid.  We  have  reached 
the  point  where  Hellenic  sculpture  has  attained  to  perfect  imitation  of 
the  human  figure  :  its  further  advance  is  toward  the  higher  excellence  of 
ideality,  expression,  deep  feeling,  and  perfect  appreciation  for  abstract 
beauty  of  form. 

And  now  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the  part  borne  by  Greek 
individuality,  Greek  freedom,  and  Greek  democracy  in  this  aesthetic 
evolution.  While  in  Egypt,  as  we  saw,  the  regal  and  hieratic  influence 
caused  ;_the  [primitive  free  manner  to  crystallise  into  a  fixed  conven- 
tionalism; while  in  Assyria  it  checked  the  progress  of  art,  and  restricted 
all  advance  to  a  few  animal  traits  ;  in  Hellas,  after  the  age  of J  freedom, 


292  THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE. 

it  became  powerless  before  the  popular  instinct.  While  Egyptian  and 
Assyrian  gods  always  retained  their  semi-animal  features,  in  Hellas  the 
cow-face  of  Here  and  the  owl-head  of  Athene  fell  so  utterly  into  oblivion 
that  later  Hellenic  commentators  even  misinterpreted  the  ancient 
descriptive  epithets  of  the  Achaean  epic  into  ox-eyed  and  grey-eyed. 
Only  in  conservative  Sparta  did  Apollo  keep  his  four  arms;  only  in 
half-barbarian  and  enslaved  Ephesus  did  Artemis  keep  her  hundred 
breasts.  In  European  and  insular  Hellas,  for  the  most  part,  the 
sculptors  chose  to  represent  the  actual  human  form,  and,  in  their  later 
age,  the  nude  human  form  by  preference  over  all  other  shapes.  In  Egypt 
and  Assyria  the  king  in  his  conventional  representation  was  the  central 
figure  of  every  work.  But  in  Hellas,  even  in  the  archaic  period,  we  find 
plastic  art  in  the  employment  of  private  persons.  The  monument  of , 
Aristion  represents  a  citizen,  in  the  armour  of  an  hoplite,  sculptured  on 
his  own  tomb;  the  Orchomenian  monument  similarly  represents  a 
Bo3otian  gentleman  in  civic  dress.  In  the  later  Athenian  period 
portrait  busts  of  distinguished  citizens  seem  to  have  been  usual.  But 
it  was  on  the  gods,  as  the  common  objects  of  devotion  for  the  whole  city, 
that  the  art  of  the  republican  Greek  states  mainly  expended  itself.  And 
here  again  we  see  the  value  of  Hellenic  individuality.  For  while  in 
Egypt  a  Pasht  from  Thebes  was  identical  with  a  Pasht  from  Memphis, 
and  while  even  in  Hellas  itself  Zeus  and  Athene  and  the  other  national 
gods  tended  to  retain  conventional  types,  yet  in  each  city  the  special 
worship  of  the  local  heroes — Theseus  and  Cephisus,  and  Erechtheus  and 
Heracles  (rendered  possible  by  the  minute  subdivisions  of  Hellenic  states) 
— permitted  the  sculptor  to  individualise  and  originalise  his  work.  From 
this  combination  of  causes  it  happens  that  Greek  sculpture  is  modelled  from 
the  life.  Egyptian  artists  probably  never  worked  from  natural  models ; 
they  worked  apparently  from  their  own  imperfect  recollections,  or  eopied 
the  imperfect  recollections  of  their  predecessors.  The  Greek  sculptor 
worked  from  the  human  figure,  familiarised  to  his  eye  in  the  contests 
of  the  palaestra,  and  we  see  the  result  in  the  frieze  and  metopes  of  the 
Parthenon.  At  length  we  get  sculpture  almost  wholly  divorced  from 
religion  in  the  Discobolus  and  the  Narcissus,  the  Niobe  and  the  Thorn- 
extractor.  Hellenic  art  discovers  its  full  freedom  when  it  shakes  off  its 
religious  trammels,  and  when  its  purpose  becomes  merely  aesthetic  in  the 
service  of  the  wealthy  and  cultivated  Greek  gentleman.  The  older  school 
gives  us  gods  and  heroes  alone ;  the  later  school  gives  us  simply  ideal 
figures  and  genre  pieces.  As  the  Renaissance  emancipated  Italian  paint- 
ing from  the  perpetual  circle  of  Madonnas  and  St.  Sebastians,  so  the 
Periclean  awakening  emancipated  Athenian  sculpture  from  the  surviving 
conventionalism  of  Heres  and  Hestias. 

Finally,  we  must  remember  that  Hellenic  art  flourished  most  in  the 
great  commercial  cities.  It  is  not  in  Dorian  Sparta,  with  its  conserva- 
tive, kingly,  and  military  organisation,  that  we  must  look  for  the 
miracles  of  sculpture,  As  Thucydides  predicted,  Sparta  has  passed 


THE  GROWTH  OF  SCULPTURE.  293 

away  and  left  nothing  but  the  shadow  of  a  great  name.  It  is  at  Athens, 
Corinth,  Rhodes,  and  the  Ionian  colonies  that  plastic  art  produces  its 
masterpieces.  And  even  the  most  careless  thinker  can  hardly  fail  to 
remember  that  it  was  not  in  feudal  Paris  or  London,  but  in  the  similarly 
mercantile  cities  of  mediaeval  Italy  and  the  Low  Countries,  that  modern 
painting  went  through  the  chief  stages  of  its  early  evolution. 

I  have  thus,  I  hope,  given  their  full  value  in  each  case  to  the  original 
characteristics  of  race  and  to  the  subsequent  reactions  of  the  physical 
and  social  surroundings.  But  the  point  which  I  have  especially  endea- 
voured to  bring  out  in  this  paper  is  the  immense  concomitant  importance 
of  a  suitable  material  for  the  embodiment  of  the  national  feeling.  Just 
as  it  seems  to  me  that  porcelain  clay  has  coloured  all  the  art-energies  of 
China,  and  feathers  all  the  art-energies  of  Polynesia,  so  does  it  seem  to 
me  that  granite  has  directed  the  whole  aesthetic  handicraft  of  Egypt,  and 
marble  the  whole  aesthetic  handicraft  of  Hellas.  My  text  has  been  too 
large  to  expound  otherwise  than  in  a  rapid  sketch;  but  I  trust  the 
broad  outlines,  such  as  they  are,  will  bear  filling  in  from  the  memory 
and  observation  of  the  reader. 

GRANT  ALLEN. 


294 


IT  has  been  easy  to  foresee  for  some  time  past  that  a  change  was  at  hand 
in  the  system  by  which  game  at  present  is  preserved  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  The  enormous  quantity  kept  up  by  sportsmen  of  the  new 
school,  with  its  terrible  consequences  in  the  shape  of  frequent  and  sangui- 
nary collisions*  between  poachers  and  gamekeepers,  and  serious  injury 
inflicted  on  the  farmers'  crops,  has  long  since  brought  about  conditions 
demanding  Parliamentary  interference.  As  is  usual,  however,  in  such 
cases,  the  two  extremes  of  opinion  were  strong  enough  for  a  long  while 
to  prevent  any  moderate  course  from  being  adopted ;  and  perhaps,  for 
some  reasons,  the  result  is  not  to  be  regretted,  as  it  has  given  time  for 
the  question  to  run  itself  clear  of  numerous  misconceptions  and  imperti- 
nences which  had  hitherto  obscured  its  true  character,  and  have,  indeed, 
been  a  principal  cause  of  the  delay  which  has  occurred  in  dealing  with  it. 
We  propose,  therefore,  to  offer  to  our  readers  on  the  First  of  September  a 
brief  survey  of  the  progress  of  opinion  on  the  subject  since  it  first  began 
to  attract  public  notice,  and  of  the  origin  of  the  abuses  which  have  led 
to  the  demand  for  change. 

When  the  game  laws  first  began  to  excite  hostile  criticism,  the  poacher 
rather  than  the  farmer  was  the  object  of  popular  sympathy.  Political 
economy  was  as  yet  in  the  background,  and  the  produce  of  the  soil  was 
not  scanned  as  jealously  as  at  present.  Nor  was  game  preserved  to  such 
an  extent  as  to  be  seriously  mischievous  to  the  crops,  even  if  it  had  been. 
Hares  were  kept  principally  for  hunting,  and  for  that  purpose  they 
ought  not  to  be  too  thick  upon  the  ground.  The  battue  was  unknown, 
and  the  pheasant  one  might  almost  say  was  as  wild  as  the  woodcock. 
Under  these  circumstances  there  was  nothing  either  to  injure  the  farmer 
or  to  lead  to  the  formation  of  those  regular  poaching  gangs  which  a  few 
years  afterwards  became  notorious.  The  consequence  was  that  the  poacher 
was  regarded  in  those  days  much  as  in  higher  walks  of  life  a  young  man 
is  regarded  who  is  euphemistically  termed  "  a  little  wild,"  or  as  the 
schoolboy  may  be  who  climbs  up  his  neighbour's  apple-tree  and  brings  off 
his  pockets  full  of  fruit.  Disapproval  of  such  courses  is  not  unmingled 
with  admiration  of  the  culprit's  spirit,  and  a  secret  notion  that  he  may 
turn  out  all  the  better  for  it  afterwards.  Such  feelings  imply  no  dis- 
respect for  the  received  moralities,  and  neither  did  sympathy  with  the 
village  poacher  imply  the  slightest  dissatisfaction  with  the  game  laws  or 
the  preservation  of  game.  Joseph  Rushbrook,  in  Captain  Marryat's  well- 

*  These  indeed  are  nothing  new.     Vide  infra. 


GAME.  295 

known  tale,  is  an'excellent  type  of  the  poacher  as  he  was  known,  generally 
speaking,  in  those  earlier  and  better  days.  Kushbrook  is  a  man  who  lives 
by  poaching.  He  is  an  honest,  respectable,  intelligent  man,  who  goes  to 
church  regularly,  and  sends  his  children  to  school.  His  cottage  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  is  a  model  of  neatness  and  comfort.  His  wife  is 
everything  that  a  village  matron  ought  to  be.  But  he  has  this  one  weak- 
ness :  every  favourable  night  "  in  the  season  of  the  year  "  is  devoted  to 
inroads  on  the  neighbouring  covers,  where,  with  the  aid  of  a  wonderful 
dog,  and  an  equally  wonderful  child,  he  enjoys  his  sport  for  many  years 
without  detection,  the  game  being  disposed  of  to  the  pedlars,  who,  with 
the  guards  of  coaches  and  the  drivers  of  stage-waggons,  were  the  principal 
medium  of  communication  between  the  poacher  and  the  dealer.  Such  a 
career  was  lawless — wrong,  no  doubt — still  there  was  something  ad- 
venturous and  romantic  about  it,  people  thought.  There  was  the  same 
difference  in  public  estimation  between  Joseph  Rushbrook  and  the 
unwashed  gangs  of  mechanics  who  plunder  our  preserves  at  present  as 
between  Claude  Duval  and  Bill  Sikes. 

It  was  during  the  latter  part  of  the  last  century  that  both  poaching 
and  game  preserving  seem  first  to  have  begun  to  assume  those  dimen- 
sions which  are  familiar  to  us  at  the  present  day.  The  growth  of  these 
were  coincident  with  two  other  social  changes  in  progress  at  the  same 
period,  of  which  no  doubt  they  were  to  some  extent  also  the  consequences  : 
we  mean  the  decline  in  the  condition  of  the  peasantry,  and  the  accumu- 
lation of  large  properties.  Towards  the  end  of  the  American  war,  owing 
to  the  rise  in  prices  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  enclosure  of  commons 
on  the  other,  the  labourer's  income  was  diminished  while  the  cost  of  his 
living  was  increased ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  partly  owing  to  the  pres- 
sure of  taxation,  and  partly  to  other  causes,  the  early  part  of  the  reign 
of  George  III.  witnessed  a  large  reduction  in  the  number  of  the  smaller 
landowners,  who  were  bought  out  by  nabobs,  contractors,  et  hoc  genus 
omne — the  men  so  abhorred  by  Cobbett — or  else  by  the  neighbouring 
nobleman,  who  would  not  be  outdone  by  them  in  the  extent  of  his 
acres.  It  seems  probable  that  this  change  may  have  led  to  the  preser- 
vation of  game,  and  also  to  the  accumulation  of  it  in  particular  localities, 
on  a  scale  unknown  to  the  smaller  squires  of  an  earlier  period,  when  it 
was  more  evenly  distributed  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  country.  Thus, 
at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  pressure  of  poverty  began  to  act  upon  the 
rural  population,  and  the  system  of  preserving  to  hold  out  increased 
temptation  to  them.  The  result  was  seen  in  the  gradually-increasing 
ferocity  and  lawlessness  of  the  poaching  class,  and  in  the  increased 
severity  of  the  laws  which  were  enacted  to  restrain  them.  Then  came 
in  the  practice,  now  almost  forgotten,  of  setting  man-traps  and  spring- 
guns,  which  were  not  declared  to  be  illegal  till  towards  the  end  of  the 
reign  of  George  IV.,  and  which  contributed  largely  to  swell  the  outcry 
against  the  game  laws.  It  was  said  at  the  time  that  they  were  as  inef- 
ficient as  inhuman,  and  that  they  caught  or  killed  every  one  except  the 


296  GAME. 

poacher.  A  celebrated  hanging  judge  had  a  narrow  escape  on  one  occa- 
sion, and  it  may  be  that  this  was  what  led  to  the  prohibition  of  them. 
Some  traps  made  without  teeth  were  used  for  the  protection  of  gardens, 
but  all  alike  are  things  of  the  past  now.  Only  now  and  then,  inside  the 
old  moss-grown  park  palings,  one  sees  some  tumbledown  sign-post  warn- 
ing the  public  of  spring-guns  and  man- traps  to  remind  us  that  such  things 
were. 

By  the  time  that  Crabbe's  Tales  were  published,  the  gang  system  was 
in  full  operation/ and  there  is  plenty  of  other  evidence  to  show  that  night- 
poaching  was  carried  on  then,  just  as  it  has  been  since,  by  bodies  of  armed 
men  prepared  to  resist  force  by  force.  Still  the  old  sentimental  idea  of 
the  poacher,  fostered  partly  by  individual  "  survivals,"  partly  by  the  con- 
dition of  the  law,  and  still  more  by  the  aggravated  distress  of  the 
peasantry  which  followed  the  peace  of  1815,  was  the  uppermost  one  in  the 
public  mind.  Then  arose  the  picture  of  the  starving  labourer  transported 
or  imprisoned  with  felons  for  snaring  a  rabbit  to  assuage  the  pangs  of 
hunger ;  and  the  feeling  thus  created  not  unnaturally  survived  for  a  very 
long  time  the  circumstances  which  had  once  given  colour  to  it.  But  public 
sympathy  never  at  any  time  took  the  form  of  a  demand  for  the  abolition 
of  the  game  laws.  What  was  asked  was  such  a  reform  as  should  diminish 
the  temptation  to  poaching  among  the  rural  population.  How  completely 
the  remedy  adopted  defeated  its  own  purpose,  and  indeed  aggravated  the 
very  mischief  which  it  was  intended  to  remove,  we  shall  see  presently. 
In  the  meantime,  let  us  remember  that  down  to  1831  the  two  main 
objects  with  all  game  law  reformers  were,  first,  the  abolition  of  the  quali- 
fication *  as  an  antiquated  anomaly ;  and,  secondly,  the  extinction  of  the 
poacher  by  destroying  the  market  for  his  produce.  The  way  to  curb  the 
poacher,  said  the  Edinburgh  Review,  is  to  undersell  him.  And  though 
the  farmer's  grievance  was  mentioned  once  or  twice  in  the  debates  in  the 
House  of  Commons  on  the  subject,  it  had  no  hold  upon  the  public  mind, 
which  was  occupied  exclusively  with  the  two  objects  we  have  mentioned. 

In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  under 
the  old  system  shooting  and  the  preservation  of  game  were  in  some  re- 
spects on  a  more  satisfactory  footing  than  they  have  been  since.  Under 
the  old  regime  comparatively  few  persons  took  the  field,  and  there  was 
game  enough  for  all  without  the  excessive  quantity  which  it  is  now 
thought  necessary  to  maintain.  Preserving,  consequently,  was  not 
carried  on  upon  the  same  scale,  nor  was  the  gamekeeper  the  ubiquitous, 
and  sometimes  vexatious,  personage  which  he  has  since  become.  On  land 
where  no  keeper  ever  set  his  foot,  and  where  almost  any  qualified  person 
might  shoot  if  he  chose,  it  was  possible  then  to  have  excellent  partridge- 

*  Before  1831  nobody  was  allowed  to  till  game  who  was  not  possessed  of  an 
estate  in  land,  freehold,  copyhold,  or  leasehold,  the  amount  varying  in  each  case,  or 
who  was  not  the  son  of  an  esquire  or  person  of  a  higher  degree.  Thus  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  qualification  was  one  derived  either  from  property  in  land  or  from, 
birth.  It  was  habitually  disregarded, 


GAME.  279 

shooting  in  September.  There  were,  comparatively  speaking,  so  few 
guns  out  that  the  game  was  never  killed  down ;  and  though  poaching  was 
BO  largely  carried  on  that  an  innkeeper  at  Manchester  is  said  to  have  had 
such  a  quantity  of  partridges  in  his  possession  one  first  of  September 
that  he  was  obliged  to  throw  away  2,000,  it  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
so  fatal  to  wild  game  as  the  horde  of  petty  gunners  created  by  the  Act 
of  William  IV.  So  that,  what  with  fewer  shooters  on  the  one  hand, 
and  conditions  of  agriculture  more  favourable  to  partridge-breeding  on 
the  other,  the  sport  of  shooting  was  to  be  enjoyed  with  very  little  trouble, 
and  with  few  or  none  of  the  heartburnings  which  it  occasions  now.  The 
old-fashioned  tenant-farmer  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  present  century 
never  dreamed  of  shooting.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  could  be 
agreeable  to  the  fitness  of  things  that  he  should  do  so ;  that  the  game  on 
land  should  be  kept  for  the  owner  of  the  land  seemed  to  him  part  of  the 
order  of  nature,  and,  as  long  as  the  system  of  shooting  and  of  preserving 
remained  unchanged,  he  continued  in  this  frame  of  mind.  Nor,  indeed, 
is  it  entirely  a  thing  of  the  past  even  now.  It  lingered  for  a  long  time 
after  the  alteration  of  the  law,  and  survives  still  to  this  extent  that  the 
tenant-farmer  as  a  rule  has  no  wish  whatever  to  take  the  shooting  from 
his  landlord  ;  but  in  those  halcyon  days  not  a  cloud  was  on  the  sports- 
man's horizon  :  not  a  sulky  or  an  angry  look  greeted  him  from  morning 
till  night.  There  was  always  cover  enough  for  birds  without  the  neces- 
sity of  going  into  beans  or  clover ;  and  a  brace  or  two  which  he  could 
not  buy  made  the  occupier  of  the  land  happy,  and  a  staunch  preserver  for 
the  rest  of  the  year.  Neither  game  nor  gunner  did  harm  to  anything  or 
anybody;  encroached  on  no  rights  either  real  or  fanciful;  and  the  sports- 
man in  consequence  was  welcome  wherever  he  went,  and  as  often  as  he 
chose  to  go. 

"In  those  days  and  in  days  much  later,"  says  Lord  Stanhope, 
"  the  return  of  the  shooting  season  was  hailed  with  pleasure,  not  by  the 
landlord  only,  but  by  the  farmer  also.  The  young  squire  would  cheerily 
step  into  the  homestead  for  his  midday  meal ;  and  sit  down  with  a  well- 
earned  appetite  to  a  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon,  with  a  glass — or  it  might  be 
two — of  the  honest  homebrewed,  instead  of  the  luxurious  luncheon  bas- 
kets which  according  to  the  present  fashion  would  be  spread  before  him. 
He  would  point  with  some  pride  to  '  the  birds '  which  his  morning's 
walk  had  gained  him,  and  descant  at  some  length  on  the  sagacity  and 
skill  of  his  dogs ;  for  at  that  time — before  the  time  of  '  driving ' — these 
were  deemed  no  small  part  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  day.  In  return  he 
would  be  most  warmly  greeted  and  made  welcome,  undisturbed  by  any 
little  questions  which  would  be  reserved  for  another  time — as  of  the 
mouldering  floor  in  the  barn,  or  the  leaky  roof  in  the  '  beast  houses; '  and, 
when  he  again  stepped  forth,  he  would  see  his  tenant  at  his  side  taking 
interest  in  his  sport,  and  eager  to  point  out  to  him  the  haunts  of  the 
nearest  coveys.  All  was  cheerfulness  and  sunshine  between  the  two 
classes  when  they  met  not  for  business  alone."  And  after  contrasting 


298  GAME, 

i 

this  picture  with  the  modern  system,  he  says  :  "  This  was  not  so  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne,  not  even  in  the  reign  of  George  III. ;  "  nor  even 
in  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  may  be  confidently  added.  What  has  led 
to  the  change  is  the  next  step  in  our  inquiry  1 

It  was  generally  believed  fifty  years  ago  that  by  throwing  open  both 
game  and  the  right  of  killing  it  to  the  general  public,  poaching  would  be 
seriously  discouraged,  if  not  altogether  suppressed,  while  at  the  same  time 
an  unpopular  privilege  belonging  to  the  owners  of  land  would  be  de- 
stroyed. The  first  object  was  to  be  gained  by  legalising  the  sale  of  game ; 
the  second  by  abolishing  the  property  qualification  required  of  all  persons 
who  desired  to  kill  or  take  it.    The  legal  traffic  in  game  would  soon  swamp 
the  illegal,  and  the  abolition  of  the  qualification  in  favour  of  a  licence  giving 
every  one  the  right  to  shoot  who  chose  to  pay  five  pounds  for  the  luxury 
would  do  away  with  all  class  jealousies.  This  was  the  view  entertained  by 
the  most  enlightened  reformers  of  the  period.     But  unluckily,  like  many 
other  enlightened  reformers,  their  practical  knowledge  of  the  subject 
was  not  equal  to  the  task  they  undertook.    "We  are  thinking  now  rather 
of  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  than  of  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  yet  it  certainly  is  strange  that  men  like  Lord  Althorp  should 
have  no  misgivings  as  to  the  working  of  the  Act  which  he  succeeded  in 
carrying  through  Parliament.    Sir  Robert  Peel,  himself  an  ardent  lover 
of  the  gun,  did  venture  to  predict  that  legalising  the  sale  of  game  would 
increase  and  not  diminish  poaching.     But  his  was  almost  the  only  voice 
of  any  note  which  gave  out  the  warning  sound.     Elsewhere  the  very 
system  which  is  now  so  loudly  condemned  by  contemporaries  was  recom- 
mended emphatically  as  the  only  one  suited  to  the  age,  and  consistent 
with  liberal  ideas.     There  was  to  be  no  more  privilege ;  ^nothing  feudal, 
or  exclusive,  or  nonsensical  about  game  and  the  game  laws.     They  were 
to  be  placed  on  the  basis  of  common  sense.     Let  the  gentry  rear  game 
as  a  business,  and  supply  the  market  with  it  just  as  their  tenants  sup- 
plied it  with  mutton.     Thus  it  would  be  a  source  of  profit  as  well  as  of 
pleasure  to  them ;  and  when  they  did  not  want  to  shoot  it  themselves 
they  might  let  the  right  to  some  one  else,  and  recoup  themselves  for  the 
expense  in  that  way.     By  these  means  it  was  contemplated  that  the 
poacher  would  be  driven  out  of  the  field,  and  that  the  dealer  in  time  would 
no  more  think  of  supplying  his  customers  with  stolen  game  than  with 
stolen  meat,  eggs,  or  poultry.     In  these  speculations  we  have  of  course 
the  germ  of  the  modern  battue,  of  the  cartloads  of  game  packed  off  to 
the  adjoining  market  town,  of  the  wasted  crops,  of  the  "  game  landlord," 
and  the  sulky  or  indignant  tenant.     Hoc  fonte  derivata  clades.     The 
original  supposition  was  not  perhaps  in  the  abstract  unreasonable,  for 
that  the  breeder  and  owner  of  game  should  be  able  to  supply  the  public 
was  no  very  extravagant  assumption.     But  the  theory  overlooked  two 
important  difficulties,  of  which  one  no  doubt  would  have  disappeared  in 
time,  while  the  other  had  not  yet  suggested  itself.     After  the  Act  of 
1831  became  law,  a  public  opinion  in  conformity  with  it  had  still  to 


GAME.  299 

be  created ;  a  public  opinion  which  by  recognising  that  hares  and 
pheasants,  whatever  their  technical  status,  were  morally  and  equitably 
property,  should  make  it  as  disgraceful  for  the  poulterer  to  deal  with  the 
poacher  as  for  the  butcher  to  deal  with  the  sheepstealer.  This  feeling 
was  longer  in  making  its  appearance  than  the  reformers  had  expected. 
But  it  probably  would  have  done  so  in  time,  when  it  was  met  and  turned 
backwards  by  a  counter  current  of  thought  to  which  the  men  of  1831  were 
strangers.  The  farmer's  grievance  stepped  upon  the  scene,  and  altered  the 
whole  complexion  of  affairs.  The  public  were  just  beginning  to  recognise 
the  absurdity  of  the  protest  against  gentlemen  selling  their  game,  and  to 
see  that  if  they  were  to  get  game  at  all  this  was  the  most  rational  mode 
of  obtaining  it,  when  the  question  suddenly  became  complicated  with  two 
others:  first  of  all,  if  gentlemen  were  to  feed  game  for  the  public  market, 
how  did  it  affect  the  farmer  on  whose  crops  they  fed ;  and  secondly,  how, 
if  the  farmer  were  satisfied,  did  it  affect  the  great  body  of  the  people 
whose  supply  of  food  was  thus  diminished  1  It  was,  indeed,  suggested  by 
the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  that  the  occupier  should  be  taken  into  partner- 
ship with  the  owner  in  the  business  of  game-breeding,  and  be  permitted 
to  shoot  as  well,  on  the  understanding,  of  course,  that  he  kept  plenty 
for  his  landlord.  But,  when  this  suggestion  was  made,  the  experiment  of 
abolishing  the  qualification  had  not  been  tried  ;  nor  was  it  foreseen,  per- 
haps, that  permission  to  the  farmer  to  shoot  would  mean  permission  to 
him  to  take  out  half-a-dozen  friends  with  him.  And  this,  be  it  remem- 
bered, is  the  real  difficulty  at  the  present  day.  For  farmers  and  landlords 
to  exercise  the  sporting  right  concurrently  would  involve  the  necessity  of 
perpetually  giving  each  other  notice  of  the  days  on  which  they  wanted 
to  shoot.  Otherwise,  of  course,  the  farmer,  on  going  out  with  his  gun, 
would  be  always  liable  to  discover  that  the  ground  had  just  been  beaten 
by  his  landlord,  and  the  landlord  in  turn,  on  making  his  way  to  some 
choice  piece  of  turnips  or  mangold- wurzel,  would  be  always  exposed  to 
the  annoyance  of  seeing  his  tenant  in  the  middle  of  it.  With  these  two 
questions,  the  question,  that  is,  of  the  farmer  and  of  the  general  public, 
the  reformers  of  fifty  years  ago  had  not  been  confronted  ;  and,  as  they  im- 
ported new  troubles  into  the  game-law  question,  so  also  did  they  tend  to 
defeat  the  remedy  for  the  old  ones  which  was  founded  on  the  supposed 
unobjectionable  nature  of  the  traffic  thus  developed. 

So  far  from  being  superseded  by  the  legalisation  of  the  sale  of  game, 
poaching  was  directly  stimulated  by  it,  as  Sir  Robert  Peel  had  ventured 
to  predict.  The  demand  for  game  was  quadrupled.  A  far  larger  quan- 
tity was  preserved ;  and  no  public  opinion,  as  we  have  said,  had  time 
to  spring  up  teaching  the  honest  tradesman  to  be  ashamed  of  dealing 
with  the  poacher.  It  was  not  all  at  once  either  that  gentlemen  took  to 
selling  their  game.  But  it  soon  became  apparent  that,  even  without 
reckoning  for  the  poacher  or  the  fishmonger,  the  vast  increase  in  the 
number  of  shooters  which  was  brought  about  by  the  change  in  the  law 
had  made  it  necessary  to  preserve  more  game  for  legitimate  sport  alone 


300  GAME. 

than  had  been  necessary  before,  and  also  to  collect  it  together  more 
generally  within  limited  areas,  thus  in  turn  offering  increased  facilities 
and  temptations  to  the  professional  depredator.  Hence  we  see  the  origin 
of  two  fresh  evils — the  gradual  formation  of  a  criminal  class  living 
entirely  by  poaching,  which  was  almost  unknown  to  our  grandfathers  ; 
and  also  the  growth  of  ill-feeling  between  country  neighbours  owing  to 
the  constant  necessity  of  guarding  against  the  crowd  of  certificated 
gunners  who  hover  about  the  outskirts  of  preserved  estates  ready  to 
pounce  upon  the  first  head  of  game  which  crosses  the  boundary.  Hence 
all  manner  of  precautions  necessarily  adopted  by  gamekeepers,  which  are 
the  source  of  constant  irritation  to  the  smaller  owners  and  occupiers 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  which  in  many  places  robs  partridge-shooting, 
at  all  events,  of  a  great  deal  of  its  natural  charm.  One  good  effect,  how- 
ever, has  resulted  from  the  development  of  poaching  :  it  has  at  last  put 
an  end  to  the  delusion  about  the  poacher.  That  interesting  character, 
the  starved  peasant  catering  for  his  sick  wife,  has  dropped  out  of  the 
discussion  now  whenever  the  game  laws  are  considered.  The  modern 
gang  has  extinguished  at  last  all  that  spurious  sympathy  with  law- 
breakers which  both  poaching  and  smuggling  under  other  conditions,  not 
unnaturally  perhaps,  attracted.  The  question  is  disentangled  from  that 
fiction  at  all  events,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  some  satisfactory  settle- 
ment of  it  should  now  be  comparatively  easy. 

Thus  we  see  that  the  Act  of  1831,  however  well  intended,  has  been 
in  practice  a  decided  failure.  If  it  removed  one  class  of  grievances,  it  has 
created  another.  By  legalising  the  sale  of  game  it  has  only  stimulated 
preservation  to  such  an  extent  as  to  be  highly  detrimental  to  the  farmer 
without  at  all  discouraging  the  poacher ;  and  by  substituting  the  license 
for  the  qualification  it  has  brought  into  the  field  a  large  class  of  small 
gunners  who  ought  really  not  to  shoot  at  all,  and  who  get  almost  all 
their  sport  by  judicious  trespassing  and  prowling.  Whether  an  increase 
in  the  cost  of  the  certificate  might  not  be  a  step  in  the  right  direction 
may  be  a  matter  for  subsequent  consideration.  At  the  present  moment, 
however,  public  opinion  stands  steadily  at  the  farmer's  grievance ;  and, 
having  noted  the  stages  by  which  it  has  been  brought  to  this  point,  we 
may  next  consider  the  proposals  which  have  been  made  for  allaying  it, 
bearing  in  mind  all  the  time  that  the  importance  of  game  as  part  of  the 
food  supply  of  the  country  was  insisted  on  if  possible  .more  strongly  by 
the  reformers  of  the  law  in  1831  than  it  has  been  even  by  the  defenders 
of  the  law  during  the  last  ten  years. 

We  may  say,  then,  that  the  first  condition  of  any  such  change  in  the 
law  as  shall  be  satisfactory  to  the  nation  at  large  is  that  it  shall  not  be 
one  leading  to  the  extermination  of  hares  and  rabbits ;  and  on  this  head 
the  conflict  of  opinion  as  to  the  probable  effect  of  the  Bill  *  introduced  by 

*  The  main  feature  of  the  Bill  is  to  give  -what  is  called  "a  concurrent  inalienable 
right ''  to  the  occupier  to  kill  hares  and  rabbits  together  -with  the  owner,  making  in- 
valid all  agreements  by  which  they  are  reserved  in  future. 


GAME.  301 

Government  is  exceedingly  curious.     Some  say  that    within  five  years 
of  the  passage  of  such  an  Act  the  rabbit  would  be  as  scarce  as  the 
badger  ;  others  say  that  within  the  same  period  both  hares  and  rabbits 
would  be  multiplied   twentyfold.     Our  own  opinion  is  that  the  Bill 
would  make  very  little  difference.     The  farmer  would  look  on  ground 
game  with  a  more  favourable  eye  when  he  was  able  to  kill  it  himself, 
and  the  landlord  with  a  less  favourable  eye  when  his  tenant  was  able  to 
kill  it.    "We  say  this  supposing  this  concurrent  right  to  be  exercised  con- 
currently.    Where  it  was  not,  the  game  would  either  be  reserved  to  the 
landlord  as  it  is  now — and  in  the  case  of  yearly  tenancies  the  Bill  would 
offer  no  impediment — or  it  would  be  given  up  entirely  to  the  tenant. 
What  the  latter  would  do  in  such  a  case  we  know  well  enough  from 
what  he  does  now.     Whenever  the  game  is  wholly  at  the  disposal  of  the 
occupier,  he  ei'ther  preserves  it  carefully  for  himself  or  he  lets  it  to  some- 
body else.   He  acts  towards  it,  in  fact,  just  exactly  as  his  landlord  would. 
The  present  writer  is  acquainted  with  several  estates  on  which  the  game 
has  been  given  to  the  tenantry ;  and  what  do  these  gentlemen  do  ?     De- 
stroy the  hares  and  rabbits  ?     Not  a  bit  of  it.     They  club  together,  set 
up  a  gamekeeper,  and  have  their  grand  days  as  if  they  were  so  many 
lords.     Shooting  over  one  of  these  farms  a  few  years  ago  in  company 
only  with  the  keeper,  I  found  from  fifteen  to  twenty  hares  in  a  single 
piece  of  turnips  not  more  than  five  or  six  acres  in  extent.     Partridges, 
however,  were  not  nearly  so  plentiful,  nor,  indeed,  were  rabbits ;  but 
this  was  only  because  the  tenants  had  not  much  wood  upon  their  farms. 
Elsewhere  I  have  seen  quantities  of  rabbits  in  woods  preserved  by  tenant- 
farmers.     They   like,  however — characteristically  enough — the  biggest 
things  best.     A  hare  or  a  pheasant  is  something  worth  having,  they 
think,  and  it  is  these  they  would  preserve  most  if  left  entirely  to  them- 
selves.    Without  wishing  for  a  moment  to  disparage  the  statements 
which  have  been  made  in  regard  to  the  damage  done  by  game,  we  can- 
not help  believing  that  it  would  assume  very  different  proportions  if  the 
owners  of  the  crops  were  also  the  owners  of  the  hares.     Men  rail  at 
dignities,  at  placemen,  at  authority  :  make  such  men  peers,  or  ministers, 
or  magistrates,  and  they  change  their  tone.     The  farmer  rails  at  hares 
and  rabbits ;  but  hand  them  over  to  himself  and  see  how  tenderly  he 
would  treat  them  !     We  have  little  fear,  therefore,  that  the  farmer  would 
extirpate  these  creatures.     There  seems,  indeed,  to  be  quite  as  much 
ground  for  the  contrary  apprehension  that  they  would  preserve  them 
too  strictly.     Farmers,  it  is  said,  would  grow  as  fond  of  sport  as  their 
landlords,  and  would  no  more  mind  paying  a  little  for  it  in  the  shape 
of  damaged  crops  than  the  landlord  minds  paying  for  it  in  the  shape 
of  lower  rents.    We  see  no  improbability  in  this  prediction  at  all ;  and  so 
far,  to  our  mind,  the  measure  which  has  been  offered  for  the  reform  of 
the  game  system  does  fulfil  the  first  condition  we  have  mentioned.  We  do 
not  believe  it  to  be  one  which  will  effect  the  destruction  of  ground  game. 
With  such  mighty  questions  as  "  freedom  of  contract,"  and  the  com- 


302  GAME. 

parative  value  of  game  and  the  corn  which  they  consume,  from  a  public 
point  of  view,  we  are  relieved  from  the  necessity  of  dealing.  These 
belong  to  political  and  economic  writers,  and  form  no  part  of  that  aspect 
of  the  subject  which  we  desire  to  present  to  our  readers.  But  at  this 
season  of  the  year  we  may  appropriately  consider  the  probable  effects  of 
such  a  measure  on  the  sport  of  shooting.  In  the  case  of  resident  pro- 
prietors whose  estates  are  not  too  large  for  them  to  be  well  known  to 
every  man  upon  the  ground,  and  where  the  farms  are  held  from  year  to 
year — a  description  which  applies  to  at  least  one  half  of  England — the  sport 
of  shooting  will  continue  to  be  after  the  Bill  passes  exactly  what  it  was 
before.  If  the  occupier  declines  to  reserve  the  ground  game  on  reasonable 
terms,  the  owner  will  have  the  same  remedy  in  his  hands  as  he  has  now. 
On  this  class  of  cases,  therefore,  nothing  further  need  be  said.  Where 
there  are  leases,  or  where  the  "  game  landlord  "  is  in  question,  the  matter 
is  not  quite  so  simple.  The  lease,  however,  only  throws  the  question  one 
step  further  back ;  for  whether  the  law  is  made  to  apply  to  existing 
leases  or  not,  they  must  all  expire  at  last,  when  the  landlord  who  wishes 
to  preserve  will  naturally  resort  to  the  yearly  system.  The  "  game  land- 
lord "  then  remains  as  the  sole  personage  about  whose  future  there  need 
be  much  anxiety ;  though  in  the  eyes  of  many  people  he  deserves  neither 
sympathy  nor  solicitude.  This  we  own  we  do  not  see,  probably  because 
we  have  been  and  hope  to  be  again  one  of  that  class  ourselves.  We  are 
a  most  respectable  and,  in  many  cases,  a  most  hard-working  and  meri- 
torious body  of  men,  and  we  claim  the  consideration  of  the  public  for  the 
case  we  are  about  to  lay  before  them.  We  were  let  in  by  the  Act  of  1831, 
and  I  hope  we  shall  not  be  cut  out  by  the  Act  of  1880.  But  there  is 
something  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  the  question. 

There  are  game  landlords  and  game  landlords.  There  is  the  mil- 
lionnaire  who  rents  the  abbey  or  the  castle  or  the  hall  with  the  sporting 
right  over  the  estate.  He  is  one  kind.  And  if  he  lives  on  the  spot,  and 
makes  himself  agreeable  to  his  neighbours,  and  takes  care  that  his  game- 
keepers shall  not  be  greater  swells  than  himself,  he  may  contrive  to 
propitiate  the  farmers,  and  find  that  they  do  him  no  harm.  It  is  undeni- 
able, however,  that  their  first  impulse  will  be  in  a  contrary  direction ;  and 
though,  of  course,  the  game  landlord  would  have  an  appeal  to  the  head 
landlord,  he  would  find  himself,  in  the  circumstances  I  am  supposing,  in 
a  very  uncomfortable  position.  The  landlord  or  his  agent  might,  of  course, 
say  to  the  farmers  that  he  expected  them  to  treat  the  occupier  of  the  Hall 
as  they  would  the  owner,  and  that  he  should  consider  interference  with 
his  sport  the  same  thing  as  interference  with  his  own.  But  remon- 
strances of  this  kind,  even  were  they  effective,  would  in  many  cases  be 
found  irksome,  and  the  hirer  of  the  shooting  would  discover,  let  him  do 
what  he  would,  that  his  ground  game  disappeared.  The  result  would  be  a 
sensible  diminution  in  the  letting  value  of  country  houses,  which  would 
fall  rather  hardly  on  such  owners  as  might  wish  to  live  for  a  time  else- 
where without  being  obliged  to  sell  the  inheritance  of  their  fathers. 


GAME.     .  303 

This  is  a  hardship,  however,  for  which  we  fear  there  is  no  remedy.     It 
is  so  obviously  just  and  natural  that  the  tenant  should  have  the  refusal 
of  the  shooting  when  the  landlord  does  not  want  it,  that  we  fear  no  other 
consideration  can  be  allowed  to  interfere.     When  the  farmer,  however, 
did  not  care  about  the  game,  and  it  was  let  to  a  third  person  in  conse- 
quence, he  would  probably  not  be  unreasonable  about  it.     All  farmers 
have  a  very  strong  dislike  to  seeing  strangers  on  their  land — men  who 
come  out  for  the  shooting  season  and  are  absent  all  the  rest  of  the  year ; 
but  a  game  landlord  who  is  an  habitual  resident  for  any  number  of  years 
soon  comes  to  take  the  place  of  the  landlord  proper,  and  to  be  on  similar 
terms  with  his  neighbours.     I  remember  an  amusing  illustration  of  the 
former  feeling  among  my  own  experiences  soon  after  leaving  college.     I 
used  to  go  home  in  September,  and  had  some  land  to  shoot  over  adjoining 
which  were  several  small  farmers  who  hardly  knew  me  by  sight,  though, 
of  course,  they  knew  my  name.     Almost  anybody  that  chose  shot  over 
their  ground ;  but,  as  it  happened,  there  were  not  many  to  come,  and  I 
used  to  have  it  pretty  nearly  to  myself.     I  remember  one  day  I  had  got 
some  birds  into  a  man's  beans ;  they  were  a  short,  foul  crop,  where  I 
could  not  do  much  harm,  and  in  I  went  without  misgiving.     I  had  shot 
four  or  five  times,  and  was  congratulating  myself  on  my  good  luck,  when 
I  suddenly  became  aware  of  a  sturdy-looking  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  ad- 
vancing under  the  hedgeside  with  a  pitchfork  in  his  hand.     His  face  was 
very  red,  and  he  was  evidently  prepared  for  battle.   After  a  few  inquiries, 
more  pointed  than  polite,  about  my  business  in  his  beans,  I  told  him  my 
name,  which  to  some  extent  allayed  his  wrath ;  but  still  he  was  far  from 
satisfied,  and  he  laid  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  I  was  an  habitual  ab- 
sentee.    "  Yer  come  here,"  he  said,  "  in  September,  and  think  yer  may 
do  as  yer  like,  and  we  don't  see  nothing  of  yer  at  no  other  time."    I  sub- 
sequently became  great  friends  with  this  man,  who  was  certainly  a  rough 
diamond,  but  good-natured  enough  at  bottom,  with  no  objection  to  a  gen- 
tleman shooting  on  his  land  who  was  willing  to  be  civil  and  who  belonged 
to  the  neighbourhood;  but  he  did  not  like  you  to  take  French  leave.    I 
shot  here  for  many  years  on  payment  of  a  hare  "  at  the  feast."   Now  this 
is  the  same  feeling  which  actuates  large  farmers  as  well  as  small.    If  they 
"  don't  see  nothing  of  you  at  no  other  time,"  they  do  not  care  to  see  you 
in  September ;  and  the  game  landlord  who  takes  a  place  only  for  the  au- 
tumn, fills  his  house  for  a  week  in  September  and  for  another  week  at 
Christmas,  and  is  seen  no  more,  would  probably  find  the  farmers,  in  their 
own  phrase,  rather  "  orkard  customers  "  should  this  Bill  ever  become  law. 
But  there  is  a  humbler  kind  of  game  landlord  whose  interests  also 
are  at  stake,  and  of  him  we  would  fain  say  something.     Let  me  now 
again  put  my  own  case,  and  speak  again  in  the  first  person.     For  many 
years  running  I  used  to  stay  every  autumn  with  a  friend  in  the  south 
of  England  who  was  the  incumbent  of  a  good  college  living.     I  had 
his  glebe  to  shoot  over,  and  one  farm  besides,  with  some  nice  bits  of 
copsewood  scattered  about  it.     On  three  sides  it  was  bounded  by  what 


304  GAME. 

the  country  people  Called  charity  land ;  that  is,  land  belonging  to  some 
almshouses  in  a  distant  part  of  the  county,  and  let  in  farms  of  from 
eighty  to  two  hundred  acres.  Now  two  of  these  farms — one  of  about 
ninety  acres,  the  other  a  hundred  and  fifty — I  was  able  to  hire  pretty 
cheaply,  and  this  converted  my  three  hundred  acres  into  a  really  good 
beat,  lying  within  a  ring  fence.  Of  course  I  had  no  keeper ;  for  the 
soil  was  favourable  to  partridges,  and  there  were  always  a  few  hares 
and  pheasants,  notwithstanding  poachers.  I  used  to  shoot  over  it  ten 
or  a  dozen  times,  perhaps,  in  September  and  October,  usually  getting 
altogether  from  fifty  to  sixty  brace  of  birds.  I  always  shot  alone, 
and  this  was  quite  enough  for  amusement,  and  quite  enough  to  neces- 
sitate good  hard  walking  behind  a  good  dog.  The  power  of  hiring 
shooting  in  this  manner  is  one  of  the  greatest  possible  boons  to  the  hard- 
worked  professional  man,  whether  in  town  or  country — the  doctor,  the 
lawyer,  the  merchant,  the  journalist,  or  even,  may  I  say,  the  parson.  It 

is  not  every  one 

Who  cares  to  walk 
With  death  and  mourcing  on  the  silver  horns, 

or  to  spend  his  holidays  at  a  watering-place.  A  month's  partridge-shoot- 
ing does  him  twice  as  much  good  as  either,  and  why  should  such  recrea- 
tion be  made  impossible  for  him  ?  This  is  one  kind  of  "  game  landlord," 
who  is  perfectly  innocent  and  innocuous,  and  surely  does  not  deserve  the 
hard  words  that  have  been  said  of  such  persons  in  general.  But  how,  it 
may  be  asked,  would  such  arrangements  be  interfered  with  by  a  Bill 
which  gave  the  tenant  an  inalienable  right  to  kill  hares  ?  It  could  not 
compel  him  to  do  so ;  and  if  he  ftnind  it  more  convenient  to  let  his  shoot- 
ing than  to  keep  it,  he  would  do  nothing  to  diminish  its  value.  This 
sounds  very  reasonable ;  but  what  has  to  be  considered  is  the  case  of  a 
cantankerous  lessor  who  quarrelled  with  his  lessee  in  the  middle  of  the 
season.  It  would  be  very  unjust  that  he  should  be  able  to  kill  down  all 
the  ground  game,  and  yet  recover  the  rent  of  the  shooting  all  the  same. 
Without  saying  positively  that  this  would  be  the  effect  of  such  a  Bill  as  the 
one  recently  introduced,  it  appears  that  it  might  be.  For  what  right  would 
the  lessee  have  to  withhold  the  rent,  unless  part  of  the  consideration  was 
that  the  ground  game  should  be  reserved  ?  yet  by  the  terms  of  the  Bill 
it  is  made  impossible  for  the  occupier  to  reserve  it.  Of  course  where  the 
shooting  was  taken  for  a  term  of  years  the  danger  would  be  all  the 
greater.  One  cannot  say  precisely  beforehand  what  effect  such  a  measure 
might  produce  upon  the  class  of  lettings  we  have  mentioned;  but  it 
would  be  a  very  unfortunate  result  if  it  should  be  to  debar  professional 
and  commercial  men,  who  do  not  possess  land  of  their  own,  from  a  healthy 
and  delightful  recreation  which  they  are  able  to  enjoy  now  without 
giving  offence  to  any  one.  In  fact,  if  this  did  turn  out  to  be  the  working 
of  such  a  measure,  we  should  find  that  with  the  best  intentions  Govern- 
ment had  actually  restored  the  monopoly  abolished  in  1831,  and  again 
confined  the  right  of  shooting  to  a  single  class  in  the  community. 


GAME.  305 

We  have  seen  the  error  into  which  the  reformers  of  1831  were  be- 
trayed in  their  anxiety  to  abolish  poaching.  It  is  possible  that  the  re- 
formers  of  to-day  may  fall  into  as  great  a  one  in  their  efforts  to  restrain 
excessive  preservation.  If  the  farmers  are  admitted  to  a  kind  of  partner- 
ship in  the  game,  they  will  become  partners  in  the  preservation  of  it ; 
and  if  the  apprehensions  of  one  class  of  critics  are  realised,  and  the  agri- 
culturists become  sportsmen  and  game  preservers  on  a  large  scale,  nothing 
will  have  been  done  to  diminish  the  frequency  of  poaching.  Then,  per- 
haps, will  be  the  time  to  try  once  more  whether  owners  and  occupiers 
combined  cannot  drive  the  poacher  out  of  the  field.  When  the  farmer 
ceases  to  have  the  smallest  sympathy  with  him,  and  the  farmer's  grievance 
no  longer  makes  the  public  indifferent,  we  may  see,  perhaps,  the  growth 
of  that  sentiment  which  was  anticipated  half  a  century  ago,  but  which 
was  nipped  in  the  bud  as  we  have  shown.  It  was  intended  of  course,  by 
the  authors  of  the  Act  of  William  IV.,  that  it  should  be  rigorously  car- 
ried out,  and  the  law  enforced  against  all  poulterers  and  fishmongers  who 
obtained  their  game  in  an  illegal  manner.  But  it  never  has  been.  Like 
the  New  Poor  Law  it  has  remained  practically  a  dead  letter.  Public 
opinion  has  not  really  rebuked  the  violation  of  it ;  and  I  remember  not 
many  years  ago  that  when  a  fishmonger  in  a  Midland  town  took  one  of 
the  county  members  into  his  back  room,  and,  showing  him  a  large  quan- 
tity of  pheasants,  informed  him  with  a  cheerful  smile  that  they  all  came 
from  Hazelby,  the  member's  own  place,  the  laugh  was  all  on  the  side  of 
the  fishmonger,  who  was  thought  to  have  displayed  considerable  native 
humour.  While  public  opinion  continues  to  wink  at  any  offence  in  this 
manner,  just  as  it  does  at  intoxication,  the  law  can  do  very  little  with  it. 
But,  perhaps,  if  farmers  and  landlords  alike  put  their  shoulders  to  the 
wheel,  something  might  be  done  now  to  stamp  out  the  poacher  as  an 
anachronism.  To  exterminate  game  in  order  to  prevent  poaching  would  be 
like  destroying  precious  stones  in  order  to  prevent  stealing.  Nobody  now, 
however,  except  a  few  dyspeptic  zealots,  goes  to  this  length.  For  their 
beauty,  if  for  no  other  reason,  we  should  preserve  these  members  of  the 
British  fauna ;  what  they  add  to  the  life  and  interest  of  rural  scenery 
can  hardly  be  exaggerated  in  the  eyes  of  every  true  lover  of  the  country. 

On  a  fine  August  afternoon,  before  the  wheat  is  cut,  I  like  to  sit  on  a 
stile  among  the  cornfields  and  plantations  to  see  the  partridge  surrounded 
by  her  brood,  and  to  watch  the  various  furred  and  feathered  creatures 
coming  out  to  feed.  The  air  is  so  still  that  you  can  hear  the  corn  rustle 
as  the  hare  gently  steals  through  it,  and  the  only  sound  you  catch  besides 
the  voices  of  birds  is  the  distant  rumbling  of  the  waggons  where  they 
have  just  begun  to  carry  the  oats.  After  y<pu  have  sat  for  a  while  the 
rabbits  begin  to  emerge  again  from  the  opening  on  your  right,  and  you 
watch  them  over  the  hedge  nibbling  the  sweet,  dewy  grass,  and  indulg- 
ing in  eveiy  kind  of  gambol.  Presently,  from  among  the  tall  stalks  of 
wheat  upon  your  left,  a  hare  steals  cautiously  forth  and  sits  in  the  middle 
of  the  foothpath  listening  and  motionless.  If,  as  is  very  probable,  she 

VOL.  XLII.— NO.  249.  15. 


306  GAME. 

does  not  see  you,  she  will  stay  for  some  minutes  within  a  few  yards  of 
your  feet ;  then,  suddenly  becoming  conscious  of  your  proximity,  she  turns 
and  scuttles  down  the  path  till,  coming  to  the  well-known  "  sluice," 
she  darts  into  the  hedge  and  disappears.  In  a  few  minutes  you  become 
conscious  that  you  are  again  not  alone.  On  the  ditch  bank,  some  twenty 
yards  off,  stands  a  stately  cock  pheasant,  with  that  peculiar  meditative 
air  characteristic  of  the  tribe,  which  seems  to  mean  that  he  is  considering 
which  of  three  courses  he  had  better  adopt.  If  you  make  the  slightest 
noise  he  will  depart  as  silently  as  he  came.  If  not,  he  will  probably 
take  little  notice  of  you,  and  will  presently  step  quietly  into  the  wheat 
in  quest  of  his  evening  meal,  or  having  promised  his  mate  and  her  young 
ones  to  meet  her  there  about  that  time.  What  a  fine  fellow  he  is ;  what 
gorgeous  colouring ;  what  gleaming  plumage !  well  worthy  to  be  worn 
on  the  helmets  of  Indian  kings,  and  to  match  the  jewelled  war  belts. 
Again,  you  are  startled  by  a  commotion  just  behind  you — a  great 
screaming  and  whirring  and  piping — and  you  look  round  just  in  time 
to  see  a  covey  of  small  partridge,  led  by  the  old  hen,  fly  quickly  over 
the  hedge  to  your  left,  and  plump  down  into  the  standing  corn.  They 
have  been  disturbed  by  something  in  an  adjoining  fie]d,  and  have  taken 
refuge  in  their  native  cover.  The  old  bird  calls  anxiously  for  a  minute 
or  two  till  she  finds  that  all  her  chicks  are  safe,  and  then  all  is  still. 
Then  it  is  to  be  feared  the  murderous  instinct  awakes  in  you,  and  you 
exclaim  mentally  that  they  will  be  fine  birds  in  another  fortnight.  All 
this  time  the  placid  August  sunshine  is  mellowing  the  whole  scene; 
a  church  spire  points  upwards  in  the  blue  distance ;  cottage  roofs  peep 
through  the  trees  below  the  hill ;  and  the  rooks  are  circling  and  cawing 
round  the  tall  elms  which  conceal  the  old  manorial  hall.  Amid  scenes  like 
these  you  sigh  for  the  old  times  referred  to  in  the  beginning  of  this  article, 
when  the  pretty  and  interesting  creatures  which  add  so  much  to  the  charm 
of  rural  life  were  the  source  of  no  social  bitterness  or  political  contro- 
versies, and  you  ask  yourself  for  the  twentieth  time  whether  nothing  can 
be  done  to  do  away  with  or  mitigate  these,  without  depriving  ourselves 
of  the  pleasure  which  we  legitimately  draw  from  those.  That  the  matter 
could  be  arranged  without  difficulty  if  considered  solely  on  its  merits,  and 
apart  from  the  passions  and  the  interests  of  political  parties,  we  entertain 
no  manner  of  doubt.  But  whether  it  ever  will  be  so  considered  is  far  from 
being  equally  certain.  We  shall  not  depart  by  one  hair's  breadth  from  the 
limits  we  have  imposed  upon  ourselves,  or  we  might  trace  at  some  length 
the  political  history  of  the  game  question,  and  show  how  completely  this 
has  been  allowed  to  distort  its  natural  features.  We  are  satisfied  at  present 
with  having  pointed  out,  we  hope  precisely,  the  origin  of  the  difficulty 
in  its  modern  form,  the  changes  which  public  opinion  has  undergone  in 
regard  to  it,  and  the  stages  by  which  legislation  has  reached  the  point  at 
which  it  now  stands. 

T.  E.  K. 


307 


|Ja;[nii0n  0it  fyt  finks. 

(!N  Two  PARTS.) 

PART   I. 

CHAPTEE  I. 

TELLS  HOW  I  CAMPED  IN  GRADEN  SEA- WOOD,  AND  BEHELD  A  LIGHT 
IN  THE  PAVILION. 

I  BELIEVE  it  is  now  more  than  time,  my  dear  and  dutiful  children,  that 
I  was  setting  my  memoires  in  order  before  I  go  hence.  For  six  months 
I  have  been  reminded  day  by  day  of  human  frailty ;  I  must  take  the 
hint  before  it  is  too  late,  and  leave  you  the  story  for  which  you  have  so 
often  asked.  This  is  a  long-kept  secret  that  I  have  now  to  disclose ; 
and,  to  all  but  our  own  nearest  people,  I  hope  it  will  remain  one  for 
ever.  It  is  told  to  you,  my  dear  children,  in  confidence ;  you  will  see 
why  this  is  so  as  you  read ;  and,  as  I  hope,  that  is  not  by  many  the  only 
discovery  you  will  make  or  lesson  you  will  learn.  For  it  should  teach 
in  our  family  a  spirit  of  great  charity  to  the  unfortunate  and  all  those 
who  are  externally  dishonoured.  For  my  part,  it  is  with  pleasure  and 
sorrow  that  I  set  myself  to  tell  you  how  I  met  the  dear  angel  of  my  life. 
That  will  always  be  a  touching  event  in  my  eyes ;  for  if  I  am  anything 
worth,  or  have  been  anything  of  a  good  father,  it  is  due  to  the  influence 
of  your  mother  and  the  love  and  duty  that  I  bore  her,  which  were  not 
only  delightful  to  me  in  themselves,  but  strengthened  and  directed  my 
conduct  in  other  affairs.  Many  praise  and  regret  their  youth  or  their 
childhood,  and  recall  the  time  of  their  courtship  as  if  it  were  the  beginning 
of  the  end ;  but  my  case  is  different,  and  I  neither  respected  myself  nor 
greatly  cared  for  my  existence  until  then.  Yet,  as  you  are  to  hear,  this 
certainly  was  in  itself  a  very  stormy  period,  and  your  mother  and  I  had 
many  pressing  and  dreadful  thoughts.  Indeed  the  circumstances  were  so 
unusual  in  character  that  they  have  not  often  been  surpassed,  or,  at  least,, 
not  often  in  our  age  and  country  ;  and  we  began  to  love  in  the  midst  of 
continual  alarms. 

I  was  a  great  solitary  when  I  was  young.  I  made  it  my  pride  to 
keep  aloof  and  suffice  for  my  own  entertainment ;  and  I  may  say  that  I 
had  neither  friends  nor  acquaintances  until  I  met  that  friend  who 
became  my  wife  and  the  mother  of  my  children.  With  one  man  only 
was  I  on  private  terms ;  this  was  R.  Northmour,  Esquire,  of  Graden 
Easter,  in  Scotland.  We  had  met  at  college ;  and  though  there  was  not 
much  liking  between  us,  nor  even  much  intimacy,  we  were  so  nearly  of 

15—2 


308  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

a  humour  that  we  could  associate  -with  ease  to  both.  Misanthropes,  we 
believed  ourselves  to  be ;  but  I  have  thought  since  that  we  were  only 
sulky  fellows.  It  was  scarcely  a  companionship,  but  a  coexistence  in 
unsociability.  Northmour's  exceptional  violence  of  temper  made  it  no 
easy  affair  for  him  to  keep  the  peace  with  any  one  but  me ;  and  as  he 
respected  my  silent  ways,  and  let  me  come  and  go  as  I  pleased,  I  could 
tolerate  his  presence  without  concern.  I  think  we  called  each  other 
friends. 

When  Northmour  took  his  degree  and  I  decided  to  leave  the  univer- 
sity without  one,  he  invited  me  on  a  long  visit  to  Graden  Easter ;  and  it 
was  thus  that  I  first  became  acquainted  with  the  scene  of  my  adventures, 
The  mansion-house  of  Graden  stood  in  a  bleak  stretch  of  country  some 
three  miles  from  the  shore  of  the  German  Ocean.  It  was  as  large  as  a 
barrack ;  and  as  it  had  been  built  of  a  soft  stone,  liable  to  consume  in 
the  eager  air  of  the  sea-side,  it  was  damp  and  draughty  within  and  half 
ruinous  without.  It  was  impossible  for  two  young  men  to  lodge  with 
comfort  in  such  a  dwelling.  But  there  stood  in  the  northern  court  of 
the  estate,  in  a  wilderness  of  links  and  blowing  sand-hills,  and  between 
a  plantation  and  the  sea,  a  small  Pavilion  or  Belvidera,  of  modern 
design,  which  was  exactly  suited  to  our  wants ;  and  in  this  hermitage, 
speaking  little,  reading  much,  and  rarely  associating  except  at  meals, 
Northmour  and  I  spent  four  tempestuous  winter  months.  I  might  have 
stayed  longer ;  but  there  sprang  up  a  dispute  between  us,  one  March  night, 
which  rendered  my  departure  necessary.  Northmour  spoke  hotly,  I 
remember,  and  I  suppose  I  must  have  made  some  tart  rejoinder.  He 
leaped  from  his  chair  and  grappled  me ;  I  had  to  fight,  without  exaggera- 
tion, for  my  life;  and  it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  that  I  mastered 
him,  for  he  was  near  as  strong  in  body  as  myself,  and  seemed  filled  with 
the  devil.  The  next  morning,  we  met  on  our  usual  terms ;  but  I 
judged  it  more  delicate  to  withdraw  ;  nor  did  he  attempt  to  dissuade  me. 

It  was  nine  years  before  I  revisited  the  neighbourhood.  I  travelled 
at  that  time  with  a  tilt  cart,  a  tent,  and  a  cooking-stove,  tramping  all 
day  beside  the  waggon,  and  at  night,  whenever  it  was  possible,  gipsying 
in  a  cove  of  the  hills,  or  by  the  side  of  a  wood.  I  believe  I  visited  in 
this  manner  most  of  the  wild  and  desolate  regions  both  in  England  and 
Scotland ;  and,  as  I  had  neither  friends  nor  relations,  I  was  troubled  with 
no  correspondence,  and  had  nothing  in  the  nature  of  head-quarters,  un- 
less it  was  the  office  of  my  solicitors,  from  whom  I  dre\v  my  income  twice 
a  year.  It  was  a  life  in  which  I  delighted  ;  and  I  fully  thought  to  have 
grown  old  upon  the  march,  and  at  last  died  in  a  ditch.  So  I  suppose  I 
should,  if  I  had  not  met  your  mother. 

It  was  my  whole  business  to  find  desolate  corners,  where  I  could 
camp  without  the  fear  of  interruption  ;  and  hence,  being  in  another  part 
of  the  same  shire,  I  bethought  me  suddenly  of  the  Pavilion  on  the  Links. 
No  thoroughfare  passed  within  three  miles  of  it.  The  nearest  town,  and 
that  was  but  a  fisher  village,  was  at  a  distance  of  six  or  seven.  For  ten 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  309 

miles  of  length,  and  from  a  depth  varying  from  three  miles  to  half  a 
mile,  this  belt  of  barren  country  lay  along  the  sea.  The  beach,  which 
was  the  natural  approach,  was  full  of  quicksands.  Indeed  I  may  say 
there  is  hardly  a  better  place  of  concealment  in  the  United  Kingdom. 
I  determined  to  pass  a  week  in  the  Sea- Wood  of  Graden  Easter,  and, 
making  a  long  stage,  reached  it  about  sundown,  on  a  wild  September  day. 

The  country,  I  have  said,  was  mixed  sand-hill  and  links ;  links  being 
a  Scottish  name  for  sand  which  has  ceased  drifting  and  become  more  or 
less  solidly  covered  with  turf.  The  pavilion  stood  on  an  even  space ;  a 
little  behind  it,  the  wood  began  in  a  hedge  of  elders  huddled  together  by 
the  wind ;  in  front,  a  few  tumbled  sand-hills  stood  between  it  and  the 
sea.  An  outcropping  of  rock  had  formed  a  bastion  for  the  sand,  so  that 
there  was  here  a  promontory  in  the  coast-line  between  two  shallow  bays ; 
and  just  beyond  the  tides,  the  rock  again  cropped  out  and  formed  an 
islet  of  small  dimensions  but  strikingly  designed.  The  quicksands  were 
of  great  extent  at  low  water,  and  had  an  infamous  reputation  in  the 
country.  Close  in  shore,  between  the  islet  and  the  promontory,  it  was 
said  they  would  swallow  a  man  in  four  minutes  and  a  half ;  but  there 
may  have  been  little  ground  for  this  precision.  The  district  was  alive 
with  rabbits,  and  haunted  by  gulls  which  made  a  continual  piping  about 
the  pavilion.  On  summer  days  the  outlook  was  bright  and  even  glad- 
some ;  but  at  sundown  in  September,  with  a  high  wind,  and  a  heavy 
surf  rolling  in  close  along  the  links,  the  place  told  of  nothing  but  dead 
mariners  and  sea  disaster.  A  ship  beating  to  windward  on  the  horizon, 
and  a  huge  truncheon  of  wreck  half  buried  in  the  sands  at  my  feet,  com- 
pleted the  innuendo  of  the  scene. 

The  pavilion — it  had  been  built  by  the  last  proprietor,  Northmour's 
uncle,  a  silly  and  prodigal  virtuoso — presented  little  signs  of  age.  It  was 
two  stories  in  height,  Italian  in  design,  surrounded  by  a  patch  of  garden 
in  which  nothing  had  prospered  but  a  few  coarse  flowers ;  and  looked, 
with  its  shuttered  windows,  not  like  a  house  that  had  been  deserted,  but 
like  one  that  had  never  been  tenanted  by  man.  Northmour  was  plainly 
from  home;  whether,  as  usual,  sulking  in  the  cabin  of  his  yacht,  or  in  one 
of  his  fitful  and  extravagant  appearances  in  the  world  of  society,  I  had, 
of  course,  no  means  of  guessing.  The  place  had  an  air  of  solitude  that 
daunted  even  a  solitary  like  myself ;  the  wind  cried  in  the  chimneys  with 
a  strange  and  wailing  note ;  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  escape,  as  if  I 
were  going  indoors,  that  I  turned  away  and,  driving  my  cart  before  me, 
entered  the  skirts  of  the  wood. 

The  Sea- Wood  of  Graden  had  been  planted  to  shelter  the  culti- 
vated fields  behind,  and  check  the  encroachments  of  the  blowing  sand.  As 
you  advanced  into  it  from  coastward,  elders  were  succeeded  by  other  hardy 
shrubs ;  but  the  timber  was  all  stunted  and  bushy ;  it  led  a  life  of  con- 
flict ;  the  trees  were  accustomed  to  swing  there  all  night  long  in  fierce 
winter  tempests ;  and  even  in  early  spring,  the  leaves  were  already  flying, 
and  autumn  was  beginning,  in  this  exposed  plantation.  Inland  the 


310  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

ground  rose  into  a  little  hill,  which,  along  the  islet,  served  as  a  sailing 
mark  for  seamen.  When  the  hill  was  open  of  the  islet  to  the  north, 
vessels  must  bear  well  to  the  eastward  to  clear  Graden  Ness  and  the 
Graden  Bullers.  In  the  lower  ground,  a  streamlet  ran  among  the  trees, 
and,  being  dammed  with  dead  leaves  and  clay  of  its  own  carrying,  spread 
out  every  here  and  there,  and  lay  in  stagnant  pools.  One  or  two  ruined 
cottages  were  dotted  about  the  wood ;  and,  according  to  Northmour, 
these  were  ecclesiastical  foundations,  and  in  their  time  had  sheltered  pious 
hermits. 

I  found  a  den,  or  small  hollow,  where  there  was  a  spring  of  pure 
water;  and  then,  clearing  away  the  brambles,  I  pitched  the  tent,  and 
made  a  fire  to  cook  my  supper.  My  horse  I  picketed  further  in  the  wood 
where  there  was  a  patch  of  sward.  The  banks  of  the  den  not  only  con- 
cealed the  light  of  my  fire,  but  sheltered  me  from  the  wind,  which  was 
cold  as  well  as  high. 

The  life  I  was  leading  made  me  both  hardy  and  frugal.  I  never 
drank  but  water,  and  rarely  ate  anything  more  costly  than  oatmeal ;  and 
I  required  so  little  sleep,  that,  although  I  rose  with  the  peep  of  day,  I 
would  often  lie  long  awake  in  the  dark  or  starry  watches  of  the  night. 
Thus  in  Graden  Sea- Wood,  although  I  fell  thankfully  asleep  by  eight  in 
the  evening,  I  was  awake  again  before  eleven  with  a  full  possession  of 
my '_  faculties,  and  no  sense  of  drowsiness  or  fatigue.  I  rose  and  sat  by 
the  fire,  watching  the  trees  and  clouds  tumultuously  tossing  and  fleeing 
overhead,  and  harkening  to  the  wind  and  the  rollers  along  the  shore  ; 
till  at  length,  growing  weary  of  inaction,  I  quitted  the  den,  and  strolled 
towards  the  borders  of  the  wood.  A  young  moon,  buried  in  mist,  gave 
a  faint  illumination  to  my  steps ;  and  the  light  grew  brighter  as  I  walked 
forth  into  the  links.  At  the  same  moment,  the  wind,  smelling  salt  of 
the  open  ocean  and  carrying  particles  of  sand,  struck  me  with  its  full 
force,  so  that  I  had  to  bow  my  head. 

When  I  raised  it  again  to  look  about  me,  T  was  aware  of  a  light  in 
the  pavilion.  It  was  not  stationary ;  but  passed  from  one  window  to 
another,  as  though  some  one  were  reviewing  the  different  apartments 
with  a  lamp  or  candle.  I  watched  it  for  some  seconds  in  great  surprise. 
When  I  had  arrived  in  the  afternoon  the  house  had  been  plainly  deserted  ; 
now  it  was  as  plainly  occupied.  It  was  my  first  idea  that  a  gang  of 
thieves  might  have  broken  in  and  be  now  ransacking  Northmour's  cup- 
boards, which  were  many  and  not  ill  supplied.  But  what  should  bring 
thieves  to  Graden  Easter  ?  And,  again,  all  the  shutters  had  been  thrown 
open,  and  it  would  have  been  more  in  the  character  of  such  gentry  to 
close  them.  I  dismissed  the  notion,  and  fell  back  upon  another.  Korth- 
mour  himself  must  have  arrived,  and  was  now  airing  and  inspecting  the 
pavilion. 

I  have  said  that  there  was  no  real  affection  between  this  man  and 
me ;  but,  had  I  loved  him  like  a  brother,  I  was  then  so  much  more  in 
love  with  solitude  that  I  should  none  the  less  have  shunned  his  company. 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  311 

As  it  was,  I  turned  and  ran  for  it ;  and  it  was  with  genuine  satisfaction 
that  I  found  myself  safely  back  beside  the  fire.  I  had  escaped  an  ac- 
quaintance ;  I  should  have  one  more  night  in  comfort.  In  the  morning, 
I  might  either  slip  away  before  North  mour  was  abroad,  or  pay  him  as 
short  a  visit  as  I  chose. 

But  when  morning  came,  I  thought  the  situation  so  diverting  that  I 
forgot  my  shyness.  Northmour  was  at  my  mercy ;  I  arranged  a  good 
practical  jest,  though  I  knew  well  that  my  neighbour  was  not  the  man 
to  jest  with  in  security ;  and,  chuckling  beforehand  over  its  success,  took 
my  place  among  the  elders  at  the  edge  of  the  wood,  whence  I  could  com- 
mand the  door  of  the  pavilion.  The  shutters  were  all  once  more  closed, 
which  I  remember  thinking  odd ;  and  the  house,  with  its  white  walls 
and  green  Venetians,  looked  spruce  and  habitable  in  the  morning  light. 
Hour  after  hour  passed,  and  still  no  sign  of  Northmour.  I  knew  him 
for  a  sluggard  in  the  morning  ;  but,  as  it  drew  on  towards  noon,  I  lost 
my  patience.  To  say  truth,  I  had  promised  myself  to  break  jny  fast  in 
the  pavilion,  and  hunger  began  to  prick  me  sharply.  It  was  a  pity  to 
let  the  opportunity  go  by  without  some  cause  for  mirth ;  bat  the  grosser 
appetite  prevailed,  and  I  relinquished  my  jest  with  regret,  and  sallied 
from  the  wood. 

The  appearance  of  the  house  affected  me,  as  I  drew  near,  with  dis- 
quietude. It  seemed  unchanged  since  last  evening ;  and  I  had  expected 
it,  I  scarce  knew  why,  to  wear  some  external  signs  of  habitation.  But 
no  :  the  windows  were  all  closely  shuttered,  the  chimneys  breathed  no 
smoke,  and  the  front  door  itself  was  closely  padlocked.  Northmour, 
therefore,  had  entered  by  the  back  ;  this  was  the  natural  and,  indeed,  the 
necessary  conclusion;  and  you  may  judge  of  my  surprise  when,  on  turn- 
ing the  house,  I  found  the  back  door  similarly  secured. 

My  mind  at  once  reverted  to  the  original  theory  of  thieves ;  and  I 
blamed  myself  sharply  for  my  last  night's  inaction.  I  examined  all  the 
windows  on  the  lower  story,  but  none  of  them  had  been  tampered  with ; 
I  tried  the  padlocks,  but  they  were  both  secure.  It  thus  became  a  pro- 
blem how  the  thieves,  if  thieves  they  were,  had  managed  to  enter  the 
house.  They  must  have  got,  I  reasoned,  upon  the  roof  of  the  oxithouse 
where  Northmour  used  to  keep  his  photographic  battery;  and  from 
thence,  either  by  the  window  of  the  study  or  that  of  my  old  bedroom, 
completed  their  burglarious  entry. 

I  followed  what  I  supposed  was  their  example ;  and,  getting  on  the 
roof,  tried  the  shutters  of  each  room.  Both  were  secure  ;  but  I  was  not 
to  be  beaten ;  and,  with  a  little  force,  one  of  them  flew  open,  grazing,  as 
it  did  so,  the  back  of  my  hand.  I  remember,  I  put  the  wound  to  my 
mouth,  and  stood  for  perhaps  half  a  minute  licking  it  like  a  dog,  and 
mechanically  gazing  behind  me  over  the  waste  links  and  the  sea ;  and,  in 
that  space  of  time,  my  eye  made  note  of  a  large  schooner  yacht  some 
miles  to  the  north-east.  Then  I  threw  up  the  window  and  climbed  in. 

I  went  over  the  house,  and  nothing  can  express  my  mystification. 


312  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

There  was  no  sign  of  disorder,  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  rooms  were  un- 
usually clean  and  pleasant.  I  found  fires  laid,  ready  for  lighting ;  three 
bedrooms  prepared  with  a  luxury  quite  foreign  to  Northmour's  habits, 
and  with  water  in  the  ewers  and  the  beds  turned  down ;  a  table  set  for 
three  in  the  dining-room ;  and  an  ample  supply  of  cold  meats,  game,  and 
vegetab  les  on  the  pantry  shelves.  There  were  guests  expected,  that  was 
plain  ;  but  why  guests,  when  Northmour  hated  society  ?  And,  above  all, 
why  was  the  house  thus  stealthily  prepared  at  dead  of  night  1  and  why 
were  the  shutters  closed  and  the  doors  padlocked  1 

I  effaced  all  traces  of  my  visit,  and  came  forth  from  the  window 
feeling  sobered  and  concerned. 

The  schooner  yacht  was  still  in  the  same  place ;  and  it  flashed  for  a 
moment  through  my  mind  that  this  might  be  the  Red  Earl  bringing  the 
owner  of  the  pavilion  and  his  guests.  But  the  vessel's  head  was  set  the 
other  way. 

CHAPTER  II. 
TELLS  OF  THE  NOCTURNAL  LANDING  FROM  THE  YACHT. 

I  RETURNED  to  the  den  to  cook  myself  a  meal,  of  which  I  stood  in  great 
need,  as  well  as  to  care  for  my  horse,  whom  I  had  somewhat  neglected  in 
the  morning.  From  time  to  time,  I  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  ; 
but  there  was  no  change  in  the  pavilion,  and  not  a  human  creature  was 
seen  all  day  upon  the  links.  The  schooner  in  the  offing  was  the  one 
touch  of  life  within  my  range  of  vision.  She,  apparently  with  no  set 
object,  stood  off  and  on  or  lay  to,  hour  after  hour ;  but  as  the  evening 
deepened,  she  drew  steadily  nearer.  I  became  more  convinced  that  she 
carried  Northmour  and  his  friends,  and  that  they  would  probably  come 
ashore  after  dark ;  not  only  because  that  was  of  a  piece  with  the  secrecy  of 
the  preparations,  but  because  the  tide  would  not  have  flowed  sufficiently 
before  eleven  to  cover  Graden  Floe  and  the  other  sea  quays  that  fortified 
the  shore  against  invaders. 

All  day  the  wind  had  been  going  down,  and  the  sea  along  with  it; 
but  there  was  a  return  towards  sunset  of  the  heavy  weather  of  the  day 
before.  The  night  set  in  pitch  dark.  The  wind  came  off  the  sea  in 
squalls,  like  the  firing  of  a  battery  of  cannon  ;  now  and  then,  there  was 
a  flow  of  rain,  and  the  surf  rolled  heavier  with  the  rising  tide.  I  was 
down  at  my  observatory  among  the  elders,  when  a  light  was  run  up  to 
the  masthead  of  the  schooner,  and  showed  she  was  closer  in  than  when  I 
had  last  seen  her  by  the  dying  daylight.  I  concluded  that  this  must  be 
a  signal  to  Northmour's  associates  on  shore ;  and,  stepping  forth  into  the 
links,  looked  around  me  for  something  in  response. 

A  small  footpath  ran  along  the  margin  of  the  wood,  and  formed  the 
most  direct  communication  between  the  pavilion  and  the  mansion-house ; 
and,  as  I  cast  my  eyes  to  that  side,  I  saw  a  spark  of  light,  not  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away,  and  rapidly  approaching.  From  its  uneven  course  it  ap- 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  313 

peared  to  be  the  light  of  a  lantern  carried  by  a  person  who  followed  the 
windings  of  the  path,  and  was  often  staggered  and  taken  aback  by  the 
more  violent  squalls.  I  concealed  myself  once  more  among  the  elders, 
and  waited  eagerly  for  the  new  comer's  advance.  It  proved  to  be  a 
woman ;  and,  as  she  passed  within  half  a  rod  of  my  auibush,  I  was  able 
to  recognise  the  features.  The  deaf  and  silent  old  dame,  who  had  nursed 
Northmour  in  his  childhood,  was  his  associate  in  this  underhand  affair. 

I  followed  her  at  a  little  distance,  taking  advantage  of  the  innumer- 
able heights  and  hollows,  concealed  by  the  darkness,  and  favoured  not 
only  by  the  nurse's  deafness,  but  by  the  uproar  of  the  wind  and  surf.  She 
entered  the  pavilion,  and,  going  at  once  to  the  upper  story,  opened  and 
set  a  light  in  one  of  the  windows  that  looked  towards  the  sea.  Imme- 
diately afterwards  the  light  at  the  schooner's  masthead  was  run  down  and 
extinguished.  Its  purpose  had  been  attained,  and  those  on  board  were 
sure  that  they  were  expected.  The  old  woman  resumed  her  preparations ; 
although  the  other  shutters  remained  closed,  I  could  see  a  glimmer  going 
to  and  fro  about  the  house ;  and  a  gush  of  sparks  from  one  chimney  after 
another  soon  told  me  that  the  fires  were  being  kindled. 

Northmour  and  his  guests,  I  was  now  persuaded,  would  come  ashore 
as  soon  as  there  was  water  on  the  floe.  It  was  a  wild  night  for  boat 
service ;  and  I  felt  some  alarm  mingle  with  my  curiosity  as  I  reflected  on 
the  danger  of  the  landing.  My  old  acquaintance,  it  was  true,  was  the 
most  eccentric  of  men  ;  but  the  present  eccentricity  was  both  disquieting 
and  lugubrious  to  consider.  A  variety  of  feelings  thus  led  me  towards  the 
beach,  where  I  lay  flat  on  my  face  in  a  hollow  within  six  feet  of  the  track 
that  led  to  the  pavilion.  Thence,  I  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  re- 
cognising the  arrivals,  and,  if  they  should  prove  to  be  acquaintances, 
greeting  them  as  soon  as  they  had  landed. 

Some  time  before  eleven,  while  the  tide  was  still  dangerously  low, 
a  boat's  lantern  appeared  close  in  shore ;  and,  my  attention  being  thus 
awakened,  I  could  perceive  another  still  far  to  seaward,  violently  tossed, 
and  sometimes  hidden  by  the  billows.  The  weather,  which  was  getting 
dirtier  as  the  night  went  on,  and  the  perilous  situation  of  the  yacht  upon 
a  lee-shore,  had  probably  driven  them  to  attempt  a  landing  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment. 

A  little  afterwards,  four  yachtsmen  carrying  a  very  heavy  chest,  and 
guided  by  a  fifth  with  a  lantern,  passed  close  in  front  of  me  as  I  lay,  and 
were  admitted  to  the  pavilion  by  the  nurse.  They  returned  to  the  beach, 
and  passed  me  a  third  time  with  another  chest,  larger  but  apparently 
not  so  heavy  as  the  first.  A  third  time  they  made  the  transit ;  and  on 
this  occasion  one  of  the  yachtsmen  carried  a  leather  portmanteau,  and 
the  others  a  lady's  trunk,  a  reticule,  and  a  pair  of  bandboxes.  My 
curiosity  was  sharply  excited.  If  a  woman  were  among  the  guests  of 
Northmour,  it  would  show  a  change  in  his  habits  and  an  apostacy  from 
his  pet  theories  of  life,  well  calculated  to  fill  me  with  surprise.  When 
lie  and  I  dwelt  there  together,  the  pavilion  had  been  a  temple  of  miso- 


314  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

gyny.  And  now,  one  of  the  detested  sex  was  to  be  installed  under  its 
roof.  I  remembered  one  or  two  particulars,  a  few  notes  of  daintiness 
and  almost  of  coquetry  which  had  struck  me  the  day  before  as  I  sur- 
veyed the  preparations  in  the  house ;  their  purpose  was  now  clear,  and 
I  thought  myself  dull  not  to  have  perceived  it  from  the  first. 

"While  I  was  thus  reflecting,  a  second  lantern  drew  near  me  from  the 
beach.  It  was  carried  by  a  yachtsman  whom  I  had  not  yet  seen,  and 
who  was  conducting  two  other  persons  to  the  pavilion.  These  two 
persons  were  unquestionably  the  guests  for  whom  the  house  was  made 
ready ;  and,  straining  eye  and  ear,  I  set  myself  to  watch  them  as  they 
passed.  .One  was  an  unusually  tall  man,  in  a  travelling  hat  slouched 
over  his  eyes,  and  a  highland  cape  closely  buttoned  and  turned  up  so  as 
to  conceal  his  face.  You  could  make  out  no  more  of  him  than  that  he 
was,  as  I  have  said,  unusually  tall,  and  walked  feebly  with  a  heavy 
stoop.  By  his  side,  and  either  clinging  to  him  or  giving  him  support — 
I  could  not  make  out  which — was  a  young,  tall,  and  slender  figure  of  a 
woman.  She  was  extremely  pale ;  but  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  her  face 
was  so  marred  by  strong  and  changing  shadows,  that  she  might  equally 
well  have  been  as  ugly  as  sin  or  as  beautiful  as — well,  my  dear  children, 
as  I  afterwards  found  her  to  be.  For  this,  as  you  will  already  have 
divined,  was  no  one  but  your  dear  mother  in  person. 

"When  they  were  just  abreast  of  me,  the  girl  made  some  remark 
which  was  drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  wind. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  her  companion ;  and  there  was  something  in  the 
tone  with  which  the  word  was  uttered  that  thrilled  and  rather  shook 
my  spirits.  It  seemed  to  breathe  from  a  bosom  labouring  under  the 
deadliest  terror ;  I  have  never  heard  another  syllable  so  expressive ;  and 
I  still  hear  it  again  when  I  am  feverish  at  night,  and  my  mind  runs 
upon  old  times.  The  man  turned  towards  the  girl  as  he  spoke ;  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  much  red  beard  and  a  nose  which  seemed  to  have  been  broken 
in  youth ;  and  his  light  eyes  seemed  shining  in  his  face  with  some  strong 
and  unpleasant  emotion. 

But  these  two  passed  on  and  were  admitted  in  their  turn  to  the 
pavilion. 

One  by  one,  or  in  groups,  the  seamen  returned  to  the  beach.  The 
wind  brought  me  the  sound  of  a  rough  voice  crying,  "  Shove  off ! " 
Then,  after  a  pause,  another  lantern  drew  near.  It  was  Northmour 
alone. 

Your  mother  and  I,  a  man  and  a  woman,  have  often  agreed  to 
wonder  how  a  person  could  be,  at  the  same  time,  so  handsome  and  so 
repulsive  as  Northmour.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  finished  gentle- 
man ;  his  face  bore  every  mark  of  intelligence  and  courage ;  but  you 
had  only  to  look  at  him,  even  in  his  most  amiable  moment,  to  see  that 
he  had  the  temper  of  a  slaver  captain.  I  never  knew  a  character  that 
was  both  explosive  and  revengeful  to  the  same  degree  ;  he  combined  the 
vivacity  of  the  south  with  the  sustained  and  deadly  hatreds  of  the  north ; 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  315 

and  both  traits  were  plainly  written  on  his  face,  which  was  a  sort  of 
danger  signal.  In  person,  he  was  tall,  strong,  and  active  ;  his  hair  and 
complexion  very  dark ;  his  features  handsomely  designed,  but  spoiled  by 
a  menacing  expression. 

At  that  moment  he  was  somewhat  paler  than  by  nature ;  he  wore  a 
heavy  frown ;  and  his  lips  worked,  and  he  looked  sharply  round  him  as 
he  walked,  like  a  man  besieged  with  apprehensions.  And  yet  I  thought 
he  had  a  look  of  triumph  underlying  all,  as  though  he  had  already  done 
much,  and  was  near  the  end  of  an  achievement. 

Partly  from  a  scruple  of  delicacy — which  I  dare  say  came  too  late — 
partly  from  the  pleasure  of  startling  an  acquaintance,  I  desired  to  make 
my  presence  known  to  him  without  delay. 

I  got  suddenly  to  my  feet,  and  stepped  forward. 

"  Northmour  !  "  said  I. 

I  have  never  had  so  shocking  a  surprise  in  all  my  days.  He  leaped 
on  me  without  a  word ;  something  shone  in  his  hand ;  and  he  struck 
for  my  heart  with  a  dagger.  At  the  same  moment  I  knocked  him  head 
over  heels.  Whether  it  was  my  quickness,  or  his  own  uncertainty,  I 
know  not ;  but  the  blade  only  grazed  my  shoulder,  while  the  hilt  and 
his  fist  struck  me  violently  on  the  mouth.  \I  lost  the  eye-tooth  on  the~~ 
left-hand  side ;  for  the  one  with  which  you  are  accustomed  to  see  me  is 
artificial,  and  was  only  put  there,  at  your  mother's  request,  after  we  had 
been  man  and  wife  for  a  few  months.^ 

I  fled,  but  not  far.  I  had  often  and  often  observed  the  capabilities 
of  the  sand-hills  for  protracted  ambush  or  stealthy  advances  and 
retreats ;  and,  not  ten  yards  from  the  scene  of  the  scuffle,  plumped  down 
again  upon  the  grass.  The  lantern  had  fallen  and  gone  out.  But  what 
was  my  astonishment  to  see  Northmour  slip  at  a  bound  into  the  pavi- 
lion, and  hear  him  bar  the  door  behind  him  with  a  clang  of  iron  ! 

He  had  not  pursued  me.  He  had  run  away.  Northmour,  whom  I 
knew  for  the  most  implacable  and  daring  of  men,  had  run  away !  I 
could  scarce  believe  my  reason ;  and  yet  in  this  strange  business,  where 
all  was  incredible,  there  was  nothing  to  make  a  work  about  in  an  incre- 
dibility more  or  less.  For  why  was  the  pavilion  secretly  prepared? 
Why  had  Northmour  landed  with  his  guests  at  dead  of  night,  in  half  a 
gale  of  wind,  and  with  the  floe  scarce  covered  1  Why  had  he  sought  to 
kill  me  1  Had  he  not  recognised  my  voice  1  I  wondered.  And,  above 
all,  how  had  he  come  to  have  a  dagger  ready  in  his  hand  1  A  dagger,  or 
even  a  sharp  knife,  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the  age  in  which  we 
lived ;  and  a  gentleman  landing  from  his  yacht  on  the  shore  of  his  own 
estate,  even  although  it  was  night  and  with  some  mysterious  circum- 
stances, does  not  usually,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  walk  thus  prepared  for 
deadly  onslaught.  The  more  I  reflected,  the  further  I  felt  at  sea.  I 
recapitulated  the  elements  of  mystery,  counting  them  on  my  fingers  :  the 
pavilion  secretly  prepared  for  guests ;  the  guests  landed  at  the  risk  of 
their  lives  and  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the  yacht ;  the  guests,  or  at  least 


316  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

one  of  them,  in  undisguised  and  seemingly  causeless  terror ;  Northmour 
with  a  naked  weapon  ;  Northmour  stabbing  his  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ance at  a  word  ;  last,  and  not  least  strange,  Northmour  fleeing  from  the 
man  whom  he  had  sought  to  murder,  and  barricading  himself,  like  a 
hunted  creature,  behind  the  door  of  the  pavilion.  Here  were  at  least 
six  separate  causes  for  extreme  surprise ;  each  part  and  parcel  with  the 
others,  and  forming  all  together  one  consistent  story.  I  felt  almost 
ashamed  to  believe  my  own  senses. 

As  I  thus  stood,  transfixed  with  wonder,  I  began  to  grow  painfully 
conscious  of  the  injuries  I  had  received  in  the  scuffle ;  skulked  round 
among  the  sand-hills,  and,  by  a  devious  path,  regained  the  shelter  of  the 
wood.  On  the  way,  the  old  nurse  passed  again  within  several  yards  of 
me,  still  carrying  her  lantern,  on  the  return  journey  to  the  mansion- 
house  of  Graden.  This  made  a  seventh  suspicious  feature  in  the  case. 
Northmour  and  his  guests,  it  appeared,  were  to  cook  and  do  the  cleaning 
for  themselves,  while  the  old  woman  continued  to  inhabit  the  big  empty 
barrack  among  the  policies.  There  must  surely  be  great  cause  for 
secrecy,  when  so  many  inconveniences  were  confronted  to  preserve  it. 

So  thinking,  I  made  my  way  to  the  den.  For  greater  security,  I 
trod  out  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  lit  my  lantern  to  examine  the  wound 
upon  my  shoulder.  It  was  a  trifling  hurt,  although  it  bled  somewhat 
freely,  and  I  dressed  it  as  well  as  I  could  (for  its  position  made  it  diffi- 
cult to  reach)  with  some  rag  and  cold  water  from,  the  spring.  "While  I 
was  thus  busied,  I  mentally  declared  war  against  Northmour  and  his 
mystery.  I  am  not  an  angry  man  by  nature,  and  I  believe  there  was 
more  curiosity  than  resentment  in  my  heart.  But  war  I  certainly 
declared ;  and,  by  way  of  preparation,  I  got  out  my  revolver,  and,  having 
drawn  the  charges,  cleaned  and  reloaded  it  with  scrupulous  care.  Next 
I  became  preoccupied  about  my  horse.  It  might  break  loose,  or  fall  to 
neighing,  and  so  betray  my  camp  in  the  Sea-Wood.  I  determined  to 
rid  myself  of  its  neighbourhood  ;  and  long  before  dawn  I  was  leading  it 
over  the  links  in  the  direction  of  the  fisher  village. 


CHAPTEE  III. 
TELLS  HOW  I  BECAME  ACQUAINTED  WITH  MY  WIFE. 

FOR  two  days  I  skulked  round  the  pavilion,  profiting  by  the  uneven 
surface  of  the  links.  I  became  an  adept  in  the  necessary  tactics.  These 
low  hillocks  and  shallow  dells,  running  one  into  another,  became  a  kind 
of  cloak  of  darkness  for  my  enthralling,  but  perhaps  dishonourable,  pur- 
suit. Yet,  in  spite  of  this  advantage,  I  could  learn  but  little  of  North- 
mour or  his  guests. 

Fresh  provisions  were  brought  under  cover  of  darkness  by  the  old 
woman  from  the  mansion-house.     Northmour  and  the  young  lady,  some- 


THE  PAVILION   ON  THE  LINKS.  317 

times  together,  but  more  often  singly,  would  walk  for  an  hour  or  two  at 
a  time  on  the  beach  beside  the  quicksand.  I  could  not  but  conclude 
that  this  promenade  was  chosen  with  an  eye  to  secrecy  ;  for  the  spot 
was  open  only  to  the  seaward.  But  it  suited  me  not  less  excellently ; 
the  highest  and  most  accident ed  of  the  sand-hills  immediately  adjoined ; 
and  from  these,  lying  flat  in  a  hollow,  I  could  overlook  Northmour  or 
the  young  lady  as  they  walked. 

The  tall  man  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  Not  only  did  he  never 
cross  the  threshold,  but  he  never  so  much  as  showed  face  at  a  window  ; 
or,  at  least,  not  so  far  as  I  could  see ;  for  I  dared  not  creep  forward 
beyond  a  certain  distance  in  the  day,  since  the  upper  floor  commanded 
the  bottoms  of  the  links ;  and  at  night,  when  I  could  venture  further, 
the  lower  windows  were  barricaded  as  if  to  stand  a  siege.  Sometimes  I 
thought  the  tall  man  must  be  confined  to  bed,  for  I  remembered  the 
feebleness  of  his  gait;  and  sometimes  I  thought  he  must  have  gone 
clear  away,  and  that  Northmour  and  the  young  lady  remained  alone 
together  in  the  pavilion.  The  idea,  even  then,  displeased  me. 

Whether  or  not  this  pair  were  man  and  wife,  I  had  seen  abundant 
reason  to  doubt  the  friendliness  of  their  relation.  Although  I  could 
hear  nothing  of  what  they  said,  and  rarely  so  much  as  glean  a  decided 
expression  on  the  face  of  either,  there  was  a  distance,  almost  a  stiffness, 
in  their  bearing  which  showed  them  to  be  either  unfamiliar  or  at 
enmity.  The  girl  walked  faster  when  she  was  with  Northmour  than 
when  she  was  alone ;  and  I  conceived  that  any  inclination  between  a 
man  and  a  woman  would  rather  delay  than  accelerate  the  step.  More- 
over, she  kept  a  good  yard  free  of  him,  and  trailed  her  umbrella,  as  if  it 
were  a  barrier,  on  the  side  between  them.  Northmour  kept  sidling 
closer;  and,  as  the  girl  retired  from  his  advance,  their  course  lay  at  a 
sort  of  diagonal  across  the  beach,  and  would  have  landed  them  in  the 
surf  had  it  been  long  enough  continued.  But,  when  this  was  imminent, 
the  girl  would  unostentatiously  change  sides  and  put.  Northmour  between 
her  and  the  sea.  I  watched  these  manoeuvres,  for  my  part,  with  high 
enjoyment  and  approval,  and  chuckled  to  myself  at  every  move. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  she  walked  alone  for  some  time, 
and  I  perceived,  to  my  great  concern,  that  she  was  more  than  once  in 
tears.  You  will  see,  my  dear  children,  that  my  heart  was  already 
interested  in  that  lady.  She  had  a  firm  yet  airy  motion  of  the  body, 
and  carried  her  head  with  unimaginable  grace  ;  every  step  was  a  thing 
to  look  afc,  and  she  seemed  in  my  eyes  to  breathe  sweetness  and 
distinction. 

The  day  was  so  agreeable,  being  calm  and  sunshiny,  with  a  tranquil 
sea,  and  yet  with  a  healthful  piquancy  and  vigour  in  the  air,  that,  con- 
trary to  custom,  she  was  tempted  forth  a  second  time  to  walk.  On  this 
occasion  she  was  accompanied  by  Northmour ;  and  they  had  been  but  a 
short  while  on  the  beach,  when  I  saw  him  take  forcible  possession  of  her 
hand.  She  struggled,  and  uttered  a  cry  that  was  almost  a  scream.  I 


318  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

sprang  to  my  feet,  unmindful  of  my  strange  position ;  but,  ere  I  had 
taken  a  step,  I  saw  Northmour  bare-headed  and  bowing  very  low,  as  if 
to  apologise ;  and  dropped  again  at  once  into  my  ambush.  A  few  words 
were  interchanged ;  and  then,  with  another  bow,  he  left  the  beach  to 
return  to  the  pavilion.  He  paused  not  far  from  me,  and  I  could  see 
him,  flushed  and  lowering,  and  cutting  savagely  with  his  cane  among 
the  grass.  It  was  not  without  satisfaction  that  I  recognised  my  own 
handiwork  in  a  great  cut  under  his  right  eye,  and  a  considerable  dis- 
coloration round  the  socket. 

For  some  time  your  mother  remained  where  he  had  left  her,  look- 
ing out  past  the  islet  and  over  the  bright  sea.  Then  with  a  start,  as 
one  who  throws  off  preoccupation  and  puts  energy  again  upon  its  mettle, 
she  broke  into  a  rapid  and  decisive  walk.  She  also  was  much  incensed 
by  what  had  passed.  She  had  forgotten  where  she  was.  And  I  beheld 
her  walk  straight  into  the  borders  of  the  quicksand  where  it  is  most 
abrupt  and  dangerous.  Two  or  three  steps  further  and  her  life  would 
have  have  been  in  serious  jeopardy,  when  I  slid  down  the  face  of  the 
sand-hill,  which  is  there  precipitous,  and,  running  half-way  forward,  called 
to  her  to  stop. 

She  did  so,  and  turned  round.  There  was  not  a  tremor  of  fear  in 
her  behaviour,  and  she  marched  directly  up  to  me  like  a  queen.  I  was 
barefoot,  and  clad  like  a  common  sailor,  save  for  an  Egyptian  scarf  round 
my  waist ;  and  she  probably  took  me  at  first  for  some  one  from  the  fisher 
village,  straying  after  bait.  As  for  her,  when  I  thus  saw  her  face  to  face, 
her  eyes  set  steadily  and  imperiously  upon  mine,  I  was  filled  with  admi- 
ration and  astonishment,  and  thought  her  even  more  beautiful  than  I 
had  looked  to  find  her.  Nor  could  I  think  enough  of  one  who,  acting 
with  so  much  boldness,  yet  preserved  a  maidenly  air  that  was  both  quaint 
and  engaging ;  for  your  mother  kept  an  old-fashioned  precision  of  manner 
through  all  her  admirable  life — an  excellent  thing  in  woman,  since  it  sets 
another  value  on  her  sweet  familiarities.  Little  did  I  dream,  as  I  stood 
before  her  on  the  beach,  that  this  should  be  the  mother  of  my  children. 

"  What  does  this  mean  1 "  she  asked. 

"  You  were  walking,"  I  told  her,  "  directly  into  Graden  Floe." 

"  You  do  not  belong  to  these  parts,"  she  said  again.  "  You  speak 
like  an  educated  man." 

"  I  believe  I  have  right  to  that  name,"  said  I,  "  although  in  this  dis- 
guise." 

But  her  woman's  eye  had  already  detected  the  sash. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said  ;  "  your  sash  betrays  you." 

"  You  have  said  the  word  betray,"  I  resumed.  "  May  I  ask  you  not 
to  betray  me  ?  I  was  obliged  to  disclose  myself  in  your  interest ;  but 
if  Northmour  learned  my  presence  it  might  be  worse  than  disagreeable 
for  me." 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "  to  whom  you  are  speaking  ? " 

"  Not,  I  trust,  to  Mr.  Northmour's  wife  ? "  was  my  reply. 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  319 

She  shook  her  head.  All  this  while  she  was  studying  my  face  with 
an  embarrassing  intentness.  Then  she  broke  out — 

"  You  have  an  honest  face.  Be  honest  like  your  face,  sir,  and  tell 
me  what  you  want  and  what  you  are  afraid  of.  Do  you  think  I  could 
hurt  you  ?  I  believe  you  have  far  more  power  to  injure  me  !  And  yet 
you  do  not  look  unkind.  What  do  you  mean — you,  a  gentleman — by 
skulking  like  a  spy  about  this  desolate  place  ?  Tell  me,"  she  said,  "  who 
is  it  you  hate  ? " 

"  I  hate  no  one,"  I  answered ;  "  and  I  fear  no  one  face  to  face.  My 
name  is  Cassilis — Frank  Cassilis.  I  lead  the  life  of  a  vagabond  for  my 
own  good  pleasure.  I  am  one  of  Northmour's  oldest  friends ;  and  three 
nights  ago,  when  I  addressed  him  on  these  links,  he  stabbed  me  in  the 
shoulder  with  a  knife." 

"It was  you ! "  she  said  between  her  teeth.  j 

"  Why  he  did  so,"  I  continued,  disregarding  the  interruption,  "  is 
more  than  I  can  guess,  and  more  than  I  care  to  know.  I  have  not  many 
friends,  nor  am  I  very  susceptible  to  frier  dship ;  but  no  man  shall  drive 
me  from  a  place  by  terror.  I  had  camped  in  Graden  Sea- Wood  ere  he 
came ;  I  camp  in  it  still.  If  you  think  I  mean  harm  to  you  or  yours, 
madam,  the  remedy  is  in  your  hand.  Tell  him  that  my  camp  is  in  the 
Hemlock  Den,  and  to-night  he  can  stab  me  in  safety  while  I  sleep." 

With  this  I  doffed  my  cap  to  her,  and  scrambled  up  once  more  among 
the  sand-hills.  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  felt  a  prodigious  sense  of  in- 
justice, and  felt  like  a  hero  and  a  martyr ;  while,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
had  not  a  word  to  say  in  my  defence,  nor  so  much  as  one  plausible  reason 
to  offer  for  my  conduct.  I  had  stayed  at  Graden  out  of  a  curiosity 
natural  enough,  but  undignified ;  and  though  there  was  another  motive 
growing  in  along  with  the  first,  it  was  not  one  which  I  could  properly 
have  explained,  at  that  period,  to  the  mother  of  my  children. 

Certainly,  that  night,  I  thought  of  no  one  else ;  and,  though  her  whole 
conduct  and  position  seemed  suspicious,  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  entertain  a  doubt  of  your  mother.  I  could  have  staked  my  life  that 
she  was  clear  of  blame,  and,  though  all  was  dark  at  the  present,  that  the 
explanation  of  the  mystery  wotild  show  her  part  in  these  events  to  be 
both  right  and  needful.  It  was  true,  let  me  cudgel  my  imagination  as  I 
pleased,  that  I  could  invent  no  theory  of  her  relations  to  Northmour ; 
but  I  felt  none  the  less  sure  of  my  conclusion  because  it  was  founded  on 
instinct  in  place  of  reason,  and,  as  I  may  say,  went  to  sleep  that  night 
with  the  thought  of  her  under  my  pillow. 

Next  day  she  came  out  about  the  same  hour  alone,  and,  as  soon  as  the 
sand-hills  concealed  her  from  the  pavilion,  drew  nearer  to  the  edge,  and 
called  me  by  name  in  guarded  tones.  I  was  astonished  to  observe  that 
she  was  deadly  pale,  and  seemingly  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion. 

"  Mr.  Cassilis  ! "  she  cried ;  "  Mr.  Cassilis  ! " 

I  appeared  at  once,  and  leaped  down  upon  the  beach.  A  remarkable 
air  of  relief  overspread  her  countenance  as  soon  as  she  saw  me. 


320  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried,  with  a  hoarse  sound,  like  one  whose  bosom  has  been 
lightened  of  a  weight.  And  then,  "  Thank  God  you  are  still  safe  !"  she 
added ;  "  I  knew,  if  you  were,  you  would  be  here."  (Was  not  this  strange, 
my  children  1  So  swiftly  and  wisely  does  Nature  prepare  our  hearts  for 
these  great  life-long  intimacies,  that  both  your  mother  and  I  had  been 
given  a  presentiment  on  this  the  second  day  of  our  acquaintance.  I  had 
even  then  hoped  that  she  would  seek  me ;  she  had  felt  sure  that  she 
would  find  me.)  "  Do  not,"  she  went  on  swiftly,  "  do  not  stay  in  this 
place.  Promise  me  that  you  will  sleep  no  longer  in  that  wood.  You  do 
not  know  how  I  suffer ;  all  last  night  I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
your  peril." 

"  Peril  ?"  I  repeated.     "  Peril  from  whom  1     From  Northmour !" 

"  Not  so,"  she  said.  "  Did  you  think  I  would  tell  him  after  what 
you  said  1 " 

"  Not  from  Northmour  1"  I  repeated.  "  Then  how  1  From  whom  ? 
I  see  none  to  be  afraid  of." 

"  You  must  not  ask  me,"  was  her  reply,  "  for  I  am  not  free  to  tell 
you.  Only  believe  me,  and  go  hence — believe  me,  and  go  away  quickly, 
quickly,  for  your  life  ! " 

An  appeal  to  his  alarm  is  never  a  good  plan  to  lid  oneself  of  a  spirited 
young  man.  My  obstinacy  was  but  increased  by  what  she  said,  and  I 
made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  remain.  And  her  solicitude  for  my  safety 
still  more  confirmed  me  in  the  resolve. 

"You  must  not  think  me  inquisitive,  madam,"  I  replied;  "but,  if 
Graden  is  so  dangerous  a  place,  you  yourself  perhaps  remain  here  at  some 
risk." 

She  only  looked  at  me  reproachfully. 

"You  and  your  father "  I  resumed;  but  she  interrupted  me 

almost  with  a  gasp. 

"  My  father  !     How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  she  cried*. 

"  I  saw  you  together  when  you  landed,"  was  my  answer ;  and  I  do 
not  know  why,  but  it  seemed  satisfactory  to  both  of  us,  as  indeed  it  was 
the  truth.  "  But,"  I  continued,  "  you  need  have  no  fear  from  me.  I 
see  you  have  some  reason  to  be  secret,  and,  you  may  believe  me,  your 
secret  is  as  safe  with  me  as  if  I  were  in  Graden  Floe.  I  have  scarce 
spoken  to  any  one  for  years ;  my  horse  is  my  only  companion,  and  even 
he,  poor  beast,  is  not  beside  me.  You  see,  then,  you  may  count  on  me 
for  silence.  So  tell  me  the  truth,  my  dear  young  lady,  are  y«u  not  in 
danger  ? " 

"  Mr.  Northmour  says  you  are  an  honourable  man,"  she  returned, 
"  and  I  believe  it  when  I  see  you.  I  will  tell  you  so  much ;  you  are 
right ;  we  are  in  dreadful,  dreadful  danger,  and  you  share  it  by  remain- 
ing where  you  are." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  I ;  "  you  have  heard  of  me  from  Northmour  ?  And  he 
gives  me  a  good  character  1 

"  I  asked  him  about  you  last  night,"  was  her  reply.     "  I  pretended," 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  321 

she  hesitated,  "  I  pretended  to  have  met  you  long  ago,  and  spoken  to  you 
of  him.  It  was  not  true  ;  but  I  could  not  help  myself  without  betraying 
you,  and  you  had  put  me  in  a  difficulty.  He  praised  you  highly." 

"  And — you  may  permit  me  one  question — does  this  danger  come 
from  Northmour  1 "  I  asked. 

"  From  Mr.  Northmour  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  no ;  he  stays  with  us  to 
share  it." 

"  While  you  propose  that  I  should  run  away  1 "  I  said.  "  You  do 
not  rate  me  very  high." 

"  Why  should  you  stay  ?  "  she  asked.     "  You  are  no  friend  of  ours." 

I  know  not  what  came  over  me,  my  children,  for  I  had  not  been 
conscious  of  a  similar  weakness  since  I  was  a  child,  but  I  was  so  morti- 
fied by  this  retort  that  my  eyes  pricked  and  filled  with  tears,  as  I  con- 
tinued to  gaze  upon  your  mother. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  in  a  changed  voice ;  "  I  did  not  mean  the  words 
unkindly." 

"  It  was  I  who  offended,"  I  said;  and  I  held  out  my  hand  with  a  look 
of  appeal  that  somehow  touched  her,  for  she  gave  me  hers  at  once,  and 
even  eagerly.  I  held  it  for  awhile  in  mine,  and  gazed  into  her  eyes.  It 
was  she  who  first  tore  her  hand  away,  and,  forgetting  all  about  her 
request  and  the  promise  she  had  sought  to  extort,  ran  at  the  top  of  her 
speed,  and  without  turning,  till  she  was  out  of  sight.  Then,  O  my  chil- 
dren, I  knew  that  I  loved  your  mother,  and  thought  in  my  glad  heart 
that  she — she  herself-^^was  not  indifferent  to  my  suit.  Many  a  time  she 
has  denied  it  in  after  days,  but  it  was  with  a  smiling  and  not  a  serious 
denial.  For  my  part,  I  am  sure  our  hands  would  not  have  lain  so  closely 
in  each  other  if  she  had  not  begun  to  melt  to  me  already.  And,  when 
all  is  said,  it  is  no  great  contention,  since,  by  her  own  avowal,  she  began 
to  love  me  on  the  morrow. 

And  yet  on  the  morrow  very  little  took  place.  She  came  and  called 
me  down  as  on  the  day  before,  upbraided  me  for  lingering  at  Graden,  and, 
when  she  found  I  was  still  obdurate,  began  to  ask  me  more  particularly 
as  to  my  arrival.  I  told  her  by  what  series  of  accidents  I  had  come  to 
witness  their  disembarkation,  and  how  I  had  determined  to  remain, 
partly  from  the  interest  which  had  been  wakened  in  me  by  Northmour's 
guests,  and  partly  because  of  his  own  murderous  attack.  As  to  the 
former,  I  fear  I  was  disingenuous,  and  led  her  to  regard  herself  as  having 
been  an  attraction  to  me  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  her  on  the 
links.  It  relieves  my  heart  to  make  this  confession  even  now,  when 
your  mother  is  with  God,  and  already  knows  all  things,  and  the  honesty 
of  my  purpose  even  in  this ;  for  while  she  lived,  although  it  often  pricked 
my  conscience,  I  had  never  the  hardihood  to  undeceive  her.  Even  a 
little  secret,  in  such  a  married  life  as  ours,  is  like  the  rose-leaf  which 
kept  the  Princess  from  her  sleep. 

From  this  the  talk  branched  into  other  subjects,  and  I  told  her  much 
about  my  lonely  and  wandering  existence  ;  she,  for  her  part,  giving  ear, 

VOL.  XLII.— NO.  249.  16. 


322  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

and  saying  little.  Although,  we  spoke  very  naturally,  and  latterly  on 
topics  that  might  seem  indifferent,  we  were  both  sweetly  agitated.  Too 
soon  it  was  time  for  her  to  go ;  and  we  separated,  as  if  by  mutual  consent, 
without  shaking  hands,  for  both  knew  that,  between  us,  it  was  no  idle 
ceremony. 

The  next,  and  that  was  the  fourth  day  of  our  acquaintance,  we  met 
in  the  same  spot,  but  early  in  the  morning,  with  much  familiarity  and 
yet  much  timidity  on  either  side.  When  she  had  once  more  spoken 
about  my  danger — and  that,  I  understood,  was  her  excuse  for  coming — 
I,  who  had  prepared  a  great  deal  of  talk  during  the  night,  began  to  tell 
her  how  highly  I  valued  her  kind  interest,  and  how  no  one  had  ever 
cared  to  hear  about  my  life,  nor  had  I  ever  cared  to  relate  it,  before 
yesterday.  Suddenly  she  interrupted  me,  saying  with  vehemence — 

"And  yet,  if  you  knew  who  I  was,  you  would  not  so  much  as  speak 
tome!" 

I  told  her  such  a  thought  was  madness,  and,  little  as  we  had  met,  I 
counted  her  already  a  dear  friend ;  but  my  protestations  seemed  only  to 
make  her  more  desperate. 

"  My  father  is  in  hiding  !  "  she  cried. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  forgetting  for  the  first  time  to  add  "  young  lady," 
"  what  do  I  care  1  If  he  were  in  hiding  twenty  times  over,  would  it 
make  one  thought  of  change  in  you  ]  " 

"  Ah,  but  the  cause !  "  she  cried,  "  the  cause !  It  is "  she  faltered 

for  a  second — "  it  is  disgraceful  to  us  ! " 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

TELLS  IN  WHAT  A  STARTLING  MANNER  I  LEARNED  I  WAS  NOT  ALONE 
IN  GRADEN  SEA- WOOD. 

THIS,  my  dear  children,  was  your  mother's  story,  as  I  drew  it  from  her 
among  tears  and  sobs.  Her  name  was  Clara  Huddlestone  :  it  sounded 
very  beautiful  in  my  ears ;  but  not  so  beautiful  as  that  other  name  of 
Clara  Cassilis,  which  she  wore  during  the  longer  and,  I  thank  God,  the 
happier  portion  of  her  life.  Her  father,  Bernard  Huddlestone,  had  been 
a  private  banker  in  a  very  large  way  of  business.  Many  years  before, 
his  affairs  becoming  disordered,  he  had  been  led  to  try  dangerous,  and  at 
last  criminal,  expedients  to  retrieve  himself  from  ruin.  All  was  in  vain ; 
he  became  more  and  more  cruelly  involved,  and  found  his  honour  lost  at 
the  same  moment  with  his  fortune.  About  this  period,  Northmour  had 
been  courting  your  mother  with  great  assiduity,  though  with  small  en- 
couragement; and  to  him,  knowing  him  thus  disposed  in  his  favour, 
Bernard  Huddlestone  turned  for  help  in  his  extremity.  It  was  not 
merely  ruin  and  dishonour,  nor  merely  a  legal  condemnation,  that  the 
unhappy  man  had  brought  upon  his  head.  It  seems  he  could  have  gone 
to  prison  with  a  light  heart.  What  he  feared,  what  kept  him  awake  at 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  323 

night  or  recalled  him  from  slumber  into  frenzy,  was  some  secret,  sudden, 
and  unlawful  attempt  upon  his  life.  Hence,  he  desired  to  bury  his 
existence  and  escape  to  one  of  the  islands  in  the  South  Pacific,  and  it 
was  in  Northmour's  yacht,  the  Red  Earl,  that  he  designed  to  go. 
The  yacht  picked  them  up  clandestinely  upon  the  coast  of  Wales,  and 
had  once  more  deposited  them  at  Graden,  till  she  could  be  refitted  and 
provisioned  for  the  longer  voyage.  Nor  could  your  mother  doubt  that 
her  hand  had  been  stipulated  as  the  price  of  passage.  For,  although 
Northmour  was  neither  unkind  nor  even  discourteous,  he  had  shown 
himself  in  several  instances  somewhat  overbold  in  speech  and  manner. 

I  listened,  I  need  not  say,  with  fixed  attention,  and  put  many  ques- 
tions as  to  the  more  mysterious  part.  It  was  in  vain.  Your  mother 
had  no  clear  idea  of  what  the  blow  was,  nor  of  how  it  was  expected  to 
fall.  Her  father's  alarm  was  unfeigned  and  physically  prostrating,  and 
he  had  thought  more  than  once  of  making  an  unconditional  surrender  to 
the  police.  But  the  scheme  was  finally  abandoned,  for  he  was  convinced 
that  not  even  the  strength  of  our  English  prisons  could  shelter  him 
from  his  pursuers.  He  had  had  many  affairs  with  Italy,  and  with 
Italians  resident  in  London,  in  the  later  years  of  his  business  ;  and  these 
last,  your  mother  fancied,  were  somehow  connected  with  the  doom  that 
threatened  him.  He  had  shown  great  terror  at  the  presence  of  an 
Italian  seaman  on  board  the  Red  Earl,  and  had  bitterly  and  repeatedly 
accused  Northmour  in  consequence.  The  latter  had  protested  that 
Beppo  (that  was  the  seaman's  name)  was  a  capital  fellow,  and  could  be 
trusted  to  the  death ;  but  Mr.  Huddlestone  had  continued  ever  since  to 
declare  that  all  was  lost,  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  days,  and  that 
Beppo  would  be  the  ruin  of  him  yet. 

I  regarded  the  whole  story  as  the  hallucination  of  a  mind  shaken  by 
calamity.  He  had  suffered  heavy  loss  by  his  Italian  transactions ;  and 
hence  the  sight  of  an  Italian  was  hateful  to  him,  and  the  principal  part 
in  his  nightmares  would  naturally  enough  be  played  by  one  of  that 
nation. 

"  What  your  father  wants,"  I  said,  "  is  a  good  doctor  and  some 
calming  medicine." 

"  But  Mr.  Northmour  ?  "  objected  your  mother.  "  He  is  untroubled 
by  losses,  and  yet  he  shares  in  this  terror." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  what  I  considered  her  simplicity. 

"  My  dear,"  said  I,  "  you  have  told  me  yourself  what  reward  he  has 
to  look  for.  All  is  fair  in  love,  you  must  remember ;  and  if  Northmour 
foments  your  father's  terrors,  it  is  not  at  all  because  he  is  afraid  of  any 
Italian  man,  but  simply  because  he  is  infatuated  with  a  charming 
English  woman." 

She  reminded  me  of  his  attack  upon  myself  on  the  night  of  the  dis- 
embarkation, and  this  I  was  unable  to  explain.  In  short,  and  from 
one  thing  to  another,  it  was  agreed  between  us,  that  I  should  set  out  at 
once  for  the  fisher  village,  Graden  Wester,  as  it  was  called,  look  up  all 

16—8 


324  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

the  newspapers  I  could  find,  and  see  for  myself  if  there  seemed  any 
basis  of  fact  for  these  continued  alarms.  The  next  morning,  at  the  same 
hour  and  place,  I  was  to  make  my  report  to  your  mother.  She  said  no 
more  on  that  occasion  about  my  departure  ;  nor,  indeed,  did  she  make  it 
a  secret  that  she  clung  to  the  thought  of  my  proximity  as  something 
helpful  and  pleasant ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  could  not  have  left  her,  if  she 
had  gone  upon  her  knees  to  ask  it. 

I  reached  Graden  Wester  before  ten  in  the  forenoon ;  for  in  those 
days  I  was  an  excellent  pedestrian,  and  the  distance,  as  I  think  I  have 
said,  was  little  over  seven  miles ;  fine  walking  all  the  way  upon  the 
springy  turf.  The  village  is  one  of  the  bleakest  on  that  coast,  which  is 
saying  much  :  there  is  a  church  in  a  hollow ;  a  miserable  haven  in  the 
rocks,  where  many  boats  have  been  lost  as  they  returned  from  fishing ; 
two  or  three  score  of  store-houses  arranged  along  the  beach  and  in  two 
streets,  one  leading  from  the  harbour,  and  another  striking  out  from  it 
at  right  angles ;  and,  at  the  corner  of  these  two,  a  very  dark  and  cheerless 
tavern,  by  way  of  principal  hotel. 

I  had  dressed  myself  somewhat  more  suitably  to  my  station  in  life, 
and  at  once  called  upon  the  minister  in  his  little  manse  beside  the 
graveyard.  He  knew  me,  although  it  was  more  than  nine  years  since 
we  had  met ;  and  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  been  long  upon  a  walking 
tour,  and  was  behind  with  the  news,  readily  lent  me  an  armful  of  news- 
papers, dating  from  a  month  back  to  the  day  before.  With  these  I 
sought  the  tavern,  and,  ordering  some  breakfast,  sat  down  to  study  the 
"  Huddlestone  Failure." 

It  had  been,  it  appeared,  a  very  flagrant  case.  Thousands  of  persons 
were  reduced  to  poverty ;  and  one  in  particular  had  blown  out  his  brains 
as  soon  as  payment  was  suspended.  It  was  strange  to  myself  that,  while 
I  read  these  details,  I  continued  rather  to  sympathise  with  Mr.  Huddle- 
stone  than  with  his  victims ;  so  complete  already  was  the  empire  of  my 
love  for  your  mother.  A  price  was  naturally  set  upon  the  banker's 
head ;  and,  as  the  case  was  inexcusable  and  the  public  indignation 
thoroughly  aroused,  the  unusual  figure  of  750£.  was  offered  for  his  cap- 
ture. He  was  reported  to  have  large  sums  of  money  in  his  possession. 
One  day,  he  had  been  heard  of  in  Spain  ;  the  next,  there  was  sure  intelli- 
gence that  he  was  still  lurking  between  Manchester  and  Liverpool,  or 
along  the  border  of  Wales ;  and  the  day  after,  a  telegram  would  announce 
his  arrival  in  Cuba  or  Yucatan.  But  in  all  this  there  was  no  word  of 
an  Italian,  nor  any  sign  of  mystery. 

In  the  very  last  [paper,  however,  there  was  one  item  not  so  clear. 
The  accountants  who  were  charged  to  verify  the  failure  had,  it  seemed, 
come  upon  the  traces  of  a  very  large  number  of  thousands,  which  figured 
for  some  time  in  the  transactions  of  the  house  of  Huddlestone ;  but  which 
came  from  nowhere,  and  disappeared  in  the  same  mysterious  fashion.  It 
was  only  once  referred  to  by  name,  and  then  under  the  initials  "  X.  X.; " 
but  it  had  plainly  been  floated  for  the  first  time  into  the  business  at  a 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  325 

period  of  great  depression  some  six  years  ago.  The  name  of  a  distin- 
guished Royal  personage  had  been  mentioned  by  rumour  in  connection 
with  this  sum.  "  The  cowardly  desperado  " — such,  I  remember,  was 
the  editorial  expression — was  supposed  to  have  escaped  with  a  large 
part  of  this  mysterious  fund  still  in  his  possession. 

I  was  still  brooding  over  the  fact,  and  trying  to  torture  it  into  some 
connection  with  Mr.  Huddlestone's  danger,  when  a  man  entered  the 
tavern  and  asked  for  some  bread  and  cheese  with  a  decided  foreign  accent. 

"  Siete  Italiano  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Si,  signor"  was  his  reply. 

I  said  it  was  unusually  far  north  to  find  one  of  his  compatriots  ;  at 
which  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied  that  a  man  would  go  any- 
where to  find  work.  What  work  he  could  hope  to  find  at  Graden 
Wester,  I  was  totally  unable  to  conceive ;  and  the  incident  struck  so 
unpleasantly  upon  my  mind,  that  I  asked  the  landlord,  while  he  was 
counting  me  some  change,  whether  he  had  ever  before  seen  an  Italian 
in  the  village.  He  said  he  had  once  seen  some  Norwegians,  who  had 
been  shipwrecked  on  the  other  side  of  Graden  Ness  and  rescued  by  the 
life-boat  from  Cauld- haven. 

"  No !  "  said  I ;  "  but  an  Italian,  like  the  man  who  has  just  had 
bread  and  cheese." 

"  What  ? "  cried  he,  "  yon  black-a- vised  fellow  wi'  the  teeth  ?  Was 
he  an  I-talian  1  Weel,  yon's  the  first  that  ever  I  saw,  an'  I  dare  say  he's 
like  to  be  the  last." 

Even  as  he  was  speaking,  I  raised  my  eyes,  and,  casting  a  glance 
into  the  street,  beheld  three  men  in  earnest  conversation  together,  and 
not  thirty  yards  away.  One  of  them  was  my  recent  companion  in  the 
tavern  parlour ;  the  other  two,  by  their  handsome,  sallow  features  and 
soft  hats,  should  evidently  belong  to  the  same  race.  A  crowd  of  village 
children  stood  around  them,  gesticulating  and  talking  gibberish  in  imi- 
tation. The  two  looked  singularly  foreign  to  the  bleak  dirty  street  in 
which  they  were  standing,  and  the  dark  gray  heaven  that  overspread 
them ;  and  I  confess  my  incredulity  received  at  that  moment  a  shock 
from  which  it  never  recovered.  I  might  reason  with  myself  as  I 
pleased,  but  I  could  not  argue  down  the  effect  of  what  I  had  seen,  and  I 
began  to  share  in  the  Italian  terror. 

It  was  already  drawing  towards  the  close  of  the  day  before  I  had 
returned  the  newspapers  at  the  manse,  and  got  well  forward  on  to  the 
links  on  my  way  home.  I  shall  never  forget  that  walk.  It  grew  very 
cold  and  boisterous ;  the  wind  sang  in  the  short  grass  about  my  feet : 
thin  rain  showers  came  running  on  the  gusts  ;  and  an  immense  mountain 
range  of  clouds  began  to  arise  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  It  would  be 
hard  to  imagine  a  more  dismal  evening  ;  and  whether  it  was  from  these 
external  influences,  or  because  my  nerves  were  already  affected  by  what 
I  had  heard  and  seen,  my  thoughts  were  as  gloomy  ?.s  the  weather. 

The  upper  windows  of  the  pavilion  commanded  a  considerable  spread 


326  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

of  links  in  the  direction  of  Graden  Easter.  To  avoid  observation,  it 
was  necessary  to  hug  the  beach  until  I  had  gained  cover  from  the  higher 
sand-hills  on  the  little  headland,  when  I  might  strike  across,  through  the 
hollows,  from  the  margin  of  the  wood.  The  sun  was  about  setting  ;  the 
tide  was  low,  and  all  the  quicksands  uncovered;  and  I  was  moving 
along,  lost  in  unpleasant  thought,  when  I  was  suddenly  thunderstruck 
to  perceive  the  prints  of  human  feet.  They  ran  parallel  to  my  own 
course,  but  low  down  upon  the  beach  instead  of  along  the  border  of  the 
turf;  and,  when  I  examined  them,  I  saw  at  once,  by  the  size  and  coarse- 
ness of  the  impression,  that  it  was  a  stranger  to  me  and  to  those  in  the 
pavilion  who  had  recently  passed  that  way.  Not  only  so ;  but  from  the 
recklessness  of  the  course  which  he  had  followed,  steering  near  to  the 
most  formidable  portions  of  the  sand,  he  was  as  evidently  a  stranger  to 
the  country  and  to  the  ill-repute  of  Graden  beach. 

Step  by  step,  I  followed  the  prints  ;  until,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further, 
I  beheld  them  die  away  into  the  south-eastern  boundary  cf  Graden  Floe. 
There,  whoever  he  was,  the  miserable  man  had  perished.  The  sun  had 
broken  through  the  clouds  by  a  last  effort,  and  coloured  the  wide  level 
of  quicksands  with  a  dusky  purple  ;  one  or  two  gulls,  who  had,  perhaps, 
seen  him  disappear,  wheeled  over  his  sepulchre  with  their  usual  melan- 
choly piping.  I  stood  for  some  time  gazing  at  the  spot,  chilled  and  dis- 
heartened by  my  own  reflections,  and  with  a  strong  and  commanding 
consciousness  of  death.  I  remember  wondering  how  long  the  tragedy 
had  taken,  and  whether  his  screams  had  been  audible  at  the  pavilion. 
And  then,  making  a  strong  resolution,  I  was  about  to  tear  myself  away, 
when  a  gust  fiercer  than  usual  fell  upon  this  quarter  of  the  beach,  and  I 
saw  now,  whirling  high  in  air,  now  skimming  lightly  across  the  surface 
of  the  sands,  a  soft,  black,  felt  hat,  somewhat  conical  in  shape,  such  as  I 
had  remarked  already  on  the  heads  of  the  Italians. 

I  believe,  but  I  am  not  sure,  that  I  uttered  a  cry.  The  wind  was  driv- 
ing the  hat  shoreward,  and  I  ran  round  the  border  of  the  floe  to  be  ready 
against  its  arrival.  The  gust  fell,  dropping  the  hat  for  a  while  upon  the 
quicksand,  and  then,  once  more  freshening,  landed  it  a  few  yards  from 
where  I  stood.  I  took  possession  with  the  interest  you  may  imagine. 
It  had  seen  some  service ;  indeed,  it  was  rustier  than  either  of  those  I 
had  seen  that  day  upon  the  street.  The  lining  was  red,  stamped  with 
the  name  of  the  maker,  which  I  have  forgotten,  and  that  of  the  place  of 
manufacture,  Venedig.  This,  my  dear  children,  was  the  name  given  by 
the  Austrians  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Venice,  then,  and  for  long  after,  a 
part  of  their  dominions. 

The  shock  was  complete.  I  saw  imaginary  Italians  upon  every  side  ; 
and  for  the  first,  and,  I  may  say,  for  the  last  time  in  my  experience,  be- 
came overpowered  by  what  is  called  a  panic  terror.  I  knew  nothing, 
that  is,  to  be  afraid  of,  and  yet  I  admit  that  I  was  heartily  afraid ;  and  it 
was  with  a  sensible  reluctance  that  I  returned  to  my  exposed  and  solitary 
camp  in  the  Sea- Wood. 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 


327 


There  I  ate  some  cold  porridge  which  had  been  left  over  from  the  night 
before,  for  I  was  disinclined  to  make  a  fire ;  and,  feeling  strengthened 
and  reassured,  dismissed  all  these  fanciful  terrors  from  my  mind,  and  lay 
down  to  sleep  with  composure. 

How  long  I  may  have  slept  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  guess ;  but  I 
was  wakened  at  last  by  a  sudden,  blinding  flash  of  light  into  my  face. 
It  woke  me  like  a  blow.  In  an  instant  I  was  upon  my  knees.  But  the 
light  had  gone  as  suddenly  as  it  came.  The  darkness  was  intense.  And, 
as  it  was  blowing  great  guns  from  the  sea  and  pouring  with  rain,  the 
noises  of  the  storm  effectually  concealed  all  others. 

It  was,  I  dare  say,  half  a  minute  before  I  regained  my  self-possession. 
But  for  two  circumstances,  I  should  have  thought  I  had  been  awakened 
by  some  new  and  vivid  form  of  nightmare.  First,  the  flap  of  my  tent, 
which  I  had  shut  carefully  when  I  retired,  was  now  unfastened ;  and, 
second,  I  could  still  perceive,  with  a  sharpness  that  excluded  any  theory 
of  hallucination,  the  smell  of  hot  metal  and  of  burning  oil.  The  conclu- 
sion was  obvious.  I  had  been  wakened  by  some  one  flashing  a  bull's-eye 
lantern  in  my  face.  It  had  been  but  a  flash,  and  away.  He  had  seen 
my  face,  and  then  gone.  I  asked  myself  the  object  of  so  strange  a  pro- 
ceeding, and  the  answer  came  pat.  The  man,  whoever  he  was,  had 
thought  to  recognise  me,  and  he  had  not.  There  was  yet  another  ques- 
tion unresolved ;  and  to  this,  I  may  say,  I  feared  to  give  an  answer ;  if 
he  had  recognised  me,  what  would  he  have  done  ? 

My  fears  were  immediately  diverted  from  myself,  for  I  saw  that  I 
had  been  visited  in  a  mistake ;  and  I  became  persuaded  that  some  dread- 
ful danger  threatened  the  pavilion.  It  required  some  nerve  to  issue  forth 
into  the  black  and  intricate  thicket  which  surrounded  and  overhung  the 
den ;  but  I  groped  my  way  to  the  links,  drenched  with  rain,  beaten  upon 
and  deafened  by  the  gusts,  and  fearing  at  every  step  to  lay  my  hand 
upon  some  lurking  adversary.  The  darkness  was  so  complete  that  I 
might  have  been  surrounded  by  an  army  and  yet  none  the  wiser,  and  the 
uproar  of  the  gale  so  loud  that  my  hearing  was  as  useless  as  my  sight. 

For  the  rest  of  that  night,  which  seemed  interminably  long,  I  patrolled 
the  vicinity  of  the  pavilion,  without  seeing  a  living  creature  or  hearing 
any  noise  but  the  concert  of  the  wind,  the  sea,  and  the  rain.  A  light  in 
the  upper  story  filtered  through  a  cranny  of  the  shutter,  and  kept  me 
company  till  the  approach  of  dawn. 

B.  L.   S. 


328 


akmi  gjttiwra:  Cjr*  g*s*rte  anb  Cmmffie. 


IN  the  month  of  December  1879  I  was  told  that  unless  I  would  consent 
to  pass  the  winter  and  early  spring  in  a  warmer  climate  than  that  of 
England  I  should  gradually  sink  into  a  state  of  health  threatening  serious 
consequences.  As  I  detest  going  abroad  I  fought  hard  against  this 
medical  advice ;  but  the  first  edict  was  reinforced  by  other  edicts,  and  I 
found  that  I  was  fighting  in  vain.  Biarritz  was  the  place  originally 
selected  by  my  doctor,  but  Biarritz  immediately  afterwards  was  recorded 
in  the  Times  newspaper  as  having  been  on  the  preceding  day  absolutely 
the  coldest  place  in  France.  "  Now,"  said  1  to  my  medical  friend,  "just 
look  at  that  paragraph ;  you  want  me  to  go  into  a  warm  climate ;  my 
desire  is  to  stay  quietly  at  home ;  but  as  that  cannot  be  permitted,  I  will 
at  least  winter  in  some  spot  where  warmth  is  a  certainty.  I  know  well 
what  the  Bise  is,  and  what  the  Mistral ;  I  know  how  cold  those  half- 
and-half  places  often  are,  and  how  little  protection  you  have  against  the 
cold  whenever  it  does  come ;  if  I  must  leave  England,  I  shall  leave  it  for 
Madeira."  Accordingly  I  left  Southampton  in  a  dense  frost-fog  on  the 
29th  of  January,  and  six  days  afterwards  found  myself  in  a  land  of 
flowers  and  sunshine,  with  an  atmosphere  like  that  of  a  fine  English 
June,  only  that  the  sun  was  rather  hotter.  (I  must  add  that,  owing,  as 
we  were  told,  to  some  peculiarity  of  the  present  season,  though  I  have 
had  nothing  to  complain  of,  and  only  once  wished  for  a  fire,  neither 
March  nor  April,  nor  even  the  first  days  of  May,  quite  equalled  this 
February  weather.) 

The  six  days  at  sea,  I  am  bound  to  confess,  were  extremely  trying  ;  I 
had  fancied  myself  a  better  sailor  than  I  am,  and,  besides  this,  my  berth 
on  board  the  Teuton  fitted  me  as  tightly  as  a  coffin ;  I  could  not  move 
one  half -inch  to  the  right  or  one  half-inch  to  the  left.  Neither  in 
the  boat  which  took  me  to  TenerifFe,  nor  in  the  boat  which  brought 
me  away  was  I  subjected  to  the  same  inconvenience ;  and  I  trust 
that  the  Union  Company  will  not  think  me  impertinent  if  I  venture  to 
suggest  that  though  a  coffin  may  be  an  admirable  receptacle  for  a  dead 
body,  it  is  extremely  uncomfortable  to  a  living  one.  However,  by  trust- 
ing to  time  and  patience  I  slowly  got  better,  and  landed  with  all  my 
powers  of  enjoyment  ready  for  use.  Owing  to  an  inveterate  head-wind, 
our  passage  was  a  long  one ;  hence,  unfortunately,  we  ran  down  the 
north  side  of  Madeira  during  the  night-time,  missing  thereby  all  view  of 
the  highest  mountains  from  the  sea.  Of  these  mountains  none,  it  is  true, 
much  exceed  6,000  feet,  but  they  are  wonderfully  bold  and  picturesque  in 
form  and  character,  and  not  to  have  seen  them  from  the  deck  of  the  steamer 


A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIRA.  329 

was  undoubtedly  a  mischance.  These  higher  eminences  are  not  visible  from 
Funchal,  though  the  hills  which  surround  it  are  supposed  to  reach  4,000 
feet  or  thereabouts  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  They  shelter  the  town,  more- 
over, completely  from  all  northerly  winds,  so  that  this  side  of  the  island  in 
winter  and  the  beginning  of  spring  is  supposed  to  be  warmer  than  the 
other  by  eight  or  ten  degrees  of  Fahrenheit  on  the  average.  The  lowest 
winter  temperature  ever  recorded  in  Funchal  was  a  fraction  above  46 
degrees  ;  as  you  mount  higher  up,  the  atmosphere  becomes  more  chilly 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  snow,  though  it  never"  lies  long,  is  now  and 
then  to  be  seen  upon  the  peaks  within  sight  of  the  town,*  that  is  to  say, 
from  3,000  to  4,000  feet  up,  according  to  the  calculation  of  the  inhabitants. 
Funchal  from  the  roadstead,  or  indeed  from  any  other  point  of  vantage, 
is  a  picturesque  assemblage  of  white  houses,  interspersed  with  gardens, 
vineyards,  sugar-cane  fields,  and  the  like.  It  covers  a  wide  expanse  of 
ground,  as  the  city  proper  gradually  passes  into  a  series  of  villa  residences 
on  the  mountain  slopes,  to  which  the  wealthier  inhabitants  betake  them- 
selves in  summer.  The  streets  of  the  town  itself  are  narrow  and  dirty  ; 
they  are  also  difficult  to  walk  upon,  owing  to  the  hardness  of  the  slippery 
basaltic  pebbles,  their  only  form  of  pavement ;  still,  wherever  there  is  a 
garden  wall  among  the  houses,  you  come  upon  a  profusion  of  lovely 
creepers,  particularly  great  masses  of  purple  Bougainvillea,  mixed  up  with 
double  scarlet  geraniums.  This  combination,  glowing  under  the  brilliant 
sunshine  of  Madeira,  gave  me,  who  am  fond  of  colour,  quite  a  new  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure  the  first  time  that  I  saw  it.  Otherwise,  though  the  upper 
gorges  are  picturesque,  particularly  under  the  play  of  the  morning  and 
evening  sunlights,  the  manner  in  which  the  ground  is  cut  up  into 
terraces  for  the  sake  of  cultivation,  with  the  total  absence  of  large  timber, 
gives  this  south  side  of  the  island  a  somewhat  prim  and  formal  appear- 
ance. There  are  plenty  of  palms  indeed,  and  a  palm  in  the  open  air  is  a 
novelty  to  our  northern  eyes;  but  when  the  novelty  has  worn  off,  a  palm, 
here  at  least,  can  hardly  be  considered  a  fine  tree.  The  true  palm  climate, 
we  are  told,  is  an  annual  mean  of  77  deg.  Fahrenheit  or  thereabouts. 
This,  of  course,  is  much  higher  than  the  average  temperature  of  Madeira. 
Whether,  therefore,  on  the  banks  of  the  Amazon  or  elsewhere  in  the 
tropics  magnificent  growth  and  luxuriant  foliage  raise  the  kind  of  tree 
we  are  speaking  of  into  the  first  rank,  I  cannot  say ;  looking  at  their 
grain  and  texture  and  general  style  of  growth,  I  still  incline  to  the 
opinion  that  palms  and  all  such  endogens,  if  compared  with  the  real 
aristocrats  of  the  forest,  are  but  plebeian  vegetables  after  all. 

The  native  woods  from  which,  as  we  are  told,  the  name  of  Madeira  was 
originally  derived,  have  been  cut  down  with  a  ruthless  hand,  and  though 
still  to  be  found  in  the  interior  of  the  island,  and  on  its  northern  coasts, 
have  shrunk  into  comparatively  small  dimensions.  The  indigenous  cedar 
with  which  the  cathedral,  an  otherwise  ugly  and  uninteresting  building, 

*  On  the  3rd  of  May  it  was  quite  visible,  and  much  lower  down  than  usual ;  but 
the  present  May  has  been  exceptionally  cool,  I  believe. 


330  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIRA: 

is  roofed,  has  entirely,  or  all  but  entirely,  disappeared ;  and  though  four 
varieties  of  laurel  (found  more  abundantly  in  the  Canaries)  still  survive, 
they  are  not  what  they  once  were,  either  with  regard  to  the  extent  of 
ground  they  cover,  or  to  the  dignity  of  single  trees  among  them. 

One  of  the  principal  drawbacks  to  Madeira  is  the  difficulty  of  getting 
about ;  there  are  no  carriage-roads,  and  the  horse-tracks  are  steep  pitches 
up  and  down ;  they  are  also,  as  I  have  said,  almost  invariably  paved  with 
hard  pebbles.  This  renders  it  impossible  to  ride  anywhere,  except  at  a 
foot's-pace,  so  that  the  time  consumed  in  going  a  few  miles  is  very  great, 
and  the  mode  of  progression  very  tiresome ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  island 
ponies,  shod  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  encounter  the  aforesaid  roads,  are 
usually  sure-footed  and  good  walkers,  so  that  within  a  certain  distance 
of  Funchal  pleasant  expeditions  are  to  be  made,  if  you  can  find  the  time 
and  the  strength.  Thus  the  fine  mountain  scenery  of  the  Grand  Corral — 
a  gloomy  gorge  into  which  you  look  down  some  2,000  feet  or  so  from  the 
mountains  overhanging  it — the  Ribiero  Frio,  and  other  landscapes  beau- 
tiful of  their  kind,  can  on  well-chosen  days  be  visited  without  much, 
difficulty.  To  get  further  afield  is  not  so  easy;  there  are  but  few 
tolerable  hotels  in  the  country  districts,  and  you  never  can  be  sure  that 
you  will  not  find  the  higher  levels  wrapped  in  mist  or  drenched  with 
rain,  even  whilst  fine  weather  is  prevailing  below.  I  am  speaking,  of 
course,  of  the  winter  months ;  anybody  who  happened  to  pass  a  summer 
in  Madeira  could,  no  doubt,  visit  all  parts  of  the  island  readily  enough  ; 
he  might  camp  out  at  night,  if  necessary,  and  carry  his  own  provisions 
with  him  from  the  town. 

Another  matter  which  diminishes  the  interest  of  a  residence  in 
Madeira  is  the  almost  total  absence  of  animal  life  ;  one  of  our  party  was 
a  sportsman,  and  wandered  over  various  districts  with  a  disconsolate 
rifle  and  a  dejected  fowling-piece,  finding  nothing  to  kill ;  one  large 
hawk,  indeed,  he  shot  on  the  wing  with  a  rifle  bullet,  and  this  put  him 
in  better  spirits  for  a  day  or  two,  but  he  did  little  more.  Along  the 
coast,  in  a  boat,  you  may  get  an  occasional  shot  at  a  small  rock-pigeon, 
very  dark  in  plumage ;  but  as  the  cliffs  are  bold  and  high,  and  as  these 
doves,  in  the  exercise  of  a  sound  discretion,  keep  close  to  the  top,  it  is 
difficult  to  do  more  than  frighten  them.  One,  however,  less  cautious 
than  his  brethren,  got  struck,  and  fell  dead  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock ;  our 
youngest  boatman  undertook  to  bring  him  down :  he  scaled  the  crag 
with  great  agility,  and  got  possession  of  the  bird.  When,  however,  he 
turned  to  come  down,  I  observed  that  he  crossed  himself  first ;  he  then 
descended  as  actively  and  as  resolutely  as  he  had  climbed  up.  There 
was  something  very  touching  in  this  act  of  instinctive  piety,  and  I  could 
only  hope  that  a  young  English  fisherman  in  a  similar  position,  though 
the  manner  of  his  reverence  might  differ  a  little,  would  have  committed 
himself  to  the  care  of  Providence  with  something  of  the  same  reverential 
spirit.  With  these  exceptions,  a  bird,  large  or  small,  is  a  rarity  ;  there 
are  no  rabbits  to  speak  of,  no  hares,  no  deer,  no  squirrels — nothing  in 


THE  DESERTAS  AND  TENEEIFFE.  331 

any  plenty,  but  lizards,  and  lizards  pall  upon  you  after  a  time.  One  of 
us,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  sportsman ;  I  am  an  amateur  entomologist,  and 
I  -was  full  of  hope  that  I  should  find  in  Madeira,  and  still  more  in 
Teneriffe,  moths  and  butterflies,  if  not  of  a  special,  at  least  of  a  foreign, 
type.  We  all  of  us  must  remember  how  much  is  added  to  the  charm 
of  Alpine  travelling  by  the  multitude  of  swallow-tails,  fritillaries, 
Apollos,  Camberwell  beauties,  and  other  brilliant  insects — we  know  how 
they  float  about  the  mountains,  each  with  its  own  peculiar  grace  of 
flight,  so  as  to  keep  the  air  alive  with  the  beauty  of  motion.  Here, 
however,  in  spite  of  the  mass  of  blossoms,  the  exuberance  of  vegetation, 
and  the  almost  constant  fine  weather,  I  do  not  think  I  have  seen  twenty 
butterflies  in  three  months,  and  those  which  have  put  in  an  appearance, 
luckily  for  themselves  were  not  worth  catching.  A  red  admiral  or  two, 
some  gatekeepers,  a  few  painted  ladies,  a  clouded  yellow,  perhaps,  and 
the  irrepressible  small  cabbage,  make  up  all  the  varieties  which  have 
presented  themselves  as  yet ;  for  two  semi-tropical  islands,"a  shabby  show 
of  Lepidoptera  indeed.  There  was,  I  admit,  one  swift  and  powerful 
dragon-fly  darting  about  now  and  then ;  he  was  of  a  deep  violet  colour, 
and  made  a  splendid  appearance  on  the  wing ;  he  seemed,  as  far  as  I 
could  judge,  nearly  as  long  as  our  largest  English  libellula,  with  a  body 
somewhat  thicker,  but  he  was  not  inclined  to  let  me  come  near  enough 
to  examine  him  minutely.  There  were  also  rumours  of  a  fine  large 
butterfly  in  Teneriffe  called  the  Emperor  of  Morocco,  golden  yellow  in 
colour  with  black  spots ;  he  does  not,  however,  make  his  appearance 
till  late  in  the  summer,  so  that  I  had  no  hope  of  encountering  him ; 
altogether  I  should  suppose  that  an  implacable  entomologist  who  gave 
up  a  whole  year  to  his  pursuit  might  probably  obtain  in  these  islands  a 
certain  number  of  insects  worth  collecting,  but  that  they  are  too  scarce 
to  be  noticed  in  passing  by  a  chance  amateur  like  myself. 

This  general  absence  of  life  gives,  as  I  have  said,  a  certain  dulness  to 
the  landscapes  both  of  Madeira  and  Tenerifie,  and  makes  one  turn  for 
compensation  to  the  rich  colouring  and  attractive  changes  of  a  sea  that 
is  seldom  exactly  in  the  same  mood  for  two  days  together.  I  have  said 
that  there  are  few  comfortable  inns  out  of  Funchal,  but  this  remark  does 
not  apply  to  Santa  Cruz  (Santa  Cruz  in  Madeira,  I  mean).  The  hotel 
there  belongs  to  a  Senhor  Gonzalez,  but  is  mainly  upheld  by  the  untiring 
exertions  of  a  worthy  woman  called  Maria.  She  is  a  Portuguese  by  birth, 
but  speaks  English  quite  well,  knows  the  requirements  of  Englishmen, 
and  is  indefatigable  in  her  efforts  to  please.  This  quiet  inn  is  a  pleasant 
change  from  the  hot  table-d'hotes  at  Funchal,  the  village  may  be  perhaps 
somewhat  cooler,  and  is  said  to  possess  a  lighter  and  finer  air :  it  is 
also  well  situated  as  a  place  to  make  excursions  from.  A  mile  or  two 
beyond  it  lies  the  well-known  Machico  Bay,  where,  according  to  tradition, 
Madeira  was  first  landed  upon  by  the  Englishman  Machin.  The  story 
is  that  this  Machin,  an  English  esquire,  incurred  the  resentment  of  a 
powerful  family  by  gaining  the  affections  of  the  daughter  of  its  chief. 


332  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIKA: 

He  was  thrown  into  prison,  but  escaped,  and  then  persuaded  the  lady 
to  elope  with  him  to  France.  A  violent  tempest  drove  their  vessel  for 
thirteen  days  in  a  south-westerly  direction,  and  at  last  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  small  brig  on  the  shores  of  an  unknown  island.  Here  they 
landed,  but  the  fatigues  of  the  voyage  had  exhausted  the  strength  of 
Machin's  companion,  Anna  D'Arfet — she  died  there,  and  was  there 
buried.  The  fragments  of  a  cross  erected  over  her  grave  are  still  shown 
by  the  Machico  villagers.  Her  lover  did  not  long  survive  her,  and  his 
companions,  in  their  attempt  to  sail  away  home,  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  Moors.  During  their  captivity,  they  spoke  of  this  island  to  an 
old  Portuguese  pilot,  who,  on  being  ransomed  and  returning  to  his  own 
country,  suggested  and  accompanied  the  first  expedition  to  Madeira, 
which  thus  became  a  dependency  of  Portugal.  Scepticism  of  course  has 
been  at  work  upon  this  old  national  tale,  but  there  seems  no  reason  for 
rejecting  the  legend,  except  that  it  is  a  legend,  and  that  the  fashionable 
wisdom  of  the  hour  pronounces,  as  usual,  anything  which  has  long  been 
a  matter  of  popular  belief  to  be  of  necessity  incredible ;  otherwise  the 
narrative  hangs  perfectly  well  together  in  all  its  parts,  and  moreover 
furnishes  a  reason  why  the  Portuguese  Government  sent  out  their 
expedition  a  little  later  to  discover  the  island  so  reported  to  them — a 
reason  which  otherwise  would  be  wanting.  Beyond  this  bay  you  can 
proceed  in  a  boat,  along  another  range  of  rugged  and  lofty  cliffs,  to  the 
supposed  fossil-beds  at  the  extremity  of  the  island — these  fossils  are 
apparently  concretions  of  lime,  which  have  put  on  the  appearance  of 
branches  or  roots,  as  the  case  may  be.  An  ignorant  person  would  believe 
that  they  had  formed  themselves  round  real  pieces  of  wood,  and  that 
these  have  decayed,  leaving  their  form  to  the  encompassing  stone ;  but 
geologists,  I  fancy,  put  this  opinion  aside  and  look  upon  them  as  being 
what  they  are,  merely  in  obedience  to  some  caprice  of  nature  ;  they  are 
not,  according  to  them,  fossils  at  all,  but  merely  a  good  imitation  of 
fossils.  Beyond  these  so-called  fossil-beds  you  find  a  sandy  down, 
covered  mostly  with  short  grass.  After  walking  across  this  down  for  about 
half  a  mile  you  find  yourself  on  the  north  coast  of  Madeira.  From  hence 
the  expeditionist,  if  I  may  coin  such  a  word  for  the  nonce,  looks  down 
upon  a  double  sea — 

Et  in  mediis  audit  duo  littora  campis. 

This  north  coast,  moreover,  is  well  worth  visiting  in  all  its  parts,  as  it  is 
even  finer  and  bolder  than  the  one  on  the  Funchal  side.  The  boatmen, 
besides  being  excellent  oars,  are  very  civil  obliging  fellows ;  they  carry 
your  luncheon-basket,  and  show  you  every  thing  worth  looking  at  wherever 
you  land.  Madre  D'Agua  is  another  spot  well  worth  visiting  from 
Santa  Cruz.  After  a  long  ascent  you  reach  a  sort  of  platform  among 
bold  rough  hills ;  from  thence  you  look  down  and  up  through  gorges,  along 
which  is  conducted  in  a  series  of  cascades  to  the  deep  glen  underneath 
you  one  of  those  levadas  or  regulated  watercourses  upon  which  the 
fertility  of  Madeira  depends.  But  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  landscape 


THE  DESERTAS  AND  TENERIFFE.  333 

in  the  island  is  the  prospect  from  the  little  village  of  Laruageres.  Yon 
climb  the  usual  hill-track  to  a  place  called  Antonio  di  Serra,  after  which 
you  diverge  into  a  path  more  like  an  English  lane,  with  trees  and  flowers 
on  each  side,  than  the  usual  Madeira  road.  You  proceed  along  this  path 
till  you  come  to  some  hills  of  moderate  height,  which  are  covered  with 
natural  wood,  Spanish  chestnuts,  varieties  of  laurels,  pines,  and  other 
trees.  The  far-spreading  purple  Atlantic  is  on  your  right,  whilst 
apparently  close  at  hand,  though  in  reality  a  long  way  off,  plunges  down 
beneath  you  into  the  sea  the  magnificent  cliff  known  as  Penna  D'Equia, 
or  the  Eagle's  Wing,  and  on  your  left  in  front  lies  a  gorge  with  hills  on 
the  other  side  ;  then  a  second  valley  intervenes.  Beyond  this  tower  rise, 
to  close  the  prospect,  all  the  highest  mountains  of  the  island.  It  is  true 
that,  as  I  have  said  before,  none  of  these  mountains  much  exceed 
6,000  feet  by  mere  measurement,  but  still  their  forms  are  wonderfully 
bold  and  picturesque ;  BO  that  as  we  watched  the  white  semi- translucent 
clouds  floating  from  one  peak  to  another,  about  1,000  feet  below  sum- 
mits upon  which  snow  was  still  glittering  against  a  semi-tropical  sun, 
it  seemed  difficult  to  imagine  anything  more  beautiful  in  its  own  way 
than  this  combination  of  sea  and  light  and  cloud,  with  the  cliffs, 
mountains,  and  forests  on  all  sides  of  us. 

The  highest  of  the  above  mountains  is  Pico  Ruivo,  the  red  peak.  In 
one  direction  it  is  sufficiently  accessible,  and  accordingly  the  ascent  was 
made.  Leaving  Santa  Anna,  a  little  hamlet  of  the  north,  in  the  morn- 
ing you  pass  by  a  series  of  climbings,  through  plantations  of  the  Pinit>s 
maritima.  On  getting  beyond  there  you  pass  into  the  region  of  the  tree 
heather — a  plant  much  used  in  Madeira  for  firewood.  It  grows,  how- 
ever, much  more  luxuriantly  in  Teneriffe,  and  therefore  I  shall  keep 
what  I  have  to  say  about  it.  After  labouring  up  for  some  time,  you 
come  to  what  may  be  called  the  false  top ;  this  eminence  is  scarcely 
lower  than  the  true  peak,  but  it  is  separated  from  it  by  a  wide  gap,  so 
that  you  have  to  descend  again  for  nearly  an  hour,  with  the  same  tree 
heather  growing  round  about  you,  till  the  bottom  of  the  dip  is  reached. 
From  thence  you  proceed  to  master  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The 
walk  is  steep,  with  but  little  vegetation,  and  ends  in  a  very  narrow 
point,  which  can  only  be  got  at  by  a  rough  scramble.  When  there,  you 
have  a  splendid  view  of  the  northern  sea,  with  the  Penna  D'Aquia,  of 
which  I  have  already  spoken,  on  your  flank,  whilst  the  neighbouring 
heights,  particularly  the  strangely  contorted  pinnacles  of  the  Canaria 
Peak,  lift  themselves  grandly  around.  The  view  on  the  land  side  is 
also,  I  believe,  worthy  of  all  admiration,  but  though  the  sun  was 
intensely  hot  where  we  stood,  at  a  certain  distance  beneath  a  thick  cloud 
interposed  itself  between  us  and  the  lower  ground,  so  that  we  saw 
nothing.  Among  the  guides  there  was  the  suggestion  of  a  rabbit,  which 
awakened  intense  excitement;  by  us,  however,  rabbits  had  been  seen 
elsewhere;  hence  we  remained  comparatively  impassive,  and  turned 
our  thoughts  towards  luncheon.  Here,  however,  a  slight  difficulty  arose. 


334  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT   MADEIRA: 

The  promised  fountain  did  not  turn  up,  and  but  for  the  snow  still  linger- 
ing about  the  rifts  and  crevices  of  the  hills  we  should  have  had  nothing  to 
drink  but  strong  Madeira — not  a  very  refreshing  beverage  after  a  long  walk 
under  a  broiling  sun.  However,  with  time  and  under  a  warm  temperature 
Madeira  and  snow  became  Madeira  and  water,  and  the  difficulty  was 
solved.  On  going  down,  the  sea  of  mist  into  which  we  were  about  to 
plunge  contrasted  in  a  striking  manner  with  the  extraordinarily  brilliant 
sunshine  overhead ;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it,  in  we  had  to  go,  and  to 
crawl  for  about  half  an  hour  through  a  gloom  impenetrable  to  the  eye 
except  for  a  foot  or  two  in  front.  Out  of  this  we  emerged  into  a  grey  sort 
of  day,  which  accompanied  us  for  the  remainder  of  our  descent,  and  the 
party  found  itself  at  Santa  Anna  by  seven  o'clock,  with  a  good  appetite  for 
dinner.  The  dinner  itself,  however  (like  the  poetry  of  Kingsley's  friend 
— which  he  criticised  with  his  usual  impetuosity  to  the  author's  face,  who 
had  rashly  submitted  it  to  him  in  the  hopes  of  a  favourable  opinion),  was 
"  not  good — but  bad." 

This  is  but  an  imperfect  account  of  a  very  beautiful  island,  but  it 
was  not  possible  for  me,  whilst  staying  there,  to  explore  it  more  com- 
pletely, so  that  my  descriptions  must  be  taken  for  what  they  are  worth. 


THE  DESERTAS. 

The  Desertas  are  three  small  islets,  about  24  miles  from  Madeira, 
towards  the  south-east.  They  are  not  entirely  unlike  Herm,  Sark,  <fec.,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Guernsey,  though  somewhat  farther  off  from  the 
Lilliputian  continent  round  which  they  take  rank  as  belongings.  They 
wear  a  purple  aspect,  as  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  Santa  Clara 
Hotel,  and  together  with  Porto  Santo,  I  suppose,  helped  to  give  the 
name  of  the  Purple  Islands  to  the  whole  Madeira  group  ;  for  so,  we  are 
told,  is  the  group  described  in  a  letter  from  Juba,  King  of  Mauritania,  to 
the  Emperor  Augustus.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  the  orchil  weed, 
which  yields  a  purple  dye  of  some  value,  and  is  still  found  among  these 
rocks  (being,  in  fact,  the  one  thing  connecting  them  with  the  general  life 
and  commerce  of  the  world),  may  have  been  gathered  from  Madeira  and 
Porto  Santo  as  well,  in  the  days  of  Augustus,  and  that  their  title  to  be 
called  the  Purple  Islands  rested  upon  that.  The  most  beautiful  thing  con- 
nected with  these  craggy  islets  is  the  manner  in  which  the  February  sun, 
after  rising  behind  them,  turns  the  spot  of  sea  between  the  two  larger 
ones  into  an  expanse  of  liquid  gold,  reminding  us  of  the  heavenly  pave- 
ment admired  by  Mammon  so  pertinaciously,  as  Milton  tells  us,  before 
his  fall  into  Hades.  Later  on  in  the  year,  either  the  rising  sun  shifts  his 
place  a  little,  or  else  the  effect  produced  itself  before  I  was  awake,  as  in 
March  and  April  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  kind.  This  is  about  all  that 
Madeira  residents  in  general  have  to  do  with  the  dependencies  in  question. 
They  are  seldom  visited,  being  somewhat  difficult  to  land  on,  and  offer- 
ing few  temptations  to  an  explorer.  However,  a  statement  that  they 


THE  DESERTAS  AND  TENERIFFE.  335 

were  tenanted  by  numerous  wild  goats  induced  us  to  go  over  in  a  boat. 
We  saw  no  wild  goats,  but  were  told  on  our  return  that  it  was  useless  to 
try  for  them  in  that  manner ;  that,  unless  certain  strategical  operations 
are  undertaken  by  a  large  party,  stationing  themselves  at  certain  well- 
known  points,  whilst  the  rest  of  the  island  is  hunted  over  and  turned 
upside  down  by  an  army  of  beaters,  no  goat  will  ever  suffer  himself  to 
be  seen.  This  certainly  was  true,  as  far  as  we  were  concerned,  though 
we  examined  with  good  field-glasses  every  nook  and  cranny  for  several 
hours.  We  should  have  been  glad,  no  doubt,  to  have  received  this  intel- 
ligence before,  and  not  after,  an  expedition ;  still,  the  larger  island  is  a 
very  curious  place.  We  also  brought  back  a  number  of  rabbits — differing, 
it  was  suggested,  in  some  respects  from  the  common  type.  We  were  asked 
to  save,  for  a  scientific  friend,  some  of  the  skins  under  that  impression, 
with  a  hint  of  Darwin  in  the  distance.  The  request,  however,  was  made 
too  late,  all  the  skins  having  been  unfortunately  sold  or  thrown  away  by  the 
hotel  cook.  Besides  the  rabbits,  we  started,  though  without  securing,  a 
guinea-hen,  which,  if  wild,  as  seemed  to  be  the  case,  must  have  drifted 
from  the  coast  of  Africa,  or  perhaps  from  one  of  the  smaller  Canary 
Islands.  They  used,  I  believe,  a  certain  number  of  years  ago,  to  abound  in 
Teneriffe  and  the  Grand  Canary,  though  I  could  hear  nothing  of  them  there 
now.  On  landing,  you  have  to  climb  up  some  800  or  1,000  feet,  till  you 
reach  the  top  of  the  cliff,  when  you  find  that  the  rocks  suddenly  open  out, 
forming  all  down  the  centre  of  the  island  a  deep  wedge-like  valley,  the 
sloping  sides  of  which  are  clothed  with  rough  grass.  The  theory  of  the 
neighbouring-  fishermen  is  that  this  hollow  was  the  mould  in  which  the 
second-sized  island,  a  mere  cluster  of  jagged  rocks,  was  originally  formed 
— that  at  some  unknown  period  it  was  raised  from  its  place  by  volcanic 
fires  underneath  and  cast  upon  the  neighbouring  sea,  leaving  its  original 
birth-home  as  we  now  find  it.  (The  great  Caldera  or  Cauldron  in 
the  island  of  Palma,  a  gulf  of  enormous  depth,  has  the  same  theory 
applied  to  it  on  a  larger  scale  by  the  Spanish  fishermen  of  the  Canaries  ; 
no  less  a  potentate  than  the  Peak  of  Teneriffe  having  been  flung,  as 
they  tell  us,  out  of  that  abyss  into  its  present  position.) 

Through  the  middle  of  this  dell  a  stream  runs  in  the  rainy  season, 
but  at  the  end  of  April  there  were  only  stones  and  gravel  to  mark  its 
course.  This  island  contains,  in  the  way  of  vegetation,  a  patch  or  two  of 
stunted  pines  (the  Pinus  maritima  mentioned  above),  a  certain  quantity  of 
gorse,  a  good  deal  of  coarse  grass,  and  a  few  oats.  In  the  way  of  animal 
life,  there  are  plenty  of  rabbits — differing  perhaps,  as  I  have  said,  in  some 
respects  from  the  common  English  rabbit — which  are  visible,  and  a  pro- 
blematical herd  of  goats,  which  are  quite  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  or 
even  to  the  eye  reinforced  by  a  telescope.  A  zealous  entomologist,  or 
arachnologist,  if  he  prefers  that  title,  may  also  go  over,  in  the  hope  of 
encountering  a  gigantic  spider,  whose  bite  is  said  to  be  sometimes  fatal ; 
indeed,  if  he  be  a  real  enthusiast  in  his  vocation,  he  is  bound  to  under- 
take the  trip,  as  there  is  no  chance  of  his  getting  bitten  by  the  creature 


336  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIRA: 

anywhere  else.  The  shepherds  or  goat-herds  or  orchil-gatherers  who 
establish  themselves  in  this  out-of-the-way  place  from  time  to  time,  if  they 
wish  to  communicate  quickly  with  Madeira  have  no  other  means  of 
doing  so  than  by  lighting  explanatory  fires — one,  I  believe,  if  they  want 
water,  two  for  an  illness,  three  for  a  death,  and  so  on.  I  do  not  know 
that  I  have  anything  further  to  say  about  the  Desertas,  except  that  the 
expedition  takes  at  least  the  whole  of  a  long  day,  and  that  as  the  sea 
breaks  roughly  on  their  outlying  points,  you  are  not  unlikely  to  get  a 
ducking  either  when  you  land  or  as  you  depart. 

On  April  9  we  started  at  night  in  a  boat  called  the  Coanza   for 
Teneriffe.  Our  starting  there  was  unlucky  in  two  respects.    First,  we  had 
to  pass  a  couple  of  nights  on  board.     The  captain  foresaw  that  he  must, 
anyhow,  arrive  too  late  in  the  evening  to  have  his  vessel  cleared  at 
once ;  hence  he  grew  economical  over  his  coals,  and  kept  the  vessel  at 
half- speed ;  we  were,  therefore,  thirty-six  hours  on  our  passage  instead  of 
twenty- four.     We  also  missed  seeing  the  Peak  of  Teneriffe  rise  gradually 
out  of  the  sea,  as  it  was  dark  before  we  got  near  the  island.     The 
situation  of  Santa  Cruz,  the  principal  town,  is  striking,  but  ugly ;  as 
you  come  into   the   bay,   or   roadstead   rather,    a.  long   range  of  hills 
stretches  seawards  on  your  right.     These  hills,  which  may  be  from  1,500 
to  1,800  feet  in  height,  are  grim  volcanic  ridges,  tortured  into  all  sorts  of 
uncomfortable  shapes  by  the  subterranean  fire  which  has  lifted  them 
up.     They  are,  as  I  have  said,  thoroughly  ugly,   barren  as  death,  and 
wearing  a  malignant  scowl,  as  if  they  were  meditating  some  mischief 
in  secret ;  nor,  indeed,  is  this  unlikely,  as  experienced  geologists  expect 
the  next  Teneriffe  eruption,  whenever  it  happens,  to  break  forth  in 
these  quarters.     On  the  left  the  shore  is  flat,  with  a  range  of  mountains 
nearly  parallel  to  it,  some  distance  inland.     Far  away  to  the  east  the 
heights  of  Gran  Canaria  are  occasionally  visible,  but  this  depends  en- 
tirely on  the  state  of  the  atmosphere.     "We  saw  them  only  once  (though 
they  were  then  perfectly  distinct)  during  our  stay  at  Santa  Cruz.     This 
town  of  Santa  Cruz,  though  less  populous,  is  cleaner  and  altogether  a 
better  kind  of  city  than  Funchal ;  the  streets  are  more  level,  wider,  and 
better  paved,  so  that  you  can  walk  about  it  without  being  entangled  in 
unsavoury  lanes,  or  slipping  upon  greasy  basaltic  pebbles.     There  is  also 
an  excellent  carriage-road,  and  carriages  are  easy  to  hire.     Hence  you  do 
not  feel  cooped  up  or  cabined  in  as  is  the  case  in  Madeira.     The  country 
round  Santa  Cruz  is  arid,  with  hardly  any  vegetation.     The  one  thing 
that  strikes  you  at  first  is  the  assemblage  of  cochineal  cactuses,  all  dressed 
in  linen  greatcoats ;  this  practice,  which  gives  the  plants  a  most  peculiar 
appearance,  is  resorted  to  in  order  to  prevent  the  insects,  when  they 
reach  maturity,  from  tumbling  about  and  getting  lost.     Some  years  ago 
this  cochineal  trade  was  a  very  prosperous  one,  but  of  late  years  so 
many  new  dyes  and  chemical  processes  have  been  discovered  that  it  has 
experienced  a  check ;  these  dyes  are  much  cheaper  than  the  one  pro- 
duced from  the  cactus,  and  to  a  great  extent  have  driven  it  out  of  the 


THE  DESERTAS  AND  TENERIFFE.  337 

market.  The  Teneriffe  vines  have  also  suffered,  like  those  of  Madeira, 
from  the  onset  of  the  Phylloxera  vastatrix,  so  that  there  is  at  present,  I 
understand,  much  distress  in  the  country.  The  land  is  cultivated  on 
the  system  of  half-profits,  the  farmer  finding  the  seed,  &c.,  and  sharing 
the  produce  with  the  owner  of  the  estate.  This  tenure,  I  believe,  is  a 
common  one  throughout  the  southern  countries  of  Europe,  and  answers, 
I  dare  say,  as  well  as  most  others.  On  leaving  Santa  Cruz,  the  first 
orthodox  expedition  is  through  Laguna,  the  old  capital  of  Teneriffe,  to 
Orotava.  Orotava  (there  are  two  towns  in  the  district  so  called,  the 
upper  town,  or  vila,  and  the  port)  is  the  most  fertile  and  beautiful  part  of 
Teneriffe.  The  vale  of  Orotava,  as  they  call  it — though  it  is  rather  a 
long  slope  from  the  Peak  of  Teneriffe  and  its  adjoining  mountains  than 
a  real  vale — is  very  rich  in  corn,  and  abounds  in  fruit-trees  of  various 
descriptions,  particularly  a  fine  species  of  plum.  But  rich  and  fruitful 
as  the  valley  is,  it  is  hardly  equal  in  beauty  to  many  parts  of  Madeira, 
so  that,  more  than  once,  we  rather  regretted  having  taken  the  trouble  to 
steam  over.  The  Peak  of  Teneriffe  itself  is  somewhat  disappointing : 
it  is  not  exceptionally  lofty,  as  is  Mont  Blanc  ;  it  is  not  sublime  like  the 
Matterhorn,  or  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the  Jungfrau.  At  the 
same  time  it  has,  I  acknowledge,  certain  merits  of  its  own ;  in  the  first 
place,  as  you  look  upwards  at  it  from  the  coast,  it  shows  for  its  full 
height,  which  is  not  a  common  merit  in  high  mountains ;  secondly,  being 
at  the  time  of  our  visit  heavily  coated  with  snow,  it  contrasted  very 
effectively  with  the  long  rollers  of  the  Atlantic,  glittering  in  the  sun- 
shine as  they  broke  tumultuously  along  the  rough  beach  of  Orotava, 
under  the  influence  of  a  keen  northerly  gale ;  and,  thirdly,  though  not 
of  extraordinary  height,  absolutely  considered,  it  is  still  so  much  higher 
than  any  of  the  adjacent  ridges  that  it  does  assert  for  itself  a  kind 
of  kingly  pre-eminence  over  the  vassal  hills  that  surround  it ;  they  are 
all  unquestionably  mere  feudatories  of  their  legitimate  sovereign  the 
Peak.  Talking  of  the  Atlantic  rollers,  we  observed  here  a  very  beau- 
tiful and  unusual  effect  of  colour  among  them ;  the  wind,  as  I  have 
said,  blew  strongly  on  shore,  so  that  the  sea  kept  pouring  in  huge 
purple  masses,  to  break  with  great  violence  upon  the  Orotava  rocks. 
Always,  however,  as  each  wave  was  in  the  act  of  turning  over,  and  just 
before  it  was  beaten  into  foam,  the  sunlight  caught  it  sideways,  and 
changed  the  lower  half  from  purple  into  a  lovely  emerald  green.  This 
happened  over  and  over  again,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  we  stood  there 
watching  the  effect  with  very  great  delight,  till  the  spray,  dashing  over 
the  pier  with  the  incoming  tide,  gave  us  broad  hints  to  be  oft'. 

Orotava  was,  I  need  hardly  say,  the  place  where  the  famous  dragon- 
tree  of  Teneriffe  nourished  through  so  many  centuries.  Its  age  has  been 
differently  estimated  by  different  botanists,  but  by  none,  I  believe,  at 
less  than  six  thousand  years.  Humboldt,  I  fancy,  when  he  saw  it  at 
the  beginning  of  the  century,  some  fifty  years  before  its  final  destruction, 
assigned  to  it  an  existence  even  longer  than  that.  He  considered  it,  at 

VOL.  XLII. — xo.  249.  17. 


338  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIRA: 

any  rate,  as  probably  the  oldest  tree,  the  oldest  form  of  organic  life,  we 
may  say,  to  be  found  in  any  part  of  the  globe.  It  was  blown  down  on 
January  3,  1862,  in  a  tremendous  hurricane,  which  lasted  for  several 
days,  and  a  mad  peasant  woman  set  fire  to  the  trunk  after  it  had  been 
prostrated,  so  that,  in  Scripture  phrase,  "  the  place  thereof  knoweth  it 
no  more."  As  this  tree  has  been  imaginatively  identified  on  grounds 
that  are  really  not  unplausible  with  the  legend  of  Hercules — of  the 
golden  apples — and  of  the  islands  of  the  blest,  it  must,  on  the  lowest 
computation,  have  reache'd  a  green  old  age  before  the  son  of  Alcmena, 
some  three  thousand  years  ago,  sat  down  under  its  hideous  branches 
(there  are  few  things  more  hideous  than  a  dragon-tree)  and  sucked  the 
first  oranges  recorded  in  history.  All  the  facts  connected  with  Hercules 
tend  to  prove  that  he  was  of  a  tough  and  rugged  constitution,  which 
was  lucky  for  him ;  had  he  been  a  thin-skinned  hero  like  the  divine 
Achilles,  he  would  certainly,  after  killing  the  dragon  of  Teneriffe,  have 
run  away  from  its  mosquitoes  (for  they  bite  most  venomously),  in  which 
case  the  Canaries  would  hardly  have  taken  rank  as  the  islands  of  the 
blest.  One  observation  of  the  great  German  savant  strikes  me  as  a 
very  funny  one.  He  finds  a  tree  in  Teneriffe  which,  according  to  him, 
is  the  oldest  tree  in  the  world ;  "but,"  says  he,  "  it  is  not  a  native  of 
the  island ;"  and,  therefore,  in  prehistoric  times,  the  Guanches,  or  original 
inhabitants,  must  have  had  some  connection  with  India.  It  does  not,  of 
course,  follow  that  the  oldest  tree  was  also  the  first  tree  in  the  world  ; 
but  still,  in  the  absence  of  an  older,  one  would  suppose  it  to  belong  to 
the  place  where  it  grew,  and  I  must  opine  that  if  the  man's  name  had 
been  O'Humboldt  instead  of  Humboldt,  and  he  had  come  from  Mayo 
instead  of  Berlin,  his  remark  would  have  been  treated  as  a  bull. 

Another  interesting  sight  to  be  seen  in  Orotava  is  its  famous 
botanical  garden.  This  garden  was  established  in  the  beginning  of  the 
century,  a  few  years  before  Humboldt  visited  the  place ;  it  was  estab- 
lished, in  the  first  instance,  with  the  following  object.  An  ingenious 
native  of  the  island  discovered  that  Teneriffe  was  so  happily  situated  in 
point  of  latitude,  and  so  happily  endowed  in  point  of  climate,  that  most 
known  plants  would  grow  in  it  somewhere  or  other.  This  gentleman,  there- 
fore, conceived  the  idea  of  making  his  native  country  a  kind  of  half-way 
house  between  the  Tropics  and  Europe ;  he  sought,  accordingly,  to  collect 
in  his  gardens  the  most  valuable  trees  and  shrubs  from  all  parts,  to 
teach  them  to  bear  an  increase  or  diminution  of  heat,  and  then  to  intro- 
duce them  northwards  or  southwards,  as  the  case  might  be,  thus  enrich- 
ing the  world  at  large.  Nature,  however,  will  not  be  dictated  to ;  she 
requires  to  be  coaxed,  and  the  experiment  failed.  The  garden,  however, 
remains,  and  is  full  of  flourishing  trees  and  shrubs  from  every  quarter. 
The  sandal-tree,  with  its  fragrant  golden  blossoms,  the  Ficus  imperialis, 
with  its  strange  fruit  growing  directly  out  of  the  trunk,  and  fine 
varieties  of  palm,  are  among  the  choicest  productions  of  the  domain; 
after  all,  however,  these  exotics  must  yield  the  post  of  honour  to  a 


THE  DESEETAS  AND  TENERIFFE.  339 

native  pine,  the  "  Pinus  Canariemis"  This  pine  is  now,  I  believe, 
somewhat  rare  in  Teneriffe,  but  it  still  grows  abundantly  on  the  Palma 
Hills,  and  also,  I  am  told,  on  those  of  the  Grand  Canary.  It  is  a  slow- 
growing  tree,  I  admit,  but  offers  to  the  planter  one  of  the  most  valuable 
woods  to  be  found  anywhere — a  wood  which  I  should  much  like  to  see 
introduced  into  some  of  our  colonies.  Monsieur  Villepred,  the  intelligent 
and  obliging  curator  of  the  gardens,  spoke  of  it  with  the  utmost  en- 
thusiasm ;  and,  indeed,  in  all  the  old  churches  and  all  the  old  houses 
round  about  the  wood  was  there  to  speak  for  itself.  It  is  of  a  fine 
texture,  deep  yellow  in  colour,  very  hard  and  heavy,  and,  so  to  speak, 
absolutely  indestructible,  seeing  that  it  remains  as  fresh  and  firm  as  the 
day  it  was  first  laid  down  in  buildings  four  or  five  hundred  years  old,  the 
masonry  of  which  had  crumbled,  or  was  rapidly  crumbling,  into  ruins. 
It  also  possesses,  according  to  Monsieur  Villepred,  the  rare  faculty  of 
growing  up  anew  from  the  root  after  having  been  cut  down.  This  tree 
might,  one  would  think,  improve  St.  Helena,  which  is  on  the  road  between 
Teneriffe  and  Africa ;  and  if  the  replanting  of  Cyprus  (I  beg  pardon 
for  using  a  word  so  calculated  to  excite  angry  passions)  be  judged 
desirable,  Cyprus  is  a  mountainous  country  like  Teneriffe,  Cyprus  has 
a  hot  and  dry  climate  like  Teneriffe,  and  might  be  more  congenial  to 
the  tree  I  speak  of  than  the  moist  and  relaxing  air  of  Madeira,  which  has 
not  been  supposed  to  suit  it.  At  any  rate,  if  I  were  Jungle- vizier,  as 
some  Oriental  once  called  the  First  Commissioner  of  Woods  and  Forests, 
I  would  hunt  high  and  low  for  proper  places  till  I  found  a  home  for  the 
Pinus  Canariensis  in  our  dominions. 

The  only  other  landscape  in  Teneriffe  to  which  I  shall  refer  is  the 
laurel  forest  of  Laguna.  These  evergreen  laurel  forests  (and  they,  too, 
as  tending  to  create  and  sustain  permanent  springs  of  water,  might  be 
made  useful  in  Cyprus  or  elsewhere)  covered  at  one  time  much  larger 
spaces  in  Teneriffe  and  the  Canaries  than  they  do  now.  Still,  however, 
they  are  scarcely  to  be  seen  elsewhere,  and  are  beautiful  in  themselves. 
The  hills  behind  Laguna  spread  out  in  a  sort  of  semicircle  for  several 
miles,  rising  perhaps  1,500  feet  above  the  level  of  the  town,  which  is 
itself  some  2,000  feet  higher  than  Santa  Cruz.  This  semicircle  is  entirely 
filled,  from,  top  to  bottom,  with  forest,  and  the  forest  is  mainly  composed 
of  laurels.  These  laurels  are  of  four  different  kinds,  the  Laurus  Canari- 
ensis,  the  Laurus  Til,  the  Laurus  Indica,  and  the  'Lrurus  Barbusana. 
Naturally  they  have  all  something  of  the  same  aspect  and  character  •  still 
there  is  a  sufficient  difference  in  their  leaves  and  manner  of  growth  to 
make  a  grateful  variety ;  and  if  that  were  not  enough,  they  are  intermixed 
with  myrtles,  and  also  with  an  abundant  growth  of  the  tree-heather  a 
fine  shrub  about  the  size  of  a  tall  holly.  This  tree-heather  is  covered  in 
due  season  with  white  and  purple  blossoms,  but  was  naturally  bare  of 
them  in  April.  The  wood  is  also  full  of  attractive  ferns,  nor  were  cine- 
rarias and  ranunculuses  wanting  at  our  feet  to  add  to  the  charm  of  the 
place,  so  that  we  spent  some  pleasant  hours  there,  obtaining  at  the  same 

17—2 


340  A  GOSSIP  ABOUT  MADEIRA  J 

time  the  finest  view  of  the  Peak  we  had  yet  seen.  To  my  short-sighted 
eyes  (and  for  certain  remote  effects,  such  as  those  of  a  starry  night,  of  a 
Gothic  interior  in  the  twilight,  or  of  a  distant  range  of  mountains,  I  am 
not  sure  that  short-sight  is  a  disadvantage)  the  flood  of  mist  encircling 
the  lower  half  of  the  mountain,  fringed  as  it  was  with  a  white  edging  of 
more  definite  cloud,  looked  like  a  real  sea,  and  the  snow-topped  conical 
hill  above  it  gave  one  the  idea  of  a  solitary  volcano  rising  sheer  out  of 
waves  which  were  breaking  in  foam  round  its  base.  After  this  we  saw 
nothing  in  Teneriffe  worth  recording,  and  were  glad  to  return  to 
Madeira  by  the  Corisco.  Our  passage  was  not  a  comfortable  one ;  nor 
was  it  improved  by  our  having  to  take  in  tow  a  vessel  belonging  to  the 
well-known  firm  of  Lamport  and  Holt.  She  had  broken  her  screw, 
and  been  drifting  about  for  ten  days  before  she  fell  in  with  us.  It  was 
well  that  she  did  so,  as  when  we  found  her  she  was  perfectly  helpless.  I 
wish  I  could  add  that  this  comparatively  harmless  accident  was  the  only 
mishap  which  has  taken  place  of  late  in  those  seas,  but  the  loss  of  the 
American,  and  the  arrival  of  some  of  the  wrecked  passengers  in  a  state 
of  temporary  destitution,  immediately  followed  our  return  to  Madeira, 
and  since  then  the  Senegal,  with  other  passengers  from  the  same  ship, 
picked  up  by  her  in  the  open  Atlantic,  has  had  to  be  run  ashore  at 
Palma,  leaving  two  boats  of  the  American  still,  as  I  write,  unaccounted 
for.  God  grant  that  they  may  have  been  fallen  in  with  by  some  ship 
that  has  not  yet  been  able  to  communicate  with  England. 

I  have  attached  to  this  paper  a  list  of  trees  and  shrubs  belonging  to 
Madeira,  written  out  for  me  by  Dr.  Grabham.  It  will,  I  am  sure,  interest 
many  of  your  readers.  To  Dr.  Grabham,  Mr.  Addison,  the  resident 
chaplain  at  Madeira,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dundas,  .of  Tenerifle,  and  others  who 
welcomed  me  with  the  utmost  kindness  and  did  their  best  to  make  my 
enforced  absence  from  England  as  agreeable  as  possible,  I  can  only  return 
my  warmest  thanks. 

THE  MORE  PROMINENT  INDIGENOUS  PLANTS  OF  MADEIRA. 

The  Til  (Laurus  foetens),  gigantic  tree,  black,  beautifully  grained 
wood ;  growing  equally  well  on  the  mountains  and  at  sea  level. 

The  Laurel  (Laurus  Canariensis),  found  everywhere,  filling  whole 
valleys,  fragrant  like  L.  nobilis,  constituting  mainly  the  Madeira  forests. 

Earbusana  (Laurus  Barbusana).  Large  trees  found  scattered  amongst 
the  former. 

Vinhatico  (Persea  Indica).  Magnificent  tree  with  spreading  foliage, 
red  in  autumn ;  yields  an  excellent  mahogany,  like  Honduras  m.,  but 
wavy  and  close-grained. 

The  above  are  the  lauraceous  plants  ;  but  amongst  them  are  : — 

An  Ilex  (Ilex  Perado),  a  beautiful  holly  with  grand  berries,  and  a  still 
commoner  ilex. 

Here  and  there,  chiefly  in  gardens,  the  dragon-tree  and  a  beautiful 
juniper,  Juniperus  oxycedrvx,  formerly  attaining  great  size.  The  last- 


THE  DESERTAS  AND  TENERIFPE.  341 

named  and  the  yew,  Taxus  baccata,  are  the  only  indigenous  Conifers. 
Occasionally,  in  dense  forests,  the  Portugal  so-called  laurel  Cerasus 
Lusitanica,  not  less  in  stature  than  our  loftiest  English  elms,  covered  in 
June  with  unspeakable  profusion  of  flowers. 

Also  now  and  then  a  native  Pittosporum,  P.  coriaceum,  with  creamy 
white,  most  fragrant  flowers. 

Then  whole  districts  of  bilberry,  only  slightly  different  from  the 
European  form. 

Amongst  all  the  foregoing  one  or  two  heaths,  Erica  arborea,  especi- 
ally remarkable  for  the  large  tree  it  becomes  in  damp  places. 

One  of  the  loveliest  native  trees  is  Clethra  arborea,  the  Portuguese 
Folhado,  an  ericaceous  plant  of  laurel-like  growth ;  singularly  but 
completely  absent  from  the  other  Atlantic  islands,  and  peculiar  to 
Madeira — though  sometimes  cultivated  in  England  as  the  lily  of  the 
valley  tree — with  masses  of  fragrant  blossom. 

Another  ericaceous  plant,  the  arbutus  of  our  English  gardens,  is 
common  in.  Madeira. 

Also  to  be  mentioned,  as  found  on  edges  of  almost  all  cliffs,  a  peculiar 
Madeira  stock,  a  myrtle,  a  dwarf  jasmine,  J.  odoratissimum,  Echium 
fastuosum,  with  large  blue  spikes  of  flowers. 

Persea  gratissima  is  the  alligator  pear,  equally  at  home  with  P. 
Indica,  and  spreading  fast. 

Likewise  the  custard  apple,  yielding  abundant  fruit,  is  becoming  ex- 
ceedingly common. 

Coffee  grows  freely,  though  much  damaged  by  Lecanium  hesperidum. 

Magnolias  of  gigantic  size  in  almost  every  garden. 

The  magnoliaceous  tulip-tree,  Liriodaidron  tulipifera,  a  huge  tree  in 
Dr.  Grabham's  garden,  said  to  have  been  planted  by  Captain  Cook. 

Cape  silver-tree,  Leucodendron,  with  remarkable  foliage,  here  and 
there  in  mountain  districts. 


342 


(A   SKETCH   FEOM    LIFE.) 


I  USED  at  one  time  to  live  in  a  quiet  London  street  and  in  a  corner  house, 
the  windows  of  which  exactly  faced  a  tolerably  well-frequented  crossing. 
It  is  amusing  to  look  out  from  a  first-floor  window  and  watch  a  crossing 
and  the  people  who  pass  over  it.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  what  it  is  the 
fashion  to  call  human  comedy  always  going  forward  there,  and  a  man 
may  look  on  quite  as  safe  from  observation  as  if  he  were  a  spectator  at  a 
real  play  in  the  stage  box  of  a  theatre.  The  crossers  look  up  the  street 
and  down  for  coming  carriages,  or  to  the  ground  to  pick  their  way  between 
the  two  little  swept-up  walls  of  mud  on  each  side  of  them  ;  or  they  hurry 
on  to  pass  the  sweeper  without  a  tip,  while  he  keeps  just  in  front  of  them, 
executing  a  rapid  pantomimic  re-sweeping  of  the  already  well-swept  path. 
The  sweeper  at  my  crossing  is  a  very  good  one  as  sweepers  go.  He  is 
not  a  fair-weather  worker,  and  sticks  to  his  post  even  in  rain  and  snow. 
He  happens  to  be  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  was,  as  I  well  remember, 
the  smartest  trooper  in  my  company.  Since  then,  things  have  altered 
for  the  worse  with  both  of  us.  He  lost  a  leg  in  action,  and  retired  on  a 
pension.  I  retired,  too,  with  both  legs,  but  with  gout  badly  in  one  of 
them.  His  face  has  got  terribly  weather-beaten,  and  his  hair  grey. 
Mine  has  not  yet  whitened  permanently,  but  my  complexion  is  warmer 
than  it  used  to  be,  and  my  tailor  pads  my  coats  and  waistcoats  without 

any  express  orders  from  me. 

I  don't  like  to  see  an  old  soldier  on  the  streets  and  doing  what  is  little 

better  than  begging  his  bread — touching  his  hat  all  the  day  long  to  all 

comers,  and  getting  coppers  half  in  charity  from  morning  till  night.     It 

is  derogatory. 

"  Phil,"  I  said  to  him  one  day,  "  a  soldier  who  has  followed  the 

Queen's  colours  into  action  might  do  better  than  this." 

"  Jineral !"  he  replied,  "  I  like  my  freedom,  and  the  trade  is  a  good 

trade." 

I  could  have  got  him  entered  in  the  Corps  of  Commissionaires,  or  tried 

for  a  porter's  place  for  him  somewhere,  for  the  man  is  sober  and  honest ; 

but  he  preferred  his  own  work  and  his  own  way. 

My  outlook  upon  Phil  Kegan's  crossing  was  the  occasion  of  my  once 

seeing  out  a  little  bit  of  that  same  human  comedy  I  was  talking  about. 

It  hardly  amounts  to  a  story,  but  it  made  me  laugh  at  the  time.     I  have 

never  mentioned  the  thing  till  this  moment. 

When  I  left  my  old  regiment  I  left  in  it  a  young  fellow  who  had  just 


TWO  BEGGAKS.  343 

joined,  and  who  had  brought  good  introduetions  to  me.  I  did  not  see 
my  way  to  do  more  for  him  than  give  him  plenty  of  good  advice,  all  of 
which  he  required,  and  none  of  which  he  profited  by.  I  told  him  that  if 
he  kept  four  hunters  on  5002.  a  year  and  his  pay  he  must  inevitably  come 
to  grief.  That  guinea  pool  with  better  players  than  himself,  heavy  books 
on  a  dozen  sporting  events  in  the  twelve  months,  and  some  three  or  four 
other  pleasant  vices,  would  help  rapidly  to  the  same  result.  He  thanked 
me,  went  his  own  way,  and  very  soon  came  to  the  grief  I  had  anticipated. 
He  was  sold  up,  after  a  military  career  of  only  four  or  five  years.  A 
good-humoured  fellow,  and  every  one  was  sorry  for  him.  He  had  never 
done  anything  approaching  to  skady,  but  met  the  onslaught  of  his  justly 
exasperated  creditors  like  a  man — not  running  under  bare  poles  for 
Boulogne  harbour,  as  so  many  gentlemen  in  distress  do,  but  making 
complete  shipwreck  of  his  fortunes  like  an  honest  man.  He  never  left 
the  country  at  all,  but  added  one  more  to  that  legion  of  extraordinary 
beings  who  have  nothing  to  do,  who  pass  ten  months  of  the  year  in 
London,  and  who  live  well,  dress  well,  and  look  happy  on  absolutely 
nothing  at  all.  He  waited  for  something  to  turn  up,  and  he  waited  in 
vain.  I  don't  think  there  was  a  prison  governorship,  or  the  post  of  chief 
constable  anywhere,  or  an  inspectorship  of  almost  any  kind  vacant  during 
ten  years  that  Frank  Boldero  did  not  apply  for.  He  always  made  good 
running,  too,  and  never,  as  he  used  to  tell  us,  lost  by  more  than  a  neck ; 
but  he  did  lose,  and  remained  a  highly  ornamental  member  of  the  afore- 
said legion  of  the  unemployed  and  the  penniless. 

Boldero  and  I  have  always  been  good  friends.  I  still  give  him  good 
advice ;  he  still  smokes  my  cigars.  He  is  the  only  man  I  know  who 
ventures  to  walk  up  to  a  particular  drawer,  open  a  particular  box,  and 
take  out  a  Cabana  of  a  particular  brand  without  leave.  There  is  a  placid 
impertinence  about  the  proceeding  and  about  Boldero  generally  which 
rather  takes  me,  though  I  am  supposed  to  be  rather  a  short-tempered 
man. 

"  Confound  your  impertinence,  sir,"  I  say,  when  I  have  watched  him 
through  this  performance. 

Boldero  half  smokes  through  his  cigar  sometimes,  before  he  answers 
me,  after  a  good  look  at  the  white  ash,  and  waving  the  cigar  slowly  under 
his  nose  to  catch  the  aroma,  "  General,  don't  run  out  of  this  brand ;  I 
like  it." 

One  sees  at  once  the  sort  of  man  Boldero  is — a  lazy,  imperturbable  kind 
of  fellow,  who  takes  all  that  comes  to  him  as  his  right ;  never  did  a  day's 
work  at  anything  since  he  was  at  school,  and  lectures  every  one  all  round 
on  their  duties.  That  is  the  most  trying  thing  about  Boldero.  He  never 
does  a  thing  himself,  and  wonders  why  his  neighbours  work  no  harder. 
"  Hang  the  fellow  !  "Why  doesn't  he  stick  to  his  work  1 "  I  have  heard 
him  say  of  some  barrister  or  literary  man  with  his  hands  as  full  of 
business  as  they  can  hold. 

If  I  did  not  know  Boldero  personally,  and  any  one  described  him  to 


344  TWO  BEGGAKS. 

me  exactly  as  he  is — told  me  what  his  life  had  been  and  how  he  had 
wasted  it ;  how  he  had  had  good  chances  and  thrown  them  away ;  a  fair 
fortune  and  lost  that ;  and  now  how  he  went  on  coolly  laying  down  the 
law  for  other  people — I  should  be  indignant  at  the  thought  that  such  an 
idle,  good-for-nothing  impostor  should  cumber  the  earth.  But  the  truth 
is,  it  is  rather  difficult  not  to  like  the  man.  His  manner  is  on  his  side  ;  he 
has  a  queer  way  of  keeping  up  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face  while  he  talks, 
while  he  is  uttering  some  signal  impertinence  probably,  and  it  makes  it 
quite  impossible  to  be  offended  with  him,  or  to  take  him  up  as  he  de- 
serves to  be. 

"  Why  did  you  retire,  General,"  he  said  to  me  one  day.     "  Eh  ?  " 

"  Because  I  chose,"  I  growl  out. 

But  Boldero  is  not  to  be  snubbed. 

"  But  you  had  no  business  to  choose.  Your  duty  was  to  stay. 
Who  is  to  lead  us  if  we  have  to  fight  the  Russians  \ " — All  this  with  a 
sweet  smile. 

I  groan. 

"  You  should  have  heard  what  a  lot  of  us  were  saying  yesterday  at 
the  Club.  All  the  fellows  agreed  that  you  were  the  right  man." 

"  Confound  them  all  for  a  set  of  asses." 

He  shakes  his  head,  and  his  smile  still  lingers  on  his  face.  Never 
in  my  life  have  I  come  across  such  a  mixture  of  amiability  and  im- 
pertinence. 

One  rainy  day  in  November,  Boldero  and  I  were  looking  out  of  the 
window  together.  He  was  waiting  to  keep  one  of  his  numerous  appoint- 
ments with  ministers  and  other  people  high  in  office.  There  was  an 
inspectorship  vacant,  and  he  was  looking  after  it.  Phil  Kegan  was 
working  double  tides  that  day  in  the  cold  sleet  and  drizzle,  running  back- 
wards and  forwards  with  every  well-dressed  foot  passenger,  touching  his 
hat  innumerable  times,  escorting  old  ladies  and  children,  waving  back  cabs 
and  carriages  from  his  charges — sweeping,  talking,  bowing,  all  at  once. 

"  Look  at  that  poor  devil,"  said  Boldero,  "  begging  for  his  bread, — 
it's  an  infernal  life,  eh  ? " 

"  It's  his  own  choice  after  all." 

"  Some  fellows  won't  do  an  honest  hard  day's  work  if  you  pay  them 
for  it." 

"  Hang  it  all !     The  work's  hard  enough  and  honest  enough." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  hard,  but  it's  begging." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Boldero,"  I  say,  a  little  out  of  patience  with  him, 
"  it  may  be  begging ;  but  that  fellow,  Phil,  has  done  more  real  work  in 
the  ten  minutes  we  have  looked  at  him  than  you  have  since  I  knew  you." 

Boldero  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  He  never  takes  in  this  sort  of 
personal  argument ;  and  presently  he  borrowed  an  umbrella  and  walked 
off  to  keep  his  appointment. 

I  watched  him  over  the  crossing.  I  saw  him  stop  in  the  rain  (with 
my  umbrella  over  his  head)  and  talk  to  Phil  Kegan  as  he  very  often  did, 


TWO  BEGGAKS.  345 

for  the  man  had  been  his  servant  in  the  regiment ;  but  he  did  not,  as  he 
generally  did,  tip  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  buttoned  up  his  great  coat 
rather  ostentatiously,  shaking  his  head  the  while.  I  guessed  that  poor 
Phil  was  getting  a  lecture  on  his  duties. 

In  about  two  hours  Boldero  came  back.  He  had  told  me  he  would 
look  in  to  say  how  he  got  on.  I  never  saw  him  so  "  down  "  before.  He 
slided  into  an  arm-chair  in  a  very  limp  attitude  without  a  word,  and  his 
hat  slided,  too,  in  a  dejected  way  to  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  Well  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Lost  by  a  head  again ;  and  the  very  place  I  wanted — comfortable, 
fair  pay,  a  house,  coals  and  candles,  very  little  work — none  to  speak  of. 
Damn  it  all !  Isn't  it  enough  to  make  a  man  swear  ? " 

There  was  no  smiling  about  Boldero  this  time.  Then  he  told  me  how 
it  had  happened. 

"  The  old  fellow,  you  know,  is  sort  of  uncle  by  marriage,  so  I  could 
speak  pretty  freely  to  him.  I  told  him  this  made  about  the  fifth  in- 
spectorship I  had  asked  him  or  his  predecessor  for.  '  'Pon  my  soul,'  I 
said  to  him,  '  it's  too  bad ;'  but  he  didn't  seem  to  see  it.  What  claims 
had  I  got,  he  wanted  to  know,  more  than  that  I  was  always  asking, 
and  my  friends  were  always  asking  for  me.  '  Well,'  I  said,  '  what  more 
do  you  want  ?  Doesn't  Lord  Button  ask  it  as  a  special  favour  ?  The 
Button  influence  is  good  influence,  surely  ? '  But  he  talked  about  my 
being  an  untried  man.  I  might  be  fit;  I  might  not  be.  Then  there  was 
Chub  in  the  lists  among  others.  Chub  had  worked  all  his  life  in  that 
line.  How  could  he  refuse  Chub  ?  Chub  knew  all  about  the  work. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  Chub's  fitness.  If  he  refused  Chub  there 
would  be  an  outcry." 

"  Look  here,  Frank,  old  man,"  I  said,  interrupting  him,  "  this  won't 
do,  you  know.  They  don't  mean  to  give  you  anything.  Why  should 
they  1  What's  the  good  of  talking  about  the  Button  influence  ?  Things 
are  not  managed  that  way  now.  Lord  Button  doesn't  carry  half-a-dozen 
boroughs  about  in  his  pocket  as  his  grandfather  did.  I  know  a  bigger 
man  than  Lord  Button,  who  tried  at  everything  for  his  favourite  nephew, 
a  goodish  man,  too,  and  had  to  fall  back  upon  a  club  secretaryship  for 
him  at  last.  If  you  want  to  turn  an  honest  penny,  Frank,  you  must 
work  for  it,  and  work  hard." 

Boldero  groaned,  and  collapsed  still  further  into  his  chair.  "  You  make 
my  blood  run  cold,"  he  said. 

"  It's  no  good  praying  and  begging  for  a  good  place  and  nothing  to  do. 
You  won't  get  it,  and  you'll  only  feel  mean.  There's  the  press  on  the 
watch,  and  public  opinion.  Jobbery  and  nepotism  and  all  that  are  gone 
things  in  these  days." 

"  You  bet  they're  not ! "  said  Boldero,  rousing  up  a  little. 
"  Frank,  my  boy,  there's  just  one  chance  for  you — emigration.  Scrape 
together  what  you  have  left,  go  to  New  Zealand,  and  join  your  brother 
there.     They  tell  me  he  is  making  his  pile." 

17—5 


346  TWO  BEGGAES. 

Boldero  only  shook  his  head.  I  was  really  sorry  for  him.  He  seemed 
so  completely  knocked  over. 

"  Got  any  of  those  bitters  left  ?  "  he  asked,  when  I  had  finished  my 
lecture.  "  I  think  I  want  a  pick-up." 

I  rang  for  a  glass  of  sherry  bitters.  Boldero  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
sauntered  half-mechanically  towards  the  drawer  with  the  box  of  particular 
Cabanas,  took  one,  lit  it,  and  walked  listlessly  towards  the  window.  We 
looked  out  together.  The  rain  had  stopped ;  the  wind  had  got  up.  It 
was  a  cheerless  day.  Phil  Kegan  had  turned  up  his  collar,  and  looked 
miserable.  Still  he  worked  on  with  a  will. 

"  Poor  devil !"  said  Boldero ;  "  but  he  doesn't  know  what  it  is  to  have 
nothing  to  do  and  nothing  to  look  to.  It's  a  nasty  feeling  that,  General." 

Wayfarers  were  getting  scarcer.  We  watched  an  old  lady  with  a 
pug  come  over  the  crossing  ;  a  stout  old  gentleman  with  a  gold-headed 
cane  ;  a  fishmonger's  man  with  a  tray  of  whitings  ;  a  telegraph  boy  who 
rang  at  my  door. 

My  servant  presently  came  in  with  the  bitters  and  a  telegram  on  a 
tray.  The  telegram  was  for  Boldero. 

"  Boy  came  on  from  your  club,  sir,"  the  man  said,  as  he  handed  Boldero 
the  telegram  and  wineglass  together. 

He  took  the  glass  first  and  drank  slowly  and  critically. 

"  What  bitters  are  those,  General,  eh  ? " 

"  Chiretta." 

"  I  thought  so.  It's  the  best  tonic  going.  Take  a  glass  three  times 
a  day  before  meals.  It'll  wind  you  up  like  a  clock.  I  shall  try  it  myself, 
I  think.  I  am  just  one  peg  low." 

"  Try  quinine,"  I  suggested. 

He  put  his  glass  down,  and  took  up  the  yellow  telegram  envelope. 

"  Some  lie  from  the  stables,"  he  said,  opening  it  contemptuously.  "  If 
it  is  a  good  thing,  what's  the  use  when  a  man  can't  swim  to  it  ? " 

"Halloo  !  I  say,  General,  what's  this  ?  '  Chub  ' — I  say,  by  Jove  ! 
Look  here, — '  Chub  has  declined.  I  offer  the  post  to  you.'  " 

We  simply  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed.  Why  do  men  always 
laugh  in  this  inane  way,  I  wonder,  when  they  are  pleased  ?  I  was  un- 
commonly glad,  I  must  say,  and  Boldero  looked  happy.  It  seemed  to 
pick  him  up  a  good  deal  more  than  the  bitters.  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  hit  him  on  the  back  as  one  does  on  these  occasions.  He  did  not  say 
much,  but  I  could  see  that  a  vision  of  the  good  house,  the  easy  work,  the 
coal  and  candles,  was  passing  pleasantly  through  his  mind. 

"  It  suits  me,  you  know,"  he  said  presently,  with  great  seriousness. 
"  By  Jove,  sir,  it  suits  me  down  to  the  ground." 

Presently  Boldero  went  off,  but  he  came  back  before  he  got  to  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  I  say,  General,  will  you  lend  me  a  sov.?" 

I  gave  him  a  sovereign.  It  made  either  the  twenty-sixth  or  the 
twenty-seventh. 


TWO  BEGGARS.  347 

"  I  say,  you  haven't  got  an  old  great  coat  for  Phil  Kegan,  have  you  ] 
He  must  be  frightfully  cold  out  there,  you  know." 

"  No,  I  give  all  my  things  to  my  own  man." 

"  Good-bye,  old  fellow,"  and  he  disappeared. 

I  had  the  curiosity  to  watch  him  as  he  left.  I  saw  him  slip  my 
sovereign  into  Phil  Regan's  hand.  I  know  it  was  not  a  shilling,  for  I 
saw  the  colour  of  the  gold. 

Certainly  there  is  a  rudimentary  conscience  about  Frank  Boldero,  and 
he  is  not  half  a  bad  fellow  at  heart. 

JOHN  DANGEBFIELD. 


348 


j&esnm  Sifte  0f 


To  Jerome  Cardan,  the  celebrated  physician,  mathematician  and  astrologer, 
posterity  is  indebted  for  one  remark  at  least  in  which  he  appears  to  have 
sacrificed  a  familiar  truth  to  an  ambition  of  epigrammatic  exactitude. 
In  his  Treatise  on  Wisdom  the  Milan  doctor  tells  us  that  the  wise 
man  is  happy,  and  the  happy  man  wise.  Both  parts  of  this  apophthegm 
seem  equally  open  to  exception.  The  former  indeed  is  contradicted  not 
only  by  scriptural  authority,  but  by  his  own  example.  Solomon,  or  the 
Alexandrian  Jew,  or  whoever  wrote  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes,  found 
much  wisdom  to  be  much  grief,  and  laid  it  down  as  a  general  proposition 
that  he  who  increases  knowledge  increases  sorrow.  The  most  cursory 
examination  of  Cardan's  biography  will  show  this  first  of  astrologers  to 
have  been  himself  the  victim,  mainly  in  consequence  of  his  learned 
labour,  of  slander  and  conspiracy,  of  poverty  and  imprisonment,  of  insult 
and  exile.  Surely  at  last  must  he  have  learnt  of  the  familiar  demon,  by 
whom  the  enlightened  public  of  his  time  supposed  him  ever  attended, 
that  erudition  is  a  thing  not  to  be  desired  by  him  who  has  it  not,  while 
be  who  has  it  should  regard  it  as  a  jewel  purchased  at  a  great  price,  and 
only  to  be  preserved  with  constant  care  and  danger. 

From  the  time  of  Homer,  if  we  may  believe  in  his  existence,  to  that 
of  Chatterton — from  the  days  of  the  old  vagrant,  blind,  and  a  beggar,  to 
those  of  the  indigent  and  afflicted  poet  who  poisoned  himself  before  he 
was  eighteen  with  a  dose  of  arsenic,  history  has  never  been  at  a  loss 
for  examples  of  the  calamities  of  a  learned  life.  Numerous  as  the  leaves 
iu  Vallombrosa's  plain  are  the  names  of  the  men  who  have  found  much 
study  something  more  than  a  weariness  of  the  flesh.  Are  they  not 
written  in  the  books  of  the  Chronicles  of  Valerian  and  Cornelius  Tollius, 
of  Gabriel  Naude  and  Isaac  Disraeli  1  Ancients  and  moderns,  poets, 
philosophers,  orators  and  historians,  over  and  over  again  their  weep- 
ing ghosts  are  summoned  to  warn  us  of  the  evils  attached  to  a  literary 
life.  We  learn  that  Pythagoras  was  burnt  or  starved,  that  Empedocles 
cast  himself  into  ^Etna,  or  was  taken  up  into  heaven  like  Enoch,  or 
translated  alive  like  Elijah  without  any  warning;  that  Euripides  was 
torn  to  pieces  by  dogs  or  women  set  on  him  by  the  envy  of  his  rivals ; 
that  Aristotle,  il  maestro  di  color  che  sanno,  drowned  himself  in  the  Euri- 
pus,  owing  to  his  inability  to  explain  the  causes  of  its  currents  ;  that  De- 
mosthenes drank  poison  in  order  to  escape  slavery  ;  that  Lucretius  was 
maddened  by  a  love  potion  of  Hippomanes  administered  by  a  too  devoted 
wife  ;  that  Tully  had  his  head  cut  off;  that  Seneca  and  Lucan  died  from 
excessive  self-inflicted  phlebotomy,  and  that  Terence  when  a  young  man 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTERS.  349 

pined  away  from  grief  at  a  loss  by  sea  of  his  Translations  of  Menander. 
Such  men  as  these  are  the  coryphaei  of  old,  the  moons  of  literature ;  how 
many  of  the  lesser  lights  have  untimely  died,  blown  out  by  the  rude 
gusts  of  circumstance  1  What  a  fry  of  literary  folk  has  perished  by  fire 
or  famine,  poison  or  the  sword,  whose  meaner  names  are  all1  too  numerous 
to  be  enrolled  in  Libitina's  records  of  the  famous  dead  !  Nor  are  modem 
writers  a  whit  more  lucky.  The  ordeal  of  flame,  the  mighty  purifier  of 
books  and  men  in  the  middle  ages,  has  burnt  more  than  Savonarola  and 
Urban  Grandier ;  suicide  seduced  more  than  Carey  and  Creech ;  madness 
befooled  more  than  Collins  and  Cowper ;  imprisonment  fettered  more 
than  Davenant  and  De  Foe.  The  innumerous  victims  of  poverty  and 
her  family  in  every  age  among  the  herd  of  learned  moderns,  those  who 
have  fought  with  famine  and  wrestled  with  disease,  and  contended  with 
insult,  show,  whatever  Dryden  may  have  supposed  to  the  contrary,  that 
it  has  never  been  enough  for  any  one  age  to  have  "  neglected  its  Mr.  Cow- 
ley  and  starved  its  Mr.  Butler."  He  who  runs  may  read  of  the  leanness 
of  Edmund  Castell,  and  of  the  rats  that  battened  on  his  Polyglot  Bible ; 
of  Robert  Greene,  who  was  only  saved  by  a  chance  charity  from  starva- 
tion in  the  public  street ;  of  Simon  Ockley,  dating  his  letters  from  Cam- 
bridge Castle,  where  he  was  confined  for  debt ;  and  of  Sale,  the  well- 
known  translator  of  the  Kuran,  borrowing  alternately  a  shilling  and  a 
shirt.  Many  more  than  Toland  have  found  philosophy  an  unprofitable 
study  ;  many  more  than  Churchyard  poetry  barren  of  reward.  Toland, 
the  English  Lope  in  fertility  of  production,  and  a  greater  than  Lope  in 
variety  of  talent,  died,  we  are  told,  in  the  utmost  distress  in  a  room  he 
rented  of  a  poor  carpenter  at  Putney.  Tom  Churchyard,  Spenser's  Palse- 
mon,  singing  until  he  grew  hoarse  while  alive,  made  little  money  by  it, 
but  when  dead  pointed  an  excellent  moral  in  the  following  ragged  rhyme 
which  composed  his  epitaph — 

Poverty  and  poetry  his  tomb  doth  enclose  ; 
Wherefore,  good  neighbours,  be  merry  in  prose. 

Those  afflicted  with  poverty  among  the  learned  are  not  so  scarce  that 
Dr.  Johnson  need  have  coupled,  in  his  two  instances  in  the  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes,  Lydiat  with  Galileo.  Lydiat  was  a  man  so  little  known 
that  the  printers  seem  to  have  substituted  Lydia,  and  we  read  in  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  of  a  correspondent  asking  for  information  about 
Lydia's  life.  The  allusion  to  this  learned  scholar  was,  according  to  Dis- 
raeli, a  matter  of  mystery  to  Boswell  himself.  Poverty  is,  indeed,  so 
common  a  colour  in  the  patchwork  of  woes  which  is  often  the  only  coat 
of  the  wise  for  themselves  not  wise,  that  it  may  be  considered  the  rule 
rather  than  the  exception  of  their  lives,  and  has  been,  therefore,  not  in- 
congruously called  Learning's  Sister. 

Besides  the  greater  evils  of  suicide  and  exile,  poverty  and  imprison- 
ment, sorrows  worthy  of  the  tragic  buskin,  we  read  of  the  exposition  of 
authors  to  the  minor  miseries  of  injustice,  mockery,  and  contempt.  Their 


350  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES. 

•works  are  admired,  but  they  themselves  are  dishonoured.  When  they  ask 
for  bread,  they  are  presented  after  some  little  indignant  delay  with  a  stone. 
Mellow  fruits  are  offered  to  their  manes,  but  they  themselves  dine  on 
bitter  herbs.  An  ungrateful  public,  careless  as  the  revellers  of  ancient 
Egypt,  worships  the  gods,  while  the  gaunt  god-makers  are  spurned  from 
their  marble  thresholds.  To  these  unhappy  ones  fortune  behaves,  we  are 
told,  like  a  terrible  stepmother,  and  when  not  engaged  in  preparing  for 
them  a  potion  of  lurid  aconite,  assiduously  persecutes  them  with  the 
arrows  of  calumny  and  abuse.  Such  are  a  few  of  the  misfortunes  of  the 
learned  which  books  record.  But  in  these  things,  as  in  all  others,  how 
difficult  it  is  to  ascertain  the  truth !  There  is  disagreement  even  in 
books.  Aristotle,  for  instance,  according  to  some  of  these,  so  far  from 
committing  suicide  in  despair  of  ascertaining  the  cause  of  the  currents  of 
the  Euripus,  died  of  a  chronic  disorder  in  his  stomach ;  and  our  tears  are 
scarcely  dried  from  off  our  faces  after  reading  in  one  volume  how  the 
hungry  Otway  choked  himself  with  the  first  bite  of  a  penny  roll — a  cir- 
cumstance which,  for  some  reason,  as  mysterious  as  his  ultimate  employ- 
ment of  orange  peel,  Dr.  Johnson  was  unwilling  to  mention — when  we 
read  in  another,  on  the  authority  of  Dr.  Doran,  that  he  was  killed  by  a 
cup  of  cold  water,  injudiciously  drunk  by  him  when  overheated.  Pope 
says  the  poet  died  of  a  fever  occasioned  by  his  exertions  in  the  pursuit  of 
a  thief.  And  yet  another  version  of  the  story  declares,  with  at  least 
equal  likelihood  of  unequal  politeness,  that  Otway  was  not  the  pursuer 
but  the  pursued. 

The  deaths  of  literary  men  have  often  met  with  a  poetical  treatment, 
in  which  such  discordant  accounts  are  given  by  various  artists  as 
remind  the  perplexed  reader  of  the  series  of  contradictory  circum- 
stances represented  as  attendant  upon  the  funeral  of  Dryden.  To  take 
a  single  instance.  French  and  Italian  histories  of  men  of  letters  owe  no 
trifling  debt  to  Goldsmith  for  some  information  about  authors  of  their 
respective  nations  of  which  they  appear  to  have  been  grossly  igno- 
rant. In  his  Citizen  of  the  World  he  informs  his  readers  that  Vaugelas 
was  surnamed  the  Owl  from  his  being  obliged  to  keep  in  all  day  and 
daring  to  venture  'out  only  at  night,  through  fear  of  his  creditors,  and 
that  he  was  exceptionally  honest  enough  to  order  his  body  to  be  sold 
for  their  benefit.  He  is  represented  as  saying,  "  If  I  could  not  while 
living,  at  least  when  dead  I  may  be  useful."  Not  a  word  of  all  this 
appears  in  the  best  French  Biographies.  Equally  oblivious  have  Italian 
editors  been  of  Bentivoglio's  ultimate  mishap.  "  Bentivoglio,  poor  Ben- 
tivoglio  !  "  so  mourns  the  man  of  whom,  says  Macaiilay,  strict  veracity 
was  never  one  of  the  virtues,  chiefly  demands  our  pity.  The  author 
whose  comedies,  we'are  informed,  will  last  with  the  Italian  language,  dis- 
sipated, according  to  honest  Goldsmith,  whom  Boswell  loved  to  hear  talk- 
ing away  carelessly,  a  noble  fortune  in  acts  of  charity  and  benevolence  ; 
but,  falling  into  misery  in  his  old  age,  was  refused  admittance  into  a  hos- 
pital which  he  himself  had  erected. 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES.  351 

What,  however,  Goldsmith  says  concerning  the  circumstances  of  the 
death  of  Frangois  Cassandre,  the  translator  of  Aristotle's  Rhetoric,  seems  to 
be  generally  supported.  Cassandre  was  Boileau's  Damon,  the  great  author 
who  amused  for  so  long  both  town  and  country,  but  at  last,  tired  of  losing 
in  rhyming  both  his  labour  and  his  means  of  living,  of  borrowing  every- 
where and  earning  nought,  without  clothes,  money,  or  resources,  made  his 
exit  overwhelmed  with  misery.  The  deathbed  scenes  of  such  men  as  Vol- 
taire and  Payne  are  not  invariably  drawn  in  the  same  way.  The  philo- 
sophic version  represents  them  passing  quietly  in  contemplative  repose ;  in 
the  religious  tract  they  utter  wild  cries  for  a  clergyman,  and  end  their 
infidel  existence  in  raging  convulsions  of  unutterable  horror  and  remorse. 
Many  a  literary  sceptic  has  been  stuck  up  in  the  garden  of  the  true  be- 
liever as  a  theological  scarecrow  or  Aunt  Sally  who  died,  it  may  be,  with 
more  placidity  than  the  most  pious  and  orthodox  of  Christians.  There  are 
those  who  believe  that  the  Earl  of  Rochester  did  not  use  his  last  breath  in 
denouncing  Hobbes'  philosophy.  Even  the  expiring  exclamation  of  Pitt  is 
considered  a  fable  by  Macaulay.  The  affecting  "  0  my  country  !  "  is 
relegated  by  that  historian  to  the  region  of  Grub-street  elegies  and  after- 
dinner  speeches,  prize  declamations  arid  Academic  poems.  The  li ves  no 
less  than  the  deaths  of  men  of  letters  have  been  embroidered  by  the  hand 
of  the  artist.  Their  fame  has  brought  into  bold  relief  such  evils  as  are 
to  no  class  of  men  exclusively  peculiar.  The  motes  of  dust  which  are 
universal  are  seen  most  distinctly  in  the  sunbeam. 

"  Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron  and  the  gaol,"  including  the  "garret," 
for  which  the  "patron"  was  substituted  by  Johnson  as  a  delicate  compli- 
ment to  Chesterfield,  assail  other  lives  than  that  of  the  scholar.  These 
ills  are  unhappily  not  confined  to  men  of  letters.  They  are  of  the 
thousand  shocks  to  which  all  human  flesh  is  heir.  They  are  the  com- 
mon calamities  to  which  the  universal  race  of  man  is  born.  It  is  not 
the  author  alone  who  is  subject  to  defamation.  Other  labourers  than 
those  in  the  field  of  letters,  as  worthy  or  worthier,  are  defrauded  of  their 
hire.  Disease  and  despair  are  the  lot  of  fools  as  well  as  of  philosophers. 
There  is  no  reason,  because  a  man  has  written  a  book,  that  he  should  be 
exempt  any  more  than  the  peer  and  the  peasant,  the  king  and  the  cob- 
bler, from  ache,  penury,  imprisonment,  and  other  whips  and  scorns  of 
time,  or  be  released  from  the  unalterable  conditions  of  suffering  humanity. 
In  the  enumeration  of  the  sorrows  of  a  literary  man  as  opposed  to  other 
men  only  those  should  enter  which  naturally  arise  from  the  profession  of 
letters  and  are  beyond  his  own  control.  Not  of  this  kind  are  his  most 
frequent  assailants — the  blindness  of  pride,  the  infection  of  envy,  the  sting 
of  ambition,  the  sickness  of  evil-speaking,  the  weight  of  avarice,  and  the 
deformity  of  strife. 

Particular  trades  have  certain  well-defined  injurious  tendencies,  aris- 
ing from  the  absorption  into  the  artisan's  system  of  mineral,  vegetable  or 
animal  molecules,  from  constrained  posture,  from  insufficient  exercise  of 
the  body,  or  too  great  use  of  any  portion  of  it.  The  plumber's  colic  is 


352  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES. 

traceable  to  the  action  of  the  white  lead  with  which  he  works;  the 
painter's  cough,  the  grinder's  rot,  the  chimney-sweep's  cancer  or  soot- 
wart,  originate  in  nothing  but  their  respective  professions.  The  amaurosis 
of  the  founder  and  the  watchmaker's  myopia  are  the  result  in  ninety-nine 
cases  in  a  hundred  of  the  naming  forge  and  the  magnifying  lens.  The 
chief  ills  which  appear  necessarily  to  result  from  a  constant  devotion  to 
literature  may  be  reduced  ultimately  to  a  want  of  exercise  or  of  fresh  air, 
to  a  confined  position  of  the  body,  or  a  too  ardent  exercise  of  the  brain. 
But  the  three  first  of  these  inconveniences  are  also  common  to  the  tailor 
and  the  cobbler,  and  the  whole  of  them  to  the  city  clerk.  There  are  not 
then  any  ills  exclusively  proper  to  the  literary  man.  No  sole  right  has 
he  in  any  bodily  or  mental  suffering.  The  calamities  of  the  man  of 
letters  are  those  of  the  individual,  not  of  the  occupation.  It  is  scarcely 
fair  to  attribute  Prynne's  cropped  ears  to  his  numerous  citations  on  the 
unloveliness  of  lovelocks.  Toland's  Pantheisticon  and  his  Tetradymus, 
with  all  his  other  numerous  publications,  cannot  be  convicted  of  bringing 
him  to  his  death  in  the  poor  carpenter's  room  at  Putney,  if,  indeed,  it 
was  the  carpenter's,  for  there  are  who  say  the  whole  house  was  his  own. 
The  spirit  which  promoted  his  very  first  work,  Christianity  not  Mys- 
terious, might  have  brought  him  to  equal  or  greater  grief  had  he  never 
written  a  line.  It  was  desistance  from  study,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson, 
that  led  to  the  madness  of  Swift.  Was  Steele's  distress  the  result  of  his 
Christian  Hero,  or  his  Conscious  Lovers,  rather  than  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  his  speculative  scheming,  and  careless  generosity  1  The  morbid 
tone  and  dissipated  habits  of  Collins,  and  not  the  composition  of  the  Ode 
to  the  Passions,  or  the  Dirge  in  Cymbeline,  conducted  him  to  his  sad 
state  of  mental  imbecility.  Henry  Carey,  whether  or  no  he  had  written 
the  ballad  of  Sally  in  our  Alley,  which  was  praised  by  Addison,  and 
the  music  of  God  Save  the  Queen,  which  excited  the  admiration  of 
Gemminiani,  would  probably  have  been  unable  to  procure  for  the  day 
its  daily  bread.  If  he  had  been  neither  dramatist,  poet,  nor  musician, 
his  head  would  have  been  still  houseless.  It  were  a  sleeveless  tale  to 
say  that  the  drama  of  Chrononhotontologos  caused  him  to  cast  forth  his 
hated  life  by  hanging  himself  in  his  house  at  Coldbath  Fields. 

Minerva,  said  an  able  etymologist,  is  so  called,  quia  minuat  nervos. 
Excess  of  study  is  of  course,  like  any  other  excess,  prejudicial  to  the 
system.  The  pursuit  of  letters,  if  carried  beyond  a  certain  point,  is,  like 
other  pursuits,  attended  by  physical  inconveniences.  These,  which  have 
been  greatly  magnified,  ultimately  result,  as  has  been  already  said,  from 
one  of  two  causes — too  much  exercise  of  the  mind,  or  too  little  exercise 
of  the  body.  Insanity  or  indigestion,  a  disordered  head  or  a  disordered 
stomach,  are  the  avenging  Erinnyes  of  the  lucubrations  of  literary 
libertinism.  But  the  belly  suffers  far  more  often  than  the  brain.  How 
many  men  sit  before  their  books  day  after  clay,  immovable  as  the  un- 
happy Indian  Fakirs  before  their  gods,  deranging  their  animal  economy 
without  any  advantage  to  themselves  or  society  !  How  many  of  these 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES.  353 

sedentary  victims  lose  their  appetite  without  increasing  their  intelligence ! 
How  many,  without  improving  their  discernment,  destroy  their  digestion! 
These  are  they  whom  Melancholy  follows  like  a  shadow,  having  marked 
them  for  her  own.  No  need  for  them  to  drink  the  bloodless  cumin.  The 
least  intemperate  of  them  from  excessive  sensibility  serves  as  a  living 
barometer,  and  is  purged  of  bile  at  much  less  seldom  intervals  than 
Horace.  The  most  intemperate  is  a  martyr,  if  we  may  believe  physicians, 
to  sleeplessness  and  somnambulism,  to  convulsions  and  catalepsy.  These 
men  have  been  known  to  sink,  in  a  comparative  short  period,  from  a 
voluminous  constitution  to  nonagenarian  caducity.  Nay,  they  will  even 
die  away  like  a  lamp,  from  wasting  their  light  of  life  solely  in  the  ser- 
vice of  an  ungrateful  public.  From  time  to  time  learned  receipts  have 
been  given  regarding  a  scholar's  diet.  But  these  bookworms  will  have 
none  of  them.  They  will  not  even  follow  the  example  of  Aristotle,  and 
bear  about  constantly  on  their  belly,  in  order  to  assist  digestion,  a  bladder 
of  aromatic  oil.  They  will  not  confine  their  food  to  milk  and  rice,  eggs 
and  oysters,  fruit  and  farina.  Illustrious  examples  are  theirs,  if  they 
would  but  follow  them.  Anacreon  is  said,  during  his  latter  years,  to  have 
lived  on  a  regimen  of  raisins ;  Newton  on  bread  and  water,  with  wine 
and  boiled  chicken  on  some  infrequent  opportunity  of  festal  cheer.  But 
at  least  let  the  student  beware  of  bacon,  and  cream,  and  cider.  Nor 
are  sheep's  trotters  ordinarily  adapted  to  his  digestive  powers.  Tea  is 
little  likely  to  lengthen  literary  days  ;  and  a  sucking-pig,  especially  with 
mustard  and  pepper,  is  a  very  Pandora's  box  of  ills,  in  which  not  even 
Hope  remains  behind. 

Wealth  is  not  the  exclusive  appanage  of  fools,  nor  want  only  to  be 
found  among  the  wise.  Nor  is  the  latter  altogether  that  night  without  a 
dawn.  The  res  angusta  domi  has  not  seldom  been  an  occasion  of  wide 
reputation  abroad.  Riches,  we  know  on  good  authority,  rather  slacken 
virtue  than  urge  it  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise.  They  certainly  abate 
the  edge  of  intelligent  endeavour,  and  wisdom  is  more  often  the  result  of 
poverty,  than  poverty  the  result  of  wisdom.  But  for  poverty,  the  hand- 
maiden of  philosophy,  the  midwife  of  genius,  the  founder  of  all  arts,  as  of 
the  Roman  empire,  Horace  had  probably  lived  like  the  summer  fly. 
What  had  the  world  known  of  his  Songs  and  his  Satires,  had  he  not 
been  compelled,  as  he  himself  avers,  to  make  verses  in  consequence  of 
the  loss  of  his  hereditary  estate  after  the  battle  of  Pharsalia  ?  He  whose 
purse  is  full  of  cobwebs  will  be  ready  to  sing  before  a  robber — or  publisher, 
if,  as  Byron  is  recorded  to  have  done  in  his  presentation  copy  of  the 
Bible,  we  may  substitute  the  one  for  the  other.  The  vast  cloud  of  those 
who  have  followed  Horace's  example  cannot  all  be  expected  to  attain 
success.  Some  few  there  must  certainly  be  who,  like  Maevius,  for  all 
their  moiling,  merit  rather  the  birch  than  the  bags.  Some  few  there 
must  be  to  whom  the  animadversion  of  the  fox  in  Phsedrus  may  be  well 
applied :  0  quanta  species  cerebrum  non  habet.  To  insert  these  as 
examples  of  the  indigence  resulting  from  the  profession  of  literature 


354  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTERS. 

seems  as  inconsiderate  as  the  insertion  of  such  a  man  as  Xylander,  one 
particular  star  in  the  milky  way  of  unfortunate  men  of  letters,  whose 
light  has  lately  for  a  while  shone  with  less  feeble  lustre. 

William  Holtzmann,  who,  following  the  fashion  of  his  time,  chose  to 
call  himself  Xylander,  the  Greek  equivalent  of  his  name,  was  a  professor  of 
that  language  at  Heidelberg,  in  the  middle  of  the   sixteenth  century. 
Schoolboys  should  hold  him  in  especial  veneration,  for  he  was  the  first  to 
adorn  the  mathematical  amenities  of  Euclid  with  a  modern  tongue.     Of 
the  number,  indeed,  of  his  translations  from  the  Greek,  as  of  those  of 
Marolles,  there   appears  no  end.     He  translated  Plutarch  and  Polybius. 
He  translated  Dion  Cassius  and  Strabo.     It  is  difiicult  to  understand 
what  moved  him  to  this  wholesale  metamorphosis.     He  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  driven  to  it  by  any  absence  of  substantial  nourishment.     He 
was  poor,  but  by  no  means  destitute.     Certainly  he  was  in  the  condition 
of  Sir  Slingsby  Bethel  in  Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  "  Cold  was 
his  kitchen,  but  his  brains  were  hot,"  yet  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
his  having  a  fire  in  it  had  he  so  chosen.     It  can  only  be  said  that  he  was 
infected  with  the  itch  of  writing.     He  wearied  others  with  every  revolv- 
ing year,  himself  he  could  not  weary.     But  he  died  at  a  comparatively 
early  age.     Much  sympathy  has  folded  him  about  like  a  garment.     He 
was  far  from  a  total  abstainer.     He  was  a  learned  man,  says  the  elder 
Scaliger,  but  how  often  he  got  drunk  !     His  death  was  hastened  appa- 
rently in  equal  proportions  by  ardent  labour  and  ardent  liquors.     He 
left,  it  is  almost  needless  to  add,  nothing  behind  him  but  his  reputation, 
and  to  his  widow  and  children,  if  he  had  either,  the  payment  of  his 
debts.     Such   a   man  as   this  seems  scarcely  a  suitable  example  to  be 
quoted  in  the  calamities  of  authors.     Even  granting  that  the  love  for 
literature  was  the  primary  cause  of  his  poverty,  though  there  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  he  would  have  become  rich  in  any  other  profession, 
yet  undoubtedly  his  straitened  circumstances  were  made  still  more  strait 
by  his  love  of  strong  drink,  just  as  the  painter  or  grinder  increases  the 
inflammation  of  the  disease  to  which  his  trade  subjects  him  by  his  own 
individual  intemperance. 

The  reader  of  the  Iliad  of  sorrows  which  are  supposed  to  be  attendant 
on  learning,  after  rejecting  idle  gossip,  and  discriminating  between  coin- 
cidence and  cause  and  effect,  should  remember  that  nothing  is  on  every 
side  blessed,  and  that  the  seasons  of  sunshine  in  literary  as  in  other  life, 
though  less  noticed,  are  not  perhaps  more  infrequent  than  those  of  storm. 
If  Camoens  died  on  a  vetchy  bed  in  a  hospital,  and  Tasso  languished 
in  a  loathly  dungeon,  Voltaire,  on  the  other  hand,  passed  a  happy  time 
of  it  with  his  niece  at  Ferney,  and  Goethe  was  the  pet  of  the  Court  at 
"Weimar.  Against  the  list  of  \ingenerous  patrons  may  be  set  in  opposi- 
tion the  names  of  Mecsenas  and  Pollio,  of  Leo  and  the  Medici  at  Florence, 
of  Louis  XIV.  in  France,  of  Halifax,  the  protector  of  the  Whigs,  and 
Oxford,  of  the  Tories,  in  England.  If  Spenser  died  for  lack  of  bread,  as 
was  asserted  by  Ben  Jonson,  Chaucer  had  his  annuity  from  the  royal 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEBS.  355 

exchequer,  besides  his  pitcher  of  wine ;  and  he  who  reads  of  Butler's  death 
being  a  greater  scandal  than  his  poem  on  the  age  in  which  he  wrote,  may 
also  read  of  Nat.  Lee  being  supported  in  Bedlam  by  the  bounty  of  James 
II.     If  the  greatest  philologist  of  his  age  earned  his  livelihood  by  the 
lowest  literary  drudgery  in  the  time  of  Pitt,  Crabbe  profited  by  the 
liberality  of  Burke,  and  Scott  by  that  of  his  political  enemy,  Lord  Grey. 
If  the  son  of  Chatham  left  Cowper  to  starve,  Burns  gauged  ale  firkins  at 
70£.  a  year,  owing  to  the  munificence  of  Dundas.     If  Tonson  gave  the 
sum  we  wot  of  to  Dryden  for  his  10,000  verses,  Andrew  Millar,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  the  Mecsenas  of  literature ;  if  Rare  Ben  Jonson  received 
only  201.  for  all  his  works,  what  was  the  sum  received  by  Miss  Dash  for 
her   last  new  novel?  if  Douglas   Jerrold  got  only  IQL  for  Black-Eyed 
Susan,  the  brilliant  farces  of  the  present  ^fetch  more  than  forty  times 
that  amount ;  if  the  Paradise  Lost  of  John  Milton  was  sold  for  51.,  was 
not  Mrs.  Rundell's  Domestic  Cookery  sold  for  2,000£  ?     Nor,  indeed,  is 
the  price  paid  by  the  publisher  for  a  work  invariably  all  that  the  author 
gets  by  it.     Many  have  baited  their  hook  for  subscribers,  before  and 
after  Dr.  Johnson's  edition  of  Shakespeare,  and  having  taken  their  friends' 
cash,  gone  their  several  ways  without  issuing  the  object  of  their  sub- 
scription.    A  Churchill  is  not  always  at  hand  to  perform  the  Caesarian 
operation,  with  the  knife  of  upbraiding  satire.     Once  upon  a  time,  too, 
dedications  were,  it  is  well  known,  sold  openly.     Panegyric  was  purveyed 
by  the  pound.     Spenser  has  no  less  than  seventeen  prefatory  sonnets  to 
his  Faery  Queen,  addressed  to  various  "  renowmned  and  valiant  "  lords, 
"virtuous  and  beautiful  "  ladies,  and  "  noble  and  valorous  "  knights,  for 
every  one  of  which  he  verily  received  his  reward.     Dryden,  to  make  the 
most  of  his  translation  of  Yirgil,  dedicated  the  Pastorals  to  one  Lord 
Clifford,  Baron  of  Chudleigh,  in  whom  courage,  humanity,  and  probity 
were  inherent,  besides  a  mastery  of  the  Latin  language ;  the  Georgics  to 
Philip,    Earl   of   Chesterfield,   one  of   the   least  of  whose  excellences 
appears  to  have  been  the  comprehension  of  all  things  which  are  within  the 
compass  of  human  understanding ;  and  the  -sEneid  to  John,  Marquis  of 
Normanby,  Earl  of  Mulgrave,  &c.,  to  whom  Dryden  hesitates  not  to 
say  such  things  as  make  us  agree  with  the  sentiment  of  Walpole,  that 
nothing  can  exceed  the  flattery  of  a  genealogist  but  that  of  a  dedicator. 
How  much  the  poet,  "  embrowned  with  native  bronze,"  as  Pope  said  of 
Orator  Henley,  obtained  for  his  trumpeting   is   not   clear.     Doubtless, 
however,  a  sufficient  sum  to  compensate  for  Tonson's  meagre  pay  for  his 
fables.     This  economy  of  flattery,  Dr.  Johnson  tells  us,  at  once  lavish 
and  discreet,  did  not  pass  even  at  that  time  without  observation.     Seven 
out  of  nine  Night  Thoughts  were  dedicated  to  persons  of  position  by  a 
poet  who,  possessing  such  just  conceptions  of  this  world's  vanity,  pined 
for  preferment  all  his  life,  and  after  declaring  his  world  was  dead,  became 
Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales  at  fourscore. 

Much  has  been  said  about  the  abnormal  sensibility  of  literary  men. 
But  this  is  scarcely  the  necessary  or  a  natural  result  of  study.     A  great 


356  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES. 

portion  of  the  passion  predicated  of  the  genus  irritabile  of  poets  is 
common  to  all  mankind.  The  votarist  of  controversial  theology  would 
possibly  have  been  equally  pugnacious  in  any  other  vocation.  Others 
than  great  geniuses  are  found  unsuited  to  domestic  life.  Prosaic  house- 
hold labour  is  beneath  the  dignity  of  others  than  poets.  A  writer  of 
history  cannot  be  shown  in  consequence  of  his  business  more  sensitive 
than  a  seller  of  horses,  nor  is  it  self-evident  that  the  mind  of  a  man  who 
composes  poetry  is  more  delicate  than  that  of  a  pastrycook.  The  melan- 
choly Cowley  wisely  went  only  so  far  from  the  bustle  of  life  as  that  he 
might  easily  find  his  way  back,  and  Prior's  propensity  to  sordid  converse 
is  well  known.  But  allowing  the  greater  sensibility  of  men  of  letters, 
they  do  not  therefore  necessarily  fare,  on  the  whole,  the  worse.  If  they 
have  higher  pains,  they  have  also  higher  pleasures.  If  the  poet,  as  Isaac 
Disraeli  tells  us,  it  is  doubtful  on  what  authority,  feels  neglect  as  an 
ordinary  man  would  feel  the  sensation  of  being  let  down  into  a  sepulchre 
and  buried  alive,  he  obtains  as  much  dreamy  delight  from  multiplying  his 
future  fame  as  the  Barber's  Fifth  Brother  Alnaschar  from  the  imagined 
increase  of  his  inheritance  of  a  hundred  drachms  of  silver.  For  the 
ordinary  literary  man  is  only  sensitive  inasmuch  as  he  is  vain. 

The  literary  constitution  seems  by  nature  surcharged  with  black  bile. 
For  one  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  you  shall  find  more  than  fourscore  men  of 
sorrows — in  their  books.  But  we  know  by  experience  that  the  printed 
versions  of  their  own  wretchedness  are  not  always  true.  Some  of  their  Com- 
plaints, their  Epicedia,  their  In  Memoriams,  their  Elegies,  their  mournful 
rhymes  would  go  near  to  break  our  hearts  for  very  sympathy's  sake,  were 
it  not  for  nature's  suggestion  that  there  can  be  but  little  suffering  in  so 
loud  a  symphony,  and  the  recollection  that  our  rhymers,  like  the  old  shep- 
herd in  the  ballad,  must  sometimes  feign  themselves  wretched  to  show 
they  have  wit.  When  Young,  from  whom  had  he  been  made  a  bishop 
the  world  would  probably  have  had  no  Complaint,  on  the  occasion  of  a 
family  bereavement  common  to  human  kind,  observed  that  midnight  was 
sunshine  compared  to  the  colour  of  his  fate,  the  exaggeration  of  his  ex- 
pression casts  a  doubt  on  the  sincerity  of  his  sentiment.  We  look  upon 
it  as  a  mere  stratagem  of  speech,  and  we  are  inclined  to  estimate  nine- 
tenths  of  the  wailing  burden  of  his  song  at  little  more  value  than  the 
chattering  of  a  swallow  on  a  bam.  Young,  however,  was  able  to  suffer 
in  silence.  He  wrote  an  epitaph  for  his  footman,  describing  him  as  a 
person  of  perfect  piety,  and  lamb-like  patience,  but  we  have  from  him 
no  obituary  evidence  of  the  virtues  of  his  wife.  Poets  have,  of  all 
literary  personages,  probably  suffered  the  most,  which  is  indeed  only 
natural,  as  they  are  least  wanted  by  a  world  which  professes  to  honour 
them  so  highly.  But  if  it  is  their  vanity  which  makes  the  sentence  of 
public  opinion  press  hot  and  heavy  upon  them,  like  a  tailor's  goose,  it  is 
also  their  vanity  which  prevents  that  iron  instrument  uncurling  a  single 
hair  of  their  self-satisfaction.  A  little  more  of  censure,  which  another 
might  easily  ford,  would  indeed  drown  them,  were  they  not  sustained  by 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTERS.  357 

an  airy  opinion  of  their  own  merits.  Herrick  was  doubtless  made 
miserable  by  the  slow  sale  of  his  Hesperides,  and  mourned  the  meagre 
revenue  of  his  rhymes ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  consoled  himself  with  his 
vast  superiority  to  his  fellow-citizens  of  Devonshire,  boors,  rocky,  currish, 
and  churlish  as  their  seas.  What  a  crowd  of  indignant  versifiers,  who 
have  supplied  fuel  for  many  a  kitchen  fire,  have  refreshed  themselves  with 
reflections  on  the  gross  stupidity  of  their  age  ! 

Curious  schemes  have  been  devised1  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
literary  men.  Some  kind  people  would  feed  their  vanity,  others  fill 
their  purses,  others  build  for  them  a  sort  of  literary  Refuge  or  Scholastic 
Home. 

Thus  a  proposition  was  made  in  Parliament,  about  forty  years  ago, 
that  authors  of  merit  should  have  assigned  to  them  a  blue  riband  of  dis- 
tinction, as  the  recognition  by  a  grateful  country  of  their  literary  service. 
The  proposition  was  opposed  by  Sir  Robert  Peel.  It  is  by  no  means  clear 
that  it  would  have  conduced  to  the  genex^al  advantage.  Probably  some 
disturbance  would  attend  the  distribution  of  the  reward.  "  For  myself," 
said  Southey,  "  if  we  had  a  Guelphic  order,  I  should  prefer  to  remain  a 
Ghibelline."  Goldsmith  would  have  regarded  it  as  a  solemn  presentation 
of  a  pair  of  lace  ruffles  to  a  man  without  a  shirt.  Since  then  the  idea  of 
a  kind  of  Victoria  Cross  order  of  literary  merit  has  been,  from  time  to 
time,  revived  by  sanguine  enthusiasts.  It  were  indeed  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  Goethe  or  Cervantes,  Tasso  or  Camoens,  Milton  or  Voltaire,  decorated 
with  a  bit  of  coloured  ribbon  and  a  metal  disc,  like  some  master  of  the 
ceremonies  at  a  ball,  or  a  parish  beadle. 

Kind-hearted  folk  have  gone  so  far  as  to  propose  the  erection  in  our 
metropolis  of  a  hospital  for  invalided  men  of  letters,  an  asylum  for  incur- 
ables, after  the  fashion  of  that  Attic  Bee,  Urban  VIII.  Surely  these  have 
not  considered  that  the  Christian  charity  of  a  generous  public  has  already 
nobly  testified  its  sense  of  the  eminent  services  and  valuable  works  of 
scholars,  distinguished  in  any  branch  of  art  or  science,  by  the  munificent 
sum  of,  it  is  said,  at  least  1,000^.,  to  be  divided  among  three  or  four 
dozen  recipients.  Men  who,  by  a  scorn  of  delights  and  a  life  of  days  of 
labour,  have  contributed  to  the  renown  and  prosperity  of  their  country, 
are  not,  at  all  events  in  England,  without  their  reward.  But  the  diffi- 
culty lies  in  inducing  men  of  genius  to  avail  themselves  of  any  monetary 
emolument.  The  very  idea  of  it  distorts  their  faces  like  the  Sardinian 
herb.  You  will  not  divert  them  from  their  one  pursuit  of  human  good  by 
a  golden  apple.  In  their  thirst  for  others'  welfare,  drops  of  wisdom  are  to 
them  of  more  value  than  seas  of  wealth.  They  have  taken  learning  not 
as  a  mistress  for  delight,  not  as  a  slave  for  profit,  but  as  a  wife  for  gene- 
ration. Each  of  these  citizens  of  an  ideal  republic  has  already  found,  or 
seems  to  himself  to  have  found,  the  pearl  of  great  price,  and  cares  not  a 
rotten  nut  for  lesser  treasure.  But  though  the  great  heir  of  fame  will 
not  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  receive  our  paltry  pittance,  yet  is  our 
recognition  of  literary  desert  none  the  less  commendable.  Nor  is  it  a 


358  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES. 

new  thing  among  us.  Erudition  was  not  always  without  its  reward  in 
the  old  time  before  us.  The  celebrated  antiquary  Stowe  lived  in  the 
rei<ru  of  James  I.  He  spent  his  life  and  means  in  a  learned  compilation 
of  the  chronicles  of  his  country.  In  grateful  remembrance  of  his  deserts 
he  was  actually  permitted,  by  letters  patent  of  our  most  literary 
monarch,  to  collect,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  alms  for  himself.  Nor  was  the 
nation  slow  to  answer  the  appeal  allowed  by  the  kindness  of  its  sove- 
reign. One  parish  alone  contributed  7s.  Qd.  in  the  course  of  a  single 
year.  Such  excellent  cause  had  this  patriotic  tailor  to  thank  God  he 
was  born  an  Englishman.  This  happened  in  a  time  when,  owing  to  a 
want  of  reflection  rather  than  of  good  nature  in  the  British  public,  the 
present  literary  fund  for  the  relief  of  impecunious  authors  had  not  been 
provided.  Will  it  be  believed  that  to  such  institutions  objections  have 
been  raised  ?  The  younger  Pitt  expressed  his  opinion  that  they  were  a 
mistake.  He  considered  that  literature  and  the  fine  arts  ought  to  be  left 
to  find  their  own  price  in  the  market,  like  sago  or  loaf-sugar.  He 
doubted  whether  the  public  money  could  be  employed  worse  than  in 
bribing  potentially  good  haberdashers  to  become  bad  historians,  or  in 
seducing  a  citizen,  who  served  the  State  well  as  an  excellent  pork-butcher, 
to  withdraw  his  services  to  his  country  by  sinking  into  an  execrable 
poet.  Macaulay  also  has  placed  upon  record  his  judgment  that  such 
asylums  are  fatal  to  literary  integrity  and  independence.  There  might 
be  some  force  in  this  objection  if  authors  were,  as  a  rule,  a  venal  class  of 
men.  But  it  is  well  known  that  only  the  lowest  sort  of  them  is  ani- 
mated by  the  desire  of  lucre.  The  scorn  with  which  Isaac  Disraeli 
speaks  of  the  professional  author  is  shared  by  all  those  good  men  who, 
being  unable  to  procure  a  price  for  their  own  work,  see  others  prosti- 
tuting the  Muses,  making  a  market  of  their  meditations,  and  lowering 
the  dignity  of  literature  by  selling  it  at  so  much  a  line.  The  nobler 
writers  of  every  age  and  country  have  written  for  nothing.  They  have 
made  books  only  for  the  pleasures  of  authorship,  and  the  humane  desire 
of  benefiting  their  race.  For  them  literature,  like  virtue  in  this  ignorant 
and  vicious  world,  was  its  own  reward.  They  turned  not  their  faces  to  the 
sight  of  gold,  as  the  sunflower  turns  (in  poetry)  to  the  sun.  They  have 
not  debased  their  genius  by  exposing  it  for  hire,  nor  diluted  the  bene- 
fits they  confer  on  a  foolish  generation  by  the  degrading  motive  of  the 
hope  of  profit. 

The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors,  said  Dr. 
Johnson,  in  the  preface  to  his  Dictionary.  In  a  private  conversation 
with  Boswell,  the  same  great  authority  expressed  it  as  his  opinion  that 
the  man  who  writes  except  for  money  is  a  fool.  The  nobler  writers  are 
quite  prepared  to  endorse  the  former,  but  are  far  from  being  willing  to 
accept  the  latter  remark.  It  is  but  a  poor  mercenary  soul  at  the  best, 
they  tell  us,  which  will  condescend  to  work  for  gold.  That  is  not  their 
promised  land.  It  may  be  the  low  sordid  aim  and  ambition  of  the  cold 
calculating  natures  of  the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water.  It  may 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTERS.  359 

requite  the  services  of  the  statesman,  the  lawyer,  the  soldier,  and  the 
priest.     But  the  literary  genius  of  the  best  kind  is  content  only  with 
immortality.     In  the  fever  of  the  desire  of  fame  that  genius  feels  no 
famine,  nay,  it  holds  itself  blessed  by  the  accompaniment  of  worldly  tri- 
bulation, and,  in  the  words  of  Madame  de  Stael,  n'en  veut  qu'ck  la  gloire. 
Let  the  gross  and  unapprehensive  dullard  fall  foul  of  fame  as  a  foolish 
fire,  and  rail  at  reputation  as  an  airy  bubble,  it  is  after  these  only  that 
your  men  of  genuine  literary  genius  gape.     And  if  this  fruit  of  their 
labours  is  forbidden  them  by  the  barbarous  indifference  or   yet  baser 
detraction  of  their  age;  if,   in  their  case,  as  in  that   of  the    unlucky 
author  of  the  Polyalbion,  the  devil  has  drawn  a  cloud  over  the  world's 
judgment  of  their  works,  they  console  themselves  with  the   conscious- 
ness of  their  own  merit,  and  piously  regard  the  utter  neglect  of  their 
unselfish  efforts  for  the  world's  improvement  as  one  of  those  mysteries 
of  Providence  which  no. man  can  understand.    Nay,  they  still  stead- 
fastly  believe,   with  the   strength  of    a  lively   and   sincere   faith,  that 
though    during   their    earthly    course   toil   and   loss  have   been   their 
only  portion,  yet  after  death  their  talents  will  be  esteemed  and  their 
assiduity  admired  by  posterity.     Then  will  their  names  be  where  they 
should  be,  engraven  on  the  northern  walls  of  the  Temple  of  Fame,  with 
those  of  the  ingenious  and  the  enlightened,  the  wise  and  the  good.    Then 
at  last,  when  all  envy  has  passed  away,  and  things  may  be  seen  as  they 
really  are,  will  the  high-souled,  though  hitherto  unappreciated,  epic  poet, 
shine  out  at  once  in  effulgent  splendour  like  an  April  sun  from  behind  a 
dark  bank  of  cloud,  and  the  modest  lyrist  will  incontinently  burst  the 
bonds  of  long  and  cold  neglect  as  the  humble  violet  breaks  first  out  of 
winter's  frost  into  purple  blossom.     If  any  good-natured  friend  remind 
them  that  this  possibility  of  posthumous  repute  will  at  the  best  endure 
but  a  little  while,  they  become  deaf  as  adders  to  his  address.     They  reck 
not  that  of  the  far  greater  majority  of  the  literary  heroes  in  Hallam's 
History  of  Europe's  Literature,  not  a  dozen  of  the  present  generation 
have  ever  read  a  line.     They  look  over  the  index  of  Johnson's  Lives  of 
the  Poets,  and  chance  upon  such  unfamiliar,  but  once  famous,  names  as 
Duke  and  Pomfret,  Broome  and  Sprat,  Stepney  and  Golden,  but  never 
dream  their  names  too  can  ever  be  forgotten  and  out  of  mind  like  these. 
The  few  lines  in  the  Biographical  Dictionary,  becoming  fewer  with  every 
new  edition  and  greater  press  of  matter,  may  serve  for  others,  but  not 
for  them.     Theirs  are  not  the  fast-fading  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones 
in  the  intellectual  churchyard.    Their  monuments  will  never  be  removed 
for  those  of  others,  will   never  lean  on  one  side,  will  never  become 
illegible.     They  will  remain  constant  as  the  Polar  Star  in  the  firmament, 
and  not  like  comets,  moving  in  hyperbolic  orbits,  glitter  only  for  a  season 
and  then  fade  away  into  distant  space  for  ever. 

The  very  sight  of  pens  and  ink  fills  some  men  immediately  with  a 
peculiar  rapture.  They  will,  for  their  own  amusement  or  at  the  request  of 
friends  as  well  known  as  the  "  Old  Soldier  "  was  in  charity  lists,  transcribe 


360  THE  SEAMY  SIDE   OF  LETTEES. 

what  has  been  too  often  already  transcribed.  They  will  translate  what  no 
man  wishes  translated,  flattering  themselves,  after  a  cruel  murder,  that 
they  have  struck  out  the  true  sense,  as  indeed  too  often  they  have ;  they 
will  copy  what  no  man  cares  for ;  they  will  edit,  with  or  without  an  intro- 
duction, what  no  man  understands.  Their  malady  tends  to  make  others 
miserable,  but  they  themselves  are  happy.  They  are  ready  and  willing 
to  write  on  any  subject  under  the  sun.  They  pay  little  regard  to  the 
advice  of  Horace  touching  a  nine  years'  delay,  or  the  example  of  Boileau. 
They  know  not,  neither  do  they  care,  whether  their  shoulders  are  suited 
to  the  burden.  Their  ardour  of  composition  far  outshines  their  discre- 
tion. They  have  the  hundred  hands  of  Briareus,  but  less  than  the 
ordinary  allotment  of  eyes.  They  will  trust  themselves  to  air  before 
examining  whether  their  wings  are  of  wax.  They  love  their  works, 
however  wearisome,  as  a  fond  mother  loves  her  baby,  however  hideous. 
The  writing  of  their  books  begets  more  pleasure  than  the  reading ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  sleep  which  they  themselves  lost  lies  hid  for  others 
beneath  their  leaves. 

A  man  of  this  sort  never  reflects  how  serious  a  matter  it  is  to  put  a 
writing  into  another  man's  hands,  nor  does  he  consider  whether,  after 
the  publication  of  so  many  volumes,  the  exigencies  of  Church  or  State  or 
the  general  public  are  likely  to  ask  for  one  more  composed  by  himself. 
His  application  is  unwearied  in  cooking,  in  his  own,  or  more  frequently 
other  men's  caldrons,  such  food  as  it  is  given  to  few  to  devour  and  to 
none  to  digest.  The  immensity  of  his  voluminous  folios,  littered  in  an 
evil  hour,  tires  the  most  active  imagination.  He  longs  to  set  his  babes 
by  the  columns  of  the  Sosii,  to  see  them  advertised  for  sale  in  Paternoster 
Row.  But  such  a  man  is  one  of  whom  it  behoves  the  boldest  of  the 
tribe  of  booksellers  and  publishers  to  beware.  His  assiduity  will  send 
them  to  the  almshouse.  He  is  not  of  those  of  whom  it  is  said,  They 
enriched  others — meaning  the  booksellers — themselves  they  cannot  enrich. 
Let  the  wary  tradesman  hesitate  before  he  buys  his  wares.  There  is  a 
tale  told  of  Drayton's  stationer,  who  published  eighteen  books  of  his 
herculean  labour  known  as  the  Polyolbion,  a  work  imperfectly  appreciated, 
that  the  poor  man  refused  from  sheer  want  of  resources  to  print  the  nine- 
teenth. Mark  the  action  of  the  aggrieved  poet !  He  not  only  abused 
his  own  bookseller,  but  anathematised  the  race.  He  was  not  content  to 
dwell  in  decencies.  "  They  are,"  quoth  he,  "  a  company  of  base  knaves, 
whom  I  scorn  and  kick  at."  Their  chief  offence  appears  to  have  been 
accepting  works  of  other  authors  which  would  sell,  works  which  the  good 
Drayton  alluded  to  as  beastly  and  abominable  trash.  Tantcene  animis 
coelestibus  irce  ? 

The  victims  of  literary  cacoethes  will  continue  to  write,  though  what 
they  write  be  nought.  They  vomit  emptiness,  and  feel — to  borrow  the 
expression  of  the  great  Lexicographer — the  convulsions  of  eructation 
without  its  plenitude.  In  prolific  creation,  at  least,  such  literary  spiders 
remind  us  of  Thomas  Aquinas  with  his  seventeen  folios,  which  have 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEKS.  361 

now,  perhaps,  scarce  seventeen  readers;  of  Voltaire,  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott ;  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  Richard  Baxter ;  but,  unfortunately,  the 
quality  of  their  work  is  in  inverse  ratio  to  its  quantity.  They  may  be 
ridiculed  for  the  vanity  of  their  labours,  but  they  will  wear  public  scorn 
as  a  garland.  They  will  not,  as  Anne  Bullen  did,  think  it  better  to 
dwell  with  humble  livers  in  content  than  to  be  perked  up  in  a  glistening 
grief  and  wear  a  golden  sorrow.  You  shall  find  those  who  will  pride 
themselves  on  such  novels  as  recall  the  Clelie,  in  ten  volumes,  of  Made- 
lene  du  Scuderi,  or  her  Grand  Cyrus,  in  twelve.  Their  publisher  will 
duly  admonish  them  that  their  works,  if  put  into  boards,  will  be  spoilt 
for  waste  paper,  and  not  be  suitable  even  for  the  street  which  sells  odours 
and  incense;  they  care  not.  If  they  obtain  no  reputation,  they  wish  for 
none ;  or,  if  they  do  wish  for  it,  why  then  the  desire  is  better  than  the 
fruition.  As  Uncle  Toby  in  the  construction  of  his  mimic  fortifications, 
his  banquets,  and  several  parapets  in  his  bowling-green,  conceived  he  was 
answering  the  great  end  of  his  creation,  so  these,  in  their  scribbling, 
think  they  are  answering  theirs.  In  this  happy  delusion  they  live  ;  in 
this  happy  delusion  they  die,  and,  dying,  leave  no  line  they  wish  to  blot. 

In  the  categories  of  calamitous  authors  the  names  of  such  as  these 
occupy  a  prominent  place.  They  certainly  suffer  many  things.  The 
critics  review  their  works  unfavourably,  or  never  review  them  at  all ; 
their  souls  see  the  extremities  of  time  and  fortune,  but  they  cannot 
despair ;  they  dedicate  their  books,  in  lurid  irony,  "  to.  any  that  will 
read  them,"  but  no  power  of  men  can  stop  their  writing  them.  It  were 
all  one  to  attempt  to  make  rivers  flow  upward  or  flames  descend.  Surely 
nothing  but  an  extreme  delight  can  lend  them  such  persistence  in  their 
labour.  The  satisfaction,  too,  is  theirs  of  leaving  the  perverse  genera- 
tion that  appreciates  them  not  to  the  curses  of  posterity.  Poor  Michael 
Drayton  drank  deeply  of  the  waters  of  this  fountain  of  consolation.  In 
the  thirtieth  song  of  his  Chorographical  Description  he  speaks  of  nine- 
tenths  of  the  public  of  his  tune  as  a  bestial  rout,  a  boorish  rabblement, 
stony  dull,  and  with  brains  of  slime,  a  fry  of  hell  defiled  in  their  own 
filth. 

The  wolf  attacks  with  his  tooth,  the  bull  with  his  horn,  and  the  man 
of  letters  with  his  pen.  Examples  are  not  rare.  Dryden,  being  much 
disturbed  in  mind  by  the  success  of  Settle's  Empress  of  Morocco,  charac- 
terised some  part  of  that  performance  as  "hodge-podge,  Dutch  grout, 
giblet  porridge ; "  while  of  another  part,  in  which  he  thought  he  had 
detected  some  confusion  of  language,  he  elegantly  observed  that  Settle 
"  writ  these  lines,  surely,  aboard  some  smack  in  a  storm,  and  being  sea- 
sick spewed  up  a  good  lump  of  clotted  nonsense  at  once."  Warburton 
spoke  of  Zachary  Grey's  notes  to  Hudibras  in  much  the  same  style.  He 
had  himself  contributed  to  them,  but  afterwards  quarrelled  with  Grey  ;  so 
he  "  hardly  thinks  there  ever  appeared  so  execrable  a  heap  of  nonsense 
under  the  name  of  Commentaries."  Tom  Nash,  having  taken  umbrage  at 
Gabriel  Harvey,  the  Hobinol  of  Spenser,  compared  that  gentleman's  com- 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  249.  18. 


362  THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTERS. 

plexion  to  reasty  bacon,  or  a  dried  skate ;  he  spoke  of  his  father,  a  respectable 
manufacturer  of  ropes,  as  a  halter-maker.  He  also  made  a  mock  of  Gabriel's 
meat,  which  seems  to  have  been  altogether  of  a  rude  and  inexpensive 
character.  He  fed,  says  the  facetious  Nash,  on  trotters,  sheep's  porknells, 
and  buttered  roots,  in  an  hexameter  meditation.  The  generous  dispo- 
sition of  the  delicate-worded  Smollett  disdained  not  to  satirise  Akenside 
in  his  description  of  the  dinner  after  the  ancients  in  Peregrine  Pickle. 
Some  amiable  critic — the  poet-priest  Milman,  or  Southey,  or  Barrow — 
cut  up  Keats  in  the  Quarterly.  The  results  were  untoward,  if  Shelley 
was  not  mistaken  in  this  matter.  If,  however,  with  Byron,  we  think 

'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle, 
Should  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an  article, 

and  attribute  the  death  of  the  author  of  Endymion  to  consumption 
rather  than  criticism,  we  may  yet  regard  the  .Review  as  contributing  in 
no  very  great  degree  to  his  comfort.  Pope,  who  placed  Theobald  at  the 
head  of  his  Dunciad  for  the  sole  crime  of  having  revised  Shakspeare  more 
happily  than  himself,  when  attacked  in  his  turn  by  Gibber,  used  to  say, 
"  These  things  are  my  diversion."  But  we  all  remember  how  Richard- 
son one  day,  observing  Pope's  features  writhing  with  anguish  on  the 
perusal  of  a  sarcastic  pamphlet  of  his  antagonist,  devoutly  prayed  to  be 
preserved  from  such  diversion  as  had  been  on  that  occasion  the  lot  of  Pope. 
The  flaying  of  the  Phrygian  piper  Marsyas  by  Apollo  is  perhaps 
but  a  figure  to  represent  the  scathing  effects  of  the  scorn  of  the  superior 
player  on  the  nervous  sensibility  of  Marsyas,  overcome,  in  open  day,  in 
sight  of  all  the  Dryad  maids  of  Nysa.  But  this  is  the  action,  not  only 
of  literary,  but  of  human  nature.  The  potter  is  not  remarkable  for  his 
goodwill  to  his  brother-potter,  nor  the  carpenter  to  his  brother-carpenter  : 
as  little  the  scribe  to  his  brother-scribe.  Men  of  letters,  as  in  other  pro- 
fessions, reciprocally  make — willingly  on  the  one  side,  unwillingly  on  the 
other — each  other's  misery.  Sometimes  one  writer  of  a  little  reputation 
introduces,  with  many  kind  and  complimentary  observations,  another  of 
less  to  an  editor  or  publisher  of  discernment.  In  the  course  of  time  the 
introduced,  by  his  superior  sagacity,  outshines  the  introducer.  The  intro- 
ducer does  not  thereupon  always  embrace  the  introduced  with  the  con- 
gratulations of  sincere  delight  upon  his  well-merited  success ;  he  is  not 
invariably  pleased  with  the  praises  of  his  friend  and  protege.  The  un- 
happy introduced  having  written  a  good  book,  and  justified  the  kind 
observations  of  the  introducer,  innocently  supposes  that  the  links  of  their 
amity  will  become  stronger.  This  is  far  from  being  the  usual  result. 
Gases  have  been  known  in  which  such  a  work  has  turned  the  milk  of 
friendship  into  gall,  changed  the  amiable  intercourse  of  affectionate  letters 
into  libels  teeming  with  virulent  invective,  and  made  out  of  a  boon  com- 
panion an  enemy  for  life.  The  writer,  solely  on  account  of  his  success, 
is  surprised  to  find  the  man  of  his  own  house — his  own  familiar  friend — 
lifting  up  his  heel  against  him.  The  smell  of  his  good  fame  drives  that 


THE  SEAMY  SIDE  OF  LETTEES.  363 

other  to  distraction,  as  a  cat,  according  to  Plutarch,  is  driven  mad  by 
the  smell  of  ointments.  He  is  accused  by  his  former  benefactor  of  the 
basest  ingratitude.  He  might  have  broken  the  aged  neck  of  his  bene- 
factor's father,  and  welcome,  but  his  present  ofience  is  unpardonable. 
His  meat  is  seasoned  with  the  reproaches  of  his  associate.  He  bears 
it  all,  for  a  while,  in  silence ;  but  even  the  literary  worm  will  turn  at 
last.  For  a  time  he  takes  no  notice,  till  the  nipping  taunts  of  his 
famous  work — like  currents  of  cold  air,  or  the  tedious  buzzings  of  an 
idle  gnat — have  grown  into  personal  calumny,  touching  himself  or  his 
blameless  ancestors ;  then  he  turns.  Then  a  mighty  contest  com- 
mences— such  a  fight  as  was  once  fought  between  Dry  den  and  Elkanah 
Settle,  or  between  Theobald  and  Pope,  or  between  Addison  and  Den- 
nis— fights,  formerly  fashionable,  which  have  long  been  relegated  by 
literary  men  as  productive  of  dishonour  both  to  their  profession  and 
themselves.  Then  it  little  avails  either  party  to  have  learnt  faithfully 
the  ingenuous  arts.  They  become  ferocious,  and  their  manners  are 
the  reverse  of  soft.  The  amiable  Milton  calls  his  antagonist  Sal- 
masius  many  hard  names,  such  as  runagate  and  superlative  fool,  hare- 
brained blunderbuss  and  senseless  bawler,  cuckoo  and  dunghill  cock. 
Salmasius,  with  equal  urbanity,  speaks  of  Milton  as  a  homuncule,  a 
fanatical  robber,  and  an  impure  beast;  holds  his  continued  existence 
as  a  direct  fraud  on  the  hangman,  and  deems  his  execrable  life  ought  to 
have  ended  long  ago  in  boiling  oil  or  burning  pitch. 

The  controversy  on  "  Free  Will "  has  been  the  occasion  of  no  little  free 
speech.  Erasmus  wrote  some  bitter  things  about  Luther  in  his  Hyperas- 
pistes,  or  Defender  of  Free  Will.  Luther  thereon  felt  himself  necessitated 
to  say  that  Erasmus,  of  Rotterdam,  was  the  vilest  miscreant  that  ever  dis- 
graced the  earth  ;  "whatever I  pray,"  he  says  in  the  Table  Talk,  "I pray 
for  a  curse  upon  Erasmus."  Neither  his  holy  life  nor  doctrine  could  protect 
Athanasius  from  being  accused,  by  Arius,  as  a  traitor  and  a  poisoner,  a 
sorcerer  and  a  homicide.  The  early  Christian  writers  concur  in  abusing 
each  other  like  a  pack  of  thieves.  Pretty  samples  of  ecclesiastical  snarling 
may  be  collected  from  the  works  of  Calvin.  The  quarrels  of  Jonson  and 
Decker,  Hobbes  and  Wallis,  Swift  and  Steele,  Warburton  and  Edwards, 
have  been  carefully  collated  by  the  industry  of  Isaac  Disraeli.  Pope 
said  that  Bentley  made  Horace  dull  and  humbled  Milton,  and  Bentley 
called  Pope  a  portentous  cub.  Of  such  a  nature  were  the  amenities  of 
language  between  the  living;  nor  has  the  leonine  tooth  of  literary 
censure  been  idle  with  regard  to  the  dead.  The  learned  crow  is  not 
without  supreme  difficulty  detached  from  his  selected  carcase.  That  he 
never  spared  asperity  of  reproach  or  brutality  of  insolence  is  not  the 
worst  thing  said  of  Milton  by  Dr.  Johnson,  and  the  being  whom  Boswell 
regarded  with  awful  reverence  becomes  little  of  a  hero  to  Macaulay, 
while  Walpole  represents  him  as  an  odious  and  mean  character,  with  a 
nature  arrogant  and  overbearing,  and  with  manners  sordid,  supercilious, 
and  brutal ! 

18—2 


364 


XIX. 

T  was  for  reasons  connected 
with  this  determination 
that  on  the  morrow  he 
sought  a  few  words  of 
private  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Penniman.  He  sent 
for  her  to  the  library,  and 
he  there  informed  her  that 
he  hoped  very  much  that, 
as  regarded  this  affair  of 
Catherine's,  she  would 
mind  her  p's  and  q's. 

"  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  such  an  ex- 
pression," said  his  sister. 
"You  speak  as  if  I 
were  learning  the  al- 
phabet." 

"  The  alphabet  of 
common  sense  is  some- 
thing you  will  never  learn,"  the  Doctor  permitted  himself  to  respond. 
"  Have  you  called  me  here  to  insult  me  ? "  Mrs.  Penniman  inquired. 
"  Not  at  all.  Simply  to  advise  you.  You  have  taken  up  young 
Townsend ;  that's  your  own  affair.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your 
sentiments,  your  fancies,  your  affections,  your  delusions ;  but  what  I 
request  of  you  is  that  you  will  keep  these  things  to  yourself.  I  have 
explained  my  views  to  Catherine ;  she  understands  them  perfectly,  and 
anything  that  she  does  further  in  the  way  of  encouraging  Mr.  Townsend's 
attentions  will  be  in  deliberate  opposition  to  my  wishes.  Anything 
that  you  should  do  in  the  way  of  giving  her  aid  and  comfort  will  be — 
permit  me  the  expression — distinctly  treasonable.  You  know  high 
treason  is  a  capital  offence  ;  take  care  how  you  incur  the  penalty." 

Mrs.  Penniman  threw  back  her  head,  with  a  certain  expansion  of  the 
eye  which  she  occasionally  practised.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you  talk 
like  a  great  autocrat." 

"  I  talk  like  my  daughter's  father." 

*  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1880,  by  Henry  James,  Jru 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


"  MY  DKAK  GOOD  CIUL    "   HE  EXCLAIMED,  AXD  THEN  LOOKED   UP  liATUEU  VAGUELY. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  365 

"  Not  like  your  sister's  brother  !  "  cried  Lavinia. 

"  My  dear  Lavinia,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
I  am  your  brother ;  we  are  so  extremely  different.  In  spite  of  differ- 
ences, however,  we  can,  at  a  pinch,  understand  each  other ;  and  that  is 
the  essential  thing  just  now.  "Walk  straight  with  regard  to  Mr.  Town- 
send  ;  that's  all  I  ask.  It  is  highly  probable  you  have  been  correspond- 
ing with  him  for  the  last  three  weeks — perhaps  even  seeing  him.  I 
don't  ask  you — you  needn't  tell  me."  He  had  a  moral  conviction  that  she 
would  contrive  to  tell  a  fib  about  the  matter,  which  it  would  disgust 
him  to  listen  to.  "  Whatever  you  have  done,  stop  doing  it ;  that's  all  I 
wish." 

"  Don't  you  wish  also  by  chance  to  murder  your  child  ?  "  Mrs.  Penni- 
man  inquired. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  to  make  her  live  and  be  happy." 

"  You  will  kill  her ;  she  passed  a  dreadful  night." 

"  She  won't  die  of  one  dreadful  night,  nor  of  a  dozen.  Remember 
that  I  am  a  distinguished  physician." 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  she  risked  her  retort. 
"  Your  being  a  distinguished  physician  has  not  prevented  you  from 
already  losing  two  members  of  your  family !  " 

She  had  risked  it,  but  her  brother  gave  her  such  a  terribly  incisive 
look — a  look  so  like  a  surgeon's  lancet — that  she  was  frightened  at  her 
courage.  And  he  answered  her  in  words  that  corresponded  to  the  look  : 
"It  may  not  prevent  me,  either,  from  losing  the  society  of  still 
another !  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  took  herself  off,  with  whatever  air  of  depreciated 
merit  was  at  her  command,  and  repaired  to  Catherine's  room,  where  the 
poor  girl  was  closeted.  She  knew  all  about  her  dreadful  night,  for  the 
two  had  met  again,  the  evening  before,  after  Catherine  left  her  father. 
Mrs.  Penniman  was  on  the  landing  of  the  second  floor  when  her  niece 
came  upstairs ;  it  was  not  remarkable  that  a  person  of  so  much  subtlety 
should  have  discovered  that  Catherine  had  been  shut  up  with  the  Doctor. 
It  was  still  less  remarkable  that  she  should  have  felt  an  extreme 
curiosity  to  learn  the  result  of  this  interview,  and  that  this  sentiment, 
combined  with  her  great  amiability  and  generosity,  should  have 
prompted  her  to  regret  the  sharp  words  lately  exchanged  between  her 
niece  and  herself.  As  the  unhappy  girl  came  into  sight,  in  the  dusky 
corridor,  she  made  a  lively  demonstration  of  sympathy.  Catherine's 
bursting  heart  was  equally  oblivious ;  she  only  knew  that  her  aunt  was 
taking  her  into  her  arms.  Mrs.  Penniman  drew  her  into  Catherine's 
own  room,  and  the  two  women  sat  there  together,  far  into  the  small 
hours ;  the  younger  one  with  her  head  on  the  other's  lap,  sobbing  and 
sobbing  at  first  in  a  soundless,  stifled  manner,  and  then  at  last  perfectly 
still.  It  gratified  Mrs.  Penniman  to  be  able  to  feel  conscientiously  that 
this  scene  virtually  removed  the  interdict  which  Catherine  had  placed 
upon  her  indulging  in  further  communion  with  Morris  Townsend.  She 


366  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

was  not  gratified,  however,  when,  in  coming  back  to  her  niece's  room 
before  breakfast,  she  found  that  Catherine  had  risen  and  was  preparing 
herself  for  this  meal. 

"You  should  not  go  to  breakfast,"  she  said;  "you  are  not  well 
enough,  after  your  fearful  night." 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  well,  and  I  am  only  afraid  of  being  late." 

"  I  can't  understand  you  ! "  Mrs.  Penniman  cried.  "  You  should 
stay  in  bed  for  three  days." 

"  Oh,  I  could  never  do  that ! "  said  Catherine,  to  whom  this  idea  pre- 
sented no  attractions. 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  in  despair,  and  she  noted,  with  extreme  annoy- 
ance, that  the  trace  of  the  night's  tears  had  completely  vanished  from 
Catherine's  eyes.  She  had  a  most  impracticable  physique.  "What 
effect  do  you  expect  to  have  upon  your  father,"  her  aunt  demanded,  "  if 
you  come  plumping  down,  without  a  vestige  of  any  sort  of  feeling,  as 
if  nothing  in  the  world  had  happened  1 " 

"  He  would  not  like  me  to  lie  in  bed,"  said  Catherine,  simply. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  your  doing  it.  How  else  do  you  expect  to 
move  him  ? " 

Catherine  thought  a  little.  "  I  don't  know  how ;  but  not  in  that 
way.  I  wish  to  be  just  as  usual."  And  she  finished  dressing,  and, 
according  to  her  aunt's  expression,  went  plumping  down  into  the 
paternal  presence.  She  was  really  too  modest  for  consistent  pathos. 

And  yet  it  was  perfectly  true  that  she  had  had  a  dreadful  night. 
Even  after  Mrs.  Penniman  left  her,  she  had  had  no  sleep;  she  lay 
staring  at  the  uncomforting  gloom,  with  her  eyes  and  ears  filled  with 
the  movement  with  which  her  father  had  turned  her  out  of  his  room, 
and  of  the  words  in  which  he  had  told  her  that  she  was  a  heartless 
daughter.  Her  heart  was  breaking ;  she  had  heart  enough  for  that.  At 
moments  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  believed  him,  and  that  to  do  what 
she  was  doing,  a  girl  must  indeed  be  bad.  She  was  bad;  but  she 
couldn't  help  it.  She  would  try  to  appear  good,  even  if  her  heart  were 
perverted ;  and  from  time  to  time  she  had  a  fancy  that  she  might  accom- 
plish something  by  ingenious  concessions  to  form,  though  she  should 
persist  in  caring  for  Morris.  Catherine's  ingenuities  were  indefinite, 
and  we  are  not  called  upon  to  expose  their  hollowness.  The  best 
of  them  perhaps  showed  itself  in  that  freshness  of  aspect  which  was  so 
discouraging  to  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  was  amazed  at  the  absence  of 
haggardness  in  a  young  woman  who  for  a  whole  night  had  lain  quivering 
beneath  a  father's  curse.  Poor  Catherine  was  conscious  of  her  freshness ; 
it  gave  her  a  feeling  about  the  future  which  rather  added  to  the  weight 
upon  her  mind.  It  seemed  a  proof  that  she  was  strong  and  solid  and 
dense,  and  would  live  to  a  great  age — longer  than  might  be  generally 
convenient ;  and  this  idea  was  depressing,  for  it  appeared  to  saddle  her  . 
with  a  pretension  the  more,  just  when  the  cultivation  of  any  pretension 
was  inconsistent  with  her  doing  right.  She  wrote  that  day  to  Morris 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  367 

Townsend,  requesting  him  to  come  and  see  her  on  the  morrow ;  using 
very  few  words,  and  explaining  nothing.  She  would  explain  everything 
face  to  face. 

XX. 

On  the  morrow,  in  the  afternoon,  she  heard  his  voice  at  the  door,  and 
his  step  in  the  hall.  She  received  him  in  the  big,  bright  front-parlour, 
and  she  instructed  the  servant  that  if  any  one  should  call  she  was  par- 
ticularly engaged.  She  was  not  afraid  of  her  father's  coming  in,  for  at 
that  hour  he  was  always  driving  about  town.  When  Morris  stood  there 
before  her,  the  first  thing  that  she  was  conscious  of  was  that  he  was  even 
more  beautiful  to  look  at  than  fond  recollection  had  painted  him ;  the 
next  was  that  he  had  pressed  her  in  his  arms.  When  she  was  free  again 
it  appeared  to  her  that  she  had  now  indeed  thrown  herself  into  the  gulf 
of  defiance,  and  even,  for  an  instant,  that  she  had  been  married  to  him. 

He  told  her  that  she  had  been  very  cruel,  and  had  made  him  very 
unhappy ;  and  Catherine  felt  acutely  the  difficulty  of  her  destiny,  which 
forced  her  to  give  pain  in  such  opposite  quarters.  But  she  wished  that, 
instead  of  reproaches,  however  tender,  he  would  give  her  help ;  he  was 
certainly  wise  enough,  and  clever  enough,  to  invent  some  issue  from  their 
troubles.  She  expressed  this  belief,  and  Morris  received  the  assurance 
as  if  he  thought  it  natural ;  but  he  interrogated,  at  first — as  was  natural 
too — rather  than  committed  himself  to  marking  out  a  course. 

"  You  should  not  have  made  me  wait  so  long,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know  how  I  have  been  living;  every  hour  seemed  like  years.  You 
should  have  decided  sooner." 

"  Decided  ?  "  Catherine  asked. 

"  Decided  whether  you  would  keep  me  or  give  me  up." 

"  Oh,  Morris,"  she  cried,  with  a  long  tender  murmur,  "  I  never 
thought  of  giving  you  up  !  " 

"  What,  then,  were  you  waiting  for  1 "  The  young  man  was  ardently 
logical. 

"  I  thought  my  father  might — might "  and  she  hesitated. 

"  Might  see  how  unhappy  you  were  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  !   But  that  he  might  look  at  it  differently." 

"  And  now  you  have  sent  for  me  to  tell  me  that  at  last  he  does  so. 
Is  that  it  ? " 

This  hypothetical  optimism  gave  the  poor  girl  a  pang.  "  No,  Morris," 
she  said  solemnly,  "  he  looks  at  it  still  in  the  same  way." 

"  Then  why  have  you  sent  for  me  1 " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  see  you  !  "  cried  Catherine,  piteously. 

"  That's  an  excellent  reason,  surely.  But  did  you  want  to  look  at 
me  only  ]  Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  1  " 

His  beautiful  persuasive  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face,  and  she  won- 
dered what  answer  would  be  noble  enough  to  make  to  such  a  gaze  as 
that.  For  a  moment  her  own  eyes  took  it  in,  and  then — "  I  did  want 


368  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

to  look  at  you !  "  she  said,  gently.     But  after  this  speech,  most  incon- 
sistently, she  hid  her  face. 

Morris  watched  her  for  a  moment,  attentively.     "  Will  you  marry 
me  to-morrow  ? "  he  asked  suddenly. 
"  To-morrow  1 " 

"  Next  week,  then.     Any  time  within  a  month." 
"  Isn't  it  better  to  wait  ?  "  said  Catherine. 
"  To  wait  for  what  ?  " 

She  hardly  knew  for  what ;  but  this  tremendous  leap  alarmed  her. 
"  Till  we  have  thought  about  it  a  little  more." 

He  shook  his  head,  sadly  and  reproachfully.  "  I  thought  you  had 
been  thinking  about  it  these  three  weeks.  Do  you  want  to  turn  it  over 
in  your  mind  for  five  years  1  You  have  given  me  more  than  time 
enough.  My  poor  girl,"  he  added  in  a  moment,  "  you  are  not  sincere !  " 
Catherine  coloured  from  brow  to  chin,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  that  1 "  she  murmured. 

"  Why,  you  must  take  me  or  leave  me,"  said  Morris,  very  reasonably. 
"  You  can't  please  your  father  and  me  both ;  you  must  choose  between  us." 
"  I  have  chosen  you  ! "  she  said,  passionately. 
"  Then  marry  me  next  week." 

She  stood  gazing  at  him.     "  Isn't  there  any  other  way  1 " 
"  None  that  I  know  of  for  arriving  at  the  same  result.     If  there  is, 
I  should  be  happy  to  hear  of  it." 

Catherine  could  think  of  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  Morris's  lumi- 
nosity seemed  almost  pitiless.  The  only  thing  she  could  think  of  was 
that  her  father  might  after  all  come  round,  and  she  articulated,  with  an 
awkward  sense  of  her  helplessness  in  doing  so,  a  wish  that  this  miracle 
might  happen. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  in  the  least  degree  likely  ? "  Morris  asked. 
"  It  would  be,  if  he  could  only  know  you  !  " 
"  He  can  know  me  if  he  will.     What  is  to  prevent  itl " 
"  His  ideas,  his  reasons,"  said  Catherine.     "  They  are  so — so  terribly 
strong."     She  trembled  with  the  recollection  of  them  yet. 

"  Strong  ? "  cried  Morris.  "  I  would  rather  you  should  think  them 
weak." 

"  Oh,  nothing  about  my  father  is  weak  !  "  said  the  girl. 
Morris  turned  away,  walking  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  looking 
out.     "  You  are  terribly  afraid  of  him ! "  he  remarked  at  last. 

She  felt  no  impulse  to  deny  it,  because  she  had  no  shame  in  it ;  for 
if  it  was  no  honour  to  herself,  at  least  it  was  an  honour  to  him.  "  I 
suppose  I  must  be,"  she  said,  simply. 

"  Then  you  don't  love  me — not  as  I  love  you.     If  you  fear  your  father 
more  than  you  love  me,  then  your  love  is  not  what  I  hoped  it  was." 
"  Ah,  my  friend  !  "  she  said,  going  to  him. 

'•  Do  7 fear  anything? "  he  demanded,  turning  round  on  her.  "  For 
your  sake  what  am  I  not  ready  to  face  ? " 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  369 

"  You  are  noble — you  are  brave  !  "  she  answered,  stopping  short  at  a 
distance  that  was  almost  respectful. 

"  Small  good  it  does  me,  if  you  are  so  timid." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am — really"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  '  really.'  It  is  really  'enough  to 
make  us  miserable." 

"  I  should  be  strong  enough  to  wait — to  wait  a  long  time." 

"  And  suppose  after  a  long  time  your  father  should  hate  me  worse 
than  ever  ? " 

"  He  wouldn't— he  couldn't !  " 

"  He  would  be  touched  by  my  fidelity  ?  Is  that  what  you  mean  1  If 
he  is  so  easily  touched,  then  why  should  you  be  afraid  of  him  ? " 

This  was  much  to  the  point,  and  Catherine  was  struck  by  it.  "I 
will  try  not  to  be,"  she  said.  And  she  stood  there,  submissively;  the 
image,  in  advance,  of  a  dutiful  and  responsible  wife.  This  image  could 
not  fail  to  recommend  itself  to  Morris  Townsend,  and  he  continued  to 
give  proof  of  the  high  estimation  in  which  he  held  her.  It  could  only 
have  been  at  the  prompting  of  such  a  sentiment  that  he  presently  men- 
tioned to  her  that  the  course  recommended  by  Mrs.  Penniman  was  an 
immediate  union,  regardless  of  consequences. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Penniman  would  like  that,"  Catherine  said,  simply — 
and  yet  with  a  certain  shrewdness.  It  must,  however,  have  been  in  pure 
simplicity,  and  from  motives  quite  untouched  by  sarcasm,  that,  a  few 
moments  after,  she  went  on  to  say  to  Morris  that  her  father  had  given 
her  a  message  for  him.  It  was  quite  on  her  conscience  to  deliver  this 
message,  and  had  the  mission  been  ten  times  more  painful  she  would 
have  as  scrupulously  performed  it.  "  He  told  me  to  tell  you — to  tell 
you  very  distinctly,  and  directly  from  himself,  that  if  I  marry  without 
his  consent,  I  shall  not  inherit  a  penny  of  his  fortune.  He  made  a  great 
point  of  this.  He  seemed  to  think — he  seemed  to  think " 

Morris  flushed,  as  any  young  man  of  spirit  might  have  flushed  at  an 
imputation  of  baseness. 

"  What  did  he  seem  to  think  ? " 

"  That  it  would  make  a  difference." 

"  It  will  make  a  difference — in  many  things.  We  shall  be  by  many 
thousands  of  dollars  the  poorer ;  and  that  is  a  great  difference.  But  it 
will  make  none  in  my  affection." 

"  We  shall  not  want  the  money,"  said  Catherine  ;  "  for  you  know  I 
have  a  good  deal  myself." 

"Yes,  my  dear  girl,  I  know  you  have  something.  And  he  can't 
touch  that !  " 

"  He  would  never,"  said  Catherine.     "  My  mother  left  it  to  me." 

Morris  was  silent  awhile.  "  He  was  very  positive  about  this,  was 
he  ? "  he  asked  at  last.  "  He  thought  such  a  message  would  annoy  me 
terribly,  and  make  me  throw  off  the  mask,  eh  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  thought,"  said  Catherine,  sadly. 

18—5 


370  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

"  Please  tell  him  that  I  care  for  his  message  as  much  as  for  that !  " 
And  Morris  snapped  his  fingers  sonorously. 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  tell  him  that." 

"  Do  you  know  you  sometimes  disappoint  me  ? "  said  Morris. 
r  "  I  should  think  I  might.    I  disappoint  every  one — father  and  Aunt 
Penniman." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  with  me,  because  I  am  fonder  of  you  than 
they  are." 

"  Yes,  Morris,"  said  the  girl,  with  her  imagination — what  there  was 
of  it — swimming  in  this  happy  truth,  which  seemed,  after  all,  invidious 
to  no  one. 

"  Is  it  your  belief  that  he  will  stick  to  it — stick  to  it  for  ever,  to  this 
idea  of  disinheriting  you  1 — that  your  goodness  and  patience  will  never 
wear  out  his  cruelty  1 " 

"  The  trouble  is  that  if  I  marry  you,  he  will  think  I  am  not  good. 
He  will  think  that  a  proof." 

"  Ah,  then,  he  will  never  forgive  you  ! " 

This  idea,  sharply  expressed  by  Morris's  handsome  lips,  renewed  for 
a  moment,  to  the  poor  girl's  temporarily  pacified  conscience,  all  its 
dreadful  vividness.  "  Oh,  you  must  love  me  very  much  ! "  she  cried. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  my  dear  !  "  her  lover  rejoined.  "  You 
don't  like  that  word  '  disinherited,' "  he  added  in  a  moment. 

"  It  isn't  the  money ;  it  is  that  he  should — that  he  should  feel  so." 

"  I  suppose  it  seems  to  you  a  kind  of  curse,"  said  Morris.  "  It  must 
be  very  dismal.  But  don't  you  think,"  he  went  on  presently,  "  that  if 
you  were  to  try  to  be  very  clever,  and  to  set  rightly  about  it,  you  might 
in  the  end  conjure  it  away  ?  Don't  you  think,"  he  continued  further,  in 
a  tone  of  sympathetic  speculation,  "  that  a  really  clever  woman,  in  your 
place,  might  bring  him  round  at  last  ?  Don't  you  think— — " 

Here,  suddenly,  Morris  was  interrupted ;  these  ingenious  inquiries 
had  not  reached  Catherine's  ears.  The  terrible  word  "  disinheritance," 
with  all  its  impressive  moral  reprobation,  was  still  ringing  there ;  seemed 
indeed  to  gather  force  as  it  lingered.  The  mortal  chill  of  her  situation 
struck  more  deeply  into  her  child-like  heart,  and  she  was  overwhelmed 
by  a  feeling  of  loneliness  and  danger.  But  her  refuge  was  there,  close  to 
her,  and  she  put  out  her  hands  to  grasp  it.  "  Ah,  Morris,"  she  said, 
with  a  shudder,  "  I  will  marry  you  as  soon  as  you  please !  "  And  she 
surrendered  herself,  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  My  dear  good  girl ! "  he  exclaimed,  looking  down  at  his  prize. 
And  then  he  looked  up  again,  rather  vaguely,  with  parted  lips  and  lifted 
eyebrows. 

XXI. 

Doctor  Sloper  very  soon  imparted  his  conviction  to  Mrs.  Almond,  in 
the  same  terms  in  which  he  had  announced  it  to  himself.  "  She's  going 
to  stick,  by  Jove  !  she's  going  to  stick," 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  371 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  going  to  marry  him  ? "  Mrs.  Almond 
inquired. 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  but  she  is  not  going  to  break  down.  She  is 
going  to  drag  out  the  engagement,  in  the  hope  of  making  me  relent." 

"  And  shall  you  not  relent  ?  " 

"  Shall  a  geometrical  proposition  relent  1     I  am  not  so  superficial." 

"  Doesn't  geometry  treat  of  surfaces  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Almond,  who,  as 
we  know,  was  clever,  smiling. 

"  Yes ;  but  it  treats  of  them  profoundly.  Catherine  and  her  young 
man  are  my  surfaces  ;  I  have  taken  their  measure." 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  surprised  you." 

"  It  is  immense  ;  there  will  be  a  great  deal  to  observe." 

"  You  are  shockingly  cold-blooded  !  "  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  I  need  to  be,  with  all  this  hot  blood  about  me.  Young  Townsend 
indeed  is  cool ;  I  must  allow  him  that  merit." 

"  I  can't  judge  him,"  Mrs.  Almond  answered ;  "  but  I  am  not  at  all 
surprised  at  Catherine." 

"  I  confess  I  am  a  little ;  she  must  have  been  so  deucedly  divided 
and  bothered." 

"  Say  it  amuses  you  outright !  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  such  a 
joke  that  your  daughter  adores  you." 

"  It  is  the  point  where  the  adoration  stops  that  I  find  it  interesting 
to  fix." 

"  It  stops  where  the  other  sentiment  begins." 

"  Not  at  all — that  would  be  simple  enough.  The  two  things  are 
extremely  mixed  up,  and  the  mixture  is  extremely  odd.  It  will  produce 
some  third  element,  and  that's  what  I  am  waiting  to  see.  I  wait  with 
suspense — with  positive  excitement ;  and  that  is  a  sort  of  emotion  that 
I  didn't  suppose  Catherine  would  ever  provide  for  me.  I  am  really  very 
much  obliged  to  her." 

"  She  will  cling,"  said  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  she  will  certainly  cling." 

"  Yes ;  as  I  say,  she  will  stick." 

"  Cling  is  prettier.  That's  what  those  very  simple  natures  always 
do,  and  nothing  could  be  simpler  than  Catherine.  She  doesn't  take 
many  impressions ;  but  when  she  takes  one  she  keeps  it.  She  is  like  a 
copper  kettle  that  receives  a  dent ;  you  may  polish  up  the  kettle,  but  you 
can't  efface  the  mark." 

"  We  must  try  and  polish  up  Catherine,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  will 
take  her  to  Europe." 

"  She  won't  foi'get  him  in  Europe." 

"  He  will  forget  her,  then." 

Mrs.  Almond  looked  grave.     "  Should  you  really  like  that  ? " 

"  Extremely !  "  said  the  Doctor. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  meanwhile,  lost  little  time  in  putting  herself  again 
in  communication  with  Morris  Townsend.  She  requested  him  to  favour 
her  with  another  interview,  but  she  did  not  on  this  occasion  select  an 


372  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

oyster-saloon  as  the  scene  of  their  meeting.  She  proposed  that  he  should 
join  her  at  the  door  of  a  certain  church,  after  service  on  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  she  was  careful  not  to  appoint  the  place  of  worship  which  she 
usually  visited,  and  where,  as  she  said,  the  congregation  would  have 
spied  upon  her.  She  picked  out  a  less  elegant  resort,  and  on  issuing 
from  its  portal  at  the  hour  she  had  fixed  she  saw  the  young  man  stand- 
ing apart.  She  offered  him  no  recognition  till  she  had  crossed  the  street 
and  he  had  followed  her  to  some  distance.  Here,  with  a  smile — "  Excuse 
my  apparent  want  of  cordiality,"  she  said.  "  You  know  what  to  believe 
about  that.  Prudence  before  everything."  And  on  his  asking  her  in 
what  direction  they  should  walk,  "  "Where  we  shall  be  least  observed," 
she  murmured. 

Morris  was  not  in  high  good-humour,  and  his  response  to  this  speech 
was  not  particularly  gallant.  "  I  don't  flatter  myself  we  shall  be  much 
observed  anywhere."  Then  he  turned  recklessly  toward  the  centre  of 
the  town.  "  I  hope  you  have  come  to  tell  me  that  he  has  knocked 
under,"  he  went  on. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  altogether  a  harbinger  of  good ;  and  yet,  too, 
I  am  to  a  certain  extent  a  messenger  of  peace.  I  have  been  thinking  a 
great  deal,  Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  You  think  too  much." 

"  I  suppose  I  do ;  but  I  can't  help  it,  my  mind  is  so  terribly  active. 
When  I  give  myself,  I  give  myself.  I  pay  the  penalty  in  my  headaches, 
my  famous  headaches — a  perfect  circlet  of  pain !  But  I  carry  it  as  a 
queen  carries  her  crown.  Would  you  believe  that  I  have  one  now  1  I 
wouldn't,  however,  have  missed  our  rendezvous  for  anything.  I  have 
something  very  important  to  tell  you." 

"  Well,  let's  have  it,"  said  Morris. 

"  I  was  perhaps  a  little  headlong  the  other  day  in  advising  you  to 
marry  immediately.  I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  now  I  see  it  just 
a  little  differently." 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  different  ways  of  seeing  the  same 
object," 

"  Their  number  is  infinite  !  "  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  to  suggest  that  this  convenient  faculty  was  one  of  her  brightest 
attributes. 

"  I  recommend  you  to  take  one  way  and  stick  to  it,"  Morris  replied. 

"  Ah  !  but  it  isn't  easy  to  choose.  My  imagination  is  never  quiet, 
never  satisfied.  It  makes  me  a  bad  adviser,  perhaps  ;  but  it  makes  me 
a  capital  friend !  " 

"  A  capital  friend  who  gives  bad  advice  !  "  said  Morris. 

"  Not  intentionally — and  who  hurries  off,  at  every  risk,  to  make  the 
most  humble  excuses  !  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  advise  me  now  1 " 

11  To  be  very  patient ;  to  watch  and  wait." 

"  And  is  that  bad  advice  or  good  ] " 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  373 

"  That  s  not  for  me  to  say,"  Mrs.  Penniman  rejoined,  with  some 
dignity.  "  I  only  claim  it  is  sincere." 

"  And  will  you  come  to  me  next  week  and  recommend  something 
different  and  equally  sincere  ?  " 

"  I  may  come  to  you  next  week  and  tell  you  that  I  am  in  the  streets  !  " 

"In  the  streets?" 

"  I  have  had  a  terrible  scene  with  my  brother,  and  he  threatens,  if 
anything  happens,  to  turn  me  out  of  the  house.  You  know  I  am  a  poor 
woman." 

Morris  had  a  speculative  idea  that  she  had  a  little  property ;  but  he 
naturally  did  not  press  this. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  yo\i  suffer  martyrdom  for  me,"  he  said. 
"  But  you  make  your  brother  out  a  regular  Turk." 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated  a  little. 

"  I  certainly  do  not  regard  Austin  as  an  orthodox  Christian." 

"  And  am  I  to  wait  till  he  is  converted  1 " 

"  Wait  at  any  rate  till  he  is  less  violent.  Bide  your  time,  Mr.  Town- 
send  ;  remember  the  prize  is  great ! " 

Morris  walked  along  some  time  in  silence,  tapping  the  railings  and 
gateposts  very  sharply  with  his  stick. 

"  You  certainly  are  devilish  inconsistent ! "  he  broke  out  at  last.  "  I 
have  already  got  Catherine  to  consent  to  a  private  marriage." 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  indeed  inconsistent,  for  at  this  news  she  gave  a 
little  jump  of  gratification. 

"  Oh !  when  and  where  1 "  she  cried.     And  then  she  stopped  short. 

Morris  was  a  little  vague  about  this. 

"  That  isn't  fixed ;  but  she  consents.  It's  deuced  awkward,  now,  to 
back  out." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  as  I  say,  had  stopped  short ;  and  she  stood  there 
with  her  eyes  fixed,  brilliantly,  on  her  companion. 

"  Mr.  Townsend,"  she  proceeded,  "  shall  I  tell  you  something  ? 
Catherine  loves  you  so  much  that  you  may  do  anything." 

This  declaration  was  slightly  ambiguous,  and  Morris  opened  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  it !     But  what  do  you  mean  by  '  anything '  ?  " 

"  You  may  postpone — you  may  change  about ;  she  won't  think  the 
worse  of  you." 

Morris  stood  there  still,  with  his  raised  eyebrows ;  then  he  said  sim- 
ply and  rather  dryly — "  Ah  !  "  After  this  he  remarked  to  Mrs.  Penni- 
man that  if  she  walked  so  slowly  she  would  attract  notice,  and  he  suc- 
ceeded, after  a  fashion,  in  hurrying  her  back  to  the  domicile  of  which  her 
tenure  had  become  so  insecure. 

XXII. 

He  had  slightly  misrepresented  the  matter  in  saying  that  Catherine 
had  consented  to  take  the  great  step.  We  left  her  just  now  declaring  that 


374  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

she  would  bum  her  ships  behind  her ;  but  Morris,  after  having  elicited 
this  declaration,  had  become  conscious  of  good  reasons  for  not  taking  it 
up.     He  avoided,  gracefully  enough,  fixing  a  day,  though  he  left  her 
under  the  impression  that  he  had  his  eye  on  one.     Catherine  may  have 
had  her  difficulties ;  but  those  of  her  circumspect  suitor  are  also  worthy 
of  consideration.     The  prize  was  certainly  great ;  but  it  was  only  to  be 
won  by  striking  the  happy  mean  between  precipitancy  and  caution.     It 
would  be  all  very  well  to  take  one's  jump  and  trust  to  Providence ;  Pro- 
vidence was  more  especially  on  the  side  of  clever  people,  and  clever 
people  were  known  by  an  indisposition  to  risk  their  bones.    The  ultimate 
reward  of  a  union  with  a  young  woman  who  was  both  unattractive  and 
impoverished  ought  to  be  connected  with  immediate  disadvantages  by 
some  very  palpable  chain.   Between  the  fear  of  losing  Catherine  and  her 
possible  fortune  altogether,  and  the  fear  of  taking  her  too  soon  and  find- 
ing this  possible  fortune  as  void  of  actuality  as  a  collection  of  emptied 
bottles,  it  was  not  comfortable  for  Morris  Townsend  to  choose ;  a  fact 
that  should  be  remembered  by  readers  disposed  to  judge  harshly  of  a 
young  man  who  may  have  struck  them  as  making  but  an  indifferently 
successful  use  of  fine  natural  parts.     He  had  not  forgotten  that  in  any 
event  Catherine  had  her  own  ten  thousand  a  year ;  he  had  devoted  an 
abundance  of  meditation  to  this  circumstance.     But  with  his  fine  parts 
he  rated  himself  high,  and  he  had  a  perfectly  definite  appreciation  of  his 
value,  which  seemed  to  him  inadequately  represented  by  the  sum  I 
have  mentioned.     At  the  same  time  he  reminded  himself  that  this  sum 
was  considerable,  that  everything  is  relative,  and  that  if  a  modest  income 
is  less  desirable  than  a  large  one,  the  complete  absence  of  revenue  is  no- 
where accounted  an  advantage.     These  reflections  gave  him  plenty  of 
occupation,  and  made  it  necessary  that  he  should  trim  his  sail.     Dr. 
Sloper's  opposition  was  the  unknown  quantity  in  the  problem  he  had  to 
work  out.     The  natural  way  to  work  it  out  was  by  marrying  Catherine; 
but  in  mathematics  there  are  many  short  cuts,  and  Morris  was  not  with- 
out a  hope  that  he  should  yet  discover  one.     When  Catherine  took  him 
at  his  word  and  consented  to  renounce  the  attempt  to  mollify  her  father, 
he  drew  back  skilfully  enough,  as  I  have  said,  and  kept  the  wedding-day 
still  an  open  question.     Her  faith  in  his  sincerity  was  so  complete  that 
she  was  incapable  of  suspecting  that  he  was  playing  with  her ;  her  trouble 
just  now  was  of  another  kind.     The  poor  girl  had  an  admirable  sense  of 
honour ;  and  from  the  moment  she  had  brought  herself  to  the  point  of 
violating  her  father's  wish,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  en- 
joy his  protection.     It  was  on  her  conscience  that  she  ought  not  to  live 
under  his  roof  only  so  long  as  she  conformed  to  his  wisdom.     There  was 
a  great  deal  of  glory  in  such  a  position,  but  poor  Catherine  felt  that  she 
had  forfeited  her  claim  to  it.     She  had  cast  her  lot  with  a  young  man 
against  whom  he  had  solemnly  warned  her,  and  broken  the  contract 
under  which  he  provided  her  with  a  happy  home.     She  could  not  give 
up  ^the  young  man,  so  she  must  leave  the  home ;  and  the  sooner  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  375 

object  of  her  preference  offered  her  another,  the  sooner  her  situation 
would  lose  its  awkward  twist.  This  was  close  reasoning;  but  it  was 
commingled  with  an  infinite  amount  of  merely  instinctive  penitence. 
Catherine's  days,  at  this  time,  were  dismal,  and  the  weight  of  some  of 
her  hours  was  almost  more  than  she  coiild  bear.  Her  father  never  looked 
at  her,  never  spoke  to  her.  He  knew  perfectly  what  he  was  about,  and 
this  was  part  of  a  plan.  She  looked  at  him  as  much  as  she  dared  (for 
she  was  afraid  of  seeming  to  offer  herself  to  his  observation),  and  she 
pitied  him  for  the  sorrow  she  had  brought  upon  him.  She  held  up  her 
head  and  busied  her  hands,  and  went  about  her  daily  occupations ;  and 
when  the  state  of  things  in  Washington  Square  seemed  intolerable,  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  indulged  herself  with  an  intellectual  vision  of  the 
man  for  whose  sake  she  had  broken  a  sacred  law.  Mrs.  Penniman,  of 
the  three  persons  in  Washington  Square,  had  much  the  most  of  the 
manner  that  belongs  to  a  great  crisis.  If  Catherine  was  quiet,  she  was 
quietly  quiet,  as  I  may  say,  and  her  pathetic  effects,  which  there  was  no 
one  to  notice,  were  entirely  unstudied  and  unintended.  If  the  Doctor 
was  stiff  and  dry  and  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  presence  of  his  com- 
panions, it  was  so  lightly,  neatly,  easily  done,  that  you  would  have  had 
to  know  him  well  to  discover  that  on  the  whole  he  rather  enjoyed  having 
to  be  so  disagreeable.  But  Mrs.  Penniman  was  elaborately  reserved  and 
significantly  silent ;  there  was  a  richer  rustle  in  the  very  deliberate  move- 
ments to  which  she  confined  herself,  and  when  she  occasionally  spoke,  in 
connection  with  some  very  trivial  event,  she  had  the  air  of  meaning  some- 
thing deeper  than  what  she  said.  Between  Catherine  and  her  father 
nothing  had  passed  since  the  evening  she  went  to  speak  to  him  in  his 
study.  She  had  something  to  say  to  him — it  seemed  to  her  she  ought  to 
say  it ;  but  she  kept  it  back,  for  fear  of  irritating  him.  He  also  had 
something  to  say  to  her ;  but  he  was  determined  not  to  speak  first.  He 
was  interested,  as  we  know,  in  seeing  how,  if  she  were  left  to  herself,  she 
would  "  stick."  At  last  she  told  him  she  had  seen  Morris  Townsend 
again,  and  that  their  relations  remained  quite  the  same. 

"  I  think  we  shall  marry — before  very  long.  And  probably,  mean- 
while, I  shall  see  him  rather  often ;  about  once  a  week — not  more." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  coldly  from  head  to  foot,  as  if  she  had  been 
a  stranger.  It  was  the  first  time  his  eyes  had  rested  on  her  for  a  week, 
which  was  fortunate,  if  that  was  to  be  their  expression.  "  Why  not 
three  times  a  day  ? "  he  asked.  "  What  prevents  your  meeting  as  often 
as  you  choose  ? " 

She  turned  away  a  moment ;  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then 
she  said,  "  It  is  better  once  a  week." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is  better.  It  is  as  bad  as  it  can  be.  If  you 
flatter  yourself  that  I  care  for  little  modifications  of  that  sort,  you  are 
very  much  mistaken.  It  is  as  wrong  of  you  to  see  him  once  a  week  as 
it  would  be  to  see  him  all  day  long.  Not  that  it  matters  to  me, 
however." 


376  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Catherine  tried  to  follow  these  words,  but  they  seemed  to  lead 
towards  a  vague  horror  from  which  she  recoiled.  "  I  think  we  shall 
marry  pretty  soon,"  she  repeated  at  last. 

Her  father  gave  her  his  dreadful  look  again,  as  if  she  were  some  one 
else.  "  Why  do  you  tell  me  that  ?  It's  no  concern  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  father !  "  she  broke  out,  "  don't  you  care,  even  if  you  do 
feel  so?" 

"  Not  a  button.  Once  you  marry,  it's  quite  the  same  to  me  when  or 
where  or  why  you  do  it ;  and  if  you  think  to  compound  for  your  folly  by 
hoisting  your  flag  in  this  way,  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble." 

With  this  he  turned  away.  But  the  next  day  he  spoke  to  her  of  his 
own  accord,  and  his  manner  was  somewhat  changed.  "  Shall  you  be 
married  within  the  next  four  or  five  months  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  said  Catherine.  "It  is  not  very  easy  for  us 
to  make  up  our  minds." 

"  Put  it  off,  then,  for  six  months,  and  in  the  meantime  I  will  take  you 
to  Europe.  I  should  like  you  very  much  to  go." 

It  gave  her  such  delight,  after  his  words  of  the  day  before,  to  hear 
that  he  should  "  like  "  her  to  do  something,  and  that  he  still  had  in  his 
heart  any  of  the  tenderness  of  preference,  that  she  gave  a  little  exclama- 
tion of  joy.  But  then  she  became  conscious  that  Morris  was  not 
included  in  this  proposal,  and  that — as  regards  really  going — she  would 
greatly  prefer  to  remain  at  home  with  him.  But  she  blushed,  none 
the  less,  more  comfortably  than  she  had  done  of  late.  "  It  would  be 
delightful  to  go  to  Europe,"  she  remarked,  with  a  sense  that  the  idea 
was  not  original,  and  that  her  tone  was  not  all  it  might  be. 

"  Very  well,  then,  we  will  go.     Pack  up.  your  clothes." 

"  I  had  better  tell  Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Catherine. 

Her  father  fixed  his  cold  eyes  upon  her.  "  If  you  mean  that  you  had 
better  ask  his  leave,  all  that  remains  to  me  is  to  hope  he  will  give  it." 

The  girl  was  sharply  touched  by  the  pathetic  ring  of  the  words ;  it 
was  the  most  calculated,  the  most  dramatic  little  speech  the  Doctor  had 
ever  uttered.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  great  thing  for  her,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, to  have  this  fine  opportunity  of  showing  him  her  respect ; 
and  yet  there  was  something  else  that  she  felt  as  well,  and  that  she  pre- 
sently expressed.  "  I  sometimes  think  that  if  I  do  what  you  dislike  so 
much,  I  ought  not  to  stay  with  you." 

"  To  stay  with  me  1 " 

"  If  I  live  with  you,  I  ought  to  obey  you." 

"  If  that's  your  theory,  it's  certainly  mine,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  a 
dry  laugh. 

"  But  if  I  don't  obey  you,  I  ought  not  to  live  with  you — to  enjoy 
your  kindness  and  protection." 

This  striking  argument  gave  the  Doctor  a  sudden  sense  of  having 
underestimated  his  daughter ;  it  seemed  even  more  than  worthy  of  a 
young  woman  who  had  revealed  the  quality  of  unaggressive  obstinacy. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  377 

But  it  displeased  him — displeased  him  deeply,  and  he  signified  as  much 
"  That  idea  is  in  very  bad  taste,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  get  it  from  Mr. 
Townsend  ? " 

"  Oh,  no ;  it's  my  own  !  "  said  Catherine  eagerly. 

"  Keep  it  to  yourself,  then,"  her  father  answered,  more  than  ever 
determined  she  should  go  to  Europe. 

XXIII. 

If  Morris  Townsend  was  not  to  be  included  in  this  journey,  no  more 
was  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  would  have  been  thankful  for  an  invitation, 
but  who  (to  do  her  justice)  bore  her  disappointment  in  a  perfectly  lady- 
like manner.  i(  I  should  enjoy  seeing  the  works  of  Raphael  and  the  ruins 
— the  ruins  of  the  Pantheon,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  shall  not  be  sorry  to  be  alone  and  at  peace  for  the  next 
few  months  in  Washington  Square.  I  want  rest ;  I  have  been  through 
so  much  in  the  last  four  months."  Mrs.  Almond  thought  it  rather  cruel 
that  her  brother  should  not  take  poor  Lavinia  abroad ;  but  she  easily 
understood  that,  if  the  purpose  of  his  expedition  was  to  make  Catherine 
forget  her  lover,  it  was  not  in  his  interest  to  give  his  daughter  this 
young  man's  best  friend  as  a  companion.  "  If  Lavinia  had  not  been  so 
foolish,  she  might  visit  the  ruins  of  the  Pantheon,"  she  said  to  herself ; 
and  she  continued  to  regret  her  sister's  folly,  even  though  the  latter 
assured  her  that  she  had  often  heard  the  relics  in  question  most  satisfac- 
torily described  by  Mr.  Penniman.  Mrs.  Penniman  was  perfectly 
aware  that  her  brother's  motive  in  undertaking  a  foreign  tour  was  to  lay 
a  trap  for  Catherine's  constancy ;  and  she  imparted  this  conviction  very 
frankly  to  her  niece. 

"  He  thinks  it  will  make  you  forget  Morris,"  she  said  (she  always 
called  the  young  man  "  Morris  "  now) ;  "  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,  you 
know.  He  thinks  that  all  the  things  you  will  see  over  there  will  drive 
him  out  of  your  thoughts." 

Catherine  looked  greatly  alarmed.  "  If  he  thinks  that,  I  ought  to 
tell  him  beforehand." 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head.  "  Tell  him  afterwards,  my  dear ! 
After  he  has  had  all  the  trouble  and  the  expense  !  That's  the  way  to 
serve  him."  And  she  added,  in  a  softer  key,  that  it  must  be  delightful 
to  think  of  those  who  love  us  among  the  ruins  of  the  Pantheon. 

Her  father's  displeasure  had  cost  the  girl,  as  we  know,  a  great  deal  of 
deep-welling  sorrow — sorrow  of  the  purest  and  most  generous  kind, 
without  a  touch  of  resentment  or  rancour ;  but  for  the  first  time,  after 
he  had  dismissed  with  such  contemptuous  brevity  her  apology  for  being 
a  charge  upon  him,  there  was  a  spark  of  anger  in  her  grief.  She  had 
felt  his  contempt ;  it  had  scorched  her  ;  that  speech  about  her  bad  taste 
made  her  ears  burn  for  three  days.  During  this  period  she  was  less 
considerate ;  she  had  an  idea — a  rather  vague  one,  but  it  was  agreeable 


3*8  WASHINGTON  SQUABE. 

to  her  sense  of  injury — that  now  she  was  absolved  from  penance  and 
might  do  what  she  chose.  She  chose  to  write  to  Morris  Townsend  to 
meet  her  in  the  Square  and  take  her  to  walk  about  the  town.  If  she 
were  going  to  Europe  out  of  respect  to  her  father  she  might  at  least  give 
herself  this  satisfaction.  She  felt  in  every  way  at  present  more  free  and 
more  resolute ;  there  was  a  force  that  urged  her.  Now  at  last,  completely 
and  unreservedly,  her  passion  possessed  her. 

Morris  met  her  at  last,  and  they  took  a  long  walk.  She  told  him 
immediately  what  had  happened — that  her  father  wished  to  take  her 
away.  It  would  be  for  six  months,  to  Europe  ;  she  would  do  absolutely 
what  Morris  should  think  best.  She  hoped  inexpressibly  that  he  would 
think  it  best  she  should  stay  at  home.  It  was  some  time  before  he  said 
what  he  thought ;  he  asked,  as  they  walked  along,  a  great  many  questions. 
There  was  one  that  especially  struck  her ;  it  seemed  so  incongruous. 

"  Should  you  like  to  see  all  those  celebrated  things  over  there  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  Morris  !  "  said  Catherine,  quite  deprecatingly. 

"  Gracious  Heaven,  what  a  dull  woman ! "  Morris  exclaimed  to 
himself. 

"  He  thinks  I  will  forget  you,"  said  Catherine ;  "  that  all  these  things 
will  drive  you  out  of  my  mind." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  they  will !  " 

"  Please  don't  say  that,"  Catherine  answered  gently,  as  they  walked 
along.  "  Poor  father  will  be  disappointed." 

Morris  gave  a  little  laugh.  "  Yes,  I  verily  believe  that  your  poor 
father  will  be  disappointed  !  But  you  will  have  seen  Europe,"  he  added 
humorously.  "  What  a  take-in !  " 

"  I  don't  care  for  seeing  Europe,"  Catherine  said. 

"  You  ought  to  care,  my  dear.     And  it  may  mollify  your  father." 

Catherine,  conscious  of  her  obstinacy,  expected  little  of  this,  and 
could  not  rid  herself  of  the  idea  that  in  going  abroad  and  yet  remaining 
firm,  she  should  play  her  father  a  trick.  "  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
a  kind  of  deception  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Doesn't  he  want  to  deceive  you  ?  "  cried  Morris.  "  It  will  serve 
him  right !  I  really  think  you  had  better  go." 

"  And  not  be  married  for  so  long  ? " 

"  Be  married  when  you  come  back.  You  can  buy  your  wedding- 
clothes  in  Paris."  And  then  Morris,  with  great  kindness  of  tone,  ex- 
plained his  view  of  the  matter.  It  would  be  a  good  thing  that  she  should 
go ;  it  would  put  them  completely  in  the  right.  It  would  show  they  were 
reasonable,  and  willing  to  wait.  Once  they  were  so  sure  of  each  other, 
they  could  afford  to  wait — what  had  they  to  fear  ?  If  there  was  a  particle 
of  chance  that  her  father  would  be  favourably  affected  by  her  going,  that 
ought  to  settle  it ;  for,  after  all,  Morris  was  very  unwilling  to  be  the  cause 
of  her  being  disinherited.  It  was  not  for  himself,  it  was  for  her  and  for 
her  children.  He  was  willing  to  wait  for  her ;  it  would  be  hard,  but  he 
could  do  it,  And  over  there,  among  beautiful  scenes  and  noble  monu- 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  379 

ments,  perhaps  the  old  gentleman  would  be  softened ;  such  things  were 
supposed  to  exert  a  humanising  influence.  He  might  be  touched  by  her 
gentleness,  her  patience,  her  willingness  to  make  any  sacrifice  but  that 
one ;  and  if  she  should  appeal  to  him  some  day,  in  some  celebrated  spot — 
in  Italy,  say,  in  the  evening ;  in  Venice,  in  a  gondola,  by  moonlight — if 
she  should  be  a  little  clever  about  it  and  touch  the  right  chord,  perhaps 
he  would  fold  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  that  he  forgave  her.  Catherine 
was  immensely  struck  with  this  conception  of  the  affair,  which  seemed 
eminently  worthy  of  her  lover's  brilliant  intellect ;  though  she  viewed  it 
askance  in  so  far  as  it  depended  upon  her  own  powers  of  execution.  The 
idea  of  being  "  clever "  in  a  gondola  by  moonlight  appeared  to  her  to 
involve  elements  of  which  her  grasp  was  not  active.  But  it  was  settled 
between  them  that  she  should  tell  her  father  that  she  was  ready  to  follow 
him  obediently  anywhere,  making  the  mental  reservation  that  she  loved 
Morris  Townsend  more  than  ever. 

She  informed  the  Doctor  she  was  ready  to  embark,  and  he  made 
rapid  arrangements  for  this  event.  Catherine  had  many  farewells  to 
make,  but  with  only  two  of  them  are  we  actively  concerned.  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman  took  a  discriminating  view  of  her  niece's  journey ;  it  seemed  to 
her  very  proper  that  Mr.  Townsend's  destined  bride  should  wish  to  em- 
bellish her  mind  by  a  foreign  tour. 

"  You  leave  him  in  good  hands,"  she  said,  pressing  her  lips  to  Cathe- 
rine's forehead.  (She  was  very  fond  of  kissing  people's  foreheads ;  it 
was  an  involuntary  expression  of  sympathy  with  the  intellectual  part.) 
"  I  shall  see  him  often;  I  shall  feel  like  one  of  the  vestals  of  old,  tending 
the  sacred  flame." 

"  You  behave  beautifully  about  not  going  with  us,"  Catherine  an- 
swered, not  presuming  to  examine  this  analogy. 

"  It  is  my  pride  that  keeps  me  up,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  tapping  the 
body  of  her  dress,  which  always  gave  forth  a  sort  of  metallic  ring. 

Catherine's  parting  with  her  lover  was  short,  and  few  words  were 
exchanged. 

"  Shall  I  find  you  just  the  same  when  I  come  back  ? "  she  asked  \ 
though  the  question  was  not  the  fruit  of  scepticism. 

"  The  same — only  more  so !  "  said  Morris,  smiling. 

It  does  not  enter  into  our  scheme  to  narrate  in  detail  Dr.  Sloper's 
proceedings  in  the  Eastern  hemisphere.  He  made  the  grand  tour  of 
Europe,  travelled  in  considerable  splendour,  and  (as  was  to  have  been  ex- 
pected in  a  man  of  his  high  cultivation)  found  so  much  in  art  and  an- 
tiquity to. interest  him,  that  he  remained  abroad,  not  for  six  months,  but 
for  twelve.  Mrs.  Penniman,  in  Washington  Square,  accommodated  her- 
self to  his  absence.  She  enjoyed  her  uncontested  dominion  in  the  empty 
house,  and  flattered  herself  that  she  made  it  more  attractive  to  their 
friends  than  when  her  brother  was  at  home.  To  Morris  Townsend,  at 
least,  it  would  have  appeared  that  she  made  it  singularly  attractive.  He 
was  altogether  her  most  frequent  visitor,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  was  very 


380  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

fond  of  asking  him  to  tea.  He  had  his  chair — a  very  easy  one — at  the 
fireside  in  the  back-parlour  (when  the  great  mahogany  sliding-doors,  with 
silver  knobs  and  hinges,  which  divided  this  apartment  from  its  more  for- 
mal neighbour,  were  closed),  and  he  used  to  smoke  cigars  in  the  Doctor's 
study,  where  he  often  spent  an  hour  in  turning  over  the  curious  collections 
of  its  absent  proprietor.  He  thought  Mrs.  Penniman  a  goose,  as  we  know ; 
but  he  was  no  goose  himself,  and,  as  a  young  man  of  luxurious  tastes  and 
scanty  resources,  he  found  the  house  a  perfect  castle  of  indolence.  It  be- 
came for  him  a  club  with  a  single  member.  Mrs.  Penniman  saw  much 
less  of  her  sister  than  while  the  Doctor  was  at  home ;  for  Mrs.  Almond 
had  felt  moved  to  tell  her  that  she  disapproved  of  her  relations  with  Mr. 
Townsend.  She  had  no  business  to  be  so  friendly  to  a  young  man  of 
whom  their  brother  thought  so  meanly,  and  Mrs.  Almond  was  surprised 
at  her  levity  in  foisting  a  most  deplorable  engagement  upon  Catherine. 

"  Deplorable  ? "  cried  Lavinia.  "  He  will  make  her  a  lovely  hus- 
band ! " 

"  I  don't  believe  in  lovely  husbands,"  said  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  I  only 
believe  in  good  ones.  If  he  marries  her,  and  she  comes  into  Austin's 
money,  they  may  get  on.  He  will  be  an  idle,  amiable,  selfish,  and  doubt- 
less tolerably  good-natured  fellow.  But  if  she  doesn't  get  the  money 
and  he  finds  himself  tied  to  her,  Heaven  have  mercy  on  her  !  He  will 
have  none.  He  will  hate  her  for  his  disappointment,  and  take  his 
revenge ;  he  will  be  pitiless  and  cruel.  Woe  betide  poor  Catherine !  I 
recommend  you  to  talk  a  little  with  his  sister ;  it's  a  pity  Catherine  can't 
marry  her  I " 

Mrs.  Penniman  had  no  appetite  whatever  for  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  whose  acquaintance  she  made  no  trouble  to  cultivate ;  and 
the  effect  of  this  alarming  forecast  of  her  niece's  destiny  was  to  make  her 
think  it  indeed  a  thousand  pities  that  Mr.  Townsend's  generous  nature 
should  be  embittered.  Bright  enjoyment  was  his  natural  element,  and 
how  could  he  be  comfortable  if  there  should  prove  to  be  nothing  to 
enjoy  ?  It  became  a  fixed  idea  with  Mrs.  Penniman  that  he  should 
yet  enjoy  her  brother's  fortune,  on  which  she  had  acuteness  enough  to 
perceive  that  her  own  claim  was  small. 

"  If  he  doesn't  leave  it  to  Catherine,  it  certainly  won't  be  to  leave  it 
to  me,"  she  said. 

XXIV. 

The  Doctor,  during  the  first  six  months  he  was  abroad,  never  spoke  to 
his  daughter  of  their  little  difference ;  partly  on  system,  and  partly  be- 
cause he  had  a  great  many  other  things  to  think  about.  It  was  idle  to 
attempt  to  ascertain  the  state  of  her  affections  without  direct  inquiry, 
because,  if  she  had  not  had  an  expressive  manner  among  the  familiar  in- 
fluences of  home,  she  failed  to  gather  animation  from  the  mountains  of 
Switzerland  or  the  monuments  of  Italy.  She  was  always  her  father's 
docile  and  reasonable  associate' — going  through  their  sight-seeing  in  de- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  381 

ferential  silence,  never  complaining  of  fatigue,  always  ready  to  start  at 
the  hour  he  had  appointed  over-night,  making  no  foolish  criticisms  and 
indulging  in  no  refinements  of  appreciation.    "  She  is  about  as  intelligent 
as  the  bundle  of  shawls,"  the  Doctor  said ;  her  main  superiority  being 
that  while  the  bundle  of  shawls  sometimes  got  lost,  or  tumbled  out  of  the 
carriage,  Catherine  was  always  at  her  post,  and  had  a  firm  and  ample 
seat.     But  her  father  had  expected  this,  and  he  was  not  constrained  to 
set  down  her  intellectual  limitations  as  a  tourist  to  sentimental  depres- 
sion;  she  had  completely  divested  herself  of  the  characteristics  of  a 
victim,  and  during  the  whole  time  that  they  were  abroad  she  never  uttered 
an  audible  sigh.     He  supposed  she  was  in  correspondence  with  Morris 
Townsend ;  but  he  held  his  peace  about  it,  for  he  never  saw  the  young 
man's  letters,  and  Catherine's  own  missives  were  always  given  to  the 
courier  to  post.     She  heard  from  her  lover  with  considerable  regularity, 
but  his  letters  came  enclosed  in  Mrs.  Penniman's ;  so  that  whenever  the 
Doctor  handed  her  a  packet  addressed  in  his  sister's  hand,  he  was  an  in- 
voluntary instrument  of  the  passion  he  condemned.     Catherine  made 
this  reflection,  and  six  months  earlier  she  would  have  felt  bound  to  give 
him  warning ;  but  now  she  deemed  herself  absolved.     There  was  a  sore 
spot  in  her  heart  that  his  own  words  had  made  when  once  she  spoke  to 
him  as  she  thought  honour  prompted ;  she  would  try  and  please  him  as 
far  as  she  could,  but  she  would  never  speak  that  way  again.     She  read 
her  lover's  letters  in  secret. 

One  day,  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  the  two  travellers  found  them- 
selves in  a  lonely  valley  of  the  Alps.  They  were  crossing  one  of  the 
passes,  and  on  the  long  ascent  they  had  got  out  of  the  carriage  and  had 
wandered  much  in  advance.  After  a  while  the  Doctor  descried  a  foot- 
path which,  leading  through  a  transverse  valley,  would  bring  them  out, 
as  he  justly  supposed,  at  a  much  higher  point  of  the  ascent.  They  fol- 
lowed this  devious  way  and  finally  lost  the  path ;  the  valley  proved  very 
wild  and  rough,  and  their  walk  became  rather  a  scramble.  They  were 
good  walkers,  however,  and  they  took  their  adventure  easily ;  from  time 
to  time  they  stopped,  that  Catherine  might  rest ;  and  then  she  sat  upon 
a  stone  and  looked  about  her  at  the  hard-featured  rocks  and  the  glowing 
sky.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  last  of  August ;  night  was 
coming  on,  and,  as  they  had  reached  a  great  elevation,  the  air  was  cold 
and  sharp.  In  the  west  there  was  a  great  suffusion  of  cold,  red  light, 
which  made  the  sides  of  the  little  valley  look  only  the  more  rugged  and 
dusky.  During  one  of  their  pauses,  her  father  left  her  and  wandered 
away  to  some  high  place,  at  a  distance,  to  get  a  view.  He  was  out  of 
sight;  she  sat  there  alone,  in  the  stillness,  which  was  just  touched  by  the 
vague  murmur,  somewhere,  of  a  mountain  brook.  She  thought  of  Morris 
Townsend,  and  the  place  was  so  desolate  and  lonely  that  he  seemed  very 
far  away.  Her  father  remained  absent  a  long  time ;  she  began  to  won- 
der what  had  become  of  him.  But  at  last  he  reappeared,  coming  towards 
her  in  the  clear  twilight,  and  she  got  up,  to  go  on.  He  made  no  motion 


382  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

to  proceed,  however,  but  came  close  to  her,  as  if  he  had  something  to 
say.  He  stopped  in  front  of  her  and  stood  looking  at  her,  with  eyes  that 
had  kept  the  light  of  the  flushing  snow-summits  on  which  they  had  just 
been  fixed.  Then,  abruptly,  in  a  low  tone,  he  asked  her  an  unexpected 
question — 

"  Have  you  given  him  up  ?  " 

The  question  was  unexpected,  but  Catherine  was  only  superficially 
unprepared. 

"  No,  father ! "  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  again,  for  some  moments,  without  speaking. 

"  Does  he  write  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes — about  twice  a  month." 

The  Doctor  looked  up  and  down  the  valley,  swinging  his  stick ;  then 
he  said  to  her,  in  the  same  low  tone — 

"  I  am  very  angry." 

She  wondered  what  he  meant — whether  he  wished  to  frighten  her. 
If  he  did,  the  place  was  well  chosen  ;  this  hard,  melancholy  dell,  aban- 
doned by  the  summer  light,  made  her  feel  her  loneliness.  She  looked 
around  her,  and  her  heart  grew  cold ;  for  a  moment  her  fear  was  j?reat. 
But  she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  save  to  murmur  gently,  "  I  am 
sorry." 

"  You  try  my  patience,"  her  father  went  on,  "  and  you  ought  to 
know  what  I  am.  I  am  not  a  very  good  man.  Though  I  am  very 
smooth  externally,  at  bottom  I  am  very  passionate ;  and  I  assure  you  I 
can  be  very  hard." 

She  could  not  think  why  he  told  her  these  things.  Had  he  brought 
her  there  on  purpose,  and  was  it  part  of  a  plan  ?  What  was  the  plan  ? 
Catherine  asked  herself.  Was  it  to  startle  her  suddenly  into  a  retrac- 
tation— to  take  an  advantage  of  her  by  dread  ?  Dread  of  what  ?  The 
place  was  ugly  and  lonely,  but  the  place  could  do  her  no  harm.  There 
was  a  kind  of  still  intensity  about  her  father  which  made  him  dangerous, 
but  Catherine  hardly  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  herself  that  it  might  be 
part  of  his  plan  to  fasten  his  hand — the  neat,  fine,  supple  hand  of  a  dis- 
tinguished physician — in  her  throat.  Nevertheless,  she  receded  a  step. 
"  I  am  sure  you  can  be  anything  you  please,"  she  said.  And  it  was  her 
simple  belief. 

"  I  am  very  angry,"  he  replied,  more  sharply. 

"  Why  has  it  taken  you  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  It  has  not  taken  me  suddenly.  I  have  been  raging  inwardly  for 
the  kst  six  months.  But  just  now  this  seemed  a  good  place  to  flare  out. 
It's  so  quiet,  and  we  are  alone." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  quiet,"  said  Catherine,  vaguely,  looking  about  her. 
"  Won't  you  come  back  to  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  In  a  moment.  Do  you  mean  that  in  all  this  time  you  have  not 
yielded  an  inch  ? " 

"  I  would  if  I  could,  father ;  but  I  can't." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  383 

The  Doctor  looked  round  him  too.  "  Should  you  like  to  be  left  in 
such  a  place  as  this,  to  starve  ? " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  the  girl. 

"  That  will  be  your  fate — that's  how  he  will  leave  you." 

He  would  not  touch  her,  but  he  had  touched  Morris.  The  warmth 
came  back  to  her  heart.  "  That  is  not  true,  father,"  she  broke  out, 
"  and  you  ought  not  to  say  it !  It  is  not  right,  and  it's  not  true  ! " 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,  it's  not  right,  because  you  won'fc 
believe  it.  But  it  is  true.  Come  back  to  the  carriage." 

He  turned  away,  and  she  followed  him ;  he  went  faster,  and  was 
presently  much  in  advance.  But  from  time  to  time  he  stopped,  without 
turning  round,  to  let  her  keep  up  with  him,  and  she  made  her  way  for- 
ward with  difficulty,  her  heart  beating  with  the  excitement  of  having  for 
the  first  time  spoken  to  him  in  violence.  By  this  time  it  had  grown 
almost  dark,  and  she  ended  by  losing  sight  of  him.  But  she  kept  her 
course,  and  after  a  little,  the  valley  making  a  sudden  turn,  she  gained 
the  road,  where  the  carriage  stood  waiting.  In  it  sat  her  father,  rigid 
and  silent ;  in  silence,  too,  she  took  her  place  beside  him. 

It  seemed  to  her,  later,  in  looking  back  upon  all  this,  that  for  days 
afterwards  not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  between  them.  The  scene 
had  been  a  strange  one,  but  it  had  not  permanently  affected  her  feeling 
towards  her  father,  for  it  was  natural,  after  all,  that  he  should  occasion- 
ally make  a  scene  of  some  kind,  and  he  had  let  her  alone  for  six  months. 
The  strangest  part  of  it  was  that  he  had  said  he  was  not  a  good  man  ; 
Catherine  wondered  a  good  deal  what  he  had  meant  by  that.  The  state- 
ment failed  to  appeal  to  her  credence,  and  it  was  not  grateful  to  any 
resentment  that  she  entertained.  Even  in  the  utmost  bitterness  that 
she  might  feel,  it  would  give  her  no  satisfaction  to  think  him  less  com- 
plete.  Such  a  saying  as  that  was  a  part  of  his  great  subtlety — men  so 
clever  as  he  might  say  anything  and  mean  anything.  And  as  to  his 
being  hard,  that  surely,  in  a  man,  was  a  virtue. 

He  let  her  alone  for  six  months  more — six  months  during  which  she 
accommodated  herself  without  a  protest  to  the  extension  of  their  tour. 
But  he  spoke  again  at  the  end  of  this  time ;  it  was  at  the  very  last,  the 
night  before  they  embarked  for  New  York,  in  the  hotel  at  Liverpool. 
They  had  been  dining  together  in  a  great  dim,  musty  sitting-room ;  and 
then  the  cloth  had  been  removed,  and  the  Doctor  walked  slowly  up  and 
down.  Catherine  at  last  took  her  candle  to  go  to  bed,  but  her  father 
motioned  her  to  stay. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  when  you  get  home  ? "  he  asked,  while 
she  stood  there  with  her  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  mean  about  Mr.  Townsend  ?  " 

"  About  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  We  shall  probably  marry." 

The  Doctor  took  several  turns  again  while  she  waited.  "  Do  you 
hear  from  him  as  much  as  ever  ? " 


384  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Yes  ;  twice  a  month,"  said  Catherine,  promptly. 

"  And  does  he  always  talk  about  marriage  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  That  is,  he  talks  about  other  things,  too,  but  he  always 
says  something  about  that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  he  varies  his  subjects ;  his  letters  might  other- 
wise be  monotonous." 

"  He  writes  beautifully,"  said  Catherine,  who  was  very  glad  of  a 
chance  to  say  it. 

"  They  always  write  beautifully.  However,  in  a  given  case  that 
doesn't  diminish  the  merit.  So,  as  soon  as  you  arrive,  you  are  going  off 
with  him?" 

This  seemed  a  rather  gross  way  of  putting  it,  and  something  that 
there  was  of  dignity  in  Catherine  resented  it.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  till 
we  arrive,"  she  said. 

•  "That's  reasonable  enough,"  her  father  answered.  "  That's  all  I  ask 
of  you — that  you  do  tell  me,  that  you  give  me  definite  notice.  When  a 
poor  n:an  is  to  lose  his  only  child,  he  likes  to  have  an  inkling  of  it 
beforehand." 

"  Oh,  father,  you  will  not  lose  me !  "  Catherine  said,  spilling  her 
candle-wax. 

"  Three  days  before  will  do,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you  are  in  a  position  to 
be  positive  then.  He  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  me,  do  you  know. 
I  have  done  a  mighty  good  thing  for  him  in  taking  you  abroad ;  your 
value  is  twice  as  great,  with  all  the  knowledge  and  taste  that  you  have 
acquired.  A  year  ago,  you  were  perhaps  a  little  limited — a  little  rustic  j 
but  now  you  have  seen  everything,  and  appreciated  everything,  and  you 
will  be  a  most  entertaining  companion.  We  have  fattened  the  sheep  for 
him  before  he  kills  it ! "  Catherine  turned  away,  and  stood  staring  at 
the  blank  door.  "  Go  to  bed,"  said  her  father ;  "  and,  as  we  don't  go 
aboard  till  noon,  you  may  sleep  late.  We  shall  probably  have  a  most 
uncomfortable  voyage." 

HENRY   JAMES,  Ju. 


"  I  SHALL  REGARD  IT  ONLY  AS  A  LOAN,"  SHE  SAID. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE 


OCTOBEE,  1880. 


an  jwraa*je, 


XXV, 

HE  voyage  was  in- 
deed uncomfort- 
able, and  Cathe- 
rine, on  arriving 
in  New  York,  had 
not  the  compensa- 
tion of  "going  off," 
in  her  father's 
phrase,  with  Morris 
Townsend.  She 
saw  him,  however, 
the  day  after  she 
landed ;  and,  in 
the  meantime,  he 
formed  a  natural 
subject  of  conver- 
sation between  our 
heroine  and  her 
Aunt  Lavinia, 
with  whom,  the 

night  she  disembarked,  the  girl  was  closeted  for  a  long  time  before  either 

lady  retired  to  rest. 

"I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.     "He  is 

not  very  easy  to  know.     I  suppose  you  think  you  know  him  ;  but  you 

*  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1880,  by  Hoary  James,  Jr., 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250.  19 


386  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

don't,  my  dear.  You  will  some  day ;  but  it  will  only  be  after  you  have 
lived  with  him.  I  may  almost  say  I  have  lived  with  him,"  Mrs.  Penni- 
man  proceeded,  while  Catherine  stared.  "  I  think  I  know  him  now  ;  I 
have  had  such  remarkable  opportunities.  You  will  have  the  same — or 
rather,  you  will  have  better  !  "  and  Aunt  Lavinia  smiled.  "  Then  you 
will  see  what  I  mean.  It's  a  wonderful  character,  full  of  passion  and 
energy,  and  just  as  true  ! " 

Catherine  listened  with  a  mixture  of  interest  and  apprehension.   Aunt 
Lavinia  was  intensely  sympathetic,  and  Catherine,  for  the  past  year, 
while  she  wandered  through  foreign  galleries  and  churches,  and  rolled 
over  the  smoothness  of  posting  roads,  nursing  the  thoughts  that  never 
passed  her  lips,  had  often  longed  for  the  company  of  some  intelligent 
person  of  her  own  sex.     To  tell  her  story  to  some  kind  woman — at 
moments  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  would  give  her  comfort,  and  she  had 
more  than  once  been  on  the  point  of  taking  the  landlady,  or  the  nice 
young  person  from  the  dressmaker's,  into  her  confidence.     If  a  woman 
had  been  near  her  she  would  on  certain  occasions  have  treated  such  a 
companion  to  a  fit  of  weeping ;  and  she  had  an  apprehension  that,  on  her 
return,  this  would  form  her  response  to  Aunt  Lavinia's  first  embrace. 
In  fact,  however,  the  two  ladies  had  met,  in  Washington  Square,  with- 
out tears,  and  when  they  found  themselves  alone  together  a  certain 
dryness  fell  upon  the  girl's  emotion.     It  came  over  her  with  a  greater 
force  that  Mrs.  Penniman  had  enjoyed  a  whole  year  of  her  lover's 
society,  and  it  was  not  a  pleasure  to  her  to  hear  her  aunt  explain  and 
interpret  the  young  man,  speaking  of  him  as  if  her  own  knowledge  of 
him  were  supreme.     It  was  not  that  Catherine  was  jealous ;   but  her 
sense  of  Mrs.   Penniman's  innocent  falsity,  which  had   lain  dormant, 
began  to  haunt  her  again,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  was  safely  at  home. 
With  this,  however,  it  was  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  talk  of  Morris,  to 
sound  his  name,  to  be  with  a  person  who  was  not  unjust  to  him. 

"  You   have  been  very   kind  to  him,"  said   Catherine.      "  He   has 
written  me  that,  often.     I  shall  never  forget  that,  Aunt  Lavinia." 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could ;  it  has  been  very  little.     To  let  him 
come  and  talk  to  me,  and  give  him  his  cup  of  tea — that  was  all.     Your 
Aunt  Almond  thought  it  was  too  much,  and  used  to  scold  me  terribly ; 
but  she  promised  me,  at  least,  not  to  betray  me." 
"  To  betray  you  1 " 

"  Not  to  tell  your  father.  He  used  to  sit  in  your  father's  study  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  little  laugh. 

Catherine  was  silent  a  moment.  This  idea  was  disagreeable  to  her,  and 
she  was  reminded  again,  with  pain,  of  her  aunt's  secretive  habits.  Morris, 
the  reader  may  be  informed,  had  had  the  tact  not  to  tell  her  that  he  sat 
in  her  father's  study.  He  had  known  her  but  for  a  few  months,  and 
her  aunt  had  known  her  for  fifteen  years ;  and  yet  he  would  not  have  made 
the  mistake  of  thinking  that  Catherine  would  see  the  joke  of  the  thing. 
"  I  am  sorry  you  made  him  go  into  father's  room,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  387 

"I  didn't  send  him;  he  went  himself.  He  liked  to  look  at  the 
books,  and  at  all  those  things  in  the  glass  cases,  He  knows  all  about 
them  ;  he  knows  all  about  everything." 

Catherine  was  silent  again ;  then,  "  I  wish  he  had  found  some  em- 
ployment," she  said. 

"  He  has  found  some  employment !  It's  beautiful  news,  and  he  told 
me  to  tell  you  as  soon  as  you  arrived.  He  has  gone  into  partnership  with 
a  commission-merchant.  It  was  all  settled,  quite  suddenly,  a  week  ago." 

This  seemed  to  Catherine  indeed  beautiful  news ;  it  had  a  fine  pros- 
perous air.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !  "  she  said ;  and  now,  for  a  moment,  she 
was  disposed  to  throw  herself  on  Aunt  Lavinia's  neck. 

"  It's  much  better  than  being  under  some  one ;  and  he  has  never  been 
used  to  that,"  Mrs.  Penniman  went  on.  "  He  is  just  as  good  as  his 
partner — they  are  perfectly  equal !  You  see  how  right  he  was  to  wait. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  your  father  can  say  now  !  They  have  got 
an  office  in  Duane  Street,  and  little  printed  cards ;  he  brought  me  one  to 
show  me.  I  have  got  it  in  my  room,  and  you  shall  see  it  to-morrow. 
That's  what  he  said  to  me  the  last  time  he  was  here — '  You  see  how 
right  I  was  to  wait ! '  He  has  got  other  people  under  him,  instead  of 
being  a  subordinate.  He  could  never  be  a  subordinate ;  I  have  often 
told  him  I  could  never  think  of  him  in  that  way." 

Catherine  assented  to  this  proposition,  and  was  very  happy  to  know 
that  Morris  was  his  own  master ;  but  she  was  deprived  of  the  satisfac- 
tion of  thinking  that  she  might  communicate  this  news  in  triumph  to 
her  father.  Her  father  would  care  equally  little  whether  Morris  were 
established  in  business  or  transported  for  life.  Her  trunks  had  been 
brought  into  her  room,  and  further  reference  to  her  lover  was  for  a  short 
time  suspended,  while  she  opened  them  and  displayed  to  her  aunt  some 
of  the  spoils  of  foreign  travel.  These  were  rich  and  abundant;  and 
Catherine  had  brought  home  a  present  to  every  one — to  every  one  save 
Morris,  to  whom  she  had  brought  simply  her  undiverted  heart.  To  Mrs. 
Penniman  she  had  been  lavishly  generous,  and  Aunt  Lavinia  spent  half 
an  hour  in  unfolding  and  folding  again,  with  little  ejaculations  of  grati- 
tude and  taste.  She  marched  about  for  some  time  in  a  splendid  cash- 
mere shawl,  which  Catherine  had  begged  her  to  accept,  settling  it  on  her 
shoulders,  and  twisting  down  her  head  to  see  how  low  the  point  de- 
scended behind. 

"  I  shall  regard  it  only  as  a  loan,"  she  said.  "  I  will  leave  it  to  you 
again  when  I  die ;  or  rather,"  she  added,  kissing  her  niece  again,  "  I  will 
leave  it  to  your  first-born  little  girl !  "  And  draped  in  her  shawl,  she 
stood  there  smiling. 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  she  comes,"  said  Catherine. 
"  I  don't  like  the  way  you  say  that,"  Mrs.  Penniman  rejoined,  in  a 
moment.     "  Catherine,  are  you  changed  ?  " 
"  No  ;  I  am  the  same." 
"  You  have  not  swerved  a  line  ] " 

19—2 


388  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  I  am  exactly  the  same,"  Catherine  repeated,  wishing  her  aunt  were 
a  little  less  sympathetic. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  !  "  and  Mrs.  Penniman  surveyed  her  cashmere  in 
the  glass.  Then,  "  How  is  your  father  ? "  she  asked  in  a  moment,  with 
her  eyes  on  her  niece.  "  Your  letters  were  so  meagre — I  could  never 
tell  ! " 

"  Father  is  very  well." 

"  Ah,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  dignity 
to  which  the  cashmere  gave  a  richer  effect.  "  Is  he  still  implacable  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  Quite  unchanged  ?  " 

"  He  is,  if  possible,  more  firm." 

Mrs.  Penniman  took  off  her  great  shawl,  and  slowly  folded  it  up. 
"  That  is  very  bad.  You  had  no  success  with  your  little  project  ?  " 

"  What  little  project  ?  " 

"  Morris  told  me  all  about  it.  The  idea  of  turning  the  tables  on  him, 
in  Europe  ;  of  watching  him,  when  he  was  agreeably  impressed  by  some 
celebrated  sight — he  pretends  to  be  so  artistic,  you  know — and  then  just 
pleading  with  him  and  bringing  him  round." 

"  I  never  tried  it.  It  was  Morris's  idea ;  but  if  he  had  been  with  us, 
in  Europe,  he  would  have  seen  that  father  was  never  impressed  in  that 
way.  He  is  artistic — tremendously  artistic ;  but  the  more  celebrated 
places  we  visited,  and  the  more  he  admired  them,  the  less  use  it  would 
have  been  to  plead  with  him.  They  seemed  only  to  make  him  more 
determined — more  terrible,"  said  poor  Catherine.  "  I  shall  never  bring 
him  round,  and  I  expect  nothing  now." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  Mrs.  Penniman  answered,  "  I  never  supposed 
you  were  going  to  give  it  up." 

"  I  have  given  it  up.     I  don't  care  now." 

"  You  have  grown  very  brave,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "  I  didn't  advise  you  to  sacrifice  your  property." 

"  Yes,  I  am  braver  than  I  was.  You  asked  me  if  I  had  changed  ;  I 
have  changed  in  that  way.  Oh,"  the  girl  went  on,  "  I  have  changed 
very  much.  And  it  isn't  my  property.  If  he  doesn't  care  for  it,  why 
should  I?" 

Mrs.  Penniman  hesitated.     "  Perhaps  he  does  care  for  it." 

"  He  cares  for  it  for  my  sake,  because  he  doesn't  want  to  injure  me. 
But  he  will  know — he  knows  already — how  little  he  need  be  afraid 
about  that.  Besides,"  said  Catherine,  "  I  have  got  plenty  of  money  of 
my  own.  We  shall  be  very  well  off ;  and  now  hasn't  he  got  his  busi- 
ness1? I  am  delighted  about  that  business."  She  went  on  talking, 
showing  a  good  deal  of  excitement  as  she  proceeded.  Her  aunt  had 
never  seen  her  with  just  this  manner,  and  Mrs.  Penniman,  observing  her, 
set  it  down  to  foreign  travel,  which  had  made  her  more  positive,  more 
mature.  She  thought  also  that  Catherine  had  improved  in  appearance  ; 
she  looked  rather  handsome.  Mrs.  Penniman  wondered  whether  Morris 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  389 

Townsend  would  be  struck  with  that.  While  she  was  engaged  in  this 
speculation,  Cathei'ine  broke  out,  with  a  certain  sharpness,  "  Why  are 
you  so  contradictory,  Aunt  Penniman  ?  You  seem  to  think  one  thing 
at  one  time,  and  another  at  another.  A  year  ago,  before  I  went  away, 
you  wished  me  not  to  mind  about  displeasing  father ;  and  now  you  seem 
to  recommend  me  to  take  another  line.  You  change  about  so." 

This  attack  was  unexpected,  for  Mrs.  Penniman  was  not  used,  in  any 
discussion,  to  seeing  the  war  carried  into  her  own  country — possibly 
because  the  enemy  generally  had  doubts  of  finding  subsistence  there.  To 
her  own  consciousness,  the  flowery  fields  of  her  reason  had  rarely  been 
ravaged  by  a  hostile  force.  It  was  perhaps  on  this  account  that  iu 
defending  them  she  was  majestic  rather  than  agile. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  accuse  me  of,  save  of  being  too  deeply 
interested  in  your  happiness.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  told  I  am 
capricious.  That  fault  is  not  what  I  am  usually  reproached  with." 

"  You  were  angry  last  year  that  I  wouldn't  marry  immediately,  and 
now  you  talk  about  my  winning  my  father  over.  You  told  me  it  would 
serve  him  right  if  he  should  take  me  to  Europe  for  nothing.  Well,  he 
has  taken  me  for  nothing,  and  you  ought  to  be  satisfied.  Nothing  is 
changed — nothing  but  my  feeling  about  father.  I  don't  mind  nearly  so 
much  now.  I  have  been  as  good  as  I  could,  but  he  doesn't  care.  Now  I 
don't  care  either.  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  grown  bad  ;  perhaps  I 
have.  But  I  don't  care  for  that.  I  have  come  home  to  be  married — 
that's  all  I  know.  That  ought  to  please  you,  unless  you  have  taken  up 
some  new  idea ;  you  are  so  strange.  You  may  do  as  you  please ;  but 
you  must  never  speak  to  me  again  about  pleading  with  father.  I  shall 
never  plead  with  him  for  anything ;  that  is  all  over.  He  has  put  me 
off.  I  am  come  home  to  be  married." 

This  was  a  more  authoritative  speech  than  she  had  ever  heard  on  her 
niece's  lips,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  was  proportionately  startled.  She  was 
indeed  a  little  awe-struck,  and  the  force  of  the  girl's  emotion  and  resolu- 
tion left  her  nothing  to  reply.  She  was  easily  frightened,  and  she 
always  carried  off  her  discomfiture  by  a  concession  ;  a  concession  which 
was  often  accompanied,  as  in  the  present  case,  by  a  little  nervous 
laugh. 

XXVI. 

If  she  had  disturbed  her  niece's  temper — she  began  from  this  moment 
forward  to  talk  a  good  deal  about  Catherine's  temper,  an  article  which 
up  to  that  time  had  never  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  our 
heroine — Catherine  had  opportunity,  on  the  morrow,  to  recover  her 
serenity.  Mrs.  Penniman  had  given  her  a  message  from  Morris  Town- 
send,  to  the  effect  that  he  would  come  and  welcome  her  home  on  the  day 
after  her  arrival.  He  came  in  the  afternoon ;  but,  as  may  be  imagined, 
he  was  not  on  this  occasion  made  free  of  Dr.  Sloper's  study.  He  had 
been  coming  and  going,  for  the  past  year,  so  comfortably  and  irrespon- 


390  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

sibly,  that  he  had  a  certain  sense  of  being  wronged  by  finding  himself 
reminded  that  he  must  now  limit  his  horizon  to  the  front  parlour,  which 
was  Catherine's  particular  province. 

'•'  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  back,"  he  said ;  "  it  makes  me  very 
happy  to  see  you  again."  And  he  looked  at  her,  smiling,  from  head  to 
foot ;  though  it  did  not  appear,  afterwards,  that  he  agreed  Avith  Mrs. 
Penniinan  (who,  womanlike,  went  more  into  details)  in  thinking  her 
embelh'shed. 

To  Catherine  he  appeared  resplendent ;  it  was  some  time  before  she 
could  believe  again  that  this  beautiful  young  man  was  her  own  exclusive 
property.  They  had  a  great  deal  of  characteristic  lovers'  talk — a  soft 
exchange  of  inquiries  and  assurances.  In  these  matters  Morris  had  an 
excellent  grace,  which  flung  a  picturesque  interest  even  over  the  account 
of  his  debut  in  the  commission-business — a  subject  as  to  which  his  com- 
panion earnestly  questioned  him.  From  time  to  time  he  got  up  from 
the  sofa  where  they  sat  together,  and  walked  about  the  room ;  after 
which  he  came  back,  smiling  and  passing  his  hand  through  his  hair.  He 
was  unquiet,  as  was  natural  in  a  young  man  who  has  just  been  re-united 
to  a  long-absent  mistress,  and  Catherine  made  the  reflection* that  she  had 
never  seen  him  so  excited.  It  gave  her  pleasure,  somehow,  to  note  this 
fact.  He  asked  her  questions  about  her  travels,  to  some  of  which  she 
was  unable  to  reply,  for  she  had  forgotten  the  names  of  places  and  the 
order  of  her  father's  journey.  But  for  the  moment  she  was  so  happy,  so 
lifted  up  by  the  belief  that  her  troubles  at  last  were  over,  that  she  forgot 
to  be  ashamed  of  her  meagre  answers.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that  she 
could  marry  him  without  the  remnant  of  a  scruple  or  a  single  tremor 
save  those  that  belonged  to  joy.  Without  waiting  for  him  to  ask,  she 
told  him  that  her  father  had  come  back  in  exactly  the  same  state  of 
mind — that  he  had  not  yielded  an  inch. 

"  We  must  not  expect  it  now,"  she  said,  "  and  we  must  do  without 
it." 

Morris  sat  looking  and  smiling.     "  My  poor  dear  girl !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"You  mustn't  pity  me,"  said  Catherine;  "I  don't  mind  it  now — I 
am  used  to  it." 

Morris  continued  to  smile,  and  then  he  got  up  and  walked  about 
again.  "  You  had  better  let  me  try  him  !  " 

"  Try  to  bring  him  over  ?  You  would  only  make  him  worse,"  Cathe- 
rine answered,  resolutely. 

"  You  say  that  because  I  managed  it  so  badly  before.  But  I  should 
manage  it  differently  now.  I  am  much  wiser  ;  I  have  had  a  year  to  think 
of  it.  I  have  more  tact." 

"  Is  that  what  you  have  been  thinking  of  for  a  year  ?  " 
"  Much  of  the  time.     You  see,  the  idea  sticks  in  my  crop.     I  don't 
like  to  be  beaten." 

"  How  are  you  beaten  if  we  marry  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  am  not  beaten  on  the  main  issue ;  but  I  am,  don't  you 


WASHINGTON   SQUARE.  391 

see,  on  all  the  rest  of  it — on  the  question  of  my  reputation,  of  my  rela- 
tions with  your  father,  of  my  relations  with  my  own  children,  if  we 
should  have  any." 

"  "We  shall  have  enough  for  our  children — we  shall  have  enough  for 
everything.  Don't  you  expect  to  succeed  in  business  ? " 

"  Brilliantly,  and  we  shall  certainly  be  very  comfortable.  But  it 
isn't  of  the  mere  material  comfort  I  speak  ;  it  is  of  the  moral  comfort," 
said  Morris — "  of  the  intellectual  satisfaction  1 " 

"  I  have  great  moral  comfort  now,"  Catherine  declared,  very  simply. 

"  Of  course  you  have.     But  with  me  it  is  different.     I  have  staked 

my  pride  on  proving  to  your  father  that  he  is  wrong ;  and  now  that  I 

am  at  the  head  of  a  nourishing  business,  I  can  deal  with  him  as  an 

equal.     I  have  a  capital  plan — do  let  me  go  at  him !  " 

He  stood  before  her  with  his  bright  face,  his  jaunty  air,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets ;  and  she  got  up,  with  her  eyes  resting  on  his  own.  "  Please 
don't,  Morris ;  please  don't,"  she  said ;  and  there  was  a  certain  mild,  sad 
firmness  in  her  tone  which  he  heard  for  the  first  time.  "  We  must  ask 
no  favours  of  him — we  must  ask  nothing  more.  He  won't  relent,  and 
nothing  good  will  come  of  it.  I  know  it  now — I  have  a  very  good  reason." 

"  And  pray  what  is  your  reason  ?  " 

She  hesitated  to  bring  it  out,  but  at  last  it  came.  "  He  is  not  very 
fond  of  me  !  " 

"  Oh,  bother  !  "  cried  Morris,  angrily. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  such  a  thing  without  being  sure.  I  saw  it,  I  felt 
it,  in  England,  just  before  he  came  away.  He  talked  to  me  one  night — • 
the  last  night ;  and  then  it  came  over  me.  You  can  tell  when  a  person 
feels  that  way.  I  wouldn't  accuse  him  if  he  hadn't  made  me  feel  that 
way.  I  don't  accuse  him ;  I  just  tell  you  that  that's  how  it  is.  He  can't 
help  it ;  we  can't  govern  our  affections.  Do  I  govern  mine  ?  mightn't  he 
say  that  to  me  ]  It's  because  he  is  so  fond  of  my  mother,  whom  we  lost 
so  long  ago.  She  was  beautiful,  and  very,  very  brilliant ;  he  is  always 
thinking  of  her.  I  am  not  at  all  like  her;  Aunt  Penniman  has  told  me 
that.  Of  course  it  isn't  my  fault;  but  neither  is  it  his  fault.  All  I 
mean  is,  it's  true ;  and  it's  a  stronger  reason  for  his  never  being  recon- 
ciled than  simply  his  dislike  for  you." 

"  '  Simply '  2  "  cried  Morris,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  am  much  obliged  for 
that ! " 

"  I  don't  mind  about  his  disliking  you  now ;  I  mind  everything  less. 
I  feel  differently  ;  I  feel  separated  from  my  father." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Morris,  "you  are  a  queer  family  ! " 

"  Don't  say  that — don't  say  anything  unkind,"  the  girl  entreated. 
"  You  must  be  very  kind  to  me  now,  because,  Morris — because,"  and 
she  hesitated  a  moment — "  because  I  have  done  a  great  deal  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  my  dear  !  " 

She  had  spoken  up  to  this  moment  without  vehemence  or  outward 
sign  of  emotion,  gently,  reasoningly,  only  trying  to  explain.  But  her 


392  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

emotion  had  been  ineffectually  smothered,  and  it  betrayed  itself  at  last 
in  the  trembling  of  her  voice.  "  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  separated  like 
that  from  your  father,  when  you  have  worshipped  him  before.  It  has 
made  me  very  unhappy  ;  or  it  would  have  made  me  so  if  I  didn't  love 
you.  You  can  tell  when  a  person  speaks  to  you  as  if — as  if —  " 

"  As  if  what  ? " 

"  As  if  they  despised  you  !  "  said  Catherine,  passionately.  "  He  spoke 
that  way  the  night  before  we  sailed.  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  was  enough, 
and  I  thought  of  it  on  tho  voyage,  all  the  time.  Then  I  made  up  my 
mind.  I  will  never  ask  him  for  anything  again,  or  expect  anything 
from  him.  It  would  not  be  natural  now.  "We  must  be  very  happy  to- 
gether, and  we  must  not  seem  to  depend  upon  his  forgiveness.  And 
Morris,  Morris,  you  must  never  despise  me  ! " 

This  was  an  easy  promise  to  make,  and  Morris  made  it  with  fine 
effect.  But  for  the  moment  he  undertook  nothing  more  onerous. 

XXVII. 

The  Doctor,  of  course,  on  his  return,  had  a  good  deal  of  talk  with  his 
sisters.  He  was  at  no  great  pains  to  narrate  his  travels  or  to  communi- 
cate his  impressions  of  distant  lands  to  Mrs.  Penniman,  upon  whom  ho 
contented  himself  with  bestowing  a  memento  of  his  enviable  experi- 
ence, in  the  shape  of  a  velvet  gown.  But  he  conversed  with  her  at 
some  length  about  matters  nearer  home,  and  lost  no  time  in  assuring 
her  that  he  was  still  an  inflexible  father. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Townsend,  and 
done  your  best  to  console  him  for  Catherine's  absence,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
ask  you,  and  you  needn't  deny  it.  I  wouldn't  put  the  question  to  you 
for  the  world,  and  expose  you  to  the  inconvenience  of  having  to — a — ex- 
cogitate an  answer.  No  one  has  betrayed  you,  and  there  has  been  no 
spy  upon  your  proceedings.  Elizabeth  has  told  no  tales,  and  has  never 
mentioned  you  except  to  praise  your  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  The 
thing  is  simply  an  inference  of  my  own — an  induction,  as  the  philosophers 
say.  It  seems  to  me  likely  that  you  would  have  offered  an  asylum  to 
an  interesting  sufferer.  Mr.  Townsend  has  been  a  good  deal  in  the 
house;  there  is  something  in  the  house  that  tells  me  so.  We  doctors, 
you  know,  end  by  acquiring  fine  perceptions,  and  it  is  impressed  upon 
my  sensorium  that  he  has  sat  in  these  chairs,  in  a  very  easy  attitude, 
and  warmed  himself  at  that  fire.  I  don't  grudge  him  the  comfort  of  it ; 
it  is  the  only  one  he  will  ever  enjoy  at  my  expense.  It  seems  likely, 
indeed,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  economise  at  his  own.  I  don't  know  what 
you  may  have  said  to  him,  or  what  you  may  say  hereafter ;  but  I  should 
like  you  to  know  that  if  you  have  encouraged  him  to  believe  that  he  will 
gain  anything  by  hanging  on,  or  that  I  have  budged  a  hair's  breadth 
from  the  position  I  took  up  a  year  ago,  you  have  played  him  a  trick  for 
which  he  may  exact  reparation.  I'm  not  sure  that  he  may  not  bring  a 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  393 

suit  against  yon.  Of  course  you  have  done  it  conscientiously  ;  you  have 
made  yourself  believe  that  I  can  be  tired  out.  This  is  the  most  baseless 
hallucination  that  ever  visited  the  brain  of  a  genial  optimist.  I  am 
not  in  the  least  tired  ;  I  am  as  fresh  as  when  I  started ;  I  am  good  for 
fifty  years  yet.  Catherine  appears  not  to  have  budged  an  inch  either ; 
she  is  equally  fresh  ;  so  we  are  about  where  we  were  before.  This,  how- 
ever, you  know  as  well  as  I.  "What  I  wish  is  simply  to  give  you  notice 
of  my  own  state  of  mind  !  Take  it  to  heart,  dear  Lavinia.  Beware  of 
the  just  resentment  of  a  deluded  fortune-hunter  !  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  expected  it,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  And  I  had  a 
sort  of  foolish  hope  that  you  would  come  home  without  that  odious  ironi- 
cal tone  with  which  you  treat  the  most  sacred  subjects." 

"  Don't  undervalue  irony,  it  is  often  of  great  use.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, always  necessary,  and  I  will  show  you  how  gracefully  I  can  lay  it 
aside.  I  should  like  to  know  whether  you  think  Morris  Townsend  wil  I 
hang  on." 

"I  will  answer  you  with  your  own  weapons,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
"  You  had  better  wait  and  see ! " 

"  Do  you  call  such  a  speech  as  that  one  of  my  own  weapons  ?  I 
never  said  anything  so  rough." 

"  He  will  hang  on  long  enough  to  make  you  very  uncomfortable, 
then." 

"  My  dear  Lavinia,"  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  "  do  you  call  that  irony  ? 
I  call  it  pugilism." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  in  spite  of  her  pugilism,  was  a  good  deal 
frightened,  and  she  took  counsel  of  her  fears.  Her  brother  meanwhile 
took  counsel,  with  many  reservations,  of  Mrs.  Almond,  to  whom  he  was 
no  less  generous  than  to  Lavinia,  and  a  good  deal  more  communicative. 

"  I  suppose  she  has  had  him  there  all  the  while,"  he  said.  "  I  must 
look  into  the  state  of  my  wine  !  You  needn't  mind  telling  me  now ;  I 
have  already  said  all  I  mean  to  say  to  her  on  the  subject." 

"  I  believe  he  was  in  the  house  a  good  deal,"  Mrs.  Almond  answered. 
"  But  you  must  admit  that  your  leaving  Lavinia  quite  alone  was  a  great 
change  for  her,  and  that  it  was  natural  she  should  want  some  society." 

"  I  do  admit  that,  and  that  is  why  I  shall  make  no  row  about  the 
wine ;  I  shall  set  it  down  as  compensation  to  Lavinia.  She  is  capable 
of  telling  me  that  she  drank  it  all  herself.  Think  of  the  inconceivable 
bad  taste,  in  the  circumstances,  of  that  fellow  making  free  with  the  house 
— or  coming  there  at  all !  If  that  doesn't  describe  him,  he  is  inde- 
scribable." 

"  His  plan  is  to  get  what  he  can.  Lavinia  will  have  supported  him 
for  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Almond.  "  It's  so  much  gained." 

"  She  will  have  to  support  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  then  !  "  cried 
the  Doctor.  "  But  without  wine,  as  they  say  at  the  tables  d'Mte." 

"  Catherine  tells  me  he  has  .set  up  a  business,  and  is  making  a  great 
deal  of  money." 

19—5 


394  WASHINGTON  SQUAKE. 

The  Doctor  stared.  "  She  has  not  told  me  that — and  Lavinia  didn't 
deign.  Ah !  "  he  cried,  "  Catherine  has  given  me  up.  Not  that  it 
matters,  for  all  that  the  business  amounts  to." 

"  She  has  not  given  up  Mr.  Townsend,"  said  Mrs.  Almond.  "  I  saw 
that  in  the  first  half-minute.  She  has  come  home  exactly  the  same." 

"  Exactly  the  same ;  not  a  grain  more  intelligent.  She  didn't  notice 
a  stick  or  a  stone  all  the  while  we  were  away — not  a  picture  nor  a  view, 
not  a  statue  nor  a  cathedral." 

"How  could  she  notice  1  She  had  other  things  to  think  of;  they  are 
never  for  an  instant  out  of  her  mind.  She  touches  me  very  much." 

"  She  would  touch  me  if  she  didn't  irritate  me.  That's  the  effect  she 
has  upon  me  now.  I  have  tried  everything  upon  her ;  I  really  have  been 
quite  merciless.  But  it  is  of  no  use  whatever ;  she  is  absolutely  glued. 
I  have  passed,  in  consequence,  into  the  exasperated  stage.  At  first  I 
had  a  good  deal  of  a  certain  genial  curiosity  about  it ;  I  wanted  to  see  if 
she  really  would  stick.  But,  good  Lord,  one's  curiosity  is  satisfied  !  I 
see  she  is  capable  of  it,  and  now  she  can  let  go." 

"  She  will  never  let  go,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  Take  care,  or  you  will  exasperate  me  too.  If  she  doesn't  let  go, 
she  will  be  shaken  off — sent  tumbling  into  the  dust !  That's  a  nice 
position  for  my  daughter.  She  can't  see  that  if  you  are  going  to  be 
pushed  you  had  better  jump.  And  then  she  will  complain  of  her 
bruises." 

"  She  will  never  complain,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  That  I  shall  object  to  even  more.  But  the  deuce  will  be  that  I 
can't  prevent  anything." 

"  If  she  is  to  have  a  fall,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  with  a  gentle  laugh, 
"  we  must  spread  as  many  carpets  as  we  can."  And  she  carried  out 
this  idea  by  showing  a  great  deal  of  motherly  kindness  to  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Penniman  immediately  wrote  to  Morris  Townsend.  The  inti- 
macy between  these  two  was  by  this  time  consummate,  but  I  must 
content  myself  with  noting  but  a  few  of  its  features.  Mrs.  Penniman's 
own  share  in  it  was  a  singular  sentiment,  which  might  have  been  misin- 
terpreted, but  which  in  itself  was  not  discreditable  to  the  poor  lady.  It 
was  a  romantic  interest  in  this  attractive  and  unfortunate  young  man, 
and  yet  it  was  not  such  an  interest  as  Catherine  might  have  been  jealous 
of.  Mrs.  Penniman  had  not  a  particle  of  jealousy  of  her  niece.  For 
herself,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  Morris's  mother  or  sister — a  mother  or 
sister  of  an  emotional  temperament — and  she  had  an  absorbing  desire  to 
make  him  comfortable  and  happy.  She  had  striven  to  do  so  during  the 
year  that  her  brother  left  her  an  open  field,  and  her  efforts  had  been 
attended  with  the  success  that  has  been  pointed  out.  She  had  never  had 
a  child  of  her  own,  and  Catherine,  whom  she  had  done  her  best  to  invest 
with  the  importance  that  would  naturally  belong  to  a  youthful  Penniman, 
had  only  partly  rewarded  her  zeal.  Catherine,  as  an  object  of  affection 
and  solicitude,  had  never  had  that  picturesque  charm  which  (as  it  seemed 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  395 

to  her)  would  have  been  a  natural  attribute  of  her  own  progeny.  Even 
the  maternal  passion  in  Mrs.  Penniman  would  have  been  romantic  and 
factitious,  and  Catherine  was  not  constituted  to  inspire  a  romantic  passion. 
Mrs.  Penniman  was  as  fond  of  her  as  ever,  but  she  had  grown  to  feel 
that  with  Catherine  she  lacked  opportunity.  Sentimentally  speaking, 
therefore,  she  had  (though  she  had  not  disinherited  her  niece)  adopted 
Morris  Townsend,  who  gave  her  opportunity  in  abundance.  She  would 
have  been  very  happy  to  have  a  handsome  and  tyrannical  son,  and  would 
have  taken  an  extreme  interest  in  his  love-affairs.  This  was  the  light 
in  which  she  had  come  to  regard  Morris,  who  had  conciliated  her  at  first, 
and  made  his  impression  by  his  delicate  and  calculated  deference — a  sort 
of  exhibition  to  which  Mrs.  Penniman  was  particularly  sensitive.  He 
had  largely  abated  his  deference  afterwards,  for  he  economised  his  re- 
sources, but  the  impression  was  made,  and  the  young  man's  very  bru- 
tality came  to  have  a  sort  of  filial  value.  If  Mrs.  Penniman  had  had  a 
son,  she  would  probably  have  been  afraid  of  him,  and  at  this  stage  of  our 
narrative  she  was  certainly  afraid  of  Morris  Townsend.  This  was  one 
of  the  results  of  his  domestication  in  Washington  Square.  He  took  his 
ease  with  her — as,  for  that  matter,  he  would  [certainly  have  done  with 
his  own  mother. 


XXVITI. 

The  letter  was  a  word  of  warning ;  it  informed  him  that  the  Doctor 
had  come  home  more  impracticable  than  ever.  She  might  have  reflected 
that  Catherine  would  supply  him  with  all  the  information  he  needed  on 
this  point ;  but  we  know  that  Mrs.  Penniman's  reflections  were  rarely 
just;  and,  moreover,  she  felt  that  it  was  not  for  her  to  depend  on  what 
Catherine  might  do.  She  was  to  do  her  duty,  quite  irrespective  of 
Catherine.  I  have  said  that  her  young  friend  took  his  ease  with  her, 
and  it  is  an  illustration  of  the  fact  that  he  made  no  answer  to  her  letter. 
He  took  note  of  it,  amply;  but  he  lighted  his  cigar  with  it,  and  he 
waited,  in  tranquil  confidence  that  he  should  receive  another.  "  His 
state  of  mind  really  freezes  my  blood,"  Mrs.  Penniman  had  written, 
alluding  to  her  brother  ;  and  it  would  have  seemed  that  upon  this  state- 
ment she  could  hardly  improve.  Nevertheless,  she  wrote  again,  express- 
ing herself  with  the  aid  of  a  different  figure.  "  His  hatred  of  you  burns 
with  a  lurid  flame — the  flame  that  never  dies,"  she  wrote.  "  But  it 
doesn't  light  up  the  darkness  of  your  future.  If  my  affection  could  do 
so,  all  the  years  of  your  life  would  be  an  eternal  sunshine.  I  can 
extract  nothing  from  C. ;  she  is  so  terribly  secretive,  like  her  father. 
She  seems  to  expect  to  be  married  very  soon,  and  has  evidently  made 
preparations  in  Europe — quantities  of  clothing,  ten  pairs  of  shoes,  <fec. 
My  dear  friend,  you  cannot  set  up  in  married  life  simply  with  a  few 
pairs  of  shoes,  can  you  ?  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  this.  I  am  intensely 
anxious  to  see  you ;  I  have  so  much  to  say.  I  miss  you  dreadfully ;  the 


396  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

house  seems  so  empty  without  you.  What  is  the  news  down  town  ?  Is 
the  business  extending  1  That  dear  little  business — I  think  it's  so  brave 
of  you  !  Couldn't  I  come  to  your  office  1 — just  for  three  minutes  ?  I 
might  pass  for  a  customer — is  that  what  you  call  them  ]  I  might  come 
in  to  buy  something — some  shares  or  some  railroad  things.  Tell  me 
what  you  think  of  this  plan.  I  would  carry  a  little  reticule,  like  a 
woman  of  the  people." 

In  spite  of  the  suggestion  about  the  reticule,  Morris  appeared  to 
think  poorly  of  the  plan,  for  he  gave  Mrs.  Penniman  no  encouragement 
whatever  to  visit  his  office,  which  he  had  already  represented  to  her  as  a 
place  peculiarly  and  unnaturally  difficult  to  find.  But  as  she  persisted 
in  desiring  an  interview — up  to  the  last,  after  months  of  intimate 
colloquy,  she  called  these  meetings  "  interviews  " — he  agreed  that  they 
should  take  a  walk  together,  and  was  even  kind  enough  to  leave  his 
office  for  this  purpose,  during  the  hours  at  which  business  might  have 
been  supposed  to  be  liveliest.  It  was  no  surprise  to  him,  when  they  met 
at  a  street-corner,  in  a  region  of  empty  lots  and  undeveloped  pavements 
(Mrs.  Penniman  being  attired  as  much  as  possible  like  a  "  woman  of  the 
people  "),  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  her  urgency,  what  she  chiefly  had  to 
convey  to  him  was  the  assurance  of  her  sympathy.  Of  such  assurances, 
however,  he  had  already  a  voluminous  collection,  and  it  would  not  have 
been  worth  his  while  to  forsake  a  fruitful  avocation  merely  to  hear  Mrs. 
Penniman  say,  for  the  thousandth  time,  that  she  had  made  his  cause  her 
own.  Morris  had  something  of  his  own  to  say.  It  was  not  an  easy 
thing  to  bring  out,  and  while  he  turned  it  over  the  difficulty  made  him 
acrimonious. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  perfectly  that  he  combines  the  properties  of  a  lump 
of  ice  and  a  red-hot  coal,"  he  observed.  "Catherine  has  made  it 
thoroughly  clear,  and  you  have  told  me  so  till  I  am  sick  of  it.  You 
needn't  tell  me  again ;  I  am  perfectly  satisfied.  He  will  never  give  us  a 
penny ;  I  regard  that  as  mathematically  proved." 

Mrs.  Penniman  at  this  point  had  an  inspiration. 

"  Couldn't  you  bring  a  lawsuit  against  him  ? "  She  wondered  that 
this  simple  expedient  had  never  occurred  to  her  before. 

"  I  will  bring  a  lawsuit  against  you,"  said  Morris,  "  if  you  ask  me 
any  more  such  aggravating  questions.  A  man  should  know  when  he  is 
beaten,"  he  added,  in  a  moment.  "  I  must  give  her  up  !  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  received  this  declaration  in  silence,  though  it  made 
her  heart  beat  a  little.  It  found  her  by  no  means  unprepared,  for  she 
had  accustomed  herself  to  the  thought  that,  if  Morris  should  decidedly 
not  be  able  to  get  her  brother's  money,  it  would  not  do  for  him  to  marry 
Catherine  without  it.  "  It  would  not  do  "  was  a  vague  way  of  putting 
the  thing ;  but  Mrs.  Penniman's  natural  affection  completed  the  idea, 
which,  though  it  had  not  as  yet  been  so  crudely  expressed  between  them 
as  in  the  form  that  Morris  had  just  given  it,  had  nevertheless  been  im- 
plied so  often,  in  certain  easy  intervals  of  talk,  as  he  sat  stretching  his 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  397 

legs  in  the  Doctor's  well-stuffed  arm-chairs,  that  she  had  grown  first  to 
regard  it  with  an  emotion  which  she  flattered  herself  was  philosophic, 
and  then  to  have  a  secret  tenderness  for  it.  The  fact  that  she  kept  her 
tenderness  secret  proves  of  course  that  she  was  ashamed  of  it ;  but  she 
managed  to  blink  her  shame  by  reminding  herself  that  she  was,  after  all, 
the  official  protector  of  her  niece's  marriage.  Her  logic  would  scarcely  have 
passed  muster  with  the  Doctor.  In  the  first  place,  Morris  must  get  the 
money,  and  she  would  help  him  to  it.  In  the  second,  it  was  plain  it  would 
never  come  to  him,  and  it  would  be  a  grievous  pity  he  should  marry  with- 
out it — a  young  man  who  might  so  easily  find  something  better.  After 
her  brother  had  delivered  himself,  on  his  return  from  Europe,  of  that  in- 
cisive little  address  that  has  been  quoted,  Morris's  cause  seemed  so  hope- 
less that  Mrs.  Penniman  fixed  her  attention  exclusively  upon  the  latter 
branch  of  her  argument.  If  Morris  had  been  her  son,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  sacrificed  Catherine  to  a  superior  conception  of  his  future;  and 
to  be  ready  to  do  so  as  the  case  stood  was  therefore  even  a  finer  degree  of 
devotion.  Nevertheless,  it  checked  her  breath  a  little  to  have  the  sacrificial 
knife,  as  it  were,  suddenly  thrust  into  her  hand. 

Morris  walked  along  a  moment,  and  then  he  repeated,  harshly — 

"  I  must  give  her  up  !  " 

"  I  think  I  un dei-stand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  gently. 

"  I  certainly  say  it  distinctly  enough — brutally  and  vulgarly  enough." 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  his  shame  was  uncomfortable;  and 
as  he  was  extremely  intolerant  of  discomfort,  he  felt  vicious  and  cruel. 
He  wanted  to  abuse  somebody,  and  he  began}  cautiously — for  he  was 
always  cautious — with  himself. 

"  Couldn't  you  take  her  down  a  little  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Take  her  down  1 " 

"  Prepare  her — try  and  ease  me  off." 

Mrs.  Penniman  stopped,  looking  at  him  very  solemnly. 

"  My  poor  Morris,  do  you  know  how  much  she  loves  you  1  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  don't  want  to  know.  I  have  always  tried  to  keep 
from  knowing.  It  would  be  too  painful." 

"  She  will  suffer  much,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  You  must  console  her.  If  you  are  as  good  a  friend  to  me  as  you 
pretend  to  be,  you  will  manage  it." 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head,  sadly. 

"  You  talk  of  my  '  pretending  '  to  like  you  ;  but  I  can't  pretend  to 
hate  you.  I  can  only  tell  her  I  think  very  highly  of  you ;  and  how  will 
that  console  her  for  losing  you  ?  " 

"  The  Doctor  will  help  you.  He  will  be  delighted  at  the  thing  being 
broken  off,  and,  as  he  is  a  knowing  fellow,  he  will  invent  something  to 
comfort  her." 

"  He  will  invent  a  new  torture !  "  cried  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  Heaven  de- 
liver  her  from  her  father's  comfort !  It  will  consist  of  his  crowing  over 
her  and  saying,  '  I  always  told  you  so  ! ' " 


398  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

Morris  coloured  a  most  uncomfortable  red. 

"  If  you  don't  console  her  any  better  than  you  console  me,  you  cer- 
tainly won't  be  of  much  use  !  It's  a  damned  disagreeable  necessity  ;  I 
feel  it  extremely,  and  you  ought  to  make  it  easy  for  me." 

"  I  will  be  your  friend  for  life  !  "  Mrs.  Penniman  declared. 

"  Be  my  friend  now  I  "     And  Morris  walked  on. 

She  went  with  him  ;  she  was  almost  trembling. 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  tell  her  1 ''  she  asked. 

"  You  mustn't  tell  her,  but  you  can — you  can "  And  he  hesitated, 

trying  to  think  what  Mrs.  Penniman  could  do.  "  You  can  explain  to 
her  why  it  is.  It's  because  I  can't  bring  myself  to  step  in  between  her 
and  her  father — to  give  him.  the  pretext  he  grasps  at  so  eagerly  (it's  a 
hideous  sight !)  for  depriving  her  of  her  rights." 

Mrs.  Penniman  felt  with  remarkable  promptitude  the  charm  of  this 
formula. 

"  That's  so  like  you,"  she  said  ;  "  it's  so  finely  felt." 

Morris  gave  his  stick  an  angry  swing. 

"Oh  damnation  !  "  he  exclaimed,  perversely. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  was  not  discouraged. 

"  It  may  turn  out  better  than  you  think.  Catherine  is,  after  all,  so 
very  peculiar."  And  she  thought  she  might  take  it  upon  herself  to  assure 
him  that,  whatever  happened,  the  girl  would  be  very  quiet — she  wouldn't 
make  a  noise.  They  extended  their  walk,  and,  while  they  proceeded, 
Mrs.  Penniman  took  upon  herself  other  things  besides,  and  ended  by 
having  assumed  a  considerable  burden ;  Morris  being  ready  enough,  as 
may  be  imagined,  to  put  everything  off  upon  her.  But  he  was  not  for  a 
single  instant  the  dupe  of  her  blundering  alacrity ;  he  knew  that  of  what 
she  promised  she  was  competent  to  perform  but  an  insignificant  fraction, 
and  the  more  she  professed  her  willingness  to  serve  him,  the  greater  fool 
he  thought  her. 

"  What  will  you  do  if  you  don't  marry  her?"  she  ventured  to  inquire 
in  the  course  of  this  conversation. 

"  Something  brilliant,"  said  Morris.  "  Shouldn't  you  like  me  to  do 
something  brilliant  1  " 

The  idea  gave  Mrs.  Penniman  exceeding  pleasure. 

"  I  shall  feel  sadly  taken  in  if  you  don't." 

"  I  shall  have  to,  to  make  up  for  this.  This  isn't  at  all  brilliant,  you 
know." 

Mrs.  Penniman  mused  a  little,  as  if  there  might  be  some  way  of  mak- 
ing out  that  it  was ;  but  she  had  to  give  up  the  attempt,  and,  to  carry 
off  the  awkwardness  of  failure,  she  risked  a  new  inquiry. 

"  Do  you  mean — do  you  mean  another  marriage  ?  " 

Morris  greeted  this  question  with  a  reflection  which  was  hardly  the 
less  impudent  from  being  inaudible.  "  Surely,  women  are  more  crude 
than  men  !  "  And  then  he  answered  audibly — 

"  Never  in  the  world  !  " 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  399 

Mrs.  Penniman  felt  disappointed  and  snubbed,  and  she  relieved  her- 
self in  a  little  vaguely  sarcastic  cry.  He  was  certainly  perverse. 

"  I  give  her  up  not  for  another  woman,  but  for  a  wider  career  ! ' 
Morris  announced. 

This  was  very  grand ;  but  still  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  felt  that  she  had 
exposed  herself,  was  faintly  rancorous. 

"  Do  you  mean  never  to  come  to  see  her  again1?  "  she  asked,  with 
some  sharpness. 

"  Oh  no,  I  shall  come  again ;  but  what  is  the  use  of  dragging  it  out  ? 
I  have  been  four  times  since  she  came  back,  and  it's  terribly  awkward 
work.  I  can't  keep  it  up  indefinitely ;  she  oughtn't  to  expect  that,  you 
know.  A  woman  should  never  keep  a  man  dangling  !  "  he  added,  finely. 

"  Ah,  but  you  must  have  your  last  parting  !  "  urged  his  companion, 
in  whose  imagination  the  idea  of  last  partings  occupied  a  place  inferior 
in  dignity  only  to  that  of  first  meetings. 


XXIX. 

He  came  again,  without  managing  the  last  parting ;  and  again  and 
again,  without  finding  that  Mrs.  Penniman  had  as  yet  done  much  to  pave 
the  path  of  retreat  with  flowers.  It  was  devilish  awkward,  as  he  said,  and 
he  felt  a  lively  animosity  for  Catherine's  aunt,  who,  as  he  had  now  quite 
formed  the  habit  of  saying  to  himself,  had  dragged  him  into  the  mess 
and  was  bound  in  common  charity  to  get  him  out  of  it.  Mrs.  Penniman, 
to  tell  the  truth,  had,  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  apartment — and,  I  may 
add,  amid  the  suggestiveness  of  Catherine's,  which  wore  in  those  days 
the  appearance  of  that  of  a  young  lady  laying  out  her  trousseau — Mrs. 
Penniman  had  measured  her  responsibilities,  and  taken  fright  at  their 
magnitude.  The  task  of  preparing  Catherine  and  easing  off  Morris 
presented  difficulties  which  increased  in  the  execution,  and  even  led  the 
impulsive  Lavinia  to  ask  herself  whether  the  modification  of  the  young 
man's  original  project  had  been  conceived  in  a  happy  spirit.  A  brilliant 
future,  a  wider  career,  a  conscience  exempt  from  the  reproach  of  inter- 
ference between  a  young  lady  and  her  natural  rights — these  excellent 
things  might  be  too  troublesomely  purchased.  From  Catherine  herself 
Mrs.  Penniman  received  no  assistance  whatever ;  the  poor  girl  was 
apparently  without  suspicion  of  her  danger.  She  looked  at  her  lover 
with  eyes  of  undiminished  trust,  and  though  she  had  less  confidence  in 
her  aunt  than  in  a  young  man  with  whom  she  had  exchanged  so  many 
tender  vows,  she  gave  her  no  handle  for  explaining  or  confessing.  Mrs. 
Penniman,  faltering  and  wavering,  declared  Catherine  was  very  stupid, 
put  off  the  great  scene,  as  she  would  have  called  it,  from  day  to  day,  and 
wandered  about,  very  uncomfortably,  with  her  unexploded  bomb  in 
her  hands.  Morris's  own  scenes  were  very  small  ones  just  now ;  but 
even  these  were  beyond  his  strength.  He  made  his  visits  as  brief  as 


400  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

possible,  and,  while  he  sat  with  his  mistress,  found  terribly  little  to  talk 
about.  She  was  waiting  for  him,  in  vulgar  parlance,  to  name  the  day  ; 
and  so  long  as  he  was  unprepared  to  be  explicit  on  this  point,  it  seemed 
a  mockery  to  pretend  to  talk  about  matters  more  abstract.  She  had  no 
airs  and  no  arts ;  she  never  attempted  to  disguise  her  expectancy.  She 
was  waiting  on  his  good  pleasure,  and  would  wait  modestly  and 
patiently ;  his  hanging  back  at  this  supreme  time  might  appear  strange, 
but  of  course  he  must  have  a  good  reason  for  it.  Catherine  would  have 
made  a  wife  of  the  gentle  old-fashioned  pattern — regarding  reasons  as 
favours  and  windfalls,  but  no  more  expecting  one  every  day  than  she  would 
have  expected  a  bouquet  of  camellias.  During  the  period  of  her  engage- 
ment, however,  a  young  lady  even  of  the  most  slender  pretensions  counts 
upon  more  bouquets  than  at  other  times ;  and  there  was  a  want  of  per- 
fume in  the  air  at  this  moment  which  at  last  excited  the  girl's  alarm. 

"  Are  you  sick  1 "  she  asked  of  Morris.  "  You  seem  so  restless,  and 
yom  look  pale." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  well,"  said  Morris  ;  and  it  occurred  to  him  that,  if 
he  could  only  make  her  pity  him  enough,  he  might  get  off. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  overworked  ;  you  oughtn't  to  work  so  much." 

"  I  must  do  that."  And  then  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  calculated 
brutality,  "  I  don't  want  to  owe  you  everything  !  " 

"  Ah,  how  can  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  too  proud,"  said  Morris. 

"  Yes — you  are  too  proud  !  " 

"  Well,  you  must  take  me  as  I  am,"  he  went  on.  "You  can  never 
change  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  change  you,"  she  said, .gently.  "  I  will  take  you  as 
you  are !  "  And  she  stood  looking  at  him. 

"  You  know  people  talk  tremendously  about  a  man's  marrying  a 
rich  girl,"  Morris  remarked.  "  It's  excessively  disagreeable." 

"  But  I  am  not  rich  !  "  said  Catherine. 

"  You  are  rich  enough  to  make  me  talked  about !  " 

"  Of  course  you  are  talked  about.     It's  an  honour  !  " 

"  It's  an  honour  I  could  easily  dispense  with." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  whether  it  was  not  a  compen- 
sation for  this  annoyance  that  the  poor  girl  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
bring  it  upon  him,  loved  him  so  dearly  and  believed  in  him  so  truly ; 
but  she  hesitated,  thinking  that  this  would  perhaps  seem  an  exacting 
speech,  and  while  she  hesitated,  he  suddenly  left  her. 

The  next  time  he  came,  however,  she  brought  it  out,  and  she  told  him 
again  that  he  was  too  proud.  He  repeated  that  he  couldn't  change,  and 
this  time  she  felt  the  impulse  to  say  that  with  a  little  effort  he  might 
change. 

Sometimes  he  thought  that  if  he  could  only  make  a  quarrel  with  her 
it  might  help  him  ;  but  the  question  was  how  to  quarrel  with  a  young 
woman  who  had  such  treasures  of  concession.  "  I  suppose  you  think  the 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  401 

effort  is  all  on  your  side  !  "  he  broke  out.  "  Don't  you  believe  that  I 
have  my  own  effort  to  make  ? " 

"It's  all  yours  now,"  she  said.  "My  effort  is  finished  and  done 
with  ! " 

"  Well,  mine  is  not." 

"  We  must  bear  things  together,"  said  Catherine.  "  That's  what  we 
ought  to  do." 

Morris  attempted  a  natural  smile.  "  There  are  some  things  which 
we  can't  very  well  bear  together — for  instance,  separation." 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  separation  1 " 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  like  it ;  I  knew  you  wouldn't ! " 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Morris  1 "  she  suddenly  asked. 

He  fixed  his  eye  on  her  a  moment,  and  for  a  part  of  that  moment  she 
was  afraid  of  it.  "  Will  you  promise  not  to  make  a  scene  1 " 

"  A  scene ! — do  I  make  scenes  1 " 

"  All  women  do  !  "  said  Morris,  with  the  tone  of  large  experience. 

"  I  don't.     Where  are  you  going  1 " 

"  If  I  should  say  I  was  going  away  on  business,  should  you  think  it 
very  strange  ? " 

She  wondered  a  moment,  gazing  at  him.  "  Yes — no.  Not  if  you 
will  take  me  with  you." 

"  Take  you  with  me — on  business  ? " 

"  What  is  your  business?     Your  business  is  to  be  with  me." 

"  I  don't  earn  my  living  with  you,"  said  Morris.  "  Or  rather,"  he 
cried  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  "  that's  just  what  I  do — or  what  the 
world  says  I  do  !  " 

This  ought  perhaps  to  have  been  a  great  stroke,  but  it  miscarried. 
"  Where  are  you  going  1 "  Catherine  simply  repeated. 

"  To  New  Orleans.     About  buying  some  cotton." 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  go  to  New  Orleans,"  Catherine  said. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  would  take  you  to  a  nest  of  yellow  fever  1 "  cried 
Moms.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  would  expose  you  at  such  a  time  as  this  1  " 

"  If  there  is  yellow  fever,  why  should  you  go  1  Morris,  you  must 
not  go ! " 

"  It  is  to  make  six  thousand  dollars,"  said  Morris.  "  Do  you  grudge 
me  that  satisfaction  ?  " 

"  We  have  no  need  of  six  thousand  dollars.  You  think  too  much 
about  money  !  " 

"  You  can  afford  to  say  that !  This  is  a  great  chance ;  we  heard  of 
it  last  night."  And  he  explained  to  her  in  what  the  chance  consisted ; 
and  told  her  a  long  story,  going  over  more  than  once  several  of  the  details, 
about  the  remarkable  stroke  of  business  which  he  and  his  partner  had 
planned  between  them. 

But  Catherine's  imagination,  for  reasons  best  known  to  herself,  abso- 
lutely refused  to  be  fired.  "  If  you  can  go  to  New  Orleans,  I  can  go," 
she  said,  "  Why  shouldn't  you  catch  yellow  fever  quite  as  easily  as  I  ? 


402  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

I  am  every  bit  as  strong  as  you,  and  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  any  fever. 
When  we  were  in  Europe,  we  were  in  very  unhealthy  places ;  my  father 
used  to  make  me  take  some  pills.  I  never  caught  anything,  and  I  never 
was  nervous.  What  will  be  the  use  of  six  thousand  dollars  if  you  die  of 
a  fever  ?  When  persons  are  going  to  be  married,  they  oughtn't  to  think 
so  much  about  business.  You  shouldn't  think  about  cotton,  you  should 
think  about  me.  You  can  go  to  New  Orleans  some  other  time — there 
will  always  be  plenty  of  cotton.  It  isn't  the  moment  to  choose — we  have 
waited  too  long  already."  She  spoke  more  forcibly  and  volubly  than  he 
had  ever  heard  her,  and  she  held  his  arm  in  her  two  hands. 

"  You  said  you  wouldn't  make  a  scene  ! "  cried  Morris.  "  I  call  this 
a  scene." 

"  It's  you  that  are  making  it !  I  have  never  asked  you  anything 
before.  We  have  waited  too  long  already."  And  it  was  a  comfort  to 
her  to  think  that  she  had  hitherto  asked  so  little ;  it  seemed  to  make 
her  right  to  insist  the  greater  now. 

Morris  bethought  himself  a  little.  "  Very  well,  then  ;  we  won't  talk 
about  it  any  more.  I  will  transact  my  business  by  letter."  And  he 
began  to  smooth  his  hat,  as  if  to  take  leave. 

"  You  won't  go  1 "     And  she  stood  looking  up  at  him. 

He  could  not  give  up  his  idea  of  provoking  a  quarrel ;  it  was  so  much 
the  simplest  way  !  He  bent  his  eyes  on  her  upturned  face,  with  the 
darkest  frown  he  could  achieve.  "  You  are  not  discreet.  You  mustn't 
bully  me  ! " 

But,  as  usual,  she  conceded  everything.  "  No,  I  am  not  discreet ;  I 
know  I  am  too  pressing.  But  isn't  it  natural  ?  It  is  only  for  a  moment." 

"  In  a  moment  you  may  do  a  great  deal  of  harm.  Try  and  be  calmer 
the  next  time  I  come." 

"  When  will  you  come  ? " 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  conditions  ? "  Morris  asked.  "  I  will  come 
next  Saturday." 

"  Come  to-morrow,"  Catherine  begged ;  "  I  want  you  to  come  to- 
morrow. I  will  be  very  quiet,"  she  added ;  and  her  agitation  had  by  this 
time  become  so  great  that  the  assurance  was  not  imbecoming.  A  sudden 
fear  had  come  over  her;  it  was  like  the  solid  conjunction  of  a  dozen  dis 
embodied  doubts,  and  her  imagination,  at  a  single  bound,  had  traversed 
an  enormous  distance.  All  her  being,  for  the  moment,  was  centred  in 
the  wish  to  keep  him  in  the  room. 

Morris  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  forehead.  "  When  you  are 
quiet,  you  are  perfection,"  he  said;  "  but  when  you  are  violent,  you  are 
not  in  character." 

It  was  Catherine's  wish  that  there  should  be  no  violence  about  her 
save  the  beating  of  her  heart,  which  she  could  not  help  ;  and  she  went 
on,  as  gently  as  possible,  "  Will  you  promise  to  come  to-morrow  1 " 

"  I  said  Saturday  !  "  Morris  answered  smiling.  He  tried  a  frown  at 
one  moment,  a  smile  at  another ;  he  was  at  his  wit's  end. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  403 

"  Yes,  Saturday  too,"  she  answered,  trying  to  smile.  "  But  to-morrow 
first."  He  was  going  to  the  door,  and  she  went  with  him,  quickly.  She 
leaned  her  shoulder  against  it ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  do  any- 
thing to  keep  him." 

"  If  I  am  prevented  from  coming  to-morrow,  you  will  say  I  have 
deceived  you  !  "  he  said. 

"  How  can  you  be  prevented  ?     You  can  come  if  you  will." 

"  I  am  a  busy  man — I  am  not  a  dangler  !  "  cried  Morris,  sternly. 

His  voice  was  so  hard  and  unnatural  that,  with  a  helpless  look  at 
him,  she  turned  away  ;  and  then  he  quickly  laid  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. He  felt  as  if  he  were  absolutely  running  away  from  her.  But  in 
an  instant  she  was  close  to  him  again,  and  murmuring  in  a  tone  none 
the  less  penetrating  for  being  low,  "  Morris,  you  are  going  to  leave  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  little  while." 

"  For  how  long  ?  " 

"  Till  you  are  reasonable  again." 

"  I  shall  never  be  reasonable,  in  that  way  !  "  And  she  tried  to  keep 
him  longer ;  it  was  almost  a  struggle.  "  Think  of  what  I  have  done  !  " 
she  broke  out.  "  Morris,  I  have  given  up  everything !  " 

"  You  shall' have  everything  back  !  " 

"  You  wouldn't  say  that  if  you  didn't  mean  something.  What  is 
it  1 — what  has  happened  1 — what  have  I  done  ? — what  has  changed 
you  1 " 

"  I  will  write  to  you — that  is  better,"  Morris  stammered. 

"  Ah,  you  won't  come  back  !  "  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Dear  Catherine,"  he  said,  "  don't  believe  that !  I  promise  you  that 
you  shall  see  me  again  !  "  And  he  managed  to  get  away  and  to  close  the 
door  behind  him. 

HENRY   JAMES,   JB. 


404 


on 


i. 

THE  EARLY  MASTERS. 

PROBABLY  the  greatest  difference  which  would  strike  an  ordinary  observer 
between  the  works  of  the  founders  of  the  water-colour  school  and  the 
present  workers  in  that  medium  would  be  the  comparative  absence  of 
bright  colour  from  the  earlier  work.  This  was  due  to  two  chief  causes, 
both  of  which  it  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind.  The  first  was  the  previous 
use  which  had  been  made  in  art  of  the  medium  in  question.  This  use 
had  been  wholly  subsidiary  to  the  practice  of  oil-painting.  Artists  had 
been  accustomed  to  tint  with  washes  of  sepia  or  Indian  ink  the  rough 
memoranda  made  by  them  either  of  landscape  or  figure  compositions, 
both  for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  outline  and  for  giving  the  main  effect 
of  light  and  shade.  As  time  went  on,  a  little  more  colour  gradually  crept 
into  these  memoranda  ;  but  they  were  still  in  principle  tinted  outlines, 
more  akin  to  diagrams  than  pictures,  aiming  at  no  effects  of  solidity  and 
relief,  or  at  strict  attention  to  details  of  colour.  Indeed,  previous  to  our 
English  masters,  the  art  of  water-colour  painting  bore  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  the  practice  of  Japanese  artists,  and,  with  the  exception  that  it 
did  not  ignore  anatomical  accuracy  and  the  rules  of  perspective,  stood 
practically  upon  the  same  level.  Up  to  the  very  time  of  Girtin,  water- 
colour  painting  could  scarcely  be  considered  to  represent  Nature  other- 
wise than  as  a  map  :  it  was  nothing  but  an  outline,  more  or  less  accurate, 
filled  in  with  tints  —  almost  entirely  laid  on  in  flat  washes  —  which  ap- 
proximated to  Nature  in  a  conventional  manner.  The  step  which  had 
been  made  from  the  earliest  practice  was  that  the  light  portions  of  the 
composition  were  expressed  in  colour,  and  not  only  left  bare  as  in  the 
earlier  days,  when  the  wash  was  only  used  for  tinting  the  shadow 
portions. 

It  need  not  be  pointed  out  how  an  art  which  had  begun  in  this  way, 
by  confining  itself  to  the  expression  of  light  and  shade,  to  the  exclusion 
of  local  tint,  would  necessarily  have  to  undergo  a  long  apprenticeship 
before  arriving  at  a  thorough  comprehensive  proficiency  in  the  rendering 
of  the  truths  of  colour,  and  how  likely  it  would  be  to  exaggerate,  at  all 
events  for  some  time,  the  importance  of  the  facts  which  it  was  first  en- 
gaged in  rendering. 

The  second  cause  which  made  water-colour  paintings  po  dull  in  hue, 


THE  EARLY  MASTERS.  405 

at  first,  was  the  poorness  of  the  materials  employed.  It  was  not  only 
that  the  colours  were  unskilfully  and  ignorantly  prepared,  but  the  paper 
also  was  execrable  in  quality  and  hue,  and  could  not  be  depended  upon 
to  absorb  equally  the  tints  laid  upon  it.  It  was  not  till  Messrs.  Newman 
and  Whatman  devoted  themselves  respectively  to  the  manufacture  of 
pure  colours  and  paper,  that  the  water-colour  artist  had  a  fair  chance  of 
giving  to  his  work  any  beauty  of  bright  colour,  and,  looking  at  the  pictures 
executed  in  this  earlier  time,  it  is  always  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  the 
above  fact.  All  this  is  an  old  story  now.  We  look  at  De  Wint's  pic- 
ture, and  notice  where  his  blues  and  the  fugitive  Indian  red  (employed 
by  this  artist  in  making  his  greys)  have  disappeared,  leaving  the  sky  fre- 
quently almost  a  blank ;  we  turn  to  Turner,  and  find  trees  whose  foliage 
retains  no  trace  of  its  former  hue,  and  rivers  (as,  for  instance,  in  the 
beautiful  drawing  of  the  meeting  of  the  Greta  and  the  Tees)  whose  waters 
have  wholly  disappeared ;  we  see  whole  drawings  from  which  all  the  colder 
colours  have  vanished,  leaving  a  pale  buff  tint  over  the  whole  composition, 
and  we  take  all  these  things  as  a  matter  of  course ;  but  hardly,  I  think, 
appreciate  the  enormous  difficulties  which  must  have  been  encountered 
by  men  working  with  such  imperfect  and  fleeting  materials.  Those  who 
noticed  the  early  drawings  of  Turner  exhibited  by  Mr.  Ruskin  at  the 
Fine  Art  Society's  rooms  last  year,  will  remember  how  sternly  limited 
they  were  in  colour  to  tints  of  buff  and  pale  browns,  blues,  and  greens. 
Those  first  drawings  carry  us  back  to  the  old  theory  of  water-colours, 
which  restricted  them  to  the  simplest  suggestion  of  natural  colours,  and 
show  us  very  plainly  how  hard  a  matter  it  was  even  for  a  great  colourist 
like  Turner  to  escape  from  the  traditional  restrictions  laid  upon  his  art. 
How  he  did  escape,  and  work  his  way  upwards  till  he  attained  his  whole 
colour  strength,  we  must  not  stay  to  notice  here ;  but  it  should  be  re- 
membered that  the  great  improvement  in  colours  and  paper  came  just 
in  time  to  be  useful  to  him. 

The  main  influence  of  Turner's  work  upon  later  water-colour  art 
has  been  rather  that  of  a  liberator  than  a  lawgiver  ;  and  it  is  necessary 
to  dwell  strongly  upon  the  assertion  that,  great  as  this  painter  was — with 
a  greatness  indeed,  which,  like  that  of  Shakespeare,  makes  all  words  of 
praise  seem  little  better  than  an  impertinence — yet  he  has  founded  no 
school — has  had,  on  the  whole,  no  followers.  His  services  to  English 
art  have  been  tremendous,  but  rather  of  the  kind  which  uproots  tradi- 
tion, than  that  which  founds  a  school ;  and  I  doubt  whether  any  con- 
siderable section  of  English  artists  are  at  the  present  day  working  upon 
the  same  lines  as  our  greatest  landscape-painter.  The  truth  is,  that 
while  Turner,  in  one  sense,  stands  at  the  head  of  modern  art,  he,  in  an 
almost  truer  sense,  comes  at  the  tail  of  ancient  art ;  he  closes  an  epoch 
almost  more  than  he  inaugurates  one. 

Let  me  try  if  I  can  make  this  plain  in  a  few  words.  Between  modern 
landscape-painting,  depending,  as  it  does  in  the  main,  on  its  truth  to 
nature,  and  ancient  landscape-painting,  which  depended  upon  the  dignity 


406  NOTES  ON  WATER-COLOUE  ART. 

of  its  composition,  Turner's  work  stands  alone,  belonging  to  both  schools 
and  yet  ruled  by  neither.  If  we  are  to  seek  for  dignity  of  composition, 
sublimity  of  conception,  and  power  of  execution,  it  is  impossible  to  find 
them  in  a  higher  degree  than  in  many  of  Turner's  great  pictures.  If  our 
ideal  as  a  landscape-painter  was  found  before  Turner  came,  in  Claude,  can 
we  deny  that,  even  in  the  same  way — in  classical  grace  and  feeling,  in 
dignity  of  conception  and  composition — the  painter  of  the  "  Hesperides  " 
and  the  "  Bay  of  Baiae  "  is  greater  than  the  model  on  whom  he  formed 
himself?  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  we  find  our  ideal  landscape  in  truth 
to  Nature,  in  detail  of  rock,  tree,  flower,  and  cloud — where  shall  we 
find,  even  now,  a  painter  who  gives  us  more  of  what  we  want  than 
Turner  when  he  draws  "  The  Frosty  Morning,"  or  "  Crossing  the 
Brook  "  1  The  point  I  wish  to  insist  on  in  this  connection,  is  that  the 
one  style  was  apparently  as  natural  to  him  as  the  other.  He  could  not 
paint  even  the  most  classical  of  his  compositions  without  introducing  an 
amount  of  natural  fact  which,  when  we  come  to  study  the  work,  posi- 
tively bewilders  us  by  its  variety  and  quantity ;  nor  could  he  paint  the 
simplest  subject  of  English  rural  life  without  touching  it  with  some  of 
the  classical  grace  which  Claude  had  taught  him.  Now,  it  was  a  genius 
of  this  double-sidedness — at  least,  so  we  think  we  can  see  now — that  was 
wanted  to  complete  the  emancipation  of  landscape-painting  from  the  old 
classic  ideal.  Had  Turner  been  simply  a  realist,  in  the  way  that  many 
landscape-painters  are  nowadays,  the  adherents  of  the  older  style  would 
have  pooh-poohed  his  pictures  as  wanting  in  the  "  grand  style  ;  "  had  he 
been  simply  great  in  the  styles  of  Claude  and  Poussin,  surrendering 
almost  without  an  effort  many  truths  of  nature  as  incompatible  with  the 
dignity  of  a  great  school  of  landscape,  he  would  simply  have  retarded  the 
development,  instead  of  hastening  it.  But  as  it  was,  he  succeeded  in 
showing,  as  it  were  side  by  side,  the  two  styles,  and  proving,  by  the 
similarity  no  less  than  the  contrast,  where  the  faults  of  the  elder  school 
lay  ;  and,  though  no  one  then  could  come  to  much  decision  as  to  whether 
it  were  possible  that  Claude's  style,  of  ideal  merit,  as  it  had  been  considered 
for  centuries,  was  not  after  all  the  finest  conceivable  method  of  landscape 
painting,  they  were  forced  to  acknowledge  that  here  was  a  painter  who 
did  not  hesitate  to  challenge  Claude  on  his  own  ground,  and  nevertheless 
gave  in  his  adherence  to  a  method,  in  comparison  with  which  Claude's  was 
artificial  in  the  extreme,  and  produced  by  that  method  results  which  were 
as  beautiful  as  they  were  original.  I  have  dwelt  thus  long  upon  Turner's 
curious  combination  of  classicalism  and  naturalism  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  he  prepared  by  it,  in  the  only  way  that  was  at  the  time  possible, 
the  ground  for  the  reaction  in  favour  of  the  study  of  Nature,  which  has 
been  the  most  typical  thing  about  the  landscape  of  the  lasit  half-century. 
For  it  must  be  remembered  that  if  Turner  did,  as  I  hold,  exhibit  the 
results  of  the  classical  and  the  natural  styles  of  painting  side  by  side, 
with  much  of  the  same  grand  impartiality  with  which  Shakespeare 
exhibits  the  most  diverse  passions  and  characters,  yet,  when  once  these 


THE  EARLY  MASTERS.  407 

results  were  shown,  artists  and  the  public  declared  with  no  uncertain 
voice  which  it  was  that  they  preferred ;  and,  in  somewhat  the  same  way 
as  "  Cervantes  smiled  the  chivalry  of  Spain  away,"  so  did  classical  com- 
position really  fade  out  of  men's  sight  in  the  glorious  pictures  of  Carthage 
and  Italy,  by  the  side  of  which  the  artist  did  not  scruple  to  hang  such 
everyday  subjects  as  the  breaking-up  of  an  old  war-ship,  or  the  passing 
of  a  railway-train  through  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain. 

It  was  a  new  light  to  people  that  commonplace  things  they  had  seen 
all  their  lives,  had  in  them  pictorial  elements  of  pathos  and  interest 
such  as  they  had  never  suspected,  and  that  a  painter  who  had  shown 
himself  fully  capable  of  appreciating  the  glories  of  ancient  landscape, 
should  show  himself  also  content  to  paint  with  equal  fidelity  and  love 
the  simplest  subjects  of  English  scenery.  It  was  a  new  light  in  many 
ways  that  shone  from  his  pictures,  and  men  woke  up  gradually  to  its 
comprehension,  though  many  well-meaning  persons  could  not  believe  at 
first  in  a  painter  who  declared  that  Margate  sunsets  were  the  finest  in 
the  world.  The  general  artistic  feeling  of  the  country  would,  however, 
scarcely  have  taken  (as  it  did  take  in  the  earlier  years  of  this  century) 
the  direction  of  giving  increased  importance  to  the  practice  of  water- 
colours,  had  it  not  been  for  another  quality  of  Turner's  work,  and  one 
which  was  in  this  instance  shared  by  several  artists  less  widely  known. 
The  pessimist  notion  of  water-colour  work  which  had  steadily  grown  up 
under  the  fostering  care  of  its  restriction  by  artists  to  minor  purposes, 
and  by  the  little  care  and  knowledge  bestowed  upon  the  manufacture  of 
its  material,  required  some  striking  disproof  before  its  error  could  be 
generally  acknowledged.  It  was  necessary  to  show  that  there  was  no 
inherent  incapacity  in  the  medium  to  prevent  works  therein  possessing 
all  the  force,  dignity,  and  value,  which  were  commonly  supposed  to  be 
found  alone  in  the  schools  of  oil-painting,  and,  thanks  to  what  was 
perhaps  his  greatest  quality,  this  was  shown  by  Turner  and  one  or  two 
of  Ids  confreres.  If  we  review  carefully  Turner's  water-colour  work,  we 
find  in  it  one  supreme  characteristic,  universally  present,  and  that  is  the 
sense  of  enormous  space,  which  is  given  apparently  without  effort,  and 
certainly  without  straining,  in  every  little  sketch,  no  matter  how  small. 
Whether  it  be  English  meadows,  French  rivers,  or  Alpine  ranges  which 
occupy  his  pencil,  however  crowded  or  important  be  the  foreground, 
however  varied  or  intense  the  light  of  the  picture,  in  all  alike  there 
opens  out  to  our  view,  an  almost  infinite  series  of  aerial  planes  so  exqui- 
sitely right  in  their  distance,  that  after  the  first  glance  it  is  literally 
true  that  in  looking  at  a  Turner  the  size  of  the  work  is  almost  an 
absolute  matter  of  indifference — four  inches  square  gives  us  the  same 
effect  in  his  work  that  twelve  feet  does.  Now  it  should  be  remembered 
that  of  all  Claude's  merits  this  was  the  greatest.  Truth  to  natural 
colour  and  detail  he  habitually  sacrificed,  truth  to  atmospheric  effect, 
never.  Whatever  Mr.  Paiskin  or  any  one  else  may  say,  Claude,  till 
Turner  came,  had  never  been  approached  in  this  respect,  and  when 


408  NOTES  ON  WATEE-COLOtJE  AET. 

Turner  did  come  it  was  in  this  respect  only,  to  share  his  throne,  not 
wrest  his  sceptre.  Our  English  artist,  however,  showed  that  it  was 
possible  to  do  in  water-colours  on  a  square  half-foot  of  paper,  what  the 
great  Frenchman  had  done  in  oils  on  a  ten-foot  canvas.  But  there  Avas  a 
contemporary  of  Turner's  who  also  possessed  this  sense  of  space  and  this 
power  of  expressing  it  on  a  small  scale,  and  whose  influence  helped  that 
of  the  greater  master  to  change  the  aspect  of  water-colour  art ;  this  was 
David  Cox,  perhaps  the  most  truly  English  as  he  was  the  greatest  of  all 
our  water-colour  landscape  artists. 

No  subject  in  connection  with  the  rise  of  water-colour  art  is  more 
interesting,  or  has  received  less  critical  attention,  than  the  relation  of 
such  men  as  Cox  and  De  Wint,  but  especially  Cox,  to  Turner.  I  cannot 
here  do  more  than  just  glance  at  this  connection,  for  though  it  is  com- 
paratively simple  to  trace  the  rise  of  Turner's  genius  through  study  of 
nature,  imitation  of  great  masters,  study  of  nature  again  and  again,  and 
finally  its  almost  complete  surrender  to  the  leading  of  the  imaginative 
faculty,  there  is  in  Cox  no  such  progress  discernible ;  his  genius  seems  to 
have  taken  from  the  very  first  an  upward  line,  for  which  there  can  hardly 
be  found  any  determining  impulse ;  and  truths  of  atmosphere  and  com- 
position which  were  reached  by  Turner  in  what  we  may  almost  call  a 
scientific  manner,  were  grasped  naturally  by  Cox  without  apparent 
knowledge,  and  yet  with  almost  infallible  accuracy.  I  have  studied  for 
more  years  than  I  care  to  remember  Cox's  work,  having  had  the  good 
fortune  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  a  large  collection  of  his  drawings, 
and  it  is  to  this  day  a  puzzle  to  me  how  the  marvellous  truth  of  his  dis- 
tant landscape  was  reached  by  the  painter.  That  the  power  of  composi- 
tion was  innate  both  in  him  and  Turner,  I  do  not  doubt,  though  the  latter 
indubitably  studied  it  to  a  degree  unimagined  by  the  former,  but  the 
manner  in  which  plane  after  plane  of  atmosphere  is  indicated  by  Cox,  in 
work  which  appears  to  have  been  done  with  lightning  speed,  and  in 
what  I  may  call  the  most  rough  and  ready  manner,  is  more  inexplicable 
to  my  understanding  than  the  utmost  marvels  of  delicacy  attained  by 
Turner.  I  remember  especially  two  sketches,  one  of  an  open  common 
under  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  and  the  other  a  still  slighter  sketcli  of 
Putney  Bridge  on  a  dull  rainy  afternoon,  both  of  which  possess  in  the 
highest  degree  this  quality  of  almost  infinite  variety  of  distance.  Now, 
these  rough  sketches  (for  they  are  sketches  untouched  at  home)  are 
especially  good  illustrations,  because  in  neither  of  them  is  there  any 
object  worth  speaking  of  by  which  the  eye  is  led  to  appreciate  the  dis- 
tance— both  have  been  executed  in  a  great  hurry  on  the  spot ;  the  former 
being  done,  as  I  was  told  by  a  gentleman  who  was  with  Cox  at  the 
time,  in  a  very  few  minutes.  (The  painter  suddenly  stopped  his  com- 
panion in  the  middle  of  the  shower,  said,  "  I  must  have  that  effect," 
and  sat  down  and  did  it.)  There  are  some  curious  drawings  of  Cox's 
earlier  years,  showing  how  he  fell  under  the  influence  first  of  De  Wint 
and  then  of  Turner ;  but  they  throw  no  special  light  upon  the  great 


THE  EARLY  MASTERS.  409 

merits  of  his  work,  and  are,  indeed,  among  the  very  worst  drawings  that 
he  produced. 

I  must  not,  however,  dwell  upon  this  subject ;  suffice  it  to  note  that 
here,  running  as  it  were  parallel  to  Turner,  was  an  artist  whose  work 
possessed  qualities  of  dignity  and  power  comparable  to  those  of  the 
finest  oil-painters,  and  yet  one  who  had  somehow  arrived  at  his  con- 
clusions without  copying  the  antique  or  studying  the  great  schools  of 
art,  but  had  simply  been  taught  them  by  Nature  herself  as  he  sat 
sketching  on  Mitcham  Common,  or  under  the  oaks  at  Haddon  Hall. 
It  is  necessary  to  note  briefly  the  advance  made  by  Cox  upon  the  work, 
very  beautiful  work,  too,  in  its  way,  of  his  immediate  predecessor  De 
Wint. 

I  was  talking  a  few  weeks  ago  to  one  of  the  most  famous  of  our  con- 
temporary water-colour  painters,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to 
Madrid,  and  while  we  were  chatting  incidentally  about  the  enormous  power 
of  Yelasquez  as  a  colour  1st,  my  friend  casually  said,  "  There  is  only  one 
Englishman  who  ever  approached  him  in  that  way,  and  that's  De  Wint." 
I  quote  this  remark  as  a  somewhat  exaggerated  expression  of  a  truth 
which  we  are  at  the  present  time  somewhat  likely  to  forget,  namely, 
that  a  colourist  by  nature  can  work  almost  entirely  without  colour; 
this  is  so  true,  that  amongst  artists  it  would  probably  be  not  thought 
worthy  of  repetition  ;  but  it  is  habitually  forgotten  if  not  denied  by  the 
public  in  general.  Now,  De  Wint  was,  if  not  a  great  colourist,  certainly 
one  of  no  mean  order,  and  in  his  work  was  struck  that  note  of  relative 
truth  which  Cox  afterwards  followed  out  so  successfully.  The  former 
artist  had  a  dislike  to  bright  skies,  cheerful  scenes,  and  merry  incidents 
(very  unlike  Cox's  habit  of  mind) ;  he  hated  a  windy  day,  or  indeed 
anything  that  told  of  swift,  movement  and  lively  action,  and  what 
he  disliked  he  did  not  paint ;  but  there  never  yet  was  a  man  who 
painted  tired  cattle,  straggling  home  down  a  muddy  lane,  or  standing 
idly  about  the  farmyard  under  a  heavy  sky,  as  did  De  Wint ;  there  has 
never  been  an  English  painter  who  has  given  us  with  equal  truth  the 
long  flat  marshes  of  Essex,  or  Cambridge,  or  who  in  fact  has  represented 
as  truly  that  plain,  undramatic,  undisturbed,  and  somewhat  stagnant  life 
of  rural  England.  Unemotional  of  nature,  in  as  high  a  degree  as  he  is 
truthful  to  the  narrow  truth  he  had  power  to  see,  his  pictures  are  pro- 
bably more  out  of  tune  with  our  present  style  of  painting  and  our  more 
restless  manner  of  life  than  those  of  any  artist  of  his  period.  Yet  we 
must  consider  that  he  succeeded  to  a  race  of  artists  who  thoroughly 
despised  and  ignored  water-colours  as  incapable  of  producing  fine  art, 
and  that  with  almost  hopelessly  inferior .  materials,  he  produced  works 
which  in  their  mastery  of  tertiary  tints  are  unrivalled,  and,  last  not  least, 
that  he  asserted  in  his  own  dull  dogged  way  that  his  country  was  "  good 
enough  for  him  as  it  was ;  "  he  was  not  going  to  give  way  to  anybody  in 
that,  let  them  talk  about  Claude  and  Poussin  as  they  liked.  Something 
(indeed  to  me  very  much)  of  this  spirit  is  evident  in  his  work,  and  it  is 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250.  20. 


410  NOTES  ON  WATEK-COLOUR  ART. 

almost  certain  that  it  was  from  him,  and  perhaps  from  William  Hunt, 
that  Cox  caught  the  infection  which  made  his  work  so  peculiarly  English 
in  its  character.  The  great  difference  between  the  spirit  of  these  artists 
is  most  certainly  the  stirring  quality  of  Cox's  work,  intensely  full  of 
life  and  energy,  and  the  quietude,  which  is  yet  not  melancholy  and  not 
in  the  least  morbid,  of  De  "VVint.  Their  great  merit  consists  in  this, 
that  in  an  age  of  Keepsake  literature,  and  "  art  chiefly  of  the  handscreen 
sort,"  as  George  Eliot  calls  it,  they  succeeded  in  giving  to  their  work  a 
dignity  and  a  truth  which  have  never  been  surpassed  in  landscape- 
painting,  and  that  they  did  this  by  no  reference  to  classical  models,  but 
by  sheer  power  of  original  genius. 

Other  painters  had  shown  that  there  were  beauties  in  English  scenery 
accessible  to  the  artist,  but  none  before  had  preached  with  their  pencils 
the  daring  theory,  that  England  itself,  muddy,  grey- skied,  windy,  foggy, 
and  cold,  was  yet  on  the  whole  a  beautiful  coxmtry,  one  that  a  man 
might  be  proud  to  live  in  and  proud  to  paint.  If  there  be  such  a  thing 
as  worthy  Jingoism,  these  old  painters  were  worthy  Jingoes,  and  the 
contrast  is  curiously  deep  between  what  they  and  what  Turner,  who 
must  have  had  the  seer's  gift  of  prophecy,  as  he  certainly  had  his 
melancholy,  thought  of  our  native  land. 

These  three  men,  Turner,  Cox,  and  De  Wint,  were  the  great 
precursors  in  landscape,  of  the  period  which  the  Burlington  Fine  Art 
Gallery  have  chosen  for  illustration,  and  with  them  there  should  be 
mentioned  Barrett  and  Front ;  the  first  of  whom  was  the  most  refined 
and  skilful  exponent  in  water-colours  of  the  classical  composition  style 
of  landscape,  and  exceptionally  able  in  depicting  effects  of  brilliant  sun- 
light, the  other  the  most  patiently  faithful  of  architectural  draughtsmen, 
yet  hardly  ever  carrying  his  painting  beyond  the  old  standpoint  of  a  pen 
or  pencil  outline  washed  with  flat  colour.  We  say  hardly  ever,  for  it 
must  be  here  noted  that  signs  are  by  no  means  wanting  that  had  Prout 
taken  to  painting  seriously  instead  of  devoting  his  whole  life  to  archi- 
tectural draughtsmanship,  he  might  have  been  a  considerable  colourist. 
This  is  especially  noticeable  in  some  of  his  earlier  sea-pieces,  and  in  a 
few  finished  drawings  of  his  later  period. 

There  is  in  Prout's  work  a  curious,  simple  fidelity  and  innocent 
earnestness  such  as  one  may  perhaps  find  an  analogy  to  in  the  sermon 
of  a  simple  country  parson,  whose  hearers  ask  no  troublesome  questions, 
and  have  no  disturbing  doubts.  In  such  a  mind,  to  such  listeners  (ap- 
parently), does  Prout  tell  his  little  tale  of  Gothic  architecture,  with  a 
humble  and  yet  confident  sense  in  the  sufliciency  of  its  interest.  That 
he  (the  artist)  delights  in  the  story  is  evident ;  so,  he  thinks,  should  you 
do,  if  you  would  take  the  trouble,  and  lest  any  element  which  attracted 
him  should  be  missing,  he  gives  you  the  people  with  their  carts,  fruit- 
stalls,  umbrellas,  &c.  &c.,  that  he  saw  in  front  of  the  buildings,  throws 
them  in  as  it  were  to  add  to  the  local  colour.  But  on  this  subject  I 
must  say  no  more,  for  we  have  just  had  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Ruskin  a 


THE  EARLY  MASTERS.  411 

critical  notice  of  Front's  work  and  his  place  in  art,  of  such  quality  as  to 
render  further  words  a  mere  impertinence,  and  I  can  only  refer  those 
who  are  interested  in  the  subject  to  the  "  Notes  OD  Prout  and  Hunt," 
published  a  few  months  ago  by  the  Fine  Art  Society. 

The  works  of  the  men  I  have  named,  and  whose  characteristics  I  have 
tried  to  give  some  slightest  glimpse  of,  were  in  the  main  executed  before, 
or  shortly  after,  the  year  1830,  and  it  is,  as  the  editor  of  the  Burlington 
Catalogue  shows  in  his  preface,  the  years  between  1830  and  1860  which 
are  mainly  illustrated  in  this  collection.  We  have  brought  water- 
colour  art  up  to  this  period  as  far  as  it  has  been  concerned  with  land- 
scape, let  us  now  try  and  see  what  use  was  made  by  the  younger  genera- 
tion of  the  paths  opened  to  them  by  the  elder  artists.  Did  they,  like 
Jeannot  in  the  old  ballad,  "go proudly  rushing  on  "  where  glory  pointed 
the  way,  or  did  they  retrace  their  steps,  and  turn  their  improved  pig- 
ments and  paper  to  a  less  worthy  use  than  in  the  old  days  ?  What  was 
the  work  of  the  water-colour  school  of  English  painting  (as  it  is  shown 
on  these  walls)  during  the  second  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  ? 

On  the  whole  the  period  is  one  of  decided  decline — decline  which  is 
made  the  more  evident  from  the  skill  in  many  technical  respects  of  those 
who   are   engaged    in    it,  and   the   superior  beauty  of  the   materials 
employed ;  the  farther  we  get  away  from  the  old   masters,  the   worse 
the  art  becomes  (the  landscape  art  alone  I  am  here  speaking  of),  up  to 
1860,  or  thereabouts,  at  which  time  the  pre-Haphaelite  influence  steps 
quietly  in  and  stops  the  decline,  by  turning  the  whole  aim  of  the  best 
men's  work  towards  a  new  object ;  but  of  this  influence  I  cannot  here  speak, 
and,  indeed,  must  needs  be  brief  in  my  mention  of  the  period  of  decline. 
If  I  do  not  here  dwell  upon  Bonington's  work,  it  is  from  no  feeling 
of  neglect,  but  only  because,  owing  to  his  training  in  the  Ecole  des 
Beaux- Arts  at  Faris,  his  subsequent  studies  in  Venice,  and  his  early 
death  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  he  can  hardly  be  considered  to  hold  the 
place  of  an  English  landscape-painter.     In  all  probability,  had  he  lived 
he  would  have  been  one  of  our  very  greatest  genre  painters,  and  the 
studies  of  landscape  and  sea-coast  scenery  which  he  has  left  us  possess  a 
refinement  and  delicacy  both  in  the  execution,  and  in  the  selection  and 
arrangement  of  the  subject,  which  we  can  hardly  parallel  in  English 
painting.     He  is  said  to  have  slighted  "  the  Academic  teaching  of  Gros," 
received  in  Faris,  but  the  influence  of  that  teaching  is  singularly  evident 
in  his  work,  to  which  perhaps  the  most  correct  term  to  apply  is  "  elegant." 
Technically  he  showed  signs  of  becoming  a  colourist,  and  his  actual 
brush-work  in  water-colour  was  of  exceptional  brilliancy,  but  he  had 
no  followers  in  England,  and  his  work  has  never  been  valued  so  highly 
in  this  country  as  in  France. 

I  now  come  to  the  two  painters  who  are  the  most  prominent  figures 
of  the  period  of  decline,  and  that  not  only  from  their  merit,  but  because 
they  form  the  connecting  links  between  the  old  school  and  the  one  which 
was  to  succeed  it ;  without  them  we  could  hardly  understand  how  the 

20 — 2 


412  NOTES  ON  WATEK-COLOUE  ART. 

art  of  Cox  and  De  Wint  changed  to  the  art  of  Rowbotham,  Richardson, 
and  Penley.  These  two  painters,  "William  Bennett  and  William  James 
Muller,  were  contemporaries,  though  the  latter  painter  died  in  1845,  the 
former  not  till  1871. 

Muller's  work  presents  at  first  sight  a  very  difficult  problem  to  the 
student  of  art,  for  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  a  painter  so  highly 
endowed  with  artistic  gifts  could  do  so  very  little  with  them,  and  this 
is,  I  think,  only  to  be  accounted  for  by  what  is,  curiously  enough,  one  of 
his  most  marked  merits — that  is  his  power  of  seizing  the  artistic  aspect 
of  any  given  scene.  This  it  is  that  makes  his  work  so  strongly  attractive  to 
artists,  and  it  is  the  lack  of  more  than  this  that  causes  people  in  general  to 
pass  his  pictures  almost  without  notice.  Taken  from  one  side,  he  is  the 
exact  opposite  of  Cox,  who  delighted  with  a  very  evident  delight  in  the 
"subjects  he  painted,  whereas  Muller,  sketching  with  a  facility  and  accuracy 
to  the  general  effect  hardly  to  be  surpassed,  yet  always  impresses  us  as 
being  in  a  hurry  to  get  away  from  his  subject,  as  not  caring  one  bit  what 
he  was  sketching,  and  as  having  no  reason  why  he  should  sketch  that 
more  than  anything  else.  And  so  it  happens  that,  wonderful  as  his  work 
is  in  many  technical  respects,  it  strikes  no  responsive  note  in  our  natures, 
and  though  the  subjects  of  his  pictures  extend  over  Italy,  Switzerland, 
and  Germany,  Lycia,  Greece,  and  Egypt,  yet  from  all  those  countries 
put  together,  he  cannot  extract  as  much  beauty  or  even  interest,  as  we 
gain  from  one  of  Cox's  hayfields  or  De  Wint's  farmyards. 

I  am,  it  must  be  remembered,  speaking  here  only  of  his  landscape 
and  water-colour  work ;  it  is  probable  that  the  real  bent  of  his  genius 
was  towards  figure -painting,  and  the  methods  of  oil  suited  him  best.  His 
restlessness  and  his  facility  for  rapid  sketching  made  him,  however, 
always  on  the  search  for  new  subjects,  and 'he  undoubtedly  had  a  most 
pernicious  influence  upon  the  art  of  the  day,  both  by  precept  and  ex- 
ample.  He  is,  after  all,  best  described  as  an  "  ideal  sketcher  ;  "  he  set 
the  ideal  of  sketching  as  opposed  to  that  of  thorough  painting  from 
Nature,  before  his  pupils,  and  corrupted  with  this  doctrine  two  clever 
artists  who  are  still  living,  Mr.  Harry  Johnson  and  Mr.  George  Fripp. 
His  theory  was  (it  is  quite  perceptible  in  his  works),  that,  after  all,  there 
are  only  a  few  natural  facts  that  an  artist  wants  in  order  to  make  a  pic- 
ture, that  these  facts  he  can  get  in  an  hour  or  two's  work  on  the  spot, 
and  that  then  the  picture  can  be  made  at  leisure  as  per  receipt.  We 
know,  or  think  we  know,  better  than  that  by  this  time,  but  it  is  not 
wonderful  that  a  doctrine  so  bold  and  so  attractive  gained  ready  cre- 
dence amongst  artists ;  the  whole  history  of  the  next  twenty  years  of 
landscape-painting  is  the  history  of  how  this  creed  was  worked,  and 
finally  worked  out,  by  a  series  of  average  artists.  The  whole  of  what 
may  be  called  chromolithographic  art  arose  from  this  theory  of  rapid 
sketching. 

Muller's  practice,  however,  great  as  was  its  influence,  would  not  by  it- 
self have  turned  the  popular  artistic  practice  in  favour  of  slight  and  dex- 


THE  EARLY  MASTEKS.  413 

terously  imperfect  renderings  of  nature.  The  work  was  wanting 
in  many  of  the  elements  of  popularity ;  it  was  powerful,  but  it  was 
also  gloomy ;  it  was  intensely  suggestive,  but  its  suggestions  were  such 
as  could  only  be  followed  out  by  people  somewhat  acquainted  with  art 
matters,  and  above  all,  it  was  too  impersonal  for  popularity.  But 
perhaps  its  greatest  drawback,  as  far  as  public  approval  was  concerned, 
was  its  lack  of  propriety.  It  gave  way  in  no  one  respect  to  Mrs.  Grundy 
and  her  kindred,  it  was  wholly  unadapted  to  Miss  Skimperton's  or  any 
other  academy.  Think  for  one  moment  of  what  had  just  gone  before. 
Turner  was  teaching  us  the  beauties  of  sunshine,  and  Cox  those  of  wind 
and  rain.  De  Wint  was  telling  us  that  our  England  was  pictorial  even 
in  its  most  commonplace  aspects:  Cotman  and  Bonington  had  taken 
the  river  and  the  sea-shore  as  their  pet  subjects,  and  shown  their  fitness 
for  artistic  effort ;  and  lastly  Muller  was  wandering  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba,  sketching  whatever  came  in  his  way.  All  these  men  were  (each  in 
his  own  way)  discorerers  and  innovators ;  and  what  was  wanted  at  this 
special  time  was  an  artist  of  sufficient  power  to  grasp  the  effect  of  their 
various  practices,  and  combine  them  in  some  form  which  should  be 
generally  acceptable  to  the  public,  which  should,  as  it  were,  restore  the 
public  to  that  first  critical  place  from  which  it  had  been  a  little  deposed. 
This  man  was  found  in  a  pupil  of  Cox's  named  William  Bennett,  a 
painter  who  may  be  said  to  have  determined  the  direction  of  landscape 
art  for  at  least  twenty  years.  Essentially  a  painter  of  the  second  class, 
Bennett  had  still  the  power  of  combining  in  no  ordinary  degree  many 
high  artistic  qualities.  He  had  sat  at  the  feet  of  Cox  till  he  was 
thoroughly  imbued  with  that  artist's  love  of  fresh,  breezy  landscapes,  and 
the  rapidity  of  genius  which  had  enabled  Cox  to  dash  off  his  work  at 
lightning  speed,  became  with  Bennett  the  object  of  constant  emulation. 
Cox,  partly  from  choice,  partly  from  the  necessities  of  the  time,  had  worked 
with  a  restricted  palette,  and  had  obtained  his  effects  by  the  quickest 
and  most  dexterous  use  of  a  large  brush  full  of  coloxir  dashed  with 
hurried  certainty  over  the  roughest  paper.  Both  the  restricted  palette,  the 
wet  brush,  and  the  rough  paper  became  parts  of  Bennett's  artistic  creed, 
as  did  the  elder  artists'  hatred  of  body  colour  and  love  of  grey,  breezy  skies. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Bennett's  entire'practice  was  founded  on  the 
desire  to  gain  rapidity.  It  was  in  its  very  essence  partial ;  not  partial  like 
Cox  to  one  phase  of  Nature,  but  partial  in  a  far  more  enfeebling  manner 
to  Nature  as  a  whole.  It  may  be  fairly  said  of  Bennett's  pictures  that 
they  represent  accurately  a  momentary  sight  of  any  natural  scene,  such 
as  a  child  might  have,  or  a  blind  man  whose  eyes  were  suddenly  opened. 
The  first  glimpse  one  has  of  them  is  invariably  the  most  pleasing ;  the 
first  impulse  is  to  say  "  How  true  !"  the  second  to  think  "  How  false  ! " 
Nothing  in  the  picture  is  rendered  accurately;  not,  bear  in  mind,  because  the 
painter  confessed  his  inability  for  such  rendering,  nor  because  he  seized 
all  he  could  grasp  in  the  one  given  moment  in  which  such  fact  existed  for 
him,  but  because  the  painter  did  not  see  that  more  was  to  be  desired — • 


414  NOTES  ON  WATER-COLO  DE  ART. 

did  not  know  his  shortcomings — did  not  in  truth  really  grasp  his  subject. 
The  work  is  as  little  realistic  as  it  is  ideal,  and  stands  in  much  the  same 
relation  to  great  painting  as  "  Hunkey-dorum-diddleum-dey "  does  to 
great  music.  But  perhaps  even  for  this  very  reason  it  is  pleasant  to  a 
great  many  people ;  it  needs  no  effort  to  understand,  no  learning  to  ap- 
preciate. Its  subjects,  too,  are  such  as  we  can  all  take  an  interest  in, 
such  as  are  not  of  everyday  occurrence  to  us  dwellers  in  London,  but 
within  a  practicable  distance  by  road  or  rail,  and  connected  with  memories, 
legends,  or  places  more  or  less  familiar  to  us  all.  Bolton  Abbey  and 
Haddon  Hall,  the  cliffs  of  Hastings  or  the  view  from  Richmond  Hill ; 
girls  haymaking  in  bright  sunshine,  or  children  gathering  blackberries 
in  shady  lanes — everything  which  recalls  sunny  days  in  the  country  or 
by  the  sea-shore,  and  speaks  of  cheerfulness,  of  a  decent,  properly  educated 
mind,  was  the  material  out  of  which  Bennett  formed  his  pictures,  and 
the  man  himself  was  such  as  we  might  have  fancied — 

A  great  broad-shouldered  genial  Englishman, 

clumsy  in  his  movements,  hearty  in  his  manner,  furiously  prejudiced  and 
irascible  in  outward  appearance,  and  yet  at  heart  simple  as  a  child  and 
gentle  as  a  woman.  Nothing  pleased  him  better  than  helping  youngsters, 
and  I  can  remember  how  as  a  boy  I  used  to  go  once  a  week  throughout 
the  winter  months  to  his  studio,  and  there,  in  company Vith  two  or  three 
others,  make  sepia  drawings  with  the  brush  (he  would  allow  no  pencil  to 
be  used),  from  his  sketches,  and  receive  the  most  kindly,  dogmatic  and  (I 
am  bound  to  say  that  I  now  believe)  most  erroneous,  instruction  that 
I  have  ever  experienced.  Untroubled  by  doubts  either  in  art  or  life, 
thoroughly  capable  of  such  work  as  he  attempted  to  perform,  imbued 
with  a  hearty  love  of  out-door  life,  and  a  hatred  of  all  but  clear  and  simple 
principles,  this  painter  was  the  last  genuine  painter  of  the  old  school  of 
water-colours.  English  landscape  was  to  him  the  finest  thing  in  the  world ; 
he  loved  it  deeply  if  ignorantly,  and  he  painted  it  with  as  hearty  an 
appreciation  of  its  more  superficial  beauties,  as  has  ever  been  seen. 

After  him  the  deluge,  as  far  as  the  school  of  pure  water-colour  was  con- 
cerned, but  on  that  I  cannot  dwell  here.  In  a  future  paper  I  will  try  to 
show  how  the  picturesque  ideal  of  landscape  quickly  came  to  usurp  the 
place  which  had  essentially  been  filled  by  the  work  of  the  artists  some  of 
whose  peculiarities  I  have  here  tried  to  point  out,  and  how  that  ideal  was 
in  its  turn  dethroned  by  the  rise  of  the  pre-Raphaelites.  From  1830  to 
1860  we  may  consider  that  the  picturesque  had  it  all  its  own  way.  From 
1860  to  the  present  time  the  struggle  between  it  and  the  realists  has  been 
both  bitter  and  perhaps  doubtful  in  its  issue,  but  we  may,  I  think, 
consider  ourselves  justified  in  concluding  that  a  modified  realism  has  at 
last  gained  the  day. 

HARRY  QUILTER. 


415 


(toniru    J 


THE  tendency  which  modern  life  has  to  uniformity  and  suppression  of 
all  marked  characteristics  has  frequently  been  noticed.     Among  the  few 
elements  of  picturesqueness,  however,  which  a  ruthless  civilisation  still 
suffers  to  linger  in  England,  certainly  not  the  least  is  the  country  parson. 
The  type  is  one  and  the  same,  but  its  expression  is  manifold.    He  brings 
together,  as  it  were,  by  his  own  individuality,  all  ranks  of  men  in  his 
parish,  touching  the  squire  or  lawyer  by  reminiscences  of  school  and 
college  life,  while  his  holy  profession  unites  him  with  the  joys   and 
sorrows  of  his  poorer  parishioners.     Perhaps  his  farmers  do  not  always 
sympathise  with  him ;  but  then  he  is  in  some  sort  worse  than  a  landlord, 
as  he  exacts  tithes.    Then,  again,  he  possesses  too  much  "  book-learning  " 
for  them,  and,  sooth  to  say,  they  somewhat  despise  the  farming  of  his 
glebe,  supposing  him  to  keep  it  in  his  own  hands.     A  country  parson 
seldom  makes  a  good  farmer,  and  (if  good  farmers  will  let  us  say  it)  he 
is  generally  considered  a  fair  object  to  be  imposed  upon  by  them  when 
his  produce  goes  to  market.     It  is  upon  record  that  one  surprised  the 
neighbourhood  by  the  excellence  of  his  crops  and  their  due  rotation,  but 
he  was  always  rather  behindhand  with  everything.     The  churchwarden 
was  deputed  to  ask  him  the  reason  of  this,  when  the  rest  of  his  procedure 
was  so  creditable  in  the  eyes  of  the  parish.     The  parson  laughed,  and 
confessed  he  had  not  the  remotest  knowledge  of  farming,  but  possessed 
plenty  of  observation.     He  therefore  took  as  his  pattern  one  of  the 
largest  and  best  farmers  in  the  parish,  and  did  whatever  he  noticed  this 
man  ordered  to  be  done  on  his  estate.     When  he  sowed  beans,  then  he, 
the  parson,  did  the  same  ;  when  he  cut  hay,  he  did  so  too ;  consequently 
it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  always  just  a  little  behindhand. 
The  clergyman  rose  highly,  after  this  avowal,  in  the  estimation  of  his 
flock.     This  haphazard  mode  of  farming  brought  him  nearer  to  them 
than  if  he  had  followed  the  precepts  of  Stephens  and  Mechi.     Nothing 
pleases  the  rustic  mind  so  much  as  knowing  all  the  secrets  of  successful 
agriculture. 

To  realise  the  blank  which  the  removal  of  the  parson  from  rural 
England  would  occasion,  is  to  foreshadow  the  extreme  result  of  Dis- 
establishment and  Disendowment.  Without  entering  here  upon  this 
wide  question  in  its  political  and  ecclesiastical  bearings,  it  is  tolerably 
certain  that  were  so  sweeping  a  measure  carried  out,  the  Church  would 
be  obliged  in  great  measure  to  fall  back  upon  the  teeming  centres  of 
population,  and  would  flourish  among  them  with  renewed  strength, 


416  COUNTRY  PARSONS. 

while  the  sad  spectacle  of  retrogression  would  be  exhibited  in  many 
country  parishes.  In  poor  and  sequestered  districts  it  can  scarcely  be 
doubted  that  civilisation  in  its  highest  aspects  would  be  blighted,  and  in 
some  places  die  out  altogether  for  a  time.  Neither  clergy  nor  sacred 
buildings  could  be  maintained ;  so  that  the  example  of  the  one,  and  the 
many  silent  but  eloquent  influences  of  the  other,  would  be  lost.  Here, 
again,  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  speak  of  the  divine  and  deeper  benefits 
which  a  parish  receives,  or  may  receive,  from  a  resident  parish  priest ; 
but  the  extinction  of  that  idyllic  English  life  which  nourishes  in  and 
around  country  rectories,  so  picturesquely  and  so  profitably  withal, 
cannot  but  be  regarded  as  a  national  calamity.  An  important  factor  in 
the  efforts  made  at  present  to  diffuse  goodness,  light,  and  sweetness 
would  require  to  be  eliminated  from  the  philanthropist's  calculations, 
while  the  attractiveness  of  country  life  would  be  greatly  diminished.  In 
all  the  thousand  little  kindly  acts  which  are  unconsciously  rendered  and 
accepted,  and  make  up  so  much  of  the  pleasure  of  rural  life,  in  the  ever- 
recurring  routine  of  parochial  management,  in  social  gatherings,  at 
friendly  dinner  parties,  no  face  would  be  so  missed  as  that  of  the  parson. 
Without  his  presence  the  warm  colours  in  which  poets  and  essayists 
have  always  painted  life  at  each  scattered  Auburn,  would  fade  out,  and 
a  dull  uniformity  creep  over  the  landscape.  To  take  but  the  lowest 
ground,  there  would  be  a  grievous  diminution  of  cakes  and  ale  in  merrie 
England;  while  amid  the  many  depressing  and  earthward  tendencies 
which  always  prevail  in  country  districts,  the  loss  of  a  powerful  counter- 
acting element  which  affects  both  heart  and  head,  and  strives  to  point 
the  way  to  "  a  better  country,  which  is  an  heavenly,"  if  it  always  seemed 
to  itself  to  fall  short  of  its  own  ideal,  could  ill  be  spared. 

This  many-sidedness,  so  to  speak,  of  the  country  parson's  character 
has  frequently  been  dwelt  upon  with  approbation  by  poets  and  moralists. 
He  must  be,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  phrase,  all  things  to  all  men. 
Divine,  scholar,  farmer,  naturalist,  sportsman,  with  warm  sympathies 
and  an  extended  range  of  knowledge,  he  is  called  upon  to  be  the  teacher, 
consoler,  and  friend  of  all  his  parishioners.  "  The  clergyman  is  with  his 
parishioners  and  among  them,"  says  Coleridge  ;  *  "he  is  neither  in  the 
cloistered  cell  nor  in  the  wilderness,  but  a  neighbour  and  a  family  man, 
whose  education  and  rank  admit  him  to  the  mansion  of  the  rich  land- 
holder, while  his  duties  make  him  the  frequent  visitor  of  the  farmhouse 
and  the  cottage."  And  he  describes  what  may  be  termed  the  secular 
duties  of  the  country  parson  in  apt  words  :  "  That  to  every  parish 
throughout  the  kingdom  there  is  transplanted  a  germ  of  civilisation; 
that  in  the  remotest  villages  there  is  a  nucleus  round  which  the  capa- 
bilities of  the  place  may  crystallise  and  brighten ;  a  model  sufficiently 
superior  to  excite,  yet  sufficiently  near  to  encourage  and  facilitate  imita- 
tion ;  this  unobtrusive,  continuous  agency  of  a  Protestant  Church  Estab- 

*  See  Coleridge's  Table  Talk,  page  216  (quoted  from  Church  and  State), 


COUNTRY  PARSONS.  417 

lishment — this  it  is  which  the  patriot  and  the  philanthropist,  who  would 
again  unite  the  love  of  peace  with  the  faith  in  the  progressive  ameliora- 
tion of  mankind,  cannot  value  at  too  high  a  price."*  It  is,  we  are  glad 
to  believe,  the  glory  of  the  Church  of  England  that  she  possesses  many 
such  sons,  nurtured  it  may  be  in  the  great  schools  of  the  country — at  all 
events  equipped  for  their  practical  work  in  life  at  the  universities ; 
mingling  freely  both  at  school  and  college  with  those  who  are  hereafter 
to  hold  high  rank  at  the  bar,  in  the  senate,  in  civil  and  military  sei'vice 
abroad ;  able  to  touch  the  intellects  of  such  educated  men,  as  well  as  to 
evoke  the  softer  emotions  from  the  hearts  of  ignorance  and  indifference. 
In  this  knowledge  of  men  and  manners  alone  the  English  clergy,  from 
its  antecedents,  is  superior  to  the  Scotch  ministers  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  seminary- nurtured  parish  priests  of  Italy  and  France  on  the  other. 
Indeed  the  distinction  between  the  regulars  and  the  seculars  in  the 
Middle  Ages  is  not  dissimilar  to  the  differences  now  apparent  between 
the  parish  priests  of  Rome  and  of  England.  Without  wishing  to  cast 
the  slightest  slur  on  the  learning  and  devotion  of  the  great  body  of 
Romish  clergy,  we  should  imagine  that  they  must  frequently  themselves 
deplore  that  dwarfing  of  the  sympathetic  and  affectionate  side  of  life  in 
their  own  case  which  belongs  so  fully  to  their  English  brother. 

Those  great  differences  in  learning  and  political  wisdom  which,  as 
Macaulay  has  eloquently  pointed  out,  marked  the  town  and  country 
clergy  in  the  seventeenth  century,  have  long  disappeared.  Thanks  to 
railroads,  telegraphs,  and  postal  facilities,  the  most  retired  dweller  in  the 
country  can  now  keep  himself  better  informed  in  general  knowledge  and 
the  changeful  history  of  the  nation  than  could  a  peer  who  lived  far 
from  the  capital  in  Charles  the  Second's  reign.  These  and  the  like  con- 
veniences of  civilisation  counterbalance  the  preponderance  of  learning 
amongst  city  clergy.  Many  a  man  will  now  be  found  occupied  in  the 
care  of  a  rural  parish  deeply  versed,  it  may  be,  in  Church  history,  in 
sacred  hermeneutics,  in  litiirgies,  in  Councils,  in  doctrines ;  and  his 
knowledge  is  rendered  useful  to  others  by  the  promptitude  with  which 
he  can  entrust  his  thoughts  to  the  printing  press.  Greater  leisure  com- 
pensates with  such  scholars  for  more  ready  access  to  books.  It  is  doubt- 
less true  that  the  more  brilliant  and  practical  intellects  among  the 
clergy  are  now,  as  at  the  Revolution,  being  absorbed  in  the  great  town 
populations ;  but  the  works  of  laborious  cultiire,  the  histories  and  graver 
treatises  which  owe  their  being  to  clerical  industry,  are  for  the  most  part 
produced  in  rural  retirement,  if  investigated  in  London.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  look  upon  the  country  parson's  as  an  indolent  life  ;  and  so  it 
doubtless  is  in  many  cases  where  a  weak  character  cannot  or  does  not 
make  head  against  the  somnolent  influences  of  the  country.  But  busy 
town- workers,  who  look  down  upon  the  country  parson  from  the  feverish 

*  See,  too,  some  eloquent  pages  in  Wordsworth's  Poems,  "  Appendix,  Prefaces,  &c." 
(Ed.  18') 7,  vol.  vi.  p.  415,  seq.) 

20—5 


418  COUNTRY  PAESONS. 

and  engrossing  nature  of  their  daily  work,  would  be  surprised  at  the 
multifariousness  of  the  duties  daily  discharged  by  a  conscientious  clergy- 
man in  the  country.  Private  study,  public  ministrations,  it  may  be 
daily  public  prayers ;  teaching  his  own  children  and  those  at  the  parish 
school ;  parish  accounts ;  lectures  on  scientific  and  useful  subjects  during 
the  winter,  and  perhaps  a  night  school  as  well ;  the  functions,  it  may  be, 
of  diocesan  inspector,  magistrate,  or  guardian — these  are  what  ordinarily 
make  great  inroads  upon  his  time.  Add  to  these  avocations  that  he  may 
be  fond  of  his  garden,  or  of  some  scientific  pursuit ;  that  he  becomes,  as 
his  character  is  better  known,  the  trusted  friend  and  adviser  on  a  multi- 
tude of  different  subjects  for  his  parishioners;  that  he  writes  their  business 
letters  for  the  more  illiterate,  and  makes  wills  for  the  moribund ;  that  he 
is  ever  at  the  beck  and  call  of  want  and  ignorance ;  that  he  either  engages 
in  tuition  in  many  cases  to  eke  out  a  slender  income,  or  occupies  himself 
in  writing  articles,  reviews,  &c.,  for  the  London  press ;  and  when  at 
length  he  goes  to  bed  tired  out  with  walking,  talking,  writing,  and 
thinking  (for  we  have  said  nothing  of  the  weekly  discharge  of  his  sacred 
duties  in  church,  which,  of  course,  require  much  preparation),  his  careless 
critics  would  not  altogether  like  to  change  work  with  him.  Certain  it 
is  that  no  public  man  is  in  most  cases  so  inadequately  paid  as  is  the 
country  parson.  Fortunately  money  is  not  the  motive  which  he  sets 
before  himself;  therefore  little  is  heard  in  the  way  of  complaint  from  a 
body  of  men  simply  indispensable  to  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  the 
rural  districts. 

Owing  to  the  isolation  of  the  country  clergy,  their  education  and 
habits  of  thought,  the  few  instances  of  eccentricity  which  the  levelling 
tendencies  of  modern  society  yet  tolerate,  are  mainly  to  be  found  in  their 
numbers.  Gilbert  "White  was  doubtless  regarded  as  a  harmless  oddity  by 
his  contemporaries,  but  he  only  carried  out  resolutely  that  love  of  natural 
history  which  is  so  common  among  the  clergy.  Of  the  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  country  parsons  of  the  present  day,  we  venture  to  assert  that  a 
large  number  informally  jot  down  in  diary  or  note-book  the  date  of  the 
coming  of  the  cuckoo,  or  the  departure  of  the  swallow.  Even  the  late 
Bishop  of  Oxford  found  time  to  make  these  notes  in  his  diary.  To  take 
another  side  of  mental  activity,  all  sense  of  natural  beauty  or  the  sacred- 
ness  of  antiquity  will  frequently  desert  a  mathematical  parson  who  carries 
his  own  studies  with  him  when  he  quits  Cambridge  common  rooms  for 
rural  shades.  We  remember  asking  such  a  one  in  the  North  of  En«-- 
land,  in  whose  parish  was  a  venerable  relic  of  the  past  known  as  King 
Arthur's  Round  Table,  for  some  particulars  of  it.  He  had  never  been 
near  it,  he  confessed  ;  but  promptly  asserted  that  with  twenty  men  for 
three  days,  and  a  couple  of  hundred  loads  of  limestone,  he  could  make  a 
much  more  surprising  table,  much  as  Mr.  Fergusson  would  construct 
Stonehenge  with  a  hundred  Chinese  coolies.  The  late  Prebendary 
Hawker,  of  Morwenstowe,  may  perhaps  without  offence  be  cited  as 
another  instance  of  eccentricity  engendered  by  solitary  habits  and  much 


COUNTED  PAESONS.  419 

pondering  on  one  branch  of  study,  until  the  mental  perversion  almost 
passed  into  lunacy.  Most  sojourners  in  the  West  have  heard  of  his  cats 
and  staves,  and  his  wilful  closing  of  the  eyes  to  the  facts  of  modern  life. 
All  country  lovers,  however,  will  recall  instances  of  parsons  who  never 
wear  hats,  or  who  breed  white  mice  and  canaries  in  every  room  of  their 
rectories,  or  only  walk  abroad  after  dark,  and  the  like.  Yet  these  men 
are  generally  exemplary  parish  priests.  Want  of  contact  with  the  outer 
world  has  unduly  warped  some  trait  of  their  nature,  or  led  to  a  harmless 
custom  or  taste  being  carried  to  an  excess.  Their  parishioners  respect 
them,  their  liking  being  blended  perhaps  with  a  slight  touch  of  awe.  Such 
men  would  be  missed  as  integral  portions  of  country  life,  were  it  not  that, 
as  often  as  death  claims  them,  a  fresh  generation  of  parsons  is  developing 
kindred  if  newer  fashioned  eccentricities.  They  are  like  a  patch  of  colour 
gratefully  hailed  in  the  general  uniformity  of  rustic  life. 

But  it  is  to  other  and  more  useful  characteristics  that  parsons  mainly 
owe  their  prominence  in  the  country  side.  This  one,  it  may  be,  is  a  great 
archaeologist,  and  even  dares  to  contradict  the  most  captious  of  architec- 
tural critics  when  the  latter  ventures  into  his  district  for  one  of  the 
autumnal  archaeological  excursions.  Another  knows  more  about  mosses 
and  fungi  than  any  other  man  in  England.  All  the  mysteries  of  ecclesias- 
tical vestments  are  at  a  third's  fingers'  ends  ;  he  will  discuss  with  abundant 
learning  chimeres  and  morses,  chasubles  and  amices ;  and  s&ceremoniarius 
is  in  great  request  when  the  bishop  attempts  some  novel  function.  This 
clergyman  is  celebrated  for  his  roses  which  have  filled  his  plate-chest 
with  cups ;  that  one  is  an  acknowledged  authority  upon  salmon  fishing, 
to  whom  even  the  Field  would  defer.  Provoke  not  a  discussion  on 
ancient  armour  with  him,  or  you  will  be  overwhelmed  with  jambs  and 
sollerets,  gussets  and  lamboys.  As  amateur  ecclesiastical  lawyer,  that 
one  is  unrivalled.  He  will  browbeat  the  archdeacon,  intimidate  the 
rural  dean,  and  knows  his  way  through  all  the  ecclesiastical  courts. 
Those  who  are  not  in  the  secret  think  that  he  has  mistaken  his  vocation, 
and  had  he  chosen  the  law  might  ere  now  have  been  Lord  Chancellor. 
Those  who  are  behind  the  scenes,  being  aware  that  his  father  is  a  legal 
light,  assert  that  the  parson  is  only  a  good  laAvyer  if  he  has  time  to  con- 
sult paternal  authority  by  the  penny  post.  Detraction,  however,  always 
accompanies  distinction.  In  some  remote  parts  of  the  country,  \vhere 
squires  and  squireens  have  not  moved  with  the  times,  and  are  still  of 
opinion  that  the  best  way  to  hold  their  own  in  a  village  is  to  quarrel 
with  the  parson,  a  series  of  interminable  feuds  is  the  sad  spectacle  that 
meets  the  inquirer  in  parish  after  parish.  If  a  squire  only  reflected  a 
moment  in  these  dark  districts,  when  he  lets  loose  his  temper,  and  then, 
to  punish  his  opponent,  never  again  goes  to  church,  he  might  remem- 
ber his  long  laid  by  Latin  grammar,  and  bethink  himself  that  such  a 
contest  is  one  ubi  tu  pulsas,  ego  vapulo  tantum;  that  is  to  say,  the 
honour  and  satisfaction  of  the  struggle,  such  as  there  is,  must  needs 
rest  with  the  parson.  He  is  generally,  the  younger  man,  and  will 


420  COUNTRY  PARSONS. 

probably  outlive  his  antagonist,  however  stoutly  that  one  may  brandish 
his  arms,  and  even  if  he  be  the  best  of  haters  ;  then  how  unsatisfactory 
it  must  be  to  leave  the  Church  master  of  the  situation,  when  in  the  order 
of  nature  death  overtakes  the  squire  !  No  one  is  so  vexatious  a  foe,  too, 
as  a  parson.  In  a  little  parish  he  must  meet  the  angry  squire  almost 
daily ;  he  may  covertly  preach  against  him  in  a  thousand  delicate 
innuendoes  and  sly  implications.  The  squire's  personality  may  be  em- 
bodied in  a  hundred  of  the  worst  characters  found  in  Scripture,  and 
moral  reflections  drawn  from  them  all  in  terms  the  reverse  of  complimen- 
tary, and  all  intelligible  even  to  Hodge's  mind.  The  squire's  wife,  too, 
will  frequently  prove  a  traitor  in  the  camp ;  she  has  liked  the  rector's 
wife  before  their  lords  quarrelled,  and  now  the  women  hang  together, 
and  the  squire  must  nourish  a  serpent  in  his  bosom.  We  were  once 
staying  in  Wales  with  a  squire  who  straitly  refused  to  go  to  church  on 
Sunday ;  "  be  had  not  been  near  the  parson  for  twenty  years."  We 
went  and  heard  a  Welsh  sermon  on  Goliath,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
but  signifying  nothing  to  us,  as  we  knew  nothing  of  the  language.  Still 
the  clergyman  looked  innocent  and  pacific  ;  and  a  very  little  thing,  say  a 
Christmas  dinner  (a  capital  mode  of  peacemaking),  would  probably  have 
set  the  foes  at  one  again.  Another  case  comes  into  the  mind  where  an 
enraged  squire  cut  his  parson  for  more  years  than  either  the  one  or  the 
other  could  remember,  because  palisades  were  not  allowed  round  a  grave. 
The  parson  vanquished  his  foe  in  an  epigram — 

You  railed  at  me  in  life,  such  -was  your  failing ; 
In  death  be  easy,  you  will  have  no  railing. 

More  commonly  the  country  parson  tries  every  mode  of  reconciliation, 
and  then,  if  his  antagonist  be  still  obdurate,  falls  back  upon  "  the  more 
excellent  way  "  and — forgives  him.  With  an  ordinary  parishioner  who 
quarrels  with  him,  the  parson  uses  kind  words  and  bides  his  time  for 
doing  him  a  favour.  The  most  infuriated  parishioner  speedily  perceives 
that  there  is  no  credit  to  be  gained  by  maintaining  animosity  against  a 
man  who  does  not  even  bear  a  grudge  in  return ;  nay,  who  is  so  poor- 
spirited  that  he  cannot  remember  there  exists  such  a  thing  as  a  quarrel 
after  three  months  have  elapsed.  Such  an  one  is  not  worthy,  he  thinks, 
of  his  steel ;  and  soon  he,  too,  collapses,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it.  The 
old  amusement  of  baiting  the  parson  at  the  annual  vestry  meeting  has 
well  nigh  lost  its  zest.  Since  the  abolition  of  church- rates  the  good  man 
can  very  well  disappoint  his  foes  and  remain  at  home. 

As  the  country  clergy  are  so  scattered,  a  layman  tolerably  familiar 
with  a  large  district  will  frequently  neither  know  nor  see  many  of  them 
unless  he  attends  visitations.  This  he  can  well  do  in  the  capacity  of 
churchwarden.  As  Dickens  used  to  talk  of  every  variety  of  whisker  dis- 
tinguishing the  Bar  of  England,  so  the  rural  clergy  are  noticeable  at  such 
gatherings  for  the  marvellous  collars  and  ties  which  they  wear.  A  tailor 
curious  in  such  articles  could  unhesitatingly  point  out  their  exact  chrono- 


COUNTRY  PARSONS.  421 

logical  sequence  from  a  casual  inspection  of  the  throng  which  crowds  the 
narrow  streets  of  the  little  county  town  on  its  way  to  the  church.  One 
very  old  man  appears  in  a  huge  starched  choker  which  elongates  his  neck 
and  keeps  up  his  head,  recalling  the  days  of  Beau  Brummel  and  the 
greatest  gentleman  in  Europe.  Another  has  apparently  wound  a  long- 
used  tablecloth  round  his  neck.  Then  comes  one  who  on  the  top  of  such 
an  erection  has  superadded  a  monstrous  pair  of  collars,  of  the  kind  once 
irreverently  known  as  "  sideboards."  His  neighbour  wears  stiff  stand-up 
collars,  fashionable  at  Oxford  before  the  turn-down  Byronic  collars  came 
into  vogue.  Curiously  enough,  the  freaks  of  fashion  are  again  bringing 
him  into  the  front  rank  as  wearing  the  "  correct  thing."  The  younger 
men  indulge  in  the  comfortable  loose-fitting  turn-down  collar,  which 
always  carries  a  suspicion  of  broad  church  with  it.  It  is  easy  to  tell 
students  from  the  various  theological  colleges.  The  blameless  stock, 
innocent  of  any  collar,  at  once  proclaims  them.  They  Avould  as  soon  wear 
bands  (which  this  old  gentleman  still  does)  as  a  collar ;  for  it  might 
identify  them  with  Exeter  Hall ;  just  as  the  exploded  preaching  gown 
not  so  long  ago  was  redolent  of  Geneva.  This  exhibition  of  ecclesiastical 
stocks  and  collars  at  a  visitation  is  most  amusing  to  one  who  possesses  any 
sense  of  the  ludicrous.  The  flamens'  vestry  and  Aaron's  wardrobe  have 
indeed  been  ransacked.  But  what  shall  be  said  of  the  gowns  which  are  de 
rigueur  on  such  an  occasion  ?  It  is  not  without  regret  that  we  notice  in- 
stances of  young  men  appearing  without  them,  and  justifying  it  by  saying, 
as  they  were  at  such  and  such  a  private  hall  or  theological  college,  they 
never  possessed  gowns.  But  taking  a  cursory  view  of  the  elder  men's 
gowns  again,  enables  the  age  of  the  wearer  as  well  as  that  of  his  gown  to 
be  correctly  assessed.  This  is  evidently  the  oldest  incumbent,  and  his 
gown  is  positively  green  with  the  suns  of  many  a  visitation  day.  Next 
him  we  should  be  disposed  to  place  this  happy  rubicund  man  whose  gown 
is  appropriately  puffed  at  the  sleeves  and  covered  with  tags.  No  degree 
at  any  university  of  which  we  have  cognisance  ever  prescribed  such  a 
vestment.  It  probably  comes  from  the  sister  isle,  or  may  be  an  LL.D. 
gown.  A  malicious  young  fellow  whispers  that  it  belongs  to  a  professor 
at  Girton,  and  is  correctly  described  as  bouillonnee.  Disused  preaching 
gowns  of  silk  in  eccentric  shapes  are  common  among  the  older  clergy. 
Most  of  them  were  presentation  gowns  forty  years  ago.  The  plain  M.  A. 
gowns  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge  preponderate,  however,  in  various  stages 
of  blackness.  It  is  noticeable  that,  true  to  old  university  etiquette,  no 
wearer  of  an  Oxford  M.  A.  gown  will  put  on  gloves  to  this  day ;  though 
oblivious  that  a  hat  or  wide-awake  has  replaced  the  correct  square  cap. 
To  a  country  parson  himself  a  visitation  must  always  be  a  sad  function. 
Year  by  year  well-known  faces  are  missed.  His  own  becomes  yearly 
more  furrowed  with  care  ;  and  the  contrast  of  early  hopes,  lofty  aims,  and 
burning  purposes  which  have  long  lost  their  force  in  his  heart  must  be 
great  as  he  sees  an  ever-fresh  throng  of  young  clergy  occupied  in  their  turn 
with  the  highest  aims  which  can  animate  youthful  hopes.  But  his  sympa- 


422  COUNTRY  PARSONS. 

thies  are  strongly  aroused  for  them,  and  he  can  at  least  murmur  a  prayer 
that  their  experience  may  be  brighter  than  his  own. 

If  one  who  has  been  behind  the  scenes   may   divulge  secrets,  the 
great  weakness  of  country  parsons  in  consultation  is  their  boundless  flow 
of  talk.     Bishop  Wilberforce  might  have  been  able  to  enforce  the  rules 
of  debate    on    his    clergy,  but   any   ruridecanal   or   Greek   Testament 
meeting  throughout  the  country  shows  how  few  can  vie  with  him  in 
holding  the  reins.     Such  subjects  as  vestments,  ecclesiastical  dilapida- 
tions, the  Burials  Bill,  and  the  like,  are  perennially  discussed  at  these 
meetings.     The  same  arguments  and  the  same  witticisms  are  reproduced 
year  by  year.     Gravely  a  vote  is  taken  on  the  approach  of  luncheon  or 
dinner ;  and  then  the  subject  is  shelved  for  another  year,  when  precisely 
the  same  procedure  ensues.     Such  topics  resemble  the  fabled  wild  boar 
of  the  ancient  Scandinavian  Valhalla,  which  was  killed  and  eaten  every 
day,  and  came  to  life  again  next  morning-to  amuse  the  heroes  by  hunting 
and  eating  it  as  before.     At  all  these  discussions  the  authority  of  the 
chairman  is  practically  set  at  nought.     Conversation  is  general,  and  one 
side  answers  the  arguments  of  the  other  without  addressing  remarks  to 
the  chairman.     It  is  well  for  the  reputation  of  the  clergy  that  many 
laymen  do  not  trouble  themselves  to  enter  these  charmed  circles.     The 
old  reproach  of  the  unbusinesslike  character  of  the  clergy  might  other- 
wise,be  confirmed.     A  joke  is  irresistible  in  these  conclaves  ;  and  it  is 
to  be  feared  that  the  parson  who  sympathised  with  his  clerical  neighbour 
on  being  informed  that  the  latter  was  suffering  from  his  liver,  with  the 
remark  that  he  hoped  it  was  the  only  evil  liver  in  the  sufferer's  parish, 
is  as  ubiquitous  among  the  clerical  meetings  of  to-day  as  was  the  great 
rural  character  Dr.  Drop  some  fifty  years  ago,  in  country  clerical  society. 
Considering  the  eccentricity  of  many  country  parsons  and  the  little 
oddities  of  character  which  distinguish  almost  all,  owing  to  the  secluded 
lives  they  lead,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  their  belongings — their  wives, 
domestics,  and  horses — frequently   acquire   singularities   of  mind   and 
manner,   and   quaint,   humorous   traits   of  their   own.     Novelists   are 
greatly  indebted  to  these  clerical  dependents.     Many  a  Caleb  Balderstone 
and  Andrew  Fairservice,  each  in  his  measure,  are  to  be  found  among 
them;  nor  will  the  latter,  like  their   prototype,  when  tired   of  their 
master's  orthodoxy,  be  at  times  above  "  taking  a  spell  o'  worthy  Mess 
John   Quackleben's   flower   of  sweet  savour  sawn  on  the   middenstead 
of  this  world"  in  some  neighbouring  Bethesda.     On   the  very  glebes 
occasionally  falls    a   reflection    of  their  life-owners.      Thus   a   legend 
attached  to  one  in  a  somewhat   Puritanical   parish  tells  how  a  parti- 
cular field  in  it  having  once  been  reaped  by  a  strong-minded  rector  on 
a  Sunday  during  a  ticklish  harvest  time,  its  crop  could  never  again  be 
carried  home  unspoiled.     Rain  invariably  ruined  it.     In  another  parish 
known  to  us  a  camp  meeting  of  Methodists  which  was  every  summer  held 
in  a  meadow  adjoining  the  rectory,  and  was  very  distasteful  to  the  parson, 
was  for  many  successive  years  attended  by  a  deluge  of  rain.     At  length  a 


COUNTRY  PARSONS.  423 

belief  arose,  which  was  very  opportune  for  him,  that  the  farmers  would 
never    about    that   time    have    the    weather  dry  enough   for  turnip 
sowing,  unless  some  other  locality  were  chosen  for  the  meeting.     Much 
to   the   rector's  relief  this   was   done   the  following  year;   and  by  a 
coincidence  bright  sunny  weather  prevailed,  which  has  indelibly  stamped 
the  superstition  on  the  rustic  minds  of  that  district.     The  farmer  of  the 
glebe  frequently  grows  old  in  his  tenancy,  together  with  his  landlord, 
and  displays  also,  like  him,  a  marked  idiosyncrasy.     An  old  rectory,  in 
which  many  generations  of  clergy '^have  married,  brought  up  families,  and 
died,  is  never  a  very  "canny"  place.     What  legions  of  ghosts  must 
haunt   it !      The   lay   mind   would   be  apprehensive  of  a   skeleton  in 
every  one  of  those  dark  cupboards,  which  are  so  common  (and  convenient) 
in  the  upper  rooms.     At  least  one  room  is  haunted  in  every  vicarage  of 
decent  age  and  appearance.     The  dining-room  of  one  rectory  with  which 
we  were  tolerably  familiar  was  dismantled  a  short  time  since  for  the 
purpose  of  enlargement,  and  a  skeleton  was  found  extended  a  few  inches 
below  the   surface  exactly  under  the  hearth-rug.     The  masons  next 
attacked  the  drawing-room  floor,  and  lo !  another  was  brought  to  light 
exactly  where  the  sofa  had  stood  for  years.     Of  course  the  site  of  the 
house  had  originally  formed  part  of  the  churchyard.     As  for  a  country 
parson's  servants,  no  one  sooner  catches  a  master's  peculiarities ;  and  the 
fine  old  stories  of  the   coachman,   who,   on   being    dismissed,   replied, 
"  Na,  na,  I  drove  ye  to  your  christening,  and  I'll  drive  ye  yet  to  your 
burial;  "  and  the  cook  who  answered  in  similar  circumstances,  "It's  nae 
use  ava  gieing  me  warning ;  gif  ye  dinna  ken  when  ye  hae  gotten  a 
gude  servant,  I  ken  when  I  hae  a  gude  master,"   constantly  repeat 
themselves,  though  perhaps  in  a  less  pronounced  form,  in  his  household. 
"We  know  a  Devon  gardener  who  gravely  told  his  master  a  year  or  two 
since  that  his  scythe  would  not  cut,  and  that  he  fancied  Nancy  Bastin 
(meaning  a  reputed  witch  of  the  parish)  had  "  overlooked  "  it,  but  he 
would  rub  it  with  a  "  penny-piece  "  and  thus  reverse  the~charm.     That 
parish  clerks  are  mostly  characters  and  humourists  is  well  known.     A 
clergyman  lately  assured  us  that  when  he  first  came  to  his  present 
parish  in  Lincolnshire,  he  found  there  a  female  clerk.     The  office  gave  a 
*'  settlement,"  it  seemed,  in  the  parish  in  old  days,  and  the  farmers, 
mindful  of  the  rates,  when  a  new  clerk  was  wanted,  had  put  their  heads 
together,  and  decided  to  appoint  the  only  eligible  man  in  the  parish  who 
already  possessed  the  right  of  settlement.     This  worthy,  who  was  called 
Cooling,  it  appeared,  however,  after  his  election,  could  not  read.     So  a 
very  practical  farmer  suggested  in  this  dilemma  that  his  wife  had  better 
"  clerk "   for  him  if  she  were  scholar  enough  to  do  so.     Accordingly 
Cooling  took  his  place  Sunday  by  Sunday  in  the  clerk's  desk  ingloriously 
silent,  but  much  distinguished  by  wearing  a  well-frilled  shirt,  from  which 
he  earned  with  the  village  the  title  of  Gentleman  Cooling,  while  his  better 
half  did  her  best  to  read  the  Psalms  in  alternate  verses  with  the  minister. 
Her  scholarship,  however,  was  not  of  a  very  high  order,  and  the  result  was 


424  COUNTEY  PAESONS. 

excruciating.  Certain  verses  and  words  were  habitually  "  miscalled ;  " 
thus  "  mighty  in  operation "  invariably  became  "  mighty  in  petition." 
At  length  the  parson  called  in  the  aid  of  the  squire,  and  succeeded  in 
ousting  the  pair.  Parish  clerks,  even  in  the  most  rural  parishes,  are 
speedily  becoming  extinct  at  present.  If  the  Oxford  movement  had 
no  further  result  than  teaching  the  congregation  their  own  part  in  the 
church's  services,  it  would  have  deserved  well  of  the  community. 

The  amusements  of  the  country  clergy  form  another  tempting  topic  on 
which  to  dilate.  The  traveller  on  Monday  morning  by  any  main  line 
running  to  London  must  have  noticed  during  the  summer  how  frequently 
the  parson  of  each  parish  gets  in  at  his  roadside  station  ;  and  should  the 
observer  return  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  will  find  that  the  last  down 
train  on  Saturday  evening  puts  down  one  parson  at  least  at  every  station. 
Railroads  have  broken  down  much  of  the  intellectual  isolation  in  which 
country  parsons  were  wont  to  live.  Now  they  can  visit  the  British 
Museum  Library  and  the  Academy  as  frequently  as  more  favoured 
mortals.  Publicity  has  also  softened  their  ruder  amusements,  and  refined 
upon  the  coarser  tastes  of  the  clerical  generations  which  closed  the  last 
and  began  the  present  century.  The  rough-riding  hunting  parson  who 
scoured  the  country  by  day  and  caroused  at  night  is  extinct  even  in  the 
wilds  of  Cumberland,  in  Wales,  and  in  North  Devon,  which  has  formed 
such  a  pleasant  clerical  Alsatia  for  more  than  one  novelist.  We  can 
remember  a  well-known  hunting  parson  in  East  Anglia,  the  last  of  his 
race  in  those  parts,  with  his  legs  encased  in  sombre  riding  trousers  so 
tight  that  it  was  popularly  believed  he  slept  in  them,  while  his  face  was 
the  colour  of  mahogany.  And  we  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  very 
last  of  the  west  country  hunting  clergymen,  in  the  best  of  health  we 
trust  at  present,  whose  celebrity  is  world- wide,  as  well  as  his  acquaint- 
ances, and  whose  parochial  ministrations  are  as  exemplary  as  his  devotion 
to  the  chase  of  the  red  deer  has  been  lifelong.  Shooting  is  left  to  the 
man  of  country  tastes  with  a  small  parish  and  large  glebe,  or  to  the 
"squarson,"  as  Bishop  Wilberforce  appropriately  called  him  who  was  at 
once  parson  and  squire  of  a  parish.  A  small  proportion  of  clergy  here  and 
there  join  the  ladies  in  shooting  with  the  bow  and  arrow,  and  disco urse 
glibly  of  York  ends  and  target  practice.  They  may  be  divided  into  two 
classes.  The  one,  athletic  and  devoted  from  old  college  tastes  to  violent 
outdoor  exercise,  gives  itself  heart  and  soul  to  archery,  rises  early,  shoots 
a  certain  number  of  arrows  daily,  and  maintains  the  keenest  rivalry 
between  its  hits  and  their  value  at  yesterday's  practice  and  the  same  to- 
day. Very  few  of  the  second  and  much  more  numerous  class  either 
could  or  would  join  in  the  pursuits  of  the  former.  Archery  is  for  them 
a  pleasant  excuse  for  dangling  about  with  wives  and  sisters,  an  agreeable 
mode  of  spending  a  summer  afternoon  with  neighbours  out  of  doors. 
The  younger  clergy  half  a  dozen  years  ago  were  credited  with  an  extreme 
fondness  for  croquet.  The  game  is  now  extinct,  its  place  being  filled  by 
lawn  tennis  ;  and  it  furnishes  a  curious  example  of  the  mode  in  which  a 


COUNTRY  PAESONS.  425 

diversion  once  pursued  with  a  passionate  devotion,  and  fondly  believed 
to  have  become  a  national  game  in  the  same  sense  as  cricket,  can  expire 
in  a  couple  of  seasons,  like  goodness,  of  its  own  too  much.     Directly  it 
became  scientific,  croquet  fell  in  favour.    Curates  may  still  be  found  near 
the  tennis  net ;  but  an  increased  fondness  for  cricket  may  be  observed 
among  them — a  gratifying  symptom,  to  a  reflecting  mind,  of  a  correspond- 
ing improvement  in  the  quality  of  youthful  divinity.     But  fishing  is  still, 
as  it  has  been  since  the  Restoration,  the  amusement  par  excellence  of  the 
country  clergy.     Multitudes  of  them  thankfully  welcome  the  peace  o 
the  brookside,  and  many  a  sermon  is  found  by  them  week  after  week  in 
its  stones.    Fishing  offends  no  one  ;  it  affords  abundant  time  for  thought, 
giving  just  the  requisite  spice  of  excitement  and  rivalry  with  neighbour- 
ing anglers  to  recommend  it  as  literally  a  re-creation  forcne  wearied  with 
the  greatness  as  well  as  the  littleness  of  parochial  matters.     Above  all  it 
has  its  literary  side,  and  is  a  scholarly  pursuit.     Often,  too,  it  brings  a 
parson  into  friendly  contact  with  reserved  characters,  whom  he  could  not 
meet  elsewhere  than  at  the  trout  stream.    We  have  even  known  two  rods 
laid  aside  there  for  half  an  hour,  and  one  soul  pour  out  its  deepest  trouble 
to  another,  bound  by  its  holy  profession  to  be  at  once  sympathetic  and 
helpful.     "Who  shall  say,  when  he  is  thus  spending  his  leisure,  that  a 
parson  is  out  of  place  by  the  waterside  with  a  rod  in  his  hand  ?     As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  best  angler  in  most  districts  is  usually  a  parson.     Even 
in  Presbyterian  Scotland  a  "  fashing  meenister  "  is  not  now  regarded 
with  the  same  dislike  as  he  was  twenty  years  ago ;  not  the  only  sign,  it 
may  be  added,  of  a  more  liberal  tone  in  that  coimtry's  theology. 

Any  disquisition  on  country  parsons  would  be  incomplete  without 
some  reference  to  their  wives,  but  the  subject  is  at  once  too  extensive 
and  too  delicate  to  be  cursorily  handled.  There  may  be  a  Mrs.  Proudie 
here  and  there  among  them,  who  lords  it  over  her  husband's  flock,  and 
gives  "  parish  parties  "  at  Christmas.  The  majority  of  wives,  however, 
are  cultivated  and  often  travelled  ladies,  who  have  added  to  their  natural 
refinement  much  experience  of  life  and  a  great  sympathy  for  their  sisters 
amongst  the  labouring  class.  Perhaps  a  husband  will  find  them  stern 
critics  of  his  sermons  in  private ;  but  outwardly  they  second  all  his  good 
works,  and  set  an  example  of  true  wifehood  to  the  rest  of  the  parish.  It 
is  true  that  their  children  seldom  turn  out  in  after  life  what  they  them- 
selves would  wish,  and  superficial  judges  wonder  and  make  severe  com- 
ments on  the  fact ;  but  the  slenderness  of  resources  which  often  compels 
the  parson  to  educate  the  boys  at  home,  the  isolation  of  the  latter  from 
other  boys  who  might  "  take  the  conceit  out  of  them,"  as  is  effectually 
done  at  school,  and  their  comparative  freedom  from  temptations  till 
suddenly  thrown  into  the  midst  of  them,  are  not  sufficiently  taken  into 
account.  On  the  other  hand,  the  best  scholars  in  the  public  schools  and 
universities  are  frequently  sons  of  country  parsons.  The  need  for  economy 
in  their  case  is  of  itself  an  excellent  lesson  for  success  in  after  life,  breed- 
ing self-restraint,  forethought,  and  variety  of  resources ;  above  all,  incul- 


426  COUNTEY  PARSONS. 

eating  energy  and  resolution.  It  is  difficult  for  a  boy  possessed  of  these 
virtues  to  fall  out  of  the  ranks  when  engaged  in  the  social  march  of  after 
life.  He  who  can  govern  a  parish,  however,  cannot  always  rule  his 
children,  much  less  his  wife. 

The  temper  in  which  a  parish  is  to  be  managed  varies  indefinitely 
according  to  its  constituents.  Town  and  country  cases  are  generally 
totally  dissimilar.  Yet  a  certain  affability  and  friendliness  is  called  for 
from  the  parson  by  all  alike.  An  utter  hatred  and  repugnance  to  all  evil 
doing,  evil  speaking,  and  evil  thinking  will  go  a  long  way  in  conciliating 
men's  affections  to  him ;  while  undeviating  rectitude  on  his  part  and 
gentlemanly  feeling  in  its  deepest  sense  are  indispensable. 

The  religious  qualifications  for  the  right  administration  of  a  parish 
need  not  here  be  touched  upon.  Their  possession  is  taken  for  granted 
by  all  entrusted  with  the  cure  of  souls.  No  one  ever  succeeds,  however, 
who  is  not  energetic.  This  was  the  secret  of  Bishop  Wilberforce's  efficiency 
as  a  parish  priest,  and  of  a  score  more  who  might  readily  be  named  by 
any  one  acquainted  with  the  country  clergy.  But  with  the  most  assiduous 
care  and  the  most  unflagging  zeal  it  is  not  always  given  to  a  parson  to 
see  fruit  in  his  lifetime  from  his  spiritual  husbandry.  Of  course  the 
clergy  are  prepared  for  this ;  *  but  results  are  proportionately  cheering, 
and  a  parochial  minister  is  not,  in  the  matter  of  despondency,  superior 
to  other  men.  We  have  heard  a  most  successful  and  self-denying  parish 
priest,  whose  praise  is  in  all  the  churches  of  Yorkshire,  assert  that  no 
one  need  expect  to  see  a  change  in  a  neglected  parish  under  fourteen 
years.  How  many  parsons  would  rejoice  could  they  perceive  an  improve- 
ment among  their  parishioners  after  double  those  years  of  hard  work  ! 

The  most  unpleasant  clerical  character,  not  only  to  wife  and  house- 
hold, but  also  to  his  parish,  is  the  grumbling,  disappointed  parson.  Such 
a  one  has  frequently  thrown  away  his  own  chances  of  promotion  or 
efficiency  soon  after  taking  Orders ;  and,  though  it  may  oppress  him  but 
little  at  first,  in  an  ill-regulated  mind  the  consciousness  that  his  want  of 
•success  is  solely  due  to  his  own  errors  of  choice,  is  sufficiently  galling 
during  mature  years.  His  friends  are  well  acquainted  with  his  failings, 
and  soon  learn  to  compassionate  him  as  they  listen  to  his  attacks  upon 
the  bishop  for  maladministration  of  preferment  (in  forgetting  his  claims), 
or  his  caustic  reflections  upon  presentations  in  the  Church  of  England, 
and  the  weakness  of  its  parochial  system,  owing  to  the  manner  in  which 
deserving  clergy  are  habitually  disregarded.  There  are,  however,  griev- 
ances which  press  upon  all  the  country  clergy,  though  some  discuss 
them  loudly  and  write  energetic  letters  to  the  Guardian,  while  others 
merely  shrug  their  shoulders  and  submit.  Foremost  among  these  comes, 
in  secular  matters,  the  question  of  dilapidations — a  question  infinitely 
complicated  and  rendered  more  oppressive  by  the  last  Act  of  1871. 
"  Synodals  and  procurations" — an  ancient  and  mystical  charge  formerly 

*  St.  John  iv.  37. 


COUNTRY  PARSONS.  427 

exacted  from  incumbents  at  every  episcopal  and  archidiaconal  visitation, 
but  now  considerably  modified — is  another  annoying  subject  with  most 
country  parsons.  Official  fees  altogether  do  not  commend  themselves  to 
the  clerical  understanding ;  and  most  incumbents  have  suffered  so 
severely  in  the  matter  of  leases,  licenses,  registrations,  and  the  like,  that, 
as  the  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire,  they  somewhat  irrationally,  it  may  be, 
look  upon  episcopal  solicitors  and  secretaries  with  considerable  antipathy 
— a  dislike  which  those  most  frequently  genial  and  hospitable  officials 
scarcely  deserve.  The  post-office  brings  more  troubles  to  a  country 
parson.  Morning  after  morning  his  breakfast  table  is  littered  with 
prospectuses  of  bubble  companies  to  drain  the  Sahara  or  lay  down  tram- 
ways in  the  Great  Atlas,  mining  ventures,  money-lenders'  notices,  and, 
worst  of  all,  advertisements  of  wine-merchants.  These  annoyances  do  not 
speak  very  highly  for  a  clergyman's  intelligence  in  the  estimation  of  that 
numerous  class  which  attempts,  by  a  cunning  bait,  to  ensnare  the  simple ; 
while  the  persistence  of  the  latter  class  of  tradesmen,  in  palming  off  their 
wares  at  the  cheapest  rates,  does  speak  well  for  the  digestion  of  country 
clergy,  if  any  of  them  drink  the  marvellous  compounds  offered  so  liberally 
as  bargains — port  from  a  late  eminent  divine's  cellar  at  18s.  per  dozen, 
and  the  like.  Fortunately  deep  waste-paper  baskets  form  part  of  the 
furniture  of  most  clerical  studies.  As  for  the  kind  offers  of  "West  End 
money-lenders  to  provide  money  at  the  most  trifling  rate  of  interest  on 
post  obits  and  so  forth,  a  friend  has  greatly  reduced  the  importunateness 
of  these  social  leeches  by  the  happy  device  of  returning  them  their  own 
circulars  torn  in  half  in  an  unpaid  envelope,  marked  "  immediate."  He 
promises  to  turn  his  attention  ere  long  to  the  wine-merchants,  and  by 
some  kindred  device  engages  to  stop  the  nuisance  which  their  puffs  now 
are,  even  to  those  who  are  not  followers  of  Sir  Wilfrid. 

As  years  pass  on,  the  country  parson  mellows  and  waxes  ripe  in 
goodness  and  kindness  of  heart,  like  the  wine  in  his  cellar,  or  the  pears 
on  the  sunny  wall  of  his  vicarage  in  mid  October.  He  has  outlived  the 
enthusiasms  of  his  youth,  and  plucked  the  sting  from  its  disappointed 
ambition.  To  go  about  in  his  parish  doing  good  has  now  become 
his  settled  temper ;  and  we  love  to  recognise  in  him  many  traits  of  the 
country  parson  as  painted  by  Herbert,  and  of  the  scholar  as  personified 
in  Andrewes,  his  favourite  divine.  He  knows  familiarly  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  his  village,  having,  like  old  Will  Scarlett,  buried 
all  their  forbears,  and  indeed  the  whole  parish  twice  over.  Each  roadside 
tree  is,  in  his  mind,  connected  with  some  anecdote  or  aspiration.  He 
knows  where  to  find  every  wild  flower  and  the  exact  time  of  its  blooming 
as  well  as  did  Thoreau.  Even  the  dogs  of  the  parish  are  all  of  them 
his  friends,  and  he  has  a  kind  word  for  each  as  he  passes.  The  full  term 
of  human  life  sees  him  yet  hale,  active,  and  sympathetic ;  crowned  with 
earthly  happiness,  if 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  -womanhood, 


428  COUNTRY  PARSONS. 

be  yet  left  him,  and  able  to  look  on  to  the  Unknown  which  spreads 
before  his  gaze  with  lively  hope  and  unquailing  eye.  His  parishioners 
regularly  pay  his  "tithe  pigeons,"*  and  he  does  not  trouble  the  village 
doctor  much,  bis  ailments  being  slight,  as  he  has  ever  been  fond  of  out- 
door exercise,  and  his  faith  is  pinned  on  some  simple  remedy,  some 
"  special  receipt,  called  a  cup  of  buttered  beer,"f  or  the  like,  "  made  by 
the  great  skill  of  a  parishioner  to  cure  a  grievous  disease,  called  a  cold, 
which  sorely  troubles  the  said  minister."  His  church,  being  propor- 
tionately old,  harmonises  in  decay  with  the  old  man  himself,  and  occa- 
sionally furnishes  him  with  an  amusing  incident  to  be  told  to  friends. 
Thus  an  old  vicar  of  our  acquaintance,  with  much  temerity,  on  one 
occasion  ascended  to  the  belfry,  and,  the  floor  giving  way  under  his 
weight,  he  was  luckily  caught  under  each  arm  by  a  joist,  and  there  hung, 
his  legs  dangling  downwards  through  the  boards,  utterly  unable  to 
extricate  himself.  Fortunately  he  was  a  great  snuff-taker;  and,  like 
Napoleon,  carried  the  fragvant  mixture  loose  in  his  waistcoat  pocket 
Thus  he  was  able  to  solace  himself  from  time  to  time  with  a  pinch, 
until  the  clerk  accidentally  entered  the  church,  and  was  astounded,  on 
looking  up,  to  find  his  master  suspended,  another  Mahomet,  between 
heaven  and  earth.  He  speedily  released  the  parson,  and,  thanks  to  his 
insouciance,  that  worthy  was  none  the  worse  for  the  incident. 

A  similar  story  is  told  of  an  old  clergyman  going  to  preach  at  an 
unrestored  church  in  Lincolnshire,  some  thirty  years  ago.  He  entered 
the  great  well-like  pulpit,  and  then  disappeared.  At  length,  as  anxiety 
became  general,  the  clerk  drew  nigh,  opened  the  pulpit  door,  and,  on 
looking  in,  found  that  the  floor  had  given  way,  doubtless  owing  to  the 
body  of  divinity  which  the  clergyman  had  brought  in  with  him.  He, 
too,  had  slipped  through,  but  was  caught  by  a  beam,  and  thus  upheld, 
though  rendered  invisible  to  the  congregation.  The  clerk  helped  him  off 
his  undignified  position,  and  addressed  him,  with  a  smile,  in  the  verna- 
cular— "  Be  thou  hurt  1  We'll  have  a  new  floor  put  in  agin  thou  comes 
to  preach  to  us  next  time  !  " 

It  is  time,  however,  to  turn  from  these  reminiscences.  Even  to  the 
incumbent  whose  tenure  of  the  benefice  has  exceeded  half  a  century  (and 
there  have  been  many  notable  examples  of  clerical  longevity  during  late 
years),  the  day  of  release  from  his  earthly  labours  comes  at  last.  The 
passing  bell,  to  which  he  has  so  often  listened,  now  tolls  for  him ;  but  he 
is  beyond  its  mournful  tones,  and  hears  no  more.  In  a  few  days  the 
long  procession  of  sorrowing  children  and  friends  winds  up  to  the  little 
grey  church  on  the  hill,  and,  amid  many  expressions  of  kindly  love,  the 
old  man  is  laid  under  the  churchyard  turf,  which  is  ever  (and  naturally) 
greener  than  any  other  grass.  The  pent-up  tide  of  human  interests  in 
the  village  once  more  flows  into  its  accustomed  channels,  and  all  are 
eager  over  their  teacups  to  know  who  the  new  parson  is  to  be.  In  due 

*  See  Carchvell's  Documentary  Annals,  vol.  ii.  p.  125.  f  Hid.  p.  124 


COUNTRY  PARSONS.  429 

time  lie  comes  ',  and  soon  he,  too,  brings  a  bride,  and  a  few  more  years 
slip  by,  and  again   the  cycle  of  duty  and  happiness  revolves,  and  the 
round  of  clerical  life  so  runs  on  from  age  to  age,  and  the  old  parsonage 
is  peopled  with  many  a  ghost  of  past  possessors,  while,  spring  by  spring, 
the  oak  on  the  lawn  renews  its  strength  and  looks  down  in  unchanged 
vigour  on  the  changeful  spectacles  of  humanity  which  successively  act 
themselves  out  by  its  side.     But  there  is  one  scene  on  the  death  of  an 
incumbent  which  is  more  melancholy  to  a  thoughtful  observer  than  even 
the  departure  for  ever  of  his  widow  from  the  home  of  her  early  wedded 
happiness,  and  that  is  the  sale  of  the  good  man's  books.     Probably  he 
possessed  a  useful  and  well-chosen  library,  which  he  valued  more  than 
any  other  of  his  inanimate  chattels.     Here  stood  his  college  prizes,  Plato 
and  Gibbon — there  were  his  favourite  commentatoi's ;  a  row  of  "  poetry 
and  other  bookes,  good  ones,  I  warrant  ye  "  jostled  the  best  works  on  the 
topography  and  natural  history  of  the  district.     Now  they  are  all  igno- 
miniously  tied  up  in  lots  and  flung  on  the  floor,  fingered  by  curious 
labourers  and  bargain-loving  Jews,  their  titles  murdered  by  the  rustic 
auctioneer  as  he  puts  them  up,  and  each  lot,  amid  merriment  sufficiently 
incongruous  under  the  circumstances,  knocked  down  to  country  bumpkins 
for  a  few  shillings  where  the  late  owner  had  spent  pounds.     It  is  not 
the  loss  at  which  such  private  libraries  are  always  sold  which  is  so 
affecting,  as  the  dispersal  of  treasures  which  had  been  carefully  amassed 
and  deeply  valued  by  their  dead  owner.     Book-lovers  soon  learn  to  look 
upon  their  idols  as  possessing  sympathies  and  feelings  like  themselves. 
The  pathetic  side  of  a  book's  character  is  now  prominently  brought 
forward.    To  think  of  that  Icon  Basilike,  in  its  tattered  leather  covering, 
being  carried  off  by  the  farrier  to  wrap  his  horse-balls  in  ;  while  a  little 
Elzevir,  for  which  a  farmer  has,  in  total  ignorance  of  its  estimation,  given 
sixpence,  is  thrown  into  his  light  cart,  and  becomes  his  children's  play- 
thing on  reaching  home !     What  stronger  irony  has  Fate  in  store  for 
books  as  well  as  for  their  owners  ]   Therefore  the  sad  spectacle  of  the  sale 
of  the  parson's  books  continually  repeats  itself  around  us,  and  is,  for  the 
same  reason,  continually  disregarded.     To  the  contemplative  spectator, 
however,  no  more  touching  conclusion  could  be  found  than  this,  the 
last  scene  in  the  life  of  a  country  parson ;   "  vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity."     Yet  these  reverent  thoughts  may  well  be  intensified  as  he 
looks  on  to  a  day  when  some  other  books  are  to  be  opened,  not  only  for 
the  poor  parson,  but  also  for  himself;  and  then  he  murmurs  the  grand 
old  prayer — with  which  the  parson  had  been  so  familiar — that,  with  One 
Above  as  "  our  Ruler  and   Guide,  we  may  so   pass   through   things 
temporal,  that  we  finally  lose  not  the  things  eternal." 


430 


Cjxe  |)ivi)ilt0n  0tt  %  f  inhs. 

(IN  Two  PARTS.) 


PAET  II. 
CHAPTER  V. 

TELLS  OP  AN  INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  NORTHMOUR,  YOUR  MOTHER, 
AND  MYSELF. 

WITH  the  first  peep  of  day,  I  retired  from  the  open  to  my  old  lair  among 
the  sand-hills,  there  to  await  the  coming  of  your  mother.  The  morning 
was  grey,  wild,  and  melancholy  ;  the  wind  moderated  before  sunrise,  and 
then  went  about,  and  blew  in  puffs  from  the  shore  ;  the  sea  began  to  go 
down,  but  the  rain  still  fell  without  mercy.  Over  all  the  wilderness  of 
links  there  was  not  a  creature  to  be  seen.  Yet  I  felt  sure  the  neighbour- 
hood was  alive  with  skulking  foes.  The  light  that  had  been  so  suddenly  and 
surprisingly  flashed  upon  my  face  as  I  lay  sleeping,  and  the  hat  that  had 
been  blown  ashore  by  the  wind  from  over  Graden  Floe,  were  two  speak- 
ing signals  of  the  peril  that  environed  your  mother  and  the  party  in  the 
pavilion. 

It  was,  perhaps,  half-past  seven,  or  nearer  eight,  before  I  saw  the  door 
open,  and  that  dear  figure  come  towards  me  in  the  rain.  I  was  waiting 
for  her  on  the  beach  before  she  had  crossed  the  sand-hills. 

"  I  have  had  such  trouble  to  come  ! "  she  cried.  "  They  did  not  wish 
me  to  go  walking  in  the  rain.  I  had  to  show  them  my  temper,"  she 
added,  tossing  her  head. 

"  Clara,"  I  said,  "  you  are  not  frightened  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  she,  with  a  simplicity  that  filled  my  heart  with  confidence. 
For  your  mother,  my  dear  children,  was  the  bravest  as  well  as  the  best 
of  women  ;  in  my  experience,  I  have  not  found  the  two  go  always  to- 
gether, but  with  her  they  did ;  and  she  combined  the  extreme  of  fortitude 
with  the  most  endearing  and  beautiful  virtues. 

I  told  her  what  had  happened ;  and,  though  her  cheek  grew  visibly 
paler,  she  retained  perfect  control  over  her  senses. 

"  You  see  now  that  I  am  safe,"  said  I,  in  conclusion.     "  They  do  not 
mean  to  harm  me ;  for,  had  they  chosen,  I  was  a  dead  man  last  night." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm. 
"  And  I  had  no  presentiment ! "  she  cried. 

Her  accent  thrilled  me  with  delight.  I  put  my  arm  about  her,  and 
strained  her  to  my  side ;  and,  before  either  of  us  was  aware,  her  hands 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  431 

were  on  my  shoulders  and  my  lips  upon  her  mouth.  Yet  up  to  that 
moment  no  word  of  love  had  passed  between  your  mother  and  myself. 
To  this  day  I  remember  the  touch  of  her  cheek,  which  was  wet  and  cold 
with  the  rain ;  and  many  a  time  since,  when  she  has  been  washing  her 
face,  I  have  kissed  it  again  for  the  sake  of  that  morning  on  the  beach. 
Now  that  she  is  taken  from  me,  and  I  finish  my  pilgrimage  alone,  I  recall 
our  old  lovingkindnesses  and  the  deep  honesty  and  affection  which  united 
us,  and  my  present  loss  seems  but  a  trifle  in  comparison. 

We  may  have  thus  stood  for  some  seconds — for  time  passes  quickly 
with  lovers — before  we  were  startled  by  a  peal  of  laughter  close  at  hand. 
It  was  not  natural  mirth,  but  seemed  to  be  affected  in  order  to  conceal 
an  angrier  feeling.  "We  both  turned,  though  I  still  kept  my  left  arm 
about  your  mother's  waist ;  nor  did  she  seek  to  withdraw  herself ;  and 
there,  a  few  paces  off  upon  the  beach,  stood  Northmour,  his  head  lowered, 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  nose  white  with  passion. 

"  Ah,  Cassilis ! "  he  said,  as  I  disclosed  my  face. 

"  That  same,"  said  I ;  for  I  was  not  at  all  put  about. 

"  And  so,  Miss  Huddlestone,"  he  continued  slowly  but  savagely, 
"  this  is  how  you  keep  your  faith  to  your  father  and  to  me  ?  This  is 
the  value  you  set  upon  your  father's  life  ?  And  you  are  so  infatuated 
with  this  young  gentleman  that  you  must  brave  ruin,  and  decency,  and 
common  human  caution " 

"  Miss  Huddlestone —  -"  I  was  beginning  to  interrupt  him,  when  he, 
in  his  turn,  cut  in  brutally — 

"  You  hold  your  tongue,"  said  he;  "I  am  speaking  to  that  girl." 

"  That  girl,  as  you  call  her,  is  my  wife,"  said  I ;  and  your  mother  only 
leaned  a  little  nearer,  so  that  I  knew  she  had  affirmed  my  words. 

"  Your  what  1 "  he  cried.     "  You  lie ! " 

"  Northmour,"  I  said,  "we  all  know  you  have  a  bad  temper,  and  I 
am  the  last  man  to  be  irritated  by  words.  For  all  that,  I  propose  that 
you  speak  lower,  for  I  am  convinced  that  we  are  not  alone." 

He  looked  round  him,  and  it  was  plain  my  remark  had  in  some  degree 
sobered  his  passion.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

I  only  said  one  word  :  "  Italians." 

He  swore  a  roiind  oath,  and  looked  at  us,  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Mr.  Cassilis  knows  all  that  I  know,"  said  your  mother. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  he  broke  out,  "is  where  the  devil  Mr. 
Cassilis  comes  from,  and  what  the  devil  Mr.  Caseilis  is  doing  here.  You 
say  you  are  married ;  that  I  do  not  believe.  If  you  were,  Graden  Floe 
would  soon  divorce  you ;  four  minutes  and  a  half,  Cassilis.  I  keep  my 
private  cemetery  for  my  friends." 

"  It  took  somewhat  longer,"  said  I,  "  for  that  Italian." 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  half  daunted,  and  then,  almost  civilly, 
asked  me  to  tell  my  story.  "  You  have  too  much  the  advantage  of  me, 
Cassilis,"  he  added.  I  complied  of  course  ;  and  he  listened,  with  several 
ejaculations,  while  I  told  him  how  I  had  come  to  Graden  ;  that  it  was  I 


432  THE  PAVILION   ON  THE  LINKS. 

whom  lie  had  tried  to  murder  on  the  night  of  landing ;  and  what  I  had 
subsequently  seen  and  heard  of  the  Italians. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  when  I  had  done,  "  it  is  here  at  last ;  there  is  no 
mistake  about  that.  And  what,  may  I  ask,  do  you  propose  to  do  ] " 

"  I  propose  to  stay  with  you  and  lend  a  hand,"  said  I. 

"  You  are  a  brave  man,"  he  returned,  with  a  peculiar  intonation. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  I. 

"  And  so,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  to  understand  that  you  two  are 
married  ?  And  you  stand  up  to  it  before  my  face,  Miss  Hudcllestone  ? " 

"  We  are  not  yet  married,"  said  your  mother ;  "  but  we  shall  be  as 
soon  as  we  can." 

"Bravo  !"  cried  Northmour.  "And  the  bargain?  D — n  it,  you're 
not  a  fool,  young  woman  ;  I  may  call  a  spade  a  spade  with  you.  How 
about  the  bargain  ?  You  know  as  well  as  T  do  what  your  father's  life 
depends  upon.  I  have  only  to  put  my  hands  under  my  coat-tails  and 
walk  away,  and  his  throat  would  be  cut  before  the  evening." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Northmour,"  returned  your  mother,  with  great  spirits ; 
"  but  that  is  what  you  will  never  do.  You  made  a  bargain  that  was 
unworthy  of  a  gentleman ;  but  you  are  a  gentleman  for  all  that,  and 
you  will  never  desert  a  man  whom  you  have  begun  to  help." 

"Aha!"  said  he.  "You  think  I  will  give  my  yacht  for  nothing? 
You  think  I  will  risk  my  life  and  liberty  for  love  of  the  old  gentleman  ; 
and  then,  I  siippose,  be  best  man  at  the  wedding,  to  wind  up  1  Well," 
he  added,  with  an  odd  smile,  "  perhaps  you  are  not  altogether  wrong. 
But  ask  Cassilis  here.  lie  knows  me.  Am  I  a  man  to  trust  1  Am  I 
safe  and  scrupulous  ?  Am  I  kind  ? " 

"  I  know  you  talk  a  great  deal,  and  sometimes,  I  think,  very  foolishly," 
replied  your  mother ;  "  but  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  I  aiu  not 
the  least  afraid." 

He  looked  at  her  with  peculiar  approval  and  admiration;  then,  turning 
to  me,  "  Do  you  think  I  would  give  her  up  without  a  struggle,  Frank  ] " 
said  he.  "  I  tell  you  plainly,  you  look  out.  The  next  time  we  come  to 
blows— 

"  Will  make  the  third,"  I  interrupted,  smiling. 

"  Aye,  true ;  so  it  will,"  he  said.  "  I  had  forgotten.  Well,  the 
third  time's  lucky." 

"  The  third  time,  you  mean,  you  will  have  the  crew  of  the  Red  Earl 
to  help,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  hear  him  1 "  he  asked,  turning  to  your  mother. 

"  I  hear  two  men  speaking  like  cowards,"  said  she.  "  I  should  despise 
myself  either  to  think  or  speak  like  that.  And  neither  of  you  believe 
one  word  that  you  are  saying,  which  makes  it  the  more  wicked  and  silly." 

"  She's  a  perfect  cock-sparrow,  Frank  ! "  cried  Northmour.  "  But  she's 
not  yet  Mrs.  Cassilis.  I  say  no  more.  The  present  is  not  for  me." 

Then  your  mother  surprised  me. 

"  I  leave  you  here,"  she  said  suddenly.     "  My  father  has  been  too 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  433 

long  alone.     But  remember  this  :  you  are  to  be  friends,  for  you  are  both 
good  friends  to  me." 

She  has  since  told  me  her  reason  for  this  step.  As  long  as  she  re- 
mained, she  declares  that  we  two  would  have  continued  to  quarrel ;  aud 
I  suppose  that  she  was  right,  for  when  she  was  gone  we  fell  at  once  into 
a  sort  of  confidentiality. 

Northmour  stared  after  her  as  she  went  away  over  the  sand-hill. 

"  She  is  the  only  woman  in  the  world  ! "  he  exclaimed  with  an  oath. 
"  Look  at  her  action." 

I,  for  my  part,  leaped  at  this  opportunity  for  a  little  further  light. 

"  See  here,  Northmour,"  said  I ;  "  we  are  all  in  a  tight  place,  are  we 
not?"  , 

"  I  believe  you,  my  boy,"  he  answered,  looking  me  in  the  eyes,  and 
with  great  emphasis.  "  We  have  all  hell  upon  us,  that's  the  truth.  You 
may  believe  me  or  not,  but  I'm  afraid  of  my  life." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,"  said  I.  "  What  are  they  after,  these  Italians  ? 
What  ails  them  at  Mr.  Huddlestone  ? " 

"  Don't  you  know  1 "  he  cried.  "  The  black  old  scamp  had  carbonaro 
funds  on  a  deposit — tvro  hundred  and  eighty  thousand ;  and  of  course  he 
gambled  it  away  on  stocks.  There  was  to  have  been  a  revolution  in  the 
Tridentino,  in  Parma ;  but  the  revolution  is  off,  and  the  whole  wasps' 
nest  is  after  Huddlestone.  We  shall  all  be  lucky  if  we  can  save  our 
skins." 

"  The  carbonari  ! "  I  exclaimed ;  "  God  help  him  indeed  ! " 

"  Amen  ! "  said  Northmour.  "  And  now,  look  here  :  I  have  said  that 
we  are  in  a  fix ;  and,  frankly,  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  help.  If  I  can't  save 
Huddlestone,  I  want  at  least  to  save  the  girl.  Come  and  stay  in  the 
pavilion ;  and,  there's  my  hand  on  it,  I  shall  act  as  your  friend  until  the 
old  man  is  either  clear  or  dead.  But,"  he  added,  "once  that  is  settled, 
you  become  my  rival  once  again,  and  I  warn  you — mind  yourself." 

"  Done  !"  said  I;  and  we  shook  hands. 

"  And  now  let  us  go  directly  to  the  fort,"  said  Northmour ;  and  he 
began  to  lead  the  way  through  the  rain. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
TELLS  OP  MY  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TALL  MAN. 

WE  were  admitted  to  the  pavilion  by  your  mother,  and  I  was  surprised 
by  the  completeness  and  security  of  the  defences.  A  barricade  of  great 
strength,  and  yet  easy  to  displace,  supported  the  door  against  any  violence 
from  without ;  and  the  shutters  of  the  dining-room,  into  which  I  was  led 
directly,  and  which  was  feebly  illuminated  by  a  lamp,  were  even  moie 
elaborately  fortified.  The  panels  were  strengthened  by  bars  and  cross- 
bars ;  and  these,  in  their  turn,  were  kept  in  position  by  a  system  of 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250.  21. 


434  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE   LINKS. 

braces  and  struts,  some  abutting  on  the  floor,  some  on  the  roof,  and 
others,  in  fine,  against  the  opposite  wall  of  the  apartment.  It  was  at 
once  a  solid  and  a  well-designed  piece  of  carpentry ;  and  I  did  not  seek 
to  conceal  my  admiration. 

"  I  am  the  engineer,"  said  Northmour.  "  You  remember  the  planks 
in  the  garden  1  Behold  them  !  " 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  so  many  talents,"  said  I. 

"  Are  you  armed  ? "  he  continued,  pointing  to  an  array  of  guns  and 
pistols,  all  in  admirable  order,  which  stood  in  line  against  the  wall  or 
were  displayed  upon  the  sideboard. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  returned ;  "  I  have  gone  armed  since  our  last  en- 
counter. But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
early  yesterday  evening." 

Northmour  produced  some  cold  meat,  to  which  I  eagerly  set  myself, 
and  a  bottle  of  good  Burgundy,  by  which,  wet  as  I  was,  I  did  not  scruple 
to  profit.  I  have  always  been  an  extreme  temperance  man  on  principle  ; 
but  it  is  useless  to  push  principle  to  excess,  and  on  this  occasion  I  believe 
that  I  finished  three-quarters  of  the  bottle.  As  I  ate,  I  still  continued 
to  admire  the  preparations  for  defence. 

"  We  could  stand  a  siege,"  I  said  at  length. 

"Ye — es,"  drawled  Northmour;  "a  very  little  one,  per — haps.  It 
is  not  so  much  the  strength  of  the  pavilion  I  misdoubt ;  it  is  the  double 
danger  that  kills  me.  If  we  get  to  shooting,  wild  as  the  country  is 
some  one  is  sure  to  hear  it,  and  then — why  then  it's  the  same  thing,  only 
different,  as  they  say  :  caged  by  law,  or  killed  by  carbonari.  There's  the 
choice.  It  is  a  devilish  bad  thing  to  have  the  law  against  you  in  this 
world,  and  so  I  tell  the  old  gentleman  upstairs.  He  is  quite  of  my  way 
of  thinking." 

"  Speaking  of  that,"  said  I,  "  what  kind  of  person  is  he  1 " 

"  Oh,  he  !  "  cried  the  other ;  "  he's  a  rancid  fellow,  as  far  as  he  goes.  I 
should  like  to  have  his  neck  wrung  to-morrow  by  all  the  devils  in  Italy. 
I  am  not  in  this  affair  for  him.  You  take  me  ?  I  made  a  bargain  for 
Missy's  hand,  and  I  mean  to  have  it  too." 

"  That,  by  the  way,"  said  I,  "  I  understand.  But  how  will  Mr. 
Huddlestone  take  my  intrusion  ?  " 

"  Leave  that  to  Clara,"  returned  Northmour. 

I  could  have  broken  his  back,  my  dear  children,  for  this  coarse 
familiarity ;  but  I  respected  the  truce,  as,  I  am  bound  to  say,  did  North- 
mour, and  so  long  as  the  danger  continued  not  a  cloud  arose  in  our  rela- 
tion. I  bear  him  this  testimony  with  the  most  unfeigned  satisfaction  ; 
nor  am  I  without  pride  when  I  look  back  upon  my  own  behaviour.  For 
surely  no  two  men  were  ever  left  in  a  position  so  invidious  and  irritating. 

As  soon  as  I  had  done  eating,  we  proceeded  to  inspect  the  lower 
floor.  Window  by  window  we  tried  the  different  supports,  now  and 
then  making  an  inconsiderable  change  ;  and  the  strokes  of  the  hammer 
sounded  with  surprising  loudness  through  the  house.  I  proposed,  I  re- 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  435 

member,  to  make  loopholes  ;  but  he  told  me  they  were  already  made  in 
the  windows  of  the  upper  story.  It  was  an  anxious  business  this  in- 
spection, and  left  me  down-hearted.  There  were  two  doors  and  five 
windows  to  protect,  and,  counting  your  mother,  only  four  of  us  to  defend 
them  against  an  unknown  number  of  foes.  I  communicated  my  doubts 
to  Northmour,  who  assured  me,  with  unmoved  composure,  that  he  en- 
tirely shared  them. 

"  Before  morning,"  said  he,  "  we  shall  all  be  butchered  and  buried  in 
Oraden  Floe.  For  me,  that  is  written." 

I  could  not  help  shuddering  at  the  mention  of  the  quicksand,  but 
reminded  Northmour  that  our  enemies  had  spared  me  in  the  wood. 

"  Do  not  flatter  yourself,"  said  he.  "  Then  you  were  not  in  the  same 
boat  with  the  old  gentleman ;  now  you  are.  It's  the  floe  for  all  of  us, 
mark  my  words." 

I  trembled  for  your  mother  ;  and  just  then  her  dear  voice  was  heard 
calling  us  to  come  upstairs.  Northmour  showed  me  the  way,  and,  when 
he  had  reached  the  landing,  knocked  at  the  door  of  what  used  to  be 
called  My  Uncle's  Bedroom,  as  the  founder  of  the  pavilion  had  designed 
it  especially  for  himself. 

"  Come  in,  Northmour ;  come  in,  dear  Mr.  Cassilis,"  said  a  voice 
from  within. 

Pushing  open  the  door,  Northmour  admitted  me  before  him  into  the 
apartment.  As  I  came  in  I  could  see  your  mother  slipping  out  by  the 
side  door  into  the  study,  which  had  been  prepared  as  her  bedroom.  In 
the  bed,  which  was  drawn  back  against  the  wall,  instead  of  standing,  as 
I  had  last  seen  it,  boldly  across  the  window,  sat,  my  dear  children,  your 
grandfather,  Bernard  Huddlestone,  the  defaulting  banker.  Little  as  I 
had  seen  of  him  by  the  shifting  light  of  the  lantern  on  the  links,  I  had 
no  difliculty  in  recognising  him  for  the  same.  He  had  a  long — long  and 
sallow — countenance,  surrounded  by  a  long  red  beard  and  side- whiskers. 
His  broken  nose  and  high  cheekbones  gave  him  somewhat  the  air  of  a 
Kalmuck,  and  his  light  eyes  shone  with  the  excitement  of  a  high  fever. 
He  wore  a  skull-cap  of  black  silk ;  a  huge  Bible  lay  open  before  him  on 
the  bed,  with  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles  in  the  place,  and  a  pile  of  other 
books  lay  on  the  stand  by  his  side.  The  green  curtains  lent  a  cada- 
verous shade  to  his  cheek ;  and,  as  he  sat  propped  on  pillows,  his  great 
stature  was  painfully  hunched,  and  his  head  protruded  till  it  overhung 
his  knees.  I  believe  if  your  grandfather  had  not  died  otherwise,  he  must 
have  fallen  a  victim  to  consumption  in  the  course  of  but  a  very  few 
weeks. 

He  held  out  to  me  a  hand,  long,  thin,  and'disagreeably  hairy. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  Mr.  Cassilis,"  said  he.  "  Another  protector — 
ahem ! — another  protector.  Always  welcome  as  a  friend  of  my  daughter's, 
Mr.  Cassilis.  How  they  have  rallied  about  me,  my  daughter's  friends ! 
May  God  in  heaven  bless  and  reward  them  for  it !  " 

I  gave  him  my  hand,  of  course,  because  I  could  not  help  it ;  but  the 

21 — 2 


436  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LIXKS. 

sympathy  I  had  been  prepared  to  feel  for  your  mother's  father  was  im- 
mediately soured  by  his  appearance,  and  the  wheedling,  unreal  tones  in 
which  he  spoke. 

"  Cassilis  is  a  good  man,"  said  Northmour ;  "  worth  ten." 

"  So  I  hear,"  cried  Mr.  Huddlestone  eagerly ;  "  so  my  girl  tells  me. 
Ah,  Mr.  Cassilis,  my  sin  has  found  me  out,  you  see  !  I  am  very  lowr 
very  low ;  but  I  hope  equally  penitent.  These  are  all  devotional  works,!' 
he  added,  indicating  the  books  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  "  We  must 
all  come  to  the  throne  of  grace  at  last,  Mr.  Cassilis.  For  my  part,  I 
come  late  indeed  ;  but  with  unfeigned  humility,  I  trust." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  !  "  said  Northmour  roughly. 

"  No,  no,  dear  Northmour  !  "  cried  the  banker.  "  You  must  not  say 
that ;  you  must  not  try  to  shake  me.  You  forget,  my  dear,  good  boy, 
you  forget  I  may  be  called  this  very  night  before  my  Maker." 

His  excitement  was  pitiful  to  behold ;  and  I  felt  myself  grow  indig- 
nant with  Northmour,  whose  infidel  opinions  I  well  knew,  and  heartily 
dreaded,  as  he  continued  to  taunt  the  poor  sinner  out  of  his  humour  of 
repentance. 

"  Pooh,  my  dear  Huddlestone  ! "  said  he.  "  You  do  yourself 
injustice.  You  are  a  man  of  the  world  inside  and  out,  and  were  up  to 
all  kinds  of  mischief  before  I  was  born.  Your  conscience  is  tanned  like 
South  American  leather — only  you  forgot  to  tan  your  liver,  and  that,  if 
you  will  believe  me,  is  the  seat  of  the  annoyance." 

"  Rogue,  rogue !  bad  boy !  "  said  Mr.  Huddlestone,  shaking  hi» 
finger.  "I  am  no  precisian,  if  you  come  to  that;  I  always  hated  a 
precisian ;  but  I  never  lost  hold  of  something  better  through  it  all.  I 
have  been  a  bad  boy,  Mr.  Cassilis ;  I  do  not  seek  to  deny  that ;  but  it 
was  after  my  wife's  death,  and  you  know,  with  a  widower,  it's  a  different 
thing  :  sinful — I  won't  say  no ;  but  there  is  a  gradation,  we  shall  hope. 

And  talking  of  that Hark  ! "  he  broke  out  suddenly,  his  hand 

raised,  his  fingers  spread,  his  face  racked  with  interest  and  terror. 
"  Only  the  rain,  bless  God ! "  he  added,  after  a  pause,  and  with  inde- 
scribable relief.  "  Well — as  I  was  saying — ah,  yes  !  Northmour,  is 
that  girl  away  1 " — looking  round  the  curtain  for  your  mother — "  yes  ; 
I  just  remembered  a  capital  one." 

And,  leaning  forward  in  bed,  he  told  a  story  of  a  description  with 
which,  I  am  happy  to  say,  I  have  never  sullied  my  lips,  and  which,  in  his 
present  danger  and  surrounded  as  he  was  with  religious  reading,  filled 
me  with  indignation  and  disgust.  Perhaps,  my  dear  children,  you  have 
sometimes,  when  your  mother  was  not  by  to  mitigate  my  severity,  found 
me  naiTOW  and  hard  in  discipline ;  I  must  own  I  have  always  been  a 
martinet  in  matters  of  decorum,  and  I  have  sometimes  repented  the 
harshness  with  which  I  reproved  your  unhappy  grandfather  upon  this, 
occasion.  I  will  not  repeat  even  the  drift  of  what  I  said  ;  but  I  reminded 
him,  perhaps  cruelly,  of  the  horrors  of  his  situation.  Northmour  burst 
out  laughing,  and  cut  a  joke  at  the  expense,  as  I  considered,  of  polite- 


THE  PAVILION   ON  THE  LINKS.  437 

ness,  decency,  and  reverence  alike.  We  might  readily  have  quarrelled 
then  and  there ;  but  Mr.  Huddlestone  interposed  with  a  severe  reproof 
to  Northmour  for  his  levity. 

*  The  boy  is  right,"  he  said.  "  I  am  an  unhappy  sinner,  and  you 
but  a  half  friend  to  encourage  me  in  evil."  •» 

And  with  great  fluency  and  unction  he  put  up  a  short  extempore 
prayer,  at  which,  coming  so  suddenly  after  his  anecdote,  I  confess  I 
knew  not  where  to  look.  Then  said  he  :  "  Let  us  sing  a  hymn  together, 
Mr.  Cassilis.  I  have  one  here  which  my  mother  taught  me  a  great, 
great  many  years  ago,  as  you  may  imagine.  You  will  find  it  very 
touching,  and  quite  spiritual." 

"  Look  here,"  broke  in  Northmour;  "if  this  is  going  to  become  a 
prayer-meeting,  I  am  off.  Sing  a  hymn,  indeed  !  What  next  ?  Go  out 
and  take  a  little  airing  on  the  beach,  I  suppose  ?  or  in  the  wood,  where 
it's  thick,  and  a  man  can  get  near  enough  for  the  stiletto  1  I  wonder  at 
you,  Huddlestone  !  and  I  wonder  at  you  too,  Cassilis  !  Ass  as  you  are, 
you  might  have  better  sense  than  that." 

Roughly  as  he  expressed  himself,  I  could  not  but  admit  that  North- 
mour's  protest  was  grounded  upon  common  sense ;  and  I  have  myself, 
all  my  life  long,  had  little  taste  for  singing  hymns  except  in  clmrch.  I 
was,  therefore,  the  more  willing  to  turn  the  talk  upon  the  business  of  the 
hour. 

"  One  question,  sir,"  said  I  to  Mr.  Huddlestone.  "  Is  it  true  that 
you  have  money  with  you  ? " 

He  seemed  annoyed  by  the  question,  but  admitted  with  reluctance 
that  he  had  a  little. 

"  Well,"  I  continued,  "  it  is  their  money  they  are  after,  is  it  not  ? 
Why  not  give  it  up  to  them  ? " 

"  Ah ! "  replied  he,  shaking  his  head,  "  I  have  tried  that  already, 
Mr.  Cassilis ;  and  alas !  that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is  blood  they 
want." 

"  Huddlestone,  that's  a  little  less  than  fair,"  said  Northmour.  "  You 
should  mention  that  what  you  offered  them  was  upwards  of  two  hundred 
thousand  short.  The  deficit  is  worth  a  reference ;  it  is  for  what  they 
call  a  cool  sum,  Frank.  Then,  you  see,  the  fellows  reason  in  their  clear 
Italian  way ;  and  it  seems  to  them,  as  indeed  it  seems  to  me,  that  they 
may  just  as  well  have  both  while  they're  about  it — money  and  blood 
together,  by  C4eorge,  and  no  more  trouble  for  the  extra  pleasure." 

"  Is  it  in  the  pavilion  1 "  I  asked. 

"  It  is  ;  and  I  wish  it  were  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea  instead,"  said 
Northmour  ;  and  then  suddenly — "  What  are  you  making  faces  at  me 
for  ?  "  he  cried  to  Mr.  Huddlestone,  on  whom  I  had  unconsciously  turned 
my  back.  "  Do  you  think  Cassilis  would  sell  you  ? " 

Mr.  Huddlestone  protested  that  nothing  had  been  further  from  his 
mind. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,"  retorted  Northmour  in  his  ugliest  manner. 


438  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

"  You  might  end  by  wearying  us.  What  were  you  going  to  say  ] "  he 
added,  turning  to  me. 

"  I  was  going  to  propose  an  occupation  for  the  afternoon,"  said  I. 
"  Let  us  carry  that  money  out,  piece  by  piece,  and  lay  it  down  before 
the  pavilion  door.  If  the  carbonari  come,  why,  it's  theirs  at  any 
rate." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Mr.  Huddlestone ;  "  it  does  not,  it  cannot  belong  to 
them !  It  should  be  distributed  pro  rata  among  all  my  creditors." 

"  Come  now,  Huddlestone,"  said  Northmour,  "none  of  that." 

"  Well,  but  my  daughter,"  moaned  the  wretched  man. 

"  Your  daughter  will  do  well  enough.  Here  are  two  suitors,  Cassilis 
and  I,  neither  of  us  beggars,  between  whom  she  has  to  choose.  And  as 
for  myself,  to  make  an  end  of  arguments,  you  have  no  right  to  a 
farthing,  and,  unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  you  are  going  to  die." 

It  was  certainly  very  cruelly  said ;  but  Mr.  Huddlestone  was  a  man 
who  attracted  little  sympathy;  and,  although  I  saw  him  wince  and 
shudder,  I  mentally  endorsed  the  rebuke ;  nay,  I  added  a  contribution  of 
my  own. 

"  Northmour  and  I,"  I  said,  "  are  willing  enough  to  help  you  to  save 
your  life,  but  not  to  escape  with  stolen  property." 

He  struggled  for  a  while  with  himself,  as  though  he  were  on  the 
point  of  giving  way  to  anger,  but  prudence  had  the  best  of  the  con- 
troversy. 

"  My  dear  boys,"  he  said,  "  do  with  me  or  my  money  what  you  will. 
I  leave  all  in  your  hands.  Let  me  compose  myself." 

And  so  we  left  him,  gladly  enough  I  am  sure.  The  last  that  I  saw, 
he  had  once  more  taken  up  his  great  Bible,  and  was  adjusting  his  spec- 
tacles to  read.  Of  all  the  men  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  know,  your 
grandfather  has  left  the  most  bewildering  impression  on  my  mind ;  but 
I  have  no  fancy  to  judge  where  I  am  conscious  that  I  do  not  understand. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 
TELLS  HOW  A  WORD  WAS  CRIED  THROUGH  THE  PAVILION  WINDOW. 

THE  recollection  of  that  afternoon  will  always  be  graven  on  my  mind. 
Northmour  and  I  were  persuaded  that  an  attack  was  imminent ;  and  if 
it  had  been  in  our  power  to  alter  in  any  way  the  order  of  events,  that 
power  would  have  been  used  to  precipitate  rather  than  delay  the  critical 
moment.  The  worst  was  to  be  anticipated ;  yet  we  could  conceive  no 
extremity  so  miserable  as  the  suspense  we  were  now  suffering.  I  have 
never  been  an  eager,  though  always  a  great,  reader ;  but  I  never  knew 
books  so  insipid  as  those  which  I  took  up  and  cast  aside  that  afternoon, 
in  the  pavilion.  Even  talk  became  impossible,  as  the  hours  went  on. 
One  or  other  was  always  listening  for  some  sound,  or  peering  from  an 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  439 

upstairs  window  over  the  links.  And  yet  not  a  sign  indicated  the 
presence  of  our  foes. 

We  debated  over  and  over  again  my  proposal  with  regard  to  the 
money;  and  had  we  been  in  complete  possession  of  our  faculties,  I 
think  we  should  have  condemned  it  as  unwise ;  but  we  were  flustered 
with  alarm,  grasped  at  a  straw,  and  determined,  although  it  was  as 
much  as  advertising  Mr.  Huddlestone's  presence  in  the  pavilion,  to 
carry  my  proposal  into  effect. 

The  sum  was  part  in  specie,  part  in  bank  paper,  and  part  in  circular 
notes  payable  to  the  name  of  James  Gregory.  We  took  it  out,  counted 
it,  enclosed  it  once  more  in  a  despatch-box  belonging  to  Northmour,  and 
prepared  a  letter  in  Italian  which  we  tied  to  the  handle.  It  was  signed 
by  both  of  us  under  oath,  and  declared  that  this  was  all  the  money  which 
had  escaped  the  failure  of  the  house  of  Huddlestone.  This  was,  perhaps, 
the  maddest  action  ever  perpetrated  by  two  persons  professing  to  be  sane. 
Had  the  despatch-box  fallen  into  other  hands  than  those  for  which  it  was 
intended,  we  stood  criminally  convicted  on  our  own  written  testimony ; 
but,  as  I  have  said,  we  were  neither  of  us  in  a  condition  to  judge  soberly, 
and  had  a  thirst  for  action  that  drove  us  to  do  something,  right  or  wrong, 
rather  than  endure  the  agony  of  waiting.  Moreover,  as  we  were  both 
convinced  that  the  hollows  of  the  links  were  alive  with  hidden  spies  upon 
our  movements,  we  hoped  that  our  appearance  with  the  box  might  lead 
to  a  parley,  and,  perhaps,  a  compromise. 

It  was  nearly  three  when  we  issued  from  the  pavilion.  The  rain  had 
taken  off;  the  sun  shone  quite  cheerfully.  I  have  never  seen  the  gulls 
fly  so  close  about  the  house  or  approach  so  fearlessly  to  human  beings. 
On  the  very  doorstep  one  flapped  heavily  past  our  heads,  and  uttered  its 
wild  cry  in  my  very  ear. 

*'  There  is  an  omen  for  you,"  said  Northmour,  who,  like  all  free- 
thinkers, was  much  under  the  influence  of  superstition.  "  They  think 
we  are  already  dead." 

I  made  some  light  rejoinder,  but  it  was  with  half  my  heart ;  for  the 
circumstance  had  impressed  me. 

A  yard  or  two  before  the  gate,  on  a  path  of  smooth  turf,  we  set  down 
the  despatch-box ;  and  Northmour  waved  a  white  handkerchief  over 
his  head.  Nothing  replied.  We  raised  our  voices,  and  cried  aloud  in 
Italian  that  we  were  there  as  ambassadors  to  arrange  the  quarrel ;  but 
the  stillness  remained  unbroken  save  by  the  sea-gulls  and  the  surf.  I 
had  a  weight  at  my  heart  when  we  desisted ;  and  I  saw  that  even  North  - 
rnour  was  unusually  pale.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  nervously,  as 
though  he  feared  that  some  one  had  crept  between  him  and  the  pavilion 
door. 

"  By  God,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  this  is  too  much  for  me !  " 

I  replied  in  the  same  key  :  "  Suppose  there  should  be  none,  after  all  1 " 

"  Look  there,"  he  returned,  nodding  with  his  head,  as  though  he  had 
been  afraid  to  point. 


440  THE  PAVILION   ON  THE  LINKS. 

I  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated ;  and  there,  from  the  northern 
quarter  of  the  Sea- Wood,  beheld  a  thin  column  of  smoke  rising  steadily 
against  the  now  cloudless  sky. 

"  Northmour,"  I  said  (we  still  continued  to  talk  in  whispers),  "  it  is 
not  possible  to  endure  this  suspense.  I  prefer  death  fifty  times  over. 
Stay  you  here  to  watch  the  pavilion  ;  I  will  go  forward  and  make  sure, 
if  I  have  to  walk  right  into  their  camp." 

He  looked  once  again  all  round  him  with  puckered  eyes,  and  then 
nodded  assentingly  to  my  proposal. 

My  heart  beat  like  a  sledge-hammer  as  I  set  out  walking  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  the  smoke ;  and,  though  up  to  that  moment  I  had  felt 
chill  and  shivering,  I  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  glow  of  heat  over  all 
my  body.  The  ground  in  this  direction  was  very  uneven  ;  a  hundred 
men  might  have  lain  hidden  in  as  many  square  yards  about  my  path. 
But  I  had  not  practised  the  business  in  vain,  chose  such  routes  as  cut  at 
the  very  root  of  concealment,  and,  by  keeping  along  the  most  convenient 
ridges,  commanded  several  hollows  at  a  time.  It  was  not  long  before  I 
was  rewarded  for  my  caution.  Coming  suddenly  on  to  a  mound  some- 
what more  elevated  than  the  surrounding  hummocks,  I  saw,  not  thirty 
yards  away,  a  man  bent  almost  double,  and  running  as  fast  as  his  attitude 
permitted,  along  the  bottom  of  a  gully.  I  had  dislodged  one  of  the  spies 
from  his  ambush.  As  soon  as  I  sighted  him,  I  called  loudly  both  in 
English  and  Italian  ;  and  he,  seeing  concealment  was  no  longer  possible, 
straightened  himself  out,  leaped  from  the  gully,  and  made  off  as  straight 
as  an  arrow  for  the  borders  of  the  wood. 

It  was  none  of  my  business  to  pursue  ;  I  had  learned  what  I  wanted — 
that  we  were  beleaguered  and  watched  in  the  pavilion ;  and  I  returned 
at  once,  arid  walking  as  nearly  as  possible  in  my  old  footsteps,  to  where 
Northmour  awaited  nte  beside  the  despatch-box.  He  was  even  paler 
than  when  I  had  left  him,  and  his  voice  shook  a  little. 

"  Could  you  see  what  he  was  like  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  kept  his  back  turned,"  I  replied. 

"  Let  us  get  into  the  house,  Frank.  I  don't  think  I'm  a  coward,  but 
I  can  stand  no  more  of  this,"  he  whispered. 

All  was  still  and  sunshiny  about  the  pavilion,  as  we  turned  to  re- 
enter  it ;  even  the  gulls  had  flown  in  a  wider  circuit,  and  were  seen 
flickering  along  the  beach  and  sand-hills  •  and  I  can  assure  you,  my  dear 
children,  that  this  loneliness  terrified  me  more  than  a  regiment  under 
arms.  It  was  not  until  the  door  was  barricaded  that  I  could  draw  a 
full  inspiration  and  relieve  the  weight  that  lay  upon  my  bosom.  North- 
mour  and  I  exchanged  a  steady  glance ;  and  I  suppose  each  made  his 
own  reflections  on  the  white  and  startled  aspect  of  the  other. 

"  You  were  right,"  I  said.  "  All  is  over.  Shake  hands,  old  man, 
for  the  last  time." 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  "  I  will  shake  hands ;  for,  as  sure  as  I  am  here,  I 
bear  no  malice.  But,  remember,  if,  by  some  impossible  accident,  we  should 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  441 

give  the  slip  to  these  blackguards,  I'll  take  the  upper  hand  of  you  by 
fair  or  foul." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  "  you  weary  me  !  " 

He  seemed  hurt,  and  walked  away  in  silence  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
where  he  paused. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  said  he.  "  I  am  not  a  swindler,  and  I 
guard  myself;  that  is  all.  It  may  weary  you  or  not,  Mr.  Cassilis,  I  do 
not  care  a  rush ;  I  speak  for  my  own  satisfaction,  and  not  for  your 
amusement.  You  had  better  go  upstairs  and  court  the  girl ;  for  my 
part,  I  stay  here." 

"  And  I  stay  with  you,"  I  returned.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  steal 
a  march,  even  with  your  permission "?  " 

"  Frank,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  it's  a  pity  you  are  an  ass,  for  you  have 
the  makings  of  a  man.  I  think  I  must  be  fey  to-day ;  you  cannot 
irritate  me  even  when  you  try.  Do  you  know,"  he  continued  softly,  "  I 
think  we  are  the  two  most  miserable  men  in  England,  you  and  I  ?  we 
have  got  on  to  thirty  without  wife  or  child,  or  so  much  as  a  shop  to  look 
after — poor,  pitiful,  lost  devils,  both  !  And  now  we  clash  about  a  girl ! 
As  if  there  were  not  several  millions  in  the  United  Kingdom !  Ah, 
Frank,  Frank,  the  one  who  loses  this  throw,  be  it  you  or  me,  he  has  my 
pity  !  It  Ayere  better  for  him — how  does  the  Bible  say  ? — that  a  mill- 
stone were  hanged  about  his  neck  and  he  were  cast  into  the  depth  of  the 
eea.  Let  us  take  a  drink,"  he  concluded  suddenly,  but  without  any 
levity  of  tone.  * 

I  was  touched  by  his  words,  and  consented.  He  sat  down  on  the 
table  in  the  dining-room,  and  held  up  the  glass  of  sherry  to  his  eye. 

"  If  you  beat  me,  Frank,"  he  said,"  I  shall  take  to  drink.  What  will 
you  do,  if  it  goes  the  other  way  1" 

"  God  knows,"  I  returned. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "here  is  a  toast  in  the  meantime:  'Italia  irre- 
d/snta  ! '  " 

The  remainder  of  the  day  was  passed  in  the  same  dreadful  tedium  and 
suspense.  I  laid  the  table  for  dinner,  while  Northmour  and  your 
mother  prepared  the  meal  together  in  the  kitchen.  I  could  hear  their 
talk  as  I  went  to  and  fro,  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  ran  all  the  time 
upon  myself.  Northmour  again  bracketed  us  together,  and  rallied  your 
mother  on  a  choice  of  husbands  ;  but  he  continued  to  speak  of  me 
with  some  feeling,  and  uttered  nothing  to  my  prejudice  unless  he 
included  himself  in  the  condemnation.  This  awakened  a  sense  of  grati- 
tude in  my  heart,  which  combined  with  the  immediateness  of  our  peril 
to  fill  my  eyes  with  tears.  After  all,  I  thought — and  perhaps  the  thought 
was  laughably  vain — we  were  here  three  very  noble  human  beings  to 
perish  in  defence  of  a  thieving  banker. 

Before  we  sat  down  to  table,  I  looked  forth  from  an  upstairs  window. 
The  day  was  beginning  to  decline ;  the  links  were  utterly  deserted ;  the 
despatch-box  still  lay  untouched  where  we  had  left  it  hours  before. 


442  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

Mr.  Huddlestone,  in  a  long  yellow  dressing-gown,  took  one  end  of  the 
table,  Clara  the  other ;  while  Northmour  and  I  faced  each  other  from  the 
sides.  The  lamp  was  brightly  trimmed ;  the  wine  was  good ;  the  viands, 
although  mostly  cold,  excellent  of  their  sort.  We  seemed  to  have  agreed 
tacitly  ;  all  thought  of  the  impending  catastrophe  was  banished  ;  and  we 
made  as  merry  a  party  of  four  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  From  time  to 
time,  it  is  true,  Northmour  or  I  would  rise  from  table  and  make  a  round 
of  the  defences;  and,  on  each  of  these  occasions,  Mr.  Huddlestone  was 
recalled  to  a  sense  of  his  tragic  predicament,  glanced  up  with  ghastly 
eyes,  and  bore  for  an  instant  on  his  countenance  the  stamp  of  terror. 
But  he  hastened  to  empty  his  glass,  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  h^and- 
kerchief,  and  joined  again  in  the  conversation. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  wit  and  information  he  displayed.  Your 
grandfather's,  my  dear  children,  was  no  ordinary  character ;  he  had  read 
and  observed  for  himself ;  his  gifts  were  sound ;  and,  though  I  could  never 
have  learned  to  love  the  man,  I  began  to  understand  his  success  in  busi- 
ness, and  the  great  respect  in  which  he  had  been  held  before  his  failure. 
He  had,  above  all,  the  talent  of  society  ;  and,  though  I  never  heard  him 
speak  but  on  this  one  and  most  unfavourable  occasion,  I  set  him  dow  n 
among  the  most  brilliant  conversationalists  I  ever  met. 

He  was  relating  with  great  gusto,  and  seemingly  no  feeling  of  shame, 
the  manoeuvres  of  a  scoundrelly  commission  merchant  whom  he  had 
known  and  studied  in  his  youth,  and  we  were  all  listening  with  an  odd 
mixture  of  mirth  and  embarrassment,  when  our  little  party  was  brought 
abruptly  to  an  end  in  the  most  startling  manner. 

A  noise  like  that  of  a  wet  finger  on  the  window-pane  interrupted 
your  grandfather's  tale ;  and  in  an  instant  we  were  all  four  as  white  as 
paper,  and  sat  tongue-tied  and  motionless  around  the  table. 

"  A  snail,"  I  said  at  last ;  for  I  had  heard  that  these  animals  make  a 
noise  somewhat  similar  in  character. 

"  Snail  be  d— d !  "  said  Northmour.     "  Hush  !  " 

The  same  sound  was  repeated  twice  at  regular  intervals ;  and  then 
a  formidable  voice  shouted  through  the  shutters  the  Italian  word  "  Tra- 
ditore  I  " 

Mr.  Huddlestone  threw  his  head  in  the  air ;  his  eyelids  quivered ; 
next  moment  he  fell  insensible  below  the  table.  Northmour  and  I  had 
each  run  to  the  armoury  and  seized  a  gun.  Your  mother  was  on  her 
feet  with  her  hand  at  her  throat. 

So  we  stood  waiting,  for  we  thought  the  hour  of  attack  was  certainly 
come ;  but  second  passed  after  second,  and  all  but  the  surf  remained 
silent  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  pavilion. 

"  Quick,"  said  Northmour ;  "  upstairs  with  him  before  they  come." 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  443 

CHAPTEK  VIII. 
TELLS  THE  LAST  OF  THE  TALL  MAN. 

SOMEHOW  or  other,  by  hook  and  crook,  and  between  the  three  of  us,  we 
got  Bernard  Huddlestone  bundled  upstairs  and  laid  upon  the  bed  in  My 
Uncle's  Room.  During  the  whole  process,  which  was  rough  enough,  he 
gave  no  sign  of  consciousness,  and  he  remained,  as  we  had  thrown  him, 
without  changing  the  position  of  a  finger.  Your  mother  opened  his 
shirt  and  began  to  wet  his  head  and  bosom ;  while  Northmour  and  I 
ran  to  the  window.  The  weather  continued  clear;  the  moon,  which 
was  now  about  full,  had  risen  and  shed  a  very  clear  light  upon  the 
links ;  yet,  strain  our  eyes  as  we  might,  we  could  distinguish  nothing 
moving.  A  few  dark  spots,  more  or  less,  on  the  uneven  expanse  were 
not  to  be  identified;  they  might  be  crouching  men,  they  might  be 
shadows ;  it  was  impossible  to  be  sure. 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Northmour,  "  Aggie  is  not  coming  to-night." 
Aggie  was  the  name  of  the  old  nurse ;  he  had  not  thought  of  her 
till  now ;  but  that  he  should  think  of  her  at  all,  was  a  trait  that  sur- 
prised me  in  the  man. 

We  were  again  reduced  to  waiting.  Northmour  went  to  the  fireplace 
and  spread  his  hands  before  the  red  embers,  as  if  he  were  cold.  I  fol- 
lowed him  mechanically  with  my  eyes,  and  in  so  doing  turned  my  back 
upon  the  window.  At  that  moment,  a  very  faint  report  was  audible 
from  without,  and  a  ball  shivered  a  pane  of  glass,  and  buried  itself  in  the 
shutter  two  inches  from  my  head.  I  heard  your  mother  scream;  and 
though  I  whipped  instantly  out  of  range  and  into  a  corner,  she  was 
there,  so  to  speak,  before  me,  with  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and 
beseeching  to  know  if  I  were  hurt.  I  felt  that  I  could  stand  to  be  shot 
at  every  day  and  all  day  long,  with  such  marks  of  solicitude  for  a  reward ; 
and  I  was  still  busy  returning  her  caresses,  in  complete  forgetfulness  of 
our  situation,  when  the  voice  of  Northmour  recalled  me  to  myself. 
"  An  air-gun,"  he  said.  "  They  wish  to  make  no  noise." 
I  put  your  mother  aside,  and  looked  at  him.  He  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  hands  clasped  behind  him ;  and  I  knew,  by 
the  black  look  on  his  face,  that  passion  was  boiling  within.  I  had  seen 
just  such  a  look  before  he  attacked  me,  that  March  night,  in  the  adjoining- 
chamber  ;  and,  though  I  could  make  every  allowance  for  his  anger,  I 
confess  I  trembled  for  the  consequences.  I  glanced  at  your  mother  with 
warning  in  my  eyes ;  but  she  misinterpreted  my  glance,  and  continued 
to  cling  to  me  and  make  much  of  me.  Northmour  gazed  straight  before 
him ;  but  he  could  see  with  the  tail  of  his  eye  what  we  were  doing,  and 
his  temper  kept  rising  like  a  gale  of  wind.  With  regular  battle  awaiting 
us  outside,  this  prospect  of  an  internecine  strife  within  the  walls  began 
to  daunt  me. 

Suddenly,  as  I  was  thus  closely  watching  his  expression  and  prepared 


444  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

against  the  worst,  I  saw  a  change,  a  flash,  a  look  of  relief,  upon  his  face. 
He  took  up  the  lamp  which  stood  beside  him  on  the  table,  and  turned 
to  us  with  an  air  of  some  excitement. 

"  There  is  one  point  that  we  nmst  know,"  said  he.  "  Are  they  going 
to  butcher  the  lot  of  us,  or  only  Huddlestone  1  Did  they  take  you  for 
kim,  and  fire  at  you  for  your  own  beaux  yeux  1 " 

"  They  took  me  for  him,  for  certain,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  near  as  tall, 
and  my  head  is  fair." 

"  I  am  going  to  make  sure,"  returned  Northmour ;  and  he  stepped 
up  to  the  window,  holding  the  lamp  above  his  head,  and  stood  there, 
quietly  affronting  death,  for  half  a  minute. 

Your  mother  sought  to  rush  forward  and  pull  him  from  the  place 
of  danger ;  but  I  had  the  pardonable  selfishness  to  hold  her  back  by 
force. 

"  Yes,"  said  Northmour,  turning  coolly  from  the  window ;  :<  it's  only 
Huddlestone  they  want." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Northmour  !  "  cried  your  mother ;  but  found  no  more  to 
add ;  the  temerity  she  had  just  witnessed  seeming  beyond  the  reach  of 
words. 

He,  on  his  part,  looked  at  me,  cocking  his  head,  with  the  fire  of  tri- 
umph in  his  eyes ;  and  I  understood  at  once  that  he  had  thus  hazarded 
his  life,  merely  to  attract  your  mother's  notice,  and  depose  me  from  my 
position  as  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He  snapped  his  fingers. 

"  The  fire  is  only  beginning,"  said  he.  "  When  they  warm  up  to 
their  work,  they  won't  be  so  particular." 

A  voice  was  now  heard  hailing  us  from  the  entrance.  From  the 
window  we  could  see  the  figure  of  a  man  in  .the  moonlight;  he  stood 
motionless,  his  face  uplifted  to  ours,  and  a  rag  of  something  white  on  his 
extended  arm ;  and  as  we  looked  right  down  upon  him,  though  he  was 
&  good  many  yards  distant  on  the  links,  we  could  see  the  moonlight 
glitter  on  his  eyes. 

He  opened  his  lips  again,  and  spoke  for  some  minutes  on  end,  in  a 
key  so  loud  that  he  might  have  been  heard  in  every  corner  of  the  pavi- 
lion, and  as  far  away  as  the  borders  of  the  wood.  It  was  the  same  voice 
that  had  already  shouted  "  Traditore  ! "  through  the  shutters  of  the 
dining-room ;  this  time  it  made  a  complete  and  clear  statement.  If  the 
traitor  "  Oddlestone  "  were  given  up,  all  others  should  be  spared  ;  if  not, 
no  one  should  escape  to  tell  the  tale. 

"  Well,  Huddlestone,  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Northmour, 
turning  to  the  bed. 

Up  to  that  moment  the  banker  had  given  no  sign  of  life,  and  I,  at 
least,  had  supposed  him  to  be  still  lying  in  a  faint ;  but  he  replied  at 
once,  and  in  such  tones  as  I  have  never  heard  elsewhere,  save  from  a 
delirious  patient,  adjured  and  besought  us  not  to  desert  him.  It  was 
the  most  hideous  and  abject  performance  that  my  imagination  can 
conceive. 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  445 

"  Enough,  you  dirty  hound  !  "  cried  Northmour ;  and  then  he  threw 
open  the  window,  leaned  out  into  the  night,  and  in  a  tone  of  exulta- 
tion, and  with  a  total  forgetfulness  of  what  was  done  by  your  mother, 
poured  out  upon  the  ambassador  a  string  of  the  most  abominable  raillery 
both  in  English  and  Italian,  and  bade  him  be  gone  where  he  had  come 
from.  I  believe  that  nothing  so  delighted  Northmour  at  that  moment 
as  the  thought  that  we  must  all  infallibly  perish  before  the  night  was 
out. 

Meantime  the  Italian  put  his  flag  of  truce  into  his  pocket,  and  disap- 
peared, at  a  leisurely  pace,  among  the  sand-hills. 

"  They  make  honourable  war,"  said  Northmour.  "  They  are  all 
gentlemen  and  soldiers.  For  the  credit  of  the  thing,  I  wish  we  could 
change  sides — you  and  I,  Frank,  and  you  too,  Missy  my  darling — and 
leave  that  jackal  on  the  bed  to  some  one  else.  Tut !  Don't  look 
shocked  !  We  are  all  going  post  to  what  they  call  eternity,  and  may  as 
well  be  above-board  while  there's  time.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  if  I 
could  first  strangle  Huddlestone  and  then  get  Clara  in  my  arms,  I  could 
die  with  some  pride  and  satisfaction.  And  as  it  is,  by  God,  I'll  have  a 
kiss  ! " 

Before  I  could  do  anything  to  interfere,  he  had  rudely  embraced  and 
repeatedly  kissed  your  resisting  mother.  Next  moment  I  had  pulled 
him  away  with  fury,  and  flung  him  heavily  against  the  wall.  He 
laughed  loud  and  long,  and  I  feared  his  wits  had  given  way  under  the 
strain ;  for  even  in  the  best  of  days  he  had  been  a  sparing  and  a  quiet 
laugher. 

"Now,  Frank,"  said  he,  when  his  mirth  was  somewhat  appeased, 
"  it's  your  turn.  Here's  my  hand.  Good-bye;  farewell!"  Then,  seeing 
me  stand  rigid  and  indignant,  and  holding  your  mother  to  my  side — 
"  Man  ! "  he  broke  out,  "  are  you  angry  1  Did  you  think  we  were 
going  to  die  with  all  the  airs  and  graces  of  society  ?  I  took  a  kiss ;  I'm 
glad  I  had  it ;  and  now  you  can  take  another  if  you  like,  and  square 
accounts." 

I  turned  from  him  with  a  feeling  of  contempt  which  I  did  not  seek 
to  dissemble. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  he.  "  You've  been  a  prig  in  life ;  a  prig 
you'll  die." 

And  with  that  he  sat  down  in  a  chair,  a  rifle  over  his  knee,  and 
amused  himself  with  snapping  the  lock ;  but  I  could  see  that  his  ebulli- 
tion of  light  spirits  (the  only  one  I  ever  knew  him  to  display)  had 
already  come  to  an  end,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  sullen,  scowling 
humour. 

All  this  time  our  assailants  might  have  been  entering  the  house,  and 
we  been  none  the  wiser ;  we  had  in  truth,  one  and  all,  forgotten  the 
danger  that  so  imminently  overhung  our  days.  But  just  then  Mr. 
Huddlestone  uttered  a  cry,  and  leaped  from  the  bed. 

I  asked  him  what  was  wrong. 


446  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

"  Fire ! "  he  cried.     "  They  have  set  the  house  on  fire." 

Northmour  was  on  his  feet  in.  an  instant,  and  he  and  I  ran  through 
the  doors  of  communication  with  the  study.  The  room  was  illuminated 
by  a  red  and  angry  light.  Almost  at  the  moment  of  our  entrance,  a 
tower  of  flame  arose  in  front  of  the  window,  and,  with  a  tingling  report, 
a  pane  fell  inwards  on  the  carpet.  They  had  set  fire  to  the  lean-to  out- 
house, where  Northmour  used  to  nurse  his  negatives. 

"  Hot  work,"  said  Northmour.     "  Let  us  try  in  your  old  room." 

We  ran  thither  in  a  breath,  threw  up  the  casement,  and  looked  forth. 
Along  the  whole  back  wall  of  the  pavilion  piles  of  fuel  had  been  arranged 
and  kindled ;  and  it  is  probable  they  had  been  drenched  with  mineral  oil, 
for,  in  spite  of  the  morning's  rain,  they  all  burned  bravely.  The  fire  had 
taken  a  firm,  hold  already  on  the  outhouse,  which  blazed  higher  and  higher 
every  moment ;  the  back  door  was  in  the  centre  of  a  red-hot  bonfire  ;  the 
eaves  we  could  see,  as  we  looked  upward,  were  already  smouldering,  for 
the  roof  overhung,  and  was  supported  by  considerable  beams  of  wood. 
At  the  same  time,  hot,  pungent,  and  choking  volumes  of  smoke  began  to 
fill  the  house.  There  was  not  a  human  being  to  be  seen  to  right  or  left. 

"  Ah,  well !  "  said  Northmour     "  here's  the  end,  thank  God." 

And  we  returned  to  My  Uncle's  Room.  Mr.  Huddlestone  was  putting 
on  his  boots  with  an  air  of  determination  such  as  I  had  not  hitherto 
observed.  Your  mother  stood  close  by  him,  with  her  cloak  in  both  hands 
ready  to  throw  about  her  shoulders,  and  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes,  as  if 
she  were  half  hopeful,  half  doubtful  of  her  father. 

"  "Well,  boys  and  girls,"  said  Northmour,  "  how  about  a  sally  ?  The 
oven  is  heating ;  it  is  not  good  to  stay  here  and  be  baked  ;  and",  for  my 
part,  I  want  to  come  to  my  hands  with  them,  .and  be  done." 

"  There  is  nothing  else  left,"  I  replied. 

And  both  your  mother  and  Mr.  Huddlestone,  though  with  a  very 
different  intonation,  added,  "  Nothing." 

As  we  went  downstairs  the  heat  was  excessive,  and  the  roaring  of 
the  fire  filled  our  ears  ;  and  we  had  scarce  reached  the  passage  before  the 
stairs  window  fell  in,  a  branch  of  flame  shot  brandishing  through  the 
aperture,  and  the  interior  of  the  pavilion  became  lit  up  with  that  dread- 
ful and  fluctuating  glare.  At  the  same  moment  we  heard  the  fall  of 
something  heavy  and  inelastic  in  the  upper  story.  The  whole  pavilion, 
it  was  plain,  had  gone  alight  like  a  box  of  matches,  and  now  not  only 
flamed  sky-high  to  land  and  sea,  but  threatened  with  every  moment  to 
crumble  and  fall  in  about  our  ears. 

Northmour  and  I  cocked  our  revolvers.  Mr.  Huddlestone,  who  had 
already  refused  a  firearm,  put  us  behind  him  with  a  manner  of  command. 

"  Let  Clara  open  the  door,"  said  he.  "  So,  if  they  fire  a  volley,  she 
will  be  protected.  And  in  the  meantime  stand  behind  me.  I  am  the 
scapegoat ;  my  sins  have  found  me  out." 

I  heard  him,  as  I  stood  breathless  by  his  shoulder,  with  my  pistol 
ready,  pattering  off  prayers  in  a  tremulous,  rapid  whisper ;  and  I  confess, 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  447 

horrid  as  the  thought  may  seem,  I  despised  him  for  thinking  of  supplica- 
tions in  a  moment  so  critical  and  thrilling.  In  the  meantime,  your 
mother,  who  was  dead  white  but  still  possessed  her  faculties,  had  dis- 
placed the  barricade  from  the  front  door.  Another  moment,  and  she 
had  pulled  it  open.  Firelight  and  moonlight  illuminated  the  links  with 
confused  and  changeful  lustre,  and  far  away  against  the  sky  we  could  see 
a  long  trail  of  glowing  smoke. 

Mr.  Huddlestone  struck  Northmour  and  myself  a  back-hander  in  the 
chest ;  and  while  we  were  thus  for  the  moment  incapacitated  from  action, 
lifting  his  arms  above  his  head  like  one  about  to  dive,  he  ran  straight 
forward  out  of  the  pavilion. 

"  Here  am  I ! "  he  cried — "  Huddlestone  !  Kill  me,  and  spare  the 
others!" 

His  sudden  appearance  daunted,  I  suppose,  our  hidden  enemies ;  for 
Northmour  and  I  had  time  to  recover,  to  seize  Clara  between  us,  one  by 
each  arm,  and  to  rush  forth  to  his  assistance,  ere  anything  further  had 
taken  place.  But  scarce  had  we  passed  the  threshold  when  there  came 
near  a  dozen  reports  and  flashes  from  every  direction  among  the  hollows 
of  the  links.  Mr.  Huddlestone  staggered,  uttered  a  weird  and  freezing 
cry,  threw  up  his  arms  over  his  head,  and  fell  backward  on  the  tuz-f. 

"  Traditore  !  Traditore!"  cried  the  invisible  avengers. 

And  just  then,  a  part  of  the  roof  of  the  pavilion  fell  in,  so  rapid  was 
the  progress  of  the  fire.  A  loud,  vague,  and  horrible  noise  accompanied 
the  collapse,  and  a  vast  volume  of  flame  went  soaring  iip  to  heaven.  It 
must  have  been  visible  at  that  moment  from  twenty  miles  out  at  sea, 
from  the  shore  at  Graden  Wester,  and  far  inland  from  the  peak  of  Gray- 
stiel,  the  most  eastern  summit  of  the  Caulder  hills.  Your  grandfather, 
although  God  knows  what  were  his  obsequies,  had  a  fine  pyre  at  the 
moment  of  his  death. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
TELLS  HOW  NORTHMOUK  CARRIED  OUT  HIS  THREAT. 

I  SHOULD  have  the  greatest  difficulty  to  tell  you  what  followed  next  after 
this  tragic  circumstance.  It  i&  all  to  me,  as  I  look  back  upon  it,  mixed, 
strenuous,  and  ineffectual,  like  the  struggles  of  a  sleeper  in  a  nightmare. 
Your  mother,  I  remember,  uttered  a  broken  sigh  and  would  have  fallen 
forward  to  earth,  had  not  Northmour  and  I  supported  her  insensible 
body.  I  do  not  think  we  were  attacked  ;  I  do  not  remember  even  to 
have  seen  an  assailant ;  and  I  believe  we  deserted  Mr.  Huddlestone  with- 
out a  glance.  I  only  remember  running  like  a  man  in  a  panic,  now 
carrying  your  mother  altogether  in  my  own  arms,  now  sharing  her  weight 
with  Northmour,  now  scuffling  confusedly  for  the  possession  of  that  dear 
burden.  Why  we  should  have  made  for  my  camp  in  the  Hemlock  Den, 
or  how  we  reached  it,  are  points  lost  for  ever  to  my  recollection.  The 


448  THE  PAVILION   ON   THE  LINKS. 

first  moment  at  which  I  became  definitely  sure,  your  mother  had  been 
suffered  to  fall  against  the  outside  of  my  little  tent,  Northmour  and  I 
were  tumbling  together  on  the  ground,  and  he,  with  contained  ferocity, 
was  striking  for  my  head  with  the  butt  of  his  revolver.  He  had  already 
twice  wounded  me  on  the  scalp  ;  and  it  is  to  the  consequent  loss  of  blood 
that  I  am  tempted  to  attribute  the  sudden  clearness  of  my  mind. 

I  caught  him  by  the  wrist. 

"  Northmour,"  I  remember  saying,  "  you  can  kill  me  afterwards. 
Let  us  first  attend  to  Clara." 

He  was  at  that  moment  uppermost.  Scarcely  had  the  words  passed 
my  lips,  when  he  had  leaped  to  his  feet  and  ran  towards  your  mother  ; 
and  the  next  moment,  he  was  straining  her  to  his  heart  and  covering  her 
unconscious  hands  and  face  with  his  caresses. 

"  Shame  !  "  I  cried.     "  Shame  to  you,  Northmour  !  " 

And,  giddy  though  I  still  was,  I  struck  him  repeatedly  upon  the  head 
and  shoulders. 

He  relinquished  his  grasp,  and  faced  me  in  the  broken  moonlight. 

"  I  had  you  under,  and  I  let  you  go,"  said  he  ;  "  and  now  you  strike 
me !  Coward  !  " 

"  You  are  the  coward,"  I  retorted.  "  Did  she  wish  your  kisses  while 
she  was  still  sensible  of  what  she  wanted  ?  Not  she  !  And  now  she  may 
be  dying ;  and  you  waste  this  precious  time,  licking  her  face  like  a  dog. 
Stand  aside,  and  let  me  help  her." 

He  confronted  me  for  a  moment,  white  and  menacing;  then  suddenly 
he  stepped  aside. 

"  Help  her  then,"  said  he. 

I  threw  myself  on  my  knees  beside  your  mother,  and  loosened,  as 
well  as  I  was  able,  her  dress  and  corset ;  but  while  I  was  thus  engaged, 
a  grasp  descended  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Keep  your  hands  off  her,"  said  Northmour  fiercely.  "  Do  you  think 
I  have  no  blood  in  my  veins  1 " 

"Northmour,"  I  cried,  "if  you  will  neither  help  her  yourself,  nor  let 
me  do  so,  do  you  know  that  I  shall  have  to  kill  you  1 " 

"  That  is  better !  "  he  cried.  "  Let  her  die  also,  where's  the  harm  ? 
Step  aside  from  that  girl !  and  stand  up  to  fight." 

"You  will  observe,"  said  I,  half  rising,  "that  I  have  not  kissed  her 
yet." 

"  I  dare  you  to,"  he  cried. 

I  do  not  know  what  possessed  me,  my  dear  children ;  it  was  one  of 
the  things  I  am  most  ashamed  of  in  my  life,  though,  as  your  mother  used 
to  say,  I  knew  that  my  kisses  would  be  always  welcome,  were  she  dead 
or  living ;  down  I  fell  again  upon  my  knees,  parted  the  hair  from  her 
forehead,  and,  with  the  dearest  respect,  laid  my  lips  for  a  moment  on  that 
cold  brow.  It  was  such  a  caress  as  a  father  might  have  given ;  it  was 
such  a  one  as  was  not  unbecoming  from  a  man  soon  to  die  to  a  woman 
already  dead. 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  449 

*'  And  now,"  said  I,  "  I  am  at  your  service,  Mr.  Northmour." 

But  I  saw,  to  my  surprise,  that  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  me. 

"  Do  you  hear  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  do.  If  you  wish  to  fight,  I  am  ready.  If  not, 
•go  on  and  save  Clara.  All  is  one  to  me." 

I  did  not  wait  to  be  twice  bidden ;  but,  stooping  again  over  your 
mother,  continued  my  efforts  to  revive  her.  She  still  lay  white  and 
lifeless ;  I  began  to  fear  that  her  sweet  spirit  had  indeed  fled  beyond 
recall,  and  horror  and  a  sense  of  utter  desolation  seized  upon  my  heart. 
I  called  her  by  name  with  the  most  endearing  inflections ;  I  chafed  and 
beat  her  hands ;  now  I  laid  her  head  low,  now  supported  it  against  my 
knee;  but  all  seemed  to  be  in  vain,  and  the  lids  still  lay  heavy  on  your 
mother's  eyes. 

"  Northmour,"  I  said,  "  there  is  my  hat.  For  God's  sake  bring  some 
•water  from  the  spring."  . 

Almost  in  a  moment  he  was  by  my  side  with  the  water. 

"  I  have  brought  it  in  my  own,"  he  said.  "  You  do  not  grudge  me 
the  privilege  1 " 

"  Northmour,"  I  was  beginning  to  say,  as  I  laved  your  mother's  head 
«,nd  breast ;  but  he  interrupted  me  savagely. 

"  Oh,  you  hush  up  ! "  he  said.  "  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  say 
nothing." 

I  had  certainly  no  desire  to  talk,  my  mind  being  swallowed  up  in 
concern  for  my  dear  love  and  her  condition ;  so  I  continued  in  silence  to 
do  my  best  towards  her  recovery,  and,  when  the  hat  was  empty,  returned 
it  to  him,  with  one  word — "  More."  He  had,  perhaps,  gone  several  times 
upon  this  errand,  when  your  mother  reopened  her  eyes. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  since  she  is  better,  you  can  spare  me,  can  you  not  1 
I  wish  you  a  good  night,  Mr.  Cassilis." 

And  with  that  he  was  gone  among  the  thicket.  I  made  a  fire  for 
your  mother,  for  I  had  now  no  fear  of  the  Italians,  who  had  even  spared 
all  the  little  possessions  left  in  my  encampment ;  and,  broken  as  she  was 
by  the  excitement  and  the  hideous  catastrophe  of  the  evening,  I  managed, 
in  one  way  or  another — by  persuasion,  encouragement,  warmth,  and  such 
simple  remedies  as  I  could  lay  my  hand  on — to  bring  her  back  to  some 
composure  of  mind  and  strength  of  body.  We  were  soon  talking,  sadly, 
perhaps,  but  not  unhopefully,  of  our  joint  future  ;  and  I,  with  my  arm 
about  her  waist,  sought  to  inspire  her  with  a  sense  of  help  and  protec- 
tion from  one  who,  not  only  then,  but  till  the  day  she  died,  would  have 
joyfully  sacrificed  his  life  to  do  her  pleasure. 

Day  had  already  come,  when  a  sharp  "  Hist !  "  sounded  from  the  thicket. 
I  started  from  the  ground ;  but  the  voice  of  Northmour  was  heard  adding, 
in  the  most  tranquil  tones  :  "  Come  here,  Cassilis,  and  alone  ;  I  want  to 
show  you  something." 

I  consulted  your  mother  with  my  eyes,  and,  receiving  her  tacit  per- 
mission, left  her  alone,  and  clambered  out  of  the  den.  At  some  distance 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250.  22. 


450  THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS. 

off  I  saw  Northmour  leaning  against  an  elder  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  per- 
ceived me,  he  began  walking  seaward.  I  had  almost  overtaken  him  as 
he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  wood. 

"  Look,"  said  he,  pausing. 

A  couple  of  steps  more  brought  me  out  of  the  foliage.  The  light  of 
the  morning  lay  cold  and  clear  over  that  well-known  scene.  The  pavi- 
lion was  but  a  blackened  wreck ;  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  one  of  the  gables 
had  fallen  out ;  and,'far  and  near,  the  face  of  the  links  was  cicatrised  with 
little  patches  of  burnt  furze.  Thick  smoke  still  went  straight  upwards 
in  the  windless  air  of  the  morning,  and  a  great  pile  of  ardent  cinders 
filled  the  bare  walls  of  the  house,  like  coals  in  an  open  grate.  Close  by 
the  islet  a  schooner  yacht  lay  to,  and  a  well-manned  boat  was  pulling 
vigorously  for  the  shore. 

"The  Bed  Earl  I"  I  cried.  "The  Red  Earl  twelve  hours  too 
late!" 

"  Feel  in  your  pocket,  Frank.     Are  you  armed  1 "  asked  Northmour. 

I  obeyed  him,  and  I  think  I  must  have  become  deadly  pale.  My 
revolver  had  been  taken  from  me. 

"  You  see  I  have  you  in  my  power,"  he  continued.     "  I  disarmed  you 

last  night  while  you  were  nursing  Clara ;  but  this  morning here — take 

your  pistol.  No  thanks  !  "  he  cried,  holding  up  his  hand.  "  I  do  not 
like  them ;  that  is  the  only  way  you  can  annoy  me  now." 

He  began  to  walk  forward  across  the  links  to  meet  the  boat,  and  I 
followed  a  step  or  two  behind.  In  front  of  the  pavilion  I  paused  to  see 
where  Mr.  Huddlestone  had  fallen ;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  him,  nor  so 
much  as  a  trace  of  blood. 

"Safe  in  Graden  Floe,"  said  Northmour.  "Four  minutes  and  a 
half,  Frank  !  And  the  Italians  1  Gone  too  ;  they  were  night-birds,  and 
they  have  all  flown  before  daylight." 

He  continued  to  advance  till  we  had  come  to  the  head  of  the  beach. 

"  No  further,  please,"  said  he.  "  Would  you  like  to  take  her  to 
Graden  House  1 " 

" Thank  you,"  replied  I;  " I  shall  try  to  get  her  to  the  minister's  at 
Graden  Wester." 

The  prow  of  the  boat  here  grated  on  the  beach,  and  a  sailor  jumped 
ashore  with  a  line  in  his  hand. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  lads !  "  cried  Northmour ;  and  then  lower  and  to 
my  private  ear  :  "  You  had  better  say  nothing  of  all  this  to  her,"  he 
added. 

"  On  the  contrary  ! "  I  broke  out,  "  she  shall  know  everything  that  I 
can  tell." 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  he  returned,  with  an  air  of  great  dignity. 
"  It  will  be  nothing  to  her ;  she  expects  it  of  me." 

^  Thus,  my  dear  children,  had  your  mother  exerted  her  influence  for 
good  upon  this  violent  man.  Years  and  years  after,  she  used  to  call 
that  speech  her  patent  of  nobility ;  and  "  she  expects  it  of  me  "  became  a 


THE  PAVILION  ON  THE  LINKS.  451 

sort  of  by- word  in  our  married  life,  and  was  often  more  powerful  than 
an  argument  to  mould  me  to  her  will. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  said  he,  with  a  nod. 

I  offered  him  my  hand. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he.     "  It's  small,  I  know ;  but  I  can't  push  things 
quite  so  far  as  that.     I  don't  wish  any  sentimental  business,  to  sit  by 
your  hearth  a  white-haired  wanderer,  and  all  that.     Quite  the  contrary  : 
I  hope  to  God  I  shall  never  again  clap  eyes  on  either  one  of  you." 
,    "  Well,  God  bless  you,  Northmour !  "  I  said  heartily. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  returned.     " He'll  bless  me.     You  let  Him  alone." 

He  walked  down  the  beach ;  and  the  man  who  was  ashore  gave  him 
an  arm  on  board,  and  then  shoved  off  and  leaped  into  the  bows  himself. 
Northmour  took  the  tiller ;  the  boat  rose  to  the  waves,  and  the  oars 
between  the  thole-pins  sounded  crisp  and  measured  in  the  morning  air. 

They  were  not  yet  half  way  to  the  Red  Earl,  and  I  was  still  watching 
their  progress,  when  the  sun  rose  out  of  the  sea. 

One  word  more,  and  my  story  is  done.  Years  after,  Northmour  was 
killed  fighting  under  the  colours  of  Garibaldi  for  the  liberation  of  the . 
Tyrol. 

E.  L.  8.. 


22—2 


452 


|)0or. 


IT  was,  perhaps,  the  graphic  sympathy  and  pathetic  humour  of  Dickens 
which  set  up  that  action  of  popular  interest  in  the  matter  before  us 
which  has  grown  to  the  dimensions  it  now  exhibits.  Since  he  began  to 
write,  fields  of  paper  and  ponds  of  ink  have  been  used  to  describe  the 
daily  surroundings  of  the  million.  The  pencils  of  Cruikshank,  Leech, 
and  Tenniel  have,  moreover,  pricked  many  artists  with  a  desire  to  deli- 
neate dilapidated  street  and  indoor  scenes,  not  as  mere  humorous  illus- 
trators of  low  life,  like  some  sketch ers  of  a  former  generation,  but  as 
protesters  against  evil,  and  preachers  of  painful  truth.  Even  the 
draughtsmen  of  the  Police  News  seek  to  divert  the  eye  from  artistic  de- 
ficiencies by  a  sensational  caricaturing  of  vileness  and  squalor. 

We  are  indeed  so  familiar  with  the  printed  and  illustrated  records 
of  slums,  cellars,  garrets,  courts,  alleys,  arabs,  casuals,  gutter  children, 
rookeries,  and  dens,  that  some  people,  maybe,  hardly  think  of  a  poor 
man's  family  as  free  from  noisome  degradation,  and,  perhaps,  feel  some- 
what sick  of  the  whole  business  as  testifying  to  incurable  social  sores  in 
the  body  of  the  people. 

But,  though  the  domestic  and  material  condition  of  very  many  poor 
houses  is  about  as  bad  as  it  could  be,  we  should  be  careful  not  to  include 
the  large  bulk  of  the  artisans  of  cities  among  those  who  are  squalidly 
lodged.  Such  as  do  not  personally  know  the  facts  of  the  case  would  be 
surprised  at  the  neatness  and  self-respect  evident  in  a  large  number  of 
tenements  inhabited  by  the  "  working  classes."  Their  sense  of  propriety 
and  social  position  enables  those  of  whom  I  am  thinking  to  live  and 
bring  up  children  without  being  spoiled  by  narrow  accommodation,  or 
becoming  debased  by  the  often  close  contiguity  of  families  which,  from 
one  cause  or  another,  have  small  social  shame.  Such  phrases  as  the 
"  masses"  or  the  "  million  "  lead  us  to  miss  a  due  perception  of  that  in- 
dividualism which  is  characteristic  of  English  people,  and  to  forget  that, 
though  cheap  streets  may  be  crowded  by  thousands,  the  units  which 
compose  them  are,  in  many  instances,  as  separate  and  socially  exclusive 
in  their  acquaintanceships  as  the  residents  in  the  richer  districts  of  the 
metropolis. 

Thus  some  might  discount  their  evil  estimate  of  the  homes  of  the 
town  poor  by  the  reflection  that  a  large  portion  of  the  so-called  poor 
exhibit  a  wholesome  independence  and  individual  self-respect  which 
enables  them  to  evade  the  mischief  often  attendant  on  narrow  domestic 
accommodation,  and  surmount  the  depressing  monotony  of  the  streets 
in  which  many  of  the  million  reside. 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOE.  453 

Again,  excluding  the  professionally  vicious  or  criminal  classes,  those 
who  form  the  stratum  above  them,  and  yet  below  that  of  the  artisan, 
are  mostly  characterised  by  some  virtues  which  are  as  salt  to  the  carcase 
of  human  nature.  They  are  often  improvident  and  slatternly  in  their 
ways  ;  but  still  they  work  honestly  for  their  daily  bread,  are  wonderfully 
patient  under  their  sufferings,  and  kind  to  one  another  in  their  affliction. 
Thus,  when  we  face  the  question  of  their  improvement,  we  are  not  only 
met  at  once  by  some  phases  of  worth  which  should  indicate  caution  in 
judging  our  brother,  but  they  present  some  promising  materials  on  which 
to  work,  and  hopeful  possibilities  of  social  improvement,  provided  we 
try  to  cultivate  and  educate  the  good  they  exhibit,  and  do  not  content 
ourselves  by  simply  condemning  whatever  wrong  they  may  do. 

In  speaking  of  the  homes  of  the  town  poor,  I  will  not  confine  myself 
to  the  consideration  of  the  cases  of  those  who  are  most  conspicuous  for 
poverty,  but  look  also  at  the  condition  of  such  as  come  above  the 
squalid  classes.  These  of  the  better  sort,  however,  are  dependent  for 
daily  bread  upon  daily  handwork,  they  have  no  inherited  means  of 
support  nor  fixed  incomes,  and  thus  they  are  somewhat  loosely  reckoned 
as  poor. 

I  have  said  that  the  houses  of  such  as  these  often  present  evidence 
of  much  social  and  domestic  self-respect.  But,  at  the  best,  they  are 
narrow  and  cramped,  and,  though  there  may  be  small  likelihood  of  the 
houses  themselves  being  all  replaced  by  better  dwellings,  their  sanitary 
condition  is  capable  of  much  improvement. 

It  is  obvious  that  dwellings,  decent  in  many  respects,  may  be  perni- 
ciously bad  by  reason  of  defective  drains,  water  supply,  and  ventilation. 
No  doubt  it  is  in  the  power  of  the  tenant  to  complain  of  defects  to  the 
landlord,  and,  in  case  of  his  negligence,  to  the  local  sanitary  officers. 
But  many,  whose  tenure  is  weekly,  are  content  to  endure  these  evils 
rather  than  risk  a  notice  to  quit  for  being  troublesome. 

Local  inspectors,  moreover,  with  the  best  intentions,  are  sometimes 
unable  to  keep  their  inquisitorial  zeal  in  full  blast,  and  are  tempted,  in 
very  weariness,  to  slacken  their  uninvited  visits  to  houses  whose  sanitary 
equipment  they  have  reason  to  suspect. 

There  is  thus  in  many  places  an  opening  for  the  amateur  who  might 
spy  and  smell  out  nuisances.  He  gets  small  thanks  for  this ;  but  he 
may  do  much  good,  and  cheer  the  honest  but  weary  official. 

In  asking  how  such  improvements  as  I  am  thinking  of  should  be 
brought  about,  it  may  be  well  to  note  the  truth  involved  in  the  familiar 
phrase  "  House  and  Home."  "When  we  wish  to  express  the  utterness  of 
domestic  expulsion,  we  say  that  a  man  is  "  turned  out  of  house  and 
home."  What  makes  a  home  1 

In  the  first  place,  if  any  one  is  seeking  to  settle  down,  he  does  not 
consider  merely  the  size  and  kind  of  building  under  the  roof  of  which 
he  proposes  to  live,  but  its  situation. 

Its  site  is  of  primary  importance.     This  has  been  prominently  felt 


454  THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOK. 

and  exhibited  among  the  middle  and  tipper  classes  of  cities  during  the 
last  quarter  of  a  century.  In  London  especially  there  has  been  a 
marked  exodus  not  only  to  the  suburbs,  but  to  those  parts  of  the  country 
most  accessible  by  rail. 

The  crowds  at  the  metropolitan  termini,  when  the  hours  of  daily 
business  come  to  an  end,  are  certainly  witnesses  to  the  fact  that  land  in 
the  City  is  too  dear  to  live  on,  and  yet  many  of  the  departing  multitude 
take  ticket  for  more  than  a  cheaper  site. 

They  are  willing  to  endure  the  racket  of  the  train  that  they  may  flit 
beyond  the  canopy  of  smoke  and  hum  of  traffic  into  some  quiet  spot 
where  country  scenery  may  refresh  their  eyes  and  nerves,  or  at  least  a 
small  garden  provide  a  grateful  contrast  to  the  gritty  pavement  of  the 
streets.  And  no  change  of  fashion  such  as  that  exemplified  in  the 
nightly  exodus  of  many  into  the  most  accessible  parts  of  the  home 
counties  is  without  its  influence  on  the  better  sort  of  artisan.  As  his 
wife  on  Sundays  wears  a  necessarily  cheap  example  of  the  prevailing 
bonnet,  so,  like  those  who  earn  more  money,  he  would,  if  he  could,  shift 
his  dwelling  quarters  from  the  scene  of  his  daily  labour.  Some,  indeed, 
do  thus  find  a  home  elsewhere,  but  by  far  the  larger  bulk  of  this  class 
stay  in  the  dull  streets  or  crowded  courts  which  lie  within  an  easy  walk 
of  the  spots  where  they  work. 

This  inability  of  theirs  to  share  in  the  evening  exodus  of  workers 
which  has  prevailed  and  is  still  extending  of  late  years,  should  give 
additional  point  to  our  perception  of  the  value  of  open  spaces  in  cities, 
and  make  us  do  our  utmost  so  to  adapt  and  adorn  them  that  working 
men,  as  well  as  resident  shopkeepers,  might  have  a  chance  to  sit,  in  warm 
weather,  somewhere  else  than  in  the  close  room  or  public-house.  Open 
spaces,  suitably  laid  out,  do  much  towards  virtually  changing  the  situa- 
tion of  contiguous  dwellings,  and  make  them  more  like  what  many 
desire  in  a  home. 

Again,  those  of  the  present  generation  who  can  afford  it  generally 
contrive  to  break  the  monotony  of  continuous  residence  in  town  by  some 
occasional  or  at  least  yearly  outing.  This  does  more  than  provide  the 
contrast  afforded  in  the  temporary  leaving  of  a  house.  It  makes  the 
home,  and  whatever  comfort  it  may  possess,  all  the  more  pleasant  when 
the  trip  is  over.  I  am  glad  to  have  noticed  among  artisans  a  growing 
desire  for  expeditions  more  free  or  extended  than  the  dusty  jaunt  in  a 
van.  And  those  who  are  interested  in  the  wholesome  diversion  of  such 
as  are  poorer  than  themselves  can  hardly  do  a  better  act  of  its  kind  than 
promote  these  breaks  in  the  dull  round  of  toil,  especially  when  the  trip 
has  a  more  domestic  character  than  is  afforded  by  an  outing  along  with 
a  number  of  noisy  companions  crowded  into  an  excursion  train. 

The  advantages  of  even  a  day  in  the  country  are  much  greater  when 
a  working  man  takes  his  wife  and  family  into  it  without  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  beery  band,  and  the  temptation  to  hang  about  a  rural  public- 
house  instead  of  seeing  what  the  lanes  and  fields  are  really  like. 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOE.  455 

Great  good  may  be  done  by  forming  a  botanical,  geological,  or  ento- 
mological class  among  the  younger  men,  and  making  explorations  with 
them  just  beyond  the  suburbs  of  cities.  The  interest  then  generated,  and 
the  revelation  of  entertainment  unassociated  with  the  public-house  in- 
evitably tend  to  enlarge  the  pleasures  of  a  home  to  which  they  bring 
back  their  spoils. 

This  may  help  to  remind  us  that  the  idea  of  a  home  involves  some 
decorative  complement  and  equipment.  No  one  is  content  with  bare  walls 
and  roof,  however  strong  and  tight.  A  mother  in  a  crowded  street  asked 
me,  the  other  day,  to  see  the  "  home  "  of  a  daughter  who  was  about  to 
be  married.  She  really  meant  the  furniture  which  had  been  gradually 
collected  for  the  household  of  the  coming  pair.  They  had  hired  a  small 
house  somewhere ;  but  that  which  was  to  make  it  into  a  "  home  "  was 
packed  in  the  parental  kitchen,  and  exhibited  with  pride.  How  much 
pleasure  a  domestic  man  of  the  middle  class  has  in  adding  a  tasty  piece 
of  furniture,  a  print,  a  tea-cup  for  the  shelf,  to  the  equipment  of  his 
dwelling  !  How  interested  he  is  in  settling  where  it  should  be  hung,  or 
stand  !  And,  as  the  sentiment  of  decoration  is  shared  by  many  among 
those  who  are  called  poor,  it  opens  a  wide  field  in  which  the  con- 
dition of  their  homes  might  be  improved.  It  is  not  wise  to  scorn  cheap 
ornament,  but  it  is  well  to  help  in  making  it  as  tasteful  and  refining  as 
a  small  purse  can  command.  In  this  matter  I  think  individual  generosity 
and  influence  can  be  exercised  with  less  chance  of  impertinent  inter- 
ference than  in  divers  other  respects.  The  present  even  of  a  few  flowers 
in  pots,  or  cheap  though  artistic  prints  for  the  wall,  has  none  of  the 
degrading  flavour  of  a  money  donation.  It  promotes  kindliness,  and 
sometimes  sets  up  a  healthy  appreciation  of  those  important  trifles  which 
help  to  mark  the  distinction  between  a  house  and  a  home. 

Again,  repose  is  a  condition  or  factor  of  the  true  home.  Most  houses 
of  the  better  sort  have  some  room  of  retreat  where  the  master  at  least 
may  shield  himself  from  the  exuberant  spirits  of  the  boys,  or  the  in- 
sistence of  domestic  routine. 

His  house,  moreover,  has  a  nursery  and  a  kitchen.  Why  should  not 
the  working  man  have  some  wholesome  escape  from  or  alleviation  of  the 
pressure  involved  in  the  continuous  presence  of  his  whole  family  and  its 
inevitable  household  processes  ?  As  it  mostly  is,  he  resorts  to  the  public- 
house,  and  it  is  more  easy  than  just  for  those  who  have  manifold  domestic 
arrangements  and  accommodation  to  blame  him  for  so  doing.  It  has 
been  suggested  that  a  more  extended  provision  of  shops  in  which  the  men 
should  work  by  clay  would  sensibly  add  to  the  enjoyment  of  their  dwell- 
ings. Then  a  man  would  experience  the  sensation  of  going  home  when 
his  day's  task  was  done,  and  not  be  tempted  to  escape  from  its  scene  the 
moment  he  has  completed  it. 

In  reference,  too,  to  the  alleviation  of  the  mischief  arising  from  having 
no  other  convenient  resort  than  the  public-house,  I  hope  to  see  the  day 
when  working  men's  clubs  will  do  much  more  towards  making  the  defects 


456  THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOE. 

of  narrow  houses  or  rooms  less  mischievous  than  they  are  now.  Youths' 
institutes,  moreover,  help  sensibly  in  relieving  the  internal  pressure  of 
poor  homes.  No  animal  demands  more  space  than  a  restless  boy.  His 
sprawling  spirits  and  legs  interdict  repose.  Those  good  people  improve 
homes  who  provide  him  with  some  place  where  he  can  shuffle  and  talk 
without  getting  into  mischief. 

Thus  the  centrifugal  domestic  force  which  often  detains  the  father 
in  the  public-house  is  perceptibly  lessened.  In  providing  a  retreat  for 
boys  they  must  not,  however,  be  met  with  too  distinct  educational  pro 
posals.  I  had  for  some  time  a  very  successful  lads'  club ;  and  the  vehe- 
mence with  which  they  let  off  steam,  though  they  had  been  at  work  all 
day,  indicated  the  importunity  with  which  they  would  probably  have 
asserted  themselves  in  a  small  home,  and  lessened  my  temptation  to  blame 
parents  for  sending  them  out  of  doors  to  disport  themselves  unadvisedly 
elsewhere. 

In  respect  to  the  cooking,  which  is  an  inevitable  accompaniment  of  a 
household,  and  which  is  more  grateful  in  its  results  than  in  its  procedure, 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  considerable  improvement  might  be  made  in 
the  comfort  of  small  homes  by  the  provision  of  a  number  of  common 
kitchens  where  wives  and  mothers  might  not  only  prepare  the  family 
food,  but  learn  how  to  prepare  it  better  and  more  cheaply  than  they  do 
now.  The  idea  is  somewhat  rudely  suggested  by  the  use  which  is  at 
present  made  of  bakers'  ovens ;  but  this  use  is  very  uniform  and  restricted. 
The  pie  and  the  piece  of  meat  set  over  potatoes  seem  to  exhaust  the 
varieties  of  a  humble  meal  thus  cooked.  I  should  like  to  see  the  experi- 
ment made  of  inducing  parties  of,  say,  a  dozen  working  men's  housewives 
to  meet  in  an  accessible  room,  and  there  provide,  under  instruction,  the 
dinners  or  suppers  of  the  family. 

The  home  "  washing"  has  in  many  places  been  removed  to  the  public 
washhouse.  Why  should  not  some  arrangement  of  a  similar  kind  he 
made  for  the  cooking  of  food  ?  Let  there  be  different  dinners  provided 
on  successive  days,  all  clubbing  for  the  food  and  fuel.  A  pair  of  scales 
would  ensure  the  taking  away  by  each  of  a  proportionate  dish  of  the  result. 
At  first  some  instruction  would  be  needed  in  the  suitable  preparation  of 
various  kinds  of  cheap  food ;  but  a  party  might  soon  learn  how  to  cook  a 
set  of  different  dishes,  and  then  the  most  skilled  might  act  as  forewoman. 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  some  such  plan  might  issue  not  only  ia 
spreading  the  knowledge  of  economical  and  toothsome  cookery,  but  in 
relieving  the  narrow  home  from,  the  potter  of  culinary  preparation,  and 
in  some  measure  from  the  distasteful  sequence  of  washing  up. 

In  thinking  of  the  indirect  and  circumstantial  improvement  of  many 
of  the  existing  homes  of  the  poor  which  are  not  likely  to  be  replaced  by 
better  dwellings,  I  might,  if  space  allowed  me,  say  much  on  the  spread 
of  sanitary  truths,  and  especially  on  the  need  for  better  knowledge  how 
to  tend  those  sick  who  are  not  removed  to  a  public  hospital. 

The  local  lectures  which  are  given  under  the  auspices  of  the  National 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOK.  457 

Health  Society,  and  in  London  the  domestic  instruction  as  well  as  minis- 
tration afforded  by  the  Metropolitan  and  National  Nursing  Association, 
are  already  doing  something  to  bring  comfort  into  the  homes  of  those 
whose  condition  I  am  considering. 

To  what  I  have  said  about  their  indirect  improvement,  I  will  add 
only  one  general  reflection.  In  wealthier  families  there  can  be  no 
domestic  lapse  without  some  perceptible  discomfiture  or  distress ;  but  it 
generally  takes  a  long  time  or  some  great  social  failure  to  break  tip  the 
household.  The  sons  may  vex  their  parents  by  dissipation,  the  extrava- 
gance of  some  member  of  the  family  may  shrink  the  income  at  its  disposal, 
the  master  may  incur  losses,  the  mistress  may  be  long  laid  upon  a  sick 
bed,  the  children  may  be  hard  to  rear ;  but  all  these  drawbacks  do  not 
radically  disturb  the  routine  of  domestic  life.  There  may  be  a  servant 
the  less  kept,  the  carriage  may  have  to  be  put  down,  fewer  entertain- 
ments may  be  given,  the  household  may  have  to  fall  back  upon  half-pay, 
as  it  were,  and  yet  it  may  be  held  together.  That  condition  of  failure 
may  not  be  reached  which  involves  disruption  and  dispersal. 

But  it  takes  a  very  little  to  drag  a  poor  ho  me  below  a  tolerable  level. 
There  the  border  between  comfort  and  ruin  is  very  narrow.  The  intem- 
perance or  sickness  of  a  parent  immediately  tells.  Even  a  little  careless- 
ness and  improvidence  makes  a  great  difference  in  the  condition  of  a 
family.  And  when  the  action  of  decay  is  set  up  it  is  rapid ;  the  process 
of  decline  becomes  accelerated.  The  household  loses  heart  as  it  feels  itself 
sinking  in  the  mire.  And  thus  such  as  are  able  and  willing  to  improve 
the  homes  of  their  poorer  fellows  indirectly  should  be  quick  to  help,  not 
necessarily  in  money,  but  in  sympathy,  where  sorrow,  sickness,  or  loss 
threatens  to  drop  the  household  through  the  thin  ice  on  which  it  stands. 
Such  aid  is  infinitely  more  hopeful  than  that  given  to  a  family  habituated 
to  degradation  and  dependence,  however  deeply  the  would-be  helper  is 
pained  by  the  sight  of  its  squalor. 

I  must,  however,  now  pass  on  to  look  not  so  much  at  the  bettering 
of  existing  homes  as  at  the  replacement  of  many  of  them  by  improved 
dwellings.  It  is  promising  to  perceive  the  great  readiness  with  which 
these  are  hired  by  artisans.  The  rooms  in  a  new  block  are  sometimes 
engaged  before  the  building  is  finished.  The  provision  and  acceptance 
of  these  testify  to  a  general  advance  in  the  appreciation  of  that  which 
marks  a  home.  I  will  not  now  furnish  any  collection  of  statistics  about 
this  indication  of  the  enlargement  of  domestic  ideas.  It  is  enough  for 
my  purpose  to  notice  that  large  structures,  containing  many  distinct  sets 
of  rooms,  each  fitted  with  wholesome  and  decent  sanitary  arrangements, 
have  arisen  and  are  arising  over  the  whole  metropolitan  area.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  these  will  prove  to  be  "  sporadic,"  and  an  immense 
change  be  thus  produced  in  the  homes  of  the  London  poor.  Many  in- 
fluences are  at  work  to  promote  this.  There  is  a  general  advance  in  social 
requirements. 

It  needs  an  effort  to  realise  what  some  of  the  elders  of  the  present 


458  THE   HOMES   OF  TOWN  POOE. 

middle  classes  can  remember  as  being  once  tolerated  in  their  homes  and 
domestic  habits.  The  old  four-post  bedstead,  in  some  instances,  seems 
to  have  been  accepted  as  the  representative  of  a  sleeping  apartment,  and 
tubs,  not  so  very  long  ago,  almost  indicated  eccentricity. 

The  change,  to  which  the  modern  fittings  and  furniture  of  the  better 
sort  of  houses  bear  witness,  has  not  been  without  its  effect  on  the  artisan 
class,  and  it  is  probable  that  an  accelerated  impulse  will  soon  be  given 
to  this  by  education.  It  is  not  merely  that  they  are  being  better  edu- 
cated, but  the  tone  and  character  of  the  teaching  they  receive  more  and 
more  familiarise  them  with  educated  language,  and  the  fastidiousness 
as  well  as  the  wider  range  of  information  and  thought  which  it  involves. 

They  are  necessarily  getting  to  read  books,  periodicals,  and  news- 
papers, the  style  of  which  assumes  such  an  acquaintance  with  the  refine- 
ments of  life  as  their  fathers  knew  little  and  cared  less  about.  This 
will  make  them  discontented  with  many  of  their  circumstances,  and 
probably  one  shape  of  the  discontent  generated  will  be  a  wholesome 
desire  for  better  surroundings  at  home.  Moreover,  children  who  have 
become  accustomed  to  the  structural  luxuries  of  board  and  other  new 
schools  will,  as  they  pass  on  to  form  the  next  generation  of  working 
people,  grow  dissatisfied  with  many  of  their  present  houses,  and  create  a 
demand  for  a  revolution  in  domestic  circumstances  with  which  their 
parents  were  contented. 

The  most  important  factor  in  the  process  of  improved  dwellings  is 
the  discovery  that  they  can  be  made  to  pay.  Charity  could  never  over- 
take and  remove  the  domestic  sumptuary  evils  of  all  the  houses  inhabited 
by  the  town  poor.  It  has,  indeed,  led  the  way  in  showing  how  decently 
and  conveniently  large  numbers  of  families  can  be  lodged  on  small  sites, 
and  in  so  doing  has  afforded  an  excellent  example  of  that  phase  of  itself 
which  begins  at  home. 

The  work  to  be  done,  however,  involves  the  provision  of  houses  for 
many  who  earn  good  wages,  and  are  comparatively  well  off.  And,  if  it 
were  possible,  it  would  not  be  economically  wholesome  for  these  to  be 
lodged  mainly  out  of  the  donations  of  others,  collected  with  all  the  parade 
of  charitable  association.  Such  a  proceeding  would  spread  a  degrading 
sense  of  dependence.  But  when  we  find  some  building  companies  which 
replace  defective  dwellings  of  the  London  poor  able  to  pay  their  share- 
holders a  fair  percentage  for  their  money,  we  may  confidently  accept  the 
fact  that  a  reforming  action  has  been  set  up  which  wants  only  time  in 
order  to  produce  excellent  results.  We  may  hope,  moreover,  that  the 
better  sort  of  the  working  classes  will  justify  some  of  the  indications 
which  they  have  exhibited,  and  take  the  matter  more  in  hand  themselves. 
They  have  shown  that  they  can  do  much  in  divers  ways  by  co-operation, 
and  the  same  business  powers  which  have  produced  their  own  factories 
and  stores  elsewhere  ought  to  enable  them  to  aid  materially  in  providing 
themselves  with  better  homes  in  the  metropolis. 

Critics  have,  of  course,  been  ready  to  decry  some  of  the  results  which 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOE.  459 

have  been  already  reached.     But  it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that 
mistakes  should  be  made  in  the  structural  arrangements  of  the  earliest 
dwelling  blocks  erected.     Those,  e.g.,  which  have  been  built  in  the  form 
of  a   square,  enclosing  within  high  walls  a  deep  tank  of  still  air,  are 
obviously  ill-equipped  for  ventilation,  and  have  been  found  to  retain 
epidemics  with  provoking  tenacity.     The  children,  moreover,  living  in 
t  he  upper  flats  of  some  are  said  to  be  deprived  of  much  of  the  exercise 
which  they  need,  being  kept  too  much  within  doors  and  unable  to  turn 
out  with  ease  for  that  noisy  play  in  the  streets  which  moves  the  pity  of 
some  who  compare  the  scene  of  their  romps  with  green  fields,  but  which 
indubitably  they  seem  to  enjoy,  and  which,  in  spite  of  some  drawbacks, 
does  them  infinite  good.     I  think,  however,  that  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood of  a  block  of  improved  dwellings  generally  shows  that  large 
numbers  of  their  little  folk  contrive  to  get  down  to  mother  earth  and 
engage  with  sufficient  energy  in  cat,  whipping  top,  buttons,  marbles,  or 
battledore  and  shuttlecock,  or  whatever  some  mysterious  law  decides 
shall  rule  the  pursuit  of  some  hundreds  of  thousands  of  children  with 
unconcerted  unanimity. 

Again,  a  gloomy,  cavernous  common  passage  or  staircase  to  a  dozen 
sets  of  rooms  is  likely,  especially  in  long,  dark  evenings,  to  facilitate 
ruder  acquaintanceships  among  the  bigger  boys  and  girls  than  the  elders 
of  their  families  desire.  But  the  defects  which  I  have  noticed  have  been 
perceived  and  have  not  been  repeated  in  the  later  dwellings  which  have 
been  erected.  There  are  more  galleries  for  the  airing  and  exercise  of  the 
smaller  children,  and  the  passages  are  more  public  and  better  lit.  The 
best  buildings,  too,  are  so  arranged  that  the  rooms  are  capable  of  being 
swept  by  what  the  sedentary  artisan  dislikes — a  thorough  draught ;  and 
one  great  drawback  to  low  and  thin  roofed  houses — I  mean  that  arising 
from  the  heat  in  summer — is  obviously  absent.  Certainly,  no  one  can 
have  left  London  on  a  roasting  July  afternoon,  perhaps  for  some  cool 
and  pleasant  country  retreat,  and  seen  from  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage  the  "  shimmer  "  of  heated  atmosphere  hovering  over  acres  of 
tile  and  slate  without  thinking  of  the  intolerable  condition  of  the 
chambers  immediately  beneath  them.  Their  inmates  are  baked  in 
summer  and  frozen  in  winter.  These  evils  are  certainly  obviated  when 
the  upper  heat  and  cold  are  kept  out  of  almost  all  the  rooms  by  others 
above  them,  and  the  top  floor  is  substantially  covered  in. 

Looking  at  what  has  been  done  and  is  in  progress,  we  may  believe 
that  a  great  advance  is  taking  place  in  the  lodgment  of  artisans.  But 
few  of  the  improved  dwellings  supply  the  needs  of  that  class  which  has 
most  conspicuously  drawn  public  attention  to  the  state  of  the  homes  of 
the  town  poor.  The  rents  in  the  newly-erected  blocks  are  generally  too 
high  for  these. 

I  am  not  going  to  add  another  to  the  many  descriptions  of  the 
dwellings  of  those  who  may  most  correctly  be  reckoned  as  poor.  I 
mean  such  as  have  learnt  no  handicraft,  but  live  by  unskilled  labour 


460  THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOR. 

which,  however  valuable  in  one  sense,  is  poorly  paid.  The  condition  of 
these  is  depressed  everywhere ;  but  in  large  cities,  especially  in  London, 
it  is  sometimes  exceptionally  distressed;  for  they  naturally  gravitate 
to  the  cheapest  and  therefore  the  worst  houses. 

This  has  led  to  the  acquisition  or  retention  of  the  most  rotten  tene- 
ments by  speculators  who  have  calculated  on  the  inability  of  their  tenants 
to  compel  them  to  spend  money  on  repairs,  on  the  certainty  that  the 
poorest  of  the  poor  must  lodge  somewhere,  and  on  the  belief  that,  by 
crowding  them  together,  those  who  pay  some  rent  will  make  up  for  the 
deficiencies  of  those  who  pay  none.  The  result  has  been  an  almost  in- 
credible increase  of  sickness  in  some  districts,  even  without  the  scourge 
of  any  epidemic.  Many  houses  are  a  protest  against  health.  Let  the 
dwellers  in  them  be  ever  so  provident  and  temperate,  the  decay,  close- 
ness, surroundings,  and  equipment  of  their  dwellings  inevitably  shorten 
their  lives,  and  especially  those  of  their  children. 

But  when  we  glance  at  the  great  curse  of  cities — I  mean  intemperance 
in  drink — another  consideration  comes  in.  No  doubt  drunkenness  makes 
homes  bad,  but  bad  homes  directly  promote  drunkenness.  The  exhausted 
nervous  condition  in  which  a  man  wakes  who  has  slept  in  a  foul  atmo- 
sphere creates  such  craving  for  a  stimulant  as  those  who  breathe  sweet  air 
can  hardly  conceive.  And  when  a  man  has  drunk  a  glass  of  gin  in  the 
morning  he  feels  the  better  for  it.  Sometimes  he  cannot  eat  till  he  has 
thus  put  the  spur  of  spirit  to  his  powers.  And  how  can  we  expect  an 
uneducated  sufferer,  conscious  of  relief  from  alcohol,  to  check  himself  in 
that  launch  into  intemperance  which  is  provided  by  the  vileness  of  the 
dwelling  in  which  he  lives,  or  even  to  drag  himself  out  of  it  as  soon  as 
he  is  transferred  to  a  more  wholesome  building  ]  It  is  to  the  squalor  of 
many  ill-called  homes  that  we  may  attribute  the  habits  which  make  them 
even  worse  than  they  originally  are.  And,  as  the  great  stern  laws  of  life 
are  thus  broken,  the  transgressor  suffers  physically ;  but  he  is  morally  less 
culpable  than  the  sensual  who  know  the  law  of  the  Creator  and  do  it 
not.  To  those,  indeed,  who  are  well  nurtured  and  housed,  and  can  see  the 
state  into  which  large  numbers  of  their  fellow- children  of  God  are  re- 
duced by  their  ill  nurture  and  housing,  is  the  Divine  canon  specially 
applicable — "  Unto  whomsoever  much  is  given,  of  him  shall  much  be 
required." 

The  conscience  of  the  richer  and  better  educated  sort  has  now  been 
moved,  and  has  taken  a  legislative  shape.  But,  as  it  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, the  first  touch  of  the  machinery  for  removing  the  evil  we  deplore  has 
made  the  condition  of  the  sufferers  worse.  No  doubt  the  great  hindrance 
to  improvement  was,  a  few  years  ago,  the  tenacity  with  which  the  owners 
of  the  worst  tenements  were  enabled  to  defy  attempts  to  replace  or  im- 
prove them.  But  since  the  passing  of  the  Artisans'  Dwellings  Act,  1868i, 
best  known  as  Mr.  Torrens's,  and  later  still,  and  charged  with  much  wider 
power,  that  of  Mr.  Cross  in  1875,  one  great  obstacle,  in  London  at  least—- 
viz, the  want  of  sites,  or  the  inability  to  secure  them — has  been  removed. 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOK.  461 

An  unhealthy  district  may  now  be  scraped  bare.  It  is  easier,  however, 
to  pull  down  than  to  build  up  ;  and,  as  you  cannot  demolish  poor  people 
when  you  destroy  poor  houses,  at  first  and  for  a  time  the  evils  that  need 
cure  are  condensed  by  the  closer  packing  of  those  who  are  evicted.  This 
is  an  inevitable  accompaniment  of  social  reform.  We  must  not  condemn 
the  broom  because  it  raises  the  dust,  which  flies  thickest  when  we  begin 
to  sweep.  Those,  however,  who  lament  the  condition  of  the  homes  of  the 
poorest  of  the  town  poor  may  rejoice  that  an  active  clearance  has  been 
set  up,  though,  in  approaching  order,  a  phase  and  a, period  of  exaggerated 
disorder  and  discomfort  may  have  to  be  passed  through. 

The  question  is,  how  to  replace  the  dwellings  which  are  removed,  and 
which  at  any  rate  had  the  recommendation  of  cheapness,  with  such  as 
shall  not  exclude  the  most  needy  among  the  people  by  the  rent  which 
must  be  paid.  The  provision  of  improved  dwellings  for  the  artisan  class 
may  comparatively  be  left  to  the  procedure  of  those  who  find  it  answer 
to  erect  such  buildings  as  are  needed  for  the  better  sort  of  working  people. 
It  is  the  supply  of  cheaper  dwellings  presenting  the  lowest  standard  of 
habitability  compatible  with  decent  sanitary  conditions,  that  chiefly  con- 
cerns the  philanthropist.  I  am  not,  indeed,  without  hope  that  the  belief 
of  many  in  the  possibility  of  making  such  dwellings  pay  as  investments 
is  founded  on  fact,  though  at  present  more  directly  remunerative  schemes 
are  most  attractive  to  some  capitalists.  The  main  thing  to  be  insisted 
on  is  that  they  shall  be  built  as  cheaply  as  possible,  without  ambitious 
ornamentation  and  excess  of  fittings,  which  assume  the  access  of  sudden 
and  great  improvement  in  the  domestic  habits  of  such  as  are  intended  to 
occupy  them.  The  severest  suppression  of  optimism  and  decorative 
desire  is  needed  in  the  architect  who  shall  design  these  lodgings  for  the 
poorest  of  the  poor. 

Meanwhile  these  ill-lodged  or  evicted  people  are  proper  objects  of 
structural  charity.  There  are,  indeed,  in  London  special  means  for  the 
promotion  of  this,  if  they  could  be  so  applied.  I  allude  to  many  of  the 
old  City  charities.  If  those  among  them  for  which,  even  with  the  greatest 
ingenuity  in  construing  the  terms  upon  which  they  are  left,  it  is  some- 
times extremely  difficult  to  find  anywise  suitable  recipients,  could  be  used 
in  the  provision  of  improved  dwellings  on  a  large  scale,  the  least  degrad- 
ing and  pauperising  charity  would  be  exercised.  It  has  been  calculated, 
I  believe  by  Sir  Sydney  Waterlow,  that  if  the  old  City  charities  were 
capitalised  they  would  produce  the  large  sum  of  two  millions  sterling  ; 
with  which  he  would  undertake  by  degrees  the  replacement  of  the  great 
bulk  of  the  poorest  people's  houses  in  London. 

In  thinking,  moreover,  of  any  improvement  in  the  dwellings  of  the 
poorest,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  influence  I  have  noticed  as 
arising  from  education  in.  the  artisan  class  must  eventually  tell  upon 
those  whose  indifference  to  it  has  necessitated  the  making  of  their  educa- 
tion compulsory.  On  these  the  board  schools  operate,  not  merely  as 
vehicles  of  instruction,  but  as  instruments  tending  eventually  to  make 


462  THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOR. 

the  children  who  are  obliged  to  attend  them  ashamed  of  the  domestic  and 
sanitary  conditions  under  which  they  have  been  born.  As  I  have  pre- 
viously intimated,  the  contrast  between  the  order,  cleanliness,  and  archi- 
tectural authority  of  these  elaborate  buildings  and  the  rotten  holes 
whence  they  issue  to  enter  them  must  tell  with  multiplied  force  upon 
their  poorest  scholars.  I  know,  indeed,  that  it  is  the  fashion  among  some 
to  decry  the  board  schools  as  palaces  absurdly  unfitted  for  the  instruction 
of  gutter  children,  as  they  are  rudely  called ;  but,  in  measuring  the  value 
of  a  school,  we  must  not  stop  at  the  mere  reading,  writing,  and  summing, 
which  can  be  conducted  within  the  meanest  walls.  The  fabric  itself  must 
have  an  appreciable  effect  upon  those  who  spend  many  of  their  youngest 
days  under  its  shelter. 

The  consciousness  of  having  been  brought  into  contact  with  strong 
corporate  educational  life,  and  the  taste  of  association  with  the  widely 
known  colleges  of  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  have  done  more  for  the  social 
position  of  many  University  men  than  the  classical  learning  which  they 
may  have  acquired  within  its  walls ;  and  even  with  the  poorest  a  grand 
building,  in  which  the  whole  instructive  force  of  a  city  is  interested,  may, 
though  scarcely  realised  at  the  time,  tend  to  make  its  scholars  dissatisfied 
with  the  narrow  accommodation  and  social  state  which  their  parents 
endured.  I  am  shrewdly  tempted  to  distrust  contentment  with  our  lot, 
especially  among  the  poor.  Contentment  may  be  desirable  under  some 
circumstances ;  but,  if  we  are  bidden  to  do  our  duty  in  that  state  of  life 
unto  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  us,  one  obvious  duty  of  the  poor  is 
to  protest  against  the  state  in  which  many  of  them  are  placed  by  defective 
civilisation.  If  we  get  a  class  radically  dissatisfied  with  circumstances 
which  all  agree  are  mischievous,  we  may  reasonably  hope  for  the  birth  of 
a  will  which  shall  promote  a  way.  Thus  *'  contentment  with  their  lot  " 
is  about  one  of  the  lowest  lessons  which  a  parson  or  anybody  else  can 
teach  among  those  who  inhabit  the  worst  among  the  homes  of  town 
poor. 

It  may  be,  moreover,  that  enforced  familiarity  with  the  discipline 
and  corporate  procedure  of  a  large  good  school  will  reveal  to  some  who 
frequent  it  the  advantages  of  corporate  action,  and  set  up  a  co-operative 
movement  even  among  the  poorest.  But  we  may  not  hope  too  much 
from  this  as  yet.  Though  many  artisans  combine  for  divers  objects,  and 
may  reasonably  be  expected  or  advised  to  join  in  the  provision  of  better 
homes  for  themselves,  a  great  bulk  of  especially  the  London  poor  is  a 
layer  of  sand,  without  at  present  any  symptom  of  coherence ;  and  it  is 
characterised  mainly  by  the  disposition  of  sand  to  settle  down  into  the 
lowest  holes  it  can  find.  Often  it  can  be  extricated  and  lifted  from  these 
only  in  handfuls. 

This  fact  opens  the  door  to  a  very  useful  phase  of  ministration  which, 
properly  exercised,  shall  hurt  neither  in  the  giving  nor  receiving.  I 
mean  that  of  which,  in  London,  Miss  Octavia  Hill  has  been  the  leader 
and  prophetess — the  supervision  of  very  cheap  dwellings  by  educated 


THE  HOMES  OF  TOWN  POOE.  463 

people.  Here  the  ministra,nt  may  present  himself  or  herself  as  a  collector 
of  rents,  and  by  kindly  tact  do  much  to  kindle  a  higher  sense  of  social 
position  among  the  genuine  poor.  It  is  not  everybody  who  can  help 
directly  in  legislation,  or  even  in  the  vigorous  thrusting  forward  of  great 
sanitary  measures  ;  but  if  any  one  wishes  to  do  good  which  shall  test  the 
patience  of  the  doer,  and  yet  involve  no  very  long  link  between  the  act 
and  the  result,  he  may  try  his  hand  at  the  supervision  I  have  alluded  to. 
The  qualification  for  such  work  is  not  any  bustling  confidence  and  a 
sense  that  the  supervisor  is  able  to  set  others  right,  but,  combined  with 
accurate  business  habits,  an  incurable  and  tender  shyness  which  shall 
keep  the  visitor  from  offence ;  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  calling 
upon  the  poor,  especially  with  the  conscious  intention  of  bettering  their 
condition,  more  care  and  consideration  are  needed  than  in  visiting  equals 
in  social  position. 

Infinite  harm  has  been  done  by  such  as  think  that  because  they  happen 
to  have  more  money — though,  perhaps,  they  would  be  found  useless  if  they 
were  stripped  and  pitchforked  into  the  labour  market — they  are  therefore 
qualified  to  lecture  people  with  the  smallest  incomes.  This  harm  has 
extended  beyond  the  individuals  who  may  have  been  directly  subjected 
to  intrusive  admonition.  Many  have  silently  contracted  a  sentiment  of 
aversion  to  advice,  simply  because  it  has  often  been  tendered  impertinently 
to  their  class  by  self-chosen  philanthropists.  The  meanest  home  is 
some  Englishman's  or  Englishwoman's  castle,  though  its  defences  be  in 
ruins. 

I  have  only  one  more  word  to  add  to  these  imperfect  sentences.  We 
must  suspiciously  avoid  the  cant  of  sanitary  beneficence,  and  bear  in  mind 
that,  after  all  said  and  done,  the  house  does  not  inevitably,  make  the  man. 
No  doubt  the  improvement  of  poor  dwellings  produces  some  social  ad- 
vance in  those  who  occupy  them ;  but  there  are  good  people  in  bad  houses 
as  well  as  bad  people  in  good  ones,  and  some  well  equipped  and  endowed 
homes  are  a  reproach  to  a  people.  There  are  influences  higher  and  more 
divine  than  such  as  appeal  to  the  possession  of  a  separate  set  of  rooms 
with  a  private  dustbin,  and  pretty  prints  upon  the  wall.  The  patriarch's 
tent  has  exhibited  grander  specimens  of  man  than  the  palace  of  the 
Sultan ;  and  Lazarus  himself,  whom  I  imagine  to  have  been  no  mere  saint 
in  rags,  has  been  spoken  of  with  infinite  tenderness  by  One  to  whom  the 
redressing  of  wrongs  and  the  estimates  of  social  worth  showed  themselves 
with  the  widest  and  deepest  insight  into  man  and  his  necessities. 

HAKRY  JONES. 


464 


i      (Drivers. 


THE  most  famous  of  all  foreign  orders  of  knighthood  is  the  Golden  Fleece. 
It  was  founded  by  Philip,  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  Earl  of  Holland, 
styled  "  the  Good,"  possibly  because  he  murdered  several  of  his  nearest 
relatives.  However,  Philip  meant  well,  according  to  his  dim  notions  of 
right,  and  really  governed  his  subjects  pretty  fairly.  On  January  10, 
1429,  he  founded  the  famous  order  which  is  inseparably  associated  with 
his  name.  Some  ninety  years  after  our  Edward  III.  instituted  the  more 
renowned  order  of  the  Garter. 

The  name  of  the  Golden  Fleece  had  a  twofold  signification.  It  meant 
to  typify  the  spirit  of  chivalrous  adventure — of  going  into  new  lands  to 
conquer  new  fame — the  same  spirit  which  actuated  the  Argonauts  of 
legend,  who  went  in  search  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  But  there  was  also 
the  religious  idea.  The  Saviour  has  been  represented  under  the  form  of 
a  lamb.  To  win  His  redemption  by  "  knightly "  deeds,  in  the  best 
signification  of  that  noble  word,  was  obviously  an  object  of  the  new 
society  of  chivalry. 

High  privileges  were  early  conferred  on  the  Knights  of  the  Fleece, 
whose  number  was  originally  limited  to  thirty-one.  When  the  Counts 
of  Egmont  and  Horn  were  illegally  executed  under  the  reign  of  Philip  II. 
on  account  of  the  stand  they  made  for  the  liberties  of  their  country,  they 
both  appealed  against  the  sentence,  alleging,  amongst  other  reasons,  that, 
as  Knights  of  the  -Fleece,  they  had  the  right  to  be  tried  by  their  brother 
knights. 

After  the  war  of  the  Spanish  succession,  which  left  a  Bourbon  on  the 
throne  of  Spain,  there  arose  a  dispute  between  the  emperor  and  the  king 
of  Spain  as  to  which  of  them  had  the  right  to  the  sovereignty  of  the  order. 
The  question  is  an  extremely  complicated  one.  The  Emperor  Charles 
VI.,  as  heir  male  of  the  Hapsburgs,  might  fairly  claim  the  knightly 
heritage  as  his  right.  On  the  other  hand,  Philip  of  Bourbon  might  urge 
descent  through  an  heiress,  and  plead  that  in  Spain  and  the  Low  Countries 
the  Salic  law  had  never  been  recognised.  The  matter  was  finally  arranged 
through  treaty,  the  emperor  and  the  King  of  Spain  being  recognised  as 
joint  grand  masters  of  the  order,  with  equal  power  to  name  knights. 
The  Austrian  and  Spanish  badges  of  the  order  are  almost,  though  not 
quite,  identical  in  form.  Each  has  the  well-known  collar  of  gold  and 
flint-stones,  with  the  typical  device,  "  Ante  ferit  quam  flamma  micat," 
though  the  nobler  legend  runs — "  Pretium  non  vile  laborum." 

The  Archdukes  of  Austria  and  the  Infants  of  Spain  are  all,  as  a  rule, 
Knights  of  the  Fleece.  In  later  years  the  order  has  been  conferred  with 


FOREIGN  ORDERS.'  465 

what  must  to  heralds  have  appeared  undue  freedom.  For  instance,  on 
M.  Thiers,  who  was  not  even  "  noble,"  and  indeed  had  the  sole  merit  of 
being  President  of  the  French  Republic,  and  one  of  the  greatest  men 
living.  Then  it  was  that  political  oddity  called  the  Spanish  Republic, 
which  bestowed  the  distinction  of  the  little  red  collar- riband  on  M.  Thiers. 
The  Duke  of  Aosto,  by  the  way,  while  figuring  as  Amadeus  I.  of  Spain, 
sent  the  Fleece  to  a  distinguished  Castilian  nobleman,  who  returned  the 
decoration  without  a  word.  It  is  a  waste  of  words  to  characterise  the 
conduct  of  this  grandee  as  it  deserves.  Why  the  foreign  house  of  Savoy 
should  be  less  entitled  to  respect  than  the  foreign  house  of  France  it  would 
be  difficult  to  explain. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  is  a  knight  of  the  Golden  Fleece — the  only 
Englishman  who  enjoys  that  distinction.  The  Spanish  order  was  con- 
ferred on  him  when  he  was  ten  years  old,  the  Austrian  some  time  later. 
Not  long  ago  it  was  whispered  that  His  Catholic  Majesty  was  rather 
anxious  for  an  exchange  of  ribands  between  the  courts  of  S.  Ildefonso 
and  St.  James'.  He  wanted  the  Garter  for  himself,  and  would  have  con- 
ferred the  Fleece  on  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh,  or  on  Prince  Albert  Victor 
of  Wales — perhaps  on  both — to  secure  for  himself  the  most  coveted  of  all 
decorations,  without  which  no  sovereign  feels  that  he  belongs  to  the  inner 
circle  of  royalty. 

Were  the  old  Court  of  France  still  existing,  and  Henry  V.  determined 
to  maintain  the  old  orders,  that  of  the  Holy  Ghost  would  come  next  in 
importance  to  the  Golden  Fleece.  The  order  is  not  actually  extinct,  for 
the  king  is  naturally  always  Grand  Master,  and  the  Duke  of  Nemours  is 
an  ordinary  knight — the  last  surviving  one.  The  last  but  one,  the  Duke 
of  Mortemart,  died  a  few  years  ago. 

The  order  of  the  Holy  Ghost  was  not  founded  till  the  sixteenth 
century,  but  it  very  soon  attained  to  almost  the  prestige  of  the  more 
ancient  institutions.  It  was  conferred  on  ecclesiastics  as  well  as  laymen  ; 
and  a  bishop,  accused  of  some  high  misdemeanour,  and  commanded  in 
consequence  to  deliver  up  his  blue  riband  (blue  was  the  colour  of  the 
order)  was  not  afraid  to  reply,  "  Take  not  thou  thy  Holy  Spirit  from 
me." 

In  a  later  age,  a  marshal  of  France,  a  notorious  trimmer  in  politics, 
caused  some  amusement  to  his  friends  by  the  nice  scruples  which  marked 
his  conduct  during  the  events  of  July  and  August,  1830.  "But,"  ex- 
claimed an  old  Legitimist  marquis,  aghast,  "  is  this  true  they  tell  me, 
that  you  actually  called  on  the  Duke  of  Orleans  1 "  "  It  is  true,"  answered 
the  marshal,  "  but  I  was  careful  to  wear  niy  blue  riband  when  I  called." 
With  the  abdication  of  Charles  X.  nominations  to  the  order  ceased,  as 
did  also  those  to  the  order  of  St.  Louis.  Louis-Philippe  contented  him- 
self with  upholding  the  Legion  of  Honour. 

This  most  popular  of  modern  decorations  was  instituted  by  Napoleon  I. 
while  he  was  still  First  Consul.  The  intention  was  sufficiently  obvious. 
The  idea  of  hereditary  aristocracy  had  been  too  discredited  in  France  for 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250  2  > 


466  FOREIGN  ORDERS. 

the  system  to  be  revived.  The  next  possible  check  against  democracy 
was  an  aristocracy  the  members  of  which  should  be  named  for  life.  The 
French  seem  to  have  accepted  the  creation  of  this  privileged  society 
without  much  difficulty.  They  had  the  wit  to  perceive  that  it  did  not  in 
itself  militate  against  the  principle  of  equality.  No  one  was  born  with 
a  right  to  the  order ;  any  citizen  might  hope  to  attain  it ;  no  man  could 
bequeath  it  to  his  descendants. 

The  order  originally  consisted  of  four  classes,  afterwards  of  five,  the 
number  at  which  it  now  stands.  There  are — 1st,  the  Knights  Grand 
Cross ;  2nd,  Grand  Officers ;  3rd,  Commanders ;  4th,  Officers ;  5th,  simple 
Knights  or  Chevaliers.  When  Napoleon  first  established  the  order 
(1802)  the  concordat  with  Rome  had  not  yet  been  signed.  In  fact  the 
Christian  calendar  was  only  re-introduced  on  January  1, 1806.  Knights 
Grand  "  Cross "  were  impossible  at  that  epoch ;  and  Knights  Grand 
"  Eagle  "  was  the  original  designation  of  members  of  the  first  grade  in 
the  legion.  To  this  day,  the  so-called  "  cross  "  is  a  star  of  five  rays. 

Considerable  discussion  arose,  on  the  formation  of  the  order,  as  to  the 
colour  of  the  riband.  Napoleon  was  for  white,  probably  because  on 
state  occasions  he  loved  to  dress  in  scarlet,  and  saw  how  happy  would  be 
the  contrast  between  the  two  colours.  It  was  represented  to  him,  how- 
ever, that  white  was  pre-eminently  the  colour  of  the  exiled  house.  It 
seems  difficult  to  imagine  why  Bonaparte  should  have  hesitated  to  adopt 
the  colour  when  he  had  usurped  the  throne.  The  fact  remains  that  he 
did  hesitate.  He  then  suggested  red,  and  was  met  with  the  objection 
that  red  was  the  revolutionary  colour.  The  First  Consul  now  grew  tired 
of  the  discussion ;  he  never  could  argue  calmly  for  long.  Maybe  he  was 
too  busy.  Blue  was  the  colour  of  most  uniforms  in  the  French  army,  and 
red  would  do  capitally  as  a  contrast ;  so  red  was  chosen. 

In  the  last  days  of  the  Second  Empire  the  Legion  of  Honour  con- 
sisted of  some  60,000  persons.  Within  a  few  months  of  the  proclamation 
of  the  Third  Republic,  the  National  Assembly  passed  a  law  imposing 
certain  restrictions  on  the  creation  of  fresh  members.  By  the  principal 
clause  it  was  enacted  that  only  one  member  should  be  named  to  fill  every 
two  vacancies. 

In  speaking  of  the  numbers  of  the  Legion,  one  ought  to  bear  one  or 
two  facts  in  mind.  France  has  no  peerage  officially  recognised,  or  baronet- 
age ;  while  the  conferring  of  knighthood  would  be  a  ceremony  almost 
unintelligible  to  the  majority  of  educated  Frenchmen.  Several  other 
fashions  in  which  the  British  Sovereign  delights  to  honour  her  lieges,  e.g., 
by  making  them  honorary  Privy  Councillors,  or  of  "  her  Counsel  learned 
in  the  law,"  are  wholly  unknown  to  our  neighbours.  The  "  Cross," 
and  after  it,  the  successive  grades  of  the  Legion,  are  the  sole  honours 
with  which  France  can  reward  the  most  illustrious  of  her  sons ;  the  sole 
outward  and  visible  rewards.  Praise  to  the  living  and  posthumous 
renown  she  accords  more  generously  than  any  other  nation ;  and  it  is  no 
empty  phrase  that  is  inscribed  on  the/of  ode  of  the  Pantheon,  and  which 


FOREIGN  ORDERS.  467 

bids  each  successive  generation  remember  that  to  great  men  the  fatherland 
which  bore  them  is  grateful. 

It  is  worth  noting,  too,  that  we  English  seem  to  have  acquired,  in 
respect  of  decorations,  the  appetite  that  comes  from  eating.  Every  one 
knows  the  story  of  the  British  ambassador  who  appeared  at  a  conference 
without  a  single  star  amongst  his  bejewelled  colleagues ;  and  how  a  fool 
pointed  out  the  circumstance  to  Talleyrand,  thinking  he  had  "scored  off" 
our  envoy  ;  and  how  the  Frenchman  contented  himself  with  remarking 
that  the  Englishman's  dress  was  certainly  very  neat.  But  we  have 
changed  all  that.  Lord  Dufferin,  in  full  dress,  would  wear  three  stars ; 
Lords  Lyons  and  Odo  Russell  two  apiece.  We  have  a  perfect  constella- 
tion of  Royal  and  Imperial  orders  in  these  days — from  the  Garter  con- 
ferred for  wealth  to  the  Victoria  Cross  conferred  for  valour. 

Still  it  must  be  admitted  that  all  our  G.C.B.'s,  G.C.S.I.'s,  &c.,  put 
together,  would  not  equal  in  number  the  knights  of  the  Legion  of  Honour. 
Only  the  figures  are  not  quite  so  disproportionate  as  might  be  imagined. 
The  Prince  of  Wales  is  naturally  a  Grand  Cross  of  the  Legion,  as  he  is 
Grand  Cross  of  everything  else  under  the  sun.  The  Duke  of  Cambridge 
also  enjoys  this  distinction.  Very  few  Frenchmen,  indeed,  enjoy  the  dis- 
tinction (which  only  half  corresponds  to  it)  of  Grand  Cross  of  the  Bath. 
Amongst  them  are  Marshals  MacMahon  and  Canrobert,  and  Prince 
Napoleon.  Old  Pelissier  got  it  after  the  fall  of  Malakoff,  and  was  so  proud 
of  the  honour  that  for  some  time  after  he  was  wont  to  sign  "  Pelissier, 
G.C.B." 

Perhaps,  after  all,fthe  rough  soldier  meant  to  pay  a  compliment  to  the 
allies  of  his  country.  If  so,  a  grand  seigneur  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 
could  scarcely  have  conceived  a  more  delicate  one. 

The  badges  of  the  inferior  orders  of  the  Legion  have  been  pretty 
eagerly  sought  after  by  foreigners,  even  by  Englishmen.  It  is  related 
of  an  English  merchant,  who  had  rendered  some  service  to  Napoleon  III., 
that  he  was  invited  by  that  prince  to  spend  a  few  days  at  Fontainebleau. 
When  the  merchant  took  his  leave,  the  Emperor  asked  him  whether  he 
could  be  of  service  to  him  in  any  way.  "  May  it  please  Your  Majesty," 
stammered  the  guest,  "  I  should  like — the  Legion  of  Honour."  Re- 
pressing the  national  habit  of  shrugging  his  shoulders — ever  so  slightly 
— Caesar  replied  that  he  should  be  most  happy  to  give  him  the  Cross. 
41 1  fancied,"  he  added,  "  that  your  Government  did  not  allow  you  to 
wear  foreign  decorations.  However,  if  you  can  make  it  right  with  the 
English  Administration,  you  are  heartily  welcome.  Meanwhile  you 
must  permit  me  to  give  you  a  Cross  of  the  Legion  worn  by  my  uncle, 
the  King  of  Westphalia."  So  saying,  the  Emperor  went  to  a  drawer 
and  took  out  a  diamond  star  that  had  once  glittered  on  the  Marshal's 
uniform  of  Jerome.  It  was  handsomely  done  :  grave  as  were  his  faults, 
Napoleon  III.  always  showed  himself  a  gentleman. 

The  Legion  of  Honour  has  this  agreeable  peculiarity,  that  it  is 
accompanied  by  pensions — in  the  case  of  military  knights.  A  plain 

23—2 


468  FOREIGN  ORDERS. 

chevalier  receives  250  francs  a  year:  a  Grand  Cross  5,000.  The 
Chancellorship  of  the  order  is  a  very  snug  berth  indeed.  Besides  a 
fine  income,  the  Chancellor  has  handsome  apartments  rent  free  and 
"  perquisites."  Of  course,  the  post  is  generally  bestowed  on  an  old 
soldier :  though  on  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons  in  1814,  it  was 
given  to  an  eminent  clergyman  whom  it  had  been  found  difficult  to  put 
in  any  other  place.  The  porter  of  the  palace  caused  some  amusement 
by  addressing  the  Abbe,  on  his  official  entry,  in  the  set  phrase  which  he 
had  used  towards  successive  captains  of  great  fame  :  "  You  have  only 
to  command,  Marshal :  it  will  be  my  business  to  obey." 

There  is  one  other  French  order  of  importance  :  the  military  medal. 
It  is  of  gold,  encircled  in  silver,  and  suspended  by  a  short  riband  of 
green  and  yellow.  Coveted  almost  as  much  as  our  Victoria  Cross,  its 
numbers  have  been  extended  so  as  to  include  civilians  :  the  proportion 
being  one  of  the  latter  to  every  two  soldiers  or  sailors.  When  Bazaine 
had  been  for  some  time  a  Marshal  of  France,  and  Grand  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour,  he  received  the  military  medal :  a  graceful  compli- 
ment, which  was  meant  to  indicate  that  the  cup  of  his  honours  was  full, 
and  that  there  was  nothing  left  for  his  imperial  master  but  to  give  him 
the  remainder  of  the  lesser  decorations. 

The  principal  Austrian  Orders,  after  the  Fleece,  are  the  Military 
Order  of  "Maria  Theresa,"  founded  by  that  princess  in  1757;  of  "  St. 
Stephen,"  by  the  same  Sovereign,  in  1764;  of  "Leopold"  (1808); 
"Iron  Crown"  (founded  by  Napoleon,  as  King  of  Italy,  and  re-estab- 
lished by  Francis  I.  of  Austria  in  1816);  Order  of  "  Francis  Joseph" 
(1849) ;  and  last,  but  not  least,  the  Order  of  the  Starred  Cross  (Croix 
etoilee)  for  ladies.  Those  who  are  in  the  inner  circle  of  English  society 
know  full  well  the  value  that  is  attached  to  the  Royal  Order  of  Victoria 
and  Albert :  but  English  ladies  can  be  happy  enough  without  it.  An 
Austrian  "  court-capable "  princess  would  hardly  consider  that  her 
coronet  fitted  her  comfortably  without  the  Starred  Cross  to  match  it. 

Austrian  orders  are  freely  bestowed  :  for  an  excellent  reason.  The 
House  of  Hapsburg- Lorraine  has  little  else  to  give.  An  English  gentle- 
man once  called  on  a  foreign  General,  who  was  his  friend,  and  found 
him  in  boisterous  spirits.  "  George,"  exclaimed  the  soldier,  "  they've 
given  me  the  Elizabeth  "  !  (a  minor  military  decoration).  The  English- 
man offered  formal  congratulations ;  but  knowing  something  of  the  rela- 
tive significance  of  orders,  and  remembering  that,  as  it  was,  the  General 
could  scarcely  find  room  on  his  coat  for  the  many  stars  and  crosses  he 
had  won,  wore  a  somewhat  puzzled  look.  "  I  see  you  don't  understand," 
the  General  suddenly  cried  out ;  "  my  dear  fellow,  they've  given  me 
the  last  remaining  order  :  the  next  time  they  must  out  with  their  snuff- 
boxes, which  are  as  good  as  money."  * 

The  principal  Prussian  order  is  that  of  the  Black  Eagle,  to  which 

*  Bliicher  is  sometimes  cited  as  the  hero  of  this  ^anecdote,  sometimes  Eadetzky, 
sometimes  Liiders. 


FOEEIGN  OEDEES.  469 

most  princes  of  great  reigning  houses  belong.  The  last  English  prince 
invested  with  the  riband  was  the  Duke  of  Connaught.  At  Prince 
Leopold's  next  visit  to  Berlin,  he  too  will  receive  the  distinction — not 
one  to  be  despised.  The  Black  Eagle  was  founded  by  Frederic,  Elector 
of  Brandenburg,  on  his  assuming  the  style  of  King  of  Prussia,  as 
"Frederic  I."  (January  18,  1701).  Frederic  the  Great,  after  the  con- 
quest of  Silesia,  made  the  Archbishop  of  Breslau  a  Knight  of  the  Order. 
The  first  time  Frederic  was  defeated  by  the  Austrians,  this  rash  prelate 
publicly  plucked  the  star  of  the  Black  Eagle  from  his  breast,  and  flung 
it  to  the  ground.  Frederic  won  a  battle  soon  after ;  and  the  Archbishop 
was  in  his  power.  But  the  King  took  no  further  notice  of  His  Grace's 
action  than  to  observe  "  he  was  like  all  the  rest."  • 

The  Red  Eagle  is  to  the  Black  what  the  Bath  is  to  the  Garter.  The 
former  are  conferred  for  merit :  the  latter  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
claims  of  birth,  backed  by  respectability  of  conduct. 

The  Order  of  Merit  (civil  division)  is  one  of  the  most  interesting. 
The  Knights  elect  members  with  the  approbation  of  the  King  :  though, 
of  course,  His  Majesty's  pleasure  is  virtually  paramount.  Most  English- 
men will  be  of  opinion  that  Prussia  shows  catholicity  as  well  as  excel- 
lence of  taste  in  having  chosen  two  men  so  great,  and  yet  so  diverse  in 
every  respect,  as  Macaulay  and  Carlyle,  to  be  members  of  her  literary 
and  artistic  Senate. 

The  famous  Order  of  the  Iron  Cross  was  founded  by  King  Frederic 
William  III.  in  1813 — in  the  very  midst  of  the  death-struggle  with 
Napoleon.  At  that  time  some  Prussian  ladies  vowed  that  they  would 
wed  none  but  Knights  of  the  Iron  Cross ;  and  one  lady  at  least  was  true 
to  her  oath.  She  received  numerous  and  advantageous  offers  of  mar- 
riage, and  declined  them  all  because  the  requisite  condition  had  not  been 
fulfilled.  She  it  was  who,  in  the  dark  hour  of  her  country's  fate,  cast 
around  to  see  what  she  might  do  to  serve  her  people.  Money  was 
needed  above  all  things  :  that  she  well  understood.  And  as  she  had  no 
money,  she  bethought  her  of  her  beautiful  hair  ;  and  went  and  sold  it, 
and  paid  the  money  into  the  national  fund.  , 

Russia  boasts  the  Orders  of  St.  Andrew  (founded  by  Peter  the  Great 
in  1698) — the  Russian  Garter ;  St.  Catherine,  by  the  same  prince  (for 
ladies) ;  St.  Alexander  Newski,  also  by  Peter ;  the  White  Eagle,  a 
Polish  order,  said  to  have  been  instituted  by  Ladislaus  IV.  in  1325  ;  the 
St.  Anne,  a  German  order,  the  sovereignty  of  which  has  descended  to 
the  Czar  from  the  House  of  Sleswick-Holstein ;  the  St.  Stanislaus ;  the 
St.  George,  and  the  St.  Wladimir. 

Russians  do  not  understand  laughter  on  the  subject  of  tinsel.  At  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  a  Muscovite  review  gravely  compared  the 
merits  of  a  couple  of  poetasters,  and  finally  decided  in  favour  of  the 
worst,  on  the  strength  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  decorated  with  nine 
orders,  whereas  the  other  had  received  but  seven.  This  may  be  styled 
criticism  made  easy. 


470  FOREIGN  OKDE&S. 

Apropos  '. — After  the  conspiracy  of  the  Decembrists  (1825)  had  been 
put  down,  a  young  man  was  being  tried  before  a  court-martial.  The 
poor  lad,  who  really  meant  no  harm  to  anybody,  but  had  simply  the 
misfortune  to  be  a  fool,  could  find  no  happier  way  of  defending  himself 
than  to  cite  passages  from  Milton,  Locke,  and  Bentham,  in  vindication 
of  the  presumed  rights  of  humanity.  The  General  who  presided  looked 
half  mournfully,  half  comically  at  the  prisoner,  and  at  length  delivered 
himself  to  this  effect : — "  Young  man,  I  see  you  have  read  many  books 
written,  I  doubt  not,  by  clever  men.  Still,  they  did  not  understand 
that  it  is  necessary  to  believe  in  God,  and  to  be  loyal  to  one's  Sovereign. 
Now,  see  to  what  these  books  have  brought  you.  There  are  you,  in  that 
melancholy  position  :  and  now,  look  at  me."  So  saying,  the  General 
placed  his  hand  on  an  embroidered  coat,  thickly  adorned  with  decora- 
tions. The  story  is  Russian  :  but  there  is  a  spice  of  truth  it. 

The  present  writer  wishes  he  could  continue  the  story  in  the  proper 
fashion,  and  tell  how  the  General  was  obliged  to  pass  sentence  of  death, 
but  recommended  a  free  pardon.  Unfortunately,  evidence  is  wanting. 
The  odds  are  even  against  the  General's  having  been  a  man  of  wit. 

Few  other  foreign  orders  are  worth  mentioning ;  though  there  are  a 
few,  besides  those  already  mentioned,  which  confer  some  distinction  on 
the  wearer  :  notably  that  of  "  Charles  III."  of  Spain ;  "  St.  Januarius," 
of  the  extinct  Kingdom  of  the  Two  Sicilies;  "the  Golden  Spur,"  or 
St.  Sylvester,  of  the  Vatican ;  and  the  "  Lion  and  Sun  "  of  Persia. 

This  last  order  was  created  in  1808,  as  a  measure  of  propitiation  to- 
wards England.  The  King  of  Persia  of  the  day  had  founded  an  order  in 
honour  of  the  French,  when  he  had  reason  to  think  that  Napoleon  was 
all-powerful.  As  soon  as  the  Shah  discovered  that  he  had  calculated 
somewhat  amiss,  he  instituted  a  new  order  to  please,  as  he  fondly 
deemed,  the  enemies  of  the  French  Emperor.  The  "  Lion  and  Sun," 
which  was  suggested  by  Sir  John  Malcolm  during  his  mission  to  Tehraun, 
has  this  peculiarity,  that  when  it  is  conferred  on  a  foreign  officer  he  is 
entitled  to  wear  the  insignia  of  the  higher  grades  of  the  order  as  he 
rises  in  rank  in  his  own  country.  A  simple  knighthood  may  have  been 
conferred  on  a  captain  :  should  he  rise  to  be  a  general,  he  may  wear  the 
ribbon  and  star  of  Grand  Cross. 


471 


JfaIIm0  m 


"  FALLING  in  love  "  is  a  very  old-fashioned,  rather  rustic  phrase,  but  there 
is  no  improving  upon  it  in  our  homely  tongue  for  telling  what  happens 
whenever  the  mutual  charm  of  the  sexes  starts  into  play  between  two 
persons.  The  event  itself  has  always  maintained  a  primitive  simplicity, 
and  these  sly  syllables  befittingly  relating  it  keep  fresh  from  generation 
to  generation  a  bit  of  ancient  boisterousness  that  they  have.  No  one 
can  either  speak  them  or  hear  them  without  a  smile.  The  mirthfulness 
of  the  expression  seems  to  lie  in  its  verbal  violence,  which  somehow  hints 
a  helpless  sheepishness  in  the  parties.  Whenever  this  phrase  is  used  of 
a  pair  of  human  beings,  it  is,  in  fact,  known  that  they  have  been  carried 
away,  taken  possession  of,  made  fools  of  by  a  natural  weakness,  which 
overtakes  everybody  in  turn.  It  must  be  the  affording  a  new  proof  of 
the  irresistibleness  of  love  that  makes  the  joke ;  for  all  other  languages 
as  well  as  our  own  introduce  a  precipitous,  headlong  word  in  their  most 
popular  description  of  the  occurrence. 

This  is  saying  that  the  common  judgment  everywhere  in  its  most 
familiar  talk  will  have  it  that  the  very  beginning  of  love  is  a  catastrophe. 
Yet,  although  the  whole  world  is  forced  to  witness  to  the  fatal  serious- 
ness of  the  affair,  by  a  strange  light-heartedness  all  men  and  women  make 
fun  of  it.  Even  the  couple  to  whom  it  has  happened,  and  who  are  con- 
sequently at  that  moment  standing  in  the  worst  jeopardy  of  fortune, 
with  the  whole  course  of  their  life  risked  on  the  perils  of  a  more  or  less 
haphazard  choice,  can  only  be  grave  about  it  between  themselves,  and  when 
they  are  quite  apart.  Let  them  admit  any  third  person  into  a  know- 
ledge of  the  matter,  and  instantly  they  must  themselves  treat  it  as  a  joke. 
Indeed,  they  have  shamefacedly  to  hurry  to  join  in  the  laughter  which  is 
sure  to  be  raised  at  their  cost.  The  poets,  it  is  true,  especially  the 
lyrists,  who  are  always  in  league  with  the  lovers — being  indeed,  except- 
ing for  only  the  shortest  intervals  of  luxurious  despair,  reckonable  con- 
spicuously among  them — try  to  keep  a  solemn  face  in  speaking  of  love. 
But  only  these  queer  individuals  can  do  it.  According  to  them,  nothing 
in  all  the  world  ought  to  be  so  pathetically  interesting  as  a  couple  of 
wooers  fixed  in  one  of  their  attitudes  of  mutual  enchantment.  It  is, 
however,  only  for  the  briefest  instant  that  the  poets  and  artists  can, 
here  and  there,  keep  separate  persons,  or  at  most  solitary  youthful  pail's, 
in  any  mood  of  gravity  upon  this  topic.  The  great  experienced  public 
goes  on  from  age  to  age  perpetually  laughing  at  love  in  one  united 
chorus.  It  finds,  indeed,  a  great  part  of  the  standing  challenge  to  mirth 
in  the  poetical  attempt  to  make  the  thing  seem  serious. 


472  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

At  first  sight,  there  certainly  is  something  puzzling  in  the  fact  that 
in  a  world  philosophically  reputed  to  be  so  sad  as  this  one  is,  the  most 
important  affair  in  it  should  be  universally  laughable.  But  there  is  no 
doubting  it.  Is  there  any  one  who  can  possibly  behold  a  coiiple  of  lovers 
absorbed  in  reciprocal  endearments  without  being  amused  by  the  sight  ? 
Even  where  the  infatuation  has  the  best  of  auspices  ;  where  youth  and 
beauty  soften,  or  it  may  be  naturally  embellish,  the  eagerness ;  and  if 
the  preposterous  overstress  of  mutual  personal  admiration  is  made  a  little 
less  absurd  by  grace  of  speech  and  elegance  of  manner,  a  spectator  is  still 
obliged  to  smile.  Those  who  have  themselves  already  fully  gone  through 
the  experience,  and  with  whom  it  has  turned  out  ill,  can  laugh  cynically 
if  they  like,  but  laugh  in  one  way  or  another  everybody  must.  In  the 
very  manners  and  procedure  of  love  there  is  inescapable  drollery ;  its 
forms  are  so  primitive  that  everybody  is  aware  it  is  the  most  antique 
joke  of  all  that  is  being  carried  on.  A  male  arm  around  a  female  waist 
is  to  any  strange  observer  the  one  lasting  comic  attitude  of  the  sexes. 
Nothing  but  the  most  infantile  years  in  the  tiniest  of  couples  can  save 
those  detected  in  it  from  being  aware  that  they  are  humiliatingly  divert- 
ing ;  and  then,  indeed,  by  some  odd  contrariety  of  feeling,  tears  may  be 
started  instead  of  laughter.  One  or  other  sort  of  hysterics  it  is  sure  to 
prompt.  But  if  the  pair  of  embracers  are  past  youthfulness,  then  the 
spectacle  becomes  farcical.  A  little  obesity  is  all  that  is  needed  at  any 
age  to  make  the  beholding  wildly  titillating,  unless  the  amusement  mis- 
carries through  some  xinhappy  stirring  of  disgust.  In  this  way  everybody 
is  made  ridiculous  in  turn  by  love ;  but  what  a  dull  world  it  would  be 
with  no  love-making  going  forward  in  it !  By  means  of  this  lackadaisical 
behaviour  of  wooers,  the  human  scene  is  kept  filled  in  all  its  corners  and 
nooks  with  cheaply-offered  humorous  idylls.  You  can  catch  glimpses  of 
them  from  out  of  the  very  thick  of  business,  from  off  the  most  beaten 
highways  of  life ;  and  the  sight  always  refreshes.  For  one  thing,  neither 
the  watching  nor  the  enacting  of  the  play  tasks  observers  or  actors  in 
the  least.  A  blush  is  enough  to  give  its  fun  ;  when  the  situation  grows 
most  critical,  a  stammer  is  the  piquantest  of  jokes  ;  a  little  sentimental 
attitudinising  is  all  the  business  needed ;  the  detection  of  a  covert  grip  of 
the  hands  between  the  half-hiding  pair,  or  even  the  casual  witnessing  of  a 
look  of  languish,  will  serve  as  a  climax,  causing  no  end  of  perfect  mirth 
in  any  number  of  sly  onlookers.  It  is  owing  to  everybody  at  some  time 
taking  part  in  the  comedy  that  all  can  so  easily  follow  and  understand  it 
seen  by  momentary  glimpses,  listened  to  by  snatches,  no  matter  how 
hastily,  at  any  stage  of  its  progress.  There  is  no  one  who  cannot  foresee 
the  plot.  Even  the  youngest  innocents  are  found  to  have  picked  up 
fragments  of  the  traditionary  words  and  gestures,  beginning,  it  would 
seem,  to  learn  them  as  early  as  the  first  dalliances  of  the  mother's  lap. 

So  far,  we  have  been  speaking  quite  generally ;  treating  of  love-making 
in  the  abstract,  as  one  might  say.  But  if  you  go  to  individual  cases  the 
puzzle  of  falling  in  love  grows  more  and  more  preposterously  entertain- 


FALLING  IN  LOVE.  473 

ing.  It  does  so  owing  to  its  being  utterly  impossible  to  understand 
why,  even  in  the  most  genuine  instances  of  all,  any  particular  couple 
were  drawn  together  with  such  violence.  For  the  most  part,  they  them- 
selves are  the  very  last  people  to  know  any  definite  reason  for  it.  Some 
one  who  is  only  half  thinking  the  matter  out  may,  perhaps,  mechanically 
suggest  "  reciprocal  discovery  of  beauty  1  "  But  the  cases  in  which  that 
can  be  held  to  apply  are  by  no  means  the  most  striking  examples  of  fall- 
ing in  love.  It  is  true  no  one  exactly  knows  what  is  and  what  is  not 
charming  to  some  eyes ;  but  assuredly  many  of  those  persons  who  can 
stir  and  can  feel  the  infatuation  to  its  full  height  are  not  to  the  public 
gaze  Venuses  and  Adonises.  In  fact,  if  beauty  was  indispensable,  some 
of  us  would  be  safe.  No ;  here,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  laughter,  you 
come  upon  a  real  mystery ;  which  is  continually  presented  afresh  in  each 
individual  case.  It  is  not,  after  all,  very  difficult  to  understand  in  a 
merely  general  way  why  the  behaviour  of  lovers  should  set  all  beholders 
who  are  fancy-free  agog  with  merriment. 

In  the  first  place,  the  leisurely,  lackadaisical  demeanour  which  the 
puzzlingly-assorted  pairs  all  agree  in  putting  on  for  the  luckily  brief 
period,  is  seen  by  everybody  else  who  at  the  moment  does  not  share  the 
gay  madness,  to  be  in  no  way  suited  to  the  work-a-day  condition  of  this 
world.  Lovers,  just  to  gaze  uninterruptedly  into  each  other's  eyes,  would 
without  a  thought  leave  the  fields  untilled  and  pooh-pooh  with  impatience 
any  sober  hint  of  a  harvest  being  needful ;  factories  might  stand  still  and 
shops  be  for  ever  shut  while  they  followed  no  other  business  than  the 
light  toil  of  plucking  flowers  for  each  other  in  the  day,  and  wandering  in 
linked  couples  at  night  under  moonlit  skies.  There  may  be  somewhere 
a  holiday  planet  in  which  it  is  possible  so  to  spend  life  unbrokenly,  but 
it  is  not  this  one.  If  nature  had  not  craftily  mixed  all  ages  in  each 
generation,  but  left  us  just  once  all  young  together,  half  a  year  of  uni- 
versal love-making  would  ruin  the  globe.  It  is  consequently  clear  that 
the  proceeding  has  in  it  the  unavoidable  absurdity  of  not  being  able  to 
last ;  and  although  each  two  persons  who  are  smitten  are  vaguely  aware 
of  this  holding  good  of  others,  still  they  believe  that  it  is  certainly  to  go 
on  in  their  own  case  for  ever.  All  the  rest  know  that  it  cannot,  and 
they  must  perforce  laugh  as  they  forecast  the  infatuated  pair's  awaking  in 
surprise.  In  very  close  connection  with  this  cause  for  mirth,  there  arises 
another.  The  couple  of  lovers  who  at  first  can,  of  necessity,  know 
nothing  of  one  another  but  the  colour  of  their  complexion,  their  stature, 
the  sound  of  voice,  or  a  few  tricks  of  bodily  bearing,  promptly  value  each 
other,  on  no  other  grounds  than  these  trivial  ones,  at  a  personal  appraise- 
ment which  everybody  else  can  clearly  see  .  is  ridiculously  excessive. 
Every  experienced  person,  no  matter  to  which  sex  he  or  she  belongs,  knows, 
from  only  too  bitter  proofs,  that  no  human  being  can,  by  mere  reason  of 
his  or  her  height,  hue  of  skin,  and  style  of  walking,  be  possibly  worth  to 
another  half  of  what  each  of  the  deluded  couple  thinks  for  the  time  being 
that  the  other  would  be  cheap  at.  The  initiated  are  consequently  forced 

23—5 


4?4  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

to  chuckle  beforehand  at  this  further  prospect  of  a  wide-eyed  amazement 
•which  lies  before  the  lovers. 

This  will,  perhaps,  serve  as  a  preliminary  statement  of  the  general 
facts ;  but  we  want  to  try  to  get  below  them.  The  first  question  which 
starts  itself  is,  How  is  it  that  every  couple,  on  being  drawn  together  in 
this  special  way  of  bodily  attraction,  fall  into  the  huge  mistake  of  such  a 
mutual  over-estimate  of  each  other's  worth  1  It  is  into  the  puzzle  of 
this  enforced  silliness  of  judging  by  personal  aspect  merely  that  we 
want  to  inquire  a  little  in  this  paper. 

The  philosophers,  as  befits  them — since  to  account  for  everything  is 
their  proper  business — have  a  suggestion  to  offer.  Physiological  reasons, 
they  hint,  are  at  the  bottom  of  these  bodily  affinities,  these  spontaneous 
preferences.  One  human  frame,  for  its  own  fit  complementing,  naturally 
develops  a  special  aesthetic  in  respect  of  another  of  the  opposite  sex : 
the  admiration  for  a  distinct  kind  of  complexion,  and  for  one  of  the 
classifiable  types  of  face  and  figure,  being  decided  and  prompted  by 
occult  sensory  stirrings.  If  you  argue  the  question  in  the  high  philo- 
sophic manner,  it  does  seem  likely  that,  for  practical  objects  connected 
with  the  preservation  and  full  diversifying  of  these  physical  characteris- 
tics in  the  race,  there  would  be  some  physiologically-acting  bodily  pro- 
clivities of  the  sort.  The  diverting  astonishment  begins  so  soon  as  you 
try  to  apply  in  particular  cases  the  two  or  three  wide  generalisations 
which  seem,  to  be  pointed  to.  For  instance,  there  is  a  faint  presumptive 
expectation  that  very  tall  persons  will  marry  very  short  ones;  and, 
again,  light-complexioned  persons  are  supposed  to  be  attracted  by  dark 
skins,  the  latter  in  turn  preferring  blondes.  But,  then,  so  many  are  the 
exceptions  to  these  rules  that  it  is  found  to  be  quite  impossible  to  predict 
according  to  them  the  striking  of  the  infatuation  in  any  separate  case. 
Moreover,  these  great  antithetical  classifications  of  stature  and  com- 
plexion are  not  generally  applicable.  They  could  at  most  only  refer  to 
extremes.  The  bulk  of  us  are  necessarily  of  medium  height,  and  of 
mixed,  if  not  middle,  tints ;  condemned  from  the  start  not  to  be  striking 
in  any  vivid,  superior,  excelling  way.  For  any  explanation  of  the  acting 
of  physiological  affinities  between  members  of  the  common  crowd  yoii 
have,  therefore,  to  take  the  inquiry  still  more  in  detail. 

It  is  very  curious,  when  doing  so,  to  note  how  small  a  portion  of  the 
personal  appearance  can  suffice  to  decide  the  bodily  infatuation  between 
the  sexes.  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  in  some  instances  a  pair  of 
eyes  have  been  fragment  enough  of  it  to  attract  fatally ;  or,  for  anything 
that  can  be  conclusively  made  out,  a  mere  roll  or  languishing  turn  of  them 
has  served.  That  is,  all  defect  in  the  rest  of  the  face  and  form  can  be 
overlooked  in  the  dazzle  of  two  tiny  orbs  flashingly  set  between  cheeks  and 
forehead.  Any  colour  is  able  to  exert  a  like  fascination  over  the  person 
in  whom  it  effectively  stirs  admiration.  That,  of  course,  is  part  of  the 
physiological  case,  as  the  philosophers  frame  it.  In  each  particular  in- 
stance, the  hue  must  be  specific);  but  it  may  be  either  blue,  brown,  grey, 


FALLING  IN  LOVE.  475 

black,  or  any  other  colour  that  is  displayable  by  human  irises.  So,  again, 
there  is  a  secret  preference  as  to  hair.  A  special  chromatic  glory  in  female 
locks,  or  even  a  mere  plentifulness  of  this  shining  excrescence  of  the 
bodily  frame,  has  a  bewildering  effect  upon  some  male  creatures.  The 
halo  may  differ  in  glint  just  as  much  as  the  eyes  may  in  glance  :  gold  is 
no  more  effective  in  one  case  than  ebon  darkness  is  in  another.  Nor  can 
it  be  told  beforehand  whether  the  sweet  folly  will  revel  most  in  silky 
fluffiness,  in  the  regulated  elegance  of  symmetrical  curls,  or  in  the 
severity  of  plain,  quietly  resting  bands.  It  would  be  easy  to  follow  the 
points  into  much  further  minutiae.  Some  wooers,  it  has  been  suspected, 
have  been  wholly  fascinated  by  a  musical  tone  heard  in  the  voice  ;  so  small 
a  trifle  of  sense-impression  as  a  special  tickling  of  the  auditory  nerves 
has  decisively  weighed  in  the  affair  of  choosing  an  associate  for  life.  In 
these  cases,  the  man  or  woman  may  nearly  be  said  to  have  married  a 
voice.  Indeed,  any  single  bodily  feature  or  detail  can  content,  or  at 
least  can  effectively  attract,  a  lover's  admiration.  The  mere  shape  and 
set  of  the  head,  or  the  slope  and  droop  of  the  shoulders ;  the  general 
carriage  of  the  body,  particular  curves  in  some  parts  of  it ;  a  certain  trip, 
glide,  or  sweep  in  walking ; — every  one  of  these  has  been  found  to  give 
enough  of  charm  for  eager  liking  to  feed  upon.  Again  and  again,  de- 
light in  the  excellence  of  a  single  bodily  feature  is  seen  to  overpower 
stark  deformity  in  other  portions  of  the  frame.  It  may  be  set  down  for 
pretty  certain  that  the  explanation  of  some  very  puzzling  selections  on 
the  part  of  lovers  can  be  no  other  than  this  full  content  with  a  separate 
bodily  detail,  which  seems  to  them  so  perfectly  beautiful  as  to  be  quite 
irresistible.  If  the  special  charm  is  not  the  one  which  stirs  infatuation 
in  yourself,  you  may  be  left  in  utter  perplexity  as  to  the  reason  of  the 
man's  or  the  woman's  choice.  It  would  be  seen  that  there  is  scarcely 
any  limit  to  the  apparent  childishness  of  the  grounds  of  these  physical 
preferences  if  some  people  were  courageoiisly  frank  enough  to  avow 
them. 

In  saying  all  this,  however,  care  must  be  takenl  not  to  make  these 
few  hints  towards  an  explanation  of  the  mystery  of  falling  in  love  seem 
too  solid  and  adequate.  There  is  abundant  evidence  that  the  physiolo- 
gical affinities  may  act  feebly  and  confusedly  :  in  countless  cases  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  germ  of  bodily  predilection  is  only  very  faintly  developed. 
The  {esthetics  are  uncertain,  the  taste  indecisive.  Any  colour,  any 
stature,  any  form  may  to  all  appearances  indifferently  and  equally  attract 
in  a  weak  way.  This  would  seem  sufficiently  perplexing ;  but,  further, 
it  does  not  seem  quite  possible  always  to  settle  whether  the  asking  for 
bodily  charm  is  nearly  absent  or  is,  in  fact,  too  sensitive.  There  are 
instances  in  which  a  moderate  general  approach  to  perfection  is  accepted 
instead  of  the  partial  excellences  above  spoken  of,  and  appears  to  be  itself 
indispensable.  What  seems  to  be  most  sought,  then,  is  the  absence  of  a 
jar  upon  any  of  the  senses ;  it  is  only  resignedly  demanded  that  there 
shall  be  no  striking  personal  defects,  The  man  or  woman  showing  this 


476  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

restrained  moderation  will  necessarily  seem  to  one  who  has  violent  tastes 
for  some  special  personal  characteristic  to  be  content,  in  his  or  her  appi'e- 
ciation,  with  what  is  tame,  colourless,  uninteresting  in  physical  appear- 
ance. But  there  yet  remains  to  be  added  that  there  are  countless  giddy, 
wholly  unclassifiable  cases  in  which  most  contradictory  personal  likings 
can  be  successively  witnessed  in  the  same  individual.  It  is  not  every 
first  attachment  that  is  conclusive ;  and  some  persons  have  been  known 
to  marry  more  than  once,  and  have  made  very  different  choices.  Many, 
as  already  hinted,  never  quite  exactly  know  what  personal  style  they 
prefer.  It  is  now  a  light  complexion  that  attracts  them ;  again  it  is  a 
dark  one :  to-day  they  are  seen  with  upturned  faces  admiringly  con- 
templating height  of  stature ;  to-morrow  looking  down  with  a  satisfied 
smirk  on  bodily  shortness.  Worst  of  all,  not  in  a  way  of  weakness  but 
rather  of  too  prompt  recklessness,  the  mere  antithesis  of  sex  appears 
coarsely  to  suffice  for  certain  low  or  poorly  cultivated  natures,  causing  a 
flare  and  disturbance  of  nervous  excitement  which  precludes  anything 
like  a  critical  judgment  of  special  characteristics.  A  floridness  of  skin  or 
an  expanse  of  white  complexion,  a  breadth  or  bulkiness  of  some  chief 
parts  of  the  frame,  will  with  them  answer  all  the  needs  of  the  rudi- 
mentary physiologic  aesthetic.  But  the  phrase  "  falling  in  love  "  does 
not  really  belong  to  worthless  examples  so  far  down  in  the  scale  of 
bodily  appreciation  as  this ;  the  right  use  of  the  words  always  presup- 
poses a  decided  personal  preference.  One  human  being  is  felt  to  be  more 
attractive  for  merely  bodily  reasons  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  besides. 
Another  remark  may  now  be  added.  In  the  cases  where  the  pre- 
ference is  decided  by  stress  of  some  single  bodily  excellence  there  is 
evidently  great  risk.  A  fine  pair  of  eyes  may  last  sufficiently ;  but  a 
glory  got  from  an  aureole  of  hair  can  fade  quicker  than  the  leaf,  and  a 
dazzling  complexion  is  not  to  be  relied  \ipon.  On  the  whole,  a  general 
approach  to  absence  of  bodily  defect,  rising  of  necessity  into  a  moderate 
acceptableness  in  the  entirety,  if  that  has  been  enough  to  decide  selection 
at  the  first,  seems  to  tell  best  in  the  end.  It  would  be  possible  to  argue, 
moreover,  that  it  does  most  credit  to  him  or  her  who  is  content  with  it, 
for  it  is  not  every  one  who  has  the  power  of  appreciating  in  any  full  and 
adequate  way  personal  appearance  in  its  entirety.  To  do  so,  a  rather 
elaborate  adjustment  of  observing  is  needed.  Some  people  only  find 
out,  for  example,  by  the  merest  accident,  through  forced  momentary 
comparisons  and  contrasts,  bodily  defects  in  those  nearest  to  them.  The 
risks  of  this  possibility  of  being  eclipsed  by  disadvantageous  comparison 
are  heightened,  too,  when  admiration  rests  on  an  apprehended  excellence 
in  a  special  respect.  To-morrow,  some  one  may  be  met  with  who  has 
bluer  or  darker  eyes,  whose  hair  sparkles  more  lustrously  or  is  more 
abundant,  or  who  is  better  at  a  particular  languish  or  attitude.  Then 
the  idol  may  topple  instantly  from  its  shrine.  It  is  true  that  one  who 
is  worshipped  less  intensely,  but  in  a  wider  way  and  for  more  diversified 
reasons,  may  also  be  surpassed ;  but  the  chances  are  that  it  will  not 


FALLING  IN  LOVE.  477 

b6  by  superiority  at  every  point — at  least,  if  that  should  happen,  it  can 
only  occur  by  the  happening  of  some  miracle  of  perfect  beauty,  which 
everybody  will  so  admire  that  any  individual  may  reconcile  himself  to 
missing  its  obtaining  since  he  is  one  among  a  crowd  of  disappointed 
signers.  It  will  be  possible,  moreover,  to  get  a  little  consolation  by 
spitefully  thinking  that  the  favoured  mortal  has  been  helped  by  luck. 

But  there  is  yet  another  puzzle  in  this  inquiry  which  may  as  well  be 
mentioned  here.  Afterwards,  when  love-making  has  led  to  its  wished- for 
result,  and  the  pair  of  wooers  have  formed  a  lasting  xmion,  then,  as  all 
the  world  well  knows,  a  most  strangely-growing  blindness  happens  as  to 
the  personal  excellences  which  at  first  started  the  bodily  infatuation. 
Such  lackadaisical  motives  are  in  the  end  nearly  quite  superseded  by  a 
set  of  practical  considerations  arising  out  of  the  domestic  relationship, 
which  so  fill  the  minds  of  the  man  and  woman  that  admiration  on  the 
score  of  physical  aspect  is  remitted  to  other  people.  But  anything 
farther  that  has  to  be  said  on  this  part  of  the  subject  will  be  better 
offered  later.  Here  we  are  still  speaking  of  first  falling  in  love. 

In  very  many  instances,  where  there  is  not  what  may  be  called  a  fully 
developed  taste  for  personal  charm,  a  counterfeit  infatuation  shows, 
which  plays  the  part  of  the  genuine  attraction.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  a  large  number  of  young  women  mistakenly  fancy  that  they  have 
physically  fascinated  their  wooers,  and  that  a  like  multitude  of  young 
men  wrongly  think  that  they  have  personally  interested  the  maidens  who 
smile  upon  them,  when  what  has  befallen  the  couples  is  scarcely  at  all 
owing  to  anything  inherent  in  themselves  on  either  side.  It  has  been 
really  decided  by  a  reflected  glitter  of  social  position,  an  effectiveness  got 
from  grouping  with  some  other  persons  habitually  near  to  them,  or  even 
the  charm  of  a  particular  adjustment  to  a  dwelling  or  a  scene.  Nearly 
any  other  young  woman  or  young  man  in  the  same  relation  to  the  sur- 
roundings would  have  had  the  same  effect  on  the  admirer.  In  fact, 
members  of  both  sexes  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  mere  domestic  situation, 
a  social  interarrangement,  when  they,  in  a  dull  comfortable  way,  thought 
they  were  wooing  and  winning  a  person.  There  is  plenty  of  detail  ready 
to  hand  on  this  part  of  the  subject.  At  times,  sisters  or  even  female 
friends,  seen  often  together,  can  very  heighteningly  set  off  one  another  in 
male  eyes.  Owing  to  this  illusiveness  operating,  a  man  may  suffer  a 
rather  fine  amazement,  by-and-by,  when  he  has  secured  his  prize  ;  and  the 
links  of  these  prior  companionships  being  broken,  or  else  much  slackened, 
he  at  last  sees  the  idol  apart.  Beheld  moving  around  him  ungrouped, 
she  scarcely  looks  the  same  person.  A  fine,  handsome  mother  of  girls,  if 
her  own  fading  has  not  advanced  so  far  as  to  hint  a  future  withering  of 
her  daughters,  may  throw  a  soft  embellishment  around  them,  causing  a 
youth  of  the  leisurely-admiring  sort  fondly  to  picture  in  the  future  for 
one  of  the  girls  a  ripe  maturity  of  matronly  appearance,  which  may, 
alas  !  be  physiologically  impossible.  A  genial,  frank-spoken,  manly 
father  can  throw  a  like  glamour  about  his  sons  when  unguarded  maidens 


478  PALLING  IN  LOVE. 

see  them  in  his  atmosphere.  There  are,  indeed,  homes  so  well  managed, 
families  which  offer  such  an  impressive  appearance  of  prosperity,  as  to 
cast  a  warmth  and  light  of  good  fortune  around  every  member  of  them, 
in  a  way  of  collective  desert  and  ensured  promise  for  all  prospective 
groupings.  Woe  to  the  unallotted  of  either  sex  who  crosses  that  parti- 
cular threshold,  and  so  passes  under  the  spell,  for  the  years  may  bring  a 
rude  disappointment.  The  admirer's  own  hearth  may  have  scarcely  any 
resemblance  to  that  one. 

It  scarcely  needs  adding  that  in  what  has  just  been  said  we  were  not 
speaking  of  coolly-calculating  self-seeking,  where  money  or  family  con- 
nection is  deliberately  aimed  at  in  preference  to  personal  liking.  The 
cases  meant  were  those  in  which  the  influences  which  decide  the  choice 
operate  in  a  way  of  natural  attraction,  doing  so,  in  part  at  least,  outside 
the  formal  judgment  of  those  they  determine.  Only  owing  to  that  can 
the  phrase  "  falling  in  love  "  be  used  of  any  instances  even  in  the  above  ex- 
plained counterfeit  sense.  But  it  may  be  asked,  if  the  first  real  or  fancied 
apprehensions  of  physical  excellence  which  start  what  may  be  termed  the 
genuine]  infatuation  come  by-and-by  to  obscure  and  weaken,  why  may 
not  a  choice  prompted  by  these  more  circumstantial  attractions  turn  out 
best,  as  being  the  most  likely  to  lend  itself  well  to  the  practical  affairs 
which  in  the  long  run  mainly  tell  upon  the  domestic  relationship  1  That 
is  exactly  what  the  cynics  do  affirm.  But  neither  the  poets  nor  the 
moralists  will  listen  to  them.  In  order  to  state  the  poet's  reasoning 
about  love  it  will  be  obligatory  to  grow  quite  serious  for  a  moment. 

It  may  be  at  once  admitted  that  it  was  taking  too  narrow  a  view  of 
the  aesthetics  of  love-making  to  speak  only  of  a  mutual  personal  admira- 
tion showing  itself  in  the  infatuated  pair.  They  are  not  quite  so  fully 
absorbed  as  this ;  they  can  and  do  spare  side-glances  for  the  world  in 
which  they  find  themselves.  It  is  a  world  which  differs  from  the  noisy, 
hum-drum  one  of  daily  business,  and  is  yet  it.  Not  even  lovers  can 
wholly  get  out  of  this  common  world ;  but  they  in  part  transform  it, 
adding  some  other  regions  to  it.  The  ecstasy  aroused  by  the  one  loved 
central  figure  of  this  scene  extends  much  further,  and  in  fact  stirs  a 
more  or  less  wide  Art-feeling  which  includes  the  discovery  and  apprecia- 
tion of  beauty  anywhere  and  everywhere.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
how  this  artistic  heightening  of  the  sensibility  comes  about,  for  the  very 
physiological  key  of  the  pair's  daily  and  hourly  living  is  raised  in  pitch. 
This  is  where  the  poet  cannot  be  gainsaid.  The  prudential  organising 
of  a  domestic  connection  may  give  economical  and  comfortable  house- 
keeping ;  but  it  cannot  give  this  poeticalising  of  the  sensations,  which,  no 
matter  how  brief  a  time  it  lasts,  if  it  is  once  rightly  stirred  by  a  fit  of 
bodily  entrancement  in  spontaneous  worship  of  one  of  the  other  sex, 
leaves  lingering  about  the  world  for  ever  some  fitful  recollections  of  a 
bowery  Eden  in  it,  not  too  crowded  and  all  fair.  Is  it  necessary  to  give 
the  details  1  Lovers  find  out  the  sweetness  of  silence  and  secresy  ;  they 
become  aware  of  the  moon  and  the  sky,  and  of  the  sea  and  woods  and 


FALLING-  IN  LoVH,  479 

fields  in  a  wholly  fresh  and  more  delighting  way.  Flowers  and  music  are 
no  longer  half-unintelligible ;  all  the  emblems,  metaphors,  and  parables 
of  Nature  are  fully  understood.  Not  one  of  the  simple  out-door  glories  is 
then  in  the  least  superfluous  :  every  one  of  them  is  really  needed  to  give 
some  fitting  background  or  due  covert  for  a  whisper  or  a  smile.  Even 
in  more  public  and  conventional  scenes,  the  embellished,  the  ornamented 
grows  natural ;  and  somewhere  in  the  concerns'  of  the  pair  a  touch  of 
romance  is  sure  to  be  unfailingly  brought  in.  The  most  rustic  of  wooers 
is  not  contented  until  he  has  sought  for,  presented,  and  had  accepted  from 
his  hand  something  which  he  and  the  one  other  think  fair  and  in  some  way 
uncommon.  A  flower  of  a  kind  as  old  as  those  Adam  plucked  will  serve 
if  need  be.  But  where  there  is  much  wealth,  rarity  must  be  obtained  by 
great  costliness ;  not  necessarily  out  of  a  spirit  of  vulgar  display,  as  is 
sometimes  thought,  but  to  give  a  seeming  of  sacrifice  if  it  is  not  really 
practicable.  If  the  infatuation  of  bodily  admiration  between  a  pair  of 
lovers  signifies  a  more  subtle  appreciation  of  the  world,  and  a  pricking 
of  the  spirit  of  adventure  in  male  bosoms  and  of  a  feeling  of  willing 
tenderness  in  female  hearts,  the  poets  are  not  quite  silly  in  their  eulogies. 
Under  this  view,  the  most  prudent  marriage  of  convenience  will  not 
fully  substitute  the  ancient  silliness  of  impetuous  youthful  love-making. 
So  far  as  to  the  mere  poetry  of  the  matter,  and  nothing  whatever  of  the 
ethical  argument  has  yet  been  used. 

But  already,  in  accepting  anything  in  connection  with  this  topic  in  a 
direct  and  simple  way,  as  though  it  was  quite  intelligible  and  fully  satis- 
factory, we  afresh  run  the  risk  of  seeming  too  easily  to  do  away  part  of 
the  mystery.  Let  no  one,  for  instance,  entertain  the  suggestion,  which 
will  scarcely  fail  to  arise,  that  these  physiological  attractions  give  any 
clue  for  finding  the  compatibilities  of  temper,  and  the  general  moral  and 
mental  qualities  which  are  needed  for  happy  domestic  life  in  any  pair. 
On  the  exact  contrary,  here  begins  a  new  and  most  intricate  complication 
of  the  proceeding.  Not  a  few  men  and  women  come  to  have  a  bitter 
secret  persuasion  after  marriage  that  they  have  been  inveigled  into  the 
least  suitable  of  unions  by  the  very  misleading  of  some  one  of  these 
hallucinations  of  physical  form,  or  lustre,  or  grace.  Just  as  certainly  as 
that  the  aesthetic  inspired  by  love  extends  beyond  the  first  strict  needs 
of  a  personal  worship  of  the  idol,  giving  stray  hints  of  Art,  does  an  ethical 
inference  accompany  the  beholding,  or  supposed  beholding,  of  each  trait 
of  bodily  loveliness,  starting  suggestions  of  high  morals,  of  boundless 
sacrifice,  of  infinite  worth.  Owing  to  an  awful  sanctitude  which  there  is 
in  beauty,  it  takes  much  to  convince  a  youthful  adorer  that  she  whom  he 
thinks  fair  is  not  also  good.  There  is  no  such  scepticism  as  that  which 
infatuated  youth  can  show  in  this  matter.  But  though  the  aesthetic 
always  more  or  less  vindicates  itself,  widening  and  heightening  the  power 
of  appreciating  what  is  beautiful  in  the  outer  world,  the  insight  into 
moral  qualities  may  be  quite  confused  and  blinded  by  these  too  eagerly 
prized  details  of  bodily  aspect.  No  more  perfect  amazements  have 


480  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

been  suffered  by  mortal  hearts  in  this  world  than  those  caused  by  first 
seeing  eyes  of  supposed  meekest  innocence  show  an  easy  trick  of  flashing 
into  scorn  ;  the  velvet  fulness  of  cherry-ripe  lips,  thought  until  then  to 
be  only  capable  of  framing  soft  words  of  patience  and  assent,  roseately  to 
curl  with  spite ;  or  white  slender  necks,  which  before  carried  the  small 
shining  heads  above  them  lightly  poised  for  quick  complacencies  of 
sweet  attention,  suddenly  stiffen  with  vanity,  and  swell  their  faint  violet 
veins  to  purple,  as  hitherto  smooth  satiny  foreheads  wrinkled  with  quick 
rage.  No  doubt  that  female  worshippers  of  manly  breadth  of  shoulders, 
erectness  of  tall  male  stature,  and  supposed  frankness  of  open  masculine 
visage,  are  equally  liable  to  those  stark  surprises.  But,  upon  the  whole, 
it  seems  likely  that  womanly  elegance,  softness,  and  fragility  lend  them- 
selves most  effectively  to  giving  complete  surprise  in  the  beholding  of 
these  transformations.  No  man  or  woman  can  perfectly  know  how 
utterly  he  or  she  can  feel  to  have  been  a  fool  in  judgment  until  some  one 
of  the  other  sex  has  in  one  of  these  ways  lifted  the  total  disguise  of  a 
beautiful  personal  presence.  It  gives  the  blankest  humiliation  of  intellect 
that  a  human  being  can  undergo.  All  experienced  people  know  that 
such  things  are.  There  is  always  sounding  in  the  world  a  popular 
rumour  that  falling  in  love  covers  this  fearful  risk ;  but  the  young  folks — 
those  to  whom  the  whisper  of  such  wisdom  would  be  of  any  use — never 
listen  to  it ;  or  if  a  few  exceptions  do  so,  and  shrewdly  strive  to  be  guided 
by  a  second  deeper  set  of  personal  signs,  which  are  summed  up  in  the 
word  "  expression,"  they,  if  in  this  way  made  a  little  safer,  may  yet  fall 
into  the  hugest  mistakes  if  they  attempt  too  much  of  such  sagacity.  The 
more  occasional  bewitchments  of  momentary  smiles,  of  secretly-forming 
dimples  which  only  one  at  a  time  can  see,  of  sudden  kindlings  of  the  eye, 
sympathetic  softenings  of  the  tone,  passing  elegances  of  attitude  that 
seem  to  show  the  movements  of  the  soul  within,  may  all  mislead.  Nature, 
pry  as  you  will,  yet  keeps  something  for  fortune. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  us  make  haste  to  add,  as  strictly  belonging  to 
the  natural  complications  of  the  topic,  that  there  are  lucky  instances 
where  men  and  women,  who  have  exercised  this  restraint  in  not  choosing 
wholly  from  the  surface,  have  met  with  wonderful  rewards  of  secret 
sweetness.  On  entering  the  houses  of  some  husbands  who  have  plain- 
looking  wives,  it  is  possible  to  detect  a  half-suppressed  glee  twinkling  in 
their  faces,  as  if  there  was  a  joke  somewhere  beneath  the  roof  awaiting 
your  discovery.  By-and-by,  you  find  it  out.  These  slyly  happy  men 
know  beforehand  that  you  will  shortly  learn  how,  behind  the  uninterest- 
ing womanly  exterior,  each  of  them,  has  really  secured  a  homely  angel 
to  be  ever  at  his  side  or  moving  about  upon  his  hearth.  In  the  hope  of 
lighting  on  some  such  luck,  examples  are  to  be  met  with  of  individuals 
even  deliberately  foregoing  physical  attractions ;  but  usually  it  is  after 
they  have  unlawfully  worn  out  the  enjoyments  of  them,  and,  by  a  right 
retribution,  they  are  nearly  sure  miserably  to  miscarry  in  their  choice, 
losing  even  the  dull  comfort  they  have  groped  after,  simply  by  dispensing, 


PALLING  IN  LOVE.  481 

in  their  too  late  selection,  with  the  possible  natural  guidance  of  anything 
like  genuine  falling  in  love.  There  would  be  much  unfairness  in  con- 
founding these  bad  cases  with  a  few  other  instances  whose  existence 
seems  to  be  verified,  and  which  doubtless  give  the  reason  why  wise 
Nature  finds  the  heart  to  provide  a  sprinkling  of  women  whom  all  do 
not  think  fair — the  instances,  namely,  of  men  who  like  to  admire  in 
secret,  and  would  feel  their  idol  vulgarised  if  it  drew  too  much  of  the 
public  gaze.  These  chuckle  as  the  privately-worshipped  one  passes 
through  the  world  a  pace  behind  them,  retiring  in  their  shadow  only 
half  observed ;  and  they  can  be  seen  to  start  in  apprehension  at  any 
chance  attention  casually  bestowed  upon  their  treasure.  But,  passing 
by  such  eccentric  cases  as  these,  any  who  try  deliberately  to  be  wiser 
than  their  fellows  in  this  affair  of  love,  run  the  risk  of  being  proved 
silliest  of  all  if  they  fail.  A  man  who  too  coldly  resists  the  natural 
charm  of  female  loveliness,  and  tries  by  hunting  after  hidden  clues  to 
disposition  to  be  made  wholly  safe  in  his  choice,  ought  someway  to  be 
very  sure  that  he  succeeds ;  for,  if  he  does  not,  he  has  not  even  such  miti- 
gations as  bodily  beauty  in  his  costly  prize  would  give  to  excuse,  in 
part,  his  proved  want  of  judgment.  There  is,  in  fact,  no  fully  guarding 
against  this  hazardous  non-coincidence  between  outward  personal  aspect 
and  inner  quality ;  for,  although  what  is  termed  "  expression  "  gives  some 
puzzling  hints  as  to  the  latter,  the  hints  only  reach  to  the  extent  of  mak- 
ing it  folly  to  have  regard  to  beauty  only,  not  being  themselves  capable  of 
giving  grounds  for  any  formal  estimate.  It  follows  that  in  all  the  fortu- 
nate cases  where  a  man  or  a  woman  finds  out  on  their  own  hearth  that 
the  one  they  have  chosen  is,  whenever  the  bodily  mask  is  lifted,  nobler 
within  than  the  exterior  promised,  a  fairy  tale  of  private  surprise  and 
sweet  delight  goes  forward  under  that  roof  from  day  to  day. 

Is  it  practicable  now  to  attempt  any  graver  statement  than  that 
which  offered  at  the  outset  of  the  seeming  preposterousness  of  the  physio- 
logically-produced hallucination  of  first  falling  in  love  1  Well ;  it  would 
seem  that,  after  all,  it  is  too  superficial,  too  trivial  a  version  of  the 
affair  to  say  that  a  youth  and  a  maiden  risk  all  on  the  attractiveness  of  a 
certain  dazzle  of  complexion,  a  particular  curl  or  flow  of  hair,  a  special 
attitude  or  movement,  a  precise  height  of  stature,  an  exact  breadth  of 
shoulder ;  or,  putting  the  matter  generally — that  is,  in  its  entirety  and 
at  its  best — some  one  express  style  of  bodily  aspect.  In  the  worst 
instance  of  juvenile  love's  infatuation,  the  eager,  idolatrous  wooer  believes 
that  he  gets  a  glimpse  behind  the  physical  mask  of  the  very  person  that 
he  wants  for  his  companion.  The  rosy  or  pale  cheek,  smooth  forehead, 
and  glittering,  soft-fringed  eye,  are  the  fleshly  windows  through  which 
the  young  people  think  they  can  see  one  another.  Moreover,  the  world 
of  first  love,  although  it  wears  so  gay  and  amusing  an  aspect  to  all  out- 
siders, is  not  a  light  or  trivial  world  to  the  pairs  who  are  within  it.  It 
is  true  that,  when  spoken  to  by  any  third  person,  they  must  laugh ;  but 
between  themselves  every  word,  gesture,  look,  is  most  significant.  And 


482  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

what  is  cynically  set  down  as  the  finding  out  of  the  lovers'  overprizing 
of  one  another  is  a  very  late  unnecessary  discovery,  only  ever  made 
through  the  default  of  one  or  both  of  them.  If  they  had  only  kept  quite 
true,  there  would  have  been  no  solider  reality  under  the  sky.  The 
high  estimate  that  youths  and  maidens  put  on  one  another  has  but  to  be 
regarded  as  a  pre-anticipation  of  merit  which  has  to  come,  and  in  all  the 
scheme  of  things  there  is  no  wiser  contrivance  for  making  effort  nobly 
obligatory.  Are  the  young  people  to  wait  before  they  admire  each  other 
till  they  have  really  justified  it  ?  In  that  case  they  would  be  no  longer 
young  when  the  mutual  respect  and  liking  came,  but  worn  and  grey  in 
practising  long,  uphill,  hard-proved  virtue.  First  love's  silliness  saves 
that  hardship,  letting  us  begin  life  with  a  triumph — the  fighting  to 
come  afterwards. 

It  would  consequently  seem  that  the  matter  may  be  finally  re-stated 
thus — Nature  has  provided  that  adult  life  shall  begin  with  a  physically- 
guaranteed  heightening  of  emotion,  in  which  the  beauty  of  the  world  is 
sympathetically  apprehended,  and  the  value  of  another  human  person  is 
anticipatorily  estimated  as  highly  as  the  best  possible  desert  could  carry 
it.  The  accidents  of  personal  fascination  are  but  the  means  by  which 
this  great  double  end  is  gained,  and  by  them  man  and  woman  are 
prompted  to  a  spontaneous  rehearsal  of  the  forms  of  self-sacrifice  and  of 
full  mutual  appreciation.  In  this  way  it  is  secured  that  no  one  who  has 
fallen  in  love  genuinely  for  what  is  enthusiastically  accepted  as  beauty's 
sake,  even  if  it  be  by  spontaneous  admiration  of  but  a  shining  curl,  can 
be  wholly  ignorant  of  the  discipline  and  etiquette  of  virtue.  Nor  can 
they  ever  afterwards  quite  lose  the  recollection  of  this  early  training, 
however  brief  the  duration  of  it  was.  This  is  why  it  is  that  it  is  as- 
suredly better  to  have  loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 
Further,  the  uncertainties  of  the  event,  cruelly  disastrous  as  they  prove 
in  individual  cases,  seem  needed,  up  to  a  considerable  frequency,  to  make 
it  needful  in  this  affair,  as  in  every  other  happening  of  human  life,  that 
man  shall  not  mechanically  yield  himself  to  inclination  without  a  struggle. 
In  the  very  delirium  of  love  he  is  bound  under  a  heavy  penalty  to  try 
a  little  to  be  wise. 

Besides  the  first  tumultuous  passion  caused  by  mere  bodily  fascina- 
tion, there  happily  are  possible  some  glorious  later  fallings  in  love  over 
again  with  the  same  person  for  more  lasting  reasons,  after  the  physical 
charm  of  superficial  aspect  has  more  or  less  expended  itself.  There  is 
scarcely  any  limit  to  the  extent  to  Avhich  domestic  association  can  be 
freshened  by  the  progressive  discovery  of  compatibilities  of  character,  or 
the  repeated  elicitings  of  ever-new  admiration  on  the  score  of  mental 
and  moral  excellence  in  those  nearest  to  you.  The  occasions  for  these 
later,  better  wooings  are  unpredictable  ;  at  times  they  are  long  deferred, 
and  often  they  ask  the  suffering  of  joint  trials  to  give  the  opportunity. 
But,  whenever  any  reappreciation  of  heightened  mutual  value  of  this 
kind  takes  place,  the  friends  and  acquaintances  of  the  parties  see,  with 


PALLING  IN  LOVE.  483 

Surprise,  that  there  is  a  pair  of  married  lovers  on  the  hearth.  At  these 
rejuvenating  times  the  faded  personal  charms  may  even  be  again  noticed 
shining  forth  afresh ;  if  with  less  lustre,  yet  with  more  clearness  and 
serenity  than  at  the  first.  If  the  physical  charm  is  gone,  or  if  it  was  never 
greatly  there,  the  absence  of  it  will  be  replaced  by  the  sweetness  of  a 
wise  conviction  that  it  was  not  indispensable ;  and  if  the  obscuring  of  the 
bodily  frame  has  been  caused  by  trouble  bravely  borne,  a  pathetic  reve- 
rence may  even  exult  over  the  marks,  idolising  them  as  dearer  than  the 
trivial  unearned  perfections  of  beauty.  A  pair  who  have  passed  through 
much  grief  together,  if  only  they  have  gone  through  it  well,  making  some 
sacrifices  for  one  another,  must  in  the  end  come  to  love  one  another  in 
this  quiet  but  lasting  style.  The  ideal  picture  of  human  love  now  faintly 
offers  itself  before  us.  In  a  perfect  example,  a  youthful  pair  would  have 
their  glances  first  mutually  drawn  together  and  brightly  entangled  by  the 
physiological  afiinities  prompting  bodily  admiration  for  mere  beauty's 
sake ;  and,  before  the  rosy  shame  naturally  attendant  on  that  embarrass- 
ing confession  had  quite  faded,  a  new  reciprocal  discovery  of  inner,  more 
personal  merit  should  succeed ;  while  time,  in  its  long  bringing  of  the 
mixed  events  of  fortune,  should  ever  and  again  add  new  pathetic  conse- 
cratings  of  affection  from  inevitable  woes  easingly  shared  together.  It 
is  easy  to  see  that  in  such  an  instance  the  mutual  attractions,  as  they 
succeed  and  accumulate^become  knitted  closer  and  closer ;  they  are  not 
so  much  renewals  of  a  fitfully-weakening  feeling  as  fuller  developments 
of  it,  with  strange  softenings  and  heightenings  of  tender  and  gay  and 
solemn  reminiscences  adding  themselves  perfectingly  at  every  stage. 

But  who  can  rationally  hope  for  such  a  complete  realisation  of  the 
ideal  of  love  as  this  ?  People  in  general  have  to  be  content  with  one  or 
other  of  these  events.  To  some  this  of  the  series  falls,  and  to  others  that ; 
the  humbler  thankfulness  which  comes  to  be  felt  by  most  at  the  arrange- 
ment seeming  to  arise  from  finding  that,  where  the  first  chance  has  been 
missed,  the  later  ones  may  possibly  be  enjoyed  in  some  hap  or  other  of 
their  succession. 

This  throws  a  little  light  upon  the  subtle  casuistries  of  this  matter  of 
love.  It  is  a  standing  question,  for  instance,  which  each  new  generation  of 
maidens  persists  in  keeping  alive,  whether  any  subsequent  falling  in  love 
can  equal  the  first  ?  Those  among  the  older  people  to  whom  fortune  has 
been  unkind  in  that  early  chance  try  hard  to  get  some  possibility  of  the 
sort  allowed  ;  while  the  younger  folk  shake  doubtful  heads,  and,  growing 
maudlin  in  advance,  throw  out  hints  of  a  poetical  despair  if  all  does  not  go 
well  from  the  very  first.  A  partial  explanation  is  got,  when  you  remember 
that  the  juveniles  know  nothing  of  the  later  fallings  in  love ;  and  that  it 
is  of  those  the  worn  veterans  are  thinking,  having  forgotten  something  of 
the  sweet  though  heated  and  risky  delirium  of  the  first  inexplicable  fas- 
cination. Obviously,  it  is  possible  for  a  man  or  a  woman  to  miss  of  some 
of  these  successive  possibilities  of  love  in  one  preliminary  selection  or  one 
union,  and  to  find  them,  or  some  of  them,  in  a  later  venture.  Which 


484  FALLING  IN  LOVE. 

happiness  is  it  that  the  eulogist  is  at  the  time  enjoying  ]  One  kind, 
moreover,  may  happen  in  perfection  after  another  has  only,  by  cross 
accident,  been  half  fulfilled,  and  the  very  prosperity,  of  the  later  event 
may  throw  into  the  shade  the  more  exciting  interest  which  the  earlier 
experience  in  part  had,  but  which  it  lost.  A  man,  again,  may  so  nar- 
rowly escape  from  the  shipwreck  of  all  his  peace  in  the  tempestuous 
admiration  of  bodily  beauty,  that  he  may  ever  after  partly  go  in  dread  of 
it,  and  may  hug  himself  in  a  feeling  of  comfort  and  of  safety  in  a  quieter 
appreciating  of  suitability  of  character.  That  first  manner  of  falling  in 
love  will  seem  to  him  too  full  of  peril  to  have  any  justification.  But  let 
him  go,  and,  on  this  ground,  advise  the  young  people  to  omit  it .'  The 
world  will  echo  with  the  derisive  laughter  of  their  answer.  He  will  be 
told  mockingly  that  he  has  tried  it,  or  he  could  not  have  known  of  this 
possibility  of  failure  ;  and  it  will  be  triumphantly  flung  in  his  face,  that 
his  non-success  must  have  been  well  deserved.  Are  they,  the  juveniles, 
not  at  that  moment  determined  on  succeeding  ?  No ;  this  prudence  of 
understanding  first  love's  silliness  is  a  wisdom  which  youth  will  never 
leam. 

For  the  last  words,  we  had  better  try  to  get  back  to  the  gay  reckless- 
ness which  alone  quite  befits  the  subject  when  publicly  talked  of,  and 
which  it  at  the  outset  naturally  prompted.  That  rustic  witchery  of  eyes 
and  lips  and  cheeks,  the  sheepish  yielding  to  which  makes  its  victims  so 
merrily  ludicrous  to  all  spectators,  is  not  to  be  foregone  without  the  in- 
curring of  special  loss  which  nothing  else  can  quite  make  up.  It  is  very 
well  to  have  the  later  kinds  of  falling  in  love,  but  it  is  an  ill  misfortune 
not  to  have  begun  with  this  one ;  the  heightening  of  the  world's  loveliness 
and  the  complete  sense  of  personal  value  which  it  gives  can  only  be  fully 
hoped  for  in  a  certain  comparative  period  of  earliness  of  life.  This  is  the 
bit  of  hard  logic  that  the  juveniles  have  on  their  side.  But  there  scarcely 
is  any  need  for  pushing  this  reasoning  further.  The  young  people  go  on 
tumbling  in  love  in  that  early  primitive  fashion,  with  no  falling  off"  in 
the  most  ancient  easiness  of  the  practice ;  attributing  to  one  another,  as 
a  kind  of  desert,  the  unmerited  possession  of  youth  and  such  chance  of 
bodily  beauty  as  there  is.  When  they  cease  to  do  this,  there  will  not 
much  longer  be  any  young  people  to  find  fault  with  for  not  mutually 
fascinating  one  another.  Any  preaching  needed  in  the  case  is,  in  fact, 
that  of  restraint  rather  than  urging  forward  ;  and  the  shrewd  warnings  of 
experience,  if  they  are  to  have  any  use,  must  be  made  half  jocose  to  get 
them  listened  to  at  all  by  the  right  persons. 


485 


To  the  idealised  vision  that  goes  along  with  hereditary  culture  a  large 
town  may  seem  an  impressive  spectacle.  For  Wordsworth,  worshipper 
of  nature  thoiigh  he  was,  earth  had  not  anything  to  show  more  fail-  than 
London  from  Westminster  Bridge,  and  Victor  Hugo  finds  endless 
inspiration  on  the  top  of  a  Parisian  omnibus.  As  shrines  of  art,  as  foci 
of  historic  memories,  even  simply  as  vast  aggregates  of  human  beings 
working  out  the  tragi- comedy  of  life,  great  cities  have  furnished  the  key- 
note to  much  fine  poetry.  But  it  is  different  with  the  letterless  masses. 
The  student  of  literature,  who  turns  to  folk-songs  in  search  after  a  new 
enjoyment,  will  meet  with  little  to  attract  him  in  urban  rhymes ;  if 
there  are  many  that  present  points  of  antiquarian  interest,  there  are  few 
that  have  any  kind  of  poetic  worth.  The  people's  poetry  grows  not  out 
of  an  ideal  world  of  association  and  aspiration,  but  from  the  springs  of 
their  life.  They  cannot  see  with  their  minds  as  well  as  with  their  eyes. 
What  they  do  see  in  most  great  towns  is  the  monotonous  ugliness  which 
surrounds  their  homes  and  their  labour.  Then  again,  it  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  with  the  people  loss  of  individuality  means  loss  of  the  power  of 
song ;  and  where  there  is  density  of  population  there  is  generally  a 
uniformity  as  featureless  as  that  of  pebbles  on  the  sea  beach.  Still  to 
the  rule  that  folk-poesy  is  not  a  thing  of  town  growth  one  exception 
has  to  be  made.  Venice,  unique  under  every  aspect,  has  songs  which,  if 
not  of  the  highest,  are  unquestionably  of  a  high  order.  The  generalising 
influences  at  play  in  great  political  centres  have  hardly  affected  the 
inhabitants  of  the  city  which  for  a  thousand  years  of  independence  was 
a  body  politic  complete  in  itself.  Nor  has  Venetian  common  life  lacked 
those  elements  of  beauty  without  whose  presence  the  popular  muse  is 
dumb.  The  very  industries  of  the  Venetians  were  arts,  and  when  they 
were  young  and  spiritually  teachable,  their  chief  bread-winning  work  of 
every  day  was  Venice — her  ducal  chapel,  her  campanile,  her  palaces  of 
marble  and  porphyry.  In  the  process  of  making  her  the  delight  of  after 
ages,  they  attended  an  excellent  school  of  poetry. 

The  gondolier  contemporary  with  Byron  was  correctly  described  as 
songless.  At  a  date  closely  coinciding  with  the  overthrow  of  Venetian 
freedom,  the  boatmen  left  off  waking  the  echoes  of  the  Grand  Canal, 
except  by  those  cries  of  warning  which,  no  one  can  quite  say  why,  so 
thrill  and  move  the  hearer.  It  was  no  rare  thing  to  find  among  the 
Italians  of  the  Lombardo-Venetian  provinces  the  old  pathetic  instinct  of 
keeping  silence  before  the  stranger.  We  recollect  a  story  told  us  by  one 


486  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

of  them.  When  he  was  a  boy,  Antonio — that  was  his  name — had  to 
make  a  journey  with  two  young  Austrian  officers.  They  took  notice  of 
the  lad,  who  was  sprightly  and  good-looking,  and  by-and-by  they  asked 
him  to  sing.  "  Canta,  canta,  il  piccolo,"  said  they ;  "  sing  us  the  songs 
of  Italy."  He  refused.  They  insisted,  and,  coming  to  a  tavern,  they 
gave  him  wine,  which  sent  the  blood  to  his  head.  So  at  last  he  said, 
"  Yery  well,  I  will  sing  you  the  songs  of  Italy."  What  he  sang  was 
one  of  the  most  furiously  anti- Austrian  songs  of  '48.  "  Taci,  taci,  il 
piccolo  !  "  ("  Be  quiet !  ")  cried  the  officers,  who  yet  knew  how  to  appre- 
ciate the  boy's  spirit,  for  they  pressed  on  him  a  ten-franc  piece  at  part- 
ing. To  return  to  Venice.  In  the  year  1819  an  English  traveller  asked 
for  a  song  of  a  man  who  was  reported  to  have  once  chanted  Tasso  alia 
barcaruola ;  the  old  gondolier  shook  his  head.  "  In  times  like  these," 
he  said,  "  he  had  no  heart  to  sing."  Foreign  visitors  had  to  fall  back  on 
the  beautiful  German  music,  at  the  sound  of  which  Venetians  ran  out  of 
the  Piazza,  lest  they  might  be  seduced  by  its  hated  sweetness.  Mean- 
while the  people  went  on  singing  in  their  own  quarters,  and  away  from 
the  chance  of  ministering  to  their  masters'  amusement.  It  is  even  prob- 
able that  the  moral  casemate  to  which  they  fled  favoured  the  preserva- 
tion of  their  old  ways,  that  of  poetising  included.  Instead  of  aiming  at 
something  novel  and  modern,  the  Venetian  wished  to  be  like  what  his 
fathers  were  when  the  flags  on  St.  Mark's  staffs  were  not  yellow  and 
black.  So,  like  his  fathers,  he  made  songs  and  sang  songs,  of  which  a 
good  collection  has  been  formed,  partly  in  past  years,  and  partly  since 
the  black-and-yellow  standard  has  given  place,  not,  indeed,  to  the  con- 
quered emblems  of  the  Greek  isles,  but  to  the  colours  of  Italy,  recon- 
quered for  herself. 

Venetian  folk-poesy  begins  at  the  cradle.  The  baby  Venetian,  like 
most  other  babies,  is  assured  that  he  is  the  most  perfect  of  created 
beings.  Here  and  there,  underlying  the  baby  nonsense,  is  a  dash  of 
pathos.  "  Would  you  weep  if  I  were  dead  1 "  a  mother  asks,  and  the 
child  is  made  to  answer,  "How  could  I  help  weeping  for  my  own 
mamma,  who  loves  me  so  in  her  heart  ?  "  A  child  is  told  that  if  he  asks 
his  mother,  who  is  standing  by  the  door,  "  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 
she  will  reply,  "  I  am  waiting  for  thy  father ;  I  wait  and  wait,  and  do 
not  see  him  coming;  I  think  I  shall  die  thus  waiting."  The  little 
Venetian  has  the  failings  of  baby-kind  all  the  world  over ;  he  cries  and 
he  laughs  when  he  ought  to  be  fast  asleep.  His  mother  tells  him  that 
he  was  born  to  live  in  Paradise ;  she  is  sure  that  the  angels  would 
rejoice  in  her  darling's  beauty.  "  Sleep  well,  for  thy  mother  sits  near 
thee,"  she  sings,  "  and  if  by  chance  I  go  away,  God  will  watch  thee 
when  I  am  gone." 

A  christening  is  regarded  in  Venice  as  an  event  of  much  social  as 
well  as  religious  importance.  By  canon  law  the  bonds  of  relationship 
established  by  godfatherhood  count  for  the  same  as  those  of  blood,  for 
which  reason  the  Venetian  nobles  used  to  choose  a  person  of  inferior 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS.  487 

rank  to  stand  sponsor  for  their  children,  thus  escaping  the  creation  of 
ties  prohibitive  of  marriage  between  persons  of  their  own  class.  In  this 
case  the  material  responsibilities  of  the  sponsor  were  slight — it  was  his 
part  to  take  presents,  and  not  to  make  them.  By  way  of  acknowledging 
the  new  connection,  the  child's  father  sent  the  godfather  a  marchpane, 
that  cake  of  mystic  origin  which  is  still  honoured  and  eaten  from 
Nuremberg  to  Malaga.  With  the  poor,  another  order  of  things  is  in 
force.  The  compare  de  I'anelo — the  person  who  acted  as  groomsman  at 
the  marriage — is  chosen  as  sponsor  to  the  first-born  child.  His  duties 
begin  even  before  the  christening.  When  he  hears  of  the  child's  birth, 
he  gets  a  piece  of  meat,  a  fowl,  and  two  new-laid  eggs,  packs  them  in  a 
basket,  and  despatches  them  to  the  young  mother.  Eight  days  after  the 
birth  comes  the  baptism.  On  returning  from  the  church,  the  sponsor, 
now  called  compare  de  San  Zuane,  visits  the  mother,  before  whom  he 
displays  his  presents — twelve  or  fifteen  lire  for  herself;  for  the  baby  a 
pair  of  earrings,  if  it  be  a  girl ;  and  if  a  boy,  a  pair  of  boy's  earrings,  or 
a  single  ornament  to  be  worn  in  the  right  ear.  Henceforth  the  godfather 
is  the  child's  natural  guardian  next  to  its  parents  ;  and  should  they  die, 
he  is  expected  to  provide  for  k.  Should  the  child  die,  he  must  buy  the 
zogia  (the  "  joy  "),  a  wreath  of  flowers  now  set  on  the  coffins  of  dead 
infants,  but  formerly  placed  on  their  heads  when  they  were  carried  to 
the  grave-isle  in  full  sight  of  the  people.  This  last  custom  led  to  even 
more  care  being  given  to  the  toilet  of  dead  children  than  what  might 
seem  required  by  decency  and  affection.  To  dress  a  dead  child  badly 
was  considered  shameful.  Tradition  tells  of  what  happened  to  a  woman 
who  was  so  miserly  that  she  made  her  little  girl  a  winding-sheet  of  rags 
and  tatters.  When  the  night  of  the  dead  came  round  and  all  the  ghosts 
went  in  procession,  the  injured  babe,  instead  of  going  with  the  rest, 
tapped  at  its  mother's  door  and  cried,  "  Mamma,  do  you  see  me  ?  I 
cannot  go  in  procession  because  I  am  all  ragged."  Every  year  on  the 
night  of  the  dead  the  baby  girl  returned  to  make  the  same  reproach. 
Venetian  children  say  before  they  go  to  bed  : — 

Bona  sera  ai  vivi, 

E  riposo  ai  poveri  morti ; 
Bon  viagio  ai  naveganti 

E  bona  note  ai  tuti  quanti. 

There  is  a  sort  of  touching  simplicity  in  this ;  and  somehow  the  wish  of 
peace  to  the  "  poor  dead  "  recalls  a  line  of  Baudelaire's — 

Les  morts,  los  pauvres  morts,  ont  de  grandes  douleurs. 

But  as  a  whole,  the  rhymes  of  the  Venetian  nursery  are  not  interesting, 
save  from  their  extreme  resemblance  to  the  nursery  rhymes  of  England, 
France,  or  any  other  European  country.  They  need  not,  therefore, 
detain  us. 

Twilight  is  of  an  Eastern  brevity  on  the  Adriatic  shore,  both  in  nature 
and  in  life.     The  child  of  yesterday  is  the  man  of  to-day,  and  as  soon  as 


488  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

the  young  Venetian  discovers  that  he  has  a  heart,  he  takes  pains  to  lose 
it  to  a  Tosa  proportionately  youthful.  The  Venetian  (and  Proven9al) 
word  Tosa  signifies  maiden,  though  whether  the  famous  Cima  Tosa  is 
thus  a  sister  to  the  Jungfrau  is  not  sure,  some  authorities  believing  it  to 
bear  the  more  prosaic  designation  of  baldheaded.*  Our  young  Venetian 
may  perhaps  be  unacquainted  with  the  girl  he  has  marked  out  for  prefer- 
ence. In  any  case  he  walks  up  and  down  or  rows  up  and  down  assi- 
duously under  her  window.  One  night  he  will  sing  to  a  slow,  languorous 
air — possibly  an  operatic  air,  but  so  altered  as  to  be  not  easy  of  recogni- 
tion— «  I  wish  all  good  to  all  in  this  house,  to  father  and  to  mother  and 
as  many  as  there  be ;  and  to  Marieta  who  is  my  beloved,  she  whom  you 
have  in  your  house."  The  name  of  the  singer  is  most  likely  Nane,  for 
Nane  and  Marieta  are  the  commonest  names  in  Venice,  which  is  ex- 
plained by  the  impression  that  persons  so  called  cannot  be  bewitched,  a 
serious  advantage  in  a  place  where  the  Black  Art  is  by  no  means  ex- 
tinct. The  maiden  long  remembers  the  night  when  first  her  rest  was 
disturbed  by  some  such  greeting  as  the  above.  She  has  rendered  account 
of  her  feelings  : — 

Ah  !  how  mine  eyes  are  weighed  in  slumber  deep  ! 

Now  all  my  life,  it  seems,  has  gone  to  sleep  ; 

But  if  a  lover  passes  by  the  door, 

Then  seems  it  this  my  life  will  sleep  no  more. 

It  does  not  do  to  appropriate  a  serenade  with  too  much  precipitation. 
Don  Quixote  gave  it  as  his  experience  that  no  woman  would  believe  that 
a  poem  was  written  expressly  for  her  unless  it  made  an  acrostic  on  her 
name  spelt  out  in  full.  Venetian  damsels  proceed  with  less  caution : 
hence  now  and  then  a  sad  disappointment. .  A  girl  who  starts  up  all  pit- 
a-pat at  the  twanging  of  a  guitar  may  be  doomed  to  hear  the  cruel  sen- 
tence pronounced  in  Lord  Houghton's  pretty  lyric  : — 

"I  am  passing — Prem6 — but  I  stay  not  for  you! 
Preme—  not  for  you  ! 

Even  more  unkind  are  the  literal  words  of  the  Venetian  :  "  If  I  pass 
this  way  and  sing  as  I  pass,  think  not,  fair  one,  that  it  is  for  you — it  is 
for  another  love,  whose  beauty  surpasses  yours  !  " 

A  brother  or  a  friend  occasionally  undertakes  the  serenading.  He  is 
not  paid  like  the  professional  Trovador  whom  the  Valencian  lover  en- 
gages to  act  as  his  interpreter.  He  has  no  reward  in  view  but  empty 

o    o  7 

thanks,  and  it  is  scarcely  surprising  if  on  damp  nights  he  is  inclined  to 
fall  into  a  rather  querulous  vein.  "  My  song  is  meant  for  the  Morosa  of 
my  companion,"  says  one  of  thet^e  accommodating  minstrels.  "  If  only  I 
knew  where  she  was  !  But  he  told  me  that  she  was  somewhere  in  here. 
The  rain  is  wetting  me  to  the  skin!"  Another  .exclaims  more  cheer- 
fully, "  Beautiful  angel,  if  it  pleases  God,  you  will  become  my  sister-in- 
law  !  " 

*  "  Ton  sura  ta." 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS.  489 

After  the  singing  of  the  preliminary  songs,  Nane  seeks  a  hint  of  the 
effect  produced  on  the  beloved  Marieta.  As  she  comes  out  of  church,  he 
makes  her  a  most  respectful  bow,  and  if  it  be  returned  ever  so  slightly, 
he  musters  up  courage,  and  asks  in  so  many  words  whether  she  will  have 
him.  Marieta  reflects  for  about  three  days ;  then  she  communicates  her 
answer  by  sign  or  song.  If  she  does  not  want  him,  she  shuts  herself  up 
in  the  house  and  will  not  look  out  for  a  moment.  Nane  begs  her  to 
show  her  face  at  the  window  :  "  Come,  oh  !  come  !  If  thou  comest  not 
'tis  a  sign  that  thou  lovest  me  not ;  draw  my  heart  out  of  all  these  pangs." 
Marieta,  if  she  is  quite  decided,  sings  back  from  behind  the  half-closed 
shutters,  "  You  pass  this  way,  and  you  pass  in  vain  :  in  vain  you  wear 
out  shoes  and  soles ;  expect  no  fair  words  from  me."  It  may  be  that 
she  confesses  to  not  knowing  her  own  mind  :  "  I  should  like  to  be  married, 
but  I  know  not  to  whom  :  when  Nane  passes,  I  long  to  say  '  Yes ; '  when 
Toni  passes,  I  am  fain  to  look  kindly  at  him  ;  when  Bepi  passes,  I  wish 
to  ciy,  God  bless  you  !  "  Or  again,  it  may  be  that  her  heart  is  not  hers 

to  give : — 

Wouldst  thou  my  love  ?     For  love  I  have  no  heart ; 
I  had  it  once,  and  gave  it  once  away  ; 
To  my  first  love  I  gave  it  on  a  day  .... 
Wouldst  thou  my  love  ?    For  love  I  have  no  heart. 

In  the  event  of  the  girl  intimating  that  she  is  disposed  to  listen  to  her 
Moroso  if  all  goes  well,  he  turns  to  her  parents  and  formally  asks  per- 
mission to  pay  his  addresses  to  their  daughter.  That  permission  is,  of 
course,  not  always  granted.  If  the  parents  have  thoughts  of  a  wealthier 
match,  the  poor  serenader  finds  himself  unceremoniously  sent  about  his 
business.  A  sad  state  of  things  ensues.  Marieta  steals  many  a  sorrow- 
ful glance  at  the  despised  Nane,  who,  on  his  side,  vents  his  indignation 
on  the  authors  of  her  being  in  terms  much  wanting  in  respect.  '•'  When  I 
behold  thee  so  impassioned,"  he  cries,  "  I  curse  those  who  have  caused  this 
grief ;  I  curse  thy  papa  and  thy  mamma,  who  will  not  let  us  make  love." 
No  idea  is  here  implied  of  dispensing  with  the  parental  fiat;  the  same 
cannot  be  said  of  the  following  observations  :  "  When  I  pass  this  house 
my  heart  aches.  The  girl  wills  me  well,  her  people  will  me  ill ;  her 
people  will  not  hear  of  it,  nor,  indeed,  will  mine.  So  we  have  to  make 
love  secretly.  But  that  cannot  really  be  done.  He  who  wishes  for  a 
girl,  goes  and  asks  for  her — out  of  politeness.  He  who  wants  to  have 
her,  carries  her  off."  It  would  seem  that  the  maiden  has  been  known  to 
be  the  first  to  incite  rebellion  : — 

Do,  my  beloved,  as  other  lovers  do, 

Go  to  my  father,  and  ask  leave  to  woo ; 

And  if  my  father  to  reply  is  loth, 

Come  back  to  me,  for  thou  hast  got  my  troth. 

When  the  parents  have  no  primd  facie  objection  to  the  youth,  they  set 
about  inquiring  whether  he  bears  a  good  character,  and  whether  the  girl 
has  a  real  liking  for  him.     These  two  points  cleared  up  satisfactorily, 
VOL.  XLII. — NO.  250.  24. 


490  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

they  still  defer  their  final  answer  for  some  weeks  or  months,  to  make  a  trial 
of  the  suitor  and  to  let  the  young  people  get  better  acquainted.  The  lover, 
borne  up  by  hope,  but  not  yet  sure  of  his  prize,  calls  to  his  aid  the  most 
effective  songs  in  his  repertory.  The  last  thing  at  night  Marieta  hears  : — 
Sleep  thou,  most  fair,  in  all  security, 

For  I  have  made  me  guardian  of  thy  gate, 
Safe  shalt  thou  be,  for  I  will  watch  and  wait ; 
Sleep  thou,  most  fair,  in  all  security. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning  she  is  greeted  thus  : — 

Art  thou  awake,  0  fairest,  dearest,  best  ? 

Eaise  thy  blond  head  and  bid  thy  slumbers  fly ; 

This  is  the  hour  thy  lover  passes  by ; 
Throw  him  a  kiss,  and  then  return  to  rest. 

If  she  has  any  lurking  doubts  of  Nane's  constancy,  she  receives  the 
assurance  "  One  of  these  days  I  will  surely  make  thee  my  bride — be  not 
so  pensive,  fairest  angel !  "  If,  on  the  other  hand,  Nane  lacks  complete 
confidence  in  her  affection,  he  appeals  to  her  in  words  resembling  we 
know  not  what  Eastern  love-song  :  "Oh,  how  many  steps  I  have  taken 
to  have  thee,  and  how  many  more  I  would  take  to  gain  thee  !  I  have 
taken  so  many,  many  steps,  that  I  think  thou  wilt  not  forsake  me." 

The  time  of  probation  over,  the  girl's  pai-ents  give  a  feast,  to  which 
the  youth  and  his  parents  are  invited.  He  brings  with  him,  as  a  first 
offering,  a  small  ring  ornamented  with  a  turquoise  or  a  carnelian.  Being 
now  the  acknowledged  lover,  he  may  come  and  openly  pay  his  court 
every  Sunday.  On  Saturday  Marieta  says  to  herself  "  Ancuo  xe  sabo, 
doman  xefesta — to-morrow  is  fete-day,  and  to-morrow  I  expect  Nane  ! " 
Then  she  pictures  how  he  will  come  "  dressed  for  the  festa  with  a  little 
flower  in  his  hand ;  "  and  her  heart  beats  with  impatience.  If,  after  all, 
by  some  chance — who  knows  ?  by  some  faithlessness  perhaps — he  fails  to 
appear,  what  grief,  what  tears  !  Marieta's  first  thought  when  she  rises 
on  Sunday  morning  is  this  :  "  No  one  works  to-day,  for  it  is  festa ;  I 
pray  you  come  betimes,  dearest  love  !  "  Then  comes  the  second  thought : 
"  If  he  does  not  come  betimes,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  is  near  to  death ;  if 
later  I  do  not  see  him,  it  is  a  sign  that  he  is  dead."  The  day  passes,  even- 
ing is  here — no  Nane  !  "  Vespers  sound,  and  my  love  comes  not ;  either 
he  is  dead,  or  "  (the  third  and  bitterest  thought  of  all)  "  a  love-thief 
has  stolen  him  from  me  !  " 

Some  little  while  after  the  lover  has  been  formally  accepted,  he  pre- 
sents the  maiden  with  a  plain  gold  ring  called  el  segno,  and  a  second 
dinner  or  supper  takes  place  at  her  parent's  house,  answering  to  the 
German  betrothal  feast;  henceforth  he  is  the  sposo  and  she  the  novizza, 
and,  as  in  Germany,  people  look  on  the  pair  as  very  little  less  than 
wedded.  The  new  bride  gives  the  bridegroom  a  silk  handkerchief,  to 
which  allusion  is  made  in  a  verse  running,  "  What  is  that  handkerchief 
you  are  wearing  ?  Did  you  steal  it  or  borrow  it  ?  I  neither  stole  it 
nor  borrowed  it ;  my  Morosa  tied  it  round  my  neck."  At  Easter  the 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS.  491 

sposo  gives  a  cake  and  a  couple  of  bottles  of  Cyprus  or  Malaga ;  at 
Christmas  a  box  of  almond  sweetmeats  and  a  little  jug  of  mostarda  (a 
Venetian  specialite  composed  of  quinces  dressed  iu  honey  and  mus-, 
tard) ;  at  the  feast  of  St.  Martin,  sweet  chestnuts ;  at  the  feast  of  St 
Mark,  el  bocolo — that  is,  a  rosebud,  emblematical  of  the  opening  year. 
The  lover  may  also  employ  his  generosity  on  New  Year's  day,  on  the 
girl's  name-day,  and  on  other  days  not  specified,  taking  in  the  whole 
365.  Some  maidens  show  a  decided  taste  for  homage  in  kind.  "  My 
lover  bids  me  sing,  and  to  please  him  I  will  do  it,"  observes  one  girl, 
thus  far  displaying  only  the  most  disinterested  amiability.  But  presently 
she  reveals  her  motives :  "  He  has  a  ring  with  a  white  stone ;  when  I 
have  sung  he  will  give  it  to  me."  A  less  sordid  damsel  asks  only  for  a 
bunch  of  flowers ;  it  shall  be  paid  for  with  a  kiss,  she  says.  Certain 
things  there  are  which  may  be  neither  given  nor  taken  by  lovers  who 
would  not  recklessly  tempt  fate.  Combs  are  placed  under  the  ban,  for 
they  may  be  made  to  serve  the  purposes  of  witchcraft ;  saintly  images 
and  church-books,  for  they  have  to  do  with  trouble  and  repentance ; 
scissors,  for  scissors  stand  for  evil  speaking ;  and  needles,  for  it  is  the 
nature  of  needles  to  prick. 

Whether  through  the  unwise  exchange  of  these  prohibited  articles, 
or  from  other  causes,  it  does  sometimes  happen  that  the  betrothed  lovers 
who  have  been  hailed  by  everybody  as  novizza  and  sposo  yet  manage  to 
fall  out  beyond  any  hopes  of  falling  in  again.  If  it  is  the  youth's  fault 
that  the  match  is  broken  off,  all  his  presents  remain  in  the  girl's  undis- 
puted possession  ;  if  the  girl  is  to  blame,  she  must  send  back  the  segno 
and  all  else  that  she  has  received.  It  is  said  that  in  some  districts  of 
Venetia  the  young  man  keeps  an  accurate  account  of  whatever  he  spends 
on  behalf  of  his  betrothed,  and  in  the  case  of  her  growing  tired  of  him, 
she  has  to  pay  double  the  sum  total,  besides  defraying  the  loss  incurred 
by  the  hours  he  has  sacrificed  to  her,  and  the  boots  he  has  worn  out  in 
the  course  of  his  visits. 

It  is  more  usual,  as  well  as  more  satisfactory,  for  the  betrothal  to 
be  followed  in  due  time  by  marriage.  After  the  segno  has  been 
"  passed,"  the  sposo  sings  a  new  song.  "  When,"  asks  he,  "  will  be  the 
day  whereon  to  thy  mamma  I  shall  say  '  Madona ; '  to  thy  papa 
'  Missier ; '  and  to  thee,  darling,  '  Wife '  ? "  "  Madona  "  is  still  the  or- 
dinary term  for  mother-in-law  at  Venice ;  in  Tuscan  songs  the  word  is 
also  used  in  that  sense,  though  it  has  fallen  out  of  common  parlance. 
Wherever  it  is  to  be  found,  it  points  to  the  days  when  the  house-mother 
exercised  an  unchallenged  authority  over  all  members  of  the  family. 
Even  now  the  mother-in-law  of  Italian  folk-songs  is  a  formidable  per- 
sonage ;  to  say  the  truth,  there  is  no  scant  measure  of  self-congratulation 
when  she  happens  not  to  exist.  "  Oh  !  Dio  del  siel,  mandeme  un 
ziovenin  senza  madona  !  "  is  the  heartfelt  prayer  of  the  Venetian  girl. 

If  the  youth  thinks  of  the  wedding  day  as  the  occasion  of  forming 
new  ties — above  all  that  dearest  tie  which  will  give  him  his  a-nzola  bela 

24 — 2 


492  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

for  his  own — the  maiden  dreams  of  it  as  the  zornada  santa  ;  the  day 
when  she  will  kneel  at  the  altar  and  receive  the  solemn  benediction  of 
the  Church  upon  entering  into  a  new  station  of  life.  "  Ah  !  when  shall 
come  to  pass  that  holy  day,  when  the  priest  will  say  to  me,  '  Are  you 
content  ? '  when  he  shall  bless  me  with  the  holy  water — ah  !  when 
shall  it  come  to  pass  ?  " 

,  It  has  been  noticed  that  the  institution  of  marriage  is  not  regarded 
in  a  very  favourable  light  by  the  majority  of  folk-poets,  but  Venetian 
rhymers  as  a  rule  take  an  encouraging  view  of  it.  "  He  who  has  a  wife," 
sings  a  poet  of  Chioggia,  "  lives  right  merrily  co  la  sua  car  a  sposa  in 
compagnia."  Warning  voices  are  not,  however,  wanting  to  tell  the 
maiden  that  wedded  life  is  not  all  roses  :  "  You  would  never  want  to  be 
married,  my  dear,  if  you  knew  what  it  was  like,"  says  one  such ;  while 
another  mutters,  "  Keflect,  girls,  reflect,  before  you  wed  these  gallants ; 
on  the  Ponte  di  Rialto  bird-cages  are  sold." 

The  marriage  generally  comes  off  on  a  Sunday.  Who  weds  on 
Monday  goes  mad  ;  Tuesday  will  bring  a  bad  end ;  Wednesday  is  a  day 
good  for  nothing ;  Thursday  all  manner  of  witches  are  abroad  ;  Friday 
leads  to  early  death ;  and,  as  to  Saturday,  you  must  not  choose  that, 
parche  de  sabo  piove,  "  because  on  Saturday  it  rains  !  " 

The  bride  has  two  toilets — one  for  the  church,  one  for  the  wedding 
dinner.  At  the  church  she  wears  a  black  veil,  at  the  feast  she  appears 
crowned  with  flowers.  After  she  is  dressed  and  before  the  bridegroom 
arrives,  the  young  girl  goes  to  her  father's  room  and  kneeling  down 
before  him,  she  prays  with  tears  in  her  eyes  to  be  forgiven  whatever 
grief  she  may  have  caused  him.  He  grants  her  his  pardon  and  gives 
her  his  blessing.  In  the  early  dawn  the  wedding  party  go  to  church 
either  on  foot  or  in  gondolas,  for  it  is  customary  for  the  marriage  knot 
to  be  tied  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first  mass.  When  the  right  moment 
comes  the  priest  puts  the  vera,  or  wedding  ring,  on  the  tip  of  the  bride's 
finger,  and  the  bridegroom  pushes  it  down  into  its  proper  place.  If  the 
vera  hitches,  it  is  a  frightfully  bad  omen.  When  once  it  is  safely  ad- 
justed, the  best  man  steps  forward  and  restores  to  the  bride's  middle  finger 
the  little  ring  which  formed  the  lover's  earliest  gift ;  for  this  reason  he 
is  called  compare  de  I'anelo,  a  style  and  title  he  will  one  day  exchange 
for  that  of  compare  de  San  Zuane. 

At  the  end  of  the  service  the  bride  returns  to  her  father's  house, 
where  she  remains  quietly  till  it  is  time  to  get  ready  for  dinner.  As  the 
clock  strikes  four,  the  entire  wedding  party,  with  the  parents  of  bride 
and  bridegroom  and  a  host  of  friends  and  relations,  start  in  gondolas  for 
the  inn  at  which  the  repast  is  to  take  place.  The  whole  population  of 
the  calle  or  campo  is  there  to  see  their  departure,  and  to  admire  or  criti- 
cise, as  the  case  may  be.  After  dinner,  when  every  one  has  tasted  the 
food  wine  and  enjoyed  the  good  fare,  the  feast  breaks  up  with  cries  of 
Viva  la  novizza  !  followed  by  songs,  stories,  laughter,  and  much  flirta- 
tion between  the  girls  and  boys,  who  make  the  most  of  the  freedom  of 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONG9.  493 

intercourse  conceded  to  them  in  honour  of  the  day.  Then  the  music 
begins,  the  table  is  whisked  away,  and  the  assembled  guests  join  lustily 
in  the  dance ;  the  women,  perhaps,  singing  at  intervals,  "  En6ta,  enota, 
enio  !  "  a  burden  borne  over  to  Venice  from  the  Grecian  shore.  The 
romance  is  finished ;  Marieta  and  Nane  are  married,  the  zornada  santa 
wanes  to  its  close,  the  tired  dancers  accompany  the  bride  to  the  threshold 
of  her  new  home — and  so  adieu  ! 

At  first  sight  the  songs  of  the  various  Italian  provinces  appear  to  be 
greatly  alike,  but  at  first  sight  only.  Under  further  examination  they 
display  essential  differences,  and  even  the  songs  which  travel  all  over 
Italy  almost  always  receive  some  distinctive  touch  of  local  colour  in  the 
districts  where  they  obtain  naturalisation.  The  Venetian  poet  has  as 
strongly  marked  an  identity  as  any  of  his  fellows.  Not  to  speak  of  his 
having  invented  the  four -lined  song  known  as  the  "  Vilota,"  the  quality 
of  his  work  unmistakably  reflects  his  peculiar  idiosyncrasies.  An 
Italian  writer  has  said,  "  nella  parola  e  nello  scritto  ognuno  imita  se 
stesso;"  and  the  Venetian  "imitates  himself "  faithfully  enough  in  his 
verses.  He  is  the  one  realist  among  Italian  folk-singers.  He  has  a 
well-developed  sense  of  humour,  and  his  finer  wit  discerns  less  objec- 
tionable paths  than  those  of  parody  and  burlesque,  for  which  the  Sicilian 
shows  so  fatal  a  leaning.  He  is  often  in  a  mood  of  half-playful  cynicism ; 
if  his  paramount  theme  is  love,  he  is  yet  fully  inclined  to  have  a  laugh 
at  the  expense  of  the  whole  race  of  lovers  : — 

A  feast  I  will  prepare  for  lore  to  eat, 

Non-suited  suitors  I  will  ask  to  dine  ; 
They  shall  have  pain  and  sorrow  for  their  meat, 

They  shall  have  tears  and  sobs  to  drink  for  wine  ; 
And  sighs  shall  be  the  servitors  most  fit 
To  wait  at  table  where  the  lovers  sit. 

As  compared  with  the  Tuscan,  the  Venetian  is  a  confirmed  egotist. 
While  the  former  well-nigh  effaces  his  individual  personality  out  of  his 
hymns  of  adoration,  the  latter  is  apt  to  talk  so  much  of  his  private  feel- 
ings, his  wishes,  his  disappointments,  that  the  idol  stands  in  danger  of 
being  forgotten.  There  is,  indeed,  a  single  song  which  combines  the 
sweet  humility  of  Tuscan  lyrics  with  a  glow  and  fervour  truly  Venetian 
— possibly  its  author  was  in  reality  some  Istriot  seaman,  for  the  canti 
popolari  of  Istria  are  known  to  partake  of  both  styles.  Anyhow,  it 
may  figure  here,  justified  by  what  seems  to  us  its  own  excellence  of  con- 
ception : — 

Fair  art  thou  born,  but  love  is  not  for  me  ; 

A  sailor's  calling  sends  me  forth  to  sea.  ' 

I  do  desire  to  paint  thee  on  my  sail, 

And  o'er  the  briny  deep  I'd  carry  thoe. 

They  ask,  What  ensign  ?  when  the  boat  they  hail — 

For  woman's  love  I  bear  this  effigy ; 

For  woman's  love,  for  love  of  maiden  fair  : 

If  her  I  may  not  love,  I  love  forswear  ! 


494  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

When  he  is  most  in  earnest  and  most  excited,  the  Venetian  is  still 
homely — he  has  none  of  the  Sicilian's  luxuriant  imagination.  We  may 
call  to  mind  a  remark  of  Edgar  Poe's  to  the  effect  that  passion  demands 
a  homeliness  of  expression.  Passionate  the  Venetian  poet  certainly  is. 
Never  a  man  was  readier  to  "  dare  e'en  death  "  at  the  behest  of  his 

mistress — 

Wouldst  have  me  die?     Then  I'll  no  longer  live. 
Grant  unto  me  for  sepulchre  thy  bed, 
Make  me  straightway  a  pillow  of  thy  head, 
And  with  thy  mouth  one  kiss,  beloved  one,  give. 

At  Chioggia,  where  still  in  the  summer  evenings  Orlando  Furioso  is 
read  in  the  public  places,  and  where  artists  go  in  quest  of  the  old 
Venetian  type,  they  sing  a  yet  more  impassioned  little  song. 

Oh,  Morning  Star,  I  ask  of  thee  this  grace, 
This  only  grace  I  ask  of  thee,  and  pray : 

The  water  where  thou  hast  washed  thy  breast  and  face, 
In  kindly  pity  throw  it  not  away. 

Give  it  to  me  for  medicine  ;  I  will  take 

A  draught  before  I  sleep  and  when  I  wake ; 

And  if  this  medicine  shall  not  make  me  whole, 

To  earth  my  body,  and  to  hell  my  soul ! 

It  must  be  added  that  Venetian  folk-poesy  lacks  the  innate  sympathy 
for  all  beautiful  natural  things  which  pervades  the  poesy  of  the  Apennines. 
This  is  in  part  the  result  of  outward  conditions  :  nature,  though  splendid, 
is  unvaried  at  Venice.  The  temperament  of  the  Venetian  poet  explains 
the  rest.  If  he  alludes  to  the  bel  seren  con  tante  stelle,  it  is  only  to 
say  that  "it  would  be  just  the  night  to  run  away  with  somebody  " — to 
which  assertion  he  tacks  the  disreputable  rider,  "  he  who  carries  off  girls 
is  not  called  a  thief,  he  is  called  an  enamoured  young  man." 

Even  in  the  most  lovely  and  the  most  poetic  of  cities  you  cannot 
breathe  the  pure  air  of  the  hills.  The  Venetian  is  without  the  intense 
refinement  of  the  Tuscan  mountaineer,  as  he  is  without  his  love  of 
natural  beauty.  The  Tuscan  but  rarely  mentions  the  beloved  one's 
name — he  respects  it  as  the  Eastern  mystic  respects  the  name  of  the 
Deity  ;  the  Venetian  sings  it  out  for  the  edification  of  all  the  boatmen  of 
the  canal.  The  Tuscan  has  come  to  regard  a  kiss  as  a  thing  too  sacred 
to  talk  about ;  the  Venetian  has  as  few  scruples  on  the  subject  as  the 
poet  of  Sirmio.  Nevertheless,  it  should  be  recognised  that  a  not  very 
blameable  xinreservedness  of  speech  is  the  most  serious  charge  to  be 
brought  against  all  save  a  small  minority  of  Venetian  singers.  We 
believe  that  the  able  and  conscientious  collector,  Signer  Bernoni,  has 
exercised  but  slight  censorship  over  the  mass  of  songs  he  has  placed  on 
record,  notwithstanding  which  the  number  of  those  that  can  be  accused 
of  an  immoral  tendency  is  extremely  limited.  From  whence  it  is  to  be 
inferred  that  the  looseness  of  manners  prevailing  amongst  the  higher 
classes  at  Venice  in  the  decadence  of  the  Republic  at  no  time  became 
general  in  the  lower  and  sounder  strata  of  society. 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS.  495 

Venetian  songs  will  serve  as  a  guide  to  the  character,  but  scarcely  to 
the  opinions,  of  the  Venetians.  The  long  struggle  with  Austria  has  left 
no  other  trace  than  a  handful  of  rough  verses  dating  from  the  siege — 
mere  strings  of  Evvivas  to  the  dictator  and  the  army.  It  may  he  argued 
that  the  fact  is  not  exceptional,  that  like  the  Fratelli  d' Italia  of  Goifredo 
Mameli,  the  war-songs  of  the  Italian  movement  were  all  composed  for 
the  people  and  not  by  them.  Still  there  have  been  genuine  folk-poets 
who  have  discoursed  after  their  fashion  of  Italia  libera.  The  Tuscan 
peasants  sang  as  they  stored  the  olives  of  1859 — 

L'amore  1'ho  in  Piamonte, 
Bandiera  tricolor ! 

There  is  not  in  Venetian  songs  an  allusion  to  the  national  cause  so 
naively,  so  caressingly  expressive  as  this.  It  cannot  be  that  the  Venetian 
popolano  did  not  care ;  whenever  his  love  of  country  was  put  to  the  test, 
it  was  found  in  no  way  wanting.  Was  it  that  to  his  positive  turn  of 
mind  there  appeared  to  be  an  absence  of  connection  between  politics  and 
poetry  ?  Looking  back  to  the  songs  of  an  earlier  period,  we  find  the 
same  habit  of  ignoring  public  events.  A  rhyme,  answering  the  purpose 
of  our  "  Ride  a  cock  horse,"  contains  the  sole  reference  to  the  wars  of 

Venice  with  the  Porte — 

Andemo  a  la  guera 
Per  mare  e  per  tera, 
E  cataremo  i  Turchi, 
Li  mazzaremo  tuti,  &c. 

In  the  proverbs,  if  not  in  the  songs,  a  somewhat  stronger  impress 
remains  of  the  independent  attitude  assumed  by  the  Republic  in  its 
dealings  with  the  Vatican.  The  Venetians  denied  Papal  infallibility  by 
anticipation  in  the  saying,  "  The  Pope  and  the  countryman  knows  more 
than  the  Pope  alone ;  "  and  in  one  line  of  a  nursery  doggerel,  "  El  Papa 
no  xe  Re,"  they  quietly  abolished  the  temporal  power.  When  Paul  V. 
laid  the  city  under  an  interdict,  the  citizens  made  answer,  "Prima 
Veneziani  e  poi  cristiani,"  a  proverb  that  survives  to  this  day.  "  Vene- 
tians first "  was  the  first  article  of  faith  of  these  men,  or  rather  it  was 
to  them  a  vital  instinct.  Their  patriotism  was  a  kind  of  magnificent 
amour  propre.  No  modern  nation  has  felt  a  pride  of  state  so  absorbing, 
so  convinced,  so  transcendent :  a  pride  which  lives  incarnate  in  the 
forms  and  faces  of  the  Venetian  senators  who  look  serenely  down  on  us 
from  the  walls  of  the  Art  Gallery  out  of  the  company  of  kings,  of  saints, 
of  angels,  and  of  such  as  are  higher  than  the  angels. 

A  chance  word  or  phrase  now  and  then  accidentally  carries  us  back 
to  Republican  times  and  institutions.  The  expression,  "  Thy  thought  is 
not  worth  a  gazeta"  occurring  in  a  love-song,  reminds  us  that  the  term 
gazette  is  derived  from  a  Venetian  coin  of  that  name,  value  three-quarters 
of  a  farthing,  which  was  the  fee  charged  for  the  privilege  of  hearing 
read  aloud  the  earliest  venture  in  journalism,  a  manuscript  news-sheet 
issued  once  a  month  at  Venice  in  the  sixteenth  century.  The  figure  of 


496  VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS. 

speech  "We  must  have  fifty-seven,"  meaning  "We  are  entering  on  a 
serious  business,"  has  its  origin  in  the  fifty-seven  votes  necessary  to  the 
passing  of  any  weighty  measure  in  the  Venetian  Senate.  The  Venetian 
adapter  of  Moliere's  favourite  ditty,  in  lieu  of  preferring  his  sweet- 
heart to  the  "  bonne  ville  de  Paris,"  prefers  her  to  "  the  Mint,  the 
Arsenal,  and  the  Bucentaur."  Every  one  is  familiar  with  the  quaint 
description  of  the  outward  glories  of  St.  Mark's  Square — 

In  St.  Murk's  Place  three  standards  you  descry, 

And  chargers  four  that  seem  about  to  fly  ; 

There  is  a  time-piece  which  appears  a  tower, 

And  there  are  twelve  black  men  who  strike  the  hour. 

Social  prejudices  creep  in  where  politics  are  almost  excluded.  A  group 
of  Vilote  relates  to  the  feud — old  as  Venice — between  the  islanders  of 
San  Nicolo  and  the  islanders  of  Castello,  the  two  sections  of  the  town 
east  of  the  Grand  Canal,  in  the  first  of  which  stands  St.  Mark's,  in  the 
last  the  Arsenal.  The  best  account  of  the  two  factions  is  embodied  in 
an  ancient  poem  celebrating  the  fight  that  rendered  memorable  St. 
Simon's  Day,  1521.  The  anonymous  writer  tells  his  tale  with  an  impar- 
tiality that  might  be  envied  by  greater  historians,  and  he  ends  by 
putting  a  canto  of  peaceable  advice  into  the  mouth  of  a  dying  champion, 
who  urges  his  countrymen  to  dwell  in  harmony  and  love  one  another  as 
brothers.  Are  they  not  made  of  the  same  flesh  and  bone,  children  alike 
of  St.  Mark  and  his  State  1 

Tuti  a  la  fin  no  semio  patriot!, 
Cresciu  in  sti  campi,  ste  cale  e  cantoni  ? 

The  counsel  was  not  taken,  and  the  old  rivalry  continued  unabated, 
fostered  up  to  a  certain  point  by  the  Republic,  which  saw  in  it,  amongst 
other  things,  a  check  on  the  power  of  the  patricians.  The  two  sides 
represented  the  aristocratic  and  democratic  elements  of  the  population  : 
the  Castellani  had  wealth  and  birth  and  fine  palaces,  their  upper  classes 
monopolised  the  high  offices  of  State,  their  lower  classes  worked  in  the 
arsenal,  served  as  pilots  to  the  men-of-war,  and  acted  as  rowers  in  the 
Bucentaur.  The  better-to-do  Nicoloti  came  off  with  a  share  of  the 
secondary  employs,  whilst  the  larger  portion  of  the  San  Nicolo  folk  were 
poor  fishermen.  But  their  sense  of  personal  dignity  was  intense.  They 
had  a  doge  of  their  own,  usually  an  old  sailor,  who  on  high  days  and 
holidays  sat  beside  the  "  renowned  prince,  the  Duke  of  Venice."  This 
doge,  or  Gastaldo  dei  Nicoloti,  was  answerable  for  the  conduct  of  his 
people,  of  whom  he  was  at  once  superior  and  equal.  "  Ti  voghi  el  dose 
et  mi  vogo  col  dose  "  ("  You.  row  the'  doge,  I  row  with  the  doge "),  a 
Nicoloto  would  say  to  his  rival.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  the  party  spirit 
engendered  by  the  old  feud  produced  a  sentiment  of  independence  in 
even  the  poorest  members  of  the  community,  and  how  it  thus  became  of 
great  service  to  the  Republic.  Its  principal  drawback  was  that  of  lead- 
ing to  hard  blows,  the  last  occasion  of  its  doing  so  being  St.  Simon's 


VENETIAN  FOLK-SONGS.  497 

Day,  1817,  when  a  fierce  local  outbreak  was  severely  suppressed  by  the 
Austrians.  Since  then  the  contending  forces  have  agreed  to  dwell  in 
harmony;  whether  they  love  one  another  as  brothers  is  not  so  clear. 
There  are  songs  still  sung  in  which  mutual  recrimination  takes  the  form 
of  too  strong  language  for  ears  polite.  "  If  a  Nicoloto  is  born,  a  Count 
is  born ;  if  a  Castellan  is  born — set  up  the  gallows,"  is  the  mildest  dictum 
of  a  son  of  sun  Nicolo,  to  which  his  neighbour  replies,  "  When  a  Cas- 
tellan is  born,  a  god  is  born ;  when  a  Nicoloto  is  born,  a  brigand  is  born." 
The  feud  lingers  on  even  in  the  matter  of  love.  "  Who  is  that  youth 
who  passes  so  often  1 "  inquires  a  girl ;  "  if  it  be  a  Castellan,  bid  him  be 
off;  if  it  be  a  Nicoloto,  bid  him  come  in." 


Jfrimir  nttnilv 

T.  T. 


WHEN  I  remember,  Friend,  whom  lost  I  call 

Because  a  man  beloved  is  taken  hence, 

The  tender  humour  and  the  fire  of  sense 

In  your  good  eyes  :  how  full  of  heart  for  all, 

And  chiefly  for  the  weaker  by  the  wall, 

You  bore  that  light  of  sane  benevolence  : 

Then  see  I  round  you  Death  his  shadows  dense 

Divide,  and  at  your  feet  his  emblems  fall. 

For  surely  are  you  one  with  the  white  host, 

Spirits,  whose  memory  is  our  vital  air, 

Through  the  great  love  of  earth  they  had  :  lo,  these, 

Like  beams  that  throw  the  path  on  tossing  seas, 

Can  bid  us  feel  we  keep  them  in  the  ghost, 

Partakers  of  a  strife  they  joyed  to  share. 

GEOKGE  MEREDITH. 


498 


geraumce. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 
AFTER  THE  GALE. 

SWELL,  indeed!"  ex- 
claimed the  Laird,  on 
putting  his  head  out  next 
morning.  "  This  is  won- 
derful— wonderful ! " 

Was  it  the  long  im- 
prisonment in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  equinoctials 
that  made  him  welcome 
with  so  much  delight 
this  spectacle  of  fair  skies 
and  sapphire  seas,  with 
the  waves  breaking  white 
in  Scalpa  Sound,  and  the 
sunlight  shining  along 
the  Coolins  ?  Or  was  it 
not  rather  our  long  isola- 
tion from  the  ordinary 
affairs  of  the  world  that 
made  him  greet  with 
acclamation  this  picture  of  brisk  and  busy  human  life,  now  visible 
from  the  deck  of  the  yacht  ?  We  were  no  longer  alone  in  the  world. 
Over  there,  around  the  big  black  smacks — that  looked  like  so  many  hens 
with  broods  of  chickens — swarmed  a  fleet  of  fishing-boats ;  and  as 
rapidly  as  hands  could  manage  it,  both  men  and  women  were  shaking 
out  the  brown  nets  and  securing  the  glittering  silver  treasure  of  the  sea. 
It  was  a  picturesque  sight — the  stalwart  brown-bearded  men  in  their 
yellow  oil-skins  and  huge  boots ;  the  bare-armed  women  in  their  scarlet 
short  gowns  ;  the  masses  of  ruddy  brown  nets ;  the  lowered  sails.  And 
then  the  Laird  perceived  that  he  was  not  alone  in  regarding  this  busy 
and  cheerful  scene. 

Along  there  by  the  bulwarks,  with  one  hand  on  the  shrouds  and  the 
other  on  the  gig,  stood  Mary  Avon,  apparently  watching  the  boats  pass- 
ing to  and  fro  between  the  smacks  and  the  shore.  The  Laird  went 
gently  up  to  her,  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  started,  turned 


WHITE  WINGS  t  A  YACHTING  BOMANCE.  499 

round  suddenly,  and  then  he  saw,  to  his  dismay,  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"  "What,  what  1 "  said  he,  with  a  quick  doubt  and  fear  coming  over 
him.  Had  all  his  plans  failed,  then  ?  Was  the  girl  still  unhappy  1 

"  What  is  it,  lass  1  What  is  the  matter  1 "  said  he,  gripping  her  hand 
so  as  to  get  the  truth  from  her. 

By  this  time  she  had  dried  her  eyes. 

"  Nothing — nothing,"  said  she,  rather  shamefacedly.  "  I  was  only 
thinking  about  the  song  of  '  Caller  Herring ; '  and  how  glad  those 
women  must  be  to  find  their  husbands  come  back  this  morning.  Fancy 
their  being  out  on  such  a  night  as  last  night !  What  it  must  be  to  be  a 
fisherman's  wife — and  alone  on  shore " 

"  Toots,  toots,  lass  !  "  cried  the  Laird,  with  a  splendid  cheerfulness ; 
for  he  was  greatly  relieved  that  this  was  all  the  cause  of  the  wet  eyes. 
"  Ye  are  jist  giving  way  to  a  sentiment.  I  have  observed  that  people 
are  apt  to  be  sentimental  in  the  morning,  before  they  get  their  breakfast. 
What !  are  ye  peetying  these  folk  1  1  can  tell  ye  this  is  a  proud  day  for 
them,  to  judge  by  they  heaps  o'  fish.  They  are  jist  as  happy  as  kings ; 
and  as  for  the  risk  o'  their  trade,  they  have  to  do  what  is  appointed  to 
them.  Why,  does  not  that  Doctor  friend  o'  yours  say  that  the  happiest 
people  are  they  who  are  hardest  worked  ] " 

This  reference  to  the  Doctor  silenced  the  young  lady  at  once. 

"  Not  that  I  have  much  right  to  talk  about  work,"  said  the  Laird, 
penitently.  "  I  believe  I  am  becoming  the  idlest  crayture  on  the  face  of 
this  world." 

At  this  point  a  very  pretty  little  incident  occurred.  A  boat  was 
passing  to  the  shore  ;  and  in  the  stern  of  her  was  a  young  fisherman — a 
handsome  young  fellow,  with  a  sun-tanned  face  and  yellow  beard.  As 
they  were  going  by  the  yacht,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Avon  ;  then 
when  they  had  passed,  he  said  something  in  Gaelic  to  his  two  com- 
panions, who  immediately  rested  on  their  oars.  Then  he  was  seen  rapidly 
to  fill  a  tin  can  with  two  or  three  dozen  herrings ;  and  his  companions 
backed  their  boat  to  the  side  of  the  yacht.  The  young  fellow  stood  up 
in  the  stern,  and  with  a  shy  laugh — but  with  no  speech,  for  he  was 
doubtless  nervous  about  his  English — offered  this  present  to  the  young  lady. 
She  was  very  much  pleased ;  but  she  blushed  quite  as  much  as  he  did. 
And  she  was  confused,  for  she  could  not  summon  Master  Fred  to  take 
charge  of  the  herrings,  seeing  this  compliment  was  so  directly  paid  to 
herself.  However,  she  boldly  gripped  the  tin  can,  and  said,  "  Oh,  thank 
you  very  much  ; "  and  by  this  time  the  Laird  had  fetched  a  bucket,  into 
which  the  glittering  beauties  were  slipped.  Then  the  can  was  handed 
back,  with  further  and  profuse  thanks,  and  the  boat  pushed  off. 

Suddenly,  and  with  great  alarm,  Miss  Avon  remembered  that  Angus 
had  taught  her  what  Highland  manners  were. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  "  she  called  out  to  the  bearded  young  fish- 
erman, who  instantly  turned  round,  and  the  oars  were  stopped.  "  I  beg 


500  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

your  pardon,"  said  she,  with  an  extreme  and  anxious  politeness,  "  but 
would  you  take  a  glass  of  whisky  1 " 

"  No,  thank  ye,  mem,"  said  the  fisherman,  with  another  laugh  of 
friendliness  on  the  frank  face ;  and  then  away  they  went. 

The  girl  was  in  despair.  She  was  about  to  marry  a  Highlander,  and 
already  she  had  forgotten  the  first  of  Highland  eustoms.  But  unex- 
pected relief  was  at  hand.  Hearing  something  going  on,  John  of  Skye 
had  tumbled  up  from  the  forecastle,  and  instantly  saw  that  the  young 
lady  was  sorely  grieved  that  those  friendly  fishermen  had  not  accepted 
this  return  compliment.  He  called  aloud,  in  Gaelic,  and  in  a  severe 
tone.  The  three  men  came  back,  looking  rather  like  schoolboys  who 
would  fain  escape  from  an  embarrassing  interview.  And  then  at  the 
same  moment  Captain  John,  who  had  asked  Fred  to  bring  up  the 
whisky-bottle,  said  in  a  low  voice  to  the  young  lady — 

"  They  would  think  it  ferry  kind,  mem,  if  you  would  pour  out  the 
whisky  with  your  own  hand." 

And  this  was  done,  Miss  Mary  going  through  the  ceremony  without 
flinching ;  and  as  each  of  the  men  was  handed  his  glass,  he  rose  up  in 
the  boat,  and  took  off  his  cap,  and  drank  the  health  of  the  young  lady, 
in  the  Gaelic.  And  Angus  Sutherland,  when  he  came  on  deck,  was 
greatly  pleased  to  hear  of  what  she  had  done ;  though  the  Laird  took 
occasion  to  remark  at  breakfast  that  he  hoped  it  was  not  a  common, 
custom  among  the  young  ladies  of  England  to  get  up  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  have  clandestine  flirtations  with  handsome  young  fishermen. 

Then  all  hands  on  deck  :  for  now  there  are  two  anchors  to  be  got  in, 
and  we  must  not  lose  any  of  this  pleasant  sailing  breeze.  In  these  shel- 
tered and  shining  waters  there  are  scarcely  any  traces  of  the  recent  rough 
weather,  except  that  the  wind  still  comes  in  variable  puffs,  and  from  all 
sorts  of  unexpected  directions.  In  the  main,  however,  it  is  N.  by 
E.,  and  so  we  have  to  set  to  work  to  leisurely  beat  up  the  Sound  of 
Eaasay. 

"  Well,  this  is  indeed  like  old  times,  Mary  ! "  Queen  Titania  cries,  as 
she  comfortably  ensconces  herself  in  a  camp-chair  :  for  Miss  Avon  is  at  the 
helm,  and  the  young  Doctor,  lying  at  full  length  on  the  sunlit  deck,  is 
watching  the  sails  and  criticising  her  steering ;  and  the  Laird  is  demon- 
strating to  a  humble  listener  the  immeasurable  advantages  enjoyed  by  the 
Scotch  landscape-painters,  in  that  they  have  within  so  small  a  compass 
every  variety  of  mountain,  lake,  woodland,  and  ocean  scenery.  He 
becomes  facetious,  too,  about  Miss  Mary's  sketches.  What  if  he  were  to 
have  a  room  set  apart  for  them  at  Denny-mains,  to  be  called  the  White 
Dove  Gallery  ?  He  might  have  a  skilled  decorator  out  from  Glasgow  to 
devise  the  furniture  and  ornamentation,  so  that  both  should  siiggest  the 
sea,  and  ships,  and  sailors. 

Here  John  of  Skye  comes  aft. 

"  I  think,"  says  he  to  Miss  Avon,  with  a  modest  smile,  "  we  might 
put  the  gaff  topsail  on  her." 


WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  501 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  says  this  experienced  mariner ;  and  the  Doctor, 
seeing  an  opportunity  for  bestirring  himself,  jumps  to  his  feet. 

And  so,  with  the  topsail  shining  white  in  the  sun — a  thing  we  have 
not  seen  for  some  time — we  leave  behind  us  the  gloomy  opening  into 
Loch  Sligachan,  and  beat  up  through  the  Raasay  narrows,  and  steal  by 
the  pleasant  woods  ef  Eaasay  House.  The  Laird  has  returned  to  that 
project  of  the  Marine  Gallery,  and  he  has  secured  an  attentive  listener  in 
the  person  of  his  hostess,  who  prides  herself  that  she  has  a  sure  instinct 
as  to  what  is  "  right "  in  mural  decoration. 

This  is  indeed  like  old  times  come  back  again.  The  light,  cool 
breeze,  the  warm  decks,  the  pleasant  lapping  of  the  water,  and  our 
steerswoman  partly  whistling  and  partly  humming — 

They'll  put  a  napkin  round  my  e'en, 

They'll  no  let  me  see  to  dee  ; 
And  they'll  never  let  on  to  my  faither  and  mither, 

But  I  am  awa'  o'er  the  sea. 

And  this  she  is  abstractedly  and  contentedly  doing,  without  any  notice 
of  the  fact  that  the  song  is  supposed  to  be  a  pathetic  one. 

Then  our  young  Doctor  :  of  what  does  he  discourse  to  us  during  this 
delightful  day-dreaming  and  idleness  ?  Well,  it  has  been  remarked  by 
more  than  one  of  us  that  Dr.  Angus  has  become  tremendously  practical 
of  late.  You  would  scarcely  have  believed  that  this  was  the  young 
F.R.S.  who  used  to  startle  the  good  Laird  out  of  his  wits  by  his  wild 
speculations  about  the  origin  of  the  world  and  similar  trifles.  Now  his 
whole  interest  seemed  to  be  centred  on  the  commonest  things  :  all  the 
Commissioners  of  the  Burgh  of  Strathgovan  put  together  could  not  have 
been  more  fierce  than  he  was  about  the  necessity  of  supplying  houses 
with  pure  water,  for  example.  And  the  abuse  that  he  heaped  on  the 
"Water  Companies  of  London,  more  especially,  and  on  the  Government 
which  did  not  interfere,  was  so  distinctly  libellous  that  we  wore  glad  no 
alien  overheard  it. 

Then  as  to  arsenic  in  wall-paper  :  he  was  equally  dogmatic  and  indig- 
nant about  that ;  and  here  it  was  his  hostess,  rather  than  the  Laird,  who 
was  interested.  She  eagerly  committed  to  her  note -book  a  recipe  for 
testing  the  presence  of  that  vile  metal  in  wall-papers  or  anything  else  ; 
and  some  of  us  had  mentally  to  thank  Heaven  that  she  was  not  likely  to 
get  test-tubes,  and  zinc  filings,  and  hydrochloric  acid  in  Portree.  The 
woman  would  have  blown  up  the  ship. 

All  this  and  much  more  was  very  different  from  the  kind  of  con- 
versation that  used  so  seriously  to  trouble  the  Laird.  When  he  heard 
Angus  talk  with  great  common  sense  and  abundant  information  about 
the  various  climates  that  suited  particular  constitutions,  and  about  the 
best  soils  for  building  houses  on,  and  about  the  necessity  for  strict  muni- 
cipal supervision  of  drainage,  he  was  ready  to  believe  that  our  young 
Doctor  had  not  only  for  his  own  part  never  handled  that  dangerous  book, 


502  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

the  Vestiges  of  Creation,  but  that  he  had  never  even  known  any  one  who 
had  glanced  at  its  sophistical  pages  except  with  a  smile  of  pity.  Why, 
all  the  time  that  we  were  shut  up  by  the  equinoctials,  the  only  profound 
and  mysterious  thing  that  Angus  had  said  was  this :  "  There  is  surely 
something  wrong  when  the  man  who  takes  on  himself  all  the  trouble  of 
drawing  a  bottle  of  ale  is  bound  to  give  his  friend  the  first  tumbler, 
which  is  clear,  and  keep  the  second  tumbler,  which  is  muddy,  for  him- 
self." But  if  you  narrowly  look  into  it,  you  will  find  that  there  is 
really  nothing  dangerous  or  unsettling  in  this  saying — no  grumbling 
against  the  ways  of  Providence  whatsoever.  It  was  mysterious,  perhaps ; 
but  then  so  would  many  of  the  nice  points  about  the  Semple  case  have 
been,  had  we  not  had  with  us  an  able  expositor. 

And  on  this  occasion,  as  we  were  running  along  for  Portree,  our 
F.R.S.  was  chiefly  engaged  in  warning  us  against  paying  too  serious 
heed  to  certain  extreme  theories  about  food  and  drink  which  were  then 
being  put  forward  by  a  number  of  distinguished  physicians. 

"  For  people  in  good  health,  the  very  worst  adviser  is  the  doctor,"  he 
was  saying ;  when  he  was  gently  reminded  by  his  hostess  that  he  must 
not  malign  his  own  calling,  or  destroy  a  superstition  that  might  in  itself 
have  curative  effects. 

"  Oh,  I  scarcely  call  myself  a  doctor,"  he  said,  "  for  I  have  no  practice 
as  yet.  And  I  am  not  denying  the  power  of  a  physician  to  help  nature  in 
certain  cases — of  course  not ;  but  what  I  say  is  that  for  healthy  people  the 
doctor  is  the  worst  adviser  possible.  Why,  where  does  he  get  his  expe- 
rience ? — from  the  study  of  people  who  are  ill.  He  lives  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  sickness;  his  conclusions  about  the  human  body  are  drawn 
from  bad  specimens ;  the  effects  that  he  sees  produced  are  produced  on 
too  sensitive  subjects.  Very  likely,  too,  if  he  is  himself  a  distinguished 
physician,  he  has  gone  through  an  immense  amount  of  training  and 
subsequent  hard  work ;  his  own  system  is  not  of  the  strongest ;  and 
he  considei*s  that  what  he  feels  to  be  injurious  to  him  must  be  injurious 
to  other  people.  Probably  so  it  might  be — to  people  similarly  sensitive  ; 
but  not  necessarily  to  people  in  sound  health,  Fancy  a  man  trying  to 
terrify  people  by  describing  the  awful  appearance  produced  on  one's  in- 
ternal economy  when  one  drinks  half  a  glass  of  sherry  !  And  that,"  he 
added,  "  is  a  piece  of  pure  scientific  sensationalism ;  for  precisely  the  same 
appearance  is  produced  if  you  drink  half  a  glass  of  milk." 

"  I  am  of  opinion,"  said  the  Laird,  with  the  gravity  befitting  such  a 
topic,  "that  of  all  steemulants  nothing  is  better  or  wholesomer  than  a 
drop  of  sound,  sterling  whiskey." 

"  And  where  are  you  likely  to  get  it1? " 

"  I  can  assure  ye,  at  Denny-mains " 

"  I  mean  where  are  the  masses  of  the  p  eople  to  get  it  1  What  they 
get  is  a  cheap  white  spirit,  reeking  with  fusel-oil,  with  just  enough 
whiskey  blended  to  hide  the  imposture.  The  decoction  is  a  certain 
poison.  If  the  Government  would  stop  tinkering  at  Irish  franchises, 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  503 

and  Irish  tenures,  and  Irish  Universities,  and  "would  pass  a  law  making 
it  penal  for  any  distiller  to  sell  spirits  that  he  has  not  had  in  bond  for  at 
least  two  years,  they  would  do  a  good  deal  more  service  to  Ireland,  and 
to  this  country  too." 

"Still,  these  measures  of  amelioration  must  have  their  effect," 
observed  the  Laird,  sententiously.  "  I  would  not  discourage  wise  legis- 
lation. We  will  reconcile  Ireland  sooner  or  later,  if  we  are  prudent  and 
confederate." 

"  You  may  as  well  give  them  Home  Rule  at  once,"  said  Dr.  Angus, 
bluntly.  "  The  Irish  have  no  regard  for  the  historical  grandeur  of 
England ;  how  could  they  ? — they  have  lost  their  organ  of  veneration. 
The  coronal  region  of  the  skull  has  in  time  become  depressed,  through 
frequent  shillelagh  practice." 

For  a  second  the  Laird  glanced  at  him  :  there  was  a  savour  of 
George  Combe  about  this  speech.  Could  it  be  that  he  believed  in  that 
monstrous  and  atheistical  theory  ? 

But  no.     The  Laird  only  laughed ;  and  said  : 

"  I  would  not  like  to  have  an  Irishman  hear  ye  say  so." 

It  was  now  abundantly  clear  to  us  that  Denny-mains  could  no  longer 

suspect  of  anything  heterodox  and  destructive  this  young  man  who  was 

sound  on  drainage,  pure  air,  and  a  constant  supply  of  water  to  the  tanks. 

Of  course,  we  could  not  get  into  Portree  without  Ben  Inivaig  having 

a  tussle  with  us.     This  mountain  is  the  most  inveterate  brewer  of  squalls 

in  the  whole  of  the  West  Highlands,  and  it  is  his  especial  delight  to 

catch  the  unwary,  when  all  their  eyes  are  bent  on  the  safe  harbour 

within.     But  we  were  equal  with  him.     Although  he  tried  to  tear  our 

masts  out  and  frighten  us  out  of  our  senses,  all  that  he  really  succeeded 

in  doing  was  to  put  us  to  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  break  a  tumbler  or 

two  below.     We  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  at  Ben  Inivaig.     We  sailed 

past  him,  and  took  no  more  notice  of  him.    With  a  favouring  breeze,  and 

with  our  topsail  still  set,  we  glided  into  the  open  and  spacious  harbour. 

But  that  first  look  round  was  a  strange  one.  Was  this  really  Por- 
tree Harbour,  or  were  we  so  many  Rip  Van  Winkles  ]  There  were  the 
shining  white  houses,  and  the  circular  bay,  and  the  wooded  cliffs ;  but 
where  were  the  yachts  that  used  to  keep  the  place  so  bright  and  busy  1 
There  was  not  an  inch  of  white  canvas  visible.  We  got  to  anchor  near 
a  couple  of  heavy  smacks ;  the  men  looked  at  us  as  if  we  had  dropped 
from  the  skies. 

We  went  ashore  and  walked  up  to  the  telegraph  office  to  see  whether 
the  adjacent  islands  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland — as  the  Cumbrae 
minister  called  them — had  survived  the  equinoctials  ;  and  learned  only 
too  accurately  what  serious  mischief  had  been  done  all  along  these  coasts 
by  the  gale.  From  various  points,  moreover,  we  subsequently  received 
congratulations  on  our  escape,  until  we  almost  began  to  believe  that  we 
had  really  been  in  serious  peril.  For  the  rest,  our  friends  at  Borva  were 
safe  enough  ;  they  had  not  been  on  board  their  yacht  at  all. 


504  WHITE  WINGS:   A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE. 

That  evening,  in  the  silent  and  deserted  bay,  a  council  of  war  was 
held  on  deck.  We  were  not,  as  it  turned  out,  quite  alone ;  there  had 
also  come  in  a  steam-yacht,  the  master  of  which  informed  our  John  of 
Skye  that  such  a  gale  he  had  not  seen  for  three-and-twenty  years.  He 
also  told  us  that  there  was  a  heavy  sea  running  in  the  Minch ;  and  that 
no  vessel  would  try  to  cross.  Stornoway  Harbour,  we  already  knew, 
was  filled  with  storm-stayed  craft.  So  we  had  to  decide. 

Like  the  very  small  and  white-faced  boy  who  stood  forth  to  declaim 
oefore  a  school  full  of  examiners  and  friends,  and  who  raised  his  hand, 
and  announced  in  a  trembling  falsetto  that  his  voice  was  still  for  war,  it 
was  the  women  who  spoke  first,  and  they  were  for  going  right  on  the 
next  morning. 

"  Mind,"  said  Angus  Sutherland,  looking  anxiously  at  certain  dark 
eyes ;  "  there  is  generally  a  good  sea  in  the  Minch  in  the  best  of  weathers  ; 

but  after  a  three  or  four  days'  gale — well " 

"  I,  for  one,  don't  care,"  said  Miss  Avon,  frankly  regarding  him. 
"  And  I  should  like  it,"  said  the  other  woman,  "  so  long  as  there  is 
plenty  of  wind.     But  if  Captain  John  takes  me  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  Minch  and  keeps  me  rolling  about  on  the  Atlantic  in  a  dead  calm, 
then  something  will  befall  him  that  his  mother  knew  nothing  about." 

Here  Captain  John  was  emboldened  to  step  forward,  and  to  say,  with 
an  embarrassed  politeness — 

"  I  not  afraid  of  anything  for  the  leddies ;  for  two  better  sailors 
I  never  sah  ahl  my  life  long." 

However,  the  final  result  of  our  confabulation  that  night  was  the 
resolve  to  get  under  way  next  morning,  and  proceed  a  certain  distance 
until  we  should  discover  what  the  weather  was  like  outside.  With  a 
fair  wind,  we  might  run  the  sixty  miles  to  Stornoway  before  night ; 
without  a  fair  wind,  there  was  little  use  in  our  adventuring  out  to  be 
knocked  about  in  the  North  Minch,  where  the  Atlantic  finds  itself 
jammed  into  the  neck  of  a  bottle,  and  rebels  in  a  somewhat  frantic 
fashion.  We  must  do  our  good  friends  in  Portree  the  justice  to  say  that 
they  endeavoured  to  dissuade  us ;  but  then  we  had  sailed  in  the  White 
Dove  before,  and  had  no  great  fear  of  her  leading  us  into  any  trouble. 

And  so,  good-night ! — good-night !  We  can  scarcely  believe  that  this 
is  Portree  Harbour,  so  still  and  quiet  it  is.  All  the  summer  fleet  of 
vessels  have  fled ;  the  year  is  gone  with  them  ;  soon  we,  too,  must  betake 
ourselves  to  the  south.  Good-night ! — good-night !  The  peace  of  the 
darkness  falls  over  us ;  if  there  is  any  sound,  it  is  the  sound  of  singing  in 
our  dreams. 


WHITE  WINGS!  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  505 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
"A  GOOD  ONE  FOR  THE  LAST." 

"  AH,  well,  well,"  said  the  Laird,  somewhat  sadly,  to  his  hostess,  "  I 
suppose  we  may  now  conseeder  that  we  have  started  on  our  last  day's 
sailing  in  the  IF kite  Dove  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  she ;  and  this  was  before  breakfast,  so  she  may 
have  been  inclined  to  be  a  bit  sentimental  too. 

"  I'm  thinking,"  said  he,  "  that  some  of  us  may  hereafter  look  back 
on  this  sailing  as  the  longest  and  grandest  holiday  of  their  life,  and  will 
recall  the  name  of  the  White  Dove  with  a  certain  amount  of  affection. 
I,  for  one,  feel  that  I  can  scarcely  justify  myself  for  withdrawing  so  long 
from  the  duties  that  society  demands  from  every  man ;  and  no  doubt 
there  will  be  much  to  set  right  when  one  goes  back  to  Strathgovan. 
But  perhaps  one  has  been  able  to  do  something  even  in  one's  idleness " 

He  paused  here,  and  remained  silent  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"  What  a  fine  thing,"  he  continued,  "  it  must  be  for  a  doctor  to  watch 
the  return  of  health  to  a  patient's  face — to  watch  the  colour  coming 
back,  and  the  eyes  looking  happy  again,  and  the  spirits  rising ;  and  to 
think  that  maybe  he  has  helped.  And  if  he  happens  to  know  the  patient, 
and  to  be  as  anxious  about  her  as  if  she  were  his  own  child,  do  not  ye 
think  he  must  be  a  proud  man  when  he  sees  the  results  of  what  he  has 
done  for  her,  and  when  he  hears  her  begin  to  laugh  again  1 " 

Despite  the  Laird's  profound  ingenuity,  we  knew  very  well  who  that 
doctor  was.  And  we  had  learned  something  about  the  affection  which 
this  mythical  physician  had  acquired  for  this  imaginary  patient. 

"  What  a  sensitive  bit  crayture  she  is  !  "  said  he,  suddenly,  as  if  he 
were  now  talking  of  some  quite  different  person.  "  Have  ye  seen  the 
difference  the  last  few  days  have  made  on  her  face — have  ye  not  observed 
it?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  have." 

"Ye  would  imagine  that  her  face  was  just  singing  a  song  from  the 
morning  till  the  night — I  have  never  seen  any  one  with  such  expressive 
eyes  as  that  bit  lass  has — and — and — it  is  fairly  a  pleasure  to  any  one  to 
look  at  the  happiness  of  them." 

"  Which  she  owes  to  you,  sir." 

"  To  me  1 "  said  the  Laird.  "  Dear  me  ! — not  to  me.  It  was  a  for- 
tunate circumstance  that  I  was  with  ye  on  board  the  yacht,  that  is  all. 
What  I  did  no  man  who  had  the  chance  could  have  refused  to  do.  No, 
no ;  if  the  lass  owes  any  gratitude  to  anybody  or  anything,  it  is  to  the 
Semple  case." 
"  What  1 " 

"  Just  so,  ma'am,"  said  the  Laird  composedly.  "  I  will  confess  to  ye 
that  a  long  holiday  spent  in  sailing  had  not  that  attraction  for  me  it  might 


506  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  HOMANCE. 

have  had  for  others — though  I  think  I  have  come  to  enjoy  it  now  with 
the  best  of  ye  ;  but  I  thought,  when  ye  pressed  me  to  come,  that  it  would 
be  a  grand  opportunity  to  get  your  husband  to  take  up  the  Semple  case, 
and  master  it  thoroughly,  and  put  its  merits  in  a  just  manner  before  the 
public.  That  he  does  not  appear  to  be  as  much  interested  in  it  as  I  had 
reason  to  expect  is  a  misfortune — perhaps  he  will  grow  to  see  the  impor- 
tance of  the  principles  involved  in  it  in  time ;  but  I  have  ceased  to  force 
it  on  his  attention.  In  the  meanwhile  we  have  had  a  fine,  long  holiday, 
which  has  at  least  given  me  leisure  to  consider  many  schemes  for  the 
advantage  of  my  brother  pareeshioners.  Ay ;  and  where  is  Miss  Mary, 
though  ?  " 

"  She  and  Angus  have  been  up  for  hours,  I  believe,"  said  his  hostess. 
"  I  heard  them  on  deck  before  we  started  anyway." 

"  I  would  not  disturb  them,"  said  the  Laird,  with  much  considera- 
tion. "  They  have  plenty  to  talk  about — all  their  life  opening  up  before 
them — like  a  road  through  a  garden,  as  one  might  say.  And  whatever 
befalls  them  hereafter  I  suppose  they  will  always  remember  the  present 
time  as  the  most  beautiful  of  their  existence — the  wonder  of  it,  the  new- 
ness, the  hope.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that.  Ye  know,  ma'am,  that  our 
garden  at  Denny-mains,  if  I  may  say  so,  is  far  from  insigneeficant.  It  has 
been  greatly  commended  by  experienced  landscape  gardeners.  Well,  now, 
that  garden,  when  it  is  just  at  its  fullest  of  summer  colour — with  all  its 
dahlias  and  hollyhocks  and  what-not — I  say  ye  cannot  get  half  as  much 
delight  from  the  whole  show  as  ye  get  from  the  first  glint  o'  a  primrose, 
as  ye  are  walking  through  a  wood,  on  a  bleak  March  day,  and  not  ex- 
pecting to  see  anything  of  the  kind.  Does  not  that  make  your  heart 
jump?" 

Here  the  Laird  had  to  make  way  for  Master  Fred  and  the  breakfast- 
tray. 

"  There  is  not  a  bairn  about  Strathgovan,"  he  continued,  with  a 
laugh,  "  knows  better  than  myself  where  to  find  the  first  primroses  and 
blue-bells  and  the  red  dead-nettle,  ye  know,  and  so  on.  Would  ye  believe 
it,  that  poor  crayture  Johnnie  Guthrie  was  for  cutting  down  the  hedge 
in  the  Coulterburn  Road,  and  putting  up  a  stone  dyke !  "  Here  the 
Laird's  face  grew  more  and  more  stern,  and  he  spoke  with  unnecessary 
vehemence.  "  I  make  bold  to  say  that  the  man  who  would  cut  down  a 
hawthorn  hedge  where  the  children  go  to  gather  their  bits  o'  flowers, 
and  would  put  in  its  place  a  stone  wall  for  no  reason  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  I  say  that  man  is  an  ass — an  intolerable  and  perneecious  ass  !  " 

But  this  fierceness  instantly  vanished,  for  here  was  Mary  Avon  come 
in  to  bid  him  good  morning.  And  he  rose  and  took  both  her  hands  in 
his  and  regarded  the  upturned  smiling  face  and  the  speaking  eyes. 

"  Ay,  ay,  lass,"  said  he,  with  great  satisfaction  and  approval,  "  ye 
have  got  the  roses  into  your  cheeks  at  last.  That  is  the  morning  air — 
the  *  roses  weet  wi'  dew  ' — it  is  a  fine  habit  that  of  early  rising.  Dear  me, 
what  a  shilpit  bit  thing  ye  were  when  I  first  saw  ye  about  three  months 


WHITE  WINGS  :   A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE.  507 

ago  !  And  now  I  dare  say  ye  are  just  as  hungry  as  a  hawk  with  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  deck  in  the  sea-air — we  will  not  keep  ye  waiting 
a  moment." 

The  Laird  got  her  a  chair,  next  his  own  of  course ;  and  then  rang 
Master  Fred's  bell  violently. 

"How's  her  head,  skipper1? "  said  Queen  T.,  when  the  young  Doctor 
made  his  appearance — he  had  roses,  too,  in  his  cheeks,  freshened  by  the 
morning  air. 

"  Well,"  said  he  frankly,  as  he  sat  down,  "  I  think  it  would  be 
judicious  to  have  breakfast  over  as  soon  as  possible,  and  get  the  things 
stowed  away.  We  are  flying  up  the  Sound  of  Raasay  like  a  witch  on  a 
broom ;  and  there  will  be  a  roaring  sea  when  we  get  beyond  the  shelter 
of  Skye." 

"  We  have  been  in  roaring  seas  before,"  said  she,  confidently. 

"  We  met  a  schooner  coming  into  Portree  Harbour  this  morning," 
said  he,  with  a  dry  smile.  "  She  left  yesterday  afternoon  just  before  we 
got  in.  They  were  at  it  all  night,  but  had  to  run  back  at  last.  They 
said  they  had  got  quite  enough  of  it." 

This  was  a  little  more  serious,  but  the  women  were  not  to  be  daunted 
They  had  come  to  believe  in  the  White  Dove  being  capable  of  anything, 
especially  when  a  certain  aid  to  John  of  Skye  was  on  board.  For  the 
rest,  the  news  was  that  the  day  was  lovely,  the  wind  fair  for  Stornoway, 
and  the  yacht  flying  northward  like  an  arrow. 

There  was  a  certain  solemnity,  nevertheless,  or  perhaps  only  an 
unusual  elaborateness,  about  our  preparations  before  going  on  deck. 
Gun-cases  were  wedged  in  in  front  of  canvases,  so  that  Miss  Avon's 
sketches  should  not  go  rolling  on  to  the  floor;  all  such  outlying  skir- 
mishers as  candlesticks,  aneroids,  draught-boards,  and  the  like  were 
moved  to  the  rear  of  compact  masses  of  rugs ;  and  then  the  women 
were  ordered  to  array  themselves  in  their  waterproofs.  Waterproofs  ? — 
and  the  sun  flooding  through  the  skylight.  But  they  obeyed. 

Certainly  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  great  need  for  waterproofs 
when  we  got  above,  and  had  the  women  placed  in  a  secure  corner  of  the 
companion-way  It  was  a  brilliant,  breezy,  blue-skied  morning,  with 
the  decks  as  yet  quite  white  and  dry,  and  with  the  long  mountainous 
line  of  Skye  shining  in  the  sun.  The  yacht  was  flying  along  at  a  famous 
pace  before  a  fresh  and  steady  breeze ;  already  we  could  make  out,  far 
away  on  the  northern  horizon,  a  pale,  low,  faint-blue  line,  which  we 
knew  to  be  the  hills  of  southern  Lewis.  Of  course,  one  had  to  observe 
that  the  vast  expanse  of  sea  lying  between  us  and  that  far  line  was  of  a 
stormy  black ;  moreover,  the  men  had  got  on  their  oilskins,  though  not 
a  drop  of  spray  was  coming  on  board. 

As  we  spun  along,  however,  before  the  freshening  wind,  the  crashes 
of  the  waves  at  the  bows  became  somewhat  more  heavy,  and  occasionally 
some  jets  of  white  foam  would  spring  up  into  the  sunlight.  When  it 
was  suggested  to  Captain  John  that  he  might  set  the  gaff  topsail,  he  very 


508  WHITE   WINGS:  A  YACHTING-  EOMANCE. 

respectfully  and  shyly  shook  his  head.  For  one  thing,  it  was  rather 
strange  that  on  this  wide  expanse  of  sea  not  a  solitary  vessel  was  visible. 

Further  and  further  northward.  And  now  one  has  to  look  out  for 
the  white  water  springing  over  the  bows,  and  there  is  a  general  ducking 
of  heads  when  the  crash  forward  gives  warning.  The  de«ks  are  beginning 
to  glisten  now  ;  and  Miss  Avon  has  received  one  sharp  admonition  to  be 
more  careful,  which  has  somewhat  damped  and  disarranged  her  hair. 
And  so  the  White  Dove  still  flies  to  the  north — like  an  arrow — like  a 
witch  on  a  broom — like  a,  hare,  only  that  none  of  these  things  would 
groan  so  much  in  getting  into  the  deep  troughs  of  the  sea ;  and  not  even 
a  witch  on  a  broom  could  perform  such  capers  in  the  way  of  tumbling 
and  tossing,  and  pitching  and  rolling. 

However,  all  this  was  mere  child's  play.  We  knew  very  well  when 
and  where  we  should  really  "  get  it "  :  and  we  got  it.  Once  out  of  the 
shelter  of  the  Skye  coast,  we  found  a  considerably  heavy  sea  swinging 
along  the  Minch,  and  the  wind  was  still  freshening  up,  insomuch  that 
Captain  John  had  to  take  the  mizen  and  foresail  off  her.  How  splendidly 
those  mountain-masses  of  waves  came  heaving  along — apparently  quite 
black  until  they  came  near,  and  then  we  could  see  the  sunlight  shining 
green  through  the  breaking  crest ;  then  there  was  a  shock  at  the  bows 
that  caused  the  yacht  to  shiver  from  stem  to  stern  ;  then  a  high  spring- 
ing into  the  air,  followed  by  a  heavy  rattle  and  rush  on  the  decks.  The 
scuppers  were  of  no  use  at  all ;  there  was  a  foot  and  a  half  of  hissing 
and  seething  salt  water  all  along  the  lee  bulwarks,  and  when  the  gang- 
way was  lifted  to  let  it  out  the  next  rolling  wave  only  spouted  an  equal 
quantity  up  on  deck,  soaking  Dr.  Angus  Sutherland  to  the  shoulder. 
Then  a  heavier  sea  than  usual  struck  her,  carrying  off  the  cover  of  the 
fore-hatch  and  sending  it  spinning  aft ;  while,  at  the  same  moment,  a 
voice  from  the  forecastle  informed  Captain  John  in  an  injured  tone  that 
this  last  invader  had  swamped  the  men's  berths.  What  could  he  do  but 
have  the  main  tack  hauled  up  to  lighten  the  pressure  of  the  wind  1  The 
waters  of  the  Minch,  when  once  they  rise,  are  not  to  be  stilled  by  a  bottle 
of  salad  oil. 

We  had  never  before  seen  the  ordinarily  buoyant  White  Dove  take  in 
such  masses  of  water  over  her  bows ;  but  we  soon  got  accustomed  to  the 
seething  lake  of  water  along  the  lee  scuppers,  and  allowed  it  to  subside 
or  increase  as  it  liked.  And  the  women  were  now  seated  a  step  lower 
on  the  companion-way,  so  that  the  rags  of  the  waves  flew  by  them  with- 
out touching  them ;  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  laughing  and  jesting 
going  on  at  the  clinging  and  stumbling  of  any  unfortunate  person  who 
had  to  make  his  way  along  the  deck.  As  for  our  indefatigable  Doctor, 
his  face  had  been  running  wet  with  salt  water  for  hours ;  twice  he  had 
slipped  and  gone  headlong  to  leeward ;  and  now,  with  a  rope  double 
twisted  round  the  tiller,  he  was  steering,  his  teeth  set  bard. 

''Well,  Mary,"  shrieked  Queen  Titania  into  her  companion's  ear. 
"  We  are  having  a  good  one  for  the  last !  " 


WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  EOMANCE.  509 

"  Is  he  going  up  the  mast  ?  "  cried  the  girl,  in  great  alarm. 

"  I  say  we  are  having  a  good  one  for  the  last !  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  was  the  shout  in  reply.     "  She  is  indeed  going  fast." 

But  about  mid-day  we  passed  within  a  few  miles  to  the  east  of  the 
Shiant  Islands,  and  here  the  sea  was  somewhat  moderated,  so  we  tumbled 
below  for  a  snack  -of  lunch.  The  women  wanted  to  devote  the  time  to 
dressing  their  hair  and  adorning  themselves  anew  ;  but  purser  Sutherland 
objected  to  this  altogether.  He  compelled  them  to  eat  and  drink  while 
that  was  possible ;  and  several  toasts  were  proposed — briefly,  but  with 
much  enthusiasm.  Then  we  scrambled  on  deck  again.  We  found  that 
John  had  hoisted  bis  foresail  again,  but  he  had  let  the  mizen  alone. 

Northward  and  ever  northward — and  we  are  all  alone  on  this  wide, 
wide  sea.  But  that  pale  line  of  coast  at  the  horizon  is  beginning  to 
resolve  itself  into  definite  form — into  long,  low  headlands,  some  of  which 
are  dark  in  shadow,  others  shining  in  the  sun.  And  then  the  cloud- 
like  mountains  beyond  :  can  these  be  the  far  Suainabhal  and  Mealasabhal, 
and  the  other  giants  that  look  down  on  Loch  Roag  and  the  western 
shores  1  They  seem  to  belong  to  a  world  beyond  the  sea. 

Northward  and  ever  northward  ;  and  there  is  less  water  coming  over 
now,  and  less  groaning  and  plunging,  so  that  one  can  hear  oneself 
speak.  And  what  is  this  wagering  on  the  part  of  the  Doctor  that 
we  shall  do  the  sixty  miles  between  Portree  and  Stornoway  within  the 
six  hours  1  J  ohn  of  Skye  shakes  his  head ;  but  he  has  the  main  tack 
hauled  down. 

Then,  as  the  day  wears  on,  behold  !  a  small  white  object  in  that  lino 
of  blue.  The  cry  goes  abroad  :  it  is  Stornoway  light ! 

"  Come,  now,  John  !  "  the  Doctor  calls  aloud  ;  "  within  the  six  hours 
— for  a  glass  of  whisky  and  a  lucky  sixpence  !  " 

"  We  not  at  Styornaway  light  yet,"  answered  the  prudent  John  of 
Skye,  who  is  no  gambler.  But  all  the  same,  he  called  two  of  the  men 
aft  to  set  the  mizen  again;  and  as  for  himself,  he  threw  off  his  oil- 
skins and  appeared  in  his  proud  uniform  once  more.  This  looked  like 
business. 

Well,  it  was  not  within  the  six  hours,  but  it  was  within  the  six 
hours  and  a  half,  that  we  sailed  past  Stornoway  lighthouse  and  its  out- 
standing perch ;  and  past  a  floating  tai'get  with  a  red  flag,  for  artillery 
practice ;  and  past  a  barque  which  had  been  driven  ashore  two  days 
before,  and  now  stuck  there,  with  her  back  broken.  And  this  was  a 
wonderful  sight — after  the  lone,  wide  seas — to  see  such  a  mass  of  ships 
of  all  sorts  and  sizes  crowded  in  here  for  fear  of  the  weather.  We  read 
their  names  in  the  strange  foreign  type  as  we  passed — Die  Hcimath, 
Georg  Washington,  Friedrich  der  Grosse,  and  the  like — and  we  saw  the 
yellow-haired  Norsemen  pulling  between  the  vessels  in  their  odd-looking 
double-bowed  boats.  And  was  not  John  of  Skye  a  proud  man  that  day, 
as  he  stood  by  the  tiller  in  his  splendour  of  blue  and  brass  buttons,  know- 
ins  that  he  had  brought  the  White  Dove  across  the  wild  waters  of  the 


510  WHITE  WINGS:    A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

Minch,  when,  not  one  of  these  foreigners  would  put  his  nose  outside  the 
harbour  ? 

The  evening  light  was  shining  over  the  quiet  town,  and  the  shadowed 
castle,  and  the  fir-tipped  circle  of  hills,  when  the  White  Dove  rattled  out 
her  anchor-chain  and  came  to  rest.  And  as  this  was  our  last  night  on 
board,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  packing  and  other  trouble.  It  was 
nearly  ten  o'clock  when  we  came  together  again. 

The  Laird  was  in  excellent  spirits  that  night,  and  was  more  than 
ordinarily  facetious;  but  his  hostess  refused  to  be  comforted.  A 
thousand  Homeshes  could  not  have  called  up  a  smile.  For  she  had 
grown  to  love  this  scrambling  life  on  board ;  and  she  had  acquired  a 
great  affection  for  the  yacht  itself;  and  now  she  looked  round  this  old 
and  familiar  saloon,  in  which  we  had  spent  so  many  snug  and  merry 
evenings  together ;  and  she  knew  she  was  looking  at  it  for  the  last  time. 

At  length,  however,  the  Laird  bethought  himself  of  arousing  her 
from  her  sentimental  sadness,  and  set  to  work  to  joke  her  out  of  it.  He 
told  her  she  was  behaving  like  a  schoolgirl  come  to  the  end  of  her 
holiday.  Well,  she  only  further  behaved  like  a  schoolgirl  by  letting  her 
lips  begin  to  tremble ;  and  then  she  stealthily  withdrew  to  her  own 
cabin,  and  doubtless  had  a  good  cry  there.  There  was  no  help  for  it, 
however :  the  child  had  to  give  up  its  plaything  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 
ADIEU  ! 

NEXT  morning,  also :  why  should  this  tender  melancholy  still  dwell  in 
the  soft  and  mournful  eyes  1  The  sunlight  was  shining  cheerfully  on  the 
sweep  of  wooded  hill,  on  the  grey  castle,  on  the  scattered  town,  and  on 
the  busy  quays.  Busy  was  scarcely  the* word  :  there  was  a  wild  excitement 
abroad,  for  a  vast  take  of  herring  bad  just  been  brought  in.  There,, 
close  in  by  the  quays,  were  the  splendidly-built  luggers,  with  their  masts 
right  at  their  bows ;  and  standing  up  in  them  their  stalwart  crews, 
bronze-faced,  heavy-bearded,  with  oil-skin  caps,  and  boots  up  to  their 
thighs.  Then  on  the  quays  above  the  picturesquely-costumed  women 
busy  at  the  salting ;  and  agents  eagerly  chaffering  with  the  men ;  and 
empty  barrels  coming  down  in  unknown  quantities.  Bustle,  life,  ex- 
citement pervaded  the  whole  town ;  but  our  tender-hearted  hostess,  as 
we  got  ashore,  seemed  to  pay  no  heed  to  it.  As  she  bade  good-bye  to 
the  men,  shaking  hands  with  each,  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes ;  if  she 
had  wished  to  cast  a  last  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  White  Dove,  she 
could  scarcely  have  seen  the  now  still  and  motionless  craft. 

But  by-and-by,  when  we  had  left  our  heavier  luggage  at  the  inn,  and 
when  we  set  out  to  drive  across  the  island  to  visit  some  friends  of  ours 
who  live  on  the  western  side,  she  grew  somewhat  more  cheerful.  Here 


WHITE  WINGS  :    A  YACHTING-  ROMANCE.  511 

and  there  a  whiff  of  the  fragrant  peat-smoke  caught  us  as  we  passed, 
bringing  back  recollections  of  other  days.  Then  she  had  one  or  two 
strangers  to  inform  and  instruct ;  and  she  was  glad  that  Mary  Avon  had 
a  bright  day  for  her  drive  across  the  Lewis. 

"  But  what  a  desolate  place  it  must  be  on  a  wet  day  ! "  that  young 
person  remarked,  as  she  looked  away  across  the  undulating  moors,  vast, 
and  lonely,  and  silent. 

Now,  at  all  events,  the  drive  was  pleasant  enough  :  for  the  sunlight 
brought  out  the  soft  ruddy  browns  of  the  bog-land,  and  ever  and  again 
the  blue  and  white  surface  of  a  small  loch  flashed  back  the  daylight  from 
amid  that  desolation.  Then  occasionally  the  road  crossed  a  brawling 
stream,  and  the  sound  of  it  was  grateful  enough  in  the  oppressive 
silence.  In  due  course  of  time  we  reached  Garra-na-hina. 

Our  stay  at  the  comfortable  little  hostelry  was  but  brief,  for  the  boat 
to  be  sent  by  our  friends  had  not  arrived,  and  it  was  proposed  that  in 
the  meantime  we  should  walk  along  the  coast  to  show  our  companions 
the  famous  stones  of  Callernish.  By  this  time  Queen  Titania  had  quite 
recovered  her  spirits,  and  eagerly  assented,  saying  how  pleasant  a  walk 
would  be  after  our  long  confinement  on  shipboard. 

It  was  indeed  a  pleasant  walk,  through  a  bright  and  cheerful  piece  of 
country.  And  as  we  went  along  we  sometimes  turned  to  look  around 
us — at  the  waters  of  the  Black  River,  a  winding  line  of  silver  through 
the  yellow  and  brown  of  the  morass ;  and  at  the  placid  blue  waters  of 
Loch  Roag,  with  the  orange  line  of  sea- weed  round  the  rocks ;  and  at  the 
far  blue  bulk  of  Suainabhal.  We  did  not  walk  very  fast ;  and  indeed 
we  had  not  got  anywhere  near  the  Callernish  stones,  when  the  sharp  eye 
of  our  young  Doctor  caught  sight  of  two  new  objects  that  had  come  into 
this  shining  picture.  The  first  was  a  large  brown  boat,  rowed  by  four 
fishermen ;  the  second  was  a  long  and  shapely  boat — like  the  pinnace  of 
a  yacht — also  pulled  by  four  men,  in  blue  jerseys  and  scarlet  caps.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  stem  of  the  big  boat ;  but  in  the  stern  of  the  gig  were 
three  figures,  as  far  as  we  could  make  out. 

Now  no  sooner  had  our  attention  been  called  to  the  two  boats  which 
had  just  come  round  the  point  of  an  island  out  there,  than  our  good 
Queen  Titania  became  greatly  excited,  and  would  have  us  all  go  out  to  the 
top  of  a  small  headland  and  frantically  wave  our  handkerchiefs  there. 
Then  we  perceived  that  the  second  boat  instantly  changed  its  course,  and 
was  being  steered  for  the  point  on  which  we  stood.  We  descended  to 
the  shore  and  went  out  on  to  some  rocks,  Queen  Titania  becoming  quite 
hysterical. 

"  Oh,  how  kind  of  her  1  how  kind  of  her  ! "  she  cried. 
For  it  now  appeared  that  these  three  figures  in  the  stern  of  the 
white  pinnace  were  the  figures  of  a  young  lady,  who  was  obviously 
steering,  and  of  two  small  boys,  one  on  each  side  of  her,  and  both  dressed 
as  young  sailors.  And  the  steerswoman — she  had  something  of  a  sailor- 
look  about  her,  too ;  for  she  was  dressed  in  navy-blue ;  and  she  wore  a 


512  WHITE  WINGS:  A  YACHTING  ROMANCE. 

straw  hat  with  a  blue  ribbon  and  letters  of  gold.  But  you  would 
scarcely  have  looked  at  the  smart  straw  hat  when  you  saw  the  bright 
and  laughing  face,  and  the  beautiful  eyes  that  seemed  to  speak  to  you 
long  before  she  could  get  to  shore.  And  then  the  boat  was  run  into  a 
small  creek ;  and  the  young  lady  stepped  lightly  out— -she  certainly  was 
young-looking,  by  the  way,  to  be  the  mother  of  those  two  small  sailors — 
and  she  quickly  and  eagerly  and  gladly  caught  Queen  Titania  with  both 
her  hands. 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she — and  her  speech  was  ex- 
ceedingly pleasant  to  hear — "  but  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so  soon 
over  from  Styornaway." 

[Note  by  Queen  Titaina. — It  appears  that  now  all  our  voyaging  is  over,  and  we  are 
about  to  retire  into  privacy  again,  I  am  expected,  as  on  a  previous  occasion,  to  come 
forward  and  address  to  you  a  kind  of  epilogue,  just  as  they  do  on  the  stage.  This 
seems  to  me  a  sort  of  strange  performance  at  the  end  of  a  yachting  cruise ;  for  what 
if  a  handful  of  salt  water  were  to  come  over  the  bows,  and  put  out  my  trumpery  foot- 
lights? However,  what  must  be  must,  as  married  women  know;  and  so  I  would 
first  of  all  say  a  word  to  the  many  kind  people  who  were  so  very  good  to  us  in  these 
distant  places  in  the  north.  You  may  think  it  strange  to  associate  such  things  as 
fresh  vegetables,  or  a  basket  of  flowers,  or  a  chicken,  or  a  bottle  of  milk,  or  even  a 
bunch  of  white  heather,  with  sentiment ;  but  people  who  have  been  sailing  in  the 
West  Highlands  do  not  think  so— indeed,  they  know  which  is  the  most  obliging  and 
friendly  and  hospitable  place  in  the  -whole  world.  And  then  a  word  to  the  reader. 
If  I  might  hope  that  it  is  the  same  reader  who  has  been  with  us  in  other  climes  in 
other  years — who  may  have  driven  with  us  along  the  devious  English  lanes ;  and 
crossed  the  Atlantic,  and  seen  the  big  canons  of  the  Ilocky  Mountains ;  and  lived  with 
us  among  those  dear  old  people  in  the  Black  Forest;  and  walked  with  us  on  JVIickle- 
ham  Downs  in  the  starlight,  why,  then,  he  may  forgive  us  for  taking  him  on  such  a 
tremendous  long  holiday  in  these  Scotch  lochs.  But  we  hope  that  if  ever  he  goes 
into  these  wilds  for  himself,  he  will  get  as  good  a  skipper  as  John  of  Skye,  and  have 
as  pleasant  and  true  a  friend  on  board  as  the  Laird  of  Denny-mains.  Perhaps,  I 
may  add,  just  to  explain  everything,  that  we  are  all  invited  to  Denny-mains  to  spend 
Christmas ;  and  something  is  going  to  happen  there  ;  and  the  Laird  says  that  so 
far  from  objecting  to  a  ceremony  in  the  Episcopal  church,  he  will  himself  be  present 
and  give  away  the  bride.  It  is  even  hinted  that  Mr.  Tom  Galbraith  may  come  from 
Edinburgh,  as  a  great  compliment;  and  then  no  doubt  we  shall  all  be  introduced  to 
him.  And  so — Good-bye  ! — Good-bye  ! — and  another  message — -from  the  heart — to 
all  the  kind  people  who  befriended  us  in  those  places  far  away  ! T.] 


THE    END. 


THE 


COKNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


NOVEMBEK,  1880. 


DEDICATED  TO  F.W.C.    AND   B.C. 


CHAPTER  I. 

VEBYBODY  knows  the 
charming  song  which  is 
called  by  this  name.  I 
hear  it  sometimes  in  a 
young  household  full  of 
life  and  kindness  and 
music,  where  it  is  sung 
to  me,  with  a  tender  in- 
dulgence for  my  weakness 
and  limited  apprehen- 
sion of  higher  efforts,  by 
the  most  sympathetic  and 
softest  of  voices.  A  kind 
half-smile  mingles  in  the 
music  on  these  occasions. 
Those  dear  people  think 
I  like  it  because  the 
translated  "  words  "  have 
a  semblance  of  being 
Scotch,  and  I  am  a  Scot. 
But  the  words  are  not  Scotch,  nor  is  this  their  charm.  3/don't  even  know 
what  they  are.  "  I  will  come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonnie."  That,  or  indeed 
the  name  even,  is  enough  for  me.  I  confess  that  I  am  not  musical. 
When  I  hear  anything  that  I  like  much,  at  least  from  an  instrument, 
VOL,  XLII. — NO.  251.  25. 


514  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

I  instantly  conceive  a  contempt  for  it,  feeling  that  it  must  be  inferior 
somehow  to  have  commended  itself  to  me.  I  wander  vainly  seeking  an 
idea  through  fields  and  plains  of  sonatas.  So  do  a  great  many  other 
lowly  people,  like  me,  not  gifted  with  taste  or  (fit)  hearing ;  but,  if  you 
will  only  suggest  an  idea  to  me,  I  will  thankfully  accept  that  clue.  I 
don't  understand  anything  about  dominant  sevenths  or  any  mathematical 
quantity.  "How  much?"  I  feel  inclined  to  say  with  the  most  vulgar. 
Therefore  "  My  faithful  Johnny  "  charms  me  because  this  is  a  suggestion 
of  which  my  fancy  is  capable.  I  don't  know  who  the  faithful  Johnny 
was,  except  that  he  is  to  come  again,  and  that  somebody,  presumably,  is 
looking  for  him  ;  and,  with  this  guide,  the  song  takes  a  hundred  tones, 
sorrowful,  wistful  and  penetrating.  I  see  the  patient  waiting,  the  doubt 
which  is  faith,  the  long  vigil — and  hear  the  soft  cadence  of  sighs,  and  with 
them,  through  the  distance,  the  far-off  notes  of  the  promise — never 
realised,  always  expected — "  I  will  come  again."  This  is  how  I  like  to 
have  my  music.  I  am  an  ignorant  person.  They  smile  and  humour  me 
with  just  a  tender  touch  of  the  faintest,  kindest  contempt.  Stay — not 
contempt ;  the  word  is  far  too  harsh ;  let  us  say  indulgence — the 
meaning  is  very  much  the  same. 

I  do  not  think  I  had  ever  heard  the  song  when  I  first  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  appearance  of  a  man  with  whom,  later,  this  title  be- 
came completely  identified.  He  was  young — under  thirty — when  I  saw 
him  first,  passing  my  house  every  morning  as  regular  as  the  clock  on  his 
way  to  his  work,  and  coming  home  in  the  evening  swinging  his  cane, 
with  a  book  under  his  arm,  his  coat  just  a  little  rusty,  his  trousers  cling- 
ing to  his  knees  more  closely  than  well-bred  trousers  cling,  his  hat 
pushed  backed  a  little  from  his  forehead.  It  was  unnecessary  to  ask 
what  he  was.  He  was  a  clerk  in  an  office.  This  may  be  anything,  the 
reader  knows,  from  a  lofty  functionary  managing  public  business,  to 
numberless  nobodies  who  toil  in  dusty  offices  and  are  in  no  way  better 
than  their  fate.  It  was  to  this  order  that  my  clerk  belonged.  Every 
day  of  his  life,  except  that  blessed  Sunday  which  sets  such  toilers  free, 
he  walked  along  the  irregular  pavement  of  the  long  suburban  road  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  were  it  wet  or  dry ;  and  between  five  and 
six  he  would  come  back.  After  all,  though  it  was  monotonous  it  was 
not  a  hard  life,  for  he  had  the  leisure  of  the  whole  long  evening  to  make 
up  for  the  bondage  of  the  day.  He  was  a  pale  man  with  light  hair, 
and  a  face  more  worn  than  either  his  years  or  his  labours  warranted. 
But  his  air  of  physical  weakness  must  have  been  due  to  his  colourless 
complexion,  or  some  other  superficial  cause,  for  his  extreme  and  unbroken 
regularity  was  inconsistent  with  anything  less  than  thoroxighly  good 
health.  He  carried  his  head  slightly  thrown  back,  and  his  step  had  a 
kind  of  irregularity  in  it  which  made  it  familiar  to  me  among  many 
others ;  at  each  half  dozen  steps  or  so  his  foot  would  drag  upon  the  pave- 
ment, giving  a  kind  of  rhythm  to  his  progress.  All  these  particulars  I 
became  aware  of,  not  suddenly,  but  by  dint  of  long  unconscious  ohserva- 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  515. 

tion,  day  aftei*  day,  day  after  day,  for  so  many  years.  Never  was  there  a 
clerk  more  respectable,  more  regular.  I  found  out  after  a  while  that  he 
lodged  about  half  a  mile  further  on  in  one  of  the  little  houses  into  which 
the  road  dwindled  as  it  streamed  out  towards  the  chaos  which  on  all 
sides  surrounds  London,— and  that  when  he  passed  my  house  he  was  on  his 
way  to  or  from  the  omnibus  which  started  from  a  much-frequented  corner 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  nearer  town.  All  the  far-off  ends  of  the 
ways  that  lead  into  town  and  its  bustle  have  interests  of  this  kind.  I  am 
one  of  the  people,  I  fear  somewhat  vulgar-minded,  who  love  my  window 
and  to  see  people  pass.  I  do  not  care  for  the  dignity  of  seclusion,  I 
would  rather  not,  unless  I  were  sure  of  being  always  a  happy  member  of 
a  large  cheerful  household,  be  divided  from  the  common  earth  even  by 
the  trees  and  glades  of  the  most  beautiful  park.  I  like  to  see  the  men 
go  to  their  work,  and  the  women  to  their  marketing.  But,  no;  the  latter 
occupation  is  out  of  date — the  women  go  to  their  work  too ;  slim,  young 
daily  governesses,  hard-worked  music-mistresses,  with  the  invariable  roll 
of  music.  How  soon  one  gets  to  know  them  all,  and  have  a  glimmering 
perception  of  their  individualities — though  you  may  see  them  every  day 
for  years  before  you  know  their  names  ! 

After  I  had  been  acquainted  (at  a  distance)  with  him  for  some  time, 
and  had  got  to  know  exactly  what  o'clock  it  was  when  he  passed, 
a  change  came  upon  my  clerk.  One  summer  evening  I  saw  him  very 
much  smartened  up,  his  coat  brushed,  a  pair  of  trousers  on  with  which 
I  was  not  familiar,  and  a  rosebud  in  his  button-hole,  coming  back.  I  was 
thunderstruck.  It  was  a  step  so  contrary  to  all  traditions  that  my  heart 
stopped  beating  while  I  looked  at  him.  It  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  run 
down  and  ask  what  was  the  matter.  Had  something  gone  wrong  in  the 
City  ? ,  Was  there  a  panic,  or  a  crisis,  or  something  in  the  money-market  ? 
But  no ;  that  could  not  be.  The  spruceness  of  the  man,  his  rose  iii  his  coat, 
contradicted  this  alarm ;  and  as  I  watched  disquieted,  lo  !  he  crossed  the 
road  before  my  eyes,  and  turning  down  Pleasant  Place,  which  was  oppo- 
site, disappeared,  as  I  could  faintly  perceive  in  the  distance,  into  one  of 
the  houses.  This  was  the  first  of  a  long  series  of  visits.  And  after  a 
while  I  saw  her,  the  object  of  these  visits,  the  heroine  of  the  romance.  She 
also  was  one  of  those  with  whom  I  had  made  acquaintance  at  my  win- 
dow— a  trim,  little  figure  in  black,  with  a  roll  of  music,  going  out  and  in 
two  or  three  times  a  day,  giving  music  lessons.  I  was  quite  glad  to  think 
that  she  had  been  one  of  my  favourites  too.  My  clerk  went  modestly 
at  long  intervals  at  first,  then  began  to  come  oftener,  and  finally  settled 
down  as  a  nightly  visitor.  But  this  was  a  long  and  slow  process,  and  I 
think  it  had  lasted  for  years  before  I  came  into  actual  contact  with  the 
personages  of  this  tranquil  drama.  It  was  only  during  the  summer  that  I 
could  see  them  from  my  window  and  observe  what  was  going  on.  When 
at  the  end  of  a  long  winter  I  first  became  aware  that  he  went  to  see  her 
every  evening,  I  confess  to  feeling  a  little  excitement  at  the  idea  of  a 
marriage  shortly  to  follow ;  but  that  was  altogether  premature.  It 

25—2 


516  MY  FAITHFUL 

went  on  slimmer  after  summer,  winter  after  winter,  disappearing  by 
intervals  from  my  eyes,  coming  fresh  with  the  spring  flowers  and  the  long 
evenings.  Once  passing  down  Pleasant  Place  towards  some  scorched 
fields  that  lay  beyond — fields  that  began  to  be  invaded  by  new  houses 
and  cut  up  by  foundation  digging,  and  roadmaking,  and  bricklaying,  but 
where  there  was  still  room  for  the  boys,  and  my  boys,  among  others,  to  play 
cricket — I  had  a  glimpse  of  a  little  interior  which  quickened  my  interest 
more  and  more.  The  houses  in  Pleasant  Place  were  small  and  rather 
shabby,  standing  on  one  side  only  of  the  street.  The  other  was  formed  by 
the  high  brick  wall  of  the  garden  of  a  big  old-fashioned  house,  still  stand- 
ing amid  all  the  new  invasions  which  had  gradually  changed  the  character 
of  the  district.  There  were  trees  visible  over  the  top  of  this  wall,  and  it 
was  believed  in  the  neighbourhood  that  the  upper  windows  of  the  houses 
in  Pleasant  Place  looked  over  it  into  the  garden.  In  fact,  I  had 
myself  not  long  before  condoled  with  the  proprietor  of  the  said  garden 
upon  the  inconvenience  of  being  thus  overlooked.  For  this  hypoci'isy 
my  heart  smote  me  when  I  went  along  the  little  street,  and  saw  the 
little  houses  all  gasping  with  open  windows  for  a  breath  of  the  air  which 
the  high  wall  intercepted.  They  had  little  front  gardens  scorched  with 
the  fervid  heat.  At  the  open  window  of  No.  7  sat  my  clerk  with  his 
colourless  head  standing  out  against  the  dark  unknown  of  the  room. 
His  face  was  in  profile.  It  was  turned  towards  some  one  who  was  sing- 
ing softly  the  song  of  which  I  have  placed  the  name  ('at  the  head  of 
this  story.  The  soft,  pensive  music  came  tender  and  low  out  of  the  un- 
seen room.  The  musician  evidently  needed  no  light,  for  it  was  almost  twi- 
light, and  the  room  was  dark.  The  accompaniment  was  played  in  the 
truest  taste,  soft  as  the  summer  air  that  carried  the  sound  to  our  ears. 
"  I  know  !"  I  cried  to  my  companion  with  some  excitement,  "that  is 
what  he  is.  I  have  always  felt  that  was  the  name  for  him."  "  The 
name  for  whom "?  "  she  asked,  bewildered.  "  My  faithful  Johnny,"  I  re- 
plied ;  which  filled  her  with  greater  bewilderment  still. 

And  all  that  summer  long  the  faithful  Johnny  went  and  came  as 
usual.  Often  he  and  she  would  take  little  Avalks  in  the  evening,  always 
at  that  same  twilight  hour.  It  seemed  the  moment  of  leisure,  as  if  she 
had  duties  at  home  from  which  she  was  free  just  then.  When  we  went 
away  in  August  they  were  taking  their  modest  little  promenades  together 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening  ;  and  when  we  came  back  in  October,  as  long  as 
the  daylight  served  to  see  them  by,  the  same  thing  went  on.  A  s  the 
days  shortened  he  changed  his  habits  so  far  as  to  go  to  Pleasant  Pkce 
at  once  before  going  home,  that  there  might  still  be  light  enough  (I  felt 
sure)  for  her  walk.  But  by-and-by  the  advancing  winter  shut  out  this 
possibility  :  or  rather  I  could  not  see  any  longer  what  happened  about  six 
o'clock.  One  evening,  however,  coming  home  to  dinner  from  a  late  yisit, 
I  met  them  suddenly  walking  along  the  lighted  street.  For  the  first 
time  they  were  arm-in-arm,  perhaps  because  it  was  night,  though  no 
later  than  usual.  She  was  talking  to  him  with  a  certain  familiar  ease 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  517 

of  use  and  wont  as  if  they  had  been  married  for  years,  smiling  and  chat- 
tering and  lighting  up  his  mild,  somewhat  weary,  countenance  with  re- 
sponsive smiles.  "  I  will  come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonnie ."  I  smiled 

at  myself,  as  these  words  came  into  my  head,  I  could  not  tell  why.  How 
could  he  come  again  when,  it  was  evident,  no  will  of  his  would  ever  take 
him  away  ?  Was  she  fair  enough  to  be  the  "  sweet  and  bonnie  "  of  a 
man's  heart  1  She  was  not  a  beauty ;  nobody  would  have  distinguished 
her  even  as  the  prettiest  girl  in  Pleasant  Place.  But  her  soft,  bright 
face  as  she  looked  up  to  him  :  a  smile  on  it  of  the  sunniest  kind :  a  little 
humorous  twist  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth  ;  a  pair  of  clear,  honest 
brown  eyes ;  a  round  cheek  with  a  dimple  in  it — caught  my  heart  at  once 
as  they  must  have  caught  his.  I  could  understand  (I  thought)  what  it 
must  have  been  to  the  dry  existence  of  the  respectable  clerk,  the  old- 
young  and  prematurely  faded,  to  have  this  fresh  spring  of  life,  and  talk, 
and  smiles,  and  song  welling  up  into  it,  transforming  everything.  He 
smiled  back  upon  her  as  they  walked  along  in  the  intermittent  light  of 
the  shop  windows.  I  could  almost  believe  that  I  saw  his  lips  forming 
the  words  as  he  looked  at  her,  "  My  sweet  and  bonnie."  Yes ;  she  was 
good  enough  and  fair  enough  to  merit  the  description.  "  But  I  wish 
they  would  marry,"  I  said  to  myself.  Why  did  not  they  marry  ?  He 
looked  patient  enough  for  anything  ;  but  even  patience  ought  to  come  to 
an  end.  I  chafed  at  the  delay,  though  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  What 
wag  the  meaning  of  it  ?  I  felt  that  it  ought  to  come  to  an  end. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

IT  was  some  months  after  this,  when  I  took  the  bold  step  of  making 
acquaintance  on  my  own  account  with  this  pair ;  not  exactly  with  the 
pair,  but  with  the  one  who  was  most  accessible.  It  happened  that  a 
sudden  need  for  music  lessons  arose  in  the  family.  One  of  the  children, 
who  had  hitherto  regarded  that  study  with  repugnance,  and  who  had 
been  accordingly  left  out  in  all  the  musical  arrangements  of  her  brothers 
and  sisters,  suddenly  turned  round  by  some  freak  of  nature  and  demanded 
the  instruction  which  she  had  previously  resisted.  How  could  we 
expect  Fraulein  Stimme,  whose  ministrations  she  had  scorned,  to  descend 
to  the  beggarly  elements,  and  take  up  again  one  who  was  so  far  behind 
the  others  1  "I  cannot  ask  her,"  I  said ;  " you  may  do  it  yourself, 
Chatty,  if  you  are  so  much  in  earnest,  but  I  cannot  take  it  upon  me  ;  " 
and  it  was  not  until  Chatty  had  declared  with  tears  that  to  approach 
Fraulein  Stimme  on  her  own  account  was  impossible,  that  a  brilliant 
idea  struck  me.  "  Ten  o'clock  !  "  I  cried  ;  which  was  an  exclamation 
which  would  have  gone  far  to  prove  me  out  of  my  senses  had  any  severe 
critic  been  listening.  This  was  the  title  which  had  been  given  to  the 
little  music-mistress  in  Pleasant  Place,  before  she  had  become  associated 
jn  our  minds  with  the  faithful  clerk.  And  I  confess  that,  without  wait- 


518  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

ing  to  think,  without  more  ado,  I  ran  to  get  my  hat,  and  was  out  of  doors 
in  a  moment.  It  was  very  desirable,  no  doubt,  that  Chatty  should 
make  up  lost  ground  and  begin  her  lessons  at  once,  but  that  was  not  my 
sole  motive.  When  I  found  myself  out  of  doors  in  a  damp  and  foggy 
November  morning,  crossing  the  muddy  road  in  the  first  impulse  of 
eagerness,  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  me  that  there  were  several  obstacles 
in  my  way.  In  the  first  place  I  did  not  even  know  her  name.  I  knew 
the  house,  having  seen  her,  and  especially  him,  enter  it  so  often ;  but 
what  to  call  her,  who  to  ask  for,  I  did  not  know.  She  might,  I  reflected, 
be  only  a  lodger,  not  living  with  her  parents,  which  up  to  this  time  I  had 
taken  for  granted ;  or  she  might  be  too  accomplished  in  her  profession  to 
teach  Chatty  the  rudiments — a  thing  which,  when  I  reflected  upon  the 
song  I  had  heard,  and  other  scraps  of  music  which  had  dropped  upon 
my  ears  in  passing,  seemed  very  likely.  However,  I  was  launched,  and 
could  not  go  back.  I  felt  very  small,  humble,  and  blamably  impulsive, 
however,  when  I  had  knocked  at  the  door  of  No.  7,  and  stood  somewhat 
alarmed  waiting  a  reply.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  small  maid- servant, 
with  a  very  long  dress  and  her  apron  folded  over  one  arm,  who  stared, 
yet  evidently  recognised  me,  not  without  respect,  as  belonging  to  one  of 
the  great  houses  in  the  road.  This  is  a  kind  of  aristocratical  position 
in  the  suburbs.  One  is  raised  to  a  kind  of  personage  by  all  the  denizens 
of  the  little  streets  and  terraces.  She  made  me  a  clumsy  little  curtsey, 
and  grinned  amicably.  And  I  was  encouraged  by  the  little  maid. 
She  was  about  fifteen,  rather  grimy,  in  a  gown  much  too  long  for  her ; 
but  yet  her  foot  was  upon  her  native  heath,  and  I  was  an  intruder. 
She  knew  all  about  the  family,  no  doubt;  and  who  they  were,  and  the 
name  of  my  clerk,  and  the  relations  in  which  he  stood  to  her  young  mis- 
tress, while  I  was  only  a  stranger  feebly  guessing,  and  impertinently  spy- 
ing upon  all  these  things. 

"  Is  the  young  lady  at  home  1 "  I  asked,  with  much  humility. 
The  girl  stared  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes ;  then  she  said  with  a  broad 
smile,  "  You  mean  Miss  Ellen,  don't  ye,  Miss  ?  "     In  these  regions  it  is 
supposed  complimentary  to  say  "  Miss,"  as  creating  a  pleasant  fiction  of 
perpetual  youth. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  I  said,  with  a  consciousness  of  doing  my  best  to 
conciliate  this  creature,  "  I  don't  know  her  name.  It  was  about  some 
music  lessons." 

"  Miss  Ellen  isn't  in,"  said  the  girl,  "  but  Missus  is  sure  to  see  you  if 
you  will  step  into  the  parlour-,  Miss  ; "  and  she  opened  to  me  the  door  of 
the  room  in  which  I  had  seen  my  faithful  Johnny  at  the  window,  and 
heard  her  singing  to  him,  in  the  twilight,  her  soft  .song.  It  was  a 
commonplace  little  parlour,  with  a  faded  carpet  and  those  appalling 
mahogany  and  haircloth  chairs  which  no  decorative  genius,  however 
brilliant,  could  make  anything  of.  What  so  easy  as  to  say  that  good  taste 
and  care  can  make  any  house  pretty  ?  This  little  room  was  very  neat, 
sine]  I  don't  doubt  that  Miss  Ellen's  faithful  lover  found  a  little  paradise 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  519 

in  it ;  but  it  made  my  heart  foolishly  sink  to  see  how  commonplace  it  all 
was ;  a  greenish-whitish  woollen  cover  on  the  table,  a  few  old  photo- 
graphic albums,  terrible  antimacassars  in  crochet  work  upon  the  backs 
of  the  chairs.  I  sat  down  and  contemplated  the  little  mirror  on  the 
mantelpiece  and  the  cheap  little  vases  with  dismay.  "We  are  all  preju- 
diced nowadays  on  this  question  of  furniture.  My  poor  little  music- 
mistress  !  how  was  she  to  change  the  chairs  and  tables  she  had  been  bom 
to  ?  But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  wavered  and  doubted  whether  she  was 
worthy  of  him  when  I  looked  round  upon  all  the  antimacassars,  and  the 
dried  grasses  in  the  green  vase. 

While  I  was  struggling  against  this  first  impression  the  door  opened, 
and  the  mistress  of  the  house  came  in.  She  was  a  little  woman,  stout 
and  roundabout,  with  a  black  cap  decorated  with  flowers,  but  a  fresh 
little  cheerful  face  under  this  tremendous  head-dress  which  neutralised 
it.  She  came  up  to  me  with  a  smile  and  would  have  shaken  hands,  had 
I  been  at  all  prepared  for  such  a  warmth  of  salutation,  and  then  she 
began  to  apologise  for  keeping  me  waiting.  "  When  my  daughter  is  out 
I  have  to  do  all  the  waiting  upon  him  myself.  He  doesn't  like  to  be 
left  alone,  and  he  can't  bear  anybody  but  me  or  Ellen  in  the  room  with 
him,"  she  said.  Perhaps  she  had  explained  beforehand  who  lie  was,  but 
in  the  confusion  of  the  first  greeting  I  had  not  made  it  out.  Then  I 
stated  my  business,  and  she  brightened  up  still  more. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  am  sure  Ellen  will  undertake  it  with  great  pleasure. 
In  the  Road,  at  No.  16 1  Oh,  it  is  no  distance ;  it  will  be  no  trouble  ; 
and  she  is  so  glad  to  extend  her  connection.  With  private  teaching  it 
is  such  a  great  matter  to  extend  your  connection.  It  is  very  kind  of  you 
to  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  yourself.  Perhaps  one  of  Ellen's 
ladies,  who  are  all  so  kind  to  her,  mentioned  our  name  ? " 

"  That  is  just  where  I  am  at  a  loss,"  I  said  uneasily.  "  No;  but  I 
have  seen  her  passing  all  these  years,  always  so  punctual,  with  her  bright 
face.  She  has  been  a  great  favourite  of  mine  for  a  long  time,  though  I 
don't  know  her  name." 

The  mother's  countenance  brightened  after  a  moment's  doubt. 
"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  she  is  a  good  girl — always  a  bright  face.  She  is  the  life 
of  the  house." 

"And  I  have  seen,"  said  I,  hesitating  more  and  more,  "a  gentleman. 
I  presume  there  is  to  be  a  marriage  by-and-by.  You  must  pardon  my 
curiosity,  I  have  taken  so  much  interest  in  them." 

A  good  many  changes  passed  over  the  mother's  face.  Evidently 
she  was  not  at  all  sure  about  my  curiosity,  whether  perhaps  it  might  not 
be  impertinent. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  with  a  little  nod,  "  you  have  remarked  John.  Yes, 
of  course,  it  was  sure  to  be  remarked,  so  constantly  as  he  comes.  I 
need  not  make  any  secret  of  it.  In  one  way  I  would  rather  he  did  not 
come  so  often ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  Ellen.  Yes ;  I  may  say  they  are 


engaged- 


520  "MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

Engaged  ?  After  all  these  years  !  But  I  remembered  that  I  had  no 
right,  being  an  intruder,  to  say  anything.  "I  have  seen  them  in  the 
summer  evenings " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said ;  "  yes,"  with  again  a  nod  of  her  head,  "  Perhaps 
it  was  imprudent,  for  you  never  can  tell  whether  these  things  will  come 
to  anything ;  but  it  was  her  only  time  for  a  little  pleasure.  Poor  child, 
I  always  see  that  she  gets  that  hour.  They  go  out  still,  though  you 
would  not  say  it  would  do  her  much  good,  in  the  dark ;  but  there  is 
nothing  she  enjoys  so  much.  She  is  the  best  girl  that  ever  was.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  do  without  her ;  "  and  there  was  a  glimmer  of  mois- 
ture in  the  mother's  eyes. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  surely  after  a  while  they  are  going  to  be  married?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  how  her  father  can  spare  her."  The 
cheerful  face  lost  all  its  brightness  as  she  spoke,  and  she  shook  her  head. 
"  He  is  so  fond  of  Ellen,  the  only  girl  we  have  left  now ;  he  can't  bear 
her  out  of  his  sight.  She  is  such  a  good  girl,  and  so  devoted."  The 
mother  faltered  a  little — perhaps  my  question  made  her  think — at  all 
events,  it  was  apparent  that  everything  was  not  so  simple  and  straight- 
forward for  the  young  pair  as  I  in  my  ignorance  had  thought. 

But  I  had  no  excuse  to  say  any  more.  It  was  no  business  of  mine, 
as  people  say.  I  settled  that  Ellen  was  to  come  at  a  certain  hour  next 
day,  which  was  all  that  remained  to  be  done.  When  I  glanced  round 
the  room  again  as  I  left,  it  had  changed  its  aspect  to  me,  and  looked  like 
a  prison.  Was  the  poor  girl  bound  there,  and  unable  to  get  free  ]  As 
the  mother  opened  the  door  for  me,  the  sound  of  an  imperious  voice 
calling  her  came  downstairs.  She  called. back,  "I  am  coming,  James, 
I  am  coming ; "  then  let  me  out  hurriedly.  And  I  went  home  feel- 
ing as  if  I  had  torn  the  covering  from  a  mystery,  and  as  if  the  house 
in  Pleasant  Place,  so  tranquil,  so  commonplace,  was  the  scene  of  some 
tragic  story,  to  end  one  could  not  tell  how.  But  there  was  no  mystery 
at  all  about  it.  When  "  Miss  Harwood  "  was  announced  to  me  next 
day,  I  was  quite  startled  by  the  name,  not  associating  it  with  any  one  ; 
but  the  moment  the  little  music-mistress  appeared,  with  her  little  roll  in 
her  hand,  her  trim  figure,  her  smiling  face,  and  fresh  look  of  health  and 
happiness,  my  suspicions  disappeared  like  the  groundless  fancies  they  were. 
She  was  delighted  to  have  a  new  pupil,  and  one  so  near,  whom  it  would 
be  "  no  trouble  "  to  attend ;  and  so  pleased  when  I  (with  much  timidity,  I 
confess)  ventured  to  tell  her  how  long  I  had  known  her,  and  how  I  had 
watched  for  her  at  my  window,  and  all  the  observations  I  had  made. 
She  brightened,  and  laughed  and  blushed,  and  declared  it  was  very  kind 
of  me  to  take  such  an  interest ;  then  hung  her  head  for  a  moment,  and 
laughed  and  blushed  still  more,  when  my  confessions  went  the  lengtli  of 
the  faithful  lover.  But  this  was  nothing  but  a  becoming  girlish  shyness, 
for  next  minute  she  looked  me  frankly  in  the  face,  with  the  prettiest  colour 
dyeing  her  round  cheek.  "  I  think  he  knows  you  too,"  she  said.  "  We 
met  you  once  out  walking,  and  he  told  me,  '  There  is  the  lady  who  lives 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  521 

in  the  Road,  whom  I  always  see  at  the  window.'  We  hoped  you  were 
better  to  see  you  out."  And  then  it  was  my  turn  to  feel  gratified,  which 
I  did  unfeignedly.  I  had  gone  through  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  cheered 
by  my  spectator-ship  of  life  out-of-doors  from  that  window.  And  I  was 
pleased  that  they  had  taken  some  friendly  notice  of  me  too. 

"  And  I  suppose,"  I  said,  returning  to  my  theme,  "  that  it  will  not 
be  long  now  before  you  reward  his  faithfulness.  Must  Chatty  leave  you 
then  ?  or  will  you  go  on,  do  you  think,  taking  pupils  after — ?  " 

She  gave  me  a  little  bewildered  look.  "  I  don't  think  I  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  After  you  are  married,"  I  said  plumply.  ''  That  must  be  coming  soon 
now." 

Then  she  burst  out  with  a  genial  pretty  laugh,  blushing  and  shaking 
her  head.  "  Oh,  no ;  we  do  not  think  of  such  a  thing  !  Not  yet.  They 
couldn't  spare  me  at  home.  John — I  mean,  Mr.  Ridgway — knows  that. 
My  father  has  been  ill  so  long ;  he  wants  attendance  night  and  day,  and 
I  don't  know  what  mother  would  do  without  me.  Oh  dear  no ;  we  are 
very  happy  as  we  are.  We  don't  even  think  of  that." 

"  But  you  must  think  of  it  some  time,  surely,  in  justice  to  him,"  I 
said,  half  indignant  for  my  faithful  Johnny's  sake. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  some  time,"  she  said  with  a  momentary  gravity 
stealing  over  her  face — gravity  and  perplexity  too  :  and  a  little  pucker 
came  into  her  forehead.  How  to  do  it  1  A  doubt,  a  question,  seemed  to 
enter  her  mind  for  a  moment.  Then  she  gave  her  head  a  shake,  dismiss- 
ing the  clouds  from  her  cheerful  firmament,  and  with  a  smiling  decision 
set  down  Chatty  to  the  piano.  Chatty  had  fallen  in  love  with  Miss 
Harwood,  her  own  particular  music-mistress  in  whom  no  one  else  had 
any  share,  on  the  spot. 

And  after  a  while  we  all  fell  in  love,  one  after  another,  with  Miss 
Ellen.  She  was  one  of  those  cheerful  people  who  never  make  a  fuss 
about  anything,  never  are  put  out,  or  make  small  troubles  into  great 
ones.  We  tried  her  in  every  way,  as  is  not  unusual  with  a  large  some- 
what careless  family,  in  whose  minds  it  was  a  settled  principle  that,  so 
long  as  you  did  a  thing  tsome  time  or  other,  it  did  not  at  all  matter  when 
you  did  it — and  that  times  and  seasons  were  of  no  particular  importance 
to  any  one  but  Fraulein  Stimme.  She,  of  course — our  natural  disorder- 
liness  had  to  give  way  to  her ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  very  soon  came  to  be 
said  in  the  house,  "  Ellen  will  not  mind."  And  Ellen  did  not  mind ;  if 
twelve  o'clock  proved  inconvenient  for  the  lesson,  she  only  smiled  and 
said,  "  It  is  no  matter ;  I  will  come  in  at  three."  And  If  at  three  Frau- 
lein Stimme's  clutches  upon  Chatty  were  still  unclosed,  she  would  do 
anything  that  happened  to  be  needed — gather  the  little  ones  round  the 
piano  and  teach  them  songs,  or  go  out  with  my  eldest  daughter  for  her 
walk,  or  talk  to  me.  How  many  talks  we  had  upon  every  subject 
imaginable  !  Ellen  was  not  what  is  called  clever.  She  had  read  very 
few  books.  My  eldest  daughter  aforesaid  despised  her  somewhat  on 

25—5 


522  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

this  account,  and  spoke  condescendingly  of  this  or  that  as  "  what  Ellen 
says."  But  it  was  astonishing,  after  all,  how  often  "  what  Ellen  says  " 
was  quoted.  There  were  many  things  which  Ellen  had  not  thought 
any  thing  about ;  and  on  these  points  she  was  quite  ignorant;  for  she 
had  not  read  what  other  people  had  thought  about  them,  and  was 
unprepared  with  an  opinion  ;  but  whenever  the  subject  had  touched  her 
own  intelligence,  she  knew  very  well  what  she  thought.  And  by  dint 
of  being  a  little  lower  down  in  the  social  order  than  we  were,  she  knew 
familiarly  a  great  many  things  which  we  knew  only  theoretically  and  did 
not  understand.  For  instance,  that  fine  shade  of  difference  which 
separates  people  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  from  people 
with  weekly  wages  was  a  thing  which  had  always  altogether  eluded  me. 
I  had  divined  that  a  workman  with  three  pounds  a  week  was  well  off, 
and  a  clerk  with  the  same,  paid  quarterly,  was  poor ;  but  wherein  lay  the 
difference,  and  how  it  was  that  the  latter  occupied  a  superior  position 
to  the  former,  I  have  never  been  able  to  fathom.  Ellen  belonged, 
herself,  to  this  class.  Her  father  had  been  in  one  of  the  lower  depart- 
ments of  a  public  office,  and  had  retired  with  a  pension  of  exactly 
this  amount  after  some  thirty  years'  service.  There  was  a  time  in  his 
life,  to  which  she  regretfully  yet  proudly  referred  as  "the  time  when  we 
were  well  off,"  in  which  his  salary  had  risen  to  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year.  That  was  the  time  when  she  got  her  education  and 
developed  the  taste  for  music  which  was  now  supplying  her  with  work 
which  she  liked,  and  a  little  provision  for  herself.  There  was  no  scorn 
or  hauteur  in  Ellen ;  but  she  talked  of  the  working-classes  with  as  dis- 
tinct a  consciousness  of  being  apart  from  and  superior  to  them  as  if  she 
had  been  a  duchess.  It  was  no  virtue  of  hers  ;  but  still  Providence  had 
placed  her  on  a  different  level,  and  she  behaved  herself  accordingly. 
Servants  and  shopkeepers,  of  the  minor  kind  at  least,  were  within  the 
same  category  to  her — people  to  be  perfectly  civil  to,  and  kind  to,  but,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  not  the  kind  of  people  whom  in  her  position  it  would 
become  her  to  associate  with.  When  I  asked  myself  why  I  should  smile 
at  this,  or  wherein  it  was  more  unreasonable  than  other  traditions  of 
social  superiority,  I  could  not  give  any  answer.  We  are  not  ourselves, 
so  far  as  I  know,  sons  of  the  Crusaders,  and  it  is  very  difficult  to  say 
what  is  the  social  figment  of  rank  by  which  we  hold  so  dearly.  Ellen 
Harwood  exhibited  to  us  the  instinct  of  aristocracy  on  one  of  its  lower 
levels;  and  one  learned  a  lesson  while  one  smiled  in  one's  sleeve.  Never 
was  anything  more  certain,  more  serious,  than  her  sense  of  class  distinc- 
tions, and  the  difference  between  one  degree  and  another ;  and  nobody, 
not  a  prince  of  the  blood,  would  have  less  understood  being  laughed  at. 
This  serene  consciousness  of  her  position  and  its  inherent  right  divine 
was  a  possession  inalienable  to  our  music-mistress.  She  would  have  com- 
prehended or  endured  no  trifling  or  jesting  with  it.  One  blushed  while 
one  laughed  in  an  undertone.  She  was  holding  the  mirror  up  to  nature 
without  being  aware  of  it.  And  there  were  various  fanciful  particulars 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  523 

also  in  her  code.  The  people  next  door  who  let  lodgings  were  beneath 
her  as  much  as  the  working  people — all  to  be  very  nicely  behaved  to,  need 
I  say,  and  treated  with  the  greatest  politeness  and  civility,  but  not  as  if 
they  were  on  the  level  of  "  people  like  ourselves."  Lady  Clara  Vere  de 
"Vere  could  not  have  been  more  serenely  unconscious  of  any  possible 
equality  between  herself  and  her  village  surroundings  than  Ellen  Har- 
wood.  Fortunately,  Mr.  John  Ridgway  was  "  in  our  own  position 
in  life." 

These  and  many  other  vagaries  of  human  sentiment  I  learned  to  see 
through  Ellen's  eyes  with  more  edification  and  amusement,  and  also  with 
more  confusion  and  abashed  consciousness,  than  had  ever  occurred  to  me 
before.  These  were  precisely  my  own  sentiments,  you  know,  towards  the 
rich  linendraper  next  door ;  and  no  doubt  my  aristocratical  repugnance  to 
acknowledge  myself  the  neighbour  of  that  worthy  person  would  have 
seemed  just  as  funny  to  the  Duke  of  Bayswater  as  Ellen's  pretensions  did 
to  me.  It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  Ellen  Harwood  was  in  a 
state  of  chronic  resistance  to  the  claims  of  her  humbler  neighbours.  She 
was  an  active,  bright,  cheerful  creature,  full  of  interest  in  everything. 
Her  father  had  been  ill  for  years ;  and  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
illness,  as  young  people  do  to  anything  they  have  been  acquainted  with 
all  their  lives,  and  was  not  alarmed  by  it,  nor  oppressed,  so  far  as  we 
could  tell,  by  the  constant  claims  made  upon  her.  She  allowed  that  now 
and  then  he  was  cross — "  which  of  us  would  not  be  cross,  shut  up  in  one 
room  for  ever  and  ever  ?  "  But  she  had  not  the  least  fear  that  he  would 
ever  die,  or  that  she  would  grow  tired  of  taking  care  of  him.  All  the 
rest  of  her  time  after  her  lessons  she  was  in  attendance  upon  him, 
excepting  only  that  hour  in  the  evening  when  John's  visit  was  paid. 
She  always  looked  forward  to  that,  she  confessed.  "  To  think  of  it 
makes  everything  smooth.  He  is  so  good.  Though  I  say  it  that 
shouldn't,"  she  cried,  laughing  and  blushing,  "  you  can't  think  how  nice 
he  is.  And  he  knows  so  much  ;  before  he  knew  us  he  had  nothing  to 
do  but  read  all  the  evenings — fancy !  And  I  never  met  any  one  who 
had  read  so  much ;  he  knows  simply  everything.  Ah !  "  with  a  little 
sigh,  "  it  makes  such  a  difference  to  have  him  coming  every  night ;  it 
spirits  one  up  for  the  whole  day." 

"  But,  Ellen,  I  can't  think  how  it  is  that  he  doesn't  get  tired " 

"  Tired  !  "  She  reddened  up  to  her  very  hair.  "  Why  should  he  get 
tired  ?  If  he  is  tired,  he  has  my  full  permission  to  go  when  he  likes," 
she  said,  throwing  back  her  proud  little  head.  "  But  nobody  shall  put 
such  an  idea  into  my  mind.  You  don't  know  John.  If  you  knew  John  that 
would  be  quite  enough  ;  such  a  thing  would  never  come  into  your  head." 

"  You  should  hear  me  out  before  you  blame  me.  I  was  going  to  say, 
tired  of  waiting,  which  is  a  very  different  sentiment." 

Ellen  laughed,  and  threw  aside  her  little  offence  in  a  moment.  "  I 
thought  you  could  not  mean  that.  Tired  of  waiting  !  But  he  has  not 
waited  so  very  long.  We  have  not  been  years  and  years  like  some 


524  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

people— No  ;  only  eighteen  months  since  it  was  all  settled.  We  are  not 
rich  people  like  you,  to  do  a  thing  the  moment  we  have  begun  to 
think  about  it :  and  everything  so  dear  ! "  she  cried,  half  merry,  half 
serious.  "  Oh,  no ;  he  is  not  the  least  tired.  What  could  we  want 
more  than  to  be  together  in  the  evening  ?  All  the  day  goes  pleasantly 
for  thinking  of  it,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty  blush.  "  And  my  mother 
always  manages  to  let  me  have  that  hour.  She  does  not  mind  how  tired 
she  is.  We  are  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,"  Ellen  said. 

I  have  always  heard  that  a  long  engagement  is  the  most  miserable 
and  wearing  thing  in  the  world.  I  have  never  believed  it,  it  is  true ; 
but  that  does  not  matter.  Here,  however,  was  a  witness  against  the 
popular  belief.  Ellen  was  not  the  victim  of  a  long  engagement,  nor  of 
a  peevish  invalid,  though  her  days  were  spent  in  tendance  upon  one,  and 
her  youth  gliding  away  in  the  long  patience  of  the  other.  She  was  as 
merry  and  bright  as  if  she  were  having  everything  her  own  way  in  life  ] 
and  so  I  believe  she  really  thought  she  was,  with  a  mother  so  kind  as, 
always,  however  tired  she  might  be,  to  insist  \ipon  securing  that  evening 
hour  for  her,  and  a  John  who  was  better  than  any  other  John  had  ever 
been  before  him.  The  faithful  Johnny !  I  wondered  sometimes  oil 
his  side  what  he  thought. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ONE  day  Ellen  came  to  me,  on  her  arrival,  with  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement  quite  unusual  to  her.  It  was  not,  evidently,  anything  to  be 
alarmed  about,  for  she  looked  half  way  between  laughing  and  crying, 
but  not  melancholy.  "  May  I  speak  to  you  after  Chatty  has  had  her 
lesson  1 "  she  asked.  I  felt  sure  that  some  new  incident  had  happened  in 
her  courtship,  about  which  I  was  so  much  more  interested  than  about  any 
other  courtship  I  was  acquainted  with.  So  I  arranged  with  all  speed — 
not  an  easy  thing  when  there  are  so  many  in  a  house,  to  be  left  alone,  and 
free  to  hear  whatever  she  might  have  to  say.  She  was  a  little  hurried 
with  the  lesson,  almost  losing  patience  over  Chatty's  fumbling — and  how 
the  child  did  fumble  over  the  fingering,  putting  the  third  finger  where 
the  first  should  be,  and  losing  count  altogether  of  the  thumb,  which  is  too 
useful  a  member  to  be  left  without  occupation  !  It  appeared  to  me  half 
a  dozen  times  that  Ellen  was  on  the  eve  of  taking  the  music  off  the  piano, 
and  garotting  Chatty  with  the  arm  which  rested  nervously  on  the  back  of 
the  child's  chair.  However,  she  restrained  these  imptilses,  if  she  had  them, 
and  got  through  the  hour  tant  bien  que  mal.  It  was  even  with  an  air  of 
extreme  deliberation,  masking  her  excitement,  that  she  stood  by  and 
watched  her  pupil  putting  away  the  music  and  closing  the  piano.  Chatty, 
of  course,  took  a  longer  time  than  usual  to  these  little  arrangements,  and 
then  lingered  in  the  room.  Generally  she  was  too  glad  to  hurry  away. 

"  Go,  Chatty,  and  see  if  the  others  are  ready  to  go  out  for  their 
walk." 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  525 

"  They  have  gone  already,  mamma.  They  said  they  would  not  wait 
for  me.  They  said  I  was  always  so  long  of  getting  my  things  on." 

"  But  why  are  you  long  of  getting  your  things  on  ?  Run  away,  and 
Bee  what  nurse  is  about ;  or  if  Fraulein  Stimme  would  like " 

"  Fraulein  isn't  here  to-day.  How  funny  you  are,  mamma,  not  to 
remember  that  it's  Saturday " 

"  Go  this  moment !  "  I  cried  wildly,  "  and  tell  nurse  that  you  must 
go  out  for  a  walk.  Do  you  think  I  will  permit  you  to  lose  your  walk, 
because,  the  others  think  you  are  long  of  putting  your  things  on? 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  Go  at  once,  Chatty,"  I  cried,  clapping  my  hands, 
as  I  have  a  way  of  doing,  to  rouse  them  when  they  are  not  paying  atten- 
tion, "  without  a  word  !  " 

To  see  the  child's  astonished  face  !  She  seemed  to  stumble  over 
herself  in  her  haste  to  get  out  of  the  room.  After  the  unusual  force  of 
this  adjuration  I  had  myself  become  quite  excited.  I  waved  my  hand  to 
Ellen,  who  had  stood  by  listening,  half  frightened  by  my  vehemence, 
pointing  her  to  a  chair  close  to  me.  "Now,  tell  me  all  about  it,"  I 
said. 

"  Is  it  really  for  me  that  you  have  sent  Chatty  away  in  such  a 
hurry  ?  How  good  of  you  !  "  said  Ellen.  And  then  she  made  a  pause,  as 
if  to  bring  herself  into  an  appropriate  frame  of  mind  before  making  her 
announcement.  "  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  told  you.  You  have 
always  taken  such  an  interest.  John  has  got  a  rise  of  fifty  pounds  a 
year." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  very  glad,  Ellen " 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  pleased.  He  has  been  expecting  it  for  some 
time  back;  but  he  would  not  say  anything  to  me,  in  case  I  should 
be  disappointed  if  it  did  not  come.  •  So  I  should,  most  likely,  for  I 
think  he  deserves  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  But  the  best  people 
never  get  so  much  as  they  deserve.  Fifty  pounds  a  year  is  a  great 
rise  all  at  once,  don't  you  think?  and  he  got  a  hint  that  perhaps 
about  Midsummer  there  might  be  a  better  post  offered  to  him.  Isn't  it 
flattering  ?  Of  course,  I  know  he  deserves  it ;  but  sometimes  those  who 
deserve  the  most  don't  get  what  they  ought.  That  makes  two  hundred 
and  twenty ;  an  excellent  income,  don't  you  think  ?  He  will  have  to 
pay  income-tax,"  Ellen  said,  with  a  flush  of  mingled  pride  and  grati- 
fication and  grievance  which  it  was  amusing  to  see. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  think  much  of  the  income-tax ;  but  it  is  very 
pleasant  that  he  is  so  well  thoiight  of,"  I  said. 

"  And  another  rise  at  Midsummer !  It  seems  more  than  one  had 
any  right  to  expect,"  said  Ellen.  Her  hands  were  clasped  in  her  lap, 
her  fingers  twisting  and  untwisting  unconsciously,  her  head  raised,  and 
her  eyes  fixed,  without  seeing  anything,  upon  the  blue  sky  outside.  She 
was  rapt  in  a  pleasant  dream  of  virtue  rewarded  and  goodness  trium- 
phant. A  smile  went  and  came  upon  her  face  like  sunshine.  "  And  yet," 
she  cried,  "  to  hear  people  speak,  you  would  think  that  it  was  never  the 


526  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

right  men  that  got  on.  Even  in  sermons  in  church  you  always  hear 
that  it  is  rather  a  disadvantage  to  you  if  you  are  nice  and  good.  I 
wonder  how  people  can  talk  such  nonsense ;  why,  look  at  John  ! " 

"  But  even  John  has  had  a  long  time  to  wait  for  his  promotion,"  said 
I,  feeling  myself  the  devil's  advocate.  I  had  just  checked  myself  in  time 
not  to  say  that  two  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  was  not  a  very 
gigantic  promotion  ;  which  would  have  been  both  foolish  and  cruel. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  ! "  cried  Ellen ;  "  he  looks  a  great  deal  older  than  he 
is.  He  lived  so  much  alone,  you  know,  before  he  knew  us ;  and  that 
sives  a  man  an  old  look — but  he  is  not  a  bit  old.  How  much  would 

o 

you  give  him  ?  No,  indeed,  thirty ;  he  is  only  just  thirty.  His  birth- 
day was  last  week " 

"  And  you,  Ellen  1 " 

"  I  am  twenty-four — six  years  .younger  than  he  is.  Just  the  right 
difference,  mother  says.  Of  course,  I  am  really  a  dozen  years  older  than 
he  is ;  I  have  far  more  sense.  He  has  read  books  and  books  till  he  has 
read  all  his  brains  away ;  but  luckily  as  long  as  I  am  there  to  take  care 

of  him "  Then  she  made  a  pause,  looked  round  the  room  with  a 

half-frightened  look,  then,  drawing  closer  to  me,  she  said  in  a  hurried 
undertone,  "  He  said  something  about  that  other  subject  to-day." 

"  Of  course  he  did ;  how  could  he  have  done  otherwise  ? "  I  said,  with 
a  little  momentary  triumph. 

"  Please,  please  don't  take  his  part,  and  make  it  all  more  difficult ;  for 
you  know  it  is  impossible,  impossible,  quite  impossible ;  nobody  could  have 
two  opinions.  It  was  that,  above  all,  that  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about." 

"Why  is  it  impossible,  Ellen?"  I  said.  "If  you  set  up  absurd 
obstacles,  and  keep  up  an  unnatural  state  of  things,  you  will  be  very 
sorry  for  it  one  day.  He  is  quite  right.  I  could  not  think  how  he  con- 
sented to  go  on  like  this,  without  a  word." 

"  How  strange  that  you  shoiild  be  so  hot  about  it ! "  said  Ellen,  with  a 
momentary  smile ;  but  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  was  nervous  and 
alarmed,  and  did  not  laugh  with  her  usual  confidence.  "  He  said  some- 
thing, but  he  was  not  half  so  stem  as  you  are.  Why  should  it  be  so  dread- 
fully necessary  to  get  married  ?  I  am  quite  happy  as  I  am.  I  can  do 
all  my  duties,  and  take  care  of  him  too  ;  and  John  is  quite  happy " 

"  There  you  falter,"  I  said ;  "  you  dare  not  say  that  with  the  same 
intrepidity,  you  little  deceiver.  Poor  John !  he  ought  to  have  his  life 
made  comfortable  and  bright  for  him  now.  He  ought  to  have  his  wife 
to  be  proud  of,  to  come  home  to.  So  faithful  as  he  is,  never  thinking  of 
any  other  pleasure,  of  any  amusement,  but  only  you " 

Ellen  blushed  with  pleasure,  then  grew  pale  with  wonder  and  alarm. 
"  That  is  natural,"  she  said,  faltering.  "  What  other  amusement  should 
he  think  of?  He  is  most  happy  with  me " 

"  But  very  few  men  are  like  that,"  I  said.  "  He  is  giving  up  every- 
thing else  for  you  ;  he  is  shutting  himself  out  of  the  world  for  you  ;  and 
you — what  are  yoxi  giving  up  for  him  ? " 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  527 

Ellen  grew  paler  and  paler  as  I  spoke.  "  Giving  up  ? "  she  said, 
aghast.  "  I — I  would  give  up  anything.  But  I  have  got  nothing, 
except  John,"  she  added,  with  an  uneasy  little  laugh.  "  And  you  say  he 
is  shutting  himself  out  of  the  world.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking 
of — the  kind  of  world  one  reads  about  in  books,  where  gentlemen  have 
clubs,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  these  are  only  for  you  rich  people. 

He  is  not  giving  up  that  I  know  of " 

"  What  do  the  other  young  men  do,  Ellen  ?  Every  one  has  his  own 
kind  of  world." 

"  The  other  young  men  ! "  she  cried  indignant.  "  Now  I  see  indeed 
you  don't  know  anything  about  him  (how  could  you  1  you  have  never 
even  seen  him),  when  you  compare  John  to  the  other  clerks.  John  / 
Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  they  go  and  amuse  themselves;  they  go  to  the 
theatres,  and  all  those  wrong  places.  But  you  don't  suppose  John  would 
do  that,  even  if  I  were  not  in  existence  !  Why,  John  !  the  fact  is,  you 
don't  know  him  ;  that  is  the  whole  affair." 

"  I  humbly  confess  it,"  said  I ;  "  but  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  know  him,  if  I  might." 

Ellen  looked  at  me  with  a  dazzled  look  of  sudden  happiness,  as  if  this 
prospect  of  bliss  was  too  much  for  her — which  is  always  very  nattering 
to  the  superior  in  such  intercourse  as  existed  between  her  and  me.  "  Oh  ! 
would  you  1 "  she  said,  with  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
eagerly  upon  me,  as  if  with  some  project  she  did  not  like  to  unfold. 

"  Certainly  I  should."  Then,  after  a  pause,  I  said,  "  Could  not  you 
bring  him  to-morrow,  to  tea  1 " 

Ellen's  eyes  sparkled.  She  gave  a  glance  round  upon  the  room, 
which  was  a  great  deal  bigger  and  handsomer  than  the  little  parlour  in 
Pleasant  Place,  taking  in  the  pictures  and  the  piano  and  myself  in  so 
many  distinct  perceptions,  yet  one  look.  Her  face  was  so  expressive  that 
I  recognised  all  these  different  details  of  her  pleasure  with  the  distinctest 
certainty.  She  wanted  John  to  see  it  all,  and  to  hear  the  piano,  which 
was  much  better  than  her  little  piano  at  home ;  and  also  to  behold  how 
much  at  home  she  was,  and  how  everybody  liked  her.  Her  eyes  shone 
out  upon  me  like  two  stars.  And  her  big  English  "  Oh  !  "  of  delight  had 
her  whole  breath  in  it,  and  left  her  speechless  for  the  moment.  "  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would  like  so  much,"  she  cried  at  last;  then 
paused,  and,  with  a  sobered  tone,  added,  "  If  mother  can  spare  me  " — a 
little  cloud  coming  over  her  face. 

"  I  am  siire  your  mother  will  spare  you.  You  never  have  any  parties 
or  amusements,  my  good  little  Ellen.  You  must  tell  her  I  will  take  no 
denial.  You  never  go  anywhere." 

"  Where  should  I  go  ?  "  said  Ellen.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  anywhere, 
there  is  always  so  much  to  do  at  home.  But  for  this  once.  And  John 
would  like  to  come.  He  would  like  to  thank  you.  He  says,  if  you  will 
not  think  him  too  bold,  that  you  have  been  his  friend  for  years." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  I  said  ;  "  I  have  looked  for  him  almost  every  day 


528  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

for  years.     But  it  is  not  much  of  a  friendship  when  one  can  do  nothing 
for  the  other " 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful !"  cried  Ellen.  "  He  says  always  we  are  in  such 
different  ranks  of  life.  We  could  never  expect  to  have  any  inter- 
course, except  to  be  sure  by  a  kind  of  happy  accident,  like  me.  It 
would  not  do,  of  course,  visiting  or  anything  of  that  sort  ;  but  just  to  be 
friends  for  life,  with  a  kind  look,  such  as  we  might  give  to  the  angels  if 
we  could  see  them.  If  there  only  could  be  a  window  in  heaven,  here 
and  there ! "  and  she  laughed  with  moisture  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah  ! "  I  said  ;  "  but  windows  in  heaven  would  be  so  crowded  with 
those  that  are  nearer  to  us  than  the  angels." 

"  Do  you  think  they  would  want  that  1 "  said  Ellen,  in  a  reverential 
low  tone;  "don't  you  think  they  must  see  somehow?  they  would  not 
be  happy  if  they  could  not  see.  But  the  angels  might  come  and  sit  down 
in  an  idle  hour,  when  they  had  nothing  to  do.  Perhaps  it  would  grieve 
them,  but  it  might  amuse  them  too,  to  see  all  the  crowds  go  by,  and  all 
the  stories  going  on,  like  a  play,  and  know  that,  whatever  happened,  it 
would  all  come  right  in  the  end.  I  should  not  wonder  a  bit  if,  after- 
wards, some  one  were  to  say,  as  you  did  about  John,  '  I  have  seen  you 
passing  for  years  and  years ' ' 

I  need  not  repeat  all  the  rest  of  our  talk.  When  two  women  begin 
this  kind  of  conversation,  there  is  no  telling  where  it  may  end.  The  con- 
clusion, however,  was  that  next  evening  John  was  to  be  brought  to  make 
my  acquaintance;  and  Ellen  went  away  very  happy,  feeling,  I  think, 
that  a  new  chapter  was  about  to  begin  in  her  life.  And  on  our  side  we 
indulged  in  a  great  many  anticipations.  The  male  part  of  the  household 
assured  us  that,  "  depend  upon  it,"  it  would  be  a  mistake ;  that  John 
•would  be  a  mere  clerk,  and  no  more;  a  man,  perhaps,  not  very  sure 
about  his  h's ;  perhaps  over-familiar,  perhaps  frightened ;  that  most 
likely  he  would  feel  insulted  by  being  asked  to  tea — and  a  great  deal 
more,  to  all  of  which  we,  of  course,  paid  no  attention.  But  it  was  not 
till  afterwards  that  even  I  realised  the  alarming  business  it  must  have 
been  to  John  to  walk  into  a  room  full  of  unknown  people — dreadful 
critical  children,  girls  and  boys  half  grown  up — and  to  put  to  the  test 
a  friendship  of  years,  which  had  gone  on  without  a  word  spoken,  and 
now  might  turn  out  anything  but  what  it  had  been  expected  to  be.  He 
was  a  little  fluttered  and  red  when  Ellen,  herself  very  nervous,  brought 
him  in,  meeting  all  the  expectant  faces,  which  turned  instinctively 
towards  the  door.  Ellen  herself  had  never  come  in  the  evening  before, 
and  the  aspect  of  the  house,  with  the  lamps  lighted,  and  the  whole 
family  assembled,  was  new  to  her.  She  came  in  without  saying  a  word, 
and  led  her  love,  who  for  his  part  moved  awkwardly  and  with  shy  hesi- 
tation through  the  unknown  place,  threading  his  way  among  the  tables 
and  chairs,  and  the  staring  children,  to  where  I  sat.  I  have  always  said 
my  little  Chatty  was  the  best  bred  of  all  my  children.  There  was  no  one 
so  much  interested  as  she ;  but  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  her  work,  and 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  529 

never  looked  up  till  they  were  seated  comfortably  and  beginning  to  look 
at  their  ease.  John  faltered  forth  what  I  felt  sure  was  intended  to  be  a 
very  pretty  speech  to  me,  probably  conned  beforehand,  and  worthy  of  the 
occasion.  But  all  that  came  forth  was,  •"  I  have  seen  you  often  at  the 
window."  "  Yes,  indeed,"  I  said  hurriedly,  "for  years;  we  are  old 
friends ;  we  don't  require  any  introduction,"  and  so  got  over  it.  I  am 
afraid  he  said  "  ma'am."  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  say  ma'am  ; 
people  \ised  to  do  it ;  and  excepting  us,  rude  English,  everybody  in  the 
world  does  it.  Why  should  not  John  have  used  that  word  of  respect,  if 
he  chose  ]  You  say  ma'am  yourself  to  princesses  when  you  speak  to 
them,  if  you  ever  have  the  honour  of  speaking  to  them  ;  and  he  thought  as 
much  of  me,  knowing  no  better,  as  if  I  had  been  a  princess.  Ho  had  a 
soft,  refined  voice.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  whether  his  clothes  were 
well  made  or  not — a  woman  does  not  look  at  a  man's  clothes — but  this  I 
can  tell  you,  that  his  face  was  well  made.  There  was  not  a  fine  feature 
in  it ;  but  He  who  shaped  them  knew  what  He  was  about.  Every  line 
was  good — truth  and  patience  and  a  gentle  soul  shone  through  them.  In 
five  minutes  he  was  at  home,  not  saying  much,  but  looking  at  us  all 
with  benevolent,  tender  eyes.  When  Chatty  brought  him  his  tea  and 
gave  him  her  small  hand,  he  held  it  for  a  moment,  saying,  "  This  is 
Ellen's  pupil,"  with  a  look  which  was  a  benediction.  "  I  should  have 
known  her  anywhere,"  he  said ;  "  Ellen  has  a  gift  of  description — and, 
then,  she  is  like  you." 

"  Ellen  has  a  great  many  gifts,  Mr.  Ridgway — the  house  is  sure  to 
be  a  bright  one  that  has  her  for  its  mistress." 

He  assented  with  a  smile  that  lit  up  his  face  like  sunshine ;  then 
shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  I  wish  I  could  see  any  prospect  of  that.  The 
house  has  been  built,  and  furnished,  and  set  out  ready  for  her  so  long. 
That  is,  alas  !  only  in  our  thoughts.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  imagine 
it ;  but  it  seems  always  to  recede  a  little  further — a  little  further.  We 
have  need  of  patience."  Then  he  paused,  and  added,  brightening  a 
little,  "  Fortunately  we  are  not  impatient  people,  either  of  us." 

" Forgive  me,"  I  said.  "It  is  a  great  deal  to  take  upon  me — a 
stranger  as  I  am." 

"  You  forget,"  he  said,  with  a  bow  that  would  not  have  mis-become 
a  courtier,  "  that  you  were  so  kind  as  to  say  that  we  were  not  strangers 
but  old  friends." 

"  It  is  quite  true.  Then  I  will  venture  to  speak  as  an  old  friend. 
I  wish  you  were  not  so  patient.  I  wish  you  were  a  hot-headed  person, 
and  would  declare  once  for  all  that  you  would  not  put  up  Avith  it." 

He  reddened,  and  turned  to  me  with  a  look  half  of  alarm,  half, 
perhaps,  of  incipient,  possible  offence.  "  You  think  I  am  too  tame,  too 
easy — not  that  I  don't  desire  with  my  whole  heart —  ?  " 

"  Not  that  you  are  not  as  true  as  the  heavens  themselves,"  I  said, 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  penitence.  His  face  relaxed  and  shone  again, 
though  once  more  he  shook  his  head. 


530  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

"  I  think — I  am  sure — you  are  quite  right.  If  I  could  insist  I  might 
carry  my  point,  and  it  would  be  better.  But  what  can  I  say  ?  I  under- 
stand her,  and  sympathise  with  her,  and  respect  her.  I  cannot  oppose 
her  roughly,  and  set  myself  before  everything.  Who  am  I,  that  she 
should  desert  what  she  thinks  her  duty  for  me  ? " 

"  I  feel  like  a  prophet,"  I  said.  "  In  this  case  to  be  selfish  is  the 
best." 

He  shook  his  head  again.  "  She  could  not  be  selfish  if  she  tried,"  he 
said. 

Did  he  mean  the  words  for  himself,  too  ?  They  were  neither  of  them 
selfish.  I  don't  want  to  say  a  word  that  is  wicked,  that  may  discourage 
the  good — they  were  neither  of  them  strong  enough  to  be  selfish.  Some- 
times there  is  wisdom  and  help  in  that  quality  which  is  so  common.  I 
will  explain  after  what  I  mean.  It  does  not  sound  true,  I  am  well 
aware ;  but]  I  think  it  is  true  :  however  in  the  meantime  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  We  began  to  talk  of  all  sorts  of  things ;  of  books, 
with  which  John  seemed  to  be  very  well  acquainted,  and  of  pictures,  which 
he  knew  too — as  much,  at  least,  as  a  man  who  had  never  been  out  of 
England,  nor  seen  anything  but  the  National  Gallery,  could  know.  He 
was  acquainted  with  that  by  heart,  knowing  every  picture  and  all  that 
could  be  known  about  it,  making  me  ashamed,  though  I  had  seen  a  great 
deal  more  than  he  had.  I  felt  like  one  who  knows  other  people's  pos- 
sessions, but  not  his  own.  He  had  never  been,  so  to  speak,  out  of  his 
own  house ;  but  he  knew  every  picture  on  the  walls  there.  And  he 
made  just  as  much  use  of  his  h's  as  I  do  myself.  If  he  was  at  first  a 
little  stiff  in  his  demeanour,  that  wore  off  as  he  talked.  Ellen  left  him 
entirely  to  me.  She  went  off  into  the  back  drawing-room  with  the  little 
ones,  and  made  them  sing  standing  round  the  piano.  There  was  not 
much  light,  except  the  candles  on  the  piano,  which  lighted  up  their  small 
fresh  faces  and  her  own  bright  countenance ;  and  this  made  the  prettiest 
picture  at  the  end  of  the  room.  While  he  was  talking  to  me  he  looked 
that  way,  and  a  smile  came  suddenly  over  his  face — which  drew  my 
attention  also.  "  Could  any  painter  paint  that  1 "  he  said  softly,  looking 
at  them.  As  the  children  were  mine,  you  may  believe  I  gazed  with  as 
much  admiration  as  he.  The  light  seemed  to  come  from  those  soft  faces, 
not  to  be  thrown  upon  them,  and  the  depth  of  the  room  was  illuminated 
by  the  rose-tints,  and  the  whiteness,  and  the  reflected  light  out  of  their 
eyes.  "  Rembrandt,  perhaps,"  I  said ;  but  he  shook  his  head,  for  he  did 
not  know  much  of  Rembrandt.  When  they  finished  their  little  store  of 
songs  I  called  to  Ellen  to  sing  us  something  by  herself.  The  children 
went  away,  for  it  was  their  bedtime ;  and  all  the  time  the  good-nights 
were  being  said  she  played  a  little  soft  trill  of  prelude,  very  sweet,  and 
low,  and  subdued.  There  was  a  harmonising  influence  in  her  that  made 
everything  appropriate.  She  did  things  as  they  ought  to  be  done  by  in- 
stinct, without  knowing  it ;  while  he,  with  his  gaze  directed  to  her,  felt 
it  all  more  than  she  did — felt  the  softening  of  that  undertone  of  har- 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  531 

monious  accompaniment,  the  sweet  filling  up  of  the  pause,  the  back- 
ground of  sound  upon  which  all  the  little  voices  babbled  out  like  the 
trickling  of  brooks.     "When  this  was  over  Ellen  did  not  burst  into  her 
song  all  at  once,  as  if  to  show  how  we  had  kept  her  waiting ;  but  went  on 
for  a  minute  or  two,  hushing  out  the  former  little  tumult.     Then  she 
chose  another  strain,  and,  while  we  all  sat  silent,  began  to  sing  the  song 
I  had  heard  her  sing  to  him  when  they  were  alone  that  summer  evening. 
Was  there  a  little  breath  in  it  of  consciousness,  a  something  shadowing 
from  the  life  to  come — "  I  will  come  again  ? "   "We  all  sat  very  silent  and 
listened  :  he  with  his  face  turned  to  her,  a  tender   smile  upon  it — a 
look  of  admiring  pleasure.      He   beat   time  with  his  hand,   without 
knowing  it,  rapt  in  the  wistful,  tender  music,  the  longing  sentiment, 
the  pervading  consciousness  of  her,  in  all.     I  believe  they  were  both  as 
happy  as  could  be  while  this  was  going  on.     She  singing  to  him,  and 
knowing  that  she  pleased  him,  while  still  conscious  of  the  pleasure  of  all 
the  rest  of  us,  and  glad  to  please  us  too ;  and  he  so  proud  of  her,  drink- 
ing it  all  in,  and  knowing  it  to  be  for  him,  yet  feeling  that  he  was  giving 
us  this  gratification,  making,  an  offering  to  us  of  the  very  best  that  was 
his.  Why  was  it,  then,  that  we  all,  surrounding  them,  a  voiceless  band  of 
spectators,  felt  the  hidden  meaning  in  it,  and  were  sorry  for  them,  with  a 
strange  impulse  of  pity — sorry  for  those  two  happy  people,  those  two  in- 
separables who  had  no  thought  but  to  pass  their  life  together  1    I  cannot 
tell  how  it  was ;  but  so  it  was.     We  all  listened  with  a  little  thrill  of 
sympathy,  as  we  might  have  looked  at  those  whose  doom  we  knew,  but 
who  themselves  had  not  yet  found  out  what  was  coming  upon  them. 
And  at  the  end,  Ellen  too  was  affected  in  a  curious  sympathetic  way  by 
some  mysterious  invisible  touch  of  our  sympathy  for  her.     She  came  out 
of  the  half-lit  room  behind,  with  trembling,  hurried  steps,  and  came  close 
to  my  side,  and  took  in  both  hers  the  hand  I  held  out  to  her.     "  How 
silly  I  am  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  little  laugh.     "  I  could  have  thought  that 
some  message  was  coming  to  say  he  must  go  and  leave  me.     A  kind  of 
tremor  came  over  me  all  at  once."     "  You  are  tired,"  I  said.     And  no 
doubt  that  had  something  to  do  with  it ;  but  why  should  the  same  chill 
have  crept  over  us  all  ? 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  time  passed  on  very  quietly  during  these  years.  Nothing  particular 
happened ;  so  that  looking  back  now — now  that  once  more  things  have 
begun  to  happen,  and  all  the  peaceful  children  who  cost  me  nothing  but 
pleasant  cares  have  grown  up  and  are  setting  forth,  each  with  his  and 
her  more  serious  complications,  into  individual  life — it  seems  to  me  like 
a  long  flowery  plain  of  peace.  I  did  not  think  so  then,  and  no  doubt 
from  time  to  time  questions  arose  that  were  hard  to  answer  and  difficul- 
ties that  cost  me  painful  thought.  But  now  all  seems  to  me  a  sort 
of  heavenly  monotony  and  calm,  turning  years  into  days.  In  this  gentle 


532  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY: 

domestic  quiet  six  months  went  by  like  an  afternoon,  for  it  was,  I  think, 
about  six  months  after  the  first  meeting  I  have  just  described  when 
Ellen  Harwood  rushed  in  one  morning  with  a  scared  face  to  tell  me  of 
something  which  had  occurred  and  which  threatened  to  break  up  in  a 
moment  the  quiet  of  her  life.  Mr.  Ridgway  had  come  again  various 
times— we  had  daily  intercourse  at  the  window,  where,  when  he  passed, 
he  always  looked  up  now,  and  where  I  seldom  failed  to  see  him  and  give 
him  a  friendly  greeting.  This  intercourse,  though  it  was  so  slight,  was 
also  so  constant  that  it  made  us  very  fast  friends ;  and  when  Ellen,  as  I 
have  said,  rushed  in  very  white  and  breathless  one  bright  spring  morn- 
ing, full  of  something  to  tell,  my  first  feeling  was  alarm.  Had  anything 
happened  to  John  1 

"  Oh  no.  Nothing  has  happened.  At  least,  I  don't  suppose  you 
would  say  anything  had  happened — that  is,  no  harm — except  to  me," 
said  Ellen,  wringing  her  hands,  "  except  to  me  !  Oh,  do  you  recollect 
that  first  night  he  came  to  see  you,  when  you  were  so  kind  as  to  ask 
him,  and  I  sang  that  song  he  is  so  fond  of?  I  took  fright  then  ;  I  never 

could  tell  how — and  now  it  looks  as  if  it  would  all  come  true " 

"  As  if  what  would  come  true  ? " 

"  Somebody,"  said  Ellen,  sitting  down  abruptly  in  the  weariness  of 
her  dejection,  "  somebody  from  the  office  is  to  go  out  directly  to  the 
Levant.  Oh,  Chatty,  dear,  you  that  are  learning  geography  and  everything, 
tell  me  where  is  the  Levant?  It  is  where  the  currants  and  raisins  come 
from.  The  firm  has  got  an  establishment,  and  it  is  likely — oh,  it  is  very 
likely,  they  all  think  that  John,  whom  they  trust  so  much — John — will 

be  sent " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob — a  gasp.  She  was  too  startled,  too  much 
excited  and  frightened,  to  have  the  relief  of  tears. 

"  But  that  would  be  a  very  good  thing,  surely — it  would  be  the  very 
best  thing  for  him.  I  don't  see  any  cause  for  alarm.  My  dear  Ellen, 
he  would  do  his  work  well ;  he  would  be  promoted ;  he  would  be  made 

a  partner " 

"  Ah  ! "  She  drew  a  long  breath  :  a  gleam  of  wavering  light  passed 
over  her  face.  "  I  said  you  would  think  it  no  harm,"  she  said  mourn- 
fully, "  no  harm — except  to  me." 

"It  is  on  the  Mediterranean  Sea,"  said  Chatty  over  her  atlas,  with  a 
great  many  big  round  "  Ohs "  of  admiration  and  wonder,  "  where  it  is 
always  summer,  always  beautiful.  Oh  Ellen,  I  Avish  I  was  you  !  but 
you  can  send  us  some  oranges,"  the  child  added,  philosophically.  Ellen 
gave  her  a  rapid  glance  of  mingled  fondness  and  wrath. 

"  You  think  of  nothing  but  oranges  !  "  she  cried  (quite  unjustly,  I 
must  say),  then  putting  her  hands  together  and  fixing  her  wistful  eyes 
upon  me,  "  I  feel,"  she  said  in  the  same  breath,  "  as  if  the  world  were 
coming  to  an  end." 

"  You  mean  it  is  just  about  beginning — for  of  course  he  will  not  go. 
without  you — and  that  is  the  very  best  thing  that  could  happen." 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNtf.  533 

kt  Oh,  how  can  yon  say  so  ?  it  cannot  happen  ;  it  is  the  end  of  every- 
thing," Ellen  cried,  and  I  could  not  console  her.  She  would  do  nothing 
but  wring  her  hands,  and  repeat  her  plaint,  "  It  is  the  end  of  everything." 
Poor  girl,  apart  from  John,  her  life  was  dreary  enough,  though  she  had 
never  felt  it  dreary.  Music  lessons  in  the  morning,  and  after  that  con- 
tinual attendance  upon  an  exacting  fiery  invalid.  The  only  break  in 
her  round  of  duty  had  been  her  evening  hours,  her  little  walk  and  talk 
with  John.  No  wonder  that  the  thought  of  John's  departure  filled  her 
with  a  terror  for  which  she  could  scarcely  find  words.  And  she  never  took 
into  account  the  other  side  of  the  question,  the  solution  which  seemed  to 
me  so  certain,  so  inevitable.  She  knew  better — that,  at  least,  whatever 
other  way  might  be  found  out  of  it,  could  not  be. 

Next  day  in  the  evening,  when  he  was  going  home,  John  himself 
paused  as  he  was  passing  the  window,  and  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  appeal. 
I  answered  by  beckoning  to  him  to  come  in,  and  he  obeyed  the  summons 
very  rapidly  and  eagerly.  The  spring  days  had  drawn  out,  and  it  was 
now  quite  light  when  John  came  home.  He  came  in  and  sat  down  be- 
side me,  in  the  large  square  projecting  window  which  was  my  favourite 
place.  There  was  a  mingled  air  of  eagerness  and  weariness  about  him,  as 
if,  though  excited  by  the  new  prospect  which  was  opening  before  him,  he 
was  yet  alarmed  by  the  obstacles  in  his  way,  and  reluctant,  as  Ellen  her- 
self was,  to  disturb  the  present  peaceful  conditions  of  their  life.  "  I  do 
not  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  they  will  ever  consent.  I  don't  know  how  we 
are  to  struggle  against  them.  People  of  their  age  have  so  much  stronger 
wills  than  we  have.  They  stand  to  what  they  want,  and  they  have  it, 
reason  or  no  reason." 

"  That  is  because  you  give  in  ;  you  do  not  stand  to  what  you  want," 
I  said.  He  looked  aAvay  beyond  me  into  the  evening  light,  over  the 
heads  of  all  the  people  who  were  going  and  coming  so  briskly  in  the  road, 
and  sighed. 

"  They  have  such  strong  wills.  What  can  you  say  when  people  tell 
you  that  it  is  impossible,  that  they  never  can  consent.  Ellen  and  I 
have  never  said  that,  or  even  thought  it.  When  we  are  opposed  we  try 
to  think  how  we  can  compromise,  how  we  can  do  with  as  little  as  possible 
of  what  we  want,  so  as  to  satisfy  the  others.  I  always  thought  that  was 
the  good  way,  the  nobler  way,"  he  said,  with  a  flush  coming  over  hig  pale 
face.  "Have  we  been  making  a  mistake1}  " 

"  I  fear  so — I  think  so ;  yes,  I  am.  sure,"  I  cried.  "  Yours  would  be 
the  nobler  way,  if — if  thei*e  was  nobody  but  yourselves  to  think  of." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  wondering  air.  "  I  think  I  must  have  ex- 
pressed myself  wrongly,"  he  said  ;  "  it  was  not  ourselves  at  all  that  \\  e 
were  thinking  of." 

"  I  know  ;  but  that  is  just  what  I  object  to,"  I  said.  "  You  sacrifice 
yourselves,  and  you  encourage  the  other  people  to  be  cruelly  sollish, 
perhaps  without  knowing  it.  All  that  is  virtue  in  you  is  evil  in  them. 
Don't  you  see  that  to  accept  this  giving  up  of  your  life  is  barbarous,  it  is 


534  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY, 

wicked,  it  is  demoralising  to  the  others.   Just  in  so  much  as  people  think 
well  of  you  they  will  be  found  to  think  badly  of  them." 

He  was  a  little  startled  by  this  view,  which,  I  confess,  I  struck  out 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  not  really  seeing  how  much  sense  there  was 
in  it.  I  justified  myself  afterwards  to  myself,  and  became  rather  proud 
of  my  argument ;  but  for  a  woman  to  argue,  much  less  suggest,  that  self- 
sacrifice  is  not  the  chief  of  all  virtues,  is  tei-rible.  I  was  half  frightened 
and  disgusted  with  myself,  as  one  is  when  one  has  brought  forward  in 
the  heat  of  partisanship,  a  thoroughly  bad,  yet,  for  the  moment,  effective 
argument.  But  he  was  staggered,  and  I  felt  the  thrill  of  success  which 
stirs  one  to  higher  effort. 

"I  never  thought  of  that;  perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in  it,"  he 
said.  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  I  wonder  if  you,  who  have  been  so  good  to 
us  all,  who  are  fond  of  Ellen — I  am  sure  you  are  fond  of  Ellen — and  the 
children  like  her — " 

"  Very  fond  of  Ellen,  and  the  children  all  adore  her,"  I  said,  with 
perhaps  unnecessary  emphasis. 

"  To  me  that  seems  natural,"  he  said,  brightening.  "  But  yet  what 
right  have  we  to  ask  you  to  do  more  1  You  have  been  as  kind  as  it  is 
possible  to  be." 

"  You  want  me  to  do  something  more  1  I  will  do  whatever  I  can — 
only  speak  out." 

"  It  was  this,"  he  said,  "  if  you  would  ask — you  who  are  not  an  in- 
terested party — if  you  would  find  out  what  our  prospects  are.  Ellen 
does  not  want  to  escape  from  her  duty.  There  is  nothing  we  are  not 
capable  of  sacrificing  rather  than  that  she  should  shrink  from  her  duty. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  serious  it  is.  If  I-  don't  take  this — in  case  it  is 
offered  to  me — I  may  never  get  another  chance  again ;  but,  if  I  must 
part  from  Ellen,  I  cannot  accept  it.  I  cannot ;  it  would  be  like  parting 
one's  soul  from  one's  body.  But  I  have  no  confidence  in  myself  any 
more  than  Ellen  has.  They  have  such  strong  wills.  If  they  say  it  must 
not  and  cannot  be — what  can  I  reply?  I  know  myself.  I  will  yield, 
and  so  will  Ellen.  How  can  one  look  them  in  the  face  and  say,  '  Though 
you  are  her  father  and  mother,  we  prefer  our  own  comfort  to  yours '  1 " 

"  Do  not  say  another  word.  I  will  do  it,"  I  said,  half  exasperated, 
half  sympathetic — oh,  yes  !  more  than  half  sympathetic.  They  were 
fools ;  but  I  understood  it,  and  was  not  surprised,  though  I  was  exaspe- 
rated. "  I  will  go  and  beard  the  lion  in  his  den,"  I  said.  "  Perhaps 
they  will  not  let  me  sae  the  lion,  only  his  attendant.  But  remember 
this,"  I  said  vindictively,  "  if  Ellen  and  you  allow  yourselves  to  be  con- 
quered, if  you  are  weak  and  throw  away  all  your  hopes,  never  come  to 
me  again.  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  You  must  give  up  me  as  well  as 
all  the  rest.  I  will  not  put  up  with  such  weakness."  John  stared  at  me 
with  alarm  in  his  eyes;  he  was  not  quite  comfortable  even  when  I 
laughed  at  my  own  little  bit  of  tragedy.  He  shook  his  head  with  a 
melancholy  perplexity, 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  535 

"  I  don't  see  clearly,"  he  said ;  "  I  don't  seem  able  to  judge.  To  give 
in  is  folly ;  and  yet,  when  you  think — supposing  it  were  duty — suppose 
her  father  were  to  die  when  she  was  far  away  from  him  1  " 

"  If  we  were  to  consider  all  these  possibilities  there  never  would  be  a 
marriage  made — never  an  independent  move  in  life,"  I  cried.  "  Parents 
die  far  from  their  children,  and  children,  alas  !  from  their  parents.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  But  God  is  near  to  us  all.  If  we  were  each  to 
think  ourselves  so  all-important,  life  would  stand  still ;  there  would  be  no 
more  advance,  no  progress ;  everything  would  come  to  an  end." 

John  shook  his  head ;  partly  it  was  in  agreement  with  what  I  said, 
partly  in  doubt  for  himself.  "  How  am  I  to  stand  up  to  them  and  say, 
'  Never  mind  what  you  want — we  want  something  else  '  1  There's  the 
rub,"  he  said,  still  slowly  shaking  his  head.  He  had  no  confidence  in 
his  own  power  of  self-assertion.  He  had  never,  I  believe,  been  able  to 
answer  satisfactorily  the  question,  Why  should  he  have  any  special  thing 
which  some  one  else  wished  for  1  It  was  as  natural  to  him  to  efface 
himself,  to  resign  his  claims,  as  it  was  to  other  men  to  assert  them.  And 
yet  in  this  point  he  could  not  give  up — he  could  not  give  Ellen  up,  come 
what  might ;  but  neither  could  he  demand  that  he  and  she  should  be  per- 
mitted to  live  their  own  life. 

After  long  deliberation  I  decided  that  it  would  not  be  expedient  to 
rush  across  to  Pleasant  Place  at  once  and  get  it  over  while  John  and 
Ellen  were  taking  their  usual  evening  walk,  which  was  my  first  impulse ; 
but  to  wait  till  the  morning,  when  all  would  be  quiet,  and  the  invalid 
and  his  wife  in  their  best  humour.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  errand ;  the 
more  I  thought  of  it,  the  less  I  liked  it.  If  they  were  people  who  could 
demand  such  a  sacrifice  from  their  daughter,  was  it  likely  that  they 
would  be  so  far  moved  by  my  arguments  as  to  change  their  nature  1  I 
went  through  the  little  smoky  garden  plot,  where  the  familiar  London 
"  blacks  "  lay  thick  on  the  grass,  on  the  sweetest  May  morning,  when  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  be  alive.  The  windows  were  open,  the  little  white 
muslin  curtains  fluttering.  Upstairs  I  heard  a  gruff  voice  asking  for 
something,  and  another,  with  a  querulous  tone  in  it,  giving  a  reply.  My 
heart  began  to  beat  louder  at  the  sound.  I  tried  to  keep  up  my  courage 
by  all  the  arguments  I  could  think  of.  Nevertheless,  my  heart  sank 
down  into  my  very  shoes  when  the  little  maid,  with  her  apron  folded 
over  her  arm,  and  as  grimy  as  ever,  opened  to  me — with  a  curtsey  and  a 
"  La  !  "  of  delighted  siirprise — this  door  of  fate. 


536 


THE  completion  of  the  collective  edition  of  Quevedo's  works  in  the 
Biblioteca  de  Autores  Espailoles  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  final  and 
authoritative  recognition  of  his  place  in  Spanish  literature ;  for,  until 
an  author's  writings  have  been  collected  and  edited  with  due  care  by  a 
competent  hand,  he  can  only  be  said  to  hold  brevet  rank  as  a  classic. 
If  Quevedo's  title  has  not  been  formally  recognised  until  now  by  his 
own  countrymen,  it  was  not  from  any  doubt  of  its  legitimacy,  but 
simply  because  of  editorial  difficulties.  More  than  twenty  years  ago  his 
prose  works  were  brought  out  with  scholarly  care  and  completeness  in 
two  volumes  of  the  above-named  valuable  series,  by  Don  Aureliano 
Fernandez  G-uerra  y  Orbe,  and  every  one  who  knows  them  will  regret 
that  the  same  painstaking  and  conscientious  editor  did  not  see  his  way 
to  dealing  with  Quevedo's  vei'se  also ;  for  it  must  be  owned  that  the 
concluding  volume,  though  undoubtedly,  meritorious  and  an  undeniable 
boon  to  Spanish  students,  is  not  quite  on  a  par  with  its  predecessors. 
Outside  of  Spain  Quevedo  has  been  not  only  recognised  as  a  Spanish  classic, 
but  generally  placed  next  to  Cervantes  among  the  representatives  of 
Spanish  literature.  The  only  two  who  can  fairly  dispute  the  second 
place  with  him  are  Lope  de  Yega  and  Calderon.  But  of  these  the  first 
has  always  been  in  a  measure  taken  on  trust  beyond  the  Pyrenees. 
Probably,  among  people  of  average  reading,  only  a  small  minority  could 
give  offhand  the  title  of  a  work  of  Lope's ;  it  would  be  a  pretty  safe 
speculation  that  not  one  in  a  thousand  could  prove  anything  like  an 
acquaintance  with  any  of  them ;  and  except  among  experts  and  students, 
he  who  had  honestly  read  through  any  one  of  the  major  productions 
of  "  that  prodigy  of  nature,"  as  Cervantes  called  him,  would  be  almost 
as  hard  to  find  as  a  four-leaved  shamrock.  "With  Calderon  the  case  is 
different.  Calderon's  imagination  appealed  to  a  far  wider  audience  than 
Lope's,  and  has  found  it  in  some  degree  in  these  latter  days,  with  the 
help  of  zealous  critics  and  translators  in  most  of  the  languages  of 
Europe.  But  though  Calderon  has  been  made  accessible,  as  he  has  been  : 
in  our  own  country  by  Shelley,  Fitzgerald,  MacCarthy,  and  Trench,  he 
cannot  be  said  to  have  been  made  familiar  in  the  sense  in  Avhich 
Quevedo  was  made  familiar  to  English  readers  as  far  back  as  two 
centuries  ago.  Measured  by  editions,  the  popularity  of  Quevedo  in  this 
country  would  seem  to  tread  closely  upon  that  of  Cervantes,  for  the 
work  by  which  he  is  best  known  has  been  issued  more  than  a  score  of 
times  since  its  first  appearance  in  an  English  dress. 


QUEVEDO.  537 

\Vheh,  however,  we  come  to  look  into  it  a  little  more  carefully,  his 
reputation  will  be  seen  to  rest  upon  somewhat  slight  foundations. 
With  the  great  majority  Quevedo  is  merely  the  Quevedo  of  the 
Visions,  and  the  version  by  which  he  is  known  is  anything  but  a 
faithful  representation  of  the  original.  This  is,  of  course,  the  well- 
known  production  of  the  clever,  unscrupulous  Restoration  pamphleteer  Sir 
Roger  L'Estrange — a  man  from  whom  it  would  have  been  idle  to  look 
for  a  thoroughly  trustworthy  translation,  even  if  his  knowledge  of  the 
language  had  enabled  him  to  grapple  with  Spanish  so  difficult  as 
Quevedo's.  At  any  rate,  whether  or  not  he  could  have  translated  from 
the  Spanish,  it  is  certain  he  did  not;  nor,  to  do  him  justice,  does  he 
claim  to  have  done  so,  for  his  title-page  merely  says,  "  Made 
English  by  R.  L."  The  English  was  made  out  of  the  French  version  by 
the  Sieur  de  la  Geneste,  printed  in  Paris  in  1633,  and  three  or  four 
times  afterwards  before  1667,  when  L'Estrange  brought  out  his  Visions 
of  Dom  Francisco  de  Quevedo,  copying  the  Frenchman's  queer  nomen- 
clature. La  Geneste,  like  most  old  French  translators,  troubled  himself 
little  about  reproducing  his  author  accurately.  When  he  thought  he 
could  improve  he  had  no  scruple  about  adding  or  altering,  and  when  he 
was  puzzled,  or  for  any  other  reason  was  tempted  to  omit,  he  had  no 
hesitation  in  omitting ;  and  what  he  did  with  Quevedo,  L'Estrange  did 
with  him,  adapting  his  version  in  the  most  liberal  spirit  to  the  taste  of 
the  Restoration  public,  and  seasoning  it  freely  with  London  jokes  and 
London  slang.  Quevedo,  however,  owes  something  to  this  treatment. 
Between  the  two,  no  doubt,  he  reaches  the  English  reader  in  a  somewhat 
doctored  and  diluted  condition ;  but,  thanks  to  L'Estrange's  lively 
if  occasionally  coarse  cockneyism,  he  has  had  thousands  of  readers  for 
one  that  a  more  decorous  and  conscientious  interpreter  would  have 
brought  him. 

L'Estrange,  too,  has  unwittingly  preserved  something  of  the  original 
form,  so  that  his  version  is  in  reality  less  unfaithful  than  at  first  sight  it 
appears  to  be.  Any  one  who  has  been  curious  enough  to  compare  the 
English  with  the  Spanish  must  have  noticed  that  the  differences  are  not 
confined  to  omissions  and  interpolated  allusions,  but  that  the  titles  of 
the  Visions  are  quite  different,  and  that  there  ai-e  whole  passages  in  the 
English  version  which  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  Spanish.  The  reason 
is,  that  L'Estrange's  authority,  La  Geneste,  translated  from  one  of 
the  original  editions  of  the  Visions  printed  at  Saragossa,  Barcelona,  or 
Valencia  in  1627  and  the  two  following  years,  while  the  ordinary 
Spanish  text  is  that  altered  at  the  instance  of  the  Inquisition  in  1629. 
The  supervision  of  the  press  was  much  more  strict  in  Castile  than  in 
Aragon,  and  when  Quevedo  sought  permission  to  bring  out  his  Visions 
at  Madrid  he  was  compelled  to  purge  them  of  everything  the  Padre 
Niseno,  the  licenser,  chose  to  consider  as  savouring  of  irreverence.  He 
had  to  substitute  "  Vesta  "  for  «  Our  Lady,"  and  "  Pluto  "  for  "  Satan  " 
or  "Lucifer,"  to  change  the  "Vision  of  the  Last  Judgment "  into  the 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  251.  26. 


538  QUEVEDO. 

«  Vision  of  the  Skulls,"  the  "Vision  of  Hell"  into  "Pluto's  Pigsties," 
and  so  forth  ;  and  to  cut  out,  alter,  or  re- write  all  passages  marked  as 
objectionable.  Thus  many  characteristic  touches  of  Quevedo's  given  by 
L'Estrange  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  Spanish  text,  as,  for 
example,  the  reply  of  the  old  women  when  called  to  order  for  ill-timed 
levity,  "  that  they  had  always  been  told  that  gnashing  of  teeth  was  one 
of  the  principal  pains  in  store  for  them  in  that  place,  and  that  they  could 
not  help  chuckling  at  the  thought  that  they  had  no  teeth  left  to  gnash 
with,"  which  has  been  very  possibly  before  now  set  down  as  an 
interpolated  joke  of  the  translator's.  It  is,  in  its  way,  a  curiosity  of 
literature  that  a  mere  English  litterateur  of  L'Estrange's  stamp  should 
have  been  the  means  of  rescuing  the  humour  of  a  Spanish  satirist  from 
the  oblivion  to  which  the  Inquisition  had  condemned  it. 

L'Estrange  did  far  more  than  any  one  else  to  popularise  Quevedo  in  this 
country,  but  he  was  not  the  only  one  who  tried  to  "  English  "  him.  As 
early  as  1641  the  Vision  of  Hell  Reformed — the  best,  perhaps,  as  a  satire, 
and  the  one  that  earned  for  its  author  the  enmity  of  Olivares — had  been 
issued  in  London  with  the  significant  sub-title  of  "  A  Glass  for  Favorites, 
their  Falls  and  Complaints  discovered  in  a  Vision."  The  translation  was 
dedicated  to  Henry  Jermyn,  the  Queen's  Master  of  the  Horse,  and 
coming  in  the  memorable  year  of  Strafford's  attainder  and  execution,  it 
was  intended  no  doubt  to  serve  as  a  political  tract.  Quevedo's 
picaresque  novel,  the  Vida  del  Buscon,  afterwards  called  the  Gran 
Tacano,  had  also  been  translated  in  1657,  "by  a  person  of  honour," 
evidently  from  the  French  of  La  Geneste,  with  the  odd. title  of  Buscon  the 
Witty  Spaniard;  and  in  1697  that  industrious  translator  from  the 
Spanish,  Captain  John  Stevens,  gave  a  version  of  the  richly  humorous 
apologue  of  Fortuna  con  Seso,  Fortune  in  her  Wits,  or,  as  Ticknor  more 
happily  renders  it,  Fortune  no  Fool.  To  this  in  1707  he  added  a  new 
translation  of  the  Gran  Tacano,  under  the  title  of  Paul  the  Sharper, 
and  two  or  three  shorter  pieces,  which,  with  The  Night  Adventurer  and 
The  Dog  and  the  Fever,  he  published  in  a  volume  called  the  Comical 
Works  of  Don  Francisco  de  Quevedo.  The  two  last-named  tales, 
however,  are  not  Quevedo's,  the  first  being  Salas  Barbadillo's  Don 
Diego  de  Noche  and  the  other  Pedro  de  Espinosa's  Perro  y 
Calentura.  Stevens  most  likely  included  them  on  the  authority  of  one 
Kaclots,  who  brought  out  at  Brussels  in  1698  two  volumes  claiming  to 
be  a  nouvelle  traduction  of  Quevedo's  works,  though  they  are  in  fact  merely 
La  Geneste's  old  translations  modernised,  with  some  additional  matter. 
Stevens's  translations,  however,  have  apparently  the  advantage  of  having 
been  made  at  first  hand  ;  and  if  not  so  lively  or  racy,  they  are  incom- 
parably closer  to  the  original  than  L'Estrange's,  with  which  they  were 
joined  to  form  the  three- volume  edition  published  in  Edinburgh  in  1798 
under  the  somewhat  delusive  title  of  "  Quevedo's  Works." 

No  doubt  L'Estrange  and  Stevens  between  them  gave  English  readers 
a  good  selection,  but  it  is,  after  all,  only  a  selection,  and  a  selection  only 


QUEVEDO.  539 

representative  of  Quevedo  as  a  satirist  and  humourist.  Like  his  con- 
temporaries Cervantes  and  Lope,  Quevedo  was  a  man  of  many  moods 
and  forms  of  expression.  He  was  a  poet,  and  in  the  estimation  of  his 
own  age,  worthy  of  a  place  among  the  first  flight  of  Spanish  poets.  As 
a  writer  of  the  lighter  kind  of  verse,  something  like  what  we  now  call 
"  vers  de  societe,"  he  had  no  rival,  except,  perhaps,  Gongora.  He  was  a 
dramatist,  and,  we  are  told,  a  successful  dramatist,  though  the  comedies 
which  were  acted  "  with  the  applause  of  all "  had  not,  apparently, 
vital  force  enough  to  keep  them  on  the  stage  or  gain  them  admission 
into  any  of  the  printed  collections  of  dramas.  In  virtue  of  the  Buscon 
or  Tacaiio,  he  took  high  rank  among  the  novelists.  He  was  a  translator, 
a  biographer,  and  a  writer  on  politics,  theology,  and  even  political 
economy.  But  with  all  this  literary  activity,  literature  cannot  be  said 
to  have  been  with  him  a  pursuit  or  a  vocation  in  the  same  sense  as  with 
Cervantes  or  Lope.  His  graver  works  were  apparently  prompted  more  by 
the  didactic  impulse  than  by  any  kind  of  literary  ambition,  and  his  lighter 
productions  seem  to  have  been  for  the  most  part  thrown  off  for  his  own 
amusement  or  that  of  his  friends.  He  was,  in  fact,  more  a  scholar  than 
a  working  man  of  letters,  and  more  a  diplomatist  and  politician  than 
either. 

It  was,  however,  rather  by  accident  than  by  instinct  that  he  was 
drawn  into  political  life.  It  would  not  be  easy,  among  the  stories  we 
have  of  studious  youths,  to  find  a  more  striking  example  of  devotion  to 
study  than  the  picture  of  Quevedo's  earlier  years — up  to  his  thirtieth, 
indeed — which  his  biographer,  the  Abad  de  Tarsia,  has  left  us.  He  was 
born  in  1580,  in  Madrid,  and,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  in  "la 
Corte,"  for  his  father  was  secretary  to  the  Queen,  and  his  mother  one  of 
the  ladies  of  the  Chamber.  But  the  family  was  one  of  the  old  north- 
country  families  of  the  Santander  and  Burgos  mountains,  who,  as  Cer- 
vantes says,  prided  themselves  on  being  as  good  gentlemen  as  the  King, 
and  from  whom  most  of  the  illustrious  men  of  Spain  traced  their  descent. 
The  "  casa  solar  "  of  the  Quevedos  was  in  the  Toranzo  valley,  near  San- 
tander ;  in  the  next  valley,  the  Carriedo,  were  those  of  the  families  of 
Lope  and  Calderon;  on  the  other  side  is  the  Besaya,  the  country  of  Garci- 
laso  and  the  Mendozas ;  and  beyond  that,  to  the  west,  rise  the  Picos  de 
Europa,  at  whose  foot  lie  the  Cave  of  Covadonga  and  the  Vale  of  Cangas, 
where  Pelayo  and  his  mountaineers,  in  718,  began  the  recovery  of  Spain 
from  the  Moors.  Like  most  of  their  neighbours,  the  Quevedos  claimed 
a  share  in  that  achievement,  and  the  claim  was  recorded  in  a  quatrain  on 
their  scutcheon,  beginning  : — 

Yo  soy  el  quo  vedo 

Quo  loa  Moros  no  eutrasen. 

"  I  am  he  who  forbade  the  Moors  to  enter ;  "  which  may  be  taken  either 
as  an  explanation  of  the  family  name  or  a  pun  upon  it.  Quevedo,  how- 
ever, had  little  experience  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  court,  for  he  was  left 

26-2 


540  QUEVEDO. 

an  orphan  at  an  early  age,  and  sent  a  mere  boy  to  the  University  of  Al- 
cala  by  his  guardian.  There  he  distinguished  himself  as  much  by  industry 
as  by  pi-ecocity.  He  graduated  in  theology  in  his  sixteenth  year,  and 
having  learned  all  that  Alcala  could  teach,  from  mathematics,  law,  and 
medicine,  to  Hebrew  and  Arabic,  he  returned  to  Madrid  with  a  reputa- 
tion for  varied  learning  and  profound  scholarship  that  might  have  satis- 
fied a  greybeard.  Even  allowing  for  exaggeration  in  his  biographer,  it 
is  plain  that  the  extent  of  his  reading  was  extraordinary.  When  little 
over  twenty  he  was  a  correspondent  of  the  great  Justus  Lipsius,  who 
called  him  "  pi-yct  Kvlos  'Ififiptar,"  and  when  the  learned  Mariana  was 
employed  by  the  Inquisition  to  examine  the  Polyglot  Bible  of  Arias 
Montano,  he  put  the  Hebrew  text  into  the  hands  of  young  Quevedo.  Nor 
was  his  appetite  for  reading  less  remarkable.  He  read  at  his  meals,  and 
had  a  peculiarly  constructed  desk  for  that  pitrpose,  and  he  was  also  ad- 
dicted to  reading  in  bed,  for  the  more  comfortable  commission  of  which 
crime  he  had  another  special  contrivance,  with  a  tinder-box  and  lamp 
attached,  so  that,  in  case  of  insomnia,  the  sleepless  hours  of  the  night  might 
not  be  wasted.  He  always  read  on  the  road,  carrying  with  him  in  all 
his  journeys  a  portable  library  of  over  a  hundred  books  in  small  editions  ; 
and  when  at  Madrid  he  lived  at  an  inn,  that  he  might  not  be  distracted 
from  his  books  by  the  calls  of  housekeeping.  In  fact,  he  lived  among 
his  books  and  made  companions  of  them,  and  what  they  were  to  him  he 
has  expressed  in  a  sonnet  from  the  country  to  his  friend  Don  Joseph 
Gonzalez  de  Salas,  who,  after  his  death,  edited  his  poems.  "  Here  in  the 
peaceful  retirement  of  these  solitudes,"  he  says,  "  with  a  few  wise  books 
about  me,  I  live  in  conversation  with  the  dead,  and  through  my  eyes 
I  listen  to  their  voices ;  and  they  correct  or  fertilise  my  thoughts, 
and  soothe  the  dream  of  life  as  with  a  lullaby."  Not  that  his  reading  was 
confined  to  the  works  of  the  past,  or  that  he  shunned  the  company  of  the 
living,  for  we  are  told  that  he  got  almost  every  new  book  as  soon  as  it 
came  out,  and  the  one  attraction  of  Madrid  was  the  congenial  society  it 
gave  him. 

He  was,  in  short,  a  studious  Epicurean,  pursuing  pleasure  where  he 
found  it,  in  books  and  reading,  without  a  thought,  appai'ently,  of  any 
other  pursuit  or  ambition.  Fame,  however,  came  to  him,  though  he  did 
not  care  to  seek  it.  He  was  sufficiently  distinguished  at  twenty-two  for 
the  great  Lope  to  send  him  one  of  his  elegant  complimentary  sonnets, 
and  of  all  the  poets  mentioned  in  the  Viage  del  Parnaso,  there  is  not  one 
whose  merits  are  more  cordially  recognised  by  Cervantes,  who  seems  to 
have  had  an  especial  esteem  for  Quevedo  as  "  a  scourge  of  silly  poets."  He, 
himself,  published  nothing  until  he  was  past  forty,  but  before  he  was 
twenty-five  he  was  a  poet  of  such  mark  that  Pedro  de  Espinosa,  in  1605, 
inserted  no  less  than  seventeen  specimens  of  his  verse  in  his  Flowers  of 
the  Illustrious  Poets  of  Spain,  and (at  least  one  of  them,  the  sparkling 
letrilla  with  the  catching  refrain  of— 


QUEVEDO.  541 

Poderoso  caballero 

Es  Don  Dinero — 
Oh,  a  puissant  knight  is  he, 
Mighty  and  masterful  Don  Mon6y ! 

has  never  been  omitted  since  in  any  Spanish  Anthology. 

The  stories  of  Quevedo's  passion  for  reading  are  borne  out  by  his 
portraits ;  and  it  was  his  fortune  to  sit  to  the  three  greatest  painters  of 
his  day — Alonzo  Cano,  Murillo,  and  Velazquez.  But  the  portrait,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  is  the  Velazquez,  now  in  Apsley  House.  In  the  presence 
of  a  Velazquez  portrait  there  is  never  any  room  for  doubt.  You  know 
you  have  the  man  before  you,  not  only  "  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,"  but  as 
he  looked ;  not  merely  his  features,  but  his  bearing  and  expression, 
caught  and  transferred  to  the  canvas  unidealised  and  tinflattered. 
Quevedo,  as  presented  by  Velazquez,  has  not  much  of  the  ideal  high- 
bred Spaniard  about  him.  He  is  broad-nosed  and  somewhat  square- 
faced,  with  a  high  massive  forehead  and  a  thick  shock  of  frizzled  iron- 
grey  hair,  and  the  enormous  round  horn  spectacles  he  wears  give  at  the 
first  glance  a  sort  of  owl-like  solemnity  to  the  face  that  for  the  moment 
masks  the  humour  lurking  about  the  mouth  and  in  the  short-sighted 
eyes.*  In  the  little  Murillo  in  the  La  Gaze  Gallery  of  the  Louvre  he  is 
spectacled  also,  and  there,  as  well  as  in  the  unspectacled  portrait  prefixed 
to  the  first  collective  edition  of  his  works,  the  beautiful  quarto  "edition 
de  luxe,"  published  in  Brussels  in  1660,  the  eyes  testify  unmistakeably 
to  much  poring  over  books.  Quevedo  had  another  personal  defect 
besides  defective  vision.  Like  Byron  he  had  clubbed  feet ;  but,  unlike 
Byron,  he  had  no  sensitiveness  about  the  deformity,  and  made  it  a  matter 
of  jest  at  times.  To  a  lady  whom  he  overheard  remarking  that  his  foot 
was  a  very  ugly  one,  he  said,  that  for  all  that,  there  was  an  uglier  in  the 
room,  and  to  prove  it  produced  his  other  foot.  But  although,  to  use  his 
own  expression,  he  stood  upon  "stuttering  shanks,"  he  was  nimble 
enough  to  be  an  accomplished  swordsman,  and  the  accomplishment  had 
something  to  do  with  the  course  of  his  life.  The  story  is  like  a  scene 
from  Lope  or  Calderon,  and  in  its  way  illustrates  the  realism  of  the 
"  capa  y  espada  "  comedies.  One  evening  in  1611,  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Martin  in  Madrid,  he  saw  a  respectable-looking  woman,  who  was  kneel- 
ing near  him,  receive  a  blow  from  a  person  who  had  the  appearance 
of  a  gentleman.  Quevedo  knew  nothing  of  either,  but  he  instantly  took 
her  part  against  her  assailant.  High  words  followed,  they  went  outside, 
swords  were  drawn,  and  the  aggressor  fell  mortally  wounded.  He 
proved  to  be  a  man  of  sufficiently  powerful  connections  to  make  the 
affair  an  awkward  one  for  Quevedo,  who,  availing  himself  of  an  old 

*  Why,  by  the  way,  does  not  some  one  of  our  many  admirable  etchers  try  his 
hand  on  this  striking  portrait  ?  There  are  few  painters  whose  work  lends  itself  so 
well  to  etching  as  the  work  of  Velazquez,  and,  not  to  speak  of  the  interest  attaching 
to  it  from  its  subject,  there  is  not,  in  this  country  at  least  a  better  example  of  his 
power  as  a  realistic  portrait- painter, 


542  QUEVEDO. 

invitation  from  his  friend,  Pedro  Giron,  Duke  of  Osuna,  retired  to 
Sicily,  where  the  Duke  was  then  "Viceroy.  Here  Quevedo  appeared  in  a 
new  character.  Most  people  would  have  thought  that  an  inveterate 
bookworm  and  careless  dilettante  poet  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
make  an  able  and  energetic  financier  and  diplomatist.  But  Osuna  was 
of  a  different  opinion,  and  he  made  Quevedo  his  right-hand  man,  with 
results  that  proved  the  soundness  of  his  judgment.  For  the  next  ten 
years  Quevedo's  life  was  the  very  opposite  of  the  quiet  studious  medita- 
tive one  he  had  hitherto  led.  Osuna  seems  to  have  detected  in  him  a 
special  gift  for  negotiation,  and  kept  him  constantly  on  the  move  on 
confidential  missions  to  Rome,  Genoa,  Milan,  Madrid,  and  elsewhere ; 
and  when  the  Duke  was  promoted  to  the  Viceroyalty  of  Naples,  Quevedo 
became  his  minister  of  finance.  In  this  office  he  achieved  a  marked 
success.  Applying  to  the  public  accounts  of  the  kingdom  the  critical 
acumen  with  which  he  used  to  read  the  classics,  he  laid  bare  the  pecu- 
lations that  preyed  upon  the  revenue,  and  their  extent  may  be  estimated 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  offered  a  bribe  of  fifty  thousand  ducats  to  keep 
his  discovery  to  himself.  In  this  way,  and  by  skilful  management  of 
the  finances,  he,  without  any  additional  taxation,  raised  the  revenue  to 
an  amount  that  astonished  and  gratified  the  Court  at  Madrid,  and  for 
this  and  his  other  services  he  received  a  pension  and  the  Cross  of 
Santiago,  for  which  only  men  of  gentle  blood  were  eligible.  The  rewards 
were  fairly  earned,  for  he  had  brought  upon  himself  ill  will  and  trouble 
by  his  incorruptible  probity,  and  encountered  many  hardships  and 
dangers  in  his  missions.  He  was  in  Venice  at  the  explosion  of  that 
mysterious  plot  in  1618,  the  story  of  which  is  best  known  to  English 
readers  through  Otway's  tragedy,  and  was  certainly  involved  in  it,  if 
anything  can  be  said  to  be  certain  in  a  complication  where,  like  Charles 
Surface  in  the  library,  we  "  don't  know  who's  in  or  who's  out  of  the 
secret."  At  any  rate  he  very  narrowly  escaped  death,  and  only  by 
assuming  the  disguise  of  a  beggar,  which  his  thorough  familiarity  with 
the  Venetian  dialect  and  accent  enabled  him  to  support  so  perfectly 
that  the  two  sbirri  commissioned  to  assassinate  him  were  in  his  company 
without  knowing  it.  His  official  career  came  to  an  end  soon  after  this. 
The  Duke  of  Lernia  fell  from  power,  and  Osuna  was  recalled  from  Naples 
in  disgrace  and  committed  to  prison,  as  were  most  of  those  connected  with 
him,  Quevedo  among  the  number.  The  imprisonment,  however,  in  his 
case,  was  only  temporary,  arid  was  soon  commuted  to  banishment  to  a 
small  estate  he  owned  at  La  Torre  de  Juan  Abad  in  the  Sierra  Morena, 
near  that  Campo  de  Montiel  which  his  friend  Cervantes  had  just  made 
classic  ground  for  all  future  time. 

Quevedo's  biographers  generally  write  of  him  as  if  his  life  from 
this  period  forward  was  one  of  unceasing  persecution  and  suffering. 
Thackeray  says  somewhere  that  if  you  prick  a  poet  with  a  pin  he  howls 
as  much  as  another  man  who  had  got  three  dozen,  and  poetic  sensibility 
would  seem  to  be  so  far  contagious  that  those  who  write  poets'  memoirs 


QUEVEDO.      .  543 

always  make  the  most  of  the  distresses  of  their  subjects.     Quevedo 
undoubtedly  received  arbitrary  and  unjust  treatment,  but  if  his  punish- 
ment was  undeserved,  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  grievous,  except  on 
the  last  occasion.     If  we  are  to  believe  himself,  banishment  to  La  Torre 
could  only  have  been  punishment  in  so  far  as  it  was  compulsory.    Again 
and  again  in  his  poems  he  gives  expression  to  his  weariness  and  disrelish 
of  Madrid  and  all  its  ways  and  works,  and  to  his  keen  enjoyment  of  the 
country,  its  sights  and  sounds,  and  the  tranquillity  and  simplicity  of  its 
life.     Nor  was  this  mere  poetic  pastoral  fa$on  de  parler.      It  quite 
agrees  with  the  description  of  his  life  at  La  Torre  given  by  De  Tarsia, 
who  has  left  a  pleasant  picture  of  his  relations  with  his  neighbours,  the 
serranos  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  how  he  used  to  chat  and  joke  with  them, 
and  arrange  their  disputes  for  them,  and  how  he  enjoyed  strolling  out 
of  an  evening,  with  the  village  children  frisking  round  him  and  scram- 
bling for  the-  coppers  he  threw  them.     The  only  instance  of  hardship  the 
Abbe  can  specify  is  that  he  had  to  apply  for  leave  to  go  to  the  neigh- 
bouring town  of  Villanueva  for  medical  advice — a  request  which,  it 
appears,  was  granted  at  once,  with  permission  to  go  anywhere  except 
to  Madrid ;   and  even  that  restriction  was  relaxed  shortly  afterwards. 
It  was,  however,  reimposed  in  1628  for  six  months,  in  consequence  of  a 
pamphlet  he  wrote  against  the  adoption  of  St.  Teresa  as  patroness  of 
Spain,  which  gave  offence  to  the  clerical  party  at  Court.     But  otherwise 
Quevedo's  life  for  nearly  twenty  years  was  perfectly  untroubled,  at  least 
by  the  ruling  powers.     Indeed,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  period,  he  was 
high  in  favour,  and  had  important  posts  pressed  upon  him  by  both  the 
King  and  Olivares,  in  particular  the  embassy  at  Genoa.     But  Quevedo 
had  had  enough  of  official  life  ;  he  had  by  this  time  learned  what  it  was 
to  serve  under  a  government  centred  in  a  favourite,  a  form  of  rule  he 
cordially  detested,  and  he  preferred  a  life  of  peace  among  his  books  to 
wealth  and  honours  with   the  penalties  attached  to  them.     The  only 
dignity  he  consented  to  accept  was  the  honorary  title  of  Secretary  to  the 
King,  and  instead  of  office  he  took  a  wife,  and  settled  down  as  a  studious 
country  gentleman. 

His  scheme  of  life,  however,  was  marred  by  the  death  of  his  wife,  and 
probably  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  which  he  had  never  known  in  all  his 
years  of  bachelorhood,  coming  strongly  upon  him  now,  drove  him  to 
Madrid,  where  he  seems  to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  afterwards.  It 
was  a  time  of  trouble  in  Spain.  The  despotic  rule,  restless  policy,  and 
ceaseless  wars  of  Olivares,  with  their  concomitants  of  taxation  and 
poverty,  had  produced  a  full  crop  of  discontent.  The  Catalans  on  one 
side  and  the  Portuguese  on  the  other  were  in  revolt,  and  ominous  mur- 
murs came  from  the  Castiles  and  Andalusia.  In  the  winter  of  1639 
a  memorial  in  verse  addressed  to  the  King,  setting  forth  the  true 
condition  of  the  kingdom  in  graphic  and  vigorous  but  perfectly  loyal 
and  respectful  language,  was  by  some  daring  hand  placed  in  the  King's 
napkin  on  the  royal  table.  "  Estoy  perdido !  "  was  the  exclamation  of 


544  aUEVEDO. 

Olivares  when  he  heard  of  it,  and  Quevedo,  who  had  already  made  his 
mark  as  a  satirist  and  opponent  of  arbitrary  goverament  in  the  Visions 
and  in  the  Politico,  de  Dios,  being  denounced  as  the  author  by  a  lady  of 
the  Court,  was  seized  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  in  the  house  of  his  friend, 
the  Duke  of  Medinaceli,  and  without  being  allowed  time  to  fetch  a  change 
of  clothes  or  even  a  cloak,  was  hurried  off  to  the  convent  of  San  Marcos 
at  Leon.     It  has  been  generally  said,  apparently  on  the  authority  of  De 
Tarsia  and  Sedano,  that  he  was  not  the  author  of  the  lines ;  but  Senor 
Fernandez-Guerra  is  decidedly  of  the  opposite  opinion ;  and  certainly  his 
view  is  supported  by  internal  evidence.     The  style,  and  turns  of  thought 
and  expression,  are  distinctly  Quevedo's,  and  the  sentiments  are  precisely 
those  of  the  Politico,  de  Dios  ;  besides  which,  the  piece  is  printed  as  his 
in  an  authoritative  edition  of  his  works  published  only  three  years  after 
his  death.     In  all  the  inclement  northern  plateau  of  Spain,  there  is  no 
severer  winter  climate  than  that  of  Leon,  and  the  wall  of  the  cell  in 
which  he  was  lodged  was  washed  by  the  waters  of  the  river  Bernesga. 
He  was  in  poor  health  at  the  time  of  his  arrest,  and  the  continued  cold 
and  damp  produced  an  illness  that  brought  him  to  death's  door.     He 
made  a  touching  appeal  to  the  compassion  of  Olivares.     "  No  clemency," 
he  said,  "  can  give  me  many  years,  nor  can  any  severity  rob  me  of  many 
now."   Olivares  pretended  that  it  was  the  King  who  was  incensed  against 
him,  and  asked  him  to  own,  as  one  gentleman  to  another — "  de  caballero 
a  caballero  " — any  things  he  might  have  written  likely  to  give  offence. 
Quevedo  answered  him  frankly,  that  he  would  own  to  a  friend  what  he 
knew  would  not  go  further,  but  his  manly  confession  only  damaged  his 
chances  of  release.     The  truth  is,  it  was  not  in  the  memorial,  or  anything 
of  that  kind,  that  his  offence  lay.     It  was  the  bold  and  unsparing  attacks 
on  favourites,  and  government  by  autocratic  ministers,  in  the  last  of  the 
Visions,  and  in  the  Politico,  de  Dios,  that  Olivares  could  not  forgive  ;  and 
that  it  was  he  alone,  and  not  the  King,  who  was  the  gaoler,  is  proved  by 
the  fact  that,  shortly  after  his  fall  from  power  in  1643,  came  Quevedo's 
release  by  the  King's  order.     But,  as  Quevedo  himself  had  predicted,  cle- 
mency could  do  little  for  him  now.    He  went  home  to  La  Torre,  shattered 
in  health  and  broken  in  fortunes,  and  died  at  Villanueva  de  los  Infantes 
in  the  autumn  of  1645,  after  two  years  of  suffering,  borne  with  the  forti- 
tude and  high  spirit  that  had  supported  him  through  life.    A  gleam  of  his 
old  humour  breaks  out  in  his  last  recorded  words  on  his  death-bed.     The 
vicar  of  Villanueva  was  urging  him  to  provide  in  his  will  for  the  pay- 
ment of  musicians  at  his  funeral.     "  Nay,"  said  Quevedo,  "  let  them  pay 
for  the  music  who  hear  it." 

Quevedo's  sad  end  almost  suggests  the  operation  of  an  inevitable 
destiny.  If  he  had  been  able  to  follow  the  course  he  proposed  to  himself 
when  he  renounced  official  life,  if  he  could  have  kept  clear  of  the  vortex 
of  politics,  he  might  have  lived  to  a  green  old  age ;  and,  like  Cervantes, 
left  behind  him  a  name  the  world  would  have  remembered  with  gratitude 
to  the  end  of  time.  But  fate  was  too  strong  for  him  :  the  thing  that  he 


QUEVEDO.  545 

hated  and  feared  had  an  irresistible  fascination  for  his  pen.  When  he 
withdrew  from  public  bxisiness  after  the  recall  of  Osuna,  it  was  only  to 
divert  his  activity  into  another  channel,  and  from  that  time  up  to  his 
death  his  pen  was  never  idle.  Hitherto  he  had  published  nothing;  the 
only  pieces  of  his  that  had  appeared  in  print  being  those  which  Espinosa 
inserted  in  his  collection  in  1605.  His  first  publication  was  a  short  popu- 
lar biography  of  St.  Thomas  of  Villanueva,  written  in  1620,  in  view  of 
the  mooted  canonisation  of  the  good  archbishop,  in  whom,  besides,  Que- 
vedo  naturally  took  an  interest  as  one  of  the  native  worthies  of  his  own 
neighbourhood.  Many  of  his  works,  indeed,  were  of  a  devotional  cast, 
as,  for  example,  The  Cradle  and  the  Grave,  Virtue  Militant  against  the 
Four  Plagues  of  the  World,  Instruction  how  to  Die,  The  Life  of  St.  Paul 
— the  composition  of  which  beguiled  his  imprisonment  in  San  Marcos — 
The  Patience  and  Constancy  of  Job,  The  Life  and  Martyrdom  of  Marcelo 
Mastrillo,  The  Indroduction  to  Devout  Life,  a  translation  from  St. 
Francis  de  Sales.  These,  and  others  of  the  same  sort,  the  character  and 
purpose  of  which  are  sufficiently  explained  by  their  titles,  were  either 
written  or  retouched,  and  published  by  him  during  this  period,  as  were 
also  some  of  his  lighter  and  better  known  pieces.  Whether  the  picaresque 
novel  of  the  Buscon,  or  Paul  the  Sharper,  was  written  about  this  time, 
or  earlier,  is  uncertain.  This  much,  however,  is  certain,  that  it  was  not 
written,  according  to  the  absurd  theory  of  M.  Germond  de  Lavigne, 
when  Quevedo  was  a  boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  at  Alcala.  It  shows  a 
knowledge  of  the  world,  of  life  in  general,  and  of  particular  phases  of 
life,  quite  beyond  the  ken  of  a  school-boy,  however  precocious.  Nor  is  it 
a  mere  matter  of  opinion,  for  there  is  abundant  evidence  to  show  it  must 
have  been  written  at  least  ten  years  later  than  the  French  translator 
would  have  us  believe.  For  instance,  one  of  the  characters  claims  to 
have  a  plan  for  taking  Ostend,  which  he  is  going  to  submit  to  the  King, 
evidently  referring  to  the  four  years'  siege  of  Ostend,  which  was  brought 
to  an  end  by  Spinola  in  September  1604;  and  the  hero  talks  of  riding 
on  "el  Rucio  de  la  Mancha,"  obviously  alluding  to  Sancho  Panza's 
Dapple,  which  did  not  make  its  appearance  till  1605.*  From  the  fresh- 
ness and  spirit  of  its  sketches  of  university  life  at  Alcald,  it  seems  pro- 
bable that  it  was  written  not  long  after  the  latter  date,  and  about 
the  same  time  as  the  first  V'isions,  and  one  or  two  other  light  pieces. 
At  any  rate  it  was  printed  for  the  first  time  at  Saragossa  in  1626,  by 
Pedro  Verges,  for  Roberto  Duport.  It  seems  to  have  hit  the  public 
fancy  at  once,  nor  is  it  any  wonder  that  it  did  so,  for,  if  it  is  in  humour 
of  a  harsher  and  coarser  texture  than  Lazarilto  de  Tormes,  there  is  not  one 
of  all  the  lively  "  gusto  picaresco  "  family  that  is  richer  in  wit,  satire,  and 
variety  of  character.  About  ten  editions  appeared  during  Quevedo's 
life ;  and  its  popularity  was  so  great,  that  a  Madrid  bookseller,  Alonso 

*  M.  de  Lavigne's  theory  is  more  fully  discussed  in  the  COENHILL  MAGAZINE  for 
January,  1877. 

26—5 


546  QUEVEDO. 

Perez,  was  tempted  to  issue  a  counterfeit  edition,  with  the  imprint  of  the 
original  of  Saragossa,  which  led  to  a  lawsuit  with  the  author,  and  a  bitter 
feud  between  him  and  the  bookseller's  son,  Perez  de  Montalvan,  the  dra- 
matist, and  friend  of  Lope  de  Vega — a  quarrel,  by  the  way,  which 
Ticknor  attributes  wrongly  to  a  piracy  of  the  Politico,  de  Dios. 

The  success  of  this  venture  apparently  encouraged  Quevedo  to  try 
his  fortune  with  other  pieces  he  had  lying  by  him,  for  in  the  next  year 
appeared  the  first  edition  of  the  Visions,  containing  four — the  "  Vision  of 
Death,"  the  "  Last  Judgment,"  "  Hell,"  and  the  "  Madhouse  of  Lovers," 
— the  first  written  in  1622,  the  others  as  far  back  as  1608.  The  last  has 
not  been  generally  accepted  as  a  genuine  work  of  Quevedo's,  the  author- 
ship having  been  claimed  after  his  death  by  his  friend  Vander  Hammen ; 
but  Senor  Fernandez  Guerra  y  Orbe  is  of  opinion  that  it  is  a  youthful 
essay,  retouched  and  added  to  by  Vander  Hammen,  to  whom  the  rough 
draft  had  been  sent.  The  Visions  made  even  a  greater  hit  than  the  novel. 
No  less  than  four  editions  were  printed  in  1627,  two  at  Barcelona,  one 
at  Valencia,  and  one  at  Saragossa,*  and  others  followed  quickly  during 
the  next  two  or  three  years,  with  successive  additions — "  The  Alguacil 
Possessed,"  "  The  World  Inside  Out,"  "  Hell  Reformed,"  and  a  few  short 
miscellaneous  pieces  of  a  humorous  and  satirical  character. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  a  book  of  the  sort  was  welcome.  It  was  a 
completely  new  form  of  libra  de  entretenimiento ;  and  since  the  time  of 
Christobal  de  Castillejo  the  Council  of  the  Holy  Inquisition  had  not  per- 
mitted Spanish  readers  to  taste  anything  flavoured  with  satire,  except  of 
the  very  mildest  kind.  This  ticklish  ingredient  Quevedo  managed  with 
great  skill.  He  was  plainly  indebted  to  Lucian  for  his  first  idea  and 
machinery,  but  the  execution  is  wholly  his  own.  The  keynote  of  the 
Visions  is  given  in  the  last  sentence  of  the  "  Vision  of  Hell,"  where  he 
begs  the  reader  to  take  notice  that  he  does  not  deal  in  scandal,  or  in 
censure  of  anything  except  vice,  and  that  what  he  says  about  people  in 
hell  cannot  possibly  hurt  people  who  are  good.  Entrenched  in  this 
unassailable  position  he  can  bring  his  satire  to  bear  upon  almost  anybody 
or  anything.  From  the  devil,  whom  they  are  about  to  exorcise  out  of 
the  Alguacil,  he  gets  information  about  the  internal  economy  of  hell,  and 
the  principles  upon  which  punishments  and  quarters  are  distributed, 
how  dishonest  ministers  and  governors  Avere  put  among  the  thieves  and 
highwaymen,  how  a  professional  assassin  was  sent  to  the  doctors'  quarter, 
and  how  the  most  effective  torment  for  poets  was  found  to  be  compelling 
them  to  listen  to  each  others'  poems.  In  the  "  Vision  of  Death,"  he 
makes  the  acquaintance  of  Death  herself,  whom  he  finds  not  in  the  least 
like  the  traditional  skeleton  with  the  scythe,  but  a  fantastically  arrayed 
personage,  youthful  in  appearance  on  one  side,  but  old  on  the  other,  and 
with  a  curious  uncertain  gait,  sometimes  slow,  sometimes  swift,  so  that 

*  The  Saragossa  edition  by  Duport  has  been  called  the  first,  but  it  is  described 
as  "  now  newly  corrected  by  the  axithor  himself," 


QUEVEDO.  547 

when  you  thought  her  still  a  good  way  off,  all  of  a  sudden  you  found  her 
at  your  side ;  and  in  her  train  he  noticed  that  besides  doctors,  surgeons, 
apothecaries,  and  druggists,  there  followed  a  troop  of  talkers,  tatlers, 
busybodies,  and  bores — a  class  of  people  who,  Death  assured  him,  did 
more  to  shorten  life  than  even  doctors  and  drugs.  In  "  The  "World 
Inside  Out,"  his  guide  Desengano,  or  Disillusion,  leads  him  to  the  calle 
mayor — the  high-street  of  the  world — Hypocrisy  by  name,  where  well- 
nigh  everybody  has,  "  if  not  a  house,  at  any  rate  lodgings,  if  it  be  only  a 
room,"  and  shows  him,  by  examples  from  the  crowd  passing  before  their 
eyes,  that  life  is  all  a  lie,  and  that  nobody  and  nothing  are  what  they 
seem  or  what  they  are  called.  "  The  Vision  of  Hell,"  which  in  the 
authorised  Madrid  edition  he  had  to  euphemise  into  "  Pluto's  Pigsties," 
is  a  kind  of  parody  of  Dante's  Inferno,  where  he  makes  the  round  of  the 
lower  regions  in  company  with  a  communicative  demon,  who  shows  him 
all  the  curiosities— the  quarter  of  the  fathers  who  have  brought  them- 
selves to  that  pass  by  their  efforts  to  leave  their  sons  rich ;  the  madhouse 
where  the  poets,  or,  as  they  call  them  there,  the  lunatics,  are  confined ; 
the  cellar  where  they  shut  up  the  buffoons,  jokers,  and  comic  men,  whose 
wit  was  so  cold  that  they  had  to  be  kept  apart  from  the  other  sinners 
lest  they  should  put  out  the  fires.  One  thing  that  particularly  struck 
him  was  that  on  the  road,  though  all  knew  it  was  the  road,  nobody  ever 
said  "  We  are  going  to  hell ;"  and  yet  all  expressed  the  greatest  surprise 
and  dismay  on  finding  themselves  there.  The  titles  of  "  The  Madhouse  of 
Lovers,"  and  the  "  Vision  of  the  Last  Judgment,"  called  the  "  Vision  of 
the  Skulls  "  in  the  Madrid  editions,  sufficiently  explain  their  tenor  and 
purpose.  The  last  of  the  Visions,  "  All  the  Devils,  or  Hell  Reformed," 
as  it  was  originally  called,  was  first  published  by  itself  at  Gerona  in 
1628,  but  fell  under  the  censure  of  the  Padre  Niseno,  and  underwent 
considerable  alteration  before  it  was  allowed  to  appear  with  the  others 
under  the  stupid  title  of  "  The  Meddler,  Duenna,  and  Informer."  This 
is  the  longest  and  most  elaborate  of  the  series,  and,  as  a  satire,  flies  at 
higher  game  than  any  of  its  predecessors.  It  describes  a  threatened 
revolt  in  hell,  which  gives  Lucifer,  or  Pluto  as  he  is  called  in  the  expur- 
gated editions,  so  much  uneasiness  that  he  resolves  on  a  personal  inspec- 
tion of  his  dominions  and  subjects,  in  the  course  of  which  several 
historical  personages  are  brought  before  him — Julius  Caesar,  Brutus, 
Nero,  Sejanus,  Seneca,  Clitus,  Belisarius,  and  others,  from  whose 
mouths  Quevedo  adroitly  directs  shrewd  hits  at  the  politics  of  the  day. 
The  appearance  of  these  Visions  is  to  a  certain  extent  an  epoch  in  not 
only  Spanish  but  European  literature,  for  to  their  influence  must  be 
attributed  the  growth  of  a  distinct  form  of  fiction  which  may  be 
said  to  survive  to  the  present  day.  In  Spain,  Quevedo's  experiment 
in  Lucianic  satire  soon  led  to  other  attempts,  such  as  Jacinto  Polo's 
Hospital  of  Incurables,  confessedly  an  imitation,  and  The  University  of 
Love,  attributed  to  the  same  author,  which  borrows  Quevedo's  second 
title  of  Verdades  Sonadas ;  and  in  Germany  a  few  years  later  there 


548  QUEVEDO. 

appeared  TheWonderful  and  VeraciousVisions  of  Philander  von  Sitteicald, 
by  Hans  Moscherosch,  the  first  seven  of  which  are  little  more  than  a  free 
paraphrase  of  Quevedo.  But  the  most  notable  fruit  of  the  Visions  was 
Luis  Velez  de  Guevara's  Diablo  Cojuelo,  which  also  adopted  Quevedo's 
title  of  Truths  in  Dreams,  and  was  the  basis  on  which  Le  Sage  constructed 
his  immortal  Diable  Boiteux. 

The  shorter  pieces  printed  with  the  Visions  were  in  their  day  no  less 
popular.  One  frequently  quoted  and  translated  is  the  Car  las  del  Cabal- 
lero  de  la  Tenaza,  or,  freely  rendered,  The  Letters  of  Sir  Tenacity  Hold- 
fast, a  gentleman  who  evades  every  attempt  on  the  part  of  his  mistress 
to  extract  money  from  him,  and  is  inexhaustible  in  ingenious  and 
plausible  excuses.  Another  is  the  Book  of  All  Things  and  Many  More, 
mainly  a  caricature  of  the  little  popular  manuals  current  in  all  ages  and 
countries,  for  the  circulation  of  curious  information  among  credulous 
readers  on  such  points  as  the  interpretation  of  dreams,  the  selection  of 
lucky  days,  how  to  succeed  in  undertakings  and  escape  misfortunes,  and 
so  forth.  It  claims  to  have  been  "  composed  by  the  learned  Master 
Malsabidillo " — a  diminutive  of  "  malsabido,"="  know-nothing" — and, 
but  for  the  absence  of  dirt,  is  just  such  a  thing  as  Swift  might  have 
thrown  off  in  a  whimsical  mood.  There  is  a  string  of  absurd  receipts 
for  becoming  rich,  for  making  the  women  run  after  you,  for  the  preven- 
tion of  toothache,  grey  hairs,  old  age,  and  the  like.  In  the  last  case 
the  advice  is  to  keep  in  the  sun  in  summer  and  in  the  shade  in 
winter,  to  give  your  bones  no  rest,  to  fidget  about  everything,  eat  cold 
meat  drink  water,  and  meddle  incessantly  in  what  does  not  concern 
you,  and  you  may  rely  on  not  reaching  old  age.  To  make  yourself 
invisible  you  have  only  to  be  a  busybody,  a  chatterer,  a  liar,  a  cheat,  and 
a  screw,  and  nobody  will  see  you — "  except  at  the  devil."  Then  there 
are  maxims  on  signs  and  omens  and  physiognomy.  It  is  a  bad  sign  for 
your  bargain  if  you  find  you  have  lost  your  purse  as  you  are  going  to 
pay.  If  on  leaving  the  house  you  see  crows  flying,  let  them  fly,  and 
mind  where  you  put  your  feet.  On  Monday  you  may  buy  anything  you 
can  get  cheap,  and  Friday  is  a  very  good  day  for  keeping  clear  of  a 
creditor.  A  man  who  has  a  broad  forehead  will  have  his  eyes  under- 
neath it,  and  will  live  all  the  days  of  his  life ;  and  a  man  who  has  a  long 
nose  will  have  the  more  to  blow  and  the  better  hold.  If  you  want  to 
pass  for  a  caballero  or  hidalgo,  you  have  only  to  write  a  bad  hand,  speak 
slowly  and  gravely,  ride  on  horseback,  owe  much,  and  go  where  you 
are  not  known.  For  success  as  a  physician  you  must  have  everything 
handsome,  but  above  all,  a  handsome  mule.  Medical  science  consists  in 
a  mule.  Galen  himself  on  foot  would  be  a  quack.  You  must  hurry  in 
the  streets,  turn  into  the  doorways  of  great  houses  to  make  people 
believe  you  have  patients  there,  and  get  your  friends  to  come  at  night 
and  shout  under  your  windows,  "  Doctor !  the  Duke  wants  you,"  or, 
"  My  Lady  the  Countess  is  dying,"  or,  "  My  Lord  Bishop  has  met  with  an 
accident."  In  this  way  you  will  get  credit  for  a  good  practice,  and  may 


QUEVEDO.  549 

in  time  come  to  pass  sentence  of  death  (tendrds  horca  y  cuchillo)  on  the 
best  of  society.  When  Pickwick  is  ripe  for  advanced  criticism,  it  will 
doubtless  be  shown  that  Dickens  took  Bob  Sawyer's  devices  for  getting 
into  practice  from  Quevedo.  Doctors,  it  may  be  noticed,  have  a  peculiar 
fascination  for  Quevedo.  A  doctor  is  to  him  what  a  bishop  is  to 
Thackeray,  or  a  beadle  to  Dickens.  As  a  hunting  man  would  say,  he 
"  runs  doctor  "  incorrigibly.  Whatever  his  game  may  be,  or  however  good 
the  scent,  if  a  doctor  chances  to  cross  his  path,  he  is  off  after  the  new 
quarry,  and  there  is  no  getting  him  back  to  his  former  line  until  he  has 
run  into  and  worried  the  medico.  There  seems  to  have  been  something 
in  the  pomposity,  ignorance,  and  humbug  of  the  doctors  of  his  day  that 
had  an  irresistible  attraction  for  his  sense  of  humour. 

Another  antipathy  of  his  finds  vent  in  two  or  three  short  pieces 
printed  with  the  later  editions  of  the  Visions.  The  plague  of  the  cul- 
tisrno  was  already  infecting  Spanish  literature  when  he  was  a  young 
man  fresh  from  Alcald  and  beginning  to  fly  a  new-fledged  pen  with 
all  a  young  man's  earnestness  against  all  manner  of  shams,  charla- 
tanisms, and  quackeries.  To  one  of  his  temper  and  humour  nothing 
could  be  more  inviting  than  the  stilted  phrase,  tangled  metaphors, 
"  three-piled  hyperboles,"  all  the  elaborate  affectations,  in  short,  of  the 
rising  school  who  proposed  to  infuse  new  life  into  Spanish  poetry ;  and 
in  prose  and  verse  he  kept  up  a  steady  discharge  of  ridicule  against  them 
and  their  disciples.  A  Compass  for  Cultos  ;  or  the  Art  of  composing 
"  Soledades  "  in  one  Day,  is  the  title  of  a  malicious  little  paper  aimed  at 
Gongora,  and  the  poem  of  his  in  which  the  culto  peculiarities  are  most 
pronounced.  Another  is  the  Culta  Latiniparla,  a  sort  of  vocabulary  of 
the  new  dialect,  composed '  for  the  benefit  of  the  ladies,  whose  ignorance 
of  Latin  placed  them  rather  at  a  disadvantage  in  dealing  with  cnlto 
phraseology.  Not,  indeed,  that  anything  of  the  kind  could  avail  much, 
for,  as  he  puts  it  in  one  of  his  parodies,  it  was  the  essence  of  the  new 
style  that  the  readers  did  not  understand  their  poet,  and  the  poet  did  not 
understand  himself: — 

Ni  me  entiendes,  ni  mo  entiendo, 

Pucs  catate  quo  soy  culto. 

Every  one  who  knows  anything  of  the  tawdry  stuff  that  was  thought 
fine  writing  in  the  times  of  Philips  III.  and  IV.  will  sympathise  heartily 
with  Quevedo's  efforts  to  abate  the  nuisance,  but  his  stanchest  supporter 
must  admit  that  he  did  not  come  into  court  with  entirely  clean  hands. 
Even  of  the  cultismo  itself  there  are  traces  in  some  of  his  more  ambitious 
poetry,  and  his  lighter  works,  prose  or  verse,  are  often  well-nigh  unin- 
telligible through  the  prevalence  of  what  was  in  truth — though  he 
would  have  denied  it — only  the  same  vice  in  another  form.  His  beset- 
ting sin  was  that  of  the  conceptistas,  who  sought  by  conceits,  puns,  verbal 
juggleries,  and  contortions  of  expression,  to  give  a  peculiar  air  of  origi- 
nality and  novelty  to  what  they  had  to  say,  and  between  culto  and  con- 
ceptista  the  difference  is  something  like  the  proverbial  difference  bet  ween 


550  QUEVEDO. 

crocodile  and  alligator.  The  two  styles  were  in  fact  nothing  but 
varieties  of  the  same  disease  and  products  of  the  same  cause.  Gongora 
in  Spain,  Marino  *  in  Italy,  Donne  in  England,  have  all  been  made 
scapegoats  for  offences  against  taste  that  were  in  reality  merely  the 
consequences  of  competition  in  literature.  When  wit,  fancy,  or  imagi- 
nation are  in  high  demand,  there  will  always  be  a  Gongorism,  Marinism, 
or  euphuism — in  other  words,  an  affectation  in  some  shape — among 
those  competitors  for  distinction  who  are  in  dread  of  being  overlooked 
unless  they  call  attention  to  themselves  by  some  unnatural  attitude  or 
unusual  form  of  expression.  Long  before  Gongora  or  Marino  it  broke 
out  among  the  Provencal  poets  ;  it  was  rife  among  the  Petrarchisti  and 
the  Pleiade ;  and  among  ourselves,  at  every  period  of  literary  activity 
from  Elizabeth  to  Victoria,  it  has  shown  itself  in  one  shape  or  another, 
at  one  time  in  strained  metaphors  or  far-fetched  conceits ;  at  another  in 
transcendental  obscurity,  or  servile  imitation  of  the  crudities  of  mediaeval 
art  or  the  nudities  of  pagan  poetry. 

The  culto  clique  was  too  large  and  powerful  to  take  Quevedo's 
attacks  tamely,  and  the  skirmishing  was  brisk  on  both  sides.  Gongora 
contributed  two  or  three  surly  but  not  entirely  unprovoked  sonnets,  in 
which  he  affects  to  sneer  at  Quevedo's  pretensions  to  Greek  scholarship — 
a  matter  upon  which  he  himself  was  not  particularly  qualified  to  offer  an 
opinion ;  but  Quevedo's  most  pertinacious  antagonist  was  Montalvan, 
with  whom  the  quarrel  was  aggravated  by  the  copyright  dispute  already 
mentioned.  Montal van's  motley  miscellany,  Para  todos,  was  made  mer- 
ciless fun  of  by  Quevedo,  in  a  little  paper  called  Perinola — "  The  Teeto- 
tum " — which  brought  down  upon  its  author  the  concentrated  venom  of 
the  party  in  the  form  of  a  volume  with  the  suggestive  title  of  The  Tri- 
bunal of  Just  Vengeance  erected  against  the  Writings  of  Don  Francisco 
de  Quevedo,  Master  of  JZrrors,  Doctor  in  Impudence,  Licentiate  in  Buf- 
foonery, Bachelor  in  Dirt,  Professor  of  Vice,  and  Chief  Devil  upon  Earth. 
In  this,  which  was  no  doubt  the  work  of  Montalvan,  assisted  by  the 
Padre  Niseno  and  other  sufferers,  Quevedo  is  summoned  to  answer  for 
his  offences  against  taste  and  propriety;  and  as  he  does  not  enter  an 
appearance,  the  court  passes  judgment  on  his  writings  seriatim.  By  a 
fatality,  over  which  Isaac  D 'Israeli  would  have  chuckled,  this  book, 
written  for  the  extinction  of  Quevedo's  works,  has  been,  from  the 
minuteness  and  industry  with  which  his  detractors  collected  their  facts, 
of  the  utmost  service  in  throwing  light  upon  his  productions,  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  produced.  Quevedo's  last  shot  at 
cultismo  was  in  Fortuna  con  Seso — "  Fortune  no  Fool" — one  of  his 
wittiest  and  most  humorous  works,  written,  apparently,  not  long  before 

*  It  may  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  ask  why  this  poet's  name  is  so  persistently 
miswritten  by  almost  all  modern  hands  ?  In  all  the  original  editions  of  his  works  he 
is  described  as  the  "  Cavalier  Marino,"  and  he  and  his  friends  always  wrote  the  name 
so ;  and  yet  in  nearly  all  modern  works,  even  in  Italian,  e.g.  Cesare  Cantu's  Lettera- 
tura  Ifaliana,  it  is  written  Marini. 


QUEVEDO.  551 

his  imprisonment  at  Leon,  but  not  printed  till  after  his  death.  It  is  an 
apologue,  in  which  Jupiter,  wearied  with  the  constant  complaints  coming 
to  him  from  earth  about  the  freaks  of  Fortune,  sends  for  her  and  tells 
her  that  her  capricious  behaviour  is  encouraging  scepticism  among  men. 
Fortune  repudiates  the  charge  of  caprice,  and  it  is  finally  settled  that,  by 
way  of  experiment,  the  influence  of  Fortune  on  human  affairs  shall  be 
suspended  for  one  hour,  during  which  everything  shall  happen  in  accord- 
ance with  strict  justice  and  severe  logic.  The  Sun  is  ex  officio  time- 
keeper, and  when  the  hour  strikes,  all  sorts  of  absurd  transpositions  take 
place.  A  doctor — who,  of  course,  figures  in  every  drama  of  Quevedo's — 
is  suddenly  transformed  into  a  hangman  throttling  his  patient;  an 
Alguacil,  whipping  a  criminal,  changes  places  with  him,  and  is  whipped 
in  his  stead ;  and  the  notary  in  attendance  becomes  a  galley-slave,  row- 
ing with  his  pen,  which  grows  into  an  oar  in  his  hand ;  a  scavenger's 
cart  is  passing  an  apothecary's  shop,  and  instantly  all  the  drugs  and 
medicaments  on  the  shelves  fly  into  it ;  the  judges  on  the  bench  pass  sen- 
tence on  themselves  instead  of  on  the  prisoner ;  a  match-maker  is  mar- 
ried to  the  hag  he  is  trying  to  plant  upon  a  simple  client ;  a  culto  poet  is 
reading  a  poem,  the  obscurity  of  which  is  such  that  when  the  hour 
strikes,  it  brings  the  owls  and  bats  flying  about  him,  and  compels  his 
audience  to  light  candles  and  tapers,  one  of  which,  brought  too  near  in 
an  attempt  to  discover  some  sense  in  it,  sets  fire  to  the  manuscript,  and 
in  that  way  gets  light  out  of  it  at  last.  Passing  from  cases  of  this  sort, 
Quevedo,  to  whom  politics  are  what  Charles  I.  was  to  Mr.  Dick  in  David 
Copperfield,  shows  the  effects  of  a  disestablishment  of  Fortune  upon  the 
affairs  of  the  different  States  of  Europe,  and  in  the  end,  by  the  time  the 
hour  has  expired,  Jupiter  is  convinced  that  Fortune  is  right,  and  that 
men  had  better  be  content  with  her  way  of  arranging  matters  for 
them. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Quevedo  if  his  love  of  political  mo- 
ralising had  never  led  him  further  than  criticisms  of  the  sort  indulged  in 
here,  or  colourless  opinions  like  those  advanced  in  his  Life  of  Brutus. 
More  than  one  writer  has  noticed  the  strange  blindness  of  Spain  at  this 
period  to  the  rapid  advance  of  national  decay.  As  the  Archbishop  of 
Dublin  says  in  his  Calderon,  "  Though  grey  hairs  were  upon  her,  she 
knew  it  not.  The  near  future  of  their  country's  fall  was  hidden  from 
her  children.  They  saw  not  her,  who  a  little  while  before  was  the  chief 
and  foremost  among  the  nations,  already  failing  in  the  race,  to  fall  pre- 
sently into  the  rear."  There  was,  however,  at  least  one  who  saw  the  grey 
hairs.  Here  and  there  among  Quevedo's  later  writings  there  are  signs 
that  he  was  not  among  the  blind,  as,  for  instance,  in  that  almost  pro- 
phetic sonnet,  where  he  warns  Spain  that  all  those  vast  outlying  posses- 
sions she  has  so  easily  won  may  be  any  clay  still  more  easily  lost.  He 
had  been  behind  the  scenes;  he  knew  how  Spain  was  governed,  and 
where  the  defects  of  the  machinery  lay.  It  was  not  mere  arbitrary  per- 
sonal government  that  was  producing  national  paralysis ;  it  was  the 


552  QUEVEDO. 

delegated  despotism  of  irresponsible  ministers,  driven  to  fortify  an  un- 
stable position  by  shifty  and  unscrupulous  policy,  and  this  was  the  mon- 
ster Quevedo  had  the  temerity  to  attack.  In  the  last  of  the  Visions, 
especially  in  its  original  form,  he  was  sufficiently  outspoken  upon 
favourites,  and  the  consequences  of  favouritism  to  the  Prince  as  well  as 
to  his  people ;  but  it  was  in  the  Politico,  de  Dios,  or,  to  give  the  work 
its  title  in  full,  The  Policy  of  God,  Government  of  Christ,  and  Tyranny 
of  Satan,  that  he  seriously  assailed  the  form  of  government  that  had 
become  established  in  Spain  since  the  death  of  Philip  II.  This, 
Quevedo's  longest  and  most  important  work,  in  a  measure,  perhaps, 
inspired  by  the  writings  of  his  friend  Lipsius,  was  probably  sketched 
during  the  last  years  of  his  official  life  in  Italy ;  but  it  was  not  brought 
out  till  1626,  when  the  first  part  was  published  by  Duport,  at  Saragossa, 
with  such  immediate  effect  that  no  less  than  four  other  editions  were 
printed  within  the  year.  It  belongs  generically  to  a  class  of  book 
rather  popular  at  the  time.  If  the  sovereigns  of  Europe  of  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  centuries  did  not  know  how  to  rule,  it  was  not  for  want 
of  instructors  :  it  would  bo  easy  to  fill  half  a  page  with  the  mere  titles  of 
the  works  written  ostensibly  for  the  improvement  of  princes  and 
governors.  Quevedo's  precepts  and  principles  of  government  are  less 
elaborate  than  those  of  other  mentors.  They  are,  in  fact,  embodied  in 
the  counsel  George  III.  so  often  received  from  his  mother,  "  George,  be 
a  king."  Not  that  Quevedo  is  at  all  disposed  to  favour  absolutism.  His 
ideal  of  the  kingly  office  is  a  lofty  but  not  a  flattering  one.  He  regards 
it  as  an  awful  and  by  no  means  enviable  responsibility.  The  king,  in 
his  view,  is  not  a  free  agent.  His  duties  to  the  minutest  particulars 
have  been  prescribed  for  him  in  the  word  of  God  ;  and  if  he  would  be  a 
king,  he  must  make  himself  acquainted  with  and  conscientiously  observe 
the  law  he  finds  written  there.  As  he  is  not  free  to  follow  his  own 
will,  a  fortiori,  he  is  not  to  be  led  by  another's.  "  The  king's  heart 
must  be  in  no  hand  but  God's."  He  cannot  delegate  his  duties  to  his 
ministers  :  it  is  for  them  to  follow,  not  to  lead  him.  Above  all,  he  must 
beware  of  ministers  who,  by  flattery  or  false  promises,  seek  to  invest 
themselves  with  his  prerogative.  These  are  playing  the  part  of  Satan, 
when  he  offers  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  glory  of  them  in  exchange 
for  an  acknowledgment  of  his  supremacy ;  and,  with  a  quaintness 
worthy  of  Fuller,  it  is  added  that,  except  once,  Christ  is  always  described 
as  leading,  and  the  only  time  he  is  led,  it  is  by  the  Devil. 

Such  in  brief  is  the  substance  of  the  Politica  de  Dios.  Overloaded 
as  it  is  with  the  inevitable  pedantry  of  the  day,  it  has  in  it  the  true  ring 
of  impassioned  eloquence,  and  a  fervour  of  declamation  that  will  often 
recall  the  tones  of  Milton  to  an  English  reader.  No  doubt  its  philosophy 
seems  unpractical  and  somewhat  commonplace  to  us  now,  but  it  had  a 
deep  significance  at  the  time.  There  were  at  one  time  high  hopes  in 
Spain  that  young  Philip  IV.  had  laid  to  heart  the  regrets  he  had  heard 
from  the  lips  of  his  dying  father,  and  was  resolved  to  be  a  king  in  the 


QUEVEDO.  553 

sense  Quevedo  meant.     In  a  charming  letter  describing  a  royal  journey 
to  Andalusia  in  February  1624,  Quevedo  himself  dwells  with  delight 
upon  the  indefatigable  energy,  activity  and  vigour  of  the  young  King. 
"  He  is  the  right  king,"  he  says,  "  for  these  realms ;  and  a  comfort  it  is 
to  have  a  king  who  gives  us  the  lead,  instead  of  our  giving  it  to  him." 
Velazquez  has  left  the  portrait  of  Philip  as  Quevedo  saw  him,  and  in  the 
Museo  at  Madrid  we  may  still  see  the  same  lithe,  active  figure  in  the 
brown  shooting  dress  and  montero  cap,  with  the  glow  of  health  on  the  cheek 
and  the  full  blue  eye  as  yet  undimrned  by  ennui.   The  same  truthful  hand 
painted  him  again  and  again,  and  it  shows  how  soon  the  eyes  grew  dull, 
and  the  freshness  of  youth  faded  into  pallor  and  listlessness ;  and  it  shows, 
too,  on  the  opposite  wall,  Olivares  on  his  prancing  charger,  swarthy  and 
burly  and  bulldog-jawed,  the  very  emblem  of  Will  triumphant  over  weak 
resolution.  To  him,  Quevedo  dedicated  the  first  edition  of  the  Politico,,  and 
still  further  to  disarm  resentment  he  antedated  the  dedication  1620,  so  as 
to  make  it  appear  that  it  was  of  the  faineant  reign  of  Philip  III.  he  wrote, 
and  that  it  was  at  Lerma  his  invectives  against  despotic  ministers  were 
aimed.     But  it  was  not  in  this  light  that  the  Spanish  public  read  the 
Politico,  de  Dios,  and  Olivares  knew  well  that  it  was  not  to  Lerma  or 
TJgeda  or  Aliaga  that  they  applied  the  allegories  of  Satan  the  tempter, 
and  the  thief  that  "  climbeth  up  some  other  way."     Powerful  as  he  was, 
it  was  beyond  his  power  to  silence  a  book  passed  by  the  Holy  Office,  and 
printed,  edition  after  edition,  at  every  press  in  Spain ;  but  when  the 
chance  of  silencing  the  author  came  to  him,  he  seized  it.    No  one  who 
reads  them  can  doubt  that  it  was  the  Politico,  de  Dios,  and  not  the 
trumpery  "  Memorial,"   that   sent  Quevedo  to  San  Marcos,  any  more 
than  that  it  was  Olivares  and  not  the  King  who  kept  him  there ;  or  that 
Quevedo  dying  at  Villanueva  died  a  martyr  in  the  struggle  against  des- 
potism, just  as  much  as  if  he  had  died  on  the  scaffold. 

.  Of  Quevedo's  prose  works  many  have  been  lost,  but  of  his  poetry  it 
is  only  a  part,  and  a  very  small  part — not  a  twentieth,  we  are  told,  of 
what  he  was  known  to  have  written — that  has  been  saved.  That  the 
zeal  of  the  Inquisition  accounted  for  the  remainder  is  beyond  a  doubt ;  at 
any  rate,  it  is  certain  that  priestly  influence  was  brought  to  bear  upon 
the  dying  poet  to  extract  an  edifying  repudiation  of  the  vanity  of  poetry. 
Quevedo,  however,  was  at  all  times  careless  about  the  fate  of  his  verse, 
and  never  himself  published  any  except  one  humorous  piece  and  some 
translations.  He  had  perhaps  something  of  that  kind  ofmauvaise  honte 
in  re  poetica  that  is  observable  in  Thackeray,  and  possibly  felt  somewhat 
shy  of  putting  himself  forward  deliberately  as  a  poet  after  having  so  often 
laughed  at  poets  and  their  ways  and  weaknesses.  Nor  is  it  unlikely  that, 
being  one  of  the  modestest  of  men,  his  poetical  work  did  not  satisfy  his 
own  critical  judgment,  whatever  his  friends  might  say  of  it.  This  diffi- 
dence or  reticence  of  Quevedo's  is  worth  mentioning,  as  it  is  one  of  the 
arguments  in  support  of  a  claim  which  cannot  be  ignored  in  any  notice 
of  him  or  of  his  work?,  In  his  crusade  against  the  affectation  and  bad 


554  QUEVEDO. 

taste  of  the  culto  school,  already  referred  to,  he  sought  to  support  his 
ridicule  and  satire  by  producing  specimens  of  natural  and  unaffected 
poetry,  and  to  this  end  he  edited  in,  1631,  an  edition  of  the  poems  of  Luis 
de  Leon,  then  some  forty  years  dead  and  well-nigh  forgotten ;  and  in  the 
same  year  he  published  another  volume  of  poetry,  the  MS.  of  which  he 
professed  to  have  found  in  the  shop  of  a  bookseller,  who  sold  it  to  him  for 
a  trifle.  The  name  of  the  author  was  discovered  to  be  Francisco  de  la 
Torre,  which  induced  Quevedo  to  identify  him  with  the  Bachiller  de  la 
Torre,  an  old  poet  of  whom  nothing  is  known  except  that  verses  of  his 
appear  in  the  early  cancioneros,  and  that  Boscan  mentions  him  as  a 
contemporary,  or  nearly  so,  of  Juan  de  Mena — and  Quevedo's  view  seems 
to  have  been  generally  accepted  at  the  time,  and  was  certainly  adopted 
by  Lope  in  the  Laurel  de  Apolo.  This  little  volume  of  the  Works  of  the 
Bachiller  Francisco  de  la  Torre  (one  of  the  rarest,  as  it  is  one  of  the 
smallest,  books  in  the  language,  so  rare  that  Ticknor  never  found  a  copy, 
being  already  rare  in  1753),  was  reproduced  by  the  Academician  Luis  Ve- 
lazquez in  a  second  edition,  in  which  he  advanced  the  theory  that  the 
Bachiller  Francisco  de  la  Torre  was  no  other  than  Francisco  de  Quevedo, 
of  La  Torre  de  Juan  Abad,  who  took  this  way  of  pxiblishing  such  a  se- 
lection of  his  own  poems  as  suited  his  purpose.  He  pointed  out,  what, 
indeed,  was  sufficiently  obvious,  that  the  poems  could  not  possibly  be  the 
work  of  the  old  fifteenth-century  poet,  and  must  have  been  written  at  a 
considerably  later  period,  and  he  insisted  strongly  that,  though  the  style 
was  unlike  that  of  Quevedo's  known  works,  there  was  no  such  difference 
as  precluded  the  idea  of  his  being  the  author.  The  claim  thus  set  up 
gave  rise  to  a  literary  controversy  that  has  lasted  to  the  present  day, 
and  the  arguments  and  advocates  on  each  side  will  be  found  set  out  at 
length  by  Ticknor,  who,  though  he  avoids  dogmatism,  leans  to  the 
theory  of  Velazquez. 

The  poems  consist  of  sonnets,  odes,  canciones,  endecJias  or  e]egies, 
and  eclogues,  all  manifestly  of  the  school  of  Garcilaso  and  Boscan,  and 
after  the  model  of  the  Italian  pastoral  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
Ticknor,  perhaps,  somewhat  overestimates  their  merits,  but  no  one  will 
deny  that  they  are  graceful,  simple,  tender,  and  full  of  the  luscious  sweet- 
ness of  Garcilaso's  verse.  What  they  lack  is  originality,  precisely  the 
quality  that  is  never  wanting  in  Quevedo.  They  are  but  an  echo — a 
sweet,  melodious  one,  no  doubt — but  still  only  an  echo  of  the  Italian  pas- 
toral poets.  Archdeacon  Churton,  in  his  scholarly  essay  on  Gongora, 
has  pointed  out  that  one  of  the  sonnets,  Jiella  es  mi  ninfa,  is  almost 
identical  with  Spenser's  "  Fair  is  my  love,  when  her  fair  golden  hairs," 
and  suggests  that,  as  Spenser  could  not  have  taken  it  from  Francisco  de 
la  Torre,  "  both  may  have  followed  some  Italian  poet."  There  can  be 
no  doubt  aboiit  the  correctness  of  his  conjecture.  Nobody  seems  to  have 
been  aware  that  there  is  something  more  than  imitation  in  the  poems  of 
Francisco  de  la  Torre,  and  that  a  large  mimber  of  his  sonnets  are  in 
fact  actual  translations  from  the  Italian.  For  instance,  Sonnet  IV. 


QUEVEDO.  555 

of  the  second  book — "  Ay,  no  te  alexes,  Fill " — is  a  close  translation  of 
Benedetto  Yarchi's  sonnet :  "  Filli,  deh  non  fuggir."  Sonnet  Y. — "  Viva 
yo  siempre  ansi  con  tan  cenido,"  is  Yarchi's  "  Cosi  sempre  foss'  io  legato  e 
stretto."  Sonnet  VI. — "  De  yedra,  roble,  y  olmo  coronado,"  is  "  Cinto 
d'hedra  le  tempie  intorno,"  of  the  same.  Sonnet  VII. — "  Esta  es,  Tirsis, 
la  fuente  do  solia,"  is,  line  for  line,  Yarchi's  "  Questo  e,  Tirsi,  quel  fonte, 
in  cui  solea;"  and  VIII.  is  scarcely  less  literally  his  "Filli  piil  "vaga," 
&c.  IX.  and  X. — "  Quando  Fills  podra  sin  su  querido,"  and  "Pastor, 
que  lees  en  esta,  y  en  aquella,"  are  Yarchi's  "  Quando  Filli  potra  senza 
Damone,"  and  "  Pastor  che  leggi  in  questa  scorza  e  'n  quella."  XI. — "  Mi 
propio  amor  entiendo,"  is  "  II  medesimo  amor  credo,"  and  XII. — "  Santa 
madre  de  amor  que  el  yerto  suelo,"  is  "  Sancta  madre  d'amor  che  in  her  be 
e  in  fiori,"  both  by  Yarchi;  and  Sonnets  XV.  and  XXIII. — "  Noche  que 
en  tu  amoroso,  y  dulce  olvido,"  and  "  La  blanca  nieve,  y  la  purpurea 
rosa,"  are  versions  somewhat  free,  but  sufficiently  faithful  of — "  Notte 
che  nel  tuo  dolce  e  alto  oblio,"  and  "La  viva  neve,  e  le  vermiglie 
rose,"  sonnets  by  Gio.  Battista  Amalteo,  who  died  in  1573. 

This  must  be  held  pretty  well  conclusive  of  what  Ticknor  calls  "  a 
curious  question  of  authorship,  and  a  mystery  which  will  probably  never 
be  cleared  up."  The  question,  it  will  be  seen,  really  turns  on  the  bona 
fides  of  Quevedo.  Now,  if  it  had  been  Quevedo's  object,  as  Velazquez 
contends,  to  pass  off  poems  of  his  own  as  the  work  of  an  old  Spanish 
poet  of  the  fifteenth  century,  he  would  never  have  committed  the  egre- 
gious folly  of  inserting  among  them  some  dozen — probably  more — of 
translations  made  by  himself  from  Italian  poets  living  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  sixteenth.  We  may,  therefore,  fairly  accept  his  story  of  the  MS., 
and  also  the  entity  of  Francisco  de  la  Torre.  It  may  be  added  that  a 
person  of  that  name  was  proved  by  Don  Aureliano  Fernandez-  Gruerr a  to 
have  been  born  at  Torrelaguna  in  1534,  a  date  perfectly  consistent  with 
the  composition  of  the  volume,  but  the  connecting  link  is  wanting. 

Among  Quevedo's  own  poems,  the  first  collection  of  which  was  pub- 
lished three  years  after  his  death,  there  are  many  that,  in  form,  have  a 
certain  resemblance  to  those  of  Francisco  de  la  Torre,  but  the  resem- 
blance does  not  go  much  farther.  Quevedo's  elegiac  and  pastoral  strains 
want  the  simplicity  and  placid  gentle  flow  of  the  verses  of  the  older 
poet,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  in  them  a  power  and  an  individuality 
of  which  there  is  no  trace  in  the  other.  The  voice  of  the  elder  Francisco 
is  only  that  of  the  conventional  shepherd,  complaining  in  stereotyped 
melancholy  of  his  nymph's  coldness ;  but  however  artificial  the  language 
of  the  other  may  be,  there  is  reality  in  the  tone  of  his  sadness.  The 
modern  malady  of  weltschmerz  was  not  unknown  to  Quevedo,  though  it 
is  not  obtrusive  in  his  poetry.  He  had  his  moments,  as  he  owns,  when 
life  seemed  at  best,  "  a  was,  a  will  be,  and  a  weary  is  " — "  un  fue,  un 
sera,  y  un  es  cansado."  His  great  fault  is  his  unconquerable,  perhaps 
\inconscious,  proneness  to  conceits,  tricks  of  expression,  and  tours  deforce 
of  word  and  thought.  Sometimes  there  is  a  certain  charin  in  his 


556  QUEVEDO. 

fantasies,  as  in  his  little  song  to  the  goldfinch — "  Flor,  que  cantas ;  flor, 

que  vuelas  " — 

Singing  flower,  flower  on  wings, 
That  from  a  laurel  lectern  sings, 
What  calls  thee  up  at  break  of  day  ? 
Goldfinch  of  the  sweet  note,  say — 

and  to  a  poet  writing  in  dun-coloured,  flowerless  La  Mancha,  we  must 
not  grudge  the  fancy  of  calling  his  goldfinch  a  "  a  flower  on  wings." 
But  mere  prettinesses  or  ingenuities  jar  upon  the  ear  in  poetry  of  a  deep 
and  graver  tone,  and  there  is  hardly  one  of  Quevedo's  serious  poems  that 
is  not  more  or  less  marred  by  some  false  note  of  this  kind. 

In  his  lighter  verse  it  is  different.  There  the  freaks  and  gambols  of 
his  fancy  are  generally  inoffensive  and  occasionally  even  effective  ;  and  it 
is  for  this  reason  perhaps  that  with  later  generations  his  rank  as  a  poet 
has  rested  chiefly  on  his  poems  of  wit  and  humour.  Their  number  is 
prodigious,  for  he  wrote  this  kind  of  verse  with  marvellous  facility,  and 
in  his  cares  and  troubles  found  relief  in  the  exercise  of  the  gift.  His 
nephew,  Pedro  Aldrete  Quevedo,  who  edited  the  supplementary  volume 
of  poems  in  1670,  tells  us  that  some  of  his  uncle's  drollest  pieces  were 
written  in  the  cell  at  San  Marcos.  Nor  is  their  variety  less  remarkable. 
He  was  especially  fond  of  exercising  his  skill  in  the  construction  of 
satirical,  humorous,  or  burlesque  sonnets,  in  which  art  he  excelled  even 
Gongora,  though  he  has  nothing  to  match  Gongora's  sonnet  on  a  flood  in 
the  Manzanares — that  unfailing  Hippocrene  of  the  Spanish  comic  muse. 
His  leirillas,  too,  of  which  "  Don  Dinero,"  before  mentioned,  is  a  good 
specimen,  are  all  excellent,  and  some  have  the  true  Anacreontic  flavour, 
like  "  Dijo  a  la  raria  el  mosquito  : " 

From  the  mouth  of  a  jar 

To  the  frog  said  the  fly, 
"  Life  in  water  for  you, 

But  in  wine  let  me  die." 

But  his  favourite  medium  was  an  imitation  of  the  old  ballad  poetry, 
sometimes  in  redondillas,  but  mostly  in  the  ordinary  ballad  measure  and 
assonant  rhymes.  It  was  not  that  he  had,  like  Cervantes  and  Scott,  a 
reverential  affection  for  the  old  national  popular  poetry.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  had  something  like  a  contempt  for  ballads,  proverbs,  and  every- 
thing of  the  kind,  and  was  given  to  making  parodies — poor  ones,  it  is 
satisfactory  to  think — of  the  more  popular  pieces  of  the  Romanceros. 
One,  Don  Quixote's  Testament,  a  burlesque  of  the  fine  ballad  of  The 
Cid's  Testament,  was  an  impromptu  in  answer  to  a  request  from  sorae 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Argainasilla  de  Alba  in  1608  for  a  poem  on  the 
hero  of  the  village,  and  it  has  the  single  merit  of  being  a  proof  that 
within  three  years  of  his  appearance  in  the  world  Don  Quixote  was 
already  a  local  hero.  His  Ger mania  ballads,  which  were  extremely 
popular,  and  one  of  which  was  honoured  with  insertion  in  the  Index 
,  were  in  some  degree  an  anticipation  of  the  idea  of  The 


QUEVEDO.  55? 

Beggar's   Opera,  being  travesties   of  the  old   chivalric   and   romantic 
ballads  in  the  slang  dialect  of  the  rogues  and  gaol-birds  of  Madrid. 

The  attraction  the  ballad  form  had  for  Quevedo  lay,  no  doubt,  in  its 
facility  and  flexibility.  A  good  example  of  his  manner  is  to  be  found  in 
the  ballad  on  The  Birth  of  the  Author,  which  seems  to  .have  been  a 
favourite  of  his  own,  as  it  was  the  only  piece  of  original  verse  published 
by  himself.  It  is  far  too  long  to  be  quoted  in  extenso,  but  a  few  stanzas 
will  give  some  idea  of  his  picture  of  congenital  ill-luck. 

Two  maravedis'  worth  of  moon 

Was  all  that  lit  the  earth  that  night ; 
Upon  my  birth  it  would  hare  been 

Too  much  to  waste  a  quarter's  light. 

(There  is  one  of  Quevedo's  untranslateable  puns  here,  turning  on  "  quar- 
to," meaning  a  quarter  as  well  as  the  farthing  of  four  maravedis)  : — 

Tuesday  and  Wednesday  were  at  odds, 

And  which  it  was  'tis  hard  to  say, 
Each  on  the  other  strove  to  throw 

The  shame  of  being  my  birthday. 

Ere  long  my  parents  went  to  heaven, 

And  there  I  hope  they  will  remain  ; 
They  might  have  other  sons  like  me 

If  they  came  back  to  life  again. 

I  never  took  to  any  trade, 

For  by  experience  well  I  know, 
Were  I  a  hosier  to  become, 

Society  would  barefoot  go. 

Or  if  I  studied  medicine, 

Of  no  avail  would  be  my  skill ; 
Lest  I  should  haply  work  a  cure, 

Nobody  ever  would  be  ill. 

To  childless  folk  in  want  of  heirs 

I  can  suggest  a  certain  cure  ; 
They've  but  to  name  me  in  their  wills, 

And  then  of  children  they  are  sure. 

The  tile  that's  loose  upon  the  roof 

Delays  its  fall  till  I'm  below  ; 
And  I,  of  all  the  crowd,  am  hit 

When  boys  the  random  pebble  throw. 

If  cloaked  I  walk  abroad,  the  sun 

Sheds  furnace  heat  upon  my  crown ; 
And  if  I  wear  my  summer  hat, 

Good  Heavens  !  how  the  rain  comes  down. 

And  in  whatever  house  I  lodge. 

Husbands  and  wives  fall  out  and  fight ; 

There's  sure  to  be  a  forge  hard  by, 

And  tinkers  hammering  half  the  night. 


558  QUEVEDO. 

Another,  which  seems  to  have  been  a  good  deal  admired,  was  his  render- 
ing of  the  story  of  Orpheus,  a  very  favourite  subject  with  the  Spanish 
poets  of  his  time  : — 

Orpheus  set  out  to  fetch  his  wife ; 

Such  is  the  tale  the  poets  tell ; 
And  as  it  was  his  wife  he  sought, 

It  follows  that  he  went  to  hell. 

They  also  tell  us  that  he  sang, 

And  gaily,  as  he  went  along ; 
For,  being  still  a  widower, 

His  heart  was  light  enough  for  song. 

Upon  the  journey  back  to  earth 

He  took  the  lead,  I  needn't  say  ; 
Upon  the  downward  road  to  hell 

The  women  always  show  the  way. 

Poor  fellow !  somehow  he  looked  back  ; 

Perhaps  on  purpose — who  can  tell  ? 
This  time  he  made  the  matter  sure, 

And,  chance  or  purpose,  he  did  well. 

The  Benedict  may  bless  his  stars, 

Who  from  his  wife  has  once  been  freed ; 

But  if  a  second  time  released, 
He  is  a  lucky  man  indeed. 

Another  ballad  on  the  same  subject,  and  much  to  the  same  effect,  was 
attributed  to  Quevedo  by  Sedano  in  the  Parnaso  Espanol,  but  its  author 
was  Count  Yillamediana,  in  whose  works  it  was  printed  more  than  once 
in  Quevedo's  lifetime,  and  Don  Florencio  Janer  should  have  known  better 
than  to  include  it  in  his  new  edition.  It  may  be  a  trifling  error,  but 
trifles  of  this  sort  show  perfunctory  editing,  and  that  is  fatal  to  the 
authority  of  a  book  meant  for  students.  Matrimony  was  one  of  the 
things  Quevedo  was  much  given  to  girding  at  when  a  jocose  fit  was  on 
him,  and  his  levity  on  the  subject  sorely  exercises  dear  old  Dr.  de  Tarsia, 
who  clearly  had  no  more  conception  of  a  joke  than  he  had  of  the  doctrine 
of  evolution :  some  pages  of  the  Abad's  delightfully  pedantic  little 
memoir  are  devoted  to  proving  that  Quevedo  was  in  reality  a  tender  and 
affectionate  husband,  and  that  his  married  life  was  the  reverse  of  the 
unhappy  one  that  might  be  inferred  from  his  writings.  He  has  treated 
the  subject  from  another  point  of  view  in  Padre  Adan,  no  lloreis  duelos, 
which  Ticknor  mentions  as  a  good  example  of  his  lighter  ballads  : — 

Father  Adam,  good  old  fellow!  you've  no  reason  to  complain; 

Lucky  mortal  such  as  you  were  Earth  will  never  see  again. 

A  bright  and  brand-new  world  you  tasted  in  the  freshness  of  its  prime, 

Free  from  tailors,  free  from  drapers,  curses  that  came  on  with  time ; 

And  a  wife  without  a  mother ! — there  was  luck  without  a  flaw ! 

Yours  a  world  without  old  women,  a  wife  without  a  mother-in-law ! 

Never  murmur  at  the  serpent  that  he  led  you  both  astray ; 

A  mother-in-law  is  worse,  believe  me,  than  a  serpent  any  day. 

Had  Eve  listened  to  a  mother  in  the  place  of  Satan  there, 

The  morsel  would  have  been  all  Paradise  and  not  a  poor  half  pear. 


QUEVEDO.  559 

The  same  vein  of  light  mockery  and  banter  runs  through  almost  all 
Quevedo's  off-hand  verse,  and  it  is  by  this  and  prose  of  a  similar  character 
that  it  has  been  his  fate,  for  the  most  part,  to  be  judged.  Poor  Quevedo  ! 
Like  many  another  man,  he  would  have  been  no  doubt  sorely  disappointed 
could  he  have  foreseen  the  estimate  posterity  was  to  put  upon  him  and 
his  works.  Literary  vanity  and  ambition  were  certainly  not  among  his 
weaknesses,  but  still  there  were  productions  of  his  on  which  he  set  a 
value,  and  which  he  expected  would  be  valuable  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
The  subjects  were  weighty  and  important ;  he  had  spared  neither  time 
nor  labour  in  doing  justice  to  them,  and  had  brought  to  bear  upon  them 
all  the  thought  and  learning  of  a  meditative  and  studious  life.  But  the 
opinion  he  appealed  to  did  not  agree  with  his  own.  His  works  have  been 
forgotten,  and  his  trifles  have  made  him  famous.  Among  his  serious 
poems  there  is  a  sonnet  which  is  in  its  way  an  illustration  of  the  kind  of 
destiny  in  store  for  him  as  an  author ;  and  it  is  one  worth  an  attempt  at 
reproduction  for  its  own  sake.  It  is  his  version  of  the  Latin  epigram  on 
Home  and  the  Tiber  by  "Vitalis,  which  has  also  been  translated  by 
Joachim  du  Bellay,  and  from  him  againjby  Spenser  : — 

In  Home  thou  seekest  Home :  vain  quest  is  thine  ; 

That  Rome  thou  wilt  not  find  in  Eome  to-day ; 

The  walls  that  were  her  boast  are  crumbling  clay, 
And  its  own  sepulchre  the  Aventine. 
Where  once  it  reigned  low  lies  the  Palatine. 

Time  hath  defaced  the  very  medals ;  they 

Eecord  the  march  and  triumph  of  decay, 
But  of  old  Roman  story  scarce  a  line. 

The  Tiber  still  is  there,  Tiber  alone, 
That  kissed  her  feet  of  yore  with  humble  wave, 

And  now  rolls  past  her  ruins  with  a  moan. 
Rome  !     It  was  thy  endeavour  time  to  brave 

With  porphyry  and  marble :  they  are  gone  ; 
It  is  a  fleeting  river  marks  thy  grave. 

Quevedo's  solid  works  have  fared  no  better  than  the  temples  and 
palaces  of  Rome.  All  the  labour  and  learning  expended  upon  the  Life 
of  Marcus  Brutus,  The  Cradle  and  the  Grave,  and  Virtue  Militant,  have 
not  sufficed  to  make  them  lasting  monuments  of  his  theology  or  political 
philosophy ;  and  if  their  titles  are  known  outside  the  circle  of  bookworms 
and  bibliographers,  it  is  only  because  of  the  careless  fugitive  scraps  that 
fell  at  odd  moments  from  the  same  pen.  In  his  own  words — 

Huyo  lo  que  era  firme,  y  solamente 
Lo  fugitivo  permanece  y  dura. 

The  verdict  of  posterity  has  been,  in  effect,  that  in  theology,  philosophy, 
and  politics  there  are  Quevedos  by  the  score  on  the  shelves  of  every 
library,  but  that  there  is  only  one  Quevedo  of  the  Visions,  Paul  the 
Sharper,  and  Fortune  no  Fool. 

J.  0. 


560 


Satuntl  Jpbtorjr  af 


IT  may  well  seern  an  act  of  temerity  to  undertake  to  give  an  account  of 
the  nature  and  causes  of  human  apparel.  People  are  accustomed  to 
think  of  dress  as  something  utterly  capricious  and  lawless.  The  reasons 
which  one  might  antecedently  expect  to  govern  the  practices  of  men  and 
women  with  respect  to  clothing  seem  at  first  sight  conspicuous  by  their 
absence.  It  has  been  truly  observed  by  a  recent  writer  on  dress  that 
"  the  history  of  the  hat  is  a  true  history  of  the  sufferings  of  the  male 
head,  from  the  kettle-shaped  brown  helmet  to  the  modern  cylinder." 

It  is  this  apparent  want  of  rationality  in  dress  that  fits  it  in  an 
eminent  degree  to  be  the  theme  of  the  cynic  and  misanthrope.  In  any 
case  the  vast  amount  of  attention  given  to  the  labour  of  covering  up  and 
prettifying  this  poor  mortal  body  would  be  sure  to  lead  the  philosopher 
to  reflect  on  the  vanity  of  all  things  human.  But  when  it  is  added  to 
this  that  a  large  part  of  the  toil  expended  by  mankind  in  clothing  itself 
has  brought  forth  nothing  temporaiily  useful  or  even  intrinsically  beau- 
tiful, the  least  amount  of  reflection  is  sufficient  to  discover  the  rich 
vein  of  irony  which  underlies  the  subject.  Indeed,  we  know  nothing  so 
well  adapted  to  correct  a  too  nattering  view  of  the  species  as  to  brood 
for  an  hour  in  serious  meditation  over  a  history  of  costume. 

Is,  then,  the  philosophy  of  dress  nothing  more  than  a  specially  amus- 
ing chapter  in  the  cynic's  version  of  life  as  a  whole?  Can  nothing 
be  said  by  way  of  extenuation,  if  not  of  justification,  of  the  vagaries 
of  the  human  race  in  the  matter  of  garments'?  We  think  something 
may  be  said.  On  closer  inspection  there  appears  after  all  to  have  been 
a  method  in  the  madness  of  mankind  in  this  particular.  Under  all  that 
is  arbitrary,  accidental,  and  unsusceptible  of  rational  explanation,  we 
may  find  traces  of  a  sane  purpose.  The  theory  of  the  misanthrope,  how- 
ever picturesque  and  striking,  is,  like  many  other  picturesque  and  strik- 
ing theories,  an  exaggeration.  Dress  has  a  raison  d'etre  over  and  above 
the  mere  exhibition  of  the  stupendous  and  incorrigible  folly  of  human 
nature.  However  mixed  up  with  and  disguised  by  elements  of  irra- 
tional caprice,  principles  may  be  detected  which  servo  to  redeem  the  art 
of  dress  from  the  sweeping  condemnation  of  the  satirist.  Let  us  take  up 
the  cause  of  humanity  in  this  matter,  and  see  what  can  be  said  for  its 
behaviour. 

It  may  be  well  to  begin  with  the  somewhat  obvious  remark  that 
dress  is  so  far  natural  as  it  is  the  extension  of  one  of  Nature's  own  endow- 
ments. It  is  commonly  said  that  man  clothes  himself  for  four  principal 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS.  561 

reasons  :  Istly,  by  way  of  protection  against  external  forces ;  2ndly,  for  the 
sake  of  warmth ;  3rdly,  for  purposes  of  ornament ;  and,  lastly,  for  moral 
reasons.  Now,  Nature  clearly  supplies  animals,  including  man,  with  the 
rudiments  of  dress  in  the  first  three  senses,  if  not  in  the  fourth.  The 
horns  of  many  quadrupeds,  the  beaks  and  talons  of  birds,  and  the  nails  of 
our  own  species  are  the  germs  of  a  defensive  dress.  That  animals  need- 
ing to  maintain  bodily  heat  are  clothed  with  some  form  of  non-conducting 
covering  is  too  well  known  to  require  mentioning.  Finally,  the  researches 
of  Mr.  Darwin  and  other  naturalists  have  taught  us  that  many  features 
of  the  animal  teguments  have  been  retained,  if  not  acquired,  as  orna- 
mental adjuncts. 

In  a  large  sense,  then,  dress  is  based  on  Nature's  own  processes,  and 
this  simple  fact  must  be  sufficient  to  rescue  the  art  from  the  charge  of 
being  something  utterly  unnatural  and  absiird.  More  than  this,  it  may 
be  said  that  Nature  specially  enjoined  man  to  dress  himself.  By  leaving 
him  with  less  defensive,  protective,  and  ornamental  covering  than  many 
other  animals,  she  seems  to  have  said  that  she  trusted  to  his  finer  brain 
to  invent  the  means  of  providing  for  himself  a  suitable  outfit.  In  fact, 
man  might  quite  as  appropriately  be  defined  as  an  animal  that  has  to 
dress  itself,  as  he  has  been  defined  as  an  animal  that  cooks  its  food. 

We  may  see  the  close  connection  bet  ween  Nature's  clothing  and  man's 
artificial  clothing  in  another  way.  Our  hair  is  perfectly  insentient; 
the  hairdresser  can  lacerate  it  without  exciting  any  sensation.  Yet  we 
instinctively  think  of  it  as  part  of  our  sentient  organism  ;  and  when  the 
skin  of  the  head  is  sensitive,  and  pressure  on  the  head  causes  a  disagreeable 
feeling,  we  project  this  feeling  to  the  hair  tips.  In  quite  the  same  way 
we  come  to  include  our  apparel  in  our  own  conception  of  our  bodily 
organism.  The  same  psychological  principle  that  explains  our  localising 
sensation  in  the  extremity  of  the  hair,  explains  a  lady's  feeling  a  rude 
disarrangement  of  her  dress-trimmings  as  though  it  were  a  direct  attack 
on  her  organism.  Subjectively,  then — that  is,  in  our  way  of  thinking  and 
feeling — dress  stands  in  the  closest  relation  to  the  organic  productions  of 
Nature  herself. 

If  it  is  once  allowed  that  dress  of  some  kind  is  natural  to  man,  it  will 
be  impossible  to  reject  the  conclusion  that,  viewed  on  the  whole,  the 
progress  of  dress,  from  the  first  crude  tentatives  of  our  primitive  ancestors 
to  our  modern  elaborate  costumes,  has  many  points  of  resemblance  to  a 
natural  process  of  development.  If  there  were  good  reasons  for  man's 
beginning  to  dress  himself  in  the  early  stages  of  his  existence,  there  have 
been  equally  good  reasons  for  his  advancing  in  that  direction.  Just  as  the 
first  naive  experiment  was  adapted  to  early  wants  and  conditions  of  life, 
so,  speaking  roughly,  the  intricate  system  of  apparel  of  the  civilised  man 
of  to-day  is  adapted  to  our  present  wants  and  conditions.  And  the  pro- 
gress from  one  style  to  the  other,  so  far  as  history  and  other  records  enable 
us  to  say,  has  been  by  a  series  of  very  gradual  transitions,  exactly  answer- 
ing to  those  by  which  organic  forms  are  now  supposed  to  have  arisen. 

VOL.  ILII. — NO.  251.  27. 


562  THE  NATUEAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS. 

To  give  an  illustration  of  this  process.  The  modern  shoe  has  been 
evolved  by  a  succession  of  slight  modifications  and  enlargements  out  of  a 
very  simple  primitive  covering.  In  the  ages  of  stone  and  bronze,  man 
appears  to  have  protected  his  foot  by  a  piece  of  bark  or  leather  laid 
under  the  sole  and  fastened  in  a  very  simple  manner  about  the  foot  with 
straps.  Out  of  this  grew  the  sandal  with  its  broader  and  more  elaborate 
bands,  reaching  above  the  ankles,  such  as  we  see  it  represented  in  the  art 
of  ancient  Egypt,  and  later.  From  the  sandal,  again,  was  developed,  by 
the  addition  of  a  fine  leather  below  the  straps,  as  well  as  the  broadening 

J.       •*  O 

of  the  straps,  the  germ  of  the  shoe  proper,  an  arrangement  illustrated  by 
the  Greek  half-boot  jjcpipr/c).  The  completion  of  this  process  of  develop- 
ment was  the  doing  away  with  the  band,  and  the  making  of  the  upper 
leather  firmer. 

A  closer  inspection  of  the  process  by  which  the  art  of  dress  has  grown 
to  its  present  elaborate  form  will  show  that  it  conforms  very  closely  to 
the  idea  of  evolution  as  defined  by  modern  writers.  It  is  obvious  that 
dress  has  a  very  close  connection  with  the  human  organism  to  which  it 
has  to  mould  itself,  and  of  which,  indeed,  as  has  been  remarked,  it  may 
be  viewed  as  a  kind  of  extension  or  enlargement.  And  the  development 
of  dress  seems  to  mimic  the  process  of  organic  evolution  itself.  We  may 
describe  its  history  in  its  large  features  as  a  gradual  process  of  adaptation 
to  the  structure  of  the  body.  And  this  process  has,  of  necessity,  imitated 
that  of  organic  development  as  now  conceived.* 

If  we  take  the  first  rude  article  of  apparel,  out  of  which  all  dress 
seems  to  have  grown — the  waist-band,  or  rudimentary  apron — and  compare 
it  with  a  modern  equipment,  we  may  see  at  once  that  the  two  contrast 
with  one  another  very  much  as  a  low  and  a  high  organism.  The  one  is 
simple,  homogeneous,  not  differentiated  into  parts,  and  but  loosely  adapted 
to  the  bodily  form  ;  the  other  is  highly  complex,  differentiated  into  a 
number  of  unlike  parts,  all  of  which  are  closely  adapted  to  the  structural 
divisions  of  the  body  to  which  they  belong.  The  one  is  the  work  of  the 
weaver  alone ;  the  other  implies  the  constructive  work  of  the  seamstress 
or  tailor. 

The  early  and  comparatively  structureless  type  of  dress  may  be  seen 
surviving  even  in  classic  costume.  The  outer  garment,  the  amictus, 
which  included  the  male  pallium  (i/zartor)  and  the  female  peplum 
(TTtTrXoc),  was  a  structureless  rectangular  piece  of  cloth,  and,  as  the  ety- 
mology of  the  word  (amicere)  shows,  was  wrapped  round  the  figure ; 
while  the  inner  garment  (tunica,  ^n-wr)  was  said  to  be  "put  on  "  (in- 
duere).  Thus  it  represented,  in  its  want  of  a  fitting  shape,  the  primitive 
undifterentiated  covering.  Modern  dress,  as  a  whole,  is  pre-eminently  an 

*  The  parallelism  between  the  development  of  dress  and  organic  development  has 
been  worked  out  in  some  of  its  aspects  in  a  very  ingenious  work  entitled  "Katurge- 
schichtc  der  Kleidung,  von  Emanuel Hermann  (Vienna:  1878).  The  present  writer 
gladly  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  this  suggestive  little  book. 


THE  NATUEAL  HISTOEY  OF  DEESS.  563 

organic  system,  consisting  of  many  heterogeneous  parts,  fashioned  in  con- 
formity to  the  several  divisions  of  the  bodily  structure  to  which  it  has  to 
accommodate  itself.  In  it  are  to  be  found  only  occasional  survivals  of 
the  earlier  form,  as  in  the  shawl  and  Scotch,  plaid. 

It  has  been  pointed  out  by  the  writer  to  whom  reference  has  already 
been  made,  that  the  form  of  the  various  articles  of  dress  ha.s  adapted 
itself  not  only  to  the  structure  but  to  the  functions  of  the  parts  of  the 
organism  to  be  covered.  He  divides  garments  into  three  groups  of 
articles  :  Istly,  those  of  the  extremities — the  head,  the  hands,  and  the  feet ; 
2ndly,  those  of  the  connecting  organs — the  neck,  arms,  and  legs ;  and, 
3rdly,  those  of  the  fixed  trunk.  The  first,  having  to  adapt  themselves  to 
the  most  mobile  and  active  members  of  the  body,  are  the  freest,  being 
most  perfectly  detached  from  the  others,  and  most  easily  put  on  and  off. 
The  coverings  of  the  neck,  arms,  and  legs,  which  are  the  transmitters  of 
force,  and  share  to  some  extent  in  the  work  of  the  extremities,  come 
midway  in  point  of  mobility  between  those  of  the  extremities  and  of  the 
trunk.  The  clothing  of  the  latter,  which  is  comparatively  at  rest,  is, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  the  most  fixed  and  rigid  of  all. 

With  this  development  of  dress  in  heterogeneity  and  speciality  of 
form,  there  has  been  a  preservation  of  organic  unity.  This  has,  of  course, 
been  necessitated  to  some  extent  by  the  fact  that  all  parts  of  the  costume 
were  related  to  the  organic  structure  of  the  body.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
the  development  of  any  particular  branch  of  clothing  has  been  correlated 
with  that  of  other  branches.  The  modern  development  of  the  covering  of 
the  male  leg  curiously  illustrates  this  law  of  the  correlation  of  growth. 
Thus  the  appearance  of  the  first  hose  covering  the  thigh,  leg,  and  foot,  about 
the  eleventh  century,  was  connected  with  the  shortening  of  the  coat  about 
that  time.  A  further  shortening  of  this  last  garment  was  followed  by  the 
production  of  the  upper  hose  as  a  covering  for  the  thighs  only  (sixteenth 
century).  And  the  gradual  lengthening  of  this  article  of  dress  down- 
wards till  it  attained  its  present  form  of  loose  trouser  at  the  time  of  the 
French  Revolution,  was  naturally  followed  by  the  shortening  of  the  under 
hose  and  its  transformation  into  the  stocking,  and  finally  into  the  sock. 

This  gradual  development  of  dress  in  extent  and  complexity  has  in 
the  main  been  brought  about  by  the  action  of  the  deepest  force  at  work 
in  this  region  ;  namely,  the  need  of  retaining  bodily  warmth.  This  need 
must  obviously  have  increased  as  soon  as  our  race  began  to  migrate  to 
less  warmer  regions  than  those  in  which  it  is  supposed  to  have  been 
cradled.  In  addition  to  this  change  in  the  environment,  there  has  been 
a  change  in  the  organism  tending  to  the  same  result.  With  the  progress 
of  civilised  life  all  our  sensibilities  appear  to  have  grown  more  delicate, 
and  the  organism  of  a  ]ady  or  gentleman  living  in  London  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  incomparably  more  susceptible  to  changing  conditions 
of  temperature,  &c.  in  the  atmosphere  than  that  of  one  of  their  hardy 
Saxon  ancestors.  This  change  in  sensibility,  though  no  doubt  in  part  the 
effect  of  elaborate  dress,  is  also  its  most  fundamental  cause.  It  stands  in 

27—2 


564  THE  NATURAL  HISTOEY  OF  DRESS. 

intimate  relation  with  all  the  habits  of  an  advanced  state  of  civilisation, 
such  as  our  mode  of  heating  our  dwellings,  and  so  on.  One  may  say, 
indeed,  that  man  has  slowly  learnt  to  make,  out  of  dress,  a  sort  of  second 
skin.  How  much  our  garments  have  become  a  part  of  us  in  this  way 
is  seen  in  the  helplessness  of  a  person  when  he  loses  any  part  of  his 
equipment.  To  have  to  go  into  the  open  air  bareheaded  is  a  trial  to  a 
modern  Englishman,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  a  sense  of  this  natural  necessity 
of  clothes  which  underlies  the  pathos  that  combines  with  the  absurdity  of 
the  situation  when  a  man  is  suddenly  rendered  hatless  by  a  gust  of  wind. 

The  progress  of  the  art  of  clothing  is  marked  by  a  gradual  increase 
in  the  number  of  enveloping  layers,  so  that  dress  may  be  regarded  as 
building  itself  up  just  like  a  real  organic  tegument  by  adding  stratum 
to  stratum.  In  the  second  place,  this  progress  is  characterised  by  an 
increase  in  the  degree  of  fitness  to  the  several  parts  of  the  organism. 
In  each  of  these  ways  clothing  becomes  better  adapted  to  fulfil  its  most 
important  function — the  keeping  of  the  bodily  surface  at  a  comparatively 
equal  temperature. 

The  second  great  factor  in  bringing  about  this  development  of  dress, 
is  the  need  of  free,  unimpeded  movement.  This  force  must,  it  is  obvious, 
be  to  some  extent  opposed  to  the  needs  of  warmth.  Every  addition  to 
the  number  of  articles  of  clothing  is  a  slight  increase  in  the  difficulties  of 
locomotion.  A  system  of  heavy  bandages  tells  on  a  man  in  a  long  walk 
in  more  ways  than  one.  The  result  of  this  opposition  has  been  the  inven- 
tion of  materials  of  clothing  which  combine  lightness  with  warmth. 
Such  materials  gradually  come  to  displace  others  by  a  process  akin  to 
that  of  the  natural  selection  of  organic  modifications  which  bring  an  ad- 
vantage to  their  possessor. 

The  change  from  a  loose  enveloping  fold  to  a  closely-fitting  one,  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  is  the  other  result  of  a  growing  demand  for  a  non-con- 
ducting integument,  seems  also  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  free  movement.  We 
venture  to  affirm  that  an  Englishman  of  to-day  can  both  walk  more  freely 
and  swing  his  arms  more  amply  as  he  walks,  than  an  ancient  Roman  in 
his  IfiuTior,  or  pallium.  The  case  in  which  tightness  of  fit  is  most  plainly 
unfavourable  to  free  movement  is  that  of  a  modern  lady's  skirts ;  but 
then  this  is  not  really  the  case  of  adaptation  to  particular  parts  and 
members. 

Tightness  of  dress  would  in  general,  and  within  reasonable  limits, 
only  prove  unfavourable  to  movement  through  its  injurious  influence  on 
the  respiratory  and  other  functions  of  the  skin.  And  here,  too,  there  is 
to  be  noticed  a  progress  in  the  direction  of  the  most  advantageous  ar- 
rangement. Modern  dress,  in  contrast  to  earlier  forms,  seeks  to  combine 
a  certain  degree  of  porousness  with  closeness  of  fit.  A  glance  at  the  leg 
of  a  peasant  of  the  Roman  Campagna  may  tell  us  how  much  advancing 
civilisation  has  done  for  our  limbs  in  the  way  of  rendering  them  accessible 
to  the  air.  The  first  rude  skin  garments  must,  one  fancies,  apart  from  their 
weight,  have  proved  "  stuffy  "  in  more  senses  than  one. 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS.  565 

To  a  considerable  extent,  then,  the  ends  of  free  and  easy  movement, 
both  of  the  whole  body  and  of  the  separate  limbs,  have  concurrently 
been  satisfied  by  those  changes  of  dress  which  have  been,  in  the  first 
place,  due  rather  to  the  more  urgent  need  of  accumulating  and  retaining 
bodily  heat.  It  is  to  be  added,  however,  that  the  advance  of  civilisation 
tends  very  materially  to  lessen  the  importance  of  the  secondary  end. 
The  civilised  man  is  not  called  upon  to  do  the  feats  of  agility  which  are 
required  of  the  savage.  When  he  has  to  perform  a  series  of  nimble 
movements,  he  is  pretty  certain  to  look  a  little  awkward.  A  respect- 
ably dressed  citizen  suddenly  forced  to  get  out  of  the  road  of  a  runaway 
horse  is  apt  to  be  a  ludicrous  spectacle.  But  then  runaway  horses  are 
rare  phenomena,  as  the  story  of  John  Gilpin  amply  testifies,  and  the 
demands  made  on  the  flesh  of  the  languid  Englishman  of  to-day  in  this 
way  are  exceedingly  light.  Nothing  better  illustrates  the  absence  of 
the  need  of  rapid  movement  in  our  modern  form  of  civilisation  than 
the  huge  erection  of  the  hat.  The  savage  liable  to  sudden  invasion  by 
his  enemies  would,  we  may  be  certain,  never  have  taken  to  our  modern 
cylindrical  head- covering. 

Along  with  these  ends  of  warmth  and  freedom  of  movement  it  may 
be  well  to  mention  the  need  of  protection  against  natural  forces.  This 
seems  to  have  exercised  an  influence  on  the  covering  of  the  upper  and 
lower  extremities  of  the  body  only.  The  hat  with  its  horizontal  brim  has 
clearly  a  reference  to  the  sun's  rays — a  force  which  we  may  be  sure  our 
hardier  ancestors  were  not  wont  to  regard  as  a  hostile  one.  The  parasol 
and  the  fan,  which  last  the  Southern  lady  knows  how  to  use  so  gracefully 
out  of  doors,  may  be  regarded  as  an  extension  of  this  protective  species  of 
apparel.  At  the  other  extreme  the  foot  has  learnt  to  defend  itself  against 
the  ruder  forces  to  which  it  is  constantly  exposed.  In  each  case  the 
progress  of  the  protective  covering  in  efficiency  appears  to  be  related  to 
an  increase  of  sensibility.  It  might,  perhaps,  be  thought  that  civilisation 
would  tend  to  reduce  the  evils  of  the  foot,  by  making  rough  places  smooth. 
But  as  long  as  London  vestries  use  the  gravel  which  they  now  use  for 
making  and  mending  their  paths,  this  long-suffering  member  will  not 
dare  to  relax  its  precautions. 

The  progress  of  dress  may  be  viewed  in  part,  then,  as  the  resultant  of 
these  various  forces,  answering  to  obvious  needs  of  organic  life.*  How 
far  they  may  severally  have  contributed  to  the  actual  development  of 
dress,  we  need  not  seek  to  determine.  It  is  enough  if  we  are  able  roughly 
to  conceive  of  the  gradual  progress  of  the  art  of  clothing  as  brought  about 
by  the  combined  play  of  these  motives. 

It  is  worth  adding,  perhaps,  that  these  ends  have  not  always  been 
consciously  pursued.  Much  must  be  set  down  in  the  first  instance  to 

*  No  reference  lias  been  made  here  to  the  need  of  protection  against  adverse 
social  forces,  since  it  is  only  by  a  stretching  of  language  that  the  sword,  or  its  modern 
survival  the  cane,  can  be  called  an  article  of  dress. 


566  -THE  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  DRESS. 

pure  accident.  In  truth,  the  history  of  dress  resembles  a  process  of 
organic  evolution  in  this  respect,  that  it  is  the  product  of  spontaneous 
variation  and  natural  selection.  Certain  modifications  of  costume  come 
to  be  adopted  through  a  number  of  individual  motives,  and  out  of  these 
temporary  and  ever  renewed  individual  variations  there  emerge,  as  com- 
paratively permanent  forms,  those  modifications  which  are  found  to  have 
some  special  utility. 

The  reader  will  be  disposed  to  think  that  the  influence  of  utility  in 
the  determination  of  the  history  of  dress  has  here  been  greatly  exag- 
gerated. We  must,  therefore,  hasten  to  explain  that,  so  far,  we  have 
only  been  touching  one  aspect  of  the  development  of  .dress,  and  this  the 
least  striking  perhaps.  To  complete  our  account  of  the  evolution  of 
dress  we  must  view  it  not  only  on  its  useful,  but  also  on  its  ornamental, 
side.  Dress  resembles  the  natural  covering  of  the  lower  animals  in  this 
way,  too,  that  it  is  partly  subservient  to  the  needs  of  the  organism, 
partly  a  decorative  appendage.  This  innate  love  of  finery — shared,  in 
different  proportions  perhaps,  by  both  sexes — has  been  the  most  powerful 
motive  to  the  adoption  and  gradual  augmentation  of  dress. 

The  pleasure  derived  from  wearing  attractive  garments  cannot  be 
dignified  by  the  title  of  a  purely  sesthetic  enjoyment.  It  is  the  monopoly 
of  the  individual  who  thus  adorns  himself;  and  the  pleasures  of  art, 
properly  so  called,  are  above  all  monopoly.  This  impulse  must,  one 
supposes,  from  the  day  when  primitive  man  began  to  paint  his  body  or 
adorn  his  head  with  feathers,  have  led  to  a  constant  variation  in  his 
style  of  apparel.  It  is  of  the  nature  of  the  passion  to  be  insatiable  in 
its  craving  for  change  and  novelty.  We  look  for  an  element  of  novelty 
even  in  a  work  of  purely  impersonal  art,  and  in  the  personal  art  of  self- 
adornment  this  demand  is  omnipotent.*  Hence  what  answers  to  spon- 
taneous variation  in  the  region  of  dress  would  commonly  be  the  outcome 
of  this  restless  desire  to  look  finer  than  one's  neighbours.  In  this  way 
the  feeling  for  the  ornamental  side  of  dress  has  subserved  the  develop- 
ment of  it  as  a  utility.  Changes  introduced  by  individual  fancy  and 
the  love  of  the  novel  and  striking,  would  be  permanently  adopted  when 
found  to  bring  some  advantage,  as,  for  example,  increase  of  warmth. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  said,  that  the  growth  of  dress  in  mere  volume  and 
number  of  distinct  parts  has  been  greatly  promoted  in  the  first  instance 
by  this  impulse  of  self-adornment.  The  rude  love  of  beauty  shows 
itself  in  an  admiration  of  mere  quantity ;  and  the  men  and  women  who 
managed  to  amplify  their  garments  would  clearly  by  so  doing  attain  a 
richer  decorative  effect.  Hence  many  of  the  vagaries  everywhere  illus- 

*  The  misogynist  would  of  course  say  that  this  perpetual  love  of  change  is  a 
special  characteristic  of  the  fickle  feminine  mind.  He  might  even  find  some  plausibla 
support  for  his  views  in  natural  science.  Mr.  Darwin  writes : — "  As  any  fleeting 
fashion  in  dress  comes  to  be  admired  by  man  (?  woman),  so  with  birds  a  change  of 
almost  any  kind  in  the  structure  or  colouring  of  the  feathers  in  the  male  appears  to 
have  been  admired  by  the  female." — Descent  of  Man,  vol.  ii.  p.  74. 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS.  567 

trated  in  the  history  of  costume,  such,  as  the  elaborate  head-dress,  the 
ample  skirts,  and  the  long,  sweeping  train.  It  is  probable  that  much  of 
the  covering  of  the  body  originated  in  this  impulse  to  enlarge  what  we 
may  call  the  decorative  surface.  Thus,  for  example,  the  arms  may  pro- 
bably have  been  first  covered  for  the  sake  of  carrying  out  a  more  exten- 
sive decorative  scheme,  in  which  case  the  habit  of  wearing  sleeves  would 
be  retained  for  the  good  reason  that  by  their  very  use  the  arms  would 
grow  more  sensitive  to  changes  of  temperature. 

It  is  to  be  remarked  that,  while  the  useful  function  of  dress  has  thus 
to  some  extent  grown  out  of  its  ornamental,  there  has  been  a  reverse 
process.  Features  of  costume,  first  adopted  for  the  sake  of  some  utility, 
have  become  in  time  mere  ornamental  appendages.  This  illustrates  a 
truth,  to  be  spoken  of  more  fully  presently,  that  in  dress  the  love  of 
change  is  curiously  complicated  by  the  force  of  the  customary.  Many 
of  the  furbelows  of  a  modern  lady's  dress  really  represent  additions 
which  once  served  some  useful  purpose.  We  may  instance  the  rudimen- 
tary pocket,  which  in  some  recent  fashions  has  done  duty  as  a  mere  orna- 
ment. The  ladies'  hood,  which  is  now  so  popular,  the  shoe-buckles,  and 
the  gentlemen's  scarf-pins,  may  be  mentioned  as  familiar  illustrations  of 
once  useful  articles  taking  on  a  purely  ornamental  character.* 

Yet,  while  there  has  been  this  amount  of  harmony  between  the 
serviceable  and  the  purely  decorative  functions  of  dress,  it  is  evident 
that  they  have  been  to  a  considerable  extent  opposed  to  one  another. 
One  of  the  strongest  tendencies  observable  in  the  history  of  costume  is 
that  of  extending  the  range  of  dress,  upwards  in  the  shape  of  a  lofty 
head-dress,  downwards  in  the  form  of  a  train,  and,  one  might  perhaps 
add,  outwards.  Now,  since  all  these  modes  of  extension  are  accompanied 
by  obvious  practical  disadvantages,  the  progress  of  fashion  has  often 
looked  like  the  result  of  a  struggle  between  the  two  instincts  of  display 
and  common  sense,  now  the  one  force  prevailing,  now  the  other.  Thus 
the  feminine  fondness  for  ample  skirts,  or  for  long,  sweeping  trains,  has 
again  and  again  reached  the  point  at  which  any  further  progress  would 
be  incompatible  with  social  intercourse,  and  then  a  reaction  under  the 
leading  of  practical  reflection  has  set  in.f 

There  is  a  special  reason  for  this  opposition  between  the  useful  and 

*  It  is  not  impossible  that  something  analogous  to  this  occurs  in  the  development 
of  birds  and  other  classes  of  animals.  Thus  we  can  understand  that  after  a  certain 
style  of  colouring  had  been  acquired  by  a  species  as  a  protection  against  enemies, 
and  this  had,  owing  to  changed  external  conditions,  ceased  to  have  its  first  value,  any 
tendency  by  individual  variation  to  drop  this  habitual  hue.  might  lead  to  a  rejection 
by  the  female,  whose  taste  would  pretty  certainly  be  slightly  modified  by  wont  and 
custom.  But  since  the  feminine  mind  is  proverbially  prone  to  change,  it  cannot  be 
supposed  that  this  has  been  an  important  factor. 

t  A  similar  thing  meets  us  in  the  history  of  bird-ornaments.  Mr.  Darwin, 
writing  of  birds,  says : — "  The  various  ornaments  possessed  by  the  males  are  certainly 
of  the  highest  importance  to  them  (as  means  of  attracting  the  females),  for  they  have 
been  acquired  in  some  cases  at  the  expense  of  greatly  impeded  powers  of  flight  or  of 


568  THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS. 

the  ornamental  in  dress.  Costume  has  always  aimed  at  expressing  social 
rank.  It  is  one  of  the  characteristic  excellences  of  the  higher  grades  of 
society  that  they  lead  a  life  of  comparative  inactivity.  Consequently,  a 
style  of  apparel  which  is  patently  unfitted  for  the  rude  work  of  common 
people  has  naturally  been  selected  as  the  distinguishing  garb  of  the  high 
and  noble.  This  circumstance  goes  far  to  account  for  many  of  the 
awkward  and  ridiculous  features  in  dress  which  were  first  adopted  by 
members  of  the  upper  stratum  of  society  and  then  borrowed  by  the 
classes  below  this.  The  popularity  of  the  tight  shoe,  for  example,  may 
ultimately  be  due  to  a  considerable  extent  to  the  fact  that  it  is  obviously 
incompatible  with  any  kind  of  severe  bodily  exertion. 

We  have  regarded  the  sesthetic'side  of  dress  as  wholly  a  matter  of 
individual  feeling,  and,  therefore,  as  liable  to  constant  change.  And  we 
have  authority  for  so  doing.  A  recent  lady  writer  on  the  question  of 
woman's  dress  writes  : — "  Women  usually  like  something  which  gives 
them  height,  piquancy,  and,  above  all,  conspicuousness."  If  this  is  true 
of  the  nineteenth-century  Englishwoman,  it  is  still  more  true  of  women 
in  a  lower  grade  of  culture.  It  is  this  feminine  instinct  to  attract  which 
lies  at  the  root  of  that  perpetual  change  of  fashion  which  marks  the  his- 
tory of  dress.  It  is  the  great  factor  in  the  dynamics  of  dress.  At  the 
same  time  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  there  is  a  certain  persistence 
in  costume.  Not  only  does  a  particular  style  of  apparel  maintain  its 
ground  when  it  is  found  to  answer  some  practical  end,  but  it  sometimes 
persists,  too,  when  it  has  no  such  raison  d'etre. 

A  good  deal  of  this  persistence  must  be  set  down  to  the  more  stupid 
inertia  of  custom,  which,  as  etymology  shows,  is  so  closely  connected  with 
costume.  The  way  in  which  crinoline  managed  to  keep  its  ground  after 
criticism  had  done  its  best  to  batter  and  demolish  it,  is  a  good  example 
of  this  inertia.  The  persistent  adoption  of  the  tight-laced  corset,  in 
spite  of  all  that  good  sense  and  science  have  said  about  its  enormity,  is 
another  illustration.  Custom  may  lead  to  the  survival  of  a  thing  even 
when  no  rational  justification  of  it  can  be  found.  The  history  of  fashion 
in  dress,  like  the  history  of  political  constitutions,  is  the  result  of  a  per- 
petual compromise  between  the  principles  of  change  and  persistence. 

Yet  conservatism  in  dress,  at  least,  must  not  be  regarded  as  wholly 
the  outcome  of  an  irrational  and  pig-headed  obstinacy.  As  we  have 
said,  many  features  of  dress  have  become  more  or  less  permanent  be- 
cause they  were  found  to  be  useful  or  advantageous  in  some  way.  To 
this  may  now  be  added  that,  on  the  ornamental  side,  those  varieties 
which  have  been  found  to  be  generally  pleasing,  answering  to  the  simple 
unsophisticated  tastes  of  human  nature,  have  in  the  long  run  outlived 
those  which  have  wanted  this  characteristic. 

winning." — The  Descent  of  Man,  vol.  ii.  p.  97.  The  male  bird  of  paradise  is  troubled 
by  his  fine  plumes  during  a  high  wind,  as  the  human  male  is  troubled  by  his  head- 
ornament  in  like  circumstances. 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS.  569 

At  first  sight,  no  doubt,  it  looks  as  if  there  could  be  no  such  force 
at  work  in  the  history  of  dress  as  average  aesthetic  feeling.  The  per- 
petual fluctuation  of  taste  in  dress  is  patent,  and  has,  indeed,  become 
proverbial.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  the  Frenchman  who  invented  the 
saying  chacun  a  son  gout,  was  thinking  of  the  erratic  and  apparently 
lawless  manifestations  of  taste  in  matters  of  costume.  Still,  though 
greatly  disguised  by  the  play  of  those  impulses  of  individual  caprice 
already  referred  to,  there  are  such  things  as  normal  human  feelings,  to 
which  the  ornamental  side  of  dress  may  or  may  not  correspond,  and 
these  feelings  have  been  a  concurrent  factor  in  the  actual  evolution  of 
dress. 

This  average  normal  taste  rests  in  part  on  constant  attributes  of 
human  nature.  Bright  colour,  for  example,  is  pleasing  to  every  normal 
eye,  and  so  far  dress  which  supplies  the  organ  with  this  pleasure  answers 
to  a  permanent  aesthetic  need.  Much  of  what  is  here  called  average 
aesthetic  sensibility  is,  however,  the  slow  growth  of  ages,  and  limited  by 
the  stage  of  general  culture  attained  by  a  community.  For  example, 
the  glaring  contrasts  of  colour  in  dress  which  delight  the  eye  of  a  rustic 
would  offend  the  eye  of  a  cultivated  man,  if  only  because  they  jar  on  that 
sense  of  the  charm  of  feminine  unobtrusiveness  which  has  become  a  part 
of  his  nature.  Thus  the  average  aesthetic  feelings  are  partly  constant 
among  all  individuals  and  races,  partly  vary  with  the  stage  of  mental 
development  as  a  whole.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  they  are  not 
precisely  the  same  for  any  two  races  or  nationalities,  since  they  receive 
a  certain  tinge  from  the  special  temperament  and  circumstances  of  a 
people. 

Now  it  can  be  shown,  we  think,  that  the  actual  progress  of  dress  on 
its  artistic  side  has  illustrated  a  tendency  to  adapt  itself  to  the  average 
taste  of  the  age.  It  is  by  no  means  easy  to  disentangle  this  factor  from 
the  effect  of  merely  accidental  fashion.  It  must  be  remembered  that 
custom  has  a  profound  influence  on  taste  itself.  We  are  apt  to  judge 
that  to  be  aesthetically  right  to  which  we  are  accustomed.  And  this 
because  our  surroundings,  whatever  their  intrinsic  worth,  take  a  familiar 
and  friendly  aspect  through  wont  and  association.  In  a  large  sense, 
perhaps,  it  may  be  said  that  the  highest  feeling  for  the  beautiful  is  nothing 
but  a  response  to  our  habitual  environment.  Hence  when  any  fashion 
happens  from  any  cause  to  have  set  in,  and  to  persist  for  a  while,  the 
liking  of  what  is  familiar  leads  people  to  attribute  to  this  an  aesthetic 
value. 

The  only  way  to  distinguish  between  the  natural,  unsophisticated 
taste  of  an  age  and  people  and  this  artificially  induced  taste,  is  by  taking 
pretty  extensive  periods,  and  inquiring  what  is  permanent  in  the  different 
styles  adopted,  or  rather,  perhaps,  about  what  points  the  successive 
forms  of  fashion  appear  to  oscillate.  In  this  way  it  will  be  possible  to 
get  a  rough  idea  of  the  standard  of  taste  in  dress  for  the  particular  period 
considered.  And  this  standard  will,  as  might  be  expected,  be  found  to 


570  THE  NATUKAL  HISTOKY  OF  DRESS. 

bear  a  close  relation  to  the  stage  of  aesthetic  development,  as  a  whole, 
reached  by  the  community  in  question.  When  the  {esthetic  feelings  of  a 
people  have  been  broadened  and  deepened,  there  has  inevitably  followed 
an  improvement  in  the  style  of  dress.  The  rapid  growth  of  the  visual 
arts,  reacting  on  popular  taste,  has  always  had  an  elevating  influence  on 
dress.  Under  such  aesthetic  development  must  be  included  the  growth 
of  the  intellectual  perceptions  of  harmony,  fitness,  &c.  It  is  hardly  too 
much  to  say  that  all  intellectual  progress  has  tended  to  improve  taste  in 
dress  by  investing  it  with  richer  associations  and  a  deeper  significance. 
This  might  be  illustrated,  perhaps,  by  a  comparison  of  the  amount  of 
attention  which  the  subject  of  dress  receives  at  the  hands  of  our  chief 
poets  in  different  epochs. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  speak  of  the  aesthetic  influences  which  have 
acted  on  dress  apart  from  moral  influences.  In  dress  the  aesthetic  and 
ethic  aspects  are  closely  connected.  Ideas  of  decency  and  modesty  in- 
sensibly modify  a  people's  idea  of  what  is  beautiful  in  costume.  On  the 
other  hand  there  is  a  large  amount  of  direct  opposition  between  the  two 
ends.  Severe  moral  ideas  have  always  tended  towards  asceticism;  and  it 
is  obvious  that  certain  moral  and  religious  ideas,  such  as  humility,  would 
be  averse  to  any  ample  display  in  dress.  And  thus  we  find  that  in  the 
history  of  English  costume  there  has  been  a  struggle  between  the  puritanic 
impulse  to  eschew  vain  show,  and  mortify  the  flesh,  and  the  generous 
impulse  of  the  natural  man  to  adorn  life  and  add  to  its  grace.  The 
growth  of  the  aesthetic  sense,  as  a  whole,  has  been  the  outcome  of  many  a 
hard  conflict,  and  nowhere  has  this  been  more  apparent  than  in  the 
domain  of  costume. 

The  power  of  self-adjustment  of  dress  to  the  stage  of  aesthetic  culture 
reached  at  the  time  is  analogous  to  an  organic  process.  Just  as  the 
preservation  of  forms  of  apparel  found  to  be  serviceable  answer  to  natural 
selection  in  the  biological  region,  so  the  survival  of  forms  aesthetically 
preferable  answers  to  what  is  known  in  biology  as  sexual  selection. 
According  to  Mr.  Darwin,  many  of  the  ornaments  of  birds  and  other 
animals  have  been  acquired  through  the  repeated  preference  on  the  part 
of  females  of  males  accidentally  born  with  such  telling  points  in  their 
favour.  Hence  the  force  that  selects  and  preserves  is  clearly  something 
like  an  aesthetic  sense ;  and  what  is  important  is  that  this  feeling  is 
supposed  to  be  pretty  constant  for  a  large  number  of  generations.  If,  for 
example,  the  eye  for  symmetrical  markings  and  beautiful  gradations 
of  colour  had  not  been  possessed  by  many  successive  generations  of 
female  argus  pheasants,  it  is  probable  that  the  beautiful  ocelli  of 
which  Mr.  Darwin  tells  us  would  not  have  been  acquired  by  the  males 
of  the  species. 

The  comparative  permanence  of  aesthetically  suitable  forms  and 
colours  in  human  dress  is  due  to  sexual  selection.  Only  the  sex  that 
has  the  privilege  here  is  rather  the  male  than  the  female.  In  our  species 
there  is  not  a  wide  scope  for  rivalry  among  the  males  in  the  matter  of 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS.  571 

display  of  attractive  colours.  In  the  military  age  there  was  probably 
more  room  for  this  kind  of  emulation ;  but  since  society  has  become 
industrial  the  fascinations  of  male  attire  have  been  greatly  reduced. 
Nowadays  an  eager  and  anxious  lover  may  think  that  his  success  will 
turn  on  the  perfect  fit  of  his  coat  or  the  faultless  arrangement  of  his  tie. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  such  exceptions  as  Balzac's  Modeste  Hignon,  women  seem, 
on  the  whole,  to  attach  but  little  weight  to  these  superficial  qualifications. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  commonly  allowed  by  women  themselves  that  the 
amount  of  time  and  attention  bestowed  on  dress  by  their  sex  is  related  to 
the  end  of  attracting  the  other  and  sluggish  sex.  It  would  be  curious,  if 
we  had  time,  to  inquire  why  the  competition  in  self-adornment,  with  a  view 
to  attract  the  opposite  sex,  has  become  shifted  in  the  case  of  our  species 
from  the  male  to  the  female.  Is  it  that  women  are  more  searching  than 
men,  and  look  not  at  the  outward  man  ]  or  that,  owing  to  the  backward- 
ness of  the  human  male,  the  function  of  attraction  has  devolved  on  the 
naturally  retiring  female  ? 

It  would  thus  look  as  though  men's  taste  is  the  great  ruling  circum- 
stance in  the  selection  of  dress  as  an  aesthetic  object.  The  vagaries  of 
feminine  caprice  must  oscillate  about  the  point  of  the  average  male 
judgment.  In  choosing  her  dress  a  woman  keeps  one  eye  on  her 
own  individual  ideal  of  herself,  but  the  other  eye  is  fixed  on  the  ideal 
which  she  conceives  the  brutal  sex  to  have  fashioned  and  set  up.  At  the 
same  time  it  is  plain  that  the  average  male  taste  stands  in  a  pretty  close 
relation  to  that  of  the  other  sex  of  the  same  period.  For  one  thing, 
women  have  much  to  do  with  laying  the  foundations  of  the  male  taste 
in  early  life,  so  that  their  ideas  naturally  have  a  good  deal  of  influence. 
Besides  this,  a  large  proportion  of  men  are  considered,  by  women  at  least, 
to  be  quite  destitute  of  taste,  and,  being  good-naturedly  half  disposed  to 
acquiesce  in  this  view,  they  are  ready  to  accept  women's  judgment  in 
matters  of  dress  as  their  own.  And  thus  we  may  say  with  tolerable 
accuracy  that  it  is  the  average  taste,  not  simply  of  the  male  sex,  but  of 
the  community  as  a  whole,  that  determines  the  relatively  permanent 
directions  in  the  progress  of  the  art  of  dress. 

Probably  enough  has  been  said,  in  this  slight  analysis  of  the  influences 
at  work,  to  show  that  the  history  of  dress  is  not  altogether  the  arbitrary 
and  irrational  thing  which  at  first  sight  it  might  appear.  That  there  is 
much  in  the  temporary  fluctuations  of  costume  which  is  accidental  and 
capricious  nobody  doubts.  The  initial  impulse  that  determines  the  course 
of  a  fashion  is  often  insignificant  enough,  and  nobody  supposes  that  the 
occult  authorities  that  fix  the  novelties  in  Paris  are  invariably  wiser  or 
more  highly  endowed  with  aesthetic  insight  than  many  of  those  for  whom 
they  legislate.  Yet  beneath  these  surface  movements,  which  are  often 
exceedingly  intricate,  one  can  discern  larger  and  more  enduring  currents, 
the  laws  of  which  are  to  some  extent  discoverable. 

Viewed  as  a  whole,  then,  the  progress  of  the  dressmaker's  art,  from 
its  first  naive  tentatives  to  its  present  elaborate  achievements,  appears 


572  THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  DRESS. 

to  be  a  fairly  reasonable  process.  Possibly  at  this  present  moment  we 
are  doomed  to  be  overdressed,  except  when  custom  allows  one  sex  to  run 
to  the  other  extreme.  Yet  nobody  will  dispute  that  our  modem  equip- 
ment, with  all  its  drawbacks,  is,  on  the  whole,  adapted  to  the  general 
conditions  of  civilised  life,  and  could  not  be  exchanged  for  the  simple  and 
scanty  attire  of  our  ancestors. 

And  just  as  the  development  of  dress  under  one  aspect  answers  to  grow- 
ing material  wants,  so  under  another  aspect  it  expresses  the  growth  of  the 
intellectual  and  emotional  nature  of  man ;  his  sensibility  to  the  charm  of 
light,  colour,  and  form ;  his  perception  of  the  harmonious  and  appropriate, 
the  decent,  and  so  on.  The  art  of  dress  is  not  something  apart  from  the 
whole  social  life,  but  is  organically  connected  with  it  by  numerous  nerve- 
like  filaments.  No  considerable  change  in  the  aesthetic  or  moral  feelings 
of  a  community  has  been  without  its  effect  on  dress ;  and  the  history  of 
costume  in  its  main  features  is  one  index  to  the  growth  of  a  people's 
manners,  ideas,  and  emotions. 

Naturalists  have  familiarised  us  with  the  idea  that  the  development 
of  the  individual  follows  the  lines  of  the  development  of  the  race,  and 
may,  indeed,  be  regarded  as  a  condensed  narrative  of  this.  The  same  thing 
will  be  found  to  hold  good  to  some  extent  with  respect  to  dress.  The 
nineteenth-century  infant  is  not,  indeed,  left  in  the  condition  of  primitive 
man  with  his  one  meagre  garment.  Yet  in  the  simplicity  of  its  costume 
it  forcibly  suggests  the  earlier  homogeneous  style  of  apparel.  The  indi- 
vidual takes  to  separate  coverings  for  different  parts  of  the  body  only 
when  the  functions  of  life  increase  and  locomotion  becomes  the  most 
important  of  his  experiences.  So,  too,  on  its  moral  and  aesthetic  side,  the 
dress  of  infancy  and  childhood  illustrates  the  growing  mental  development 
of  the  individual  and  of  the  race.  The  comparative  innocence  and  na'ivete 
of  primitive  man  is  reflected  in  the  infant,  and  hence  we  accord  to  it  the 
same  liberties  with  respect  to  dress.  So,  again,  the  pink  or  blue  bow  of 
the  first  year  or  two  exactly  answers  to  the  rudimentary  aesthetic  sensi- 
bility of  this  period  of  individual  existence,  and  of  the  corresponding 
stage  of  racial  development. 

The  aim  of  the  present  paper  has  been  to  prove  that  the  past  history 
of  dress  has  its  rationale  and  its  causes.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to 
consider  the  subject  of  dress  on  its  practical  side.  It  is  no  doubt  always 
a  great  step  to  take  to  pass  from  what  is  to  what  ought  to  be.  Yet  if,  as 
we  have  been  trying  to  prove,  the  past  movements  in  the  development 
of  dress  have  arisen  out  of  natural  and  rational  feelings  and  desires,  it 
may  be  possible,  after  our  examination  of  these  impulses,  to  construct  a 
rough  ideal  of  dress  for  the  future,  which  shall  satisfy  the  ends  of  utility 
and  beauty  alike. 

J.  S. 


573 


gr. 


IT  is  certainly  strange  that  in  the  Life  of  Lord  Macaulay  we  are 
nowhere  told  how  he  received  Mr.  Carlyle's  article  on  Boswell.  He 
must,  of  course,  have  seen  that  to  no  small  extent  it  was  meant  as  an 
answer  to  his  famous  essay  in  the  Edinburgh  Eeview.  He  must,  we 
should  feel  sure,  have  written  about  it,  and  written  strongly,  too,  in  his 
letters  to  his  sisters  and  friends.  In  the  Life  of  Johnson  that  he  wrote 
many  years  later  for  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  we  can  trace,  iinless 
we  are  greatly  mistaken,  certain  effects  of  this  literary  strife.  He  no 
more  answers  Mr.  Carlyle  directly  by  name  than  Falstaff  answered  the 
Chief  Justice ;  but  he  might,  when  he  had  finished  his  biography, 
equally  well  with  Falstaff,  have  exclaimed,  "  This  is  the  right  fencing 
grace ;  tap  for  tap,  and  so  part  fair."  Mr.  Carlyle,  in  writing  of  John- 
son's wife,  had  said  :  "  Johnson's  marriage  with  the  good  widow  Porter 
has  been  treated  with  ridicule  by  many  mortals,  who  apparently  had 
no  understanding  thereof.  ...  In  the  kind  widow's  love  and  pity 
for  him,  in  Johnson's  love  and  gratitude,  there  is  actually  no  matter  for 
ridicule."  "  No  matter  for  ridicule ! "  we  can  imagine  Macaulay  crying  out. 
"  I  will  make  the  marriage  more  ridiculous  than  ever."  He  certainly 
set  to  work  in  good  earnest  to  make  both  Johnson  and  his  wife  seem  as 
absurd  as  possible.  He  was  not  afraid  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  charge  of  want  of 
understanding.  Others  had  chastised  with  whips,  but  he  would  chastise 
with  scorpions.  Here,  then,  we  have  two  of  the  greatest  writers  of  this 
century  altogether  at  variance  about  the  marriage  of  one  of  the  greatest 
writers  of  last  century.  Johnson  himself  certainly  saw  nothing  ridiculous 
in  his  marriage.  Mr.  Carlyle  also  sees  nothing  ridiculous.  Macaulay, 
perhaps  with  more  than  the  usual  confidence  of  a  bachelor,  finds  in  it 
nothing  but  food  for  laughter  and  amazement.  Perhaps  modesty  ought 
to  lead  us  to  say, 

Non  nostrum  inter  vos  tantas  componere  lites. 

Nevertheless,  the  question  is  not  an  uninteresting  one ;  the"materials  on 
which  to  found  a  judgment  are  few  and  open  to  all,  and  a  final  decision 
seems  possible.  Macaulay  says  : — 

"  While  leading  this  vagrant  and  miserable  life,  Johnson  fell  in  love. 
The  object  of  his  passion  was  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Porter,  a  widow  who  had 
children  as  old  as  himself.  To  ordinary  spectators  the  lady  appeared  to 
be  a  short,  fat,  coarse  woman,  painted  half  an  inch  thick,  dressed  in  gaudy 
colours,  and  fond  of  exhibiting  provincial  airs  and  graces,  which  were  not 
exactly  those  of  the  Queensberrys  and  Lepels.  To  Johnson,  however, 


574  LOKD  MACAULAY  AND  DK.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE. 

whose  passions  were  strong,  whose  eyesight  was  too  weak  to  distinguish 
ceruse  from  natural  bloom,  and  who  had  seldom  or  never  been  in  the 
same  room  with  a  woman  of  real  fashion,  his  Titty,  as  he  called  her,  was 
the  most  beautiful,  graceful,  and  accomplished  of  her  sex.  That  his 
admiration  was  unfeigned  cannot  be  doubted,  for  she  was  as  poor  as 
himself.  She  accepted,  with  a  readiness  which  did  her  little  honour,  the 
addresses  of  a  suitor  who  might  have  been  her  son."  Macaulay  goes 
on  to  tell  how  Johnson  set  up  a  school.  After  asserting  that  Johnson 
himself  was  unfit  for  the  life  of  a  schoolmaster,  he  adds  :  "  Nor  was  the 
tawdry,  painted  grandmother  whom  he  called  his  Titty  well  qualified  to 
make  provision  for  the  comfort  of  young  gentlemen.  David  Garrick, 
who  was  one  of  the  pupils,  used,  many  years  later,  to  throw  the  best 
company  of  London  into  convulsions  of  laughter  by  mimicking  the 
endearments  of  this  extraordinary  pair."  Some  pages  further  on,  in 
describing  Mrs.  Johnson's  death,  he  says :  "  Many  people  had  been  sur- 
prised to  see  a  man  of  his  genius  and  learning  stooping  to  every  drudgery, 
and  denying  himself  almost  every  comfort,  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
a  silly,  affected  old  woman  with  superfluities,  which  she  accepted  with 
but  little  gratitude." 

Assuming  for  the  moment  that  Mrs.  Porter  was  such  as  Macaulay 
describes  her ;  assuming,  also,'that  Johnson  in  his  wooing  and  the  seven- 
teen years  of  his  married  life  never  discovered  that  her  charms,  such  as 
they  were,  were  due  to  art,  it  most  certainly  was  not  his  eyesight  that 
was  at  fault.  It  is  strange  how'any  one  so  well  read  in  his  Boswell  as 
Macaulay  most  certainly  was,  could  have  maintained  that  Johnson's 
eyesight  was  too  weak  to  distinguish  ceruse  from  natural  bloom.  There 
was,  no  doubt,  some  great  defect  in  Johnson's  sight.  Our  belief  is  that  he 
could  not  see  things  at  a  glance,  but  that  if  time  were  given  him  he 
could  distinguish  clearly  enough.  At  all  events,  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  and  in  good  health,  he  could  tell  the  hour  by  the  town  clock  of 
Lichfield.  Boswell  records  it  was  wonderful  how  accurate  his  observa- 
tion of  visual  objects  was,  notwithstanding  his  imperfect  eyesight,  owing 
to  a  habit  of  attention.  Moreover,  it  was  noticed  that  so  far  from  being 
indifferent  to  the  appearance  and  the  dress  of  ladies,  he  was,  on  the  con- 
trary, most  observant.  "  The  ladies  with  whom  he  was  acquainted  agree 
that  no  man  was  more  nicely  and  minutely  critical  in  the  elegance 
of  female  dress."  Miss  Burney  says  just  the  same.  "  It  seems,"  she 
writes,  "  he  always  speaks  his  mind  concerning  the  dress  of  ladies  ;  and 
all  ladies  who  are  here  (i.e.  at  Streatham)  obey  his  injunctions  im- 
plicitly, and  alter  whatever  he  disapproves.  .  .  .  Notwithstanding 
he  is  sometimes  so  absent,  and  always  so  near-sighted,  he  scrutinises  into 
every  part  of  almost  everybody's  appearance."  In  another  part  of  her 
diary  she  writes :  "  I  believe  his  blindness  is  as  much  the  effect  of  absence 
as  of  infirmity,  for  he  sees  wonderfully  at  times."  Madame  Piozzi's  testi- 
mony more  than  bears  this  out.  "  No  accidental  position  of  a  riband," 
shs  says,  "  escaped  him,  so  nice  was  his  observation,  and  so  rigorous  his 


LORD  MACAULAY  AND  DE.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE.  575 

demands  of  propriety."  She  tells  how  "  a  lady  whose  accomplishments 
he  never  denied  (Mrs.  Montagu,  we  believe),  came  to  our  house  one  day 
covered  with  diamonds,  feathers,  <fec.,  and  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
chat  with  her  as  usual.  I  asked  him  why,  when  the  company  was  gone. 
'  Why,  her  head  looked  so  like  that  of  a  woman  who  shows  puppets,' 
said  he,  '  and  her  voice  so  confirmed  the  fancy,  that  I  could  not  hear  her 
to-day ;  when  she  wears  a  large  cap  I  can  talk  to  her.'"  In  fact  there 
is  good  evidence  that  he  had  in  his  early  days  interfered  with  his  wife  as 
much  as  at  Streatham  he  interfered  with  Mrs.  Thrale  and  her  guests. 
He  once  told  Mrs.  Thrale  "  that  Mrs.  Johnson's  hair  was  eminently  beau- 
tiful— quite  blonde,  like  that  of  a  baby ;  but  that  she  fretted  about  the 
colour,  and  was  always  desirous  to  dye  it  black,  which  he  very  judiciously 
hindered  her  from  doing."  It  is  abundantly  clear  then  that,  if  Mrs. 
Johnson  was  the  tawdry,  painted  grandmother  that  Macaulay  describes, 
Johnson,  so  far  as  his  eyesight  went,  would  not  long  have  been  deceived 
by  her  ceruse.  If  he  was  blind,  it  was  the  blindness  of  a  lover. 

But  is  the  picture  that  Macaulay  draws  correct  ?  Has  he  not  himself 
laid  on  the  colour  thickly,  and  added  ceruse  where,  perhaps,  there  was 
already  ceruse  enough  ?  What  are  the  authorities  to  which  he  has  had 
access  1  None  of  Johnson's  biographers  had  ever  seen  the  lady.  All  the 
descriptions,  therefore,  that  we  have  of  her  are  secondhand,  except, 
indeed,  a  few  passages  in  which  Johnson  himself  has  described  her. 
What  is  known  of  her,  however,  is  chiefly  from  the  anecdotes  he  told 
about  her,  and  from  the  accounts  given  of  her  to  the  various  biographers 
by  her  daughter,  Miss  Porter,  by  Garrick,  Hector,  Hawkesworth,  blind 
Miss  Williams,  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  and  old  Mr.  Levett.  She  belonged  to 
an  old  county  family.  In  the  register  of  her  birth  her  father  is  entered 
Esquire,  at  a  time,  too,  when  this  title  was  not  lightly  given.  Johnson 
on  her  tombstone  describes  her  as  "  Antiqua  Jarvisiorum  gente  orta." 
Her  family  had  once  possessed  nearly  the  whole  lordship  of  Great  Peatling 
(about  2,000  acres),  in  Leicestershire.  She  was  born  in  February,  1689. 
She  had  married  a  mercer  at  Birmingham,  named  Porter.  When  John- 
son made  her  acquaintance  her  husband  was  still  living.  He  had  an 
opportunity,  therefore,  of  studying  her  character  at  a  time  when  he  could 
never  have  dreamt  of  marrying  her.  Nor  in  all  likelihood  was  his  judg- 
ment about  women  so  untrained  as  Macaulay  says.  Likely  enough  he 
"  had  seldom  or  never  been  in  the  same  room  with  a  woman  of  real 
fashion."  We  may,  in  passing,  raise  a  doubt  whether  the  son  of  a  country 
tradesman,  who  had  inherited  from  his  father  just  twenty  pounds,  and 
who  had  to  make  his  way  in  life,  would  have  been  guided  in  his  choice 
of  a  wife  by  the  sight  even  of  half  a  score  of  women  of  fashion.  How- 
ever, he  had,  as  we  know,  from  his  earliest  years  always  met  with  "a  kind 
reception  in  the  best  families  at  Lichfiekl."  Among  his  friends  he  reckoned 
his  godfather,  Dr.  Swinfen,  who  is  described  as  being  a  gentleman  of 
landed  property ;  Mr.  Levett,  another  gentleman  of  fortune ;  Captain 
Garrick,  the  father  of  the  great  actor ;  Mr.  Howard,  a  proctor  in  the 


576  LOKD  MACAULAY  AND   DE.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE. 

Ecclesiastical  Court ;  and  Mr.  "Walmesley,  the  registrar.  Mr.  Walmes- 
ley's  father  had  been  chancellor  of  the  diocese  and  member  for  the  city. 
"In  most  of  these  families,"  writes  Boswell,  "he  was  in  the  company  of 
ladies — particularly  at  Mr.  Walmesley's,  whose  wife  and  sisters-in-law, 
daughters  of  a  baronet,  were  remarkable  for  good  breeding."  Johnson 
was  not  likely  ever  in  life  to  have  to  do  with  the  Queensberrys  and 
Lepels.  It  mattered  little  to  him,  therefore,  what  might  be  their  airs 
and  graces.  But  provincial  airs  and  graces — the  airs  and  graces,  that  is 
to  say,  which  as  much  became  ladies  who  spent  their  whole  life  in  the 
country,  as  courtly  airs  and  graces  became  the  ladies  of  St.  James's — were 
surely  not  unknown  to  him. 

But  it  may  be  urged  we  are  making  the  case  still  worse.  If  Johnson 
was  not  half  blind ;  if  he  had  mixed  with  ladies  of  birth  and  breeding, 
how  great  must  the  infatuation  have  been  which  led  him  to  marry  a 
tawdry,  painted  grandmother  !  "We  must  first  ask  that  it  shall  be  settled 
at  what  age  a  woman  who  has  no  grandchildren  is  properly  called  a 
grandmother.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  forty-six  at  the  date  of  her  second 
marriage.  She  was  born  in  February  1689,  and  was  married  in  July 
1735. l  Her  case  is  certainly  somewhat  hard.  She  was  but  a  year  beyond 
the  age  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  when  that  famous  beauty  is  described 
by  Macaulay  as  "  no  longer  young,  but  still  retaining  some  traces  of  that 
superb  and  voluptuous  loveliness  which  twenty  years  before  overcame 
the  hearts  of  all  men."  Does  the  widow  of  a  duke,  we  may  fairly  ask, 
become  a  grandmother  at  the  age  of  forty-six  as  well  as  the  widow 
of  a  mercer  ?  Johnson  himself  was  on  his  marriage  day  two  months 
short  of  twenty-six.  The  difference  in  age  was  certainly  great  enough, 
but  surely  not  so  great  as  to  justify  Macaulay 's  rhetoric.  Neither  is  it 
true,  we  believe,  that  she  had  children  as  old  as  himself.  There  are  only 
two  children  of  whom  anything  certain  seems  to  be  known.  Her  daughter 
Lucy  was  six  years  younger  than  Johnson.  "  She  reverenced  him,"  writes 
Boswell,  "  and  he  had  a  parental  tenderness  for  her."  Lucy  had  a  brother 
who  became  a  captain  in  the  Royal  Navy.  He  was,  we  believe,  more  than 
two  years  her  junior,  and,  therefore,  eight  years  younger  than  Johnson.2 

Doubtless  long  before  Mrs.  Johnson's  death  the  difference  of  years 
between  her  and  her  husband  had  become  far  more  strongly  marked. 
As  she  had  fallen  away  in  looks,  so  had  he  improved.  Miss  Porter  told 
Boswell  that  "  when  Johnson  was  first  introduced  to  her  mother  his 

1  That  she  was  married  in  1735,  and  not  in  1736,  as  commonly  stated,  is  proved  by 
a  passage  in  Prayers  and  Meditations,  page  210,  where  Johnson  records,  "  We  were 
married  almost  seventeen  years."     She  died  in  March  1752. 

2  In  the  registry  of  the  parish  church  of  Birmingham  is  recorded  the  birth  of 
Jarvis   Henry  Porter,  son   of    Henry   Porter,   of  Edgbaston,  on  January  29,  1717 
{1718  new  style).     The  birth  of  a  daughter  is  recorded  on  March  21, 1707.     She  must, 
we  believe,  have  died  before  Johnson's  marriage,  for  no  mention  is  made  of  her.     So 
far  as  this  registry  shows,  no  other  son  was  born.     For  this  extract  we  are  indebted 
to  the  kindness  of  the  rector,  Canon  Wilkinson. 


LORD  MACAULAY  AND  DR.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE.  577 

appearance  was  very  forbidding ;  he  was  then  lean  and  lank,  so  that  his 
immense  structure  of  bones  was  hideously  striking  to  the  eye,  and  the 
scars  of  the  scrofula  were  deeply  visible."  There  may  be  some  exaggera- 
tion in  this  description;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  is  there  not  every  reason 
to  believe  that  the  portrait  that  Garrick  has  drawn  of  the  wife  is  equally 
overcharged  ]  For  "  the  ordinary  spectators,"  of  whom  Macaulay  writes 
with  such  confidence,  are  found,  so  far  at  least  as  our  discovery  has 
extended,  to  be  Garrick,  and  no  one  but  Garrick.  He  alone,  with  the 
exception  of  Miss  Porter,  of  those  who  knew  Mrs.  Johnson  at  the  time 
of  her  marriage,  has  left  any  account  of  her  personal  appearance.  The 
picture  that  he  draws  is  certainly  repulsive  enough.  "Mr.  Garrick 
described  her  to  me,"  writes  Boswell,  "  as  very  fat,  with  a  bosom  of  more 
than  ordinary  protuberance,  with  swelled  cheeks,  of  a  florid  red  produced 
by  thick  painting,  and  increased  by  the  liberal  use  of  cordials  ;  flaring  and 
fantastic  in  her  dress,  and  affected  both  in  her  speech  and  her' general 
behaviour.  1  have  seen  Garrick  exhibit  her,  by  his  exquisite  talent  of 
mimicry,  so  as  to  excite  the  heartiest  bursts  of  laughter;  but  he  probably,  as 
is  the  case  in  all  such  representations,  considerably  aggravated  the  picture." 
Madame  Piozzi  says  that  "  Garrick  told  Mrs.  Thrale  that  she  was  a  little, 
painted  puppet,  of  no  value  at  all,  and  quite  disguised  with  affectation,  full 
of  odd  airs  of  rural  elegance  ;  and  he  made  out  some  comical  scenes  by 
mimicking  her  in  a  dialogue  he  pretended  to  have  overheard.  I  do  not 
know  whether  he  meant  such  stuff  to  be  believed  or  no,  it  was  so 
comical."  Macaulay,  it  may  be  noticed,  has  combined  the  two  portraits. 
The  fatness  and  coarseness  he  gets  from  Boswell,  the  shortness  from 
Madame  Piozzi.  Yet  "  a  little,  painted  puppet"  and  "  a  short,  fat,  coarse 
woman  "  do  not  seem  to  be  well  applied  to  the  same  person.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  it  is  worth  notice  that  there  is  nothing  that  fixes  the  date  of 
Garrick's  description.  Is  he  speaking  of  her  as  she  was  when  Johnson 
wooed  her,  or  as  she  was  after  many  years  of  married  life  1  The  chief 
reproach  thrown  by  Macaulay  on  Johnson  was  that  he  was  so  blinded 
as  to  fall  in  love  with  a  short,  fat,  coarse  woman,  painted  half  an  inch 
thick — a  tawdry,  painted  grandmother.  What  proof  have  we  that  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Porter,  the  widow  of  forty-six,  was  such  a  woman  ?  It  may 
well  be  doubted  whether  Garrick's  description,  even  when  applied  to  her 
later  years,  is  not  a  gross  exaggeration.  Percy,  the  Bishop  of  Dromore, 
has  added  a  warning,  which  Macaulay  should  scarcely  have  so  totally 
disregarded.  "  As  Johnson,"  he  says,  "  kept  Garrickmuch  in  awe  when 
present,  David,  when  his  back  was  turned,  repaid  the  restraint  with 
ridicule  of  him  and  his  Dulcinea,  which  should  be  read  with  great  abate- 
ment." Mrs.  Thrale  saw  a  picture  of  her  at  Lichfield,  which  was,  she 
says,  very  pretty,  and  her  daughter,  Miss  Lucy  Porter,  said  it  was 
like.  Whatever  may  have  been  her  appearance,  "  the  lover,"  says 
Macaulay,  <!  continued  to  be  under  the  illusions  of  the  wedding  day  till 
the  lady  died  in  her  sixty-fourth  year.  On  her  monument  he  placed  an 
inscription  extolling  the  charms  of  her  person  and  of  her  manners."  But 
VOL.  ILII. — NO.  251.  28. 


578  LOKD  MACAULAY  AND  DR.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE. 

may  not  a  pretty  woman,  who  outlives  her  prettiness,  be  fairly  described 
on  her  tombstone  as  formosa  ?  Would  it  have  been  wrong  on  their 
monuments  to  call  Marlborough  gallant  or  Swift  learned,  because  from 
the  eyes  of  one  the  streams  of  dotage  flowed,  and  the  other  expired  a 
driveller  and  a  show  1  Johnson  might  well  have  discovered  that  his  wife 
had  lost  her  charms,  for  all  that  the  epitaph  he  placed  over  her  shows. 
Besides,  as  he  himself  said,  "  in  lapidary  inscriptions  a  man  is  not  upon 
oath." 

He  was  not,  indeed,  the  man  to  form  romantic  notions,  nor  to  find 
in  every  goose  a  swan.  His  conduct  to  his  wife  on  their  marriage  day 
shows  clearly  enough  that  that  "  homely  wisdom,"  for  which  Macaulay 
praises  him,  had  by  no  means  deserted  him  even  in  the  passion  of  love. 
"  She  had  read  the  old  romances,"  he  told  Boswell,  "  and  had  got  into 
her  head  the  fantastical  notion  that  a  woman  of  spirit  should  use  her 
lover  like  a  dog.  So,  sir,  at  first  she  told  me  that  I  rode  too  fast,  and  she 
could  not  keep  up  with  me ;  and,  when  I  rode  a  little  slower,  she  passed 
me,  and  complained  that  I  lagged  behind.  I  was  not  to  be  made  the 
slave  of  caprice ;  and  I  resolved  to  begin  as  I  meant  to  end.  I  there- 
fore pushed  on  briskly,  till  I  was  fairly  out  of  her  sight.  The  road  lay 
between  two  hedges,  so  I  was  sure  she  could  not  miss  it ;  and  I  con- 
trived that  she  should  soon  come  up  with  me.  When  she  did,  I  observed 
her  to  be  in  tears." 

More  than  twenty  years  after  his  wife's  death,  when,  on  a  visit  to 
Birmingham,  he  had  met  his  first  love,  Mrs.  Careless,  he  said  to 
Boswell,  who  had  accompanied  him,  "  If  I  had  married  her  it  might 
have  been  as  happy  for  me."  The  following  conversation  then  passed  : — 

Boswell. — Pray,  sir,  do  you  not  suppose  that  there  are  fifty  women  in  the  world, 
•with  any  one  of  whom  a  man  may  be  as  happy  as  with  any  one  woman  in  particular  ? 

Johnson. — Ay,  sir ;  fifty  thousand. 

Boswell. — Then,  sir,  you  are  not  of  opinion  with  some  who  imagine  that  certain 
vmen  and  certain  women  are  made  for  each  other  ;  and  that  they  cannot  be  happy  if 
they  miss  their  counterparts? 

Johnson. — To  be  sure  not,  sir.  I  believe  marriages  would  in  general  be  as 
happy,  and  often  more  so,  if  they  were  all  made  by  the  Lord  Chancellor,  upon  a  due 
-consideration  of  the  characters  and  circumstances,  without  the  parties  having  any 
choice  in  the  matter. 

If  we  should  set  aside  the  great  difference  in  their  ages,  Mrs.  John- 
son would  seem  to  have  had  qualities  which  made  her  no  unsuitable 
companion  for  Johnson.  Boswell  says  :  "  She  must  have  had  a  supe- 
riority of  understanding  and  talents,  as  she  certainly  inspired  him  with 
more  than  ordinary  passion."  She  could,  at  all  events,  understand  and 
admire  his  genius.  The  first  time  she  met  him  and  heard  him  talk,  she 
said  to  her  daughter,  "  This  is  the  most  sensible  man  that  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life."  Miss  Williams,  who  knew  her  well,  and  who  was  herself  a 
woman  of  great  intelligence,  says  that  "  she  had  a  good  understanding 
and  great  sensibility,  but  was  inclined  to  be  satirical."  Johnson  told 


LOED  MACAULAY  AND  DR.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE.  579 

Mrs.  Thrale  that  "  his  wife  read  comedy  better  than  anybody  he  ever 
heard ;  in  tragedy  she  mouthed  too  much."  In  a  passage  in  Boswell  we 
have  proof  of  her  enjoyment  of  literature.  "  Johnson,"  he  writes,  "  told 
me,  with  an  amiable  fondness,  a  little  pleasing  circumstance  relative  to 
this  work  (the  Rambler).  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  whose  judgment  and  taste 
he  had  great  confidence,  said  to  him,  after  a  few  numbers  had  come  out, 
'  I  thought  very  well  of  you  before ;  but  I  did  not  imagine  you  could 
have  written  anything  equal  to  this.'  Distant  praise,  from  whatever 
quarter,  is  not  so  delightful  as  that  of  a  wife  whom  a  man  loves  and 
esteems."  Could  Boswell,  we  may  with  some  reason  ask,  have  written 
this  if  he  had  known  that  Johnson's  wife  was  the  "  silly,  affected  old 
woman "  of  Macaulay's  imagination  1  In  the  sermon  that  Johnson 
wrote  for  her  funeral,  and  which  he  had  hoped  his  friend  Dr.  Taylor 
would  preach,  we  have  proof  of  the  powers  of  her  mind.  However  much 
he  might  have  been  deceived  by  her  appearance,  most  certainly  he  could 
not  have  lived  with  her  for  nearly  seventeen  years  without  forming  a 
just  estimate  of  her  mind.  In  a  funeral  sermon,  no  doubt,  as  in 
lapidary  inscriptions,  a  man  is  not  xipon  oath.  Nevertheless,  even  if  we 
make  considerable  deduction  for  exaggeration,  there  is  much  that 
remains.  He  writes  of  her  as  one  "  whom  many,  who  now  hear  me, 
have  known,  and  whom  none,  who  were  capable  of  distinguishing  either 
moral  or  intellectual  excellence,  could  know  without  esteem  or  tender- 
ness. To  praise  the  extent  of  her  knowledge,  the  acuteness  of  her  wit, 
the  accuracy  of  her  judgment,  the  force  of  her  sentiments,  or  the  elegance 
of  her  expression  would  ill  suit  with  the  occasion." 

Macaulay  says  that  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  Johnson's  admiration 
for  the  widow  was  unfeigned,  for  she  was  as  poor  as  himself.  This 
statement  about  her  poverty  it  is  not  easy  to  accept.  Boswell,  indeed, 
says  that  the  marriage  was  a  very  imprudent  scheme,  both  on  account 
of  their  disparity  of  years  and  her  want  of  fortune.  Miss  "Williams 
also  states  that  Mr.  Porter  had  died  insolvent ;  but  Miss  Williams  did 
not  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  Johnsons  till  many  years  after  their 
marriage,  and  so  in  this  point  she  might  have  been  mistaken.  Hawkins 
says  that  she  was  left  "  so  provided  for,  as  made  a  match  with  her 
to  a  man  in  Johnson's  circumstances  desirable.  .  .  .  Her  fortune, 
which  is  conjectured  to  have  been  about  eight  hundred  pounds,  placed 
him  in  a  state  of  affluence  to  which  before  he  had  been  a  stranger."  It 
is  difficult  to  believe  that  she  had  not  some  money.  Johnson  records,  in 
July  1732,  that  he  had  received  twenty  pounds,  being  all  that  he  had 
reason  to  hope  for  out  of  his  father's  effects  previous  to  his  mother's 
death.  He  had  since  that  time  earned  five  guineas  by  his  translation  of 
Lobo's  Voyage  to  Abyssinia.  He  had,  moreover,  held  at  least  one  situa- 
tion as  usher  in  the  grammar  school  of  Market  Bosworth,  and  at  the 
same  time  had  been  a  kind  of  domestic  chaplain  to  the  patron  of  the 
school.  This  situation  he  recollected  all  his  life  afterwards  with  the 
strongest  aversion,  and  even  a  degree  of  horror.  For  six  months  of  the 

28—2 


580  LORD  MACAULAY  AND  DK.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE. 

time  he  had  been  the  guest  of  his  old  schoolfellow,  Mr.  Hector.  In 
1735  he  married,  and  either  that  year  or  the  next  he  hired  a  large 
house,  and  set  up  a  school.  He  had  but  three  pupils  according  to 
Boswell.  Hawkins  gives  him  a  few  more.  "  His  numbers,"  he  says, 
"  at  no  time  exceeded  eight,  and  of  those  not  all  were  boarders."  After 
a  year  and  a  half  he  gave  up  school-keeping,  and  went  to  London.  "  He 
had  a  little  money  when  he  came  to  town,"  says  Boswell.  As  he  left 
his  wife  at  Lichfield,  we  may  feel  sure  that  he  did  not  leave  her  without 
making  some  provision  for  her.  The  school  could  scarcely  have  paid  its 
expenses.  Certainly  it  could  not  have  returned  him  the  outlay  on  the 
furniture,  much  less  have  provided  him  with  any  surplus.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  how  the  newly  married  couple  lived  for  almost  the  first  three 
years  of  their  married  life,  unless  Mrs.  Johnson  had  some  money  of 
her  own. 

Whether  Mrs.  Johnson  had  money  or  not,  we  know  not  what  justi- 
fication Macaulay  has  for  asserting  :  "  Nor  was  the  tawdry,  painted  grand- 
mother, whom  he  called  his  Titty,  well  qualified  to  make  provision  for 
the  comfort  of  young  gentlemen."  It  was  not,  by  the  way,  Titty,  but 
Tetty,  that  Johnson  called  his  wife.  Tetty,  as  Boswell  says,  like  Betty, 
is  provincially  used  as  a  contraction  for  Elizabeth,  her  Christian  name. 
Macaulay,  apparently  in  confirmation  of  his  assertion,  then  tells  how 
"  Garrick  used  to  throw  the  best  company  of  London  into  convulsions 
of  laughter  by  mimicking  the  endearments  of  this  extraordinary  pair." 
Garrick's  mimicry  no  more  proved  that  the  wife  was  not  well  qualified 
to  make  provision  for  the  comfort  of  young  gentlemen  than  that  the 
husband  was  not  well  qualified  to  write  his  Dictionary.  She  had 
certainly  one  of  the  qualities  which  are  commonly  thought  to  be  the 
marks  of  a  good  housewife.  "  My  wife,"  said  Johnson  to  Mrs.  Thrale, 
"  had  a  particular  reverence  for  cleanliness,  and  desired  the  praise  of 
neatness  in  her  dress  and  furniture,  as  many  ladies  do,  till  they  become 
troublesome  to  their  best  friends,  slaves  to  their  own  besoms,  and  only 
sigh  for  the  hour  of  sweeping  their  husbands  out  of  the  house  as  dirt 
and  useless  lumber.  A  clean  floor  is  so  comfortable,  she  would  say  some- 
times by  way  of  twitting ;  till  at  last  I  told  her  that  I  thought  we  had 
had  talk  enough  about  the  floor  ;  we  would  now  have  a  touch  at  the 
ceiling." 

It  is  certainly  surprising,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Johnson  lived  in  London 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  that  what  is  known  of  her  is  really  so  little. 
Not  much,  however,  is  known  of  Johnson  during  this  same  period.  One 
of  his  biographers,  Sir  John  Hawkins,  had  made  his  acquaintance  before 
his  wife's  death,  but  her  he  had  never  seen.  He  had  been  told  "  by  Mr. 
Garrick,  Dr.  Hawkesworth,  and  others  that  there  was  somewhat  crazy  in 
the  behaviour  of  them  both  ;  profound  respect  on  his  part,  and  the  airs 
of  an  antiquated  beauty  on  hers."  He  goes  on  to  say  :  "  Johnson  had 
not  then  been  used  to  the  company  of  women,  and  nothing  but  his 
conversation  rendered  him  tolerable  among  them ;  it  was,  therefore, 


LORD  MACAULAY  AND  DE.  JOHNSON'S  WIFE. 


581 


necessary  that  he  should  practise  his  best  manners  to  one,  whom,  as  she 
was  descended  from  an  ancient  family,  and  had  brought  him  a  fortune, 
he  thought  his  superior."  Out  of  Hawkins's  simple  statement  that 
Johnson  had  not  been  used  to  the  company  of  women,  have,  perhaps, 
grown  "  the  woman  of  real  fashion  "  of  Macaulay,  "  the  Queensberrys 
and  Lepels."  Hawkins's  explanation  of  any  part  of  Johnson's  conduct 
is  worth  nothing.  That  "  most  unclubable  man  "  who,  as  Johnson  him- 
self said,  was  penurious  and  mean,  and  had  a  degree  of  brutality  and  a 
tendency  to  savageness  that  could  not  easily  be  defended,  was  utterly 
unfit  to  understand  the  character  of  a  great  man.  His  statements  of 
facts,  however,  may  perhaps  be  generally  accepted,  if  they  are  not  im- 
probable in  themselves,  and  if  there  is  no  evidence  to  the  contrary.  In 
the  present  case  we  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  he  has  correctly  reported 
what  Garrick  and  Hawkesworth  had  told  him. 

Of  the  closing  years  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  life  we  know  next  to  nothing. 
"  The  last  Rambler,"  says  Macaulay,  "  was  written  in  a  sad  and  gloomy 
hour.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  been  given  over  by  the  physicians.  Three 
days  later  she  died.  She  left  her  husband  almost  broken-hearted." 
And  then  Macaulay  adds,  in  a  passage  that  we  have  already  quoted  : 
"  Many  people  had  been  surprised  to  see  a  man  of  his  genius  and 
learning  stooping  to  every  drudgery,  and  denying  himself  almost  every 
comfort,  for  the  purpose  of  supplying  a  silly,  affected  old  woman  with 
superfluities,  which  she  accepted  with  but  little  gratitude."  Who  are 
the  many  people  of  whom  Macaulay  speaks  we  are  not  able  to  say.  We 
know  bat  one  authority  for  the  statement.  "  I  have  been  told  by  Mrs. 
Desmoulins,"  writes  Boswell,  "  who,  before  her  marriage,  lived  for  some 
time  with  Mrs.  Johnson  at  Hampstead,  that  she  indulged  herself  in 
country  air  and  nice  living  at  an  unsuitable  expense,  while  her  husband 
was  drudging  in  the  smoke  of  London."  This  may  be  the  case,  but  the 
evidence  of  Mrs.  Desmoulins  against  another  woman  should  be  received 
with  caution.  That  she  was  a  good  hater  is  very  clear  from  more  than 
one  of  Johnson's  letters.  Old  Mr.  Levett  had  also  known  Mrs.  John- 
son, but  only  in  her  later  years.  "The  intelligence  I  gained  of  her  from 
him,"  writes  Madame  Piozzi,  "  was  only  perpetual  illness  and  perpetual 
opium."  That  she  had  suffered  long  and  suffered  patiently  is  shown  by 
Johnson's  sermon.  "  She  passed,"  he  wrote,  "  through  many  months  of 
languor,  weakness,  and  decay,  without  a  single  murmur  of  impatience, 
and  often  expressed  her  adoration  of  that  mercy  which  granted  her  so 
long  time  for  recollection  and  penitence." 

G.  B.  H. 


582 


Cjxe 


THE  Burmese  are  in  danger  of  getting  a  bad  name  from  the  fact 
that  whenever  Burma  is  spoken  of  the  ordinary  English  mind  forth- 
with calls  up  a  vision  of  Theebau  and  his  massacres,  or  of  the  unscru- 
pulous machinations  and  endless  bickerings  of  the  Kinwoon  Mingyee, 
and  the  rest  of  the  ministry.  But  if  it  can  once  be  shown  that 
Theebau,  though  the  most  prominent,  is  far  indeed  from  being  a  sample 
Burman,  and  that  the  delight  of  the  Burmese  ministers  in  chicanery 
and  scheming  is  not  by  any  means  a  national  trait,  then  the  horrors 
which  Theebau  has  perpetrated  will  have  done  good  service  in  directing 
European  attention  to  one  of  the  most  loveable  nations  in  the  east,  and 
one  which  has  been  hitherto  but  little  known.  It  is  really  not  long 
since  the  British  public  has  found  out  where  Burma  is.  A  few  years 
ago  a  young  civilian,  home  on  leave,  mentioned,  at  a  dinner-party,  that 
he  had  come  from  Burma.  "  Ah  !  Burma.  Yes  1 "  said  one  M.P. 
"  I  had  a  nephew  who  was  in  Burma,  only  he  always  used  to  call  it 
Berimida."  We  are  far  from  meaning  to  assert  that  the  latter-day 
member  of  Parliament  is  by  any  means  to  be  taken  as  a  specimen  of  the 
average  British  intelligence  or  information,  but  this  individual  was 
very  little  worse  than  his  neighbours  in  this  particular  case.  The 
general  idea  used  to  be  that  Burma  was  "somewhere  in  India." 
When  Canon  Titcomb  received  his  D.D.  degree  at  Cambridge,  on 
appointment  to  the  Bishopric  of  Rangoon,  the  Public  Orator  specified 
Burma  as  lying  intimo  Orientalis  sinu,  which  may  be  taken  to  be  a 
classical  rendering  of  the  expression  "  somewhere  in  India."  The  phrase 
would  not  be  so  far  wrong,  if  it  did  not  convey  the  idea  that  there  is 
some  connection  between  India  and  Burma  further  than  mere  contiguity 
and  subordination  to  the  general  Indian  Government,  than  which 
nothing  can  be  more  misleading.  Apart  from  the  sufficiently  known 
fact  that  the  natives  of  India  and  Burma  belong  to  entirely  different 
stocks  of  the  human  race,  there  is  in  addition  a  complete  diversity  in 
temperament  as  well  as  in  manners  and  customs.  You  will  find 
very  few  Englishmen  who  have  not  got  an  instinctive  aversion  for  the 
ordinary  native  of  India,  the  Madrasi  or  Bengali.  They  have  a 
sneaking,  fawning  way  about  them  which  almost  involuntarily  excites 
contempt  and  disgust,  and  their  talk  is  ever  of  rupees,  annas,  and  pie. 
The  Burman,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  universal  favourite,  well  spoken  of 
equally  by  the  freshest  griff,  ten  days  landed,  and  by  the  oldest  Anglo- 
Burman,  who  has  spent  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  the  country.  And 
yet,  if  you  want  a  clerk  to  do  your  work,  or  a  servant  to  attend  on  you, 


THE  BURMESE.  583 

a  Burman  is  the  last  man  you  would  engage.  You  would  take  on  a 
saponaceous  Bengali  Baboo,  or  a  servile  abject  Madrasi  Ramasammy. 
Therein  lies  the  great  fault  of  the  Burmans  and  the  failing  which  will 
prevent  them  from  ever  taking  a  prominent  place  even  among  Eastern 
nations.  They  have  no  capacity  for  sustained  work.  In  intellectual 
capacity  they  are  probably  superior  to  the  plodding  Madrasi,  but  they 
entirely  lack  perseverance.  In  the  schools  of  Burma  where  the  two 
races  mingle  together,  the  Burman  usually  beats  his  more  swarthy 
competitor,  and  even  gets  the  better  of  the  half-breeds,  but  when  it  comes 
to  the  real  work  of  life  he  drops  behind,  pumped  out.  Abdul  Mahomed, 
or  the  irrepressible  Celestial,  Ah  Gwan,  gets  to  be  head  of  the  clerks  in 
the  office,  while  Moung  Hpo  is  thinking  of  applying  for  a  new  situation 
on  the  same  terms  as  he  got  when  he  first  left  school.  This  want  of 
stamina,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  is  fatal,  and  seems  ineradicable.  It  is  the 
more  to  be  regretted  because  most  Englishmen  can,  and  do,  make 
companions  of  the  Burmese,  which  is  possible  with  but  very  few  natives 
of  India.  If  you  swear  at  a  Burman  or  speak  harshly  to  him,  he  will 
listen  perfectly  respectfully  to  you  and  make  no  answer,  but  he  will 
pack  up  his  things  and  be  off  forthwith,  while  his  pride  will  hinder  him 
from  demanding  any  back  pay  that  may  be  due  to  him.  A  Madrasi, 
even  if  wrongly  abused,  would  simply  call  you  his  father,  and  his  mother, 
and  his  aunt,  defender  of  the  poor  and  epitome  of  wisdom,  and  would 
take  his  change  out  of  you  in  the  bazaar  accounts.  A  Burman  will 
very  rarely  serve  as  a  body  servant,  and  when  he  does,  must  be  treated 
more  as  a  friend  than  anything  else.  If  he  likes  you,  he  will  do  all  your 
work  and  stick  to  you  through  thick  and  thin,  but  he  will  not  endure 
being  treated  as  a  simple  "  boy."  In  these  respects  the  Burman  com- 
pares unfavourably  with  the  black  Aryan ;  in  all  else  he  is  his  superior. 
Some  one  with  a  taste  for  comparisons  has  called  the  Burmese  "the 
Irish  of  the  East."  In  their  love  of  fun  and  rollicking  they  certainly 
resemble  the  finest  peasantry  in  the  world.  A  Burman  is  always  ready 
to  welcome  a  joke,  and  not  unseldom  is  able  to  cap  it,  while  nothing  is 
so  remarkable  about  the  natives  of  India  as  their  utter  incapacity 
to  appreciate  wit  or  to  recognise  humour  that  is  not  of  the  broadest. 
The  great  similarities  of  sound  in  a  tonic  language  like  the  Bur- 
mese give  abundant  opportunity  for  plays  on  words,  and  they  are 
therefore  very  free  in  the  use  of  the  "  basis  of  all  wit,"  and  every 
dramatic  piece  abounds  in  puns  and  plays  on  words.  A  native  of 
India,  it  has  often  been  noticed,  cannot  recognise  the  photographs  or 
engravings  of  places  or  people  he  knows  well,  and  the  more  illiterate 
will  turn  a  picture  upside  down,  and  look  at  it  sideways,  and  ex- 
amine the  back,  in  vain  attempts  to  find  out  what  it  means.  A 
Burman,  on  the  contrary,  not  only  delights  in  pictures  and  quickly 
recognises  likenesses,  but  has  ordinarily  himself  a  very  fair  power  of 
drawing,  while  even  now  the  Mandalay  and  Henzadah  wood  and  ivory 
carvers  have  a  wide  reputation  and  will  doubtless  soon  become  better 


584  THE  BUEMESE. 

known,  as  they  certainly  deserve  to  be,  for  bold,  rough  designing 
power.  But  it  is  most  perhaps  in  a  natural  polished  manner  in  which  the 
Burmese  excel  all  other  Oriental  nations.  Perhaps  there  is  no  people  in 
the  world  which  is  as  a  whole  so  thoroughly  gentlemanlike  as  the 
Burmese.  A  man  coming  from  India,  and  accustomed  to  the  slavish 
crawling  manner  of  the  people  there,  is  equally  astonished  and  pleased 
with  the  respectful  yet  self-respecting  demeanour  of  the  Burmese. 
Their  manner  seems  to  acknowledge  the  superiority  of  the  European, 
but  at  the  same  time  gently  to  assert  that  they  themselves  are  not  un- 
worthy of  the  courtesy  which  they  are  so  willing  to  accord.  Nor  is  this 
courteousness  confined  to  the  people  of  the  large  towns,  who  necessarily 
frequently  come  across  Englishmen.  You  may  ride  into  a  remote 
village  in  the  jungle,  where,  perhaps,  there  never  has  been  a  white  man 
before,  unless,  may  be,  an  assistant  commissioner  out  on  district  work, 
or  an  inspector  of  police  on  the  look-out  for  a  criminal.  You  are  all 
splashed  with  mud  from  a  ride  through  jungle  paths,  your  clothes  ragged 
with  the  attacks  of  wait-a-bit  thorns,  and  your  general  appearance  would 
not  be  suggestive  of  respect  to  the  inhabitants  of  an  English  hamlet. 
Your  men  with  the  provisions  and  change  of  clothes  have  not  arrived 
yet,  and  there  is  nothing  to  show  that  you  are  not  a  simple  loafer. 
No  matter ;  the  Burman  only  sees  that  you  are  tired  and  thirsty.  One 
man  takes  your  pony  if  you  have  one,  and  rubs  it  down  and  gives  it  a 
feed ;  another  leads  you  off  to  his  house  and  produces  a  chair  or  a  mat 
for  you  to  sit  on,  while  he  gets  a  cocoa-nut  opened,  or  borrows  a  bottle  of 
Mali  Kew  Wan  (McE wen's  Beer)  for  your  delectation.  Not  until  you 
have  refreshed  yourself  does  he  ask  where  you  come  from  and  what 
your  business  is.  By  this  time  the  head  man  of  the  village  has  heard  of 
the  stranger's  arrival,  and  comes  along  to  pay  his  respects  and  suggest 
that  you  should  make  use  of  his  house,  and  in  the  evening  he  probably 
gets  up  a  Pwai,  a  dramatic  play  or  concert,  in  your  honour.  There  is 
none  of  the  staring  and  crowding  round  to  see  the  unexpected  visitor 
which  would  be  sure  to  await  you  in  an  English  country  town.  The 
Burmans  have  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  is  unpleasant  to  yon,  and 
not  only  keep  away  themselves,  but  prevent  the  children  from  coming 
to  gape.  While  you  eat,  the  master  of  the  house  himself  will  stand  in 
readiness  and  get  you  anything  you  may  want,  while  the  other  members  of 
the  household  go  outside  so  that  you  may  be  entirely  at  your  ease.  The 
perfect  freedom  of  the  women,  and  the  unconstrained  way  in  which  they 
answer  your  questions  and  ask  others  of  you,  is  particularly  pleasant  to  an 
Englishman  and  very  different  from  the  state  of  affairs  which  you  would 
find  in  India.  No  Eastern  nation  gives  its  women  such  perfect  freedom 
as  the  Burmese.  The  Burmese  matron  is  virtual  mistress  of  the  house  and 
does  not  permit  male  interference  in  domestic  matters ;  while,  to  complete 
the  similarity  with  Occidental  nations,  a  henpecked  husband  is  not  by 
any  means  unknown.  One  of  the  most  remarkable  traits  of  the  people 
is  the  perfect  equality  of  all  classes.  They  are  perfectly  republican  in 


THE  BUKMESE.  585 

the  freedom  with  which  all  ranks  mingle  together  and  talk  with  one 
another  without  any  marked  distinction  in  regard  to  difference  of  rank 
or  wealth.  One  cause  of  this  is  that  there  are  no  regular  working 
men.  A  Burman  will  tell  you  that  there  are  three  "  castes  "  among  his 
countrymen,  A-myat,  A-lop,  and  A-yop,  meaning  respectively  the  gentry, 
the  middle  class,  and  the  working  men,  but  the  distinction  is  purely 
imaginary,  and  never  openly  recognised.  Nobody  works  regularly. 
Now  and  then  a  man  will  get  a  job  at  building  a  house  or  some  other 
carpentry  work,  or  will  hire  himself  out  in  the  paddy  season,  but,  as 
soon  as  he  gets  his  first  pay,  he  throws  the  business  up,  and  is  as  good  a 
man  as  any  of  them. 

It  is  most  astonishing  how  some  of  them  live.  There  are  men  who 
have  never  done  a  stroke  of  work  in  their  lives,  and  yet  they  go  about 
in  silks,  and  are  as  well  set  up  as  if  they  had  a  fixed  income.  Such  a 
thing  as  a  starving  man  is  unknown  in  the  country.  Charity  is  a  lead- 
ing doctrine  of  the  Buddhist  faith,  and  people  are  generous  to  a  fault.  If 
a  man  cannot  get  dinner  anywhere  else,  he  has  only  to  turn  into  the 
first  monastery,  and  he  will  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and  not  a  ques- 
tion or  a  penny  will  be  asked.  Deserters  from  British  regiments,  and 
sailors  who  have  left  their  ships,  and  the  miscellaneous  class  of  loafing 
blackguards  who  are  a  disgrace  to  the  British  name  in  the  East,  are 
never  in  want  of  a  meal  in  the  smallest  Burmese  village,  and  might  stay 
for  years,  without  ever  being  asked  to  do  a  hand's  turn  for  their  main- 
tenance, as  long  as  they  do  not  get  drunk  and  uproarious,  which,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  they  always  do.  Nevertheless,  however  badly  his  prede- 
cessor may  have  conducted  himself,  the  loafer  always  meets  with  unfail- 
ing kindness,  even  though  he  asks  for  money,  as  some  of  them,  lost  to 
all  sense  of  decency,  are  not  ashamed  to  do.  But  money  very  few  Bur- 
mans  have.  When  a  man  makes  a  haul  with  a  lucky  contract,  or 
judicious  paddy  speculation,  he  forthwith  gets  rid  of  his  fortune.  If  it 
is  a  large  sum,  he  probably  builds  a  pagoda,  or  a  zayat,  or  tazoung,  a 
resting-house,  or  an  image-house.  Or  if  he  cannot  aspire  to  gaining  so 
much  merit  towards  a  future  existence,  he  gets  an  image  of  brass,  or 
marble,  and  dedicates  it  with  much  solemnity  and  extensive  feasting,  or 
he  gives  promiscuous  alms,  and  announces  it  all  over  the  country  side, 
in  each  instance  disposing  of  what  coin  may  remain  by  engaging  a  troop 
of  actors  and  giving  a  Pwai.  Then  he  is  penniless  and  happy  again.  It 
is  this  sort  of  thing  which  promotes  the  friendly  intercourse  between  all 
ranks,  and  obliterates  class  distinctions.  They  have  entirely  avoided 
the  curse  of  Adam,  and  scout  the  necessity  of  earning  bread  with  the 
sweat  of  their  brow.  What  puzzles  them  most  is  the  consideration  how 
they  can  get  the  greatest  possible  amount  of  enjoyment  with  the  least 
possible  trouble.  They  can  always  muster  a  good  dress.  Even  those 
inexplicable  people  who  never  do  anything,  come  to  you  in  a  fine  silk 
putsoe,  the  national  petticoat-like  waistcloth,  and  assure  you,  with  woe- 
begone visage,  that  they  are  in  the  most  heartrending  depths  of  poverty. 


586  THE  BURMESE. 

They  do  not  ask  for  money.  I  never  saw  a  Burmese  beggar,  except 
the  poor  lepers  on  the  Pagoda  steps.  Their  sole  object  in  coming  seems 
to  be  to  relieve  their  feelings  and  excuse  their  laziness  to  themselves. 
You  get  them  a  clerkship,  perhaps,  and  they  keep  it  for  a  fortnight,  and 
then  resign,  from  sheer  listlessness,  and  commence  the  old  business  over 
again.  All  the  same,  they  are  always  in  the  most  perfect  good 
humour,  and  ready  to  take  part  in  any  fun  that  is  going.  Some  years 
ago  there  was  a  great  fire  in  Mandalay,  which  burnt  down  a  large 
suburb.  Some  of  the  burnt-out  families  came,  weeping  and  lamenting, 
to  the  Residency  Chaplain,  to  tell  of  their  misfortune.  He  promised  to 
do  what  he  could  for  them,  and  the  same  evening  went  along  to  see 
where  they  were  going  to  put  up  for  the  night.  To  his  astonishment  he 
found  the  entire  burnt-out  population  assembled  together,  looking  at  a 
play  which  was  being  performed  on  a  stage,  rigged  up  hastily  among  the 
charred  posts  of  the  houses,  and  greeting  the  jokes  of  the  Looby et,  the 
clown  of  the  piece,  with  as  hearty  laughter  as  if  nothing  whatever  had 
happened.  The  case  was  about  as  good  an  example  of  Burmese  insouci- 
ance as  could  well  be  found,  and  the  reverend  gentleman  thereafter 
looked  upon  misery  as  a  thing  non-existent  among  the  Burmese.  In 
Upper  Burma  the  people  are  much  more  cowed  than  those  under  our 
rule,  and  are  entirely  without  the  comforts  and  luxuries  which  our  sub- 
jects have  come  to  regard  as  necessities ;  but  still  they  show  a  bold 
front,  and  enjoy  themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their  means.  One  thing 
they  are  most  particular  about,  and  that  is  that  nobody  goes  out  without 
his  follower.  The  poorest  man  has  somebody  to  follow  him,  if  it  is  only 
somebody  else's  little  boy.  He  may  not  have  a  silk  putsoe,  will  cer- 
tainly not,  rather,  for  the  sumptuary  laws'  in  the  royal  city  are  exceed- 
ingly strict ;  but  he  would  rather  remain  at  home  and  starve  than  not 
have  somebody  to  carry  his  cheruts  after  him. 

The  Burmese  are  an  exceedingly  superstitious  people,  and  believe  in 
good  and  evil  spirits,  and  omens  of  all  kinds,  with  a  tenacity  that  not 
even  conversion  to  Christianity  will  eradicate.  One  of  the  most  curious 
is  the  belief  that,  according  to  the  day  of  the  week  on  which  a  man  is 
born,  so  will  his  character  be.  Thus  people  born  on  Monday  are  jealous ; 
on  Tuesday,  honest ;  Wednesday,  quick-tempered,  but  soon  calm  again ; 
Thursday,  mild ;  Friday,  talkative ;  Saturday,  hot-tempered  and  quar- 
relsome ;  while  Sunday's  children  will  be  parsimonious.  The  matter  is 
rendered  all  the  more  serious,  because  a  man  gets  his  name  from  the  day 
he  was  born  on,  without  any  reference  to  his  father's  appellation.  He 
may  change  his  name  as  much  as  he  likes,  as  long  as  he  does  not  change 
the  initial  letter  of  the  essential  portion.  The  letters  of  the  alphabet 
are  apportioned  out  to  the  days  of  the  week  in  the  following  rough 
rhyme : — 

KA,    KHA,    GA,    GHA,   NGA,    TANINLA, 
TSA,   HTSA,  ZA,   ZHA,   NYA,    AINGA, 
TA,   HTA,   DA,   DHA,   NA,   BODDHAHU, 


THE  BURMESE.  587 

PA,   HPA,    BA;    BHA,    MA,    KYATHABADAY, 
YA,    YA  (RA),    WA,    LA,    THA,   THOUKKYA, 
HA,    HLA,    SANAY, 
A,  TANINGANOAY. 

That  is  to  say,  children  born  on  Monday  have  the  initial  letter  of 
their  names,  K,  KH,  o,  GH,  or  NG;  e.g.  Moung,  Gnway,  Rhine;  i.e. 
"  Mr.  Silver  Sprig." 

Those  on  Tuesday  have  the  choice  of  TS  (sounded  almost  exactly  like 
s),  HTS,  z,  ZH,  and  NY  ;  e.g.  Moung,  Tsan,  Nyoon ;  i.e.  "  Mr.  Beyond 
Comparison." 

"Wednesday's  children  have  a  double  set  of  letters,  each  single  sound 
having  two  letters  to  represent  it :  T,  HT,  D,  HD,  and  N  ;  e.g.  Moung ; 
Boh,  Htoo  ;  i.e.  "  Mr.  Like  His  Father." 

Thursday  has  the  labials  P,  HP,  B,  HB,  and  M  ;  e.g.  Moung,  Hpo, 
Myall ;  i.e.  "  Mr.  Grandfather  Emerald." 

Friday  is  the  last  that  has  five  letters :  Y  in  two  forms  (one  sounded 
B  by  the  Arakanese  and  in  Pali),  w,  L,  and  TH  ;  e.g.  Moung,  Shway, 
Than;  i.e.  "  Mr.  Golden  Trillion." 

Saturday  has  two  letters  H,  and  the  "  great "  L ;  e.  g.  Moung,  Hpo, 
Ilia  :  "  Mr.  Grandfather  Pretty." 

Sunday  is  as  parsimonious  in  its  letters  as  it  is  in  the  character  of 
the  people  born  on  it.  A  is  the  only  letter  assigned  to  it,  but  the  com- 
bination of  the  symbol  of  any  other  vowel  changes  it  to  the  sound  of 
that  vowel ;  e.g.  Moung,  Ohn,  "  Mr.  Cocoa  Nut ; "  Moung,  Shway, 
Utt,  "  Mr.  Golden  Needle." 

Not  only  has  every  day  got  its  proper  letters,  but  each  day  has  also 
a  particular  animal  assigned  to  symbolise  it,  and  candles  are  made  in  the 
forms  of  these  animals,  to  be  offered  at  the  Pagoda  by  the  pious.  Monday 
is  represented  by  a  tiger ;  Tuesday,  by  a  lion ;  Wednesday,  by  an  elephant 
(with  tusks)  ;  Thursday,  by  a  rat ;  Friday,  by  a  guinea-pig  ;  Saturday, 
by  a  dragon ;  Sunday,  by  the  kalon — a  fabulous  half-beast  half-bird, 
guarding  one  of  the  terraces  of  Mount  Meeru.  From  six  in  the  morning 
till  noon  on  Saturday  is  counted  a  special  day,  called  Yahu,  and  is  repre- 
sented by  a  Heing,  or  tuskless  elephant.  The  better  class  of  Burmans, 
those  whom  they  themselves  would  call  A-myat,  are  very  particular  that 
if  a  boy  has  two  names,  the  initial  letter  of  each  should  be  from  the  same 
class,  as  Gnway,  Khine.  Hpo  or  Shway  may  be  applied  to  any  one,  the 
latter  name  being  more  especially  a  term  of  affection.  Moung  simply 
means  Mister;  Moung  Shway  Than  might  call  himself  indifferently 
Moung  Than,  Hpo  Than,  Bah  Than,  or  Shway  Than,  or  might  add 
Moung  to  any  one  of  these  names.  A  Burman  usually  chops  about  his 
name  a  good  deal  during  his  life.  He  may  begin  by  being  called 
Loogalay,  Gneh,  literally,  "  the  wee  little  man."  When  he  gets  a  little 
older  he  probably  gets  called  Loogalay,  Gyee  ;  i.e.  "  the  big  little  man." 
Later,  when  he  begins  to  think  of  his  appearance,  and  look  after  the 
girls — and  they  commence  that  sort  of  thing  very  early  in  Burma — he 


588  THE  BURMESE. 

probably  calls  himself  Hpo  Loogalay,  or  Moung  Loogalay,  "  Mr.  Little- 
man,"  or  "  Mr.  Boy."  Finally,  when  he  reaches  thirty-five  or  forty,  he 
either  re-adopts  the  original  Gneh,  and  calls  himself  Oo,  Gneh  ;  i.e.  "  Old 
Wee,"  or  "  Small ; "  or  Oo,  Loogalay,  «  Old  Boy."  Besides  these,  there 
are  any  number  of  forms  which  might  be  added  ;  indeed,  the  possible 
arrangements  of  any  given  Burman  name  would  make  a  fair  sum  in 
Permutations  and  Combinations.  The  women's  names  are  governed  by 
the  same  laws  as  to  the  day  of  the  week ;  and,  with  the  exception  of 
the  substitution  of  Ma  for  Moung,  are  the  same  as  the  men's.  They 
are  particularly  fond  of  offering  up  little  Nan,  Ta,  Gohn,  or  prayer-flags 
at  the  Pagoda,  with  curious  aspirations  written  on  them.  One  says, 
"  By  the  merit  of  this  paper  Wednesday's  children  will  become  strong  ; " 
another,  "  This  paper  is  an  offering  for  people  born  on  any  day  of  the 
week  from  Sunday  to  Saturday  ;  "  another  equally  philanthropic  person, 
or  perhaps,  as  being  the  parent  of  a  large  family,  simply  wiites  down 
the  names  of  the  days  of  the  week.  Another  flag,  written  by  some 
exclusive  individual,  asserts  that  "  By  means  of  this  paper  the  offerer 
will  be  blessed  by  spirits  and  men ; "  and  so  on  through  a  variety  of 
hopes  and  fears. 

The  marriage  tie  is  very  loose  among  them.  Eating  out  of  the  same 
dish  is  sufficient  to  solemnise  the  thing,  and  the  parties  can  separate  at 
any  time  by  mutual  consent,  and  may  contract  fresh  alliances  as  soon  as 
they  please.  And  so  it  comes  that  a  boy  may  have  quite  a  lot  of  fathers 
and  mothers  all  alive  at  once,  and  addressing  him  as  son,  perfectly 
amicably  and  without  inspiring  any  sense  of  awkwardness  or  unpleasant- 
ness in  the  youth.  Notwithstanding  this  looseness  of  the  marriage  tie, 
divorces,  or  separations  rather,  are  far  from  being  so  common  as  might 
be  expected.  The  Burmese  are  exceedingly  kind  to  their  wives ;  indeed, 
the  warmth  of  family  affection  is  one  of  the  best  traits  of  the  people. 
Polygamy  is  not  common,  except  among  the  rich ;  and  there  is  always 
one  who  is  regarded  as  the  real  wife,  usually  the  one  selected  by  the 
man's  parents  for  him.  Notwithstanding  the  dismal  character  of  their 
religion,  the  Burmese  are  the  most  light-hearted  people  in  the  world,  and 
except  during  the  Wa — the  three  months  of  Lent — feasts  and  plays  are 
constantly  going  on,  and  are  attended  by  everybody,  to  the  utter  dis- 
regard of  business.  The  plays  usually  begin  shortly  after  dark,  and  last 
on  till  four  or  five  the  following  morning.  The  performances  are  all 
free,  some  rich  man,  or  the  neighbourhood,  paying  the  actors,  and  the 
spectators  bring  their  mats  along  and  sit  and  smoke,  and  fall  asleep,  and 
wake  up  again,  and  fall  in  with  the  progress  of  the  play,  with  unfailing 
enthusiasm  and  interest.  The  acting,  particularly  that  of  the  jester,  is 
usually  very  good ;  but  the  dialogue,  as  a  rule,  is  beyond  the  compre- 
hension of  most  Englishmen,  even  those  who  have  been  longest  in  the 
country.  The  songs  introduced  eveiy  now  and  again  are  indeed  under- 
stood by  very  few  of  the  Burmans  [themselves,  the  words  being  chopped 
up  and  rhyming  terminations  added  indiscriminately,  so  that,  even  with 


THE  BURMESE.  589 

a  book  of  the  play,  a  moderately  educated  Burman  will  be  unable  to  tell 
you  more  than  the  general  drift  of  the  thing.  They  are  always  exceed- 
^gly  pleased  when  a  European  comes  to  look  on,  and  produce  chairs 
and  cheruts,  and  pleasant  drinks,  in  great  profusion.  It  is  on  one  of 
the  great  Pagoda  feast  days  that  they  are  seen  at  their  best.  Then  it  is 
difficult  to  say  which  sex  is  the  more  brightly  dressed ;  the  men  with  their 
brilliant  turbans  and  gorgeous,  costly  silk  putsoeg,  or  the  women  with 
their  gay  neckerchiefs,  snowy  white  jackets  and  lameins,  or  petticoats  of 
endless  pattern  and  striking  contrast  of  colour.  A  blind  man's  idea  of  a 
chromotrope,  if  you  can  imagine  such  a  thing,  would  best  represent  one's 
recollection  of  a  great  feast  day  such  as  the  Taboung  Ldbyee,  Pwai,  Nayt 
the  annual  festival  held  in  the  spring  at  the  great  Shway  Dagone  Pagoda 
in  Rangoon.  People  come  from  all  parts  of  Burma  and  Siam  to  visit 
this  greatest  of  Buddhist  shrines,  and  for  three  days  the  great  platform 
swarms  with  pilgrims  bent  on  pleasure  quite  as  much  as  piety.  Euro- 
pean visitors  are  welcomed.  The  crowd  parts  to  let  them  pass  along, 
but  with  no  sign  of  unseemly  servility ;  the  objects  most  worth  seeing 
are  pointed  out  to  them ;  and  if  the  stranger  happens  to  speak  Burmese, 
the  first  man  he  asks  will  be  ready  to  spend  half  the  day,  if  need  be, 
taking  him  round  to  see  the  chief  offerings  and  the  most  eminent  of  the 
visitors,  fully  repaid  by  his  own  sense  of  gratification  at  doing  a  kindly 
thing,  and  infinitely  hurt  by  the  offer  of  a  gratuity.  It  is  their  natural 
kindness  and  that  first  of  all  qualifications  for  the  title  of  gentleman, 
consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others,  which  make  the  Burmese  such 
general  favourites  with  all  who  come  across  them. 

SHWAY  YOE. 


590 


iitt  gworathms. 


AT  first  sight,  the  two  words  which  I  have  put  at  the  head  of  this  paper 
look  like  an  obvious  tautology.  All  decorations,  you  will  object,  must 
necessarily  be  decorative.  And  yet,  if  I  may  judge  by  personal  expe- 
perience  in  most  such  English  houses  as  have  come  under  my  notice,  by 
far  the  larger  part  of  our  decorations  are  nothing  of  the  sort.  In  fact, 
my  purpose  in  writing  this  very  article  is  just  to  put  forward  a  plea  for 
the  use  of  decorative  objects  and  designs  in  decoration  :  and  to  make  my 
meaning  quite  clear,  I  will  begin  with  two  examples,  one  of  either  sort. 

Here  on  the  table  before  me  stand  a  piece  of  French  porcelain,  and 
a  small  red  oriental  earthenware  vase.  The  French  porcelain  is  un- 
doubtedly in  its  way  a  work  of  art.  It  is  produced  in  very  fine  clay,  made 
of  the  best  artificial  ground  kaolin,  and  tempered  with  every  addition 
known  to  the  highest  modern  handicraft.  As  paste,  it  is  technically 
perfect.  Its  grain  is  fine,  white,  and  even  :  it  is  almost  transparent  to 
light ;  it  is  thin  and  delicate  to  the  touch ;  and  it  rings,  when  struck, 
with  a  clear  and  resonant  note  to  the  ear.  It  has  been  moulded  into  a 
shape  which,  though  a  trifle  complicated  and  wanting  in  simplicity  of 
outline,  is  yet  pretty  and  graceful  enough  after  its  coquettish  Parisian 
fashion.  True,  the  handles  are  a  little  more  twisted  and  curled  than  I 
myself  should  care  to  have  them  ;  and  the  lip  is  broken  a  little  more  into 
curves  and  wriggles  than  I  myself  like  it ;  and  the  natural  sweep  of  the 
swelling  neck  and  body  is  somewhat  marred  by  a  series  of  flutings  and 
excrescences  which  I  myself  would  prefer  to  remove.  But  on  the  whole 
it  satisfies  the  average  taste,  and  its  form  may  be  fairly  accepted  as  a 
good  specimen  of  the  ornate  style  in  keramic  art.  As  for  its  colouring, 
it  is  really  well  managed,  if  we  regard  the  vase  as  an  object  per  se. 
There  is  a  ground  of  a  rich  deep  purplish  hue ;  and  there  are  knobs  of 
creamy  white,  and  handles  of  a  good  contrasting  green ;  and  in  the  middle 
there  is  a  bunch  of  flowers,  painted  with  great  care  and  taste  by  an  artist 
who  ought  not  to  be  throwing  away  his  skill  upon  such  a  trifle  as  this. 
He  is  one  of  the  best  Sevres  painters,  and  he  has  taken  an  amount  of 
pains  over  these  violets  and  cyclamens  which  is  quite  out  of  proportion 
to  the  result  obtained. 

That  is  a  fair  description  of  the  porcelain  vase,  by  itself.  Now  let 
me  put  it  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  take  a  look  at  it  for  a  moment  as  a 
decorative  object.  There  can  be  no  question  that,  from  this  point  of 
view,  the  piece  of  porcelain  is  a  total  failure.  It  is  pretty  enough  when 
you  look  closely  into  it ;  but  at  three  yards'  distance  it  is  nothing  at  all. 
The  colours  are  all  jumbled  together  indistinguishably ;  the  carefully 
painted  bunch  of  flowers  is  quite  lost ;  and  the  shape,  obscured  by  its 


DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS.  591 

twists  and  twirls,  becomes  simply  chaotic.  There  is  no  outline,  no 
recognisable  figure,  no  real  harmony  of  colour,  nothing  but  a  shapeless 
desert  of  purple  and  green,  with  a  whitish  medallion,  variegated  by 
pink  and  blue  patches,  in  its  centre,  which  are  vaguely  recognised  as 
meant  for  the  bunch  of  violets  and  cyclamens  aforesaid.  As  a  decoration 
for  a  room  this  Sevres  vase  is  nowhere. 

I  turn  next  to  the  little  bit  of  red  oriental  earthenware.  It  is  made  of 
common  clay,  and  has  not  been  moulded  with  all  the  care  bestowed  upon 
the  French  porcelain  :  but  its  outline  is  simple,  graceful,  and  full  of 
native  taste.  Its  swelling  bulb  curves  outward  just  where  it  ought  to 
curve ;  while  its  slender  neck  contracts  just  where  it  ought  to  contract,  and 
just  to  the  right  extent.  Were  it  fuller  below,  it  would  be  bulky  and 
inflated ;  were  it  slighter  above,  it  would  be  gawky  and  awkward ;  but 
as  it  is,  it  has  hit  exactly  the  right  mean  in  tallness  and  slenderness,  in 
breadth  and  depth.  It  has  about  it  that  nameless  something,  that 
indefinable  tone  of  grace,  which  one  finds  in  the  best  Roman  amphorae, 
the  best  Etruscan  vases,  the  best  Grecian  beakers,  the  best  pre-historic 
flasks  and  cruses.  There  are  no  jutting  ornaments,  no  twisted  handles 
or  undulating  lips ;  nothing  but  sympathetic  curves,  melting  into  one 
another  without  angularity  or  break  of  continuous  contour.  The  whole 
figure  has  been  moulded  by  a  few  turns  of  the  wheel,  and  nothing  has 
been  added  or  altered  afterwards.  In  colour  it  is  uniform  throughout, 
of  a  deep  and  full  red,  neither  crude  on  one  hand  nor  dull  on  the  other. 
Its  hue  is  entirely  produced  by  a  single  vitreous  glaze,  a  little  plashed 
in  the  firing,  but  otherwise  unvaried  from  end  to  end.  Though  com- 
paratively dear  in  England  now,  because  old  and  uncommon,  I  suppose 
it  cost  sixpence  to  make  originally,  while  the  Sevres  vase  cost  twenty 
guineas.  In  itself,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  is  a  mere  toy ;  no  more  com- 
parable in  technique  to  the  bit  of  French  porcelain  than  a  blue-and-white 
teacup  is  comparable  to  a  group  of  Greek  maidens  by  Sir  Frederick 
Leighton. 

I  put  it  on  the  mantelshelf,  to  stand  out  against  the  neutral  back- 
ground of  the  olive-green  and  blue-tinted  wall-paper,  and  it  becomes  at 
once  a  different  thing.  I  step  back  three  paces  into  the  room,  to  survey 
the  effect,  and  I  see  at  a  glance  that  the  oriental  red  is  a  decoration, 
while  the  European  purple  and  green  and  cream-colour  is  not.  The 
one  stands  out  definite  in  hue  and  shade  against  the  wall  behind, 
showing  off  all  the  simple  beauty  it  possesses  to  the  very  best  advantage  : 
the  other  merges  into  a  confused  mass  of  points  and  colours,  having  no 
individuality  of  its  own,  and  wholly  failing  to  compose  an  element  in 
the  picture  as  a  whole.  You  could  not  enter  the  room  without  at  once 
catching  and  comprehending  the  meaning  of  the  little  red  vase :  you 
must  look  at  the  piece  of  Sevres  porcelain  with  a  close  and  critical  eye 
before  you  begin  to  observe  its  good  points.  No  doubt  the  Parisian 
product  is  a  triumph  of  art  in  its  own  way ;  but  it  certainly  is  not  a 
decorative  decoration. 


592  DECOEATIVE  DECOEATIONS. 

These  two  examples  typify  very  fairly  what  decoration  actually  is, 
and  what  it  ought  to  be.  Most  people  are  quite  content  to  look  at  any 
pretty  thing  they  happen  to  see  in  a  shop,  and  because  it  pleases  them 
when  so  looked  at,  to  buy  it  forthwith,  never  stopping  to  inquire  what 
effect  it  will  have  as  part  of  a  room.  That  is  the  reason  why  most  of  our 
houses  are  mere  rough  and  tumble  collections  of  stray  objects,  pretty  or 
otherwise,  with  very  little  idea  of  arrangement,  and  with  no  general  or 
intelligible  effect.  It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  we  enter  a  room  which  we 
can  take  in  and  comprehend  as  a  whole  at  a  single  glance.  Yet  that 
ought  to  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all  our  decorative  efforts,  the  object 
which  we  should  keep  in  mind  in  furnishing  our  houses,  so  far  as  the 
desire  to  please  or  to  ornament  enters  at  all  into  our  plan.  Of  course  I 
admit  that  our  first  object  must  be  to  secure  shelter,  warmth,  and  air,  to 
have  beds,  tables,  chairs,  and  carpets ;  but  in  so  much  as  we  wish  to 
make  these  pretty,  and  not  merely  and  simply  utilitarian,  we  should 
reasonably  be  guided  by  a  sense  of  general  effect,  not  of  separate  and 
individual  prettiness.  The  rooms  which  most  people  most  instinctively 
admire  are  those  in  which  carpet,  dado,  paper,  and  ceiling  make  a  har- 
monious and  consistent  framework,  and  in  which  chairs,  tables,  couches, 
beds,  or  decorations  fall  each  into  their  proper  place  as  parts  of  the 
general  picture.  Such  a  room  as  this  needs  no  separate  study  of  all  its 
parts  in  order  to  see  its  prettiness  ;  the  eye  takes  it  all  in  at  once  as  a 
continuous  and  comprehensible  whole,  at  a  single  sweep. 

Many  people  say  that  this  is  a  mere  matter  of  taste  :  that  one  person 
will  admire  one  style  of  room,  while  others  admire  the  exact  opposite. 
No  doubt  the  objection  is  true  up  to  a  certain  point ;  but  I  believe  as  a 
rule  nine  people  out  of  ten  will  admire  an  artistically  arranged  and 
harmonious  house,  when  they  see  it,  far  more  than  a  mere  scratch  col- 
lection of  odds  and  ends  such  as  we  usually  find  in  the  average  English 
home.  They  may  not  have  originality  or  aesthetic  initiative  enough  to 
invent  such  a  house  for  themselves ;  but  the  moment  they  are  shown 
one  which  somebody  else'has  had  the  wit  to  contrive,  they  are  both  sur- 
prised and  delighted  with  it.  I  have  known  utter  Philistines,  like  the 
Jones's  of  Cottonopolis,  who  said  beforehand,  "  I'm  sure  I  shan't  admire 
Mr.  Cimabue  Jenkins's  style ;  his  taste  is  too  high  and  dismal  for  me ;  " 
but  when  they  have  been  to 'one  of  Mr.  Cimabue  Jenkins's  "at-homes," 
they  come  away  enchanted,  saying  to  one  another,  "  Well,  Mrs.  Jones,  we 
shall  sell  all  our  old  furniture,  and  do  the  house  up  again  in  that 
aesthetic  fashion,  as  they  call  it,  this  very  week." 

I  have  a  friend  at  Oxford  whose  rooms  are  perhaps  the  prettiest  I 
ever  saw.  I  have  turned  them  into  a  sort  of  illustrative  museum  of 
domestic  decoration  by  taking  all  my  other  friends  to  see  them.  Most 
of  them  say  before  they  go,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  them  ;  "  but  all 
of  them  say  when  they  come  away,  "  I  never  saw  anything  so  charming 
in  my  life."  Look  at  the  way  in  which  everybody  jumped  at  the  new 
and  really  decorative  styles  in  wall-papers,  and  textile  fabrics  for  furni- 


DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS.  593 

ture,  and  good  honest  wooden  tables,  the  moment  a  small  group  of  artists 
began  to  design  such  things  for  them.  I  believe  most  people  have  not 
creativeness  enough  to  make  good  patterns  for  themselves ;  but  they 
have  taste  enough  to  know  and  admire  a  good  pattern  when  they  see  it. 
You  need  not  be  a  Mozart,  or  a  Beethoven,  or  a  Mendelssohn,  in  order 
to  appreciate  a  Twelfth  Mass  or  a  Sonata  in  B  flat. 

In  all  our  greater  artistic  work  we,  in  Western  Europe,  have  long 
recognised  the  fundamental  principle  that  ornamentation  must  be  subor- 
dinated to  general  effect,  and  that,  however  pretty  a  piece  of  detailed 
work  may  be  in  itself,  it  can  only  be  admitted  if  it  helps  on,  or  at  least 
does  not  detract  from,  the  excellence  of  the  whole.  It  is  this  that  makes 
the  main  difference  between  oriental  and  western  architecture.  Look  at 
the  gorgeous  Hindoo  temples,  or  even  at  Mohammadan  mosques,  like 
the  Taj  at  Agra.  You  will  see  in  the  eastern  buildings  whole  sides  of  a 
quadrangle  filled  up  with  marble  lattice-work,  all  fretted  into  minute 
and  delicate  lace-like  patterns.  This  lattice-work  is  exquisite  of  its 
kind,  and  it  produces  a  sense  of  high  artistic  pleasure  even  in  the  most 
cultivated  mind.  But  if  you  stand  back  a  little,  and  look  at  the  various 
parts  of  the  whole,  you  will  see  that  the  dainty  tracery  is  quite  lost  in  a 
general  view.  All  that  artistic  labour  has  been  expended,  not  on  the 
principal  constructive  points  of  the  building,  but  on  the  mere  interspaces  ; 
and  so  it  fails  entirely  of  distant  effect.  On  the  other  hand,  look  at  the 
tower  and  doorway  of  Iffley  Church.  All  the  flat  interspaces  consist  of 
plain  unornamented  stonework ;  but  the  arches  of  the  portal  are  deeply 
recessed,  and  richly  cut  with  dog-tooth  mouldings;  the  windows  are 
decorated  with  similar  ornaments;  the  corners,  the  battlements,  the 
string-courses  are  all  marked  with  finer  and  more  conspicuous  detail. 
Here  there  is  no  waste  of  decoration  where  it  will  not  be  noticed ;  every 
piece  of  minute  mason- work  is  expended  upon  some  point  of  constructive 
importance,  so  that  it  helps  us  at  once  to  grasp  and  comprehend  the 
whole  meaning  and  plan  of  the  architect,  without  being  distracted  from 
the  main  purpose  by  petty  and  non-significant  details. 

This  same  principle  can  be  applied  to  almost  all  buildings  as  a 
rough  test  of  relative  aesthetic  development.  The  tiny  Benares  temples 
are  most  of  them  mere  detail,  and  nothing  else.  They  are  each  a  simple 
chaos  of  admirable  carving,  without  any  general  design  at  all.  The  Taj 
and  the  other  best  Mohammadan  works  of  Agra  and  Delhi  have  very 
distinct  and  beautiful  designs,  and  the  chief  architectural  points  are  well 
brought  out ;  but  still  a  vast  mass  of  the  minor  and  intricate  carving  is 
lost  in  the  general  view,  and  only  comes  out  when  looked  at  piecemeal. 
The  Parthenon  and  the  Maison  Carre  of  Nimes  represent  the  opposite 
pole ;  there  only  the  constructive  points  are  decorated,  while  the  back- 
grounds are  left  quite  plain.  But  the  Hellenic  model,  if  it  fails  at  all, 
fails  in  its  extreme  simplicity,  in  the  too  great  purity  of  its  style,  and 
the  want  of  sufficient  points  of  interest.  Mediaeval  architecture  com- 
bines the  special  beauties  of  each ;  it  lavishes  detailed  decoration  as 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  251.  29. 


594  DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS. 

freely  as  the  Hindoos,  but  it  restricts  its  richest  work  to  the  bringing 
out  of  the  main  design  as  rigidly  as  the  Greeks.  Lincoln  Minster  or 
Chartres  will  give  one  a  good  subject  for  comparison  with  the  Taj  on 
the  one  hand,  and  the  Theseium  on  the  other. 

Again,  contrast  Milan  with  Salisbury  Cathedral.  It  may  seem 
shockingly  irreverent  to  say  so,  but  I  have  always  fancied  Milan,  with 
all  its  wondrous  spires  and  pinnacles  and  twirligigs,  was,  after  all,  but 
a  glorified  and  idealized  wedding-cake— the  gorgeous  dream  of  an  artistic 
confectioner  with  a  taste  for  building  up  that  curious  fret- work  in  white 
sugar  and  caramel  which  decorates  the  front  window  of  the  pastrycook's 
shop.  It  is  the  apotheosis  of  confectionery,  no  doubt ;  but  I  am  com- 
pelled to  admit,  confectionery  none  the  less.  As  you  gaze  up  at  it,  or 
.down  upon  it  from  its  own  top,  you  fail  to  get  any  one  intelligent  idea 
of  its  drift.  However  you  take  it,  it  remains  a  wilderness  of  stonework, 
reducing  your  mind  to  a  maze  and  a  haza,  through  which  innumerable 
points  and  peaks  loom  up  indistinguishably,  and  fade  into  others  yet 
beyond  them.  On  the  other  hand,  go  in  to.  the  neat  and  green  little  close 
of  Salisbury,  take  your  stand  at  the  north-west  corner  (or,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  at  any  other  point  where  the  Dean,  and  Chapter  will 
permit  you),  and  look  up  at  the  building  in  all  its  perfect  unity  and 
simplicity.  To  my  mind,  you  will  not  find  a  more  complete  and  self- 
contained  cathedral  in  all  Europe.  It  is  not  large,  it  is  not  even  very 
notable  in  style,  at  least  as  far  as  peculiarities  and  technical  tours  de 
force  go ;  but  it  forms  a  single  beautiful  picture,  harmonious  throughout, 
and  bound  together  by  the  tie  of  a  general  conception  to  which  all 
details  have  been  duly  subordinated.  Peterborough  is  nothing  but  a 
west  front  with  three  magnificent  doorways ;  Westminster  Abbey  is  two 
fine  but  incongruous  pieces  of  architecture,  grafted  inartistically  upon 
one  another :  but  Salisbury  is  a  whole  Cathedral,  with  a  plan  and  a 
central  idea,  to  be  grasped  at  once  by  eye  and  mind  as  readily  as  a 
Hellenic  temple,  yet  adorned  with  all  the  richness  and  variety  of 
mediaeval  workmanship. 

In  our  larger  architectural  and  decorative  schemes,  as  I  said  before, 
we  have  fully  mastered  this  first  principle  of  design- — to  have  a  notion 
and  stick  to  it.  It  is  only  in  our  houses  that  we  have  failed  to  perceive 
its  applicability.  And  I  think  we  may  set  down  the  failure  to  two 
causes  :  the  first  is,  undue  ambition  ;  the  second  is  neglect  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  relief. 

Ambition  shows  itself  most  in  the  desire  for  big  pictures,  good  or  bad, 
in  heavy  gilt  frames,  and  for  products  of  the  very  highest  art,  or  where 
these  cannot  be  afforded,  travesties  of  them  in  coarse  execution.  Now, 
we  ought  never  to  forget  that  all  pictorial  art  was  in  its  origin  purely 
decorative.  The  paintings  on  an  Egyptian  tomb  or  palace  formed  part 
of  the  architectural  design ;  and  we  can  get  the  best  idea  of  their  true  im- 
port by  visiting  the  admirable  restorations  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  where 
one  can  see  the  thorough  subordination  of  the  painter  to  the  architect. 


DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS.  595 

The  columns  and  capitals  are  covered  with  colour ;  so  are  the  walls  and 
interspaces  :  but  all  the  figures  and  subjects  fall  into  their  proper  place  in 
the  total  design  as  a  whole.  In  like  manner  with  Assyrian  bas-reliefs ;  they 
are  architectural  compositions,  not  isolated  specimens  of  plastic  art.  The 
frescoes  on  a  Pompeian  villa,  though  freer  in  treatment,  are  similarly  sub- 
ordinated to  the  general  decorative  conception.  It  was  the  same  in  the 
early  mediaeval  churches.  They  started  from  the  Byzantine  model,  which 
we  can  still  see  represented  in  the  style  of  the  Greek  church.  Without 
moving  from  western  Europe  one  may  see  excellent  examples  in  the  well- 
known  Russian  church  in  Paris,  near  the  Pare  Monceaux,  in  the  memo- 
rial chapel  to  the  Czarewitch  at  Nice,  and  in  the  little  white  building  at 
Vevay,  whose  brand-new  elegance  contrasts  not  unpleasantly  in  a  single 
coup-d'ceil  with  the  sombre  grandeur  of  the  heavy  old  tower  of  the  parish 
church  above.  It  is  a  striking  enough  style  in  its  semi-barbaric  way, 
with  huge  mosaic  figures  of  conventionalised  saints  standing  out  in  purple 
and  green  and  violet  against  a  massive  background  of  solid  gilding ;  and 
though  it  fatigues  us  with  its  glitter  and  grandeur,  it  is  not  without  a 
gorgeous  impressiveness  of  its  own.  From  this  purely  decorative  art, 
mediaeval  Italian  painting  took  its  rise ;  and  though  it  grew  more  and 
more  untrammelled  with  every  generation  from  Cimabue  onward,  it 
remained  essentially  decorative  till  the  Renaissance.  Giotto  or  Ghirlan- 
dajo  did  not  paint  a  picture  and  then  sell  it  to  anybody  who  turned  up, 
to  stick  in  anywhere,  however  incongruous  the  place  might  be ;  they 
undertook  to  embellish  a  particular  church,  and  they  painted  particular 
square  or  semi-circular  or  corner- wise  frescoes  on  the  spot,  for  this,  that, 
or  the  other  individual  nook  or  angle  of  the  wall.  Even  the  great  Re- 
naissance masters  engaged  themselves  to  cover  a  certain  space  of  St. 
Peter's  or  the  Vatican,  and  covered  it  with  suitable  designs  accordingly. 
No  doubt  this  was  slavery  for  imitative  art,  but  it  had  at  least  the  result 
of  making  decoration  truly  decorative. 

In  process  of  time,  however,  as  imitative  art  developed  to  its  full 
freedom,  it  cast  off  entirely  the  trammels  of  its  architectural  and  decora- 
tive uses.  It  became  a  thing-in-itself  (not  in  the  Kantian  sense,  of 
course),  an  end  to  be  pursued  apart  from  all  idea  of  special  purposes  for 
the  finished  product.  The  man  who  got  an  inspiration,  wrought  it  out 
on  canvas  as  seemed  to  him  fittest,  and  then  left  it  to  the  purchaser  to 
place  it  amid  congruous  or  incongruous  surroundings  as  he  would.  Such 
a  change  was  absolutely  necessary,  if  imitative  art  was  ever  to  become 
perfect  and  individualised.  Recognising,  as  we  now  do,  that  the  truth- 
ful and  exact  representation  of  nature  is,  to  say  the  least,  one  among  the 
main  ends  of  pictorial  art,  we  must  sacrifice  to  that  end  all  the  mere 
decorative  prettinesses  of  broad  and  effective  colouring,  of  mosaic-like  gild- 
ing, and  uniform  backgrounds,  of  artificially  symmetrical  composition,  of 
balanced  figures  and  hues  and  shapes.  Whether  we  are  entirely  realistic, 
or  whether,  on  the  other  hand,  we  allow  somewhat  to  individual  idealism 
and  "  spiritual  insight  " — for  into  this  vexed  question  I  do  not  wish  to 

29—2 


596  DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS. 

enter  here — we  all  agree  that  close  fidelity  to  nature  is  one  of  the  chief 
aims  of  painting ;  and  that  any  mode  of  production  which  interferes  with 
that  aim  must  be  promptly  suppressed.  Hence  we  all  allow  that  it  is 
best  for  our  artists  freely  to  choose  their  own  subjects  and  represent 
them  on  their  own  scale,  and  in  their  own  way;  leaving  the  ques- 
tion of  their  ultimate  destination  to  be  settled  at  a  later  period 
by  the  person  into  whose  possession  the  finished  pictures  may  finally 
come. 

This  being  so,  we  find  ourselves  face  to  face  with  a  new  difficulty ; 
what  is  the  best  way  of  exhibiting,  in  public  or  private,  the  works  of 
imitative  art  so  produced  as  objects  of  intrinsic  beauty  1  This  difficulty 
could  not,  of  course,  crop  up  under  the  old  system,  where  such  works 
were  produced  as  parts  of  a  particular  ai-chitectural  whole  ;  and  though 
it  seems  rather  far  at  first  sight  from  the  question  of  decorative  decora- 
tions, I  think  a  little  consideration  will  show  us  its  appositeness  to  the 
subject  in  hand. 

Probably  the  ideally  worst  way  of  exhibiting  pictures  is  that  adopted 
in  our  Royal  Academy,  and  in  most  galleries  of  painting,  at  home  and 
abroad.  Jumbled  together  in  close  proximity  to  one  another,  arranged  for 
the  most  part  according  to  size  alone,  with  little  reference  to  prevalent 
tone,  subject,  harmony,  or  contrast,  and  destitute  of  any  background  or 
relieving  interspaces,  the  pictures  become  a  mere  waste  of  coloured  can- 
vas, separated  by  wearying  masses  of  gilt  frame.  I  believe  the  well- 
known  Academy  headache  is  just  as  much  due  to  the  intense  and  unbroken 
stimulation  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow  pigments,  together  with  the  dazzling 
effect  of  continuous  gilding,  as  to  the  constrained  position  of  the  neck, 
the  constant  alteration  of  focus  and  muscular  adjustment  in  the  eyes, 
and  the  mental  effort  of  passing  so  rapidly  from  one  subject  of  attention 
to  another.  All  these  things  not  only  weary  our  nerves,  but  also  detract 
largely  from  our  critical  appreciation  of  the  paintings.  Of  course  a  gilt 
frame  throws  up  the  colour  of  the  picture  better  than  anything  else  could 
do  :  but  then,  in  order  to  produce  its  full  effect,  it  requires  to  be  isolated 
in  the  midst  of  a  comparatively  wide  field  of  neutral  or  dark-tinted  back- 
ground, so  that  the  picture  may  be  viewed  by  itself,  as  it  was  painted, 
uninfluenced  in  tone  by  the  interference  of  other  and  often  discordant 
fields  of  colour,  introducing  fresh  and  perhaps  disturbing  sentiments  into 
the  mind.  Accordingly,  I  believe  that  for  our  developed  imitative  art, 
divorced  as  it  so  largely  is  from  decorative  intent,  the  best  mode  of  exhi- 
bition would  be  one  apart  from  domestic  adjuncts,  and  with  each  canvas 
in  comparatively  complete  isolation  against  a  studied  background.  As 
this,  however,  would  defeat  the  object  for  which  most  persons  buy  pic- 
tures— as  domestic  decorations — I  think  the  next  best  thing  would  be  to 
subordinate  the  room  as  far  as  possible  to  the  pictures,  and  to  choose 
them  as  far  as  possible  with  an  eye  to  their  effect  upon  one  another  in 
juxtaposition.  No  doubt  there  are  a  few  people  who  do  this  alreadv ; 
but  the  vast  majority  of  picture-buyers  are  quite  capable  of  hanging  a 


DECOEATIVE  DECORATIONS.  597 

Derby  Day  by  Mr.  Frith  close  to  a  Madonna  by  Mr.  Rossetti,  and 
putting  both  against  a  background  which  makes  even  the  first  unneces- 
sarily annoying  to  the  eye. 

I  have  been  good-humouredly  laughed  at  by  a  friendly  critic  for  pro- 
posing that  you  should  turn  out  Turner  and  David  Cox  because  they 
Avould  not  harmonise  with  your  coal-scuttle;  Now,  though  this  is  an 
extreme  way  of  putting  the  case,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  wholly  wrong. 
After  all,  it  is  better  at  any  rate  to  make  your  coal-scuttle  harmonise 
with  your  Turner,  and  then  to  abstain  from  buying  a  David  Cox  unless 
it  will  go  well  with  both.  If  the  picture  is  to  be  used  as  a  household 
decoration,  care  should  at  any  rate  be  taken  that  it  is  relatively  decora- 
tive. But  most  people  go  to  a  gallery,  see  a  thing  that  pleases  them,  buy 
it  indiscriminately,  and  then  put  it  somewhere  where  it  loses  in  effect 
itself,  and  spoils  the  effect  of  everything  else  about  it.  It  seems  to  me 
that  in  this  way  the  ambition  to  have  pictures  of  some  sort,  because  they 
are  the  highest  form  of  our  developed  art,  has  largely  prevented  our 
decoration  from  working  into  natural  lines.  And  considering  how  very 
few  people  can  afford  really  good  pictures,  I  think  it  would  be  better  for 
most,  except  the  very  wealthy,  to  confine  themselves  to  the  lower  but 
more  manageable  design  of  planning  their  homes  decoratively  with  good 
effect.  Thousands  who  can  neither  understand  nor  afford  Botticellis 
and  Pinturiccios  can  do  this  and  do  it  well ;  but  their  impulse  has  been 
set  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  they  fail  accordingly  to  produce  anything 
aesthetic  in  any  way. 

So  much  for  the  first  point,  the  dangers  of  ambition ;  now  a  few 
words  as  to  the  second,  the  neglect  of  the  principle  of  relief. 

Esthetic  pleasure  seems  to  consist  for  the  most  part  in  the  due  inter- 
mixture of  stimulation  and  rest.     If  there  is  no  stimulation,  there  i.s  no 
pleasure,  but  if  the  stimulation  is  too  intense,  sustained,  and  unbroken, 
the  pleasure  rapidly  gives  way  to  fatigue.     In  ordinary  circumstances, 
however,  we  have  abundant  opportunities  of  relief  in  the  general  dull  or 
neutral  background.     Hence,  what  we  usually  call  pretty  things  are 
those  which  yield  us  considerable  visual  stimulation  (for  I  am  confining 
myself  here  to  visual  beauty  alone)  in  lustre,  colour,  form,  or  detail. 
A  glance  at  the  commonly  recognised  beautiful  objects  in  nature  will 
show  us  the  truth  of  this,  for  they  are  mostly  such  things  as  red,  yellow, 
blue,  pink,  and  orange  flowei-s ;  ruddy  fruits  and  berries  ;  bright-coloured 
butterflies,  beetles,  birds,  and  animals;  golden  or  other  metallic  plumes  ; 
crystals,  gems,  and  brilliant  stones ;  rainbowa  and  sunset  clouds ;  autumn 
hues  on  the  forest ;  blue  or  purple  seas ;  green  fields,  red  crags,  white 
chalk  cliffs,  dazzling  skies,  and  so  forth.     On  the  other  hand,  we  do  not 
think  of  brown  earth,  dingy  roads,  overcast  and  gloomy  skies,  desert 
sands,  or  dull  seas  as  in  themselves  pretty,  though  they  may  become  so 
by  some  effect  of  contrast  or  sentiment.     In  fact,  stimulation  of  colour, 
lustre,  .brilliancy,  and   light-and-shade   forms   the   positive   element  of 
visual  aesthetic  feeling ;  whereas  relief,  or  rest,  gained  by  the  intermedia- 


598  DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS. 

tion  of  duller  or  neutral  backgrounds,  forms  only  its  negative  or  relative 
element. 

Accordingly,  we  usually  call  stimulating  objects  pretty,  and  that  is 
the  common  sense  of  the  word  in  the  mouths  of  all  but  a  select  artistic 
few.  When  average  people  want  to  buy  anything,  they  naturally  buy  a 
"  pretty  "  thing,  and  they  buy  everything  "  pretty  "  alike.  They  know 
the  end  they  want  to  produce,  but  they  mistake  the  means  necessary  to 
produce  it.  So  they  get  a  pretty  white  paper,  with  bright  bunches  of  red 
and  blue  flowers ;  and  a  pretty  piano  with  a  piece  of  crimson  silk  facing 
let  in  behind  its  fretwork  front ;  and  a  pretty  carpet  with  green  and 
orange  spots  ;  and  a  set  of  pretty  chairs  and  couches,  with  light-blue  satin 
coverings.  They  get  still  more  colour  in  their  curtains  and  wool-work 
cushions,  while  they  lavish  a  sea  of  gilding  on  their  mirrors  and  cornices, 
besides  running  a  little  gold  over  the  mouldings  of  the  door  and  round 
the  baseboard  of  the  room.  Then  they  stick  in  a  lot  of  chandeliers  with 
cut-glass  prisms  and  brilliants,  a  pair  or  so  of  glass  and  porcelain  vases, 
an  ormolu  clock,  and  a  few  water-colours  or  family  portraits  in  heavy 
gilt  frames,  with  knobs  and  curls  to  bring  out  the  gilding  into  full  pro- 
minence. We  can  hardly  wonder  at  them  when  we  look  at  what  greater 
authorities  have  done — at  the  jumbled  mass  of  internal  decoration  in 
Exeter  Cathedral,  or  at  the  glassy-looking,  slippery,  oily,  over-polished, 
and  glistening  interior  of  the  Albert  Chapel  at  Windsor. 

Now,  the  error  of  all  this  consists  in  its  neglect  of  the  principle  of 
relief.     In  order  to  produce  an  aesthetic  effect  you  must  have,  not  only  a 
few  pretty  things,  but  also,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  a  great 
many  ugly  or  neutral  things.     You  must  not  make  your  bouquet  consist 
entirely  of  tuberose  and  gladiolus ;  you  must  intersperse  a  little  green 
foliage  as  well.    You  must  not  paint  your  picture  all  crimson  and  purple  ; 
you  must  have  a  bit  of  brown  hillside  and  cloudy  sky.     The  great  secret 
of  internal  decoration  consists  in  making  the  background  into  a  back- 
ground, and  allowing  your  pretty  things  to  come  out  against  it  by  con- 
trast.    That  is  why  everybody,  or  almost  everybody,  prefers  (when  once 
they  have  seen  it)  a  neutral  or  retiring  wall-paper  to  a  white  and  gold 
pattern  interspersed  with  casual  bunches  of  red  and  green.     You  don't 
want  your  paper  to  be  pretty  in  the  sense  of  stimulating ;  you  want  it 
to  be  restful,  delicate,  relieving.     If  you  can  make  it  rich  in  diapered 
fretwork  as  well,  so  much  the  better;  but  its  first  object  must  be  to  retire, 
not  to  obtrude  itself  on  the  eye.     Then,  having  secured  such  a  general 
background,  your  next  object  must  be  to  choose  such  decorations  as  will 
show  well  against  it.     In  short,  while  your  relief  should  be  relieving, 
your  decorations  should  be  decorative.    It  is  not  enough  that  they  should 
be  pretty  separately,  or  when  closely  examined  ;  they  should  be  pretty 
then  and  there,  as  they  stand,  in  conjunction  with  all  their  surroundings. 
It  is  the  neglect  of  this  condition  which  makes  most  of  our  rooms  into  a 
bedlam  of  conflicting  objects ;  it  is  attention  to  it  which  alone  can  make 
them  into  harmonious  and  intelligible  wholes. 


DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS.  599 

As  a  rule,  a  great  deal  too  much  labour  is  expended  upon  would-be 
ornamental  products,  and  with  very  little  artistic  effect.      Take,  as  a 
supreme  and  awful  example,  the  old-fashioned  Berlin  wool-work.     Look 
at  all  the  time  wasted  in   depicting  and  grounding   those  impossible 
bunches  of  patchwork  roses,  those  ladies  with  square  red  blocks  of  woollen 
mosaic  to  represent  their  cheeks,  those  lap-dogs  with  lustreless  eyes  and 
rectangularly  waving  tails.     Yet,  incredible  as  it  seems,  human  beings 
used  to  buy  pieces  of  this  work  with  the  pattern  already  finished,  and 
spend  days  in  mechanically  filling-in  the  black  background.     They  paid 
work-girls  for  doing  the  only  interesting  part  of  the  design,  such  as  it 
was,  to  save  themselves  even  the  faint  intellectual  effort  of  counting  the 
holes,  and  then  contentedly  reduced  their  individuality  to  the  level  of 
a  steam  power-loom,  to  cover  the  remainder  of  the  canvas  with  uniform 
lines  of  black  stitches.     Happily,  crewel-work  has  now  saved  one-half 
the  British  race  from  this  depth  of  artistic  degradation,  and  though  they 
still  buy  their  patterns  ready  traced,  instead  of  honestly  designing  them 
for  themselves,  they  do  manage  now  to  turn  out  something  pretty  in  the 
end,  and  to  make  the  result  not  wholly  and  ridiculously  inadequate  to 
the  time  spent  over  it.     I   have  lately  seen  a  beautiful  brown-holland 
dado,  one  of  the  most  effective  bits  of  decoration  that  I  ever  saw  for 
people  of  moderate  means.     It  consisted  of  a  plain  wide  strip  of  the 
simple  material,  unworked  below,  with  a  border  about  eighteen  inches  wide 
on  top,  worked  in  crewels  with  original  designs  of  birds  and  water-plants, 
drawn  in  Japanese  fashion,  without  reference  to  the  artificial  limits  of 
the  material.     This  piece  of  work  was  very  rapidly  wrought  in  outline 
merely,  by  a  few  deft-fingered  girls,  and  yet  it  was  fifty  times  more  effec- 
tive than  a  dozen  antimacassars  or  table  covers  of  the  ordinary  South 
Kensington  type,  which  would  have  taken  three  times  as  long  to  make, 
and  would  not  have  had  any  of  the  spontaneity  or  originality  of  this 
pretty  and  clever  dado. 

Half  our  decorative  work  fails  in  just  this  same  particular,  that  it 
lavishes  labour  without  thinking  of  general  effect.  Vases  are  adorned 
with  all  kinds  of  quasi-ornamental  knobs  and  excrescences,  which  take 
a  great  deal  of  time  to  make,  and  yet  only  succeed  in  spoiling  the  out- 
line of  what  might  otherwise  have  been  a  pretty  form.  Pictures  are 
laboriously  painted  on  porcelain  or  glass  which  would  really  look  far 
better  in  uniform  tints,  or  with  simple  parti-coloured  glazes.  Legs  of 
chairs  and  tables  are  turned  into  alternate  bulbs  and  contractions,  when 
they  would  look  much  more  solid  and  workmanlike  with  undecorated 
tapering  or  fluted  stems.  Chairs  and  sofas  are  contorted  and  agonised 
into  the  strangest  wriggles,  like  dying  serpents,  all  for  the  express 
purpose,  apparently,  of  preventing  their  shape  from  being  readily  recog- 
nised by  the  eye  in  any  position  whatsoever.  Mirrors  are  surmounted 
by  curls  and  arabesques  in  gilt  plaster  of  Paris,  which  generally  mar  the 
good  effect  of  a  simple  square  or  canted  rectangular  frame.  And  all  these 
curious  uglifications — to  borrow  an  expressive  word  from  Alice  in  W<»>- 


600  DECORATIVE  DECORATIONS. 

derland — have  been  positively  intended  to  beautify  the  objects  upon 
which  they  are  imposed.  I  have  stood  in  a  pottery  or  glass  factory  and 
actually  seen  a  workman  take  a  natural  and  pretty  vase  in  its  plastic 
condition,  and  spoil  it  before  my  very  eyes  by  crimping  the  lip,  gauffering 
the  neck,  and  adding  a  pair  of  bastard  rococo  handles  to  the  two  sides. 

It  will  be  said,  no  doubt,  that  most  people  like  these  things ;  that 
the  taste  for  simple  decorative  objects,  for  relief,  and  for  quiet  arrange- 
ment, is  confined  to  a  very  small  number  of  people.  I  can  hardly  think 
so  ill  myself  of  the  average  taste.  No  doubt,  there  are  some  people 
whose  naturally  strong  and  hearty  nerves  will  enable  them  to  stand  so 
much  stimulation  as  one  gets  in  the  ordinary  blue  and  gold  drawing- 
room,  without  fatigue.  There  is  no  more  need  to  surround  these  strong- 
minded  persons  with  decorations  which  they  would  never  admire,  than 
there  is  need  to  compel  all  curry-loving  and  devilled-meat-eating  Indian 
colonels  to  forswear  sherry  and  madeira,  abandon  kedgeree  and  red  peppers, 
and  take  to  drinking  light  hocks,  eating  vol-au-vsnts  or  smooth  jellies,  and 
smoking  Turkish  cigarettes  after  dinner,  instead  of  their  accustomed 
Havannas.  But  the  vast  majority  of  English  people  are  really  and  un- 
affectedly charmed  when  they  see  a  room  prettily  furnished,  with  due 
regard  both  to  stimulation  and  relief.  They  allow  at  once  that  the  effect 
is  pleasant,  and  they  are  anxious  to  imitate  it  so  far  as  they  can.  In 
most  cases,  the  fact  that  their  houses  have  been  already  furnished  and 
decorated  for  them  on  the  gilt  mirror  and  blue  satin  principle,  prevents 
them  from  adopting  offhand  the  fashion  they  admire;  but  one  often 
hears  them  say,  "  If  ever  I  set  up  house  afresh,  I  shall  get  all  my  things 
in  this  new  style."  Then  again,  there  are  others  who  like,  the  old- 
fashioned  glitter  for  association's  sake,  and  find  quiet  papers  and  carpets 
"gloomy  ;  "  but  these  people  often  come  round  after  a  while,  and  learn 
to  admire  what  at  first  they  disliked.  Only  the  other  day,  an  old  lady 
•was  looking  with  me  into  the  windows  of  a  good  upholsterer's,  and 
praising  the  pretty  textile  fabrics  and  the  beautiful  pottery  displayed  in 
tasteful  black  cabinets.  "  It  takes  some  time,"  she  said,  "  to  acquire  a 
taste  for  things  of  this  sort ;  but  when  one  has  acquired  it,  they  are  so 
much  more  satisfying  than  the  gilt  absurdities  we  used  to  put  into  our 
rooms  a  few  years  ago."  This  is  the  feeling  of  thousands  and  thousands. 
They  feel  repelled  at  first  by  what  they  think  the  dulness  and  dinginess 
of  restful  backgrounds  for  decoration;  but  when  they  have  learnt 
how  to  arrange  them,  and  how  to  bring  in  those  bits  of  colour  and 
ornament  for  which  the  background  is  only  a  relief,  they  find  the  whole 
result  a  hundred  times  more  satisfying  than  the  old  chaos  of  glitter  and 
jingle.  The  astounding  revolution  in  taste  within  the  last  ten  years 
sufficiently  shows  that  the  world  at  large  is  delighted  to  be  taught  deco- 
rative principles  when  any  one  who  understands  them  is  willing  to  under- 
take the  task. 

G.  A. 


601 


Storial  Sftfe  ammtgst  %  ^nrimi  6mhs* 


As  a  schoolboy  I  had  often  longed — especially  in  school  on  hot  summer 
afternoons — that  I  could  only  travel.  And  of  all  countries  Greece 
interested  me  most.  When  at  length  I  could  indulge  my  wish  I  deter- 
mined to  visit  ancient  rather  than  modern  Greece.  One  reason  was  that 
I  knew  the  language  better ;  another,  that  I  believed  I  should  see  more 
Greeks. 

I  thought  Syracuse  a  convenient  place  to  start  from.  So  I  went 
there  first,  bought  an  outfit  of  the  ancient  fashion,  purchased  a  slave 
(whom  I  immediately  set  free,  without,  of  course/telling  him  so),  and  for 
a  ridiculously  small  sum — only  three  drachmae,  I  remember — took  a  pas- 
sage in  a  ship  bound  for  Athens  with  a  cargo  of  wine  and  cheeses. 

I  left  about  the  middle  of  March  in  the  year  423  B.C.  On  landing 
at  Piraeus  I  found  myself  hemmed  in  by  a  swarm  of  men  and  heaps  of 
merchandise,  which  made  free  movement  difficult.  The  quays  were 
cumbered  with  pottery  for  exportation,  and  ships  were  delivering  cargoes 
of  fine  woollen  stuffs  and  carpets,  paper,  glass,  saltfish,  corn,  and  ship 
timber.  With  sad  interest  I  watched  the  loading  also  of  a  cargo  of 
slaves.  In  the  background  were  long  lines  of  wharves  and  warehouses, 
shops,  and  bazaars,  betokening  a  large  and  various  commerce. 

The  delight  of  some  of  my  fellow-passengers  at  setting  foot  on  land  was 
unbounded,  and  expressed  itself  in  tears  and  laughter,  and  vows  and  thanks- 
givings to  the  gods.  I  also  quietly  congratulated  myself ;  for  the  tales  I 
had  heard  on  board  of  pirates  and  kidnappers  made  me  rather  nervous  when 
coasting  ;  while  the  extremely  deferential  attitude  of  our  skipper  towards 
wind  and  waves  inspired  anything  but  confidence  when  in  open  sea. 

On  my  way  up  to  Athens  I  could  not  help  reflecting  what  a  happy 
arrangement  it  was  of  a  seaport  town  to  split  and  have  the  seaport  four 
miles  from  the  town.  I  was  leaving  behind  me  noise  and  roughness,  the 
bustle  and  vulgarity  of  trade,  the  reckless  riot  of  seafaring  men,  and 
escaping  to  a  serener  and  purer  air. 

The  day  was  closing  as  I  reached  the  city.  Never  did  I  come  so  near 
to  worshipping  Athena  as  when  I  saw  her  glorious  temple  standing  clear 
against  the  sky,  and  glowing  in  the  saffron  light  of  the  setting  sun.  I 
had  yet  to  become  acquainted  with  the  delicate  beauty  of  the  temple 
itself,  and  the  marvels  it  contained.  I  saw  but  the  crowned  Acropolis, 
dominating  city  and  plain,  and  could  almost  believe  it  was  indeed  the  seat 
chosen  of  old  and  beloved  by  a  goddess,  who,  touched  by  the  devotion  of  a 
faithful  people,  had  adopted  the  city  laid  submissively  at  her  feet. 

I  bore  a  letter  of  introduction  to  an  Athenian  gentleman.  I  was 

29—5 


602  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GKEEKS. 

told  to  expect  from  Mm  the  most  generous  hospitality,  as  he  not  merely 
accepted  gladly  the  customary  duties  of  a  foreign  friend,  but  was  a  man 
of  wealth  distinguished  by  public  spirit.  On  my  way  to  his  house  in 
the  street  of  Tripods,  I  took  my  earliest  impressions  of  the  city.  What 
struck  me  then  most  was  its  flatness.  No  spires,  no  towers,  no  pin- 
nacles, no  tall  chimneys.  The  houses  of  the  better  class  were  not  much 
higher  than  our  garden  walls,  and  almost  as  blank,  for  they  had  no 
ground-floor  windows  which  looked  into  the  street.  The  effect  would  have 
been  both  gloomy  and  unsocial,  if  the  temples  and  public  buildings  had 
not  made  ample  compensation  in  their  number  and  splendour,  and  if 
open  squares  here  and  there  had  not  relieved  the  sense  of  moroseness. 

I  did  not  know  then  that  to  an  Athenian  the  whole  city  was  his 
house,  and  his  house  merely  his  private  room.  From  choice  he  lived  in 
public  ;  but  still  he  loved  seclusion  for  his  family,  if  not  for  himself.  The 
house  I  entered  showed  externally  not  a  sign  of  the  life  within.  But  in 
an  instant  my  knock  was  answered  by  a  porter  who  dwelt  just  within  the 
porch,  and  I  found  myself  in  a  narrow  hall.  The  porter  handed  me  on 
to  a  servant,  by  his  manner  obviously  a  domestic-in-chief,  who  came 
forward  at  the  moment,  and  led  me  in  silence  to  the  master. 

My  first  impression  of  an  Athenian  gentleman  at  home  was  pictu- 
resque and  pleasant.  In  a  small  room  hung  with  pictorial  tapestry,  and 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp  placed  on  a  tripod  near  the  door,  was  a  low 
broad  couch,  of  dark  wood  inlaid  with  ivory.  On  this,  the  white  folds 
of  his  dress  in  striking  contrast  with  the  rich  coverlets  and  the  bright 
banded  colours  of  the  pillow  he  was  resting  on,  lay  a  dark  handsome 
man,  of  clear  but  sun-tanned  complexion ;  and  in  front  of  him  was  stand- 
ing a  boy,  with  long  black  hair,  whose  lithe  'figure  was  well  set  off  by  a 
simple  flannel  tunic,  belted  round  the  waist  with  a  red  scarf.  Close  by 
him  was  a  small  low  table,  on  which  were  a  silver  goblet  and  jug,  and  near 
them  a  small  flute.  This  was  the  picture  that  met  my  eye  as  I  entered ; 
and  from  sounds  which  had  met  my  ear  as  I  neared  the  door  it  was  plain 
that  I  had  surprised  a  father  delighting  himself  after  dinner  in  his  son's 
essays  in  music  and  recitation. 

My  host's  ready  smile  told  me,  before  he  spoke,  that  I  was  expected 
and  welcome.  "With  a  kiss  and  a  friendly  pat  on  the  head  he  dismissed 
the  lad,  who,  though  from  shyness  he  hardly  ventured  to  look  up,  bowed 
low  to  me  as  he  took  up  his  flute  and  ran  off.  After  the  interchange  of 
a  few  civilities,  I  was  conducted  to  my  quarters.  Two  guest-rooms  were 
assigned  me,  both  opening  on  a  covered  cloister  which  bordered — as  did 
the  dining-room  I  had  left — on  a  square  court,  in  the  centre  of  which 
stood  a  rude,  weather-worn  statue  of  the  tutelar  deity  of  the  family, 
facing  an  altar  from  which  rose  a  tiny  fountain  of  smoke.  These  rooms 
were  very  small,  and  had  no  other  entrance  for  light  than  the  doorway, 
which  was  closed  only  by  a  curtain.  In  one  was  a  bedstead  supporting 
a  woollen  mattress  laid  on  girths,  on  which  were  lying  loosely  blankets 
of  coloured  wool.  In  the  other  was  a  chair,  a  stool,  a  cushion,  and  a 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GKEEKS.  603 

lamp.  This  simple  furniture  was  of  singularly  rich  workmanship,  and 
most  graceful  in  design.  I  felt  in  luxury,  though  there  were  two  or 
three  articles  absent  which  I  was  accustomed  to  require,  one  of  which 
was  certainly  a  table.  It  had  been  explained  to  me,  by  my  friend  to 
whom  I  owed  this  introduction,  that  being  hospitably  entertained  at 
Atheus  would  mean  having  separate  rooms  given  me  in  the  house,  toge- 
ther with  light,  firing,  and  salt ;  that  I  might  expect  to  be  asked  pretty 
frequently  to  the  family  dinner,  and  to  receive  from  the  family  some  occa- 
sional presents  of  wine,  or  fruit,  or  vegetables  ;  but  that  I  must  cater  for 
myself,  and  should  enjoy  entire  liberty  of  action.  This  was  exactly  the 
position  in  which  I  found  myself  for  some  weeks,  though  my  host,  as 
time  went  on,  asked  permission  to  treat  me  more  as  a  brother  than  as  a 
guest.  That  evening  I  was  summoned  back  to  the  dining-room,  where 
supper  had  in  the  meantime  been  served  on  a  light  portable  table.  An 
hour  was  spent  in  conversation,  and  I  went  to  my  couch. 

At  daybreak  I  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  a  slave  bringing  bread 
and  wine,  which  he  placed  on  a  small  table  by  the  side  of  my  bed.  This 
I  took  as  a  hint  to  rise.  I  was  fortunately  in  one  of  the  few  wealthy 
houses  that  could  boast  of  a  private  bath,  so  that  the  desire  towards  the  tub 
was  pretty  liberally  met.  I  found  my  host  up  and  carefully  dressed.  He 
had  already  been  out  to  make  a  call  on  a  friend,  and  was  now  ready  for 
the  usual  morning  walk.  Before  leaving  England  I  had  been  told  by 
Mr.  Mahafly,  who  had  been  in  ancient  Greece  some  time  before,  that  I 
should  find  many  ways  of  thought  at  Athens  strikingly  modern.  I  was 
reminded  of  this  when  my  host,  without  a  hint  from  me,  or  any  know- 
ledge whatever  of  my  tastes,  supposed  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I  should 
like  to  see  the  sights  of  Athens,  the  Pantheon,  and  the  other  temples  and 
public  buildings,  and  asked  me  if  I  cared  for  statues  and  paintings,  and 
architecture.  Under  his  guidance  I  had  my  first  acquaintance  with  the 
masterpieces  of  Pheidias  and  Polygnotus.  He  was  not  learned  in  art, 
but  he  was  proud  of  the  glories  of  his  city,  and  had  a  genuine  delight  in 
beauty. 

He  said  he  felt  happier,  more  serene,  more  religious  for  having  beau- 
tiful forms  about  him  ;  and  that  the  gods  also  were  pleased  to  dwell  in 
fair  houses.  He  thought  it  showed  a  high  wisdom  in  Pericles  and  Cimon 
to  devote  public  money  to  such  ornament,  as  Athens  thereby  gained  a 
name  amongst  cities  everywhere — his  "  everywhere  "  was  rather  limited 
perhaps — and  her  citizens  must  needs  be  elevated  by  the  daily  contem- 
plation of  what  was  fair  and  noble. 

As,  towards  noon,  we  passed  through  the  market-place  on  our  way 
home,  it  was  evident  that  others  beside  ourselves  thought  their  morn- 
ing's work  to  be  over.  The  bankers  were  clearing  their  tables  and  lock- 
ing their  cash-boxes ;  stalls  were  being  covered  up  from  the  heat  and 
dust,  and  the  market-people  were  already  settling  themselves  in  sheltered 
corners,  to  eat  and  drink,  or  to  sleep. 

Breakfast  was  awaiting  our  return ;  and  I  was  not  sorry  to  find  it  a 


604  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GKEEKS. 

substantial  meal.  Fresh  fish,  soup,  vegetables,  bread,  cheese,  fruit,  and 
honey-cakes  in  succession  were  brought  in ;  and  there,  lying  beside  them, 
in  the  cool  dark  little  dining-room,  my  host  and  I  discussed  the  rival 
merits  of  the  statues  of  Athena,  compared  the  place  of  Assembly  with 
tho  theatre  of  Dionysus,  talked  over  the  frescoes  in  the  market-place 
and  in  the  Propylaea,  and  forgot  the  glare  and  dust  outside. 

Breakfast  .over,  it  was  hinted  to  me  that  sweet  and  healthful  was  the 
midday  sleep.  So  I  retired  to  my  private  quarters  and  fell  in  with 
Athenian  custom. 

After  the  siesta  I  was  studying  with  grave  attention  the  features  of 
the  tutelar  of  the  house,  whom  I  have  before  described  as  standing  in 
the  court,  when  my  host  approached  from  the  inner  part  of  the  house, 
which  I  afterwards  found  to  be  a  second  court  behind  ours,  where  the 
women-folk  dwelt  apart.  It  was  now  late  afternoon,  and  he  proposed  a 
stroll  towards  the  Gymnasium.  I  had  heard  much  of  this  national 
institution,  and  was  glad  to  see  it  under  such  good  escort.  We  turned 
our  steps  towards  the  Lyceum,  our  slaves  of  'course  in  attendance.  I 
need  not  describe  the  building,  as  we  have  all  read  Vitruvius.  But  I 
wish  I  could  so  describe  the  scene  within  that  my  readers  might  see  it 
as  distinctly  as  I  can  recall  it.  "We  Englishmen  can  understand  well 
enough  the  interest  of  watching  games  in  which  we  once  excelled,  and  of 
looking  on  at  feats  of  strength  or  skill  which  we  used  to  practise.  It 
comes  natural,  therefore,  to  us  to  imagine  the  middle-aged  and  elders  of 
Athens  often  looking  in  to  see  their  youngsters  trained  to  manly  vigour 
and  activity.  Up  to  eighteen  years  of  age  themselves  had  wrestled,  and 
run,  and  boxed,  and  leaped,  and  thrown  quoits  with  as  much  energy,  I 
suppose,  as  we  give  to  cricket,  and  rackets,  and  football.  We  do  not  all 
of  us  care  to  watch  the  feats  of  the  gymnasium,  for  the  reason  that  some 
of  us  were  born  in  the  pre-gymnastic  age  in  England,  and  so  cannot 
truly  criticise  them  or  enter  into  their  spirit.  Indeed  we  do  not  all  set 
a  high  value  on  them ;  and  many  of  us  would  prefer  to  see  our  sons 
handle  a  bat  or  an  oar  well,  or  ride  well  to  hounds,  or  excel  in  skating, 
shooting,  or  any  of  our  own  sports.  But  given  that  we  had  all  been 
trained  in  a  regular  course  of  athletics,  and  all  our  lives  called  them 
"  thoroughly  English,"  and  that  we  were  accustomed  to  think  our  national 
superiority  due  to  our  pre-eminence  in  such  training,  I  suppose  we 
might,  if  time  had  to  be  killed- — as  it  always  had  to  be  at  A.thens  in  the 
afternoon — frequent  a  gymnasium  daily,  even  when  there  was  no  match 
on.  I  was  not  surprised,  therefore,  to  see  groups  of  men  all  over  the 
grounds,  eagerly  watching  the  j  umping  or  the  quoit-play,  or  the  spear- 
hurling.  Here  and  there  two  or  three  youngsters  were  practising  by 
themselves  apart,  under  no  instructor.  Where  a  crowd  was,  you  knew 
that  a  contest  of  more  than  usual  interest  was  going  on. 

That  the  lads  were  stripped  for  their  exercise  seemed  suitable  with 
the  conditions.  But  the  sight  of  them  all  oiled  and  sanded  made  a 
strange  impression,  as  of  animated  terra-cotta  statues. 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT   GREEKS.  605 

Colonnades  for  the  accommodation  of  spectators  were  an  obvious 
necessity,  when  few  gentlemen  wore  hats  of  any  kind,  and  the  sun  was 
strong.  Stone  or  marble  seats  were  ranged  about,  in  the  open  air  or 
under  cover,  in  one  of  the  many  rooms,  large  and  small,  which  opened 
out  of  the  colonnades.  Some  of  these  benches  were  of  that  semicircular 
form  which  a  talkative  people  would  naturally  hit  upon,  and  which  we 
see  amongst  ourselves  in  village  inns,  survivals  of  a  time  when  the  vil- 
lagers met  to  talk,  and  "  news  much  older  than  the  ale  went  round," 
before  men  had  invented  the  sociable  custom  of  retiring  apart  each  behind 
his  newspaper. 

I  was  certainly  surprised  at  first  to  find  so  many  people  assembled 
there,  and  thought  it  must  be  a  field-day,  or  a  festival.  But  I  soon  found 
that  all  Athens  men  turned  out  in  the  afternoon  as  regularly  as  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  men.  Indeed,  the  most  striking  feature  of  Athenian  life 
was  its  leisure. 

Business  was  over  by  noon.  And  as  all  outside  work  was  done  by 
slaves,  and  the  shopkeepers  were  nearly  all  either  freedmen  or  resident 
aliens,  a  large  number  of  even  the  very  poor  Athenian  citizens  had  the 
better  part  of  their  day  free.  And  this  produced  a  certain  sedate  and  self- 
possessed  bearing  in  them  all.  To  walk  fast  or  talk  loud  in  the  street  was 
looked  on  as  vulgar.  Of  indolence  as  the  fruit  of  this  insouciance  there 
was  plenty ;  but  still  the  general  level  of  intelligence  and  activity  of 
mind  was  high  enough  to  make  indolence  disreputable.  They  regarded 
their  leisure  as  a  mark  of  freedom  and  high  privilege.  This  self-conceit 
had  its  disagreeable  side,  but  I  doubt  if  they  were  not  the  better  for 
having  time  to  call  their  own :  especially  as  rich  and  poor  at  Athens 
shared  the  same  amusements. 

But  to  return  to  the  Gymnasium.  To  all  the  youths  under  18  it 
was  a  practice-ground  that  they  attended  regularly,  the  boys  in  charge 
of  their  slave  servant,  the  elder  fellows  by  themselves,  though  doubtless 
some  of  them  disliked  the  grind,  and  preferred  a  quiet  quail  fight  when 
they  could  get  it  on  the  sly.  Full-grown  men,  who  had  not  lost  all  taste 
for  strong  exercise,  found  there  an  opportunity  of  keeping  up  their  muscle, 
or  at  least  of  taking  a  constitutional,  with  the  luxury  of  a  bath  after- 
wards. To  the  citizen  whose  athletic  days  were  quite  over  it  was  a 
lounge  and  a  club. 

This  was  my  first  introduction  to  society,  and  a  very  pleasant  way 
of  getting  to  know  people  I  found  it.  My  host  was  in  his  element. 
Being  a  man  of  position  and  a  friendly  man,  with  a  strong  interest  in 
politics,  and  a  liking  for  free  and  genial  conversation,  he  thoroughly  en- 
joyed this  concourse  of  talkers.  One  would  pull  his  cloak  as  he  passed 
and  tell  him  a  bit  of  news  ;  another  in  a  low  voice  would  ask  his  advice 
in  a  case  of  difficulty ;  a  group  of  gentlemen  as  he  approached  would 
hail  him,  and  make  room  for  him  on  their  bench,  and  draw  him  into 
their  discussion. 

They  welcomed  me  amongst  them  with  great  politeness,  explained  to 


606  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT   GEEEKS. 

me  everything  that  was  going  on,  and  asked  many  questions  about 
the  training  of  the  youth  in  my  country.  As  at  that  time  athletics  had 
not  been  introduced  into  schools  or  universities,  I  did  what  I  could  to 
exalt  our  national  games.  Football  rather  took  their  fancy,  especially 
as  I  described  it,  as  far  as  possible,  in  Homeric  language.  I  did  the  same 
with  a  university  boat-race,  and  the  Derby,  and  had  a  very  excited 
audience.  I  then  rashly  tried  my  hand  on  a  cricket-match,  and,  I  am 
afraid,  effaced  the  excellent  impression  I  had  made  of  our  national  spirit 
and  good  sense.  Perhaps,  as  it  struck  me  afterwards,  my  constant 
mention  of  the  eleven  called  up  ludicrous  associations  ;*  but  at  all  events 
they  seemed  to  think  that  the  whole  story  was  meant  as  a  joke,  and  just 
then  a  seedy-looking  bystander,  pouncing  on  my  admission  that  we  did 
not  train  our  youth  on  any  system,  launched  forth  into  an  oration,  and 
crowed  over  all  foreigners  for  a  good  twenty  minutes,  and  so  got  a  crowd 
about  us,  which  I  was  glad  to  escape  from  at  the  first  opportunity.  I 
heard  afterwards  that  he  was  a  rhetorician  of  the  baser  sort,  looking  out 
for  pupils. 

I  would  here  remark  on  the  excellence  of  our  public  school  education, 
which  could  enable  a  foreigner  like  myself  so  easily  to  associate  with 
cultivated  Greeks.  My  only  difficulty  arose  from  my  having  read  so 
much  Greek  literature  of  a  later  date  than  the  time  of  my  visit.  I  often 
detected  a  pleasant  smile  at  my  use  of  a  word  from  the  later  poets  or 
orators  ;  and  I  was  frequently  obliged  to  accept  an  ironical  compliment 
to  my  inventive  genius,  and  check  myself  as  I  was  on  the  point,  with  a 
scholar's  instinct,  of  justifying  myself  by  quoting  what  was,  of  course, 
future  authority. 

After  this  it  was  seldom  that  I  did  not  go  in  the  late  afternoon  to 
one  or  other  of  the  Gymnasia,  and  I  soon  had  many  friends.  The  Aca- 
demeia  was  the  pleasantest,  as  it  lay  among  olive  woods,  and  was  also 
planted  within  its  walls  with  olive  and  plane  trees,  and,  being  some  little 
distance  from  the  city,  it  was  not  so  crowded.  I  tried  to  get  some  of  my 
friends  to  take  their  constitutional  in  the  country  sometimes  for  a  change, 
and  once  I  succeeded  in  dragging  three  of  them  to  the  top  of  Lycabettus 
— the  Arthur's  Seat  of  ancient  Edinburgh.  To  me  the  walk  was  delight- 
ful, but  they  abused  me  all  the  way  there  and  back,  and  no  one  could 
imagine  why  we  should  have  taken  so  much  trouble  for  nothing,  while 
not  a  few  thought  it  in  bad  taste.  I  tried  after  that  to  find  a  companion 
who  would  make  a  day's  excursion  with  me  up  Hymettus — about  equal 
to  Snowdon  from  Capel  Curig — but  I  was  obliged  to  do  it  by  myself  after 
all,  and,  not  wishing  to  be  thought  eccentric  or  ill-bred,  I  took  care  not  to 
talk  about  it.  After  this  I  was  not  astonished  to  hear  that  several  able 
generals  held  the  Gymnasium  to  be  but  a  poor  training  school  for  soldiers. 

I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  simply  walking  about  the  city.  It  was 
interesting  to  notice  even  the  smallest  incidents  of  the  daily  life  of  a 

*  "  The  Eleven,"  at  Athens,  be  it  known,  if  unknown,  were  the  Commissioners  of 
Police. 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GREEKS.  607 

people  so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  ourselves.  The  urchins  playing  with 
knuckle-bones  on  the  doorsteps,  or  driving  their  hoops  between'your  legs ; 
the  young  gentlemen  being  fetched  from  the  day-school  by  their  attend- 
ants, who  matched,  I  observed,  the  strictest  governess  of  a  ladies'  semi- 
nary in  their  repeated  orders  to  their  pupils  to  walk  properly  and  not 
look  about  them ;  the  novel  street  cries,  the  wine-carts  going  their  rounds 
— all  these  amused  me.  The  streets  were  not  only  narrow  and  dirty, 
but  ill-flavoured.  The  poorer  houses  were  generally  built  partly  of 
timber,  and  of  two  stories,  the  upper  overhanging.  I  had  to  be  wary, 
as  dirty  water  or  broken  crockery  followed  pretty  quick  after  the  warning, 
"  stand  aside."  They  might  have  paved  the  streets  with  the  enormous 
quantity  of  potsherds  lying  about,  and  I  very  often  wished  they  had.  It 
was  always  a  relief  to  emerge  into  one  of  the  open  spaces,  and  of  these 
the  Agora  was  the  one  I  most  frequently  made  for.  During  market  time, 
i.e.  from  nine  till  noon,  it  was  full  of  life,  and  presented  a  fine  field  for 
the  study  of  manners. 

The  marketing  was  done  by  slaves.  A  head  slave,  with  the  power  of 
the  purse,  and  a  train  of  drudges  to  carry  home  the  forage,  naturally 
thought  himself  at  this  hour  a  man  of  importance.  Yery  often  he  looked 
it  too,  for  the  fortune  of  war  and  the  cleverness  of  pirates  had  often  made 
a  slave  for  life  of  a  man  of  birth  and  rank.  And  it  was  fortunate  for 
such  a  man  if  he  found  himself  at  Athens,  for  there  a  respectable  slave, 
especially  if  his  master  detected  any  refinement  in  him,  was  generally 
well  treated.  Such  a  band  of  foragers  was,  of  course,  eagerly  watched 
by  the  stallkeepers,  who  were  very  adroit  and  shifty  in  their  manreuvres 
to  catch  customers.  The  art  of  bargaining  was  well  understood  on  both 
sides,  and  the  price  was  seldom  fixed  until  after  a  protracted  skirmish. 
The  fishmongers  were  an  exception.  They,  I  observed,  had  generally 
the  command  of  the  situation,  for  not  much  meat  was  eaten — scarcely 
ever,  indeed,  unless  there  had  been  a  sacrifice — and  fish  being  almost 
universally  the  "chief  dish  at  table,  the  supply,  at  all  events  of  fashionable 
fish,  was  usually  short  of  the  demand.  This  made  the  fishmonger  a  care- 
less and  often  insolent  tradesman.  It  was  easier,  they  said,  to  get  an 
answer  from  a  State  official  than  from  a  fishmonger.  Perhaps,  too,  their 
self-importance  was  fostered  by  gentlemen  coming  to  choose  their  own 
fish.  The  inspectors  of  the  market  were  very  strict  over  this  trade,  and  in 
order  to  secure  the  sale  of  none  but  fresh  fish,  forbade  altogether  the  use 
of  the  watering-pot ;  and  a  very  good  story  was  told,  when  I  was  there, 
against  a  certain  fishmonger,  who  was  subject  to  fainting  fits,  and  could 
be  brought  round  only  by  having  pitchers  of  water  thrown  over  him. 
As  he  always  collapsed  close  to  his  stall,  his  friends,  in  following  the 
laws  of  humanity,  broke  almost  daily  the  law  of  the  market. 

The  stallkeepers,  of  course,  cried  what  they  had  to  sell;  but  the 
usual  rule  of  market  cries  was  often  reversed  by  a  slave  announcing 
in  a  loud  voice  what  he  had  come  for.  It  was  not  unusual  to  hear  a 
man  come  into  the  market  and  sing  out,  "  Who  wants  to  undertake  the 


608  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GKEEKS. 

supplying  of  a  dinner  ] "  This  demand  would  bring  up  five  or  six  men 
who  had  been  loitering  under  the  porticoes.  They  were  a  strange  lot, 
these  cooks  or  caterers,  or  whatever  else  they  called  themselves.  They 
all  either  were,  or  pretended  to  be,  foreigners,  and  spoke  either  Doric  or 
broken  Attic.  I  had  no  occasion  to  engage  the  services  of  one  of  these 
gentlemen,  but  I  was  told  that  when  you  did  you  engaged  a  tyrant, 
whose  laws  of  high  art  it  was  very  rash  to  defy. 

So  far  was  comedy;  but  a  very  serious  and  solemnising  spectacle 
might  be  seen  close  by,  especially  as  it  drew  near  to  the  end  of  the  month, 
at  the  tables  of  the  money-lenders.  I  heard  these  men  described  only  by 
their  natural  enemies,  the  borrowers,  of  whom  I  had  many  amongst  my 
chance  acquaintances,  but  I  must  say  that  their  faces  tallied  with  the 
description.  They  sat  at  their  tables  with  a  severe  four-and-twenty-per- 
cent.  look,  which  should  have  been  sufficient  warning.  I  was  told  that 
they  did  a  little  legitimate  banking  trade,  but  the  clients  oftenest  at  their 
tables,  so  far  as  I  observed  them,  were  young  men  who  negotiated  in  a 
whisper,  and  looked  uneasily  over  their  shoulder  if  any  one  passed  too 
near. 

But  the  market  square  held  more  than  the  market.  It  was  during 
the  forenoon  the  very  centre  of  Athenian  life.  It  was  exchange,  bazaar, 
park,  garden,  esplanade,  kursaal,  reading-room,  club,  and  whatsoever  in 
any  place  is  the  common  meeting  spot  for  men  of  business  or  men  of 
leisure.  Being  close  to  the  law  courts,  it  was  also  Westminster  Hall  to 
orators  and  their  clients  and  witnesses.  Having  colonnades  running 
round  it  furnished  with  stone  benches,  it  was  a  convenient  place  for 
gossip,  or  for  walking  up  and  down  in  pursuit  of  an  appetite  for  break- 
fast. It  was  here  that  you  heard  and  discussed  the  news,  war  news  just 
brought  from  Piraeus  by  special  messenger,*  or  city  news, — who  had  got 
office,  who  had  been  cast  in  a  lawsuit,  what  plays  were  being  rehearsed, 
what  new  edicts  to  be  put  in  force;  domestic  news  about  relations,  friends, 
crops,  purchases,  births,  deaths,  and  marriages.  The  shops  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood were  also  filled  with  loungers,  especially  the  perfumer's,  and  the 
barber's,  and  the  shoemaker's.  It  was  in  the  market-place  and  its 
neighbourhood  that  all  business  was  transacted.  Here  the  Athenians 
realised  their  common  citizenship,  and  got  their  common  sense.  By  daily 
intercourse  here,  rich  with  poor,  they  rubbed  down  their  angles,  acquired 
a  public  spirit,  and  by  interchange  of  ideas,  controlled  by  free  and  sharp 
criticism,  developed  a  public  opinion.  It  was  in  the  market-place  that 
one  felt  for  the  pulse  of  Athens. 

Close  by,  as  I  said,  were  the  law  courts,  and  I  often  found  it  good 
fun  to  look  in  there,  and  it  seldom  required  much  knowledge  of  law  to 
follow  the  proceedings.  Indeed  it  often  struck  me  that  I  knew  quite  as 
much  as  their  honours  the  jurymen.  "  The  sovereign  people  sitting  in 
justice  "  had  once  seemed  to  me  a  grand  idea,  and  doubtless  the  thing 

*  There  was  some  fighting  going  on  in  423,  along  the  Macedonian  coast,  though  it 
was  a  year  of  truce. 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GREEKS.  609 

had  served  its  purpose  as  a  safeguard  of  growing  liberties ;  but  to  see  the 
average  citizen  honestly  trying  to  be  wise,  or  dishonestly  trying  to  look 
so,  I  confess  had  another  effect  upon  me.  It  was  amusing  to  watch  their 
expression  of  grave  attention  whilst  an  orator  was  laying  before  them 
the  weakest  and  wildest  evidence;  or  perhaps  flattering  their  logical 
faculty  by  exhibiting  a  strong  chain  of  reasoning,  while  all  the  time,  as 
the  rogue  very  well  knew,  it  was  hanging  by  a  rotten  fallacy.  But  if 
persuasion  be  the  end  of  oratory,  the  orators  had  mastered  their  art. 

The  scenes  in  court  also  were  excellent  fooling.  The  defendant  was 
exhibited  weeping,  and  how  well  and  naturally  he  wept !  Women  and 
children  were  grouped,  with  a  fine  eye  for  dramatic  effect,  in  various 
attitudes  of  abject  misery.  One  heard  splendid  abuse,  too,  strong  and 
abundant  personalities,  as  the  orators  drew  freely  on  the  vast  lesources 
of  a  vigorous  and  expressive  language.  What  one  did  not  meet  with  in 
court  was  high  legal  ability.  The  orators  were  too  shrewd  and  practical, 
if  they  possessed  it,  to  throw  it  away  on  an  ignorant  and  prejudiced 
tribunal.  But  if  a  qualified  judge  had  replaced  these  panels  of  citizens 
then  sitting  in  banco,  in  what  other  profession  could  many  of  them  have 
earned  fourpence-halfpenny  a  day  1  That  was  the  question. 

The  poorer  folk  seemed  to  me  to  resemble  our  villagers,  not  only  in 
their  simple  way  of  living,  and  in  their  readiness  to  help  each  other,  but 
also  in  the  freedom  which  they  gained  by  having  no  class  between  them 
and  the  gentlefolk.  Fashion  had  little  or  no  influence  upon  them,  and 
they  lived  their  own  life  free  from  criticism,  and  free  from  the  ambition 
of  rising.  But  they  were  unlike  our  poor  villagers  in  this,  that  the  head 
of  a  family  knew  his  worth  and  privileges  as  a  citizen,  and  gained  a  certain 
dignity  by  the  knowledge.  Though  he  certainly  was  not  enriched,  he 
was  raised  socially  by  the  existence  of  the  class  of  slaves. 

The  habits  of  the  rich  were  essentially  such  as  are  formed  by  city  life, 
with  leisure  and  intelligence.  Dinner  parties  were  almost  daily  events. 
You  were  invited  without  ceremony,  and  went  without  preparation,  or 
no  more  preparation  than  was  implied  in  providing  yourself  with  a  gown. 
Men  were  sociable  and  disliked  dining  alone,  just  as  they  disliked  sitting 
or  walking  alone. 

Here  I  saw  the  strongest  likeness  to  university  habits,  and  the  like- 
ness was  not  in  mere  sociability.  I  was  present  at  not  a  few  dinner 
parties  which  seemed  to  me,  in  the  tone  of  conversation,  in  the  range  of 
topics  discussed,  and  generally  in  intellectual  and  social  merit,  not  greatly 
to  differ  from  a  graduates'  dinner  party  at  Cambridge.  The  customs,  of 
course,  were  very  different;  having  your  feet  washed  by  an  attendant 
on  your  arrival,  lying  propped  on  your  elbow  to  eat  and  drink — though 
I  had  done  that  at  picnics — pouring  libations  to  the  good  Genius,  being 
called  upon  to  recite,  or  sing  a  medley  song,  verse  and  verse  about,  were 
novelties,  but  one  fell  in  with  such  usages  easily  enough.  Once,  I 
remember,  when  over  our  wine,  the  sprig  of  myrtle  was  passed  to  me  in 
token  that  it  was  my  turn  to  entertain  the  company  with  a  song  or  reci- 


610  SOCIAL  LIFE   AMONGST   THE   ANCIENT   GREEKS. 

tation.  I  recited  to  them  some  iambics  of  my  own— a  translation  of 
"  To  be  or  not  to  be,"  which  I  had  written  some  time  before  for  the 
Porson  Prize.  When  I  had  ended,  a  brisk  discussion  arose  on  the 
question  out  of  what  tragedy  they  came.  Some  believed  they  had  the 
ring  of  Sophocles,  others  declared  that  they  remembered  the  phrases  as 
certainly  those  of  Euripides,  but  no  one  could  fix  on  the  precise  play, 
nor  could  I. 

Wine-drinking  always  followed  the  dinner,  and  bore  about  the  same 
relation  to  it  that  it  did  formerly  with  us.  As  there  were  no  ladies  to 
join  in  the  drawing-room,  it  was  more  difficult  for  the  host  to  choose  a 
moment  for  asking  significantly  if  you  would  take  any  more  wine.  Ex- 
cess, therefore,  was  often,  I  am  convinced,  an  accident  of  the  situation. 
Sometimes,  of  course,  a  carouse  was  the  final  cause  of  a  wine  party, 
especially  amongst  the  younkers,  as  it  doubtless  has  been  of  supper 
parties  in  other  abodes  of  divine  philosophy.  I  was  told  that  on  such 
occasions  the  usual  hard  custom  which  excluded  ladies  from  social  enter- 
tainments was  sometimes  relaxed,  but  I  have  no  personal  experience  of 
such  a  wine  party  recorded  in  my  note-book. 

The  absence  of  women  from  all  social  meetings  did  not  on  my  arrival 
at  Athens  at  once  strike  me  as  strange.  1  suppose  this  was  because  I 
was  fresh  from  university  life.  I  was  so  much  used  to  meeting  men 
only  down  the  river  and  at  the  racket-courts,  at  the  Union,  and  at  wine 
and  supper  parties,  that  I  did  not  miss  female  society,  especially  as  the 
society  in  which  I  did  find  myself  was,  in  its  freedom,  in  its  true  liberty, 
equality,  and  fraternity,  so  wonderfully  like  that  which  I  had  just  left. 
But  I  noticed  the  blank  more  and  more  as  the  days  went  on,  and  then  I 
began  to  estimate  the  effect  on  social  life  of  excluding  the  women.  It 
was  plainly  visible  in  a  certain  roughness  of  feeling,  in  the  absence  of 
that  tenderness  which  produces  pity  and  sympathy  with  weakness,  and 
restrains  men  from  selfishness  and  cruelty.  There  was  not  much  respect 
shown  to  age  at  Athens.  Poverty  provoked  rather  than  disarmed  ridi- 
cule. Tales  of  cruelty  might  arouse  dangerous  bitterness,  especially  if 
it  affected  Athenian  citizens,  but  the  cruelty  did  not  in  itself  excite 
abhorrence.  A  man  who  was  hard  and  brutal  towards  his  slaves  was 
called  a  stern  master,  but  no  one  remonstrated.  Intellectual  refinement 
was  certainly  prized  highly  enough,  and  the  civic  virtues  were  actually 
worshipped,  but,  to  my  thinking,  Greek  civilisation  was  still  incomplete, 
through  lack  of  that  sensitiveness  to  one  side  of  morality  which  I  could 
not  help  believing  that  the  influence  of  women  in  daily  life  would  have 
helped  to  develop.  I  found  many  thoughtful  Greeks  holding  the  same 
opinion. 

I  frequently  heard  the  subject  of  the  position  of  women  discussed  as 
part  of  a  larger  question  just  then  interesting  the  mind  of  Athens.  This 
was  the  question  of  Past  versus  Present.  In  politics  no  one  seemed  for 
a  moment  to  doubt — with  the  exception  of  a  few  recluse  thinkers — that 
the  present  institutions  of  Athens  were  perfect,  or  that  in  political  know- 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GEEEKS.  611 

ledge  they  had  left  their  ancestors  a  long  way  behind.  But  the  case  was 
far  different  in  the  matter  of  social  usage.  Here  there  was  distinctly  an 
old  school  and  a  new  school — a  Conservative  and  a  Liberal  camp.  Of 
course  on  these  matters  prejudice  spoke  oftener,  and,  I  need  not  say, 
very  much  louder  than  reason.  Banter  and  satire  were  weapons  more 
used  than  argument.  But  there  was  still  a  great  deal  of  good,  thoughtful 
talk  over  it  to  be  heard  at  the  Gymnasium,  and  in  private  houses  after 
dinner.  In  listening  to  these  discussions  I  had  constantly  to  remark 
upon  how  small  an  amount  of  ascertained  historical  fact  the  arguments 
of  the  most  learned  disputants  were  based.  There  was  a  constant  appeal 
to  the  authority  of  great  names,  but  a  most  provoking  vagueness  in 
reporting  their  testimony.  But  there  was  certainly  one  exception  to 
this.  When  Homer  was  cited,  his  very  words  were  given,  and  were 
received  by  all  with  a  certain  pious  respect  which  usually  silenced  contro- 
versy. I  soon  learned  to  quote  Homer  when  I  was  getting  the  worst  of 
an  argument. 

Now  it  was  not  difficult  to  make  Homer  support  a  theory  that  women 
had  much  to  do  with  the  affairs  of  the  world,  and  ought  not  to  be  shut 
up  by  themselves  in  the  back  premises  and  seldom  seen.  He  was  often 
hurled  with  tremendous  effect  against  those  who  maintained  that  women 
had  no  minds,  and  were  properly  employed  in  cooking,  weighing  out  the 
wool,  weaving,  and  guiding  the  house.  But  again  it  was  retorted  : 
"  Pericles  hath  said  that  those  women  are  the  best  of  whom  you  hear 
the  least  for  good  or  evil." 

The  stage  naturally  reflected  and  intensified  the  controversy.  Euri- 
pides, who  had  just  brought  out  his  play  of  Ion  when  I  was  at  Athens, 
was  claimed  as  a  strong  ally  by  those  who  held  women  inferior.  It  was 
true  he  seldom  wrote  a  play  *  without  putting  into  some  one's  mouth  a 
sharp  sarcasm  against  women,  which  was  caught  up  and  gave  another 
brickbat  to  the  hands  of  their  revilers.  But,  curiously  enough,  it  escaped 
notice  that  he  delighted  to  bring  on  the  stage  types  of  noble  women  who 
refuted  these  sarcasms.  However,  Euripides  never  had  a  fair  chance 
with  that  clever,  reckless  scoffer  Aristophanes  always  at  his  heels.  It 
was  no  use  contending  that  really  he  was  strongly  on  the  women's  side, 
'and  was  trying  to  teach  their  husbands  that  they  were  hiding  the  light 
that  would  brighten  their  whole  house.  He,  or  what  was  the  same 
thing,  one  of  his  women-hating  heroes,  had  said  that  women  were  a  bad 
lot,  and  that  was  enough. 

After  all,  I  could  not  see  that  the  stoutest  advocate  for  the  emanci- 
pation of  women  gave  them  half  an  inch  more  freedom  than  his  neigh- 
bour. He  might  believe  in  the  ability  and  intelligence  of  women ;  he 
might  prove  conclusively  to  others  that  women  had  once  held  a  higher 
position  in  Attic  society,  and  had  a  real  influence  upon  daily  life.  He 
might  go  further,  and,  speculating  on  the  cause  of  this,  convince  himself 

*  I  may  as  well  say  that  copies  of  many  of  these  plays  have  been  since  published 
in  England. 


612  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GEEEKS. 

that,  in  the  absorbing  pursuit  of  political  interests,  his  fellow-citizens 
were  growing  selfish  and  despotic,  contemptuous  towards  all  force  that 
was  not  keen  and  practical ;  but  all  the  same  he  was  a  despot  in  his 
house  and  selfish  in  his  pleasures.  It  may  have  been  he  lacked  the 
coin-age  to  face  a  torrent  of  ridicule ;  but  it  may  have  been  also  that  he 
doubted  in  his  secret  mind  whether  society,  as  he  knew  it,  was  quite 
ready  for  his  wife. 

I  fancied  that  my  host  was  one  who  thought  thus.  He  was  too 
kindly  a  man  to  be  a  tyrant  anywhere,  and  I  recollect  that  in  my  hearing 
he  once  compared  the  rule  of  a  husband  over  his  wife  to  that  of  a  con- 
stitutional ruler  over  citizens  free  and  his  equals.  Also,  as  we  became 
more  intimate,  I  found  that  he  loved  family  life;  still  he  jealously 
guarded  it  from  public  view.  When  he  entertained  his  friends  at  dinner, 
his  wife  did  not  appear,  but  when  we  were  alone  she  generally  break- 
fasted with  us,  she  and  her  three  children,  sitting  at  tables,  while  we 
reclined ;  and  not  ^infrequently  she  dined  with  us.  She  was  very  gentle 
and  simple-minded,  but  in  no  respect  shy  or  awkward,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, self-possessed  and  rather  stately.  He  treated  her  with  kindliness 
and  courtesy,  told  her  the  news,  with  a  little  reservation  where  necessary, 
and  she  took  her  part  very  easily  and  naturally  in  conversation.  I  do 
not  think  her  life  was  dull.  It  is  true  that,  so  far  as  my  observation 
went,  she  never,  while  in  Athens,  went  out  unless  to  attend  religious 
festivals,  processions,  and  sacrifices,  but  they  had  a  house  in  the  country 
where  they  spent  part  of  the  year.  There  she  enjoyed  more  liberty,  and 
probably  she  no  more  wished  to  frequent  the  Agora  or  the  Gymnasia 
than  our  ladies  wish  to  go  on  'Change,  or  have  the  entree  of  our  clubs. 

Festivals  were  very  frequent.  Their  usual  programme  was  a  religious 
ceremonial  in  the  morning,  and  high  spirits  in  the  evening.  The  cere- 
monial was  often  made  imposing  by  a  procession  with  choral  hymns,  in 
which  high-born  ladies,  youths,  and  maidens  took  graceful  part.  No 
people  who  do  not  wear  flowing  robes,  and  cannot  sing  as  they  walk, 
should  dare  to  have  a  procession.  Sacrifices  and  prayers  were  offered. 
It  was  difficult  certainly  for  a  foreigner  to  understand  the  attitude  of  the 
Greek  Avorshipper  towards  his  gods.  I  learnt  by  observation  a  good  deal 
about  his  ritual — little  about  his  worship. 

The  great  Dionysia  had  taken  place  in  March,  some  days  before  my 
arrival.  On  the  whole,  I  was  very  glad  to  have  missed  it ;  for  I  am 
afraid  that  had  I  taken  my  first  impression  of  Athenian  life  when  it  was 
in  drunken  riot,  I  could  never  have  laid  ill -prejudice  aside.  Hating 
noise,  buffoonery,  and  vulgar  revelry,  I  was  grateful  to  the  sea  for  not 
having  been,  to  Greek  judgment,  navigable  in  time  to  set  me  down  in 
the  midst  of  the  debauch  that  was  going  on  in  honour  of  that  disrepu- 
table person  whom  Athens  delighted  to  honour  as  the  giver  of  wine  to 
men.  As  it  was  described  to  me,  the  city  by  sunset  must  have  been 
unbearable.  The  dismal  merriment  of  English  fairs  and  racecourses, 
the  stupid  pleasantries  of  a  carnival,  the  heavy-headed  drunkenness  of  a 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GREEKS.  613 

harvest-home,  and  the  light-headed  orgies  of  richer  young  Bacchanals, 
were  all  brought  together  within  one  city's  walls.  The  earlier  part 
of  the  day,  beyond  doubt,  had  shown  a  spectacle  such  as  few  cities 
could  present,  and  for  this  I  had  greatly  wished  to  reach  Athens  earlier. 
The  vast  amphitheatre  on  the  slope  of  the  Acropolis  was  empty  when 
I  saw  it.  To  have  seen  that  hill-side  a  serried  mass  of  men  and 
women,  and  to  have  sat  amongst  them  and  watched  them  as  they  shaded 
their  eyes  from  the  glare  to  catch  the  form  of  a  hero  whose  name  they 
had  known  from  childhood,  and  leaned  forward  to  lose  no  word  that 
could  help  to  make  the  story  plain,  the  story  they  had  heard  so  often 
from  their  nurses,  of  those  days  of  old  when  the  gods  walked  the  earth 
like  men,  and  loved  the  founders  of  their  race,  and  helped  them  to 
overthrow  their  enemies,  and  to  build  the  city — to  have  seen  this,  sitting 
there  under  the  blue  sky,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Acropolis  and  its 
temples,  with  Hymettus,  and  the  gleaming  sea,  and  the  far-off  peaks  by 
Salamis  in  view — to  realise  thus  the  religious  power  of  a  Greek  drama, 
would  have  been  a  memorable  experience.  An  English  traveller,  Mr. 
Jebb,  who  was  at  Athens  some  years  before  me,  has  thus  vividly  re- 
corded the  impression  left  on  his  mind  by  such  a  scene  :  * 

"  We  are  in  the  theatre  of  Dionysus  at  the  great  festival  of  the 
god.  There  is  an  audience  of  some  25,000,  not  only  Athenian  citizens 
and  women  (the  latter  placed  apart  from  the  men  in  the  upper  rows), 
but  Greeks  from  other  cities,  and  ambassadors  seated  near  the  priests 
and  magistrates  in  the  places  next  the  orchestra.  We  are  to  see  the 
Eumenides  or  Furies  of  ^schylus.  The  orchestra  is  empty  at  present. 
The  scene,  or  wall  behind  the  stage,  represents  the  temple  of  Apollo  at 
Delphi.  It  has  three  doors.  Enter,  from  the  middle  or  '  royal '  door, 
the  aged  priestess  of  Apollo ;  she  wears  a  long  striped  robe,  and  over 
her  shoulders  a  saffron  mantle.  Pilgrims  are  waiting  to  consult  the 
oracle,  and  she  speaks  a  prayer  before  she  goes  into  the  inner  chamber  of 
the  temple,  to  take  her  place  on  the  three-footed  throne,  round  which 
vapours  rise  from  the  cavern  beneath.  Then  she  passes  into  the  shrine 
through  the  central  door. 

"  But  she  quickly  returns  in  horror.  A  murderer,  she  says,  is  kneel- 
ing there,  and  the  ghastly  Furies,  his  pursuers,  are  asleep  around  him. 
As  she  quits  the  stage  by  the  side  door  on  the  right,  two  figures  come 
forth  by  the  central  door,  as  if  from  the  inner  shrine.  One  of  them 
wears  the  costume  of  the  Pythian  festival  at  Delphi, — a  long  tunic,  gaily 
striped,  with  sleeves,  and  a  light  mantle  of  purple  hanging  from  the 
shoulders.  In  his  left  hand  he  has  a  golden  bow.  This  is  the  god 
Apollo  himself.  The  other  figure  is  clad  with  much  less  splendour  ;  at 
his  back  hangs  loosely  the  petasus,  a  broad-brimmed  hat  worn  by  hunters, 
or  shepherds,  or  wayfarers ;  in  one  hand  he  bears  a  long  branch  of  laurel, 
the  symbol  of  the  suppliant,  in  the  other  a  drawn  sword.  This  is  Orestes, 

*  Greek  Literature,  by  Professor  Jebb.     Macmillan  and  Co. 


614  SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GKEEKS. 

who  has  slain  his  mother,  Clytemnestra,  the  murdress  of  his  father, 
Agamemnon,  and  has  sought  refuge  with  Apollo  from  the  pursuing 
Furies.  A  silent  figure  moves  behind  these  two ;  it  is  the  god  Hermes, 
carrying  in  his  hand  the  herald's  staff,  decked  with  white  ribbons. 
Apollo  bids  Hermes  escort  Orestes  to  Athens,  to  seek  the  judgment  of 
the  goddess  Athene. 

"  The  ghost  of  Clytemnestra  now  moves  into  the  orchestra,  and  mounts 
the  stage.  She  calls  on  the  sleeping  Furies  within,  and  then  vanishes. 
They  wake  to  find  Orestes  'gone,  and  dash  on  the  stage  in  wild  rage — 
haggard  forms  with  sable  robes,  snaky  locks,  and  blood-shot  eyes. 
Apollo  appears,  and  drives  them  from  his  shrine.  Now  the  scene 
changes  to  Athens.  Meanwhile  the  Furies  have  taken  their  station  as 
chorus  in  the  orchestra ;  and,  in  grand  choral  songs,  declare  their  mission 
as  Avengers  of  blood.  Athene  assembles  a  Court  of  Athenians  on  the 
Hill  of  Ares,  (the  real  Hill  of  Ares  was  not  half  a  mile  off,  on  the  S.W. 
side  of  the  Acropolis,)  and  thus  founds  the  famous  Court  of  the  Areopa- 
gus. The  Furies  arraign  Orestes;  Apollo  defends  him.  The  votes  of 
the  judges  are  equally  divided.  Athene's  casting  vote  acquits  Orestes. 
The  wrath  of  the  Furies  now  threatens  Athens.  But  Athene  at  last  pre- 
vails on  them  to  accept  a  shrine  in  her  land — a  cave  beneath  the  Hill  of 
Ares ;  and  the  play  ends  with  this  great  reconciliation,  as  a  procession  of 
torch-bearers  escort  the  Furies  to  their  new  home. 

"  Thus  a  Greek  tragedy  coiild  bring  before  a  vast  Greek  audience,  in 
a  grandly  simple  form,  harmonised  by  choral  music  and  dance,  the  great 
figures  of  their  religious  and  civil  history  :  the  god  Apollo  in  his  temple 
at  Delphi,  the  goddess  Athene  in  the  act  of  founding  the  Court  of  Areo- 
pagus, the  Furies  passing  to  their  shrine  beneath  the  hill,  the  hero 
Orestes  on  his  trial.  The  picture  had  at  once  ideal  beauty  of  the  highest 
kind,  and,  for  Greeks,  a  deep  reality ;  they  seemed  to  be  looking  at  the 
actual  beginning  of  those  rites  and  usages  which  were  most  dear  and 
sacred  in  their  daily  life." 

I  stayed  at  Athens  until  nearly  the  end  of  the  year.  I  saw  many  men 
now  famous.  One  could  meet  Sophocles  and  Euripides  almost  any  day 
in  the  Academeia,  musing  on  a  bench,  tablets  in  hand,  or  pacing  beneath 
the  olive  trees.  Aristophanes  was  oftener  to  be  found  surrounded  by  a 
few  choice  friends.  His  grey  observant  eyes  would  rest  for  awhile  on 
the  scene  around  him,  and  then  be  lighted  suddenly  by  a  thought,  which, 
being  altogether  irrepressible,  would  set  all  his  friends  off  laughing. 
Cleon,  too,  I  had  no  cause  to  dislike  him,  but  I  never  saw  him  without 
wishing  I  had ;  but  it  was  better  perhaps  as  it  was,  for  he  looked  an 
awkward  fellow  to  quarrel  with.  Who  could  help  knowing  Alcibiades 
— the  lion's  whelp  whom  the  city,  having  brought  him  up,  was  bound  to 
humour  ?  He  was  the  spoilt  child  of  Athens.  His  follies — as  they  said 
— were  only  Athenian  virtues  run  wild,  and  his  virtues  Athenian  too, 
but  cast  in  the  heroic  mould.  And  friend  Socrates.  I  little  knew  then 
the  marvellous  spiiitual  power  yet  to  go  forth  out  of  that  strange  life. 


SOCIAL  LIFE  AMONGST  THE  ANCIENT  GREEKS.  615 

The  first  time  I  saw  him  he  was  sitting  by  the  road  side,  in  a  day  dream, 
near  the  fountain  of  Callirrhoe,  tracing  idle  figures  in  the  dust  with  the 
point  of  his  stick.  I  stopped  for  a  draught  of  water.  He  looked  up  and 
asked  me  if  I  drank  because  I  was  thirsty,  or  for  any  other  reason.  As  I 
turned  in  surprise  at  the  question,  he  got  up  from  his  seat  and  joined  me 
along  the  road,  pressing  me  for  a  reply,  till  from  that  he  led  me  on — but 
any  one  can  guess  what  happened  to  me.  After  that  I  saw  him  every 
day,  but  never  again  alone. 

I  might  speak  of  others;  but  my  personal  -recollections  of  the  cele- 
brated men  I  met  have  already  been  published  in  a  dictionary  of  Greek 
Biography,  which  is  now  in  every  library.  I  might  relate,  also,  many 
personal  adventures.  One  I  will  mention  because  it  is  illustrative.  One 
morning,  very  early,  on  entering  the  Agora,  I  saw  that  something  un- 
usual was  going  forward.  A  number  of  public  slaves,  armed  with  bows, 
were  pushing  the  market-people  about,  pitching  their  wares  uncere- 
moniously off  the  stalls,  back  into  their  baskets,  and  clearing  them  out  of 
the  square  bodily.  A  painted  rope,  still  wet,  had  in  the  meantime  been 
carried  behind  the  group  in  which  I  was  standing,  and  we  all  were  forced 
along,  under  penalty  of  getting  our  white  cloaks  striped  with  red  paint. 
Not  liking  this  I  looked  about  for  escape,  but  the  side  streets  were  all 
blocked  by  hurdles,  and  finding  that  my  companions  enjoyed  my  dilemma, 
and  took  their  own  shepherding  good-humouredly,  I  submitted  to  be 
driven  along  until  I  found  myself  within  the  Pnyx.  I  had  no  right 
there,  I  knew  ;  but  I  took  advantage  of  the  irregularity  of  my  summons 
to  attend  the  Athenian  House  of  Commons.  I  cannot  fully  describe  the 
proceedings,  for  I  was  too  far  off  to  hear  all.  There  was  a  solemn  lus- 
tration by  the  priest ;  after  it  a  prayer  which  sounded  to  me  very  like  an 
imprecation,  and  incense ;  and  then  the  business  began.  No  important 
question,  I  knew,  could  be  before  the  people,  as  I  should  certainly  have 
heard  of  it.  So  I  amused  myself  by  looking  about  me.  It  was  a  mon- 
ster meeting  in  the  open  air,  conducted  with  tolerable  decorum  and 
solemnity.  There  was  no  occasion  that  day  for  a  ballot,  and  the  votes 
were  taken  by  a  show  of  hands.  To  see  8,000  hands  go  up,  with  one 
movement  as  it  were,  certainly  made  unanimity  expressive.  This  hap- 
pened three  or  four  times.  Then  the  people  wanted  a  debate.  In 
answer  to  a  crier's  invitation  an  orator — who  looked  very  small  in  the 
distance— slowly  mounted  the  stone  platform.  He  was  a  practised 
speaker,  and  his  voice  was  heard  clearly  OArer  the  whole  vast  area. 
Another  who  followed  was  not  so  well  prepared,  and  the  sovereign 
people  showed  some  impatience.  There  were  no  seats,  and  the  sun 
was  blazing  down  on  my  head,  but  I  was  afraid  of  incurring  some  un- 
known penalty  if  I  deserted.  At  last  fortune  was  friendly.  A  noisy 
fellow  in  my  neighbourhood,  who  had  been  shouting,  and  offering  to 
fight  all  who  differed  from  him,  was  suddenly  clapped  on  the  shoulder 
and  marched  out  by  the  bowmen,  after  some  slight  resistance.  In  the 
confusion  I  slipped  out  too,  and  went  home  to  breakfast 


616 


xxx. 

T  was  almost  the 
last  outbreak  of 
passion  of  her 
life;  at  least,  she 
never  indulged  in 
another  that  the 
world  knew  any- 
thing about.  But 
this  one  was  long 
and  terrible ;  she 
flung  herself  on 
the  sofa  and  gave 
herself  up  to  her 

grief.  She  hardly  knew  what  had  happened ;  ostensibly  she  had  only 
had  a  difference  with  her  lover,  as  other  girls  had  had  before,  and  the 
thing  was  not  only  not  a  rupture,  but  she  was  under  no  obligation 
to  regard  it  even  as  a  menace.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  a  wound,  even 
if  he  had  not  dealt  it ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  mask  had  suddenly  fallen 
from  his  face.  He  had  wished  to  get  away  from  her ;  he  had  been  angry 
and  cruel,  and  said  strange  things,  with  strange  looks.  She  was  smothered 
and  stunned ;  she  buried  her  head  in  the  cushions,  sobbing  and  talking  to 
herself.  But  at  last  she  raised  herself,  with  the  fear  that  either  her  father 
or  Mrs.  Penniman  would  come  in ;  and  then  she  sat  there,  staring  before 
her,  while  the  room  grew  darker.  She  said  to  herself  that  perhaps  he 
would  come  back  to  tell  her  he  had  not  meant  what  he  said ;  and  she 
listened  for  his  ring  at  the  door,  trying  to  believe  that  this  was  probable. 
A  long  time  passed,  but  Morris  remained  absent ;  the  shadows  gathered ; 
the  evening  settled  down  on  the  meagre  elegance  of  the  light,  clear- 
coloured  room  ;  the  fire  went  out.  When  it  had  grown  dark,  Catherine 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out;  she  stood  there  for  half  an  hour,  on 
the  mere  chance  that  he  would  come  up  the  steps.  At  last  she  turned 
away,  for  she  saw  her  father  come  in.  He  had  seen  her  at  the  window 
looking  out,  and  he  stopped  a  moment  at  the  bottom  of  the  white  steps, 
and  gravely,  with  an  air  of  exaggerated  courtesy,  lifted  his  hat  to  her. 
The  gesture  was  so  incongruous  to  the  condition  she  was  in,  this  stately 


*  Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1880,  by  Henry  James,  Jr., 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  "Washington. 


IT   WAS   VERY   DIFFERENT  FROM   HIS  OLD — FROM   HIS  YOUNG—  FACE. 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  617 

tribute  of  respect  to  a  poor  girl  despised  and  forsaken  was  so  out  of  place, 
that  the  thing  gave  her  a  kind  of  horror,  and  she  hurried  away  to  her 
room.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  given  Mori-is  up. 

She  had  to  show  herself  half  an  hour  later,  and  she  was  sustained  at 
table  by  the  immensity  of  her  desire  that  her  father  should  not  perceive 
hat  anything  had  happened.  This  was  a  great  help  to  her  afterwards, 
and  it  served  her  (though  never  as  much  as  she  supposed)  from  the  first. 
On  this  occasion  Dr.  Sloper  was  rather  talkative.  He  told  a  great 
many  stories  about  a  wonderful  poodle  that  he  had  seen  at  the  house  of 
an  old  lady  whom  he  visited  professionally.  Catherine  not  only  tried  to 
appear  to  listen  to  the  anecdotes  of  the  poodle,  but  she  endeavoured  to 
interest  herself  in  them,  so  as  not  to  think  of  her  scene  with  Mori-is. 
That  perhaps  was  an  hallucination  ;  he  was  mistaken,  she  was  jealous ; 
people  didn't  change  like  that  from  one  day  to  another.  Then  she  knew 
hat  she  had  had  doubts  before — strange  suspicions,  that  were  at  once 
vague  and  acute — and  that  he  had  been  different  ever  since  her  return 
from  Europe :  whereupon  she  tried  again  to  listen  to  her  father,  who 
told  a  story  so  remarkably  well.  Afterwards  she  went  straight  to  her 
own  room ;  it  was  beyond  her  strength  to  undertake  to  spend  the 
evening  with  her  aunt.  All  the  evening,  alone,  she  questioned  herself. 
Her  trouble  was  terrible ;  but  was  it  a  thing  of  her  imagination,  engen- 
dered by  an  extravagant  sensibility,  or  did  it  represent  a  clear-cut  reality, 
and  had  the  worst  that  was  possible  actually  come  to  pass  ?  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman,  with  a  degree  of  tact  that  was  as  unusual  as  it  was  commendable, 
took  the  line  of  leaving  her  alone.  The  truth  is,  that  her  suspicions 
having  been  aroused,  she  indulged  a  desire,  natural  to  a  timid  person, 
that  the  explosion  should  be  localised.  So  long  as  the  air  still  vibrated 
she  kept  out  of  the  way. 

She  passed  and  repassed  Catherine's  door  several  times  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  as  if  she  expected  to  hear  a  plaintive  moan  behind  it. 
But  the  room  remained  perfectly  still ;  and  accordingly,  the  last  thing 
before  retiring  to  her  own  couch,  she  applied  for  admittance.  Catherine 
was  sitting  up,  and  had  a  book  that  she  pretended  to  be  reading.  She 
had  no  wish  to  go  to  bed,  for  she  had  no  expectation  of  sleeping.  After 
Mrs.  Penniman  had  left  her  she  sat  up  half  the  night,  and  she  offered 
her  visitor  no  inducement  to  remain.  Her  aunt  came  stealing  in  very 
gently,  and  approached  her  with  great  solemnity. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  in  trouble,  my  dear.  Can  I  do  anything  to 
help  you  ] " 

"  I  am  not  in  any  trouble  whatever,  and  do  not  need  any  help,"  said 
Catherine,  fibbing  roundly,  and  proving  thereby  that  not  only  our  faults, 
but  our  most  involuntary  misfortunes,  tend  to  corrupt  our  morals. 

"  Has  nothing  happened  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever." 

"  Are  you  very  sure,  dear  ? " 

"  Perfectly  sure." 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  251.  30. 


618  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

"  And  can  I  really  do  nothing  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  aunt,  but  kindly  leave  me  alone,"  said  Catherine. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  though  she  had  been  afraid  of  too  warm  a  welcome 
before,  was  now  disappointed  at  so  cold  a  one ;  and  in  relating  after- 
wards, as  she  did  to  many  persons,  and  with  considerable  variations  of 
detail,  the  history  of  the  termination  of  her  niece's  engagement,  she  was 
usually  careful  to  mention  that  the  young  lady,  on  a  certain  occasion, 
had  "  hustled "  her  out  of  the  room.  It  was  characteristic  of  Mrs. 
Penniman  that  she  related  this  fact,  not  in  the  least  out  of  malignity  to 
Catherine,  whom  she  very  sufficiently  pitied,  but  simply  from  a  natural 
disposition  to  embellish  any  subject  that  she  touched. 

Catherine,  as  I  have  said,  sat  up  half  the  night,  as  if  she  still  expected 
to  hear  Morris  Townsend  ring  at  the  door.  On  the  morrow  this  expec- 
tation was  less  unreasonable  ;  but  it  was  not  gratified  by  the  reappearance 
of  the  young  man.  Neither  had  he  written ;  there  was  not  a  word  of 
explanation  or  reassurance.  Fortunately  for  Catherine  she  could  take 
refuge  from  her  excitement,  which  had  now  become  intense,  in  her  de- 
termination that  her  father  should  see  nothing  of  it.  How  well  she 
deceived  her  father  we  shall  have  occasion  to  learn  ;  but  her  innocent 
arts  were  of  little  avail  before  a  person  of  the  rare  perspicacity  of  Mrs. 
Penniman.  This  lady  easily  saw  that  she  was  agitated,  and  if  there  was 
any  agitation  going  forward,  Mrs.  Penniman  was  not  a  person  to  forfeit 
her  natural  share  in  it.  She  returned  to  the  charge  the  next  evening, 
and  requested  her  niece  to  confide  in  her — to  unburden  her  heart. 
Perhaps  she  should  be  able  to  explain  certain  things  that  now  seemed 
dark,  and  that  she  knew  more  about  than  Catherine  supposed.  If 
Catherine  had  been  frigid  the  night  before,  to-day  she  was  haughty. 

"  You  are  completely  mistaken,  and  I  have  not  the  least  idea  what 
you  mean.  I  don't  know  what  you  are  trying  to  fasten  on  me,  and  I 
have  never  had  less  need  of  any  one's  explanations  in  my  life." 

In  this  way  the  girl  delivered  herself,  and  from  hour  to  hour  kept 
her  aunt  at  bay.  From  hour  to  hour  Mrs.  Penniman's  curiosity  grew. 
She  would  have  given  her  little  finger  to  know  what  Morris  had  said 
and  done,  what  tone  he  had  taken,  what  pretext  he  had  found.  She 
wrote  to  him,  naturally,  to  request  an  interview ;  but  she  received,  as 
naturally,  no  answer  to  her  petition.  Morris  was  not  in  a  writing  mood  ; 
for  Catherine  had  addressed  him  two  short  notes  which  met  with  no 
acknowledgment.  These  notes  were  so  brief  that  I  may  give  them 
entire.  "  Won't  you  give  me  some  sign  that  you  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
cruel  as  you  seemed  on  Tuesday  ?  " — that  was  the  first ;  the  other  was 
a  little  longer.  "  If  I  was  unreasonable  or  suspicious,  on  Tuesday — if  I 
annoyed  you  or  troubled  you  in  any  way — I  beg  your  forgiveness,  and 
I  promise  never  again  to  be  so  foolish.  I  am  punished  enough,  and  I 
don't  understand.  Dear  Morris,  you  are  killing  me  !  "  These  notes 
were  dispatched  on  the  Friday  and  Saturday ;  but  Saturday  and  Sunday- 
passed  without  bringing  the  poor  girl  the  satisfaction  she  desired.  Her 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  619 

punishment  accumulated ;  she  continued  to  bear  it,  however,  with  a  good 
deal  of  superficial  fortitude.  On  Saturday  morning,  the  Doctor,  who  had 
been  watching  in  silence,  spoke  to  his  sister  Lavinia. 

"  The  thing  has  happened — the  scoundrel  has  backed  out !  " 

"  Never  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Penniman,  who  had  bethought  herself  what 
she  should  say  to  Catherine,  but  was  not  provided  with  a  line  of  defence 
against  her  brother,  so  that  indignant  negation  was  the  only  weapon  in 
her  hands. 

"  He  has  begged  for  a  reprieve,  then,  if  you  like  that  better  !  " 

"  It  seems  to  make  you  very  happy  that  your  daughter's  affections 
have  been  trifled  with." 

"  It  does,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  for  I  had  foretold  it !  It's  a  great 
pleasure  to  be  in  the  right." 

"  Your  pleasures  make  one  shudder  ! "  his  sister  exclaimed. 

Catherine  went  rigidly  through  her  usual  occupations ;  that  is,  up  to 
the  point  of  going  with  her  aunt  to  church  on  Sunday  morning.  She 
generally  went  to  afternoon  service  as  well ;  but  on  this  occasion  her 
courage  faltered,  and  she  begged  of  Mrs.  Penniman  to  go  without  her. 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  a  secret,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  great  sig- 
nificance, looking  at  her  rather  grimly. 

"  If  I  have,  I  shall  keep  it !  "  Catherine  answered,  turning  away. 

Mrs.  Penniman  started  for  church ;  but  before  she  had  arrived,  she 
stopped  and  turned  back,  and  before  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed  she 
re-entered  the  house,  looked  into  the  empty  parlours,  and  then  went  up- 
stairs and  knocked  at  Catherine's  door.  She  got  no  answer  •  Catherine 
was  not  in  her  room,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  presently  ascertained  that  she 
was  not  in  the  house.  "  She  has  gone  to  him  !  she  has  fled  ! "  Lavinia 
cried,  clasping  her  hands  with  admiration  and  envy.  But  she  soon  per- 
ceived that  Catherine  had  taken  nothing  with  her — all  her  personal 
property  in  her  room  was  intact — and  then  she  jumped  at  the  hypothesis 
that  the  girl  had  gone  forth,  not  in  tenderness,  but  in  resentment.  "  She 
has  followed  him  to  his  own  door  !  she  has  burst  upon  him  in  his  own 
apartment !  "  It  was  in  these  terms  that  Mrs.  Penniman  depicted  to 
herself  her  niece's  errand,  which,  viewed  in  this  light,  gratified  her  sense 
of  the  picturesque  only  a  shade  less  strongly  than  the  idea  of  a  clandes- 
tine marriage.  To  visit  one's  lover,  with  tears  and  reproaches,  at  his 
own  residence,  was  an  image  so  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Penniman's  mind  that 
she  felt  a  sort  of  aesthetic  disappointment  at  its  lacking,  in  this  case,  the 
harmonious  accompaniments  of  darkness  and  storm.  A  quiet  Sunday 
afternoon  appeared  an  inadequate  setting  for  it ;  and,  indeed,  Mrs.  Pen- 
niman was  quite  out  of  humour  with  the  conditions  of  the  time,  which 
passed  very  slowly  as  she  sat  in  the  front  parlour,  in  her  bonnet  and 
her  cashmere  shawl,  awaiting  Catherine's  return. 

This  event  at  last  took  place.  She  saw  her — at  the  window — mount 
the  steps,  and  she  went  to  await  her  in  the  hall,  where  she  pounced  upon 
her  as  soon  as  she  had  entered  the  house,  and  drew  her  into  the  parlour, 

30—2 


620  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

closing  the  door  with  solemnity.  Catherine  was  flushed,  and  her  eye 
was  bright.  Mrs.  Penniman  hardly  knew  what  to  think. 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  where  you  have  been  1 "  she  demanded. 

"  I  have  been  to  take  a  walk,"  said  Catherine.  "  I  thought  you  had 
gone  to  church." 

"  I  did  go  to  church ;  but  the  service  was  shorter  than  usual.  And 
pray  where  did  you  walk  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ! "  said  Catherine. 

"  Your  ignorance  is  most  extraordinary  !  Dear  Catherine,  you  can 
trust  me." 

"  What  am  I  to  trust  you  with  1 " 

"  With  your  secret — your  sorrow." 

"  I  have  no  sorrow  !  "  said  Catherine,  fiercely. 

"  My  poor  child,"  Mrs.  Penniman  insisted,  "  you  can't  deceive  me. 
I  know  everything.  I  have  been  requested  to — a — to  converse  with 
you." 

"  I  don't  want  to  converse  !  " 

"  It  will  relieve  you.  Don't  you  know  Shakespeare's  lines  1 — '  the 
giief  that  does  not  speak  ! '  My  dear  girl,  it  is  better  as  it  is  !  " 

"  What  is  better  1 "  Catherine  asked. 

She  was  really  too  perverse.  A  certain  amount  of  perversity  was  to 
be  allowed  for  in  a  young  lady  whose  lover  had  thrown  her  over  ;  but  not 
such  an  amount  as  would  prove  inconvenient  to  his  apologists.  "  That 
you  should  be  reasonable,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  some  sternness. 
"  That  you  should  take  counsel  of  worldly  prudence,  and  submit  to 
practical  considerations.  That  you  should  agree  to — a — separate." 

Catherine  had  been  ice  up  to  this  moment,  but  at  this  word  she 
flamed  up.  "  Separate  ?  What  do  you  know  about  our  separating  1  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  shook  her  head  with  a  sadness  in  which  there  was 
almost  a  sense  of  injury.  "Your  pride  is  my  pride,  and  your  suscepti- 
bilities are  mine.  I  see  your  side  perfectly,  but  I  also —  "  and  she  smiled 
with  melancholy  suggestiveness — "  I  also  see  the  situation  as  a  whole  !  " 

This  suggestiveness  was  lost  upon  Catherine,  who  repeated  her 
violent  inquiry.  "Why  do  you  talk  about  separation;  what  do  you 
know  about  it  1 " 

"We  must  study  resignation,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman,  hesitating,  but 
sententious  at  a  venture. 

"  Resignation  to  what  1 " 

11  To  a  change  of — of  our  plans." 

"My  plans  have  not  changed !  "  said  Catherine,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Ah,  but  Mr.  Townsend's  have,"  her  aunt  answered  very  gently. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

There  was  an  imperious  brevity  in  the  tone  of  this  inquiry,  against 
which  Mrs.  Penniman  felt  bound  to  protest ;  the  information  with  which 
sh.e  had  undertaken  to  supply  her  niece  was  after  all  a  favour.  She  had 
tried  sharpness,  and  she  had  tried  sternness  ;  but  neither  would  do ;  she 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  621 

was  shocked  at  the  girl's  obstinacy.  "  Ah  well,"  she  said,  "  if  he  hasn't 
told  you  !  .  .  .  "  and  she  turned  away. 

Catherine  watched  her  a  moment  in  silence ;  then  she  hurried  after 
her,  stopping  her  before  she  reached  the  door.  "  Told  me  what  1  What 
do  you  mean  1  What  are  you  hinting  at  and  threatening  me  with  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  broken  off1?  "  asked  Mrs.  Penniman. 

"  My  engagement  1     Not  in  the  least !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  in  that  case.     I  have  spoken  too  soon  ! " 

"  Too  soon  ?  Soon  or  late,"  Catherine  broke  out,  "  you  speak  foolishly 
and  cruelly  !  " 

"  What  has  happened  between  you  then  ?  "  asked  her  aunt,  struck  by 
the  sincerity  of  this  cry.  "  For  something  certainly  has  happened." 

"  Nothing  has  happened  but  that  I  love  him  more  and  more  !  " 

Mrs.  Penniman  was  silent  an  instant.  "  I  suppose  that's  the  reason 
you  went  to  see  him  this  afternoon." 

Catherine  flushed  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  "  Yes,  I  did  go  to  see 
him  !  But  that's  my  own  business." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  we  won't  talk  about  it."  And  Mrs.  Penniman 
moved  towards  the  door  again.  But  she  was  stopped  by  a  sudden  im- 
ploring cry  from  the  girl. 

"  Aunt  Lavinia,  ivhere  has  he  gone  1 " 

"  Ah,  you  admit  then  that  he  has  gone  away  !  Didn't  they  know  at 
his  house  1 " 

"  They  said  he  had  left  town.  I  asked  no  more  questions ;  I  was 
ashamed,"  said  Catherine,  simply  enough. 

"  You  needn't  have  taken  so  compromising  a  step  if  you  had  had  a 
little  more  confidence  in  me,"  Mi's.  Penniman  observed,  with  a  good  deal 
of  grandeur. 

"  Is  it  to  New  Orleans  ?  "  Catherine  went  on,  irrelevantly. 

It  was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Penniman  had  heard  of  New  Orleans  in 
this  connection ;  but  she  was  averse  to  letting  Catherine  know  that  she 
was  in  the  dark.  She  attempted  to  strike  an  illumination  from  the  in- 
structions she  had  received  from  Morris.  "  My  dear  Catherine,"  she 
said,  "  when  a  separation  has  been  agreed  upon,  the  further  he  goes  away 
the  better." 

"  Agreed  upon  ?  Has  he  agreed  upon  it  with  you  ?  "  A  consum- 
mate sense  of  her  aunt's  meddlesome  folly  had  come  over  her  during  the 
last  five  minutes,  and  she  was  sickened  at  the  thought  that  Mrs.  Penni- 
man had  been  let  loose,  as  it  were,  upon  her  happiness. 

"  He  certainly  has  sometimes  advised  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
nian. 

"  Is  it  you  then  that  have  changed  him  and  made  him  so  unnatural  ?  " 
Catherine  cried.  "  Is  it  you  that  have  worked  on  him  and  taken  him 
from  me  1  He  doesn't  belong  to  you,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  what  is  between  us  !  Is  it  you  that  have  made  this 
plot  and  told  him  to  leave  me  ?  How  could  you  be  so  wicked,  so  cruel  ? 


622  WASHINGTON  SQUAEE. 

What  have  I  ever  done  to  you ;  why  can't  you  leave  me  alone  1  I  was 
afraid  you  would  spoil  everything;  for  you  do  spoil  everything  you 
touch  !  I  was  afraid  of  you  all  the  time  we  were  abroad  ;  I  had  no  rest 
when  T  thought  that  you  were  always  talking  to  him."  Catherine  went 
on  with  growing  vehemence,  pouring  out  in  her  bitterness  and  in  the 
clairvoyance  of  her  passion  (which  suddenly,  jumping  all  processes,  made 
her  judge  her  aunt  finally  and  without  appeal),  the  uneasiness  which  had 
lain  for  so  many  months  upon  her  heart. 

Mrs.  Pennimaii  was  scared  and  bewildered;  she  saw  no  prospect  of 
introducing  her  little  account  of  the  purity  of  Morris's  motives.  "  You 
are  a  most  ungrateful  girl !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  scold  me  for  talking 
with  him  1  I'm  sure  we  never  talked  of  anything  but  you  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  that  was  the  way  you  worried  him  ;  you  made  him  tired 
of  my  very  name  !  I  wish  you  had  never  spoken  of  me  to  him ;  I  never 
asked  your  help  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  he  would  never  have  come  to 
the  house,  and  you  would  never  have  known  that  he  thought  of  you," 
Mrs.  Penniman  rejoined,  with  a  good  deal  of  justice. 

"  I  wish  he  never  had  come  to  the  house,  and  that  I  never  had  known 
it !  That's  better  than  this,"  said  poor  Catherine. 

"  You  are  a  very  ungrateful  girl,"  Aunt  Lavinia  repeated. 

Catherine's  outbreak  of  anger  and  the  sense  of  wrong  gave  her,  while 
they  lasted,  the  satisfaction  that  comes  from  all  assertion  of  force ;  they 
hurried  her  along  and  there  is  always  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  cleaving  the  air. 
But  at  bottom  she  hated  to  be  violent,  and  she  was  conscious  of  no  apti- 
tude for  organised  resentment.  She  calmed  herself  with  a  great  effort,  but 
with  great  rapidity,  and  walked  about  the  room  a  few  moments,  trying 
to  say  to  herself  that  her  aunt  had  meant  everything  for  the  best.  She 
did  not  succeed  in  saying  it  with  much  conviction,  but  after  a  little  she 
was  able  to  speak  quietly  enough. 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,  but  I  am  very  unhappy.  It's  hard  to  be 
grateful  for  that,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  please  tell  me  where  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea ;  I  am  not  in  secret  correspondence  with 
him  ! "  And  Mrs.  Penniman  wished  indeed  that  she  were,  so  that  she 
might  let  him  know  how  Catherine  abused  her,  after  all  she  had  done. 

"Was  it  a  plan  of  his,  then,  to    break  off 1"     By  this   time 

Catherine  had  become  completely  quiet. 

Mrs.  Penniman  began  again  to  have  a  glimpse  of  her  chance  for 
explaining.  "  He  shrank — he  shrank,"  she  said.  "  He  lacked  courage, 
but  it  was  the  courage  to  inj  are  you  !  He  couldn't  bear  to  bring  down 
on  you  your  father's  curse." 

Catherine  listened  to  this  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  aunt,  and 
continued  to  gaze  at  her  for  some  time  afterwards.  "  Did  he  tell  you  to 
say  that?" 

"  He  told  me  to  say  many  things — all  so  delicate,  so  discriminating. 
And  he  told  me  to  tell  you  he  hoped  you  wouldn't  despise  him." 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  623 

"  I  don't,"  said  Catherine.  And  then  she  added  :  "  And  will  he  stay 
away  for  ever  ?  " 

"  Oh,  for  ever  is  a  long  time.  Your  father,  perhaps,  won't  live  for 
ever." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  I  am  sure  you  appreciate — you  understand — even  though  your 
heart  bleeds,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "You  doubtless  think  him  too 
scrupulous.  So  do  I,  but  I  respect  his  scruples.  What  he  asks  of  you 
is  that  you  should  do  the  same." 

Catherine  was  still  gazing  at  her  aunt,  but  she  spoke,  at  last,  as  if 
she  had  not  heard  or  not  understood  her.  "  It  has  been  a  regular  plan, 
then.  He  has  broken  it  off  deliberately ;  he  has  given  me  up." 

"  For  the  present,  dear  Catherine.     He  has  put  it  off,  only." 

"  He  has  left  me  alone,"  Catherine  went  on. 

"  Haven't  you  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  some  solemnity. 

Catherine  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  I  don't  believe  it !  "  and  she  left 
the  room. 


XXXI. 

Though  she  had  forced  herself  to  be  calm,  she  preferred  practising 
this  virtue  in  private,  and  she  forbore  to  show  herself  at  tea. — a  repast 
which,  on  Sundays,  at  six  o'clock,  took  the  place  of  dinner.  Dr. 
Sloper  and  his  sister  sat  face  to  face,  but  Mrs.  Penniman  never  met  her 
brother's  eye.  Late  in  the  evening  she  went  with  him,  but  without 
Catherine,  to  their  sister  Almond's,  where,  between  the  two  ladies, 
Catherine's  unhappy  situation  was  discussed  with  a  frankness  that  was 
conditioned  by  a  good  deal  of  mysterious  reticence  on  Mrs.  Penniman's 
part. 

"  I  am  delighted  he  is  not  to  marry  her,"  said  Mrs.  Almond,  "  but  he 
ought  to  be  horsewhipped  all  the  same." 

Mrs.  Penniman,  who  was  shocked  at  her  sister's  coarseness,  replied 
that  he  had  been  actuated  by  the  noblest  of  motives — the  desire  not  to 
impoverish  Catherine. 

"  I  am  very  happy  that  Catherine  is  not  to  be  impoverished — but  I 
hope  he  may  never  have  a  penny  too  much  !  And  what  does  the  poor 
girl  say  to  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Almond  asked. 

"  She  says  I  have  a  genius  for  consolation,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman. 
This  was  the  account  of  the  matter  that  she  gave  to  her  sister,  and 
it  was  perhaps  with  the  consciousness  of  genius  that,  on  her  return  that 
evening  to  Washington  Square,  she  again  presented  herself  for  admit- 
tance at  Catherine's  door.  Catherine  came  and  opened  it ;  she  was 
apparently  very  quiet. 

"  I  only  want  to  give  you  a  little  word  of  advice,"  she  said.  "  If 
your  father  asks  you,  say  that  everything  is  going  on." 

Catherine  stood  there,  with  her  hand  on  the  knob,  looking  at  her 


624  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

aunt,  but  not  asking  her  to  come  in.      "  Do  you  think  he  will   ask 
me?" 

"  I  am  sure  he'will.  He  asked  me  just  now,  on  our  way  home  from 
your  Aunt  Elizabeth's.  I  explained  the  whole  thing  to  your  Aunt 
Elizabeth.  I  said  to  your  father  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ask  me,  when  he  sees — when  he  sees 1 " 

But  here  Catherine  stopped. 

"  The  more  he  sees,  the  more  disagreeable  he  will  be,"  said  her  aunt. 
"  He  shall  see  as  little  as  possible  !  "  Catherine  declared. 
"  Tell  him  you  are  to  be  married." 

"  So  I  am,"  said  Catherine,  softly ;  and  she  closed  the  door  upon  her 
aunt. 

She  could  not  have  said  this  two  days  later — for  instance,  on  Tuesday, 
when  she  at  last  received  a  letter  from  Morris  Townsend.     It  was  an 
epistle  of  considerable  length,  measuring  five  large  square  pages,  and 
written  at  Philadelphia.     It  was  an   explanatory  document,  and  it  ex- 
plained a  great  many  things,  chief  among  which  were  the  considerations 
that  had  led  the  writer  to  take  advantage  of  an  urgent  "  professional  " 
absence  to  tiy  and  banish  from  his  mind  the  image  of  one  whose  path 
he  had  crossed  only  to  scatter  it  with  ruins.     He  ventured  to  expect  but 
partial  success  in  this  attempt,  but  he  could  promise  her  that,  whatever 
his  failure,  he  would  never  again  interpose  between  her  generous  heart 
and  her  brilliant  prospects  and  filial  duties.    He  closed  with  an  intimation 
that  his  professional  pursuits  might  compel  him  to  travel  for  some  months, 
and  with  the  hope  that  when  they  should  each  have  accommodated  them- 
selves to  what  was  sternly  involved  in  their  respective  positions — even 
should  this  result  not  be  reached  for  years — they  should  meet  as  friends, 
as  fellow-sufferers,  as  innocent  but  philosophic  victims  of  a  great  social 
law.     That  her  life  should  be  peaceful  and  happy  was  the  dearest  wish 
of  him  who  ventured  still  to  subscribe  himself  her  most  obedient  servant. 
The  letter  was  beautifully  written,  and  Catherine,  who  kept  it  for  many 
years  after  this,  was  able,  when  her  sense  of  the  bitterness  of  its  meaning 
and  the  hollowness  of  its  tone  had  grown  less  acute,  to  admire  its  grace 
of  expression.     At  present,  for  a  long  time  after  she  received  it,  all  she 
had  to  help  her  was  the  determination,  daily  more  rigid,  to  make  no 
appeal  to  the  compassion  of  her  father. 

He  suffered  a  week  to  elapse,  and  then  one  day,  in  the  morning,  at  an 
hour  at  which  she  rarely  saw  him,  he  strolled  into  the  back-parlour. 
He  had  watched  his  time,  and  he  found  her  alone.  She  was  sitting  with 
some  work,  and  he  came  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  He  was  going  out, 
he  had  on  his  hat  and  was  drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  you  are  treating  me  just  now  with  all 
the  consideration  I  deserve,"  he  said  in  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done,"  Catherine  answered,  with  her  eyes 
on  her  work. 

"  You  have  apparently  quite  banished  from  your  mind  the  request  I 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  625 

made  you  at  Liverpool,  before  we  sailed ;  the  request  that  you  would 
notify  me  in  advance  before  leaving  my  house." 

"  I  have  not  left  your  house  !  "  said  Catherine. 

"  But  you  intend  to  leave  it,  and  by  what  you  gave  me  to  understand, 
your  departure  must  be  impending.  In  fact,  though  you  are  still  here 
in  body,  you  are  already  absent  in  spirit.  Your  mind  has  taken  up 
its  residence  with  your  prospective  husband,  and  you  might  quite  as 
well  be  lodged  under  the  conjugal  roof,  for  all  the  benefit  we  get  from 
your  society." 

"  I  will  try  and  be  more  cheerful !  "  said  Catherine. 

"  You  certainly  ought  to  be  cheerful,  you  ask  a  great  deal  if  you 
are  not.  To  the  pleasure  of  marrying  a  charming  young  man,  you 
add  that  of  having  your  own  way ;  you  strike  me  as  a  very  lucky  young 
lady  ! " 

Catherine  got  up ;  she  was  suffocating.  But  she  folded  her  work, 
deliberately  and  correctly,  bending  her  burning  face  upon  it.  Her  father 
stood  where  he  had  planted  himself;  she  hoped  he  would  go,  but  he 
smoothed  and  buttoned  his  gloves,  and  then  he  rested  his  hands  upon 
his  hips. 

"  It  would  be  a  convenience  to  me  to  know  when  I  may  expect  to  have 
an  empty  house,"  he  went  on.  "  When  you  go,  your  aunt  marches." 

She  looked  at  him  at  last,  with  a  long,  silent  gaze,  which,  in  spite  of 
her  pride  and  her  resolution,  uttered  part  of  the  appeal  she  had  tried  not 
to  make.  Her  father's  cold  grey  eye  sounded  her  own,  and  he  insisted  on 
his  point. 

"  Is  it  to-morrow  1     Is  it  next  week,  or  the  week  after  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  go  away  !  "  said  Catherine. 

The  Doctor  raised  his  eyebrows.     "  Has  he  backed  out  1  " 

"  I  have  broken  off  my  engagement." 

"  Broken  it  off ?" 

"  I  have  asked  him  to  leave  New  York,  and  he  has  gone  away  for 
a  long  time." 

The  Doctor  was  both  puzzled  and  disappointed,  but  he  solved  his 
perplexity  by  saying  to  himself  that  his  daughter  simply  misrepresented 
— justifiably,  if  one  would,  but  nevertheless,  misrepresented — the  facts  ; 
and  he  eased  off  his  disappointment,  which  was  that  of  a  man  losing  a 
chance  for  a  little  triumph  that  he  had  rather  counted  on,  by  a  few 
words  that  he  uttered  aloud. 

"  How  does  he  take  his  dismissal  1 " 

"  I  don't  know !  "  said  Catherine,  less  ingeniously  than  she  had  hither- 
to spoken. 

"  You  mean  you  don't  care  1  You  are  rather  cruel,  after  encouraging 
him  and  playing  with  him  for  so  long!  " 

The  Doctor  had  his  revenge,  after  all. 


30—5 


626  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 


XXXII. 

Our  story  has  hitherto  moved  with  veiy  short  steps,  but  as  it  ap- 
proaches its  termination  it  must  take  a  long  stride.  As  time  went  on, 
it  might  have  appeared  to  the  Doctor  that  his  daughter's  account  of  her 
rupture  with  Morris  Townsend,  mere  bravado  as  he  had  deemed  it,  was 
in  some  degree  justified  by  the  sequel.  Morris  remained  as  rigidly  and 
unremittingly  absent  as  if  he  had  died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  Catherine 
had  apparently  buried  the  memory  of  this  fruitless  episode  as  deep  as 
if  it  had  terminated  by  her  own  choice.  We  know  that  she  had  been 
deeply  and  incurably  wounded,  but  the  Doctor  had  no  means  of  knowing 
it.  He  was  certainly  curious  about  it,  and  would  have  given  a  good 
deal  to  discover  the  exact  truth ;  but  it  was  his  punishment  that  he  never 
knew — his  punishment,  I  mean,  for  the  abuse  of  sarcasm  in  his  relations 
with  his  daughter.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  effective  sarcasm  in  her 
keeping  him  in  the  dark,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  conspired  with  her, 
in  this  sense,  to  be  sarcastic.  Mrs.  Penniman  told  him  nothing,  partly 
because  he  never  questioned  her — he  made  too  light  of  Mrs.  Penniman 
for  that — and  partly  because  she  nattered  herself  that  a  tormenting 
reserve,  and  a  serene  profession  of  ignorance,  would  avenge  her  for  his 
theory  that  she  had  meddled  in  the  matter.  He  went  two  or  three  times 
to  see  Mrs.  Montgomery,  but  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  nothing  to  impart. 
She  simply  knew  that  her  brother's  engagement  was  broken  off,  and  now 
that  Miss  Sloper  was  out  of  danger,  she  preferred  not  to  bear  witness  in 
any  way  against  Morris.  She  had  done  so  before— however  unwillingly — 
because  she  was  sorry  for  Miss  Sloper;  but  she  was  not  sorry  for  Miss  Sloper 
now — not  at  all  sorry.  Morris  had  told  her  nothing  about  his  relations 
with  Miss  Sloper  at  the  time,  and  he  had  told  her  nothing  since.  He  was 
always  away,  and  he  very  seldom  wrote  to  her ;  she  believed  he  had  gone  to 
California.  Mrs.  Almond  had,  in  her  sister's  phrase,  "  taken  up " 
Catherine  violently  since  the  recent  catastrophe  ;  but  though  the  girl  was 
very  grateful  to  her  for  her  kindness,  she  revealed  no  secrets,  and  the 
good  lady  could  give  the  Doctor  no  satisfaction.  Even,  however,  had  she 
been  able  to  narrate  to  him  the  private  history  of  his  daughter's  unhappy 
love-affair,  it  would  have  given  her  a  certain  comfort  to  leave  him  in 
ignorance  ;  for  Mrs.  Almond  was  at  this  time  not  altogether  in  sympathy 
with  her  brother.  She  had  guessed  for  herself  that  Catherine  had  been 
cruelly  jilted — she  knew  nothing  from  Mrs.  Penniman,  for  Mrs.  Penni- 
man had  not  ventured  to  lay  the  famous  explanation  of  Morris's  motives 
before  Mrs.  Almond,  though  she  had  thought  it  good  enough  for  Catherine 
— and  she  pronounced  her  brother  too  consistently  indifferent  to  what 
the  poor  creature  must  have  suffered  and  must  still  be  suffering.  Dr. 
Sloper  had  his  theory,  and  he  rarely  altered  his  theories.  The  marriage 
would  have  been  an  abominable  one,  and  the  girl  had  had  a  blessed 
escape.  She  was  not  to  be  pitied  for  that,  and  to  pretend  to  condole 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  627 

with  her  would  have  been  to  make  concessions  to  the  idea  that  she  had 
ever  had  a  right  to  think  of  Morris. 

"  I  put  my  foot  on  this  idea  from  the  first,  and  I  keep  it  there  now," 
said  the  Doctor.  "  I  don't  see  anything  cruel  in  that ;  one  can't  keep  it 
there  too  long."  To  this  Mrs.  Almond  more  than  once  replied,  that  if 
Catherine  had  got  rid  of  her  incongruous  lover,  she  deserved  the  credit 
of  it,  and  that  to  hring  herself  to  her  father's  enlightened  view  of  the 
matter  must  have  cost  her  an  effort  that  he  was  bound  to  appreciate. 

"  I  am  by  no  means  sure  she  has  got  rid  of  him,"  the  Doctor  said. 
"  There  is  not  the  smallest  probability  that,  after  having  been  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule  for  two  years,  she  suddenly  became  amenable  to  reason.  It  is 
infinitely  more  probable  that  he  got  rid  of  her." 

"  All  the  more  reason  you  should  be  gentle  with  her." 

"  I  am  gentle  with  her.  But  I  can't  do  the  pathetic ;  I  can't  pump 
up  tears,  to  look  graceful,  over  the  most  fortunate  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  her." 

"  You  have  no  sympathy,"  said  Mrs.  Almond ;  "  that  was  never  your 
strong  point.  You  have  only  to  look  at  her  to  see  that,  right  or  wrong, 
and  whether  the  rupture  came  from  herself  or  from  him,  her  poor  little 
heart  is  grievously  bruised." 

"  Handling  bruises — and  even  dropping  tears  on  them — doesn't  make 
them  any  better  !  My  business  is  to  see  she  gets  no  more  knocks,  and 
that  I  shall  carefully  attend  to.  But  I  don't  at  all  recognise  your  de- 
scription of  Catherine.  She  doesn't  strike  me  in  the  least  as  a  young 
woman  going  about  in  search  of  a  moral  poultice.  In  fact,  she  seems  to 
me  much  better  than  while  the  fellow  was  hanging  about.  She  is  per- 
fectly comfortable  and  blooming ;  she  eats  and  sleeps,  takes  her  usual 
exercise,  and  overloads  herself,  as  usual,  with  finery.  She  is  always 
knitting  some  purse  or  embroidering  some  handkerchief,  and  it  seems  to 
me  she  turns  these  articles  out  about  as  fast  as  ever.  She  hasn't  much 
to  say  ;  but  when  had  she  anything  to  say  ?  She  had  her  little  dance, 
and  now  she  is  sitting  down  to  rest.  I  suspect  that,  on  the  whole,  she 
enjoys  it." 

"  She  enjoys  it  as  people  enjoy  getting  rid  of  a  leg  that  has  been 
crushed.  The  state  of  mind  after  amputation  is  doubtless  one  of  com- 
parative repose." 

"  If  your  leg  is  a  metaphor  for  young  Townsend,  I  can  assure  you  he 
has  never  been  crushed.  Crushed  1  Not  he  !  He  is  alive  and  perfectly 
intact,  and  that's  why  I  am  not  satisfied." 

"  Should  you  have  liked  to  kill  him  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  Yes,  very  much.     I  think  it  is  quite  possible  that  it  is  all  a  blind." 

"  A  blind  ? " 

"  An  arrangement  between  them.  II  fait  le  mort,  as  they  say  in 
France ;  but  he  is  looking  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  You  can  depend 
tipon  it  he  has  not  burned  his  ships  ;  he  has  kept  one  to  come  back  in. 
When  I  am  dead,  he  will  set  sail  again,  and  then  she  will  marry  him." 


628  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"It  is  interesting  to  know  that  you  accuse  your  only  daughter  of 
being  the  vilest  of  hypocrites,"  said  Mrs.  Almond. 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  her  being  my  only  daughter  makes.  It 
is  better  to  accuse  one  than  a  dozen.  But  I  don't  accuse  anyone.  There 
is  not  the  smallest  hypocrisy  about  Catherine,  and  I  deny  that  she  even 
pretends  to  be  miserable." 

The  Doctor's  idea  that  the  thing  was  a  "  blind"  had  its  intermissions 
and  revivals ;  but  it  may  be  said  on  the  whole  to  have  increased  as  he 
grew  older ;  together  with  his  impression  of  Catherine's  blooming  and 
comfortable  condition.  Naturally,  if  he  had  not  found  grounds  for  view- 
ing her  as  a  lovelorn  maiden  during  the  year  or  two  that  followed  her 
great  trouble,  he  found  none  at  a  time  when  she  had  completely  recovered 
her  self-possession.  He  was  obliged  to  recognise  the  fact  that  if  the  two 
young  people  were  waiting  for  him  to  get  out  of  the  way,  they  were  at 
least  waiting  very  patiently.  He  had  heard  from  time  to  time  that 
Morris  was  in  New  York;  but  he  never  remained  there  long,  and,  to  the 
best  of  the  Doctor's  belief,  had  no  communication  with  Catherine.  He 
was  sure  they  never  met,  and  he  had  reason  to  suspect  that  Morris  never 
wrote  to  her.  After  the  letter  that  has  been  mentioned,  she  heard  from 
him  twice  again,  at  considerable  intervals ;  but  on  none  of  these  occasions 
did  she  write  herself.  On  the  other  hand,  as  the  Doctor  observed,  she 
averted  herself  rigidly  from  the  idea  of  marrying  other  people.  Her 
opportunities  for  doing  so  were  not  numerous,  but  they  occurred  often 
enough  to  test  her  disposition.  She  refused  a  widower,  a  man  with  a 
genial  temperament,  a  handsome  fortune,  and  three  little  girls  (he  had 
heard  that  she  was  very  fond  of  children,  and  he  pointed  to  his  own  with 
some  confidence) ;  and  she  turned  a  deaf  ear  'to  the  solicitations  of  a  clever 
young  lawyer,  who,  with  the  prospect  of  a  great  practice,  and  the  repu- 
tation of  a  most  agreeable  man,  had  had  the  shrewdness,  when  he  came  to 
look  about  him  for  a  wife,  to  believe  that  she  would  suit  him  better  than 
several  younger  and  prettier  girls.  Mr.  Macalister,  the  widower,  had 
desired  to  make  a  marriage  of  reason,  and  had  chosen  Catherine  for  what 
he  supposed  to  be  her  latent  matronly  qualities ;  but  John  Ludlow, 
who  was  a  year  the  girl's  junior,  and  spoken  of  always  as  a  young  man 
who  might  have  his  "  pick,"  was  seriously  in  love  with  her.  Catherine, 
however,  would  never  look  at  him;  she  made  it  plain  to  him  that 
she  thought  he  came  to  see  her  too  often.  He  afterwards  consoled 
himself,  and  married  a  very  different  person,  little  Miss  Sturtevant, 
whose  attractions  were  obvious  to  the  dullest  comprehension.  Catherine, 
at  the  time  of  these  events,  had  left  her  thirtieth  year  well  behind  her, 
and  had  quite  taken  her  place  as  an  old  maid.  Her  father  would  have 
preferred  she  should  marry,  and  he  once  told  her  that  he  hoped  she  would 
not  be  too  fastidious.  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  an  honest  man's  wife 
before  I  die,"  he  said.  This  was  after  John  Ludlow  had  been  compelled 
to  give  it  up,  though  the  Doctor  had  advised  him  to  persevere.  The 
Doctor  exercised  no  further  pressure,  and  had  the  credit  of  not  "  worry- 


WASHINGTON  SQUAEE.  629 

ing "  at  all  over  his  daughter's  singleness.  In  fact,  he  worried  rather 
more  than  appeared,  and  there  were  considerable  periods  during  which 
he  felt  sure  that  Morris  Townsend  was  hidden  behind  some  door.  "  If 
he  is  not,  why  doesn't  she  marry  ?  "  he  asked  himself.  "  Limited  as  her 
intelligence  may  be,  she  must  understand  perfectly  well  that  she  is  made 
to  do  the  usual  thing."  Catherine,  however,  became  an  admirable 
old  maid.  She  formed  habits,  regulated  her  days  upon  a  system  of  her 
own,  interested  herself  in  charitable  institutions,  asylums,  hospitals 
and  aid-societies ;  and  went  generally,  with  an  even  and  noiseless  step, 
about  the  rigid  business  of  her  life.  This  life  had,  however,  a  secret 
history  as  well  as  a  public  one — if  I  may  talk  of  the  public  history  of  a 
mature  and  diffident  spinster  for  whom  ptiblicity  had  always  a  combina- 
tion of  terrors.  From  her  own  point  of  view  the  great  facts  of  her  career 
were  that  Morris  Townsend  had  trifled  with  her  affection  and  that  her 
father  had  broken  its  spring.  Nothing  could  ever  alter  these  facts ;  they 
were  always  there,  like  her  name,  her  age,  her  plain  face.  Nothing 
could  ever  undo  the  wrong  or  cure  the  pain  that  Morris  had  inflicted  on 
her,  and  nothing  could  ever  make  her  feel  toward  her  father  as  she  felt 
in  her  younger  years.  There  was  something  dead  in  her  life,  and  her 
duty  was  to  try  and  fill  the  void.  Catherine  recognised  this  duty  to  the 
utmost ;  she  had  a  great  disapproval  of  brooding  and  moping.  She  had 
of  course  no  faculty  for  quenching  memoiy  in  dissipation ;  but  she 
mingled  freely  in  the  usual  gaieties  of  the  town,  and  she  became  at 
last  an  inevitable  figure  at  all  respectable  entertainments.  She  was 
greatly  liked,  and  as  time  went  on  she  grew  to  be  a  sort  of  kindly 
maiden-aunt  to  the  younger  portion  of  society.  Young  girls  were  apt  to 
confide  to  her  their  love-affairs  (which  they  never  did  to  Mrs.  Penniman), 
and  young  men  to  be  fond  of  her  without  knowing  why.  She  developed 
a  few  harmless  eccentricities ;  her  habits,  once  formed,  were  rather  stiffly 
maintained ;  her  opinions,  on  all  moral  and  social  matters,  were  ex- 
tremely conserA7ative  ;  and  before  she  was  forty  she  was  regarded  as  an 
old-fashioned  person  and  an  authority  on  customs  that  had  passed  away. 
Mrs.  Penniman,  in  comparison,  was  quite  a  girlish  figure;  she  grew 
younger  as  she  advanced  in  life.  She  lost  none  of  her  relish  for  beauty 
and  mystery,  but  she  had  little  opportunity  to  exercise  it.  "With  Cathe- 
rine's later  wooers  she  failed  to  establish  relations  as  intimate  as  those 
which  had  given  her  so  many  interesting  hours  in  the  society  of  Morris 
Townsend.  These  gentlemen  had  an  indefinable  mistrust  of  her  good 
offices,  and  they  never  talked  to  her  about  Catherine's  charms.  Her 
ringlets,  her  buckles  and  bangles  glistened  more  brightly  with  each  suc- 
ceeding year,  and  she  remained  quite  the  same  officious  and  imaginative 
Mrs.  Penniman,  and  the  odd  mixture  of  impetuosity  and  circumspection, 
that  we  have  hitherto  known.  As  regards  one  point,  however,  her  cir- 
cumspection prevailed,  and  she  must  be  given  due  credit  for  it.  For  up- 
wards of  seventeen  years  she  never  mentioned  Morris  Townsend's  name 
to  her  niece.  Catherine  was  grateful  to  her,  but  this  consistent  silence, 


630  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

so  little  in  accord  with  her  aunt's  character,  gave  her  a  certain  alarm, 
and  she  could  never  wholly  rid  herself  of  a  suspicion  that  Mrs.  Penni- 
man  sometimes  had  news  of  him. 


XXXIII. 

Little  by  little  Doctor  Sloper  had  retired  from  his  profession;  he 
visited  only  those  patients  in  whose  symptoms  he  recognised  a  certain 
originality.  He  went  again  to  Europe,  and  remained  two  years  ; 
Catherine  went  with  him,  and  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Penniman  was  of 
the  party.  Europe  apparently  had  few  surprises  for  Mrs.  Penniman, 
who  frequently  remarked,  in  the  most  romantic  sites — "  You  know  I 
am  very  familiar  with  all  this."  It  should  be  added  that  such  remarks 
were  usually  not  addressed  to  her  brother,  or  yet  to  her  niece,  but  to 
fellow-tourists  who  happened  to  be  at  hand,  or  even  to  the  cicerone  or 
the  goat-herd  in  the  foreground. 

One  day,  after  his  return  from  Europe,  the  Doctor  said  something  to 
his  daughter  that  made  her  start — it  seemed  to  come  from  so  far  out  of 
the  past. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  promise  me  something  before  I  die." 
"  Why  do  you  talk  about  your  dying  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Because  I  am  sixty-eight  years  old." 
"  I  hope  you  will  live  a  long  time,"  said  Catherine. 
"  I  hope  I   shall !     But  some  day  I  shall  take  a  bad  cold,  and  then 
it  will  not  matter  much  what  any  one  hopes.     That  will  be  the  manner 
of  my  exit,  and  when  it  takes  place,  remember  I  told  you  so.     Promise 
me  not  to  marry  Morris  Townsend  after  I  am  gone." 

This  was  what  made  Catherine  start,  as  I  have  said ;  but  her  start 
was  a  silent  one,  and  for  some  moments  she  said  nothing.  "  Why  do 
you  speak  of  him  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  You  challenge  everything  I  say.     I  speak  of  him  because  he's  a 
topic,  like  any  other.     He's  to  be  seen,  like  any  one  else,  and  he  is  still 
looking  for  a  wife — having  had  one  and  got  rid  of  her,  I  don't  know  by 
what  means.     He  has  lately  been  in  New  York,  and  at  your  cousin 
Marian's  house  ;  your  Aunt  Elizabeth  saw  him  there." 
"  They  neither  of  them  told  me,"  said  Catherine. 
"  That's  their  merit ;   it's  not  yours.     He  has  grown  fat  and  bald, 
and  he  has  not  made  his  fortune.     But  I  can't  trust  those  facts  alone  to 
steel  your  heart  against  him,  and  that's  why  I  ask  you  to  promise." 

"  Fat  and  bald :  "  these  words  presented  a  strange  image  to  Catherine's 
mind,  out  of  which  the  memory  of  the  most  beautiful  young  man  in  the 
world  had  never  faded.  "  I  don't  think  you  understand,"  she  said.  "  I 
very  seldom  think  of  Mr.  Townsend." 

"  It  will  be  very  easy  for  you  to  go  on,  then.  Promise  me,  after  my 
death,  to  do  the  same." 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  631 

Again,  for  some  moments,  Catherine  was  silent ;  her  father's  request 
deeply  amazed  her ;  it  opened  an  old  wound  and  made  it  ache  afresh. 
"  I  don't  think  I  can  promise  that,"  she  answered. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction,"  said  her  father. 

"  You  don't  understand.     I  can't  promise  that." 

The  Doctor  was  silent  a  minute.  "  I  ask  you  for  a  particular  reason. 
I  am  altering  my  will." 

This  reason  failed  to  strike  Catherine;  and  indeed  she  scarcely 
understood  it.  All  her  feelings  were  merged  in  the  sense  that  he  was 
trying  to  treat  her  as  he  had  treated  her  years  before.  She  had  suffered 
from  it  then ;  and  now  all  her  experience,  all  her  acquired  tranquillity 
and  rigidity,  protested.  She  had  been  so  humble  in  her  youth  that  she 
could  now  afford  to  have  a  little  pride,  and  there  was  something  in  this 
request,  and  in  her  father's  thinking  himself  so  free  to  make  it,  that 
seemed  an  injury  to  her  dignity.  Poor  Catherine's  dignity  was  not 
aggressive  ;  it  never  sat  in  state;  but  if  you  pushed  far  enough  you  could 
find  it.  Her  father  had  pushed  very  far. 

"  I  can't  promise,"  she  simply  repeated. 

"  You  are  very  obstinate,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand." 

"  Please  explain,  then." 

"  I  can't  explain,"  said  Catherine.     "  And  I  can't  promise." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  her  father  exclaimed,  "  I  had  no  idea  how  obsti- 
nate you  are  ! " 

She  knew  herself  that  she  was  obstinate,  and  it  gave  her  a  certain 
joy.  She  was  now  a  middle-aged  woman. 

About  a  year  after  this,  the  accident  that  the  Doctor  had  spoken  of 
occurred :  he  took  a  violent  cold.  Driving  out  to  Bloomingdale  one 
April  day  to  see  a  patient  of  unsound  mind,  who  was  confined  in  a 
private  asylum  for  the  insane,  and  whose  family  greatly  desired  a  medical 
opinion  from  an  eminent  source,  he  was  caught  in  a  spring  shower,  and 
being  in  a  buggy,  without  a  hood,  he  found  himself  soaked  to  the  skin. 
He  came  home  with  an  ominous  chill,  and  on  the  morrow  he  was 
seriously  ill.  "  It  is  congestion  of  the  lungs,"  he  said  to  Catherine;  "  I 
shall  need  very  good  nursing.  It  will  make  no  difference,  for  I  shall  not 
recover ;  but  I  wish  everything  to  be  done,  to  the  smallest  detail,  as  if  I 
should.  I  hate  an  ill-conducted  sick-room  ;  and  you  will  be  so  good  as 
to  nurse  me  on  the  hypothesis  that  I  shall  get  well."  He  told  her  which 
of  his  fellow-physicians  to  send  for,  and  gave  her  a  multitude  of  minute 
directions ;  it  was  quite  on  the  optimistic  hypothesis  that  she  nursed 
him.  But  he  had  never  been  wrong  in  his  life,  and  he  was  not  wrong 
now.  He  was  touching  his  seventieth  year,  and  though  he  had  a  very 
well-tempered  constitution,  his  hold  upon  life  had  lost  its  firmness.  He 
died  after  three  weeks'  illness,  during  which  Mrs.  Penniman,  as  well  as 
his  daughter,  had  been  assiduous  at  his  bedside. 

On  his  will  being  opened  after  a  decent  interval,  it  waa  found  to  con- 


632  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

sist  of  two  portions.  The  first  of  these  dated  from  ten  years  back,  and 
consisted  of  a  series  of  dispositions  by  which  he  left  the  great  mass  of  his 
property  to  his  daughter,  with  becoming  legacies  to  his  two  sisters.  The 
second  was  a  codicil,  of  recent  origin,  maintaining  the  annuities  to  Mrs. 
Penniman  and  Mrs.  Almond,  but  reducing  Catherine's  share  to  a  fifth  of 
what  he  had  first  bequeathed  her.  "  She  is  amply  provided  for  from  her 
mother's  side,"  the  document  ran,  "  never  having  spent  more  than  a  frac- 
tion of  her  income  from  this  source  ;  so  that  her  fortune  is  already  more 
than  sufficient  to  attract  those  unscrupulous  adventurers  whom  she  has 
given  me  reason  to  believe  that  she  persists  in  regarding  as  an  interesting 
class."  The  large  remainder  of  his  property,  therefore,  Dr.  Sloper 
had  divided  into  seven  unequal  parts,  which  he  left,  as  endowments,  to  as 
many  different  hospitals  and  schools  of  medicine,  in  various  cities  of  the 
Union. 

To  Mrs.  Penniman  it  seemed  monstrous  that  a  man  should  play  such 
tricks  with  other  people's  money  ;  for  after  his  death,  of  course,  as  she 
said,  it  was  other  people's.  "  Of  course  you  will  immediately  break  the 
will,"  she  remarked  to  Catherine. 

"  Oh  no,"  Catherine  answered,  "  I  like  it  very  much.  Only  I  wish 
it  had  been  expressed  a  little  differently  !  " 


XXXIV. 

It  was  her  habit  to  remain  in  town  very  late  in  the  summer ;  she  pre- 
ferred the  house  in  "Washington  Square  to  any  other  habitation  what- 
ever, and  it  was  under  protest  that  she  used  to  go  to  the  seaside  for  the 
month  of  August.  At  the  sea  she  spent  her  month  at  an  hotel.  The 
year  that  her  father  died  she  intermitted  this  custom  altogether,  not 
thinking  it  consistent  with  deep  mourning  ;  and  the  year  after  that  she 
put  off  her  departure  till  so  late  that  the  middle  of  August  found  her 
still  in  the  heated  solitude  of  Washington  Square.  Mrs.  Penniman, 
who  was  fond  of  a  change,  was  usually  eager  for  a  visit  to  the  country ; 
but  this  year  she  appeared  quite  content  with  such  rural  impressions  as 
she  could  gather,  at  the  parlour-window,  from  the  alanthus  ti'ees  behind 
the  wooden  paling.  The  peculiar  fragrance  of  this  vegetation  used  to 
diffuse  itself  in  the  evening  air,  and  Mrs.  Penniman,  on  the  warm  nights 
of  July,  often  sat  at  the  open  window  and  inhaled  it.  This  was  a  happy 
moment  for  Mrs.  Penniman  ;  after  the  death  of  her  brother  she  felt  more 
free  to  obey  her  impulses.  A  vague  oppression  had  disappeared  from 
her  life,  and  she  enjoyed  a  sense  of  freedom  of  which  she  had  not  been 
conscious  since  the  memorable  time,  so  long  ago,  when  the  Doctor  went 
abroad  with  Catherine  and  left  her  at  home  to  entertain  Morris  Town- 
send.  The  year  that  had  elapsed  since  her  brother's  death  reminded  her 
of  that  happy  time,  because,  although  Catherine,  in  growing  older,  had 
become  a  person  to  be  reckoned  with,  yet  her  society  was  a  very  different 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  633 

thing,  as  Mrs.  Penniman  said,  from  that  of  a  tank  of  cold  water.  The 
elder  lady  hardly  knew  what  use  to  make  of  this  larger  margin  of  her 
life ;  she  sat  and  looked  at  it  very  much  as  she  had  often  sat,  with  her 
poised  needle  in  her  hand,  before  her  tapestry-frame.  She  had  a  confi- 
dent hope,  however,  that  her  rich  impulses,  her  talent  for  embroidery, 
would  still  find  their  application,  and  this  confidence  was  justified  before 
many  months  had  elapsed. 

Catherine  continued  to  live  in  her  father's  house,  in  spite  of  its  being 
represented  to  her  that  a  maiden-lady  of  quiet  habits  might  find  a  more 
convenient  abode  in  one  of  the  smaller  dwellings,  with  brown  stone 
fronts,  which  had  at  this  time  begun  to  adorn  the  transverse  thorough- 
fares in  the  upper  part  of  the  town.  She  liked  the  earlier  structure — it 
had  begun  by  this  time  to  be  called  an  "  old  "  house — and  proposed  to 
herself  to  end  her  days  in  it.  If  it  was  too  large  for  a  pair  of  unpretend- 
ing gentlewomen,  this  was  better  than  the  opposite  fault ;  for  Catherine 
had  no  desire  to  find  herself  irt  closer  quarters  with  her  aunt.  She  ex- 
pected to  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  Washington  Square,  and  to  enjoy 
Mrs.  Penniman's  society  for  the  whole  of  this  period ;  as  she  had  a  con- 
viction that,  long  as  she  might  live,  her  aunt  would  live  at  least  as 
long,  and  always  retain  her  brilliancy  and  activity.  Mrs.  Penniman  sug- 
gested to  her  the  idea  of  a  rich  vitality. 

On  one  of  those  warm  evenings  in  July  of  which  mention  has  been 
made,  the  two  ladies  sat  together  at  an  open  window,  looking  out  on 
toe  quiet  Square.  It  was  too  hot  for  lighted  lamps,  for  reading,  or 
for  work ;  it  might  have  appeared  too  hot  even  for  conversation,  Mrs. 
Penniman  having  long  been  speechless.  She  sat  forward  in  the  win- 
dow, half  on  the  balcony,  humming  a  little  song.  Catherine  was 
within  the  room,  in  a  low  rocking-chair,  dressed  in  white,  and  slowly 
using  a  large  palmetto  fan.  It  was  in  this  way,  at  this  season,  that  the 
aunt  and  niece,  after  they  had  had  tea,,  habitually  spent  their  evenings. 

"  Catherine,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman  at  last,  "  I  am  going  to  say  some- 
thing that  will  surprise  you." 

"  Pray  do,"  Catherine  answered ;  "  I  like  surprises.  And  it  is  so 
quiet  now." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  seen  Morris  Townsend." 

If  Catherine  was  surprised,  she  checked  the  expression  of  it;  she 
gave  neither  a  start  nor  an  exclamation.  She  remained,  indeed,  for  some 
moments  intensely  still,  and  this  may  very  well  have  been  a  symptom  of 
emotion.  "  I  hope  he  was  well,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  is  a  great  deal  changed.  He  would  like  very 
much  to  see  you." 

"  I  would  rather  not  see  him,"  said  Catherine,  quickly. 
"  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  that.     But  you  don't  seem  surprised  !  " 
"  I  am — very  much." 

"  I  met  him  at  Marian's,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  He  goes  to 
Marian's,  and  they  are  so  afraid  you  will  meet  him  thei'e.  It's  my 


634  WASHINGTON   SQUARE. 

belief  that  that's  why  he  goes.     He  wants  so  much  to  see  you."     Cathe- 
rine made  no  response  to  this,  and  Mrs.  Penniman  went  on.     "  I  didn't 
know  him  at  first ;  he  is  so  remarkably  changed.     But  he  knew  me  in  a 
minute.     He  says  I  am  not  in  the  least  changed.     You  know  how  polite 
he  always  was.     He  was  coming  away  when  I  came,  and  we  walked  a 
little  distance  together.     He  is  still  very  handsome,  only  of  course  he 
looks  older,  and  he  is  not  so — so  animated  as  he  used  to  be.     There  was 
a  touch  of  sadness  about  him ;  but  there  was  a  touch  of  sadness  about 
him  before — especially  when  he  went  away.     I  am  afraid  he  has  not 
been  very  successful — that  he  has  never  got  thoroughly  established.     I 
don't  suppose  he  is  sufficiently  plodding,  and  that,  after  all,  is  what  suc- 
ceeds in  this  world."     Mrs.  Penniman  had  not  mentioned  Morris  Town- 
send's  name  to  her  niece  for  upwards  of  the  fifth  of  a  century  ;  but  now 
that  she  had  broken  the  spell,  she  seemed  to  wish  to  make  up  for  lost 
time,  as  if  there  had  been  a  sort  of  exhilaration  in  hearing  herself  talk  of 
him.     She  proceeded,  however,  with  considerable  caution,  pausing  occa- 
sionally to  let  Catherine  give  some  sign.     Catherine  gave  no  other  sign 
than  to  stop  the  rocking  of  her  chair  and  the  swaying  of  her  fan ;  she 
sat  motionless  and  silent.     "  It  was  on  Tuesday  last,"  said  Mrs.  Penni- 
man, "  and  I  have  been  hesitating  ever  since  about  telling  you.    I  didn't 
know  how  you  might  like  it.     At  last  I  thought  that  it  was  so  long  ago 
that  you  would  probably  not  have  any  particular  feeling.     I  saw  him 
again,  after  meeting  him  at  Marian's.     I  met  him  in  the  street,  and  he 
went  a  few  steps  with  me.     The  first  thing  he  said  was  about  you ;  he 
asked  ever  so  many  questions.     Marian  didn't  want  me  to  speak  to  you ; 
she  didn't  want  you  to  know  that  they  receive  him.     I  told  him  I  was 
sure  that  after  all  these  years  you  couldn't  have  any  feeling  about  that ; 
you  couldn't  grudge  him  the  hospitality  of  his  own  cousin's  house.     I 
said  you  would  be  bitter  indeed  if  you  did  that.     Marian  has  the  most 
extraordinary  ideas  about  what  happened  between  you ;  she  seems  to 
think  he  behaved  in  some  very  unusual  manner.     I  took  the  liberty  of 
reminding  her  of  the  real  facts,  and  placing  the  story  in  its  true  light. 
He  has  no  bitterness,  Catherine,  I  can  assure  you ;  and  he  might  be  ex- 
cused for  it,  for  things  have  not  gone  well  with  him.     He  has  been  all 
over  the  world,  and  tried  to  establish  himself  everywhere ;  but  his  evil 
star  was  against  him.     It  is  most  interesting  to  hear  him  talk  of  his  evil 
star.     Everything  failed  ;  everything  but  his — you  know,  you  remember 
— his  proud,  high  spirit.     I  believe  he  married  some  lady  somewhere  in 
Europe.      You  know  they  marry  in  such  a  peculiar   matter-of-course 
way  in  Europe ;  a  marriage  of  reason  they  call  it.     She  died  soon  after- 
wards ;  as  he  said  to  me,  she  only  flitted  across  his  life.     He  has  not 
been  in  New  York  for  ten  years ;  he  came  back  a  few  days  ago.     The 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  ask  me  about  you.     He  had  heard  you  had 
never  married ;  he  seemed  very  much  interested  about  that.     He  said 
you  had  been  the  real  romance  of  his  life." 

Catherine  had  suffered  her  companion  to  proceed  from  point  to  point, 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  635 

and  pause  to  pause,  without  interrupting  her  ;  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
ground  and  listened.  But  the  last  phrase  I  have  quoted  was  followed 
by  a  pause  of  peculiar  significance,  and  then,  at  last,  Catherine  spoke. 
It  will  be  observed  that  before  doing  so  she  had  received  a  good  deal  of 
information  about  Morris  Townsend.  "  Please  say  no  more ;  please 
don't  follow  up  that  subject." 

"  Doesn't  it  interest  you  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  a  certain 
timorous  archness. 

"  It  pains  me,"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  say  that.  But  don't  you  think  you  could 
get  used  to  it1?  He  wants  so  much  to  £ee  you." 

"  Please  don't,  Aunt  Lavinia,"  said  Catherine,  getting  up  from  her 
seat.  She  moved  quickly  away,  and  went  to  the  other  window,  which 
stood  open  to  the  balcony ;  and  here,  in  the  embrasure,  concealed  from 
her  aunt  by  the  white  curtains,  she  remained  a  long  time,  looking  out 
into  the  warm  darkness.  She  had  had  a  great  shock  ;  it  was  as  if  the 
gulf  of  the  past  had  suddenly  opened,  and  a  spectral  figure  had  risen  out 
of  it.  There  were  some  things  she  believed  she  had  got  over,  some 
feelings  that  she  had  thought  of  as  dead ;  but  apparently  there  was  a 
certain  vitality  in  them  still.  Mrs.  Penniman  had  made  them  stir  them- 
selves. It  was  but  a  momentary  agitation,  Catherine  said  to  herself;  it 
would  presently  pass  away.  She  was  trembling,  and  her  heart  was 
beating  so  that  she  could  feel  it ;  but  this  also  would  subside.  Then, 
suddenly,  while  she  waited  for  a  return  of  her  calmness,  she  burst  into 
tears.  But  her  tears  flowed  very  silently,  so  that  Mrs.  Penniman  had 
no  observation  of  them.  It  was  perhaps,  however,  because  Mrs.  Penni- 
man suspected  them  that  she  said  no  more  that  evening  about  Morris 
Townsend. 


XXXY. 

Her  refreshed  attention  to  this  gentleman  had  not  those  limits  of 
which  Catherine  desired,  for  herself,  to  be  conscious;  it  lasted  long 
enough  to  enable  her  to  wait  another  week  before  speaking  of  him  again. 
It  was  under  the  same  circumstances  that  she  once  more  attacked  the 
subject.  She  had  been  sitting  with  her  niece  in  the  evening ;  only  on 
this  occasion,  as  the  night  was  not  so  warm,  the  lamp  had  been  lighted, 
and  Catherine  had  placed  herself  near  it  with  a  morsel  of  fancy-work. 
Mrs.  Penniman  went  and  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour  on  the  balcony; 
then  she  came  in,  moving  vaguely  about  the  room.  At  last  she  sank 
into  a  seat  near  Catherine,  with  clasped  hands,  and  a  little  look  of  ex- 
citement. 

"  Shall  you  be  angry  if  I  speak  to  you  again  about  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

Catherine  looked  up  at  her  quietly.     "  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  whom  you  once  loved." 

"  I  shall  not  be  angry,  but  I  shall  not  like  it." 


636  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  He  sent  you  a  message,"  said  Mrs.  Penniman.  "  I  promised  him 
to  deliver  it,  and  I  must  keep  my  promise." 

In  all  these  years  Catherine  had  had  time  to  forget  how  little  she 
had  to  thank  her  aunt  for  in  the  season  of  her  misery ;  she  had  long  ago 
forgiven  Mrs.  Penniman  for  taking  too  much  upon  herself.  But  for  a 
moment  this  attitude  of  interposition  and  disinterestedness,  this  carrying 
of  messages  and  redeeming  of  promises,  brought  back  the  sense  that  her 
companion  was  a  dangerous  woman.  She  had  said  she  would  not  be 
angry;  but  for  an  instant  she  felt  sore.  "I  don't  care  what  you  do 
with  your  promise  !  "  she  answered. 

Mrs.  Penniman,  however,  with  her  high  conception  of  the  sanctity  of 
pledges,  carried  her  point.  "  I  have  gone  too  far  to  retreat,"  she  said, 
though  precisely  what  this  meant  she  was  not  at  pains  to  explain. 
"  Mr.  Townsend  wishes  most  particularly  to  see  you,  Catherine ;  he 
believes  that  if  you  knew  how  much,  and  why,  he  wishes  it,  you  would 
consent  to  do  so." 

"  There  can  be  no  reason,"  said  Catherine ;  "  no  good  reason." 

"  His  happiness  depends  upon  it.  Is  not  that  a  good  reason  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Penniman,  impressively. 

"  Not  for  me.     My  happiness  does  not." 

"  I  think  you  will  be  happier  after  you  have  seen  him.  He  is  going 
away  again — going  to  resume  his  wanderings.  It  is  a  very  lonely,  rest- 
less, joyless  life.  Before  he  goes,  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you;  it  is  a  fixed 
idea  with  him — he  is  always  thinking  of  it.  He  has  something  very 
important  to  say  to  you.  He  believes  that  you  never  understood  him — 
that  you  never  judged  him  rightly,  and  the  belief  has  always  weighed 
upon  him  terribly.  He  wishes  to  justify  himself;  he  believes  that  in  a 
very  few  words  he  could  do  so.  He  wishes  to  meet  you  as  a  friend." 

Catherine  listened  to  this  wonderful  speech,  without  pausing  in  her 
work ;  she  had  now  had  several  days  to  accustom  herself  to  think  of 
Morris  Townsend  again  as  an  actuality.  When  it  was  over  she  said 
simply,  "  Please  say  to  Mr.  Townsend  that  I  wish  he  would  leave  me 
alone." 

She  had  hardly  spoken  when  a  sharp,  firm  ring  at  the  door  vibrated 
through  the  summer  night.  Catherine  looked  up  at  the  clock ;  it 
marked  a  quarter-past  nine — a  very  late  hour  for  visitors,  especially  in 
the  empty  condition  of  the  town.  Mrs.  Penniman  at  the  same  moment 
gave  a  little  start,  and  then  Catherine's  eyes  turned  quickly  to  her  aunt. 
They  met  Mrs.  Penniman's  and  sounded  them  for  a  moment,  sharply. 
Mi-s.  Penniman  was  blushing  ;  her  look  was  a  conscious  one;  it  seemed 
to  confess  something.  Catherine  guessed  its  meaning,  and  rose  quickly 
from  her  chair. 

"  Aunt  Penniman,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  scared  her  companion, 
"  have  you  taken  the  liberty  .  .  .  1" 

"My  dearest  Catherine,"  stammered  Mrs.  Penniman,  "just  wait  till 
you  see  him  !  " 


WASHINGTON  SQUAKE.  637 

Catherine  had  frightened  her  aunt,  but  she  was  also  frightened  her- 
self;  she  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  to  give  orders  to  the  servant,  who 
was  passing  to  the  door,  to  admit  no  one ;  but  the  fear  of  meeting  her 
visitor  checked  her. 

"  Mr.  Morris  Townsend." 

This  was  what  she  heard,  vaguely  but  recognisably,  articulated  by  the 
domestic,  while  she  hesitated.  She  had  her  back  turned  to  the  door  of 
the  parlour,  and  for  some  moments  she  kept  it  turned,  feeling  that  he 
had  come  in.  He  had  not  spoken,  however,  and  at  last  she  faced  about. 
Then  she  saw  a  gentleman  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  from 
which  her  aunt  had  discreetly  retired. 

She  would  never  have  known  him.  He  was  forty -five  years  old,  and 
his  figure  was  not  that  of  the  straight,  slim  young  man  she  remembered. 
But  it  was  a  very  fine  person,  and  a  fair  and  lustrous  beard,  spreading 
itself  upon  a  well-presented  chest,  contributed  to  its  effect.  After  a 
moment  Catherine  recognised  the  upper  half  of  the  face,  which,  though  her 
visitor's  clustering  locks  had  grown  thin,  was  still  remarkably  handsome. 
He  stood  in  a  deeply  deferential  attitude,  with  his  eyes  on  her  face.  "  I 
have  ventured — I  have  ventured,"  he  said  ;  and  then  he  paused,  looking 
about  him,  as  if  he  expected  her  to  ask  him  to  sit  down.  It  was  the  old 
voice  ;  but  it  had  not  the  old  charm.  Catherine,  for  a  minute,  was  con- 
scious of  a  distinct  determination  not  to  invite  him  to  take  a  seat.  Why 
had  he  come  1  It  was  wrong  for  him  to  come.  Morris  was  embarrassed, 
but  Catherine  gave  him  no  help.  It  was  not  that  she  was  glad  of  his 
embarrassment ;  on  the  contrary,  it  excited  all  her  own  liabilities  of  this 
kind,  and  gave  her  great  pain.  But  how  could  she  welcome  him  when 
she  felt  so  vividly  that  he  ought  not  to  have  come ?  "I  wanted  so  much 
— I  was  determined,"  Morris  went  on.  But  he  stopped  again ;  it  was 
not  easy.  Catherine  still  said  nothing,  and  he  may  well  have  recalled 
with  apprehension  her  ancient  faculty  of  silence.  She  continued  to  look 
at  him,  however,  and  as  she  did  so  she  made  the  strangest  observation. 
It  seemed  to  be  he,  and  yet  not  he;  it  was  the  man  who  had  been  every- 
thing, and  yet  this  person  was  nothing.  How  long  ago  it  was — how  old 
she  had  grown — how  much  she  had  lived  !  She  had  lived  on  something 
that  was  connected  with  him,  and  she  had  consumed  it  in  doing  so.  This 
person  did  not  look  unhappy.  He  was  fair  and  well-preserved,  perfectly 
dressed,  mature  and  complete.  As  Catherine  looked  at  him,  the  story  of 
his  life  defined  itself  in.  his  eyes  ;  he  had  made  himself  comfortable,  and 
he  had  never  been  caught.  But  even  while  her  perception  opened  itself 
to  this,  she  had  no  desire  to  catch  him ;  his  presence  was  painful  to  her, 
and  she  only  wished  he  would  go. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  1  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not,"  said  Catherine. 

"  I  offend  you  by  coming  1 "  He  was  very  grave ;  he  spoke  in  a  tone 
of  the  richest  respect. 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  come." 


638  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  Did  not  Mrs.  Penniman  tell  you — did  she  not  give  you  my  mes- 
sage ? " 

"  She  told  me  something,  but  I  did  not  understand." 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  tell  you — let  me  speak  for  myself." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  necessary,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Not  for  you,  perhaps,  but  for  me.  It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction — 
and  I  have  not  many."  He  seemed  to  be  coming  nearer;  Catherine 
turned  away.  "  Can  we  not  be  friends  again  ? "  he  asked. 

"  We  are  not  enemies,"  said  Catherine.  "  I  have  none  but  friendly 
feelings  to  you." 

"  Ah,  I  wonder  whether  you  know  the  happiness  it  gives  me  to  hear 
you  say  that !  "  Catherine  uttered  no  intimation  that  she  measured  the 

J  v 

influence  of  her  words;  and  he  presently  went  on,  "You  have  not 
changed — the  years  have  passed  happily  for  you." 

"  They  have  passed  very  quietly,"  said  Catherine. 

"  They  have  left  no  marks  ;  you  are  admirably  young."  This  time 
he  succeeded  in  coming  nearer — he  was  close  to  her  ;  she  saw  his  glossy 
perfumed  beard,  and  his  eyes  above  it  looking  strange  and  hard.  It  was 
very  different  from  his  old — from  his  young — face.  If  she  had  first  seen 
him  this  way  she  would  not  have  liked  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
was  smiling,  or  trying  to  smile.  "  Catherine,"  he  said,  lowering  his  voice, 
"  I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  you." 

"  Please  don't  say  those  things,"  she  answered. 

"  Do  you  hate  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Catherine. 

Something  in  her  tone  discouraged  him,  but  in  a  moment  he  recovered 
himself.  "  Have  you  still  some  kindness  for  me,  then  ]  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  have  come  here  to  ask  me  such  things  ! " 
Catherine  exclaimed. 

"  Because  for  many  years  it  has  been  the  desire  of  my  life  that  we 
should  be  friends  again." 

"  That  is  impossible." 

"  Why  so  1     Not  if  you  will  allow  it." 

"  I  will  not  allow  it ! "  said  Catherine. 

He  looked  at  her  again  in  silence.  "  I  see ;  my  presence  troubles 
you  and  pains  you.  I  will  go  away ;  but  you  must  give  me  leave  to 
come  again." 

"  Please  don't  come  again,"  she  said. 

' '  Never  ?— never  ? " 

She  made  a  great  effort ;  she  wished  to  say  something  that  would 
make  it  impossible  he  should  ever  again  cross  her  threshold.  "It  is 
wrong  of  you.  There  is  no  propriety  in  it — no  reason  for  it." 

"  Ah,  dearest  lady,  you  do  me  injustice ! "  cried  Morris  Townsend. 
"  We  have  only  waited,  and  now  we  are  free." 

"  You  treated  me  badly,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Not  if  you  think  of  it  rightly.     You  had  your  quiet  life  with  your 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE.  639 

father — which  was  just  what  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  rob 
you  of." 

"  Yes ;  I  had  that." 

Morris  felt  it  to  be  a  considerable  damage  to  his  cause  that  he  could 
not  add  that  she  had  had  something  more  besides ;  for  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  he  had  learnt  the  contents  of  Doctor  Slopers  will.  He  was 
nevertheless  not  at  a  loss.  "  There  are  worse  fates  than  that !  "  he  ex- 
claimed with  expression ;  and  he  might  have  been  supposed  to  refer  to 
his  own  unprotected  situation.  Then  he  added,  with  a  deeper  tenderness, 
"  Catherine,  have  you  never  forgiven  me  ?  " 

"  I  forgave  you  years  ago,  but  it  is  useless  for  us  to  attempt  to  be 
friends." 

"  Not  if  we  forget  the  past.     We  have  still  a  future,  thank  God  ! " 

"  I  can't  forget — I  don't  forget,"  said  Catherine.  "  You  treated  me 
too  badly.  I  felt  it  very  much  ;  I  felt  it  for  years."  And  then  she  went 
on,  with  her  wish  to  show  him  that  he  must  not  come  to  her  this  way, 
"  I  can't  begin  again — I  can't  take  it  up.  Everything  is  dead  and 
buried.  It  was  too  serious ;  it  made  a  great  change  in  my  life.  I  never 
expected  to  see  you  here." 

"  Ah,  you  are  angry  !  "  cried  Morris,  who  wished  immensely  that  he 
could  extort  some  flash  of  passion  from  her  calmness.  In  that  case  he 
might  hope. 

"  No,  I  am  not  angry.  Anger  does  not  last,  that  way,  for  years. 
But  there  are  other  things.  Impressions  last,  when  they  have  been  strong. 
—But  I  can't  talk." 

Morris  stood  stroking  his  beard,  with  a  clouded  eye.  "  Why  have 
you  never  married  1 "  he  asked  abruptly.  "  You  have  had  opportunities." 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  marry." 

"  Yes,  you  are  rich,  you  are  free ;  you  had  nothing  to  gain." 

"  I  had  nothing  to  gain,"  said  Catherine. 

Morris  looked  vaguely  round  him,  and  gave  a  deep  sigh.  "  Well, 
I  was  in  hopes  that  we  might  still  have  been  friends." 

"  I  meant  to  tell  you,  by  my  aunt,  in  answer  to  your  message — if  you 
had  waited  for  an  answer — that  it  was  unnecessary  for  you  to  come  in 
that  hope." 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  said  Morris.     "  Excuse  my  indiscretion." 

He  bowed,  and  she  turned  away — standing  there,  averted,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  ground,  for  some  moments  after  she  had  heard  him  close  the 
door  of  the  room. 

In  the  hall  he  found  Mrs.  Penniman,  fluttered  and  eager ;  she  appeared 
to  have  been  hovering  there  under  the  irreconcilable  promptings  of  her 
curiosity  and  her  dignity. 

"  That  was  a  precious  plan  of  yours  ! "  said  Morris,  clapping  on 
his  hat. 

"  Is  she  so  hard  1  "  asked  Mrs.  Penniman. 


640  WASHINGTON  SQUARE. 

"  She  doesn't  care  a  button  for  nie — with  her  confounded  little  dry 
manner." 

"  Was  it  very  dry  ? "  pursued  Mrs.  Penniman,  with  solicitude. 

Morris  took  no  notice  of  her  question ;  he  stood  musing  an  instant, 
with  his  hat  on.  "  But  why  the  deuce,  then,  would  she  never  marry  ?  " 

"  Yes — why  indeed  1 "  sighed  Mrs.  Penniman.  And  then,  as  if  from 
a  sense  of  the  inadequacy  of  this  explanation,  "  But  you  will  not  despair 
— you  will  come  back  ? " 

"  Come  back  ?  Damnation  !  "  And  Morris  Townsend  strode  out  of 
the  house,  leaving  Mrs.  Penniman  staring. 

Catherine,  meanwhile,  in  the  parlour,  picking  up  her  morsel  of 
fancy-work,  had  seated  herself  with  it  again — for  life,  as  it  were. 

HENKY   JAMES,   J*. 


THE   END. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


DECEMBER,  1880. 


Jfimt's 

SOME   PASSAGES   FROM   MISS   WILLIAMSON'S   DIARY. 


I. 

From  Miss  Sophy  King  in  Switzerland  '.o  Miss  Williamson  in 
Old  Street,  London,  W. 

DEAREST  Miss  WILLIAMSON.— 
Your  two  letters  have  come  fly- 
ing through  the  ravines  and  over 
the  waterfalls,  and  the  sunlight 
on  the  plains  and  the  half-way 
storms,  and  through  all  the 
freshness  as  well  as  the  less  agree- 
able whiffs  from  the  village.  We 
are  very  comfortably  encamped 
at  our  hotel ;  mamma  is  wonder- 
fully well  for  her.  My  father  is 
in  Scotland,  but  we  are  not 
lonely,  and  have  found  several 
friends  here.  Chief  among  them 
are  your  friends  the  Arnheims, 
who  only  went  down  to  Inter- 
laken  this  morning — we  follow 
on  Monday.  Mr.  Arnheim  has 
an  engagement  to  play  at  the 
concerts  there.  Fina,  the  little 
girl,  has  started  up  wonderfully, 
and  reaches  her  father's  shoulder. 
I  told  her  I  should  be  writing  to 
you,  and  she  sent  you  her  love  and  begged  me  to  tell  you  that  she  mends 
YOL.  XLII. — NO.  252.  31. 


642  FINA'S  AUNT. 

her  father's  clothes  now,  and  adds  up  the  bills,  and  keeps  all  the  money. 
She  has  grown  very  like  her  poor  mother,  whom  I  remember  seeing  at 
your  lodgings  in  Old  Street.  I  wonder  if  those  very  disagreeable  people, 
her  relations,  are  living  near  you  still :  that  pompous  Miss  Ellis  and 
the  Colonel,  and  the  silent  younger  sister  and  the  delightful  old  lady  :  and 
I  wonder  if  you,  too,  are  in  your  usual  corner,  where  I  can  see  you  as 
plainly  as  I  can  see  mamma  in  her  chair  on  the  terrace  opposite.  This  is 
written  from  a  broad  green  balcony  overhung  with  clematis ;  all  the 
people  come  out  of  the  dining-room  and  sit  here  to  look  at  the  mountains. 

"  The  day  the  Arnheims  were  here  they  took  me  out  for  a  long  day  in 
the  mountains.  Mr.  Arnheim  led  the  way,  Fina  and  I  followed.  One 
cannot  talk,  but  one  goes  on  climbing  ever  through  changing  lights,  from 
one  height  to  another,  higher  and  higher  still.  We  left  autumn  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain,  and  after  a  time  found  ourselves  in  summer  and 
spring  once  more.  Far  above,  striking  the  blue  sky,  hung  winter  snows 
and  crystals,  but  round  us  was  spring.  A  flood  of  fragrant  Alpine 
flowers  spread  by  every  rocky  ridge,  along  every  Alp  and  plateau,  rho- 
dodendrons crimson  incandescent ;  violets  and  saxifrage,  and  light  iris 
lilies  with  a  delicate  pale  fragrance ;  mountain  moss  and  wild  azalea,  all 
indescribably  faint  and  beautiful.  It  seemed  as  if  our  souls  and  senses 
were  refreshed  and  purified  by  this  calm  ether,  and  able  to  receive  the 
sacrament  of  nature,  the  outward  sign  and  the  inward  grace.  Far 
beyond  one  blazing  slope  of  green  and  crimson  studded  flowers,  and 
across  the  vast  valley,  rose  the  great  might  and  silence  of  the  mountain- 
chain,  and  higher  still  a  line  of  clouds  was  striking  sail  in  solemn 
rank  and  drifting  towards  the  peaks.  A  sense  of  awe-stricken,  all- 
embracing  beauty,  of  all- enclosing  power  and  mystery,  came  upon  us  as 
we  stood  together.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  for  years  alone  with  Fina 
and  her  father.  He,  too,  seemed  to  feel  some  of  the  same  companion- 
ship, for  he  turned  from  her  to  me  and  said  very  gently  : 

"  '  Fina  will  never  forget  our  walk  together,  nor  the  wonderful  things 
we  have  seen  to-day.  My  old  violin  has  often  talked  of  it,  but  it  never 
showed  us  what  we  have  seen  to-day.'  And  then  with  a  half  sigh, '  How 
her  mother  would  have  enjoyed  it  all,'  he  added. 

"  But  though  we  all  enjoyed  our  walk,  it  was  too  long.  Mr.  Arn- 
heim was  ill  for  two  days,  I  am  sorry  to  say ;  Fina  and  I  have  scarcely 
been  beyond  the  green  terrace  of  the  hotel  since  then.  I  am  not  ro- 
mantic as  you  know,  and  so  I  like  sitting  where  I  can  see  the  road  and 
the  people  passing.  There  go  two  Swiss  maidens.  I  wish  I  could  draw 
them  for  you.  They  seem  to  be  carrying  two  of  the  mountains  on 
their  backs.  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  going  to  set  them  down  in 
sight  of  the  new  hotel  or  elsewhere.  Now  our  artist  goes  by.  He  is  a 
Mr.  Bracy,  and  staying  in  the  hotel.  He  walks  about  with  his  head  on 
one  side,  and  his  portfolio  under  his  arm.  Sketching  in  such  a  place  as 
this  seems  to  me  a  ludicrous  process.  You  might  as  well  attempt  to 
sketch  a  sonata  with  a  penny  whistle  as  to  set  down  the  Eiger  on  one 


FINA'S  AUNT.  643 

page  and  the  "Wetterborn  and  its  crown  of  cloud  on  another.  There 
would  be  some  sense  in  it  if  he  were  to  draw  that  nice  load  of  wood  and 
its  white  horse. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  everything  here.  Life  begins  at  dawn 
and  goes  on  till  starlight.  The  terrace  itself  is  rather  a  choking  place, 
scented  with  heavy  perfumes,  but  through  its  green  windows  and  delicate 
curtain  of  hanging  tendril  and  -white  blossom,  a  great  sight  is  revealed. 
Rise,  noble  Eiger,  with  dizzy  heights  and  battlements  piled  against  time, 
against  men,  against  winds  and  storms  and  seasons.  There  broods  frozen 
winter,  eternally  arrested  on  the  summit.  As  for  the  autumn  in  the 
valley,  it  is  a  lovely  and  plentiful  show ;  yellow  crops  not  all  reaped 
yet,  bronzed  ears  and  sheaves  in  the  homestead,  flax  swinging  from  the 
galleries  of  the  chalets,  cut  wood  for  winter  piled  against  the  outer  walls. 
The  roar  of  the  torrent  is  in  the  air,  and  mingles  with  the  pastoral 
sounds.  All  over  Switzerland  the  rush  of  running  water  echoes,  from  the 
desperate  streams  that  course  in  the  valleys,  to  the  sweet  high  mountain 
rivulets  flashing  their  way  to  the  plain. 

"  There  is  one  solemn  end  to  our  terrace,  the  other  clatters  with  knives 
and  forks,  and  is  within  view  of  the  narrow  village  street.  A  deep 
gutter  has  been  cut  in  the  centre  of  the  road,  crossed  at  intervals  by 
foot-stones.  The  children,  with  their  brown  faces  and  white  heads,  sit 
swinging  their  bare  legs  over  the  water ;  they  stand  on  the  steps  of  the 
chalets,  they  peep  from  crazy  balconies  that  start  from  evei'y  corner,  loaded 
with  green  and  crimson  flower-pots ;  and  then  there  are  figures  every- 
where climbing  ladders,  leaning  from  upper  windows,  as  they  do  in  German 
picture-books.  A  horse  led  by  a  baby  comes  to  drink  at  the  trough  at  the 
corner  of  the  road  ;  a  go-cart  rolls  by,  dragged  by  a  pretty  young  mother 
— she  has  tied  her  child  by  a  linen  cloth  to  the  shafts ;  the  baker  shuffles 
from  beneath  his  gable,  our  host  of  "  The  Bear  "  appears  for  a  moment  in 
his  doorway.  Opposite  is  the  country  coflee-house,  with  "  Milk  and  Beer 
Shop  "  painted  in  rude  letters  over  the  doorway ;  and  through  the  open 
lattice  and  behind  the  red  curtains  you  see  the  country-folk  refreshing 
themselves  at  wooden  tables.  Bowls  piled  with  beautiful  red  and  gold 
are  set  before  them.  It  is  only  a  feast  of  apples,  but  Paris  himself  might 
have  plucked  them.  The  Golden  Age  never  produced  a  more  sumptuous 
crop,  blazing  crimson  and  lighting  the  dark  kitchen.  Then,  beyond  all 
the  clamour  of  the  little  village,  the  voices,  the  bleating  of  goats,  the 
splashing  of  waters,  you  come  upon  the  little  church,  silent  in  its  slated 
nightcap,  watching  over  the  tranquil  graveyard  where  people  lie  asleep, 
as  befits  good  reformers,  not  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  cross,  but  under 
strange  tabernacles  and  devices,  among  weeds  and  flowers,  with  the  rocks 
of  the  Fishhorns  to  bound  the  view  and  the  valley  opening  to  the  west- 
ward. 

"  You  see  1  have  taken  the  opportunity  of  your  absence  to  rhapsodise  a 
little.  How  glad  we  should  all  be  if  there  was  any  chance  of  your  coming, 
if  only  for  a  fortnight.  "We  will  use  all  our  influence  with  Mr.  Gredig's 

31—2 


644  FINA'S  AUNT. 

sallow  son  to  get  you  a  room  on  the  proper  side  of  the  house,  with  the 
view.  Do  think  of  it  and  of  all  you  will  have  to  write  down  in  your 
beloved  diary. 

"  Always  your  most  affectionate 

"  SOPHY  KING." 
II. 

I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  burn  my  diaries.  I  have  been 
looking  them  over  to-night,  and  there  they  are  lying  in  a  heap,  a  cairn 
upon  the  floor.  Each  year  passing  by  has  added  its  stone.  My  neigh- 
bour, Josephine  Ellis,  came  in  to  see  me,  and  exclaimed  at  the  pile.  I 
told  her  it  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  my  familiar  blue  devils.  There  they 
were,  all  dated  and  docketed.  "  Have  you  never  kept  a  diary  VI  asked. 

"  What  should  I  put  into  a  diary  ? "  said  she.  "  Nothing  ever  happens 
in  our  house.  I  was  quite  glad  when  the  little  page-boy  tumbled  down- 
stairs yesterday,  and  broke  the  teacups.  But  Bessie  has  matched  them 
already,  and  everything  is  the  same  again  as  ever." 

"I  don't  write  my  diary  when  I  have  anything  better  to  do,"  I 
replied.  "  It  is  only  when  you  are  a  very  long  time  without  coming  to 
see  me,  or  when  Sophy  King  does  not  write,  that  I  have  recourse  to  it." 

Living  alone  as  I  do,  busy  and  trudging  about  all  day  with  my 
lessons,  and  tired  at  night,  most  of  my  dissipation  comes  to  me  in  the 
shape  of  pen  and  ink.  For  my  public  opinions,  indeed,  I  subscribe  to 
the  Daily  News ;  but  for  my  private  feelings  I  have  long  kept  a  diary. 
The  extra  blank  sheets  are  very  convenient  to  vent  one's  moods  upon, 
and  there  is  a  certain  amusement  in  the  £  s.  d.  column,  down  which  the 
figures  go  tumbling  headlong  to  the  terrible  total  at  the  bottom.  But  I 
confess  that,  with  the  best  good  will  in  the  world,  there  are  times  when 
a  clean  ruled  page  is  not  much  comfort,  when  a  well-balanced  column 
is  of  little  avail,  when  what  you  want  is  a  voice — a  hand,  rough  or 
clumsy  though  it  be — something  alive  that  is  not  the  eternal  reflection 
of  your  own  self  in  the  glass  or  on  the  paper  before  you.  In  many 
ways,  however,  I  am  well  contented  with  niy  lot.  It  seemed  a  hard  one 
at  first,  and  perhaps  things  don't  change ;  but  one  suits  oneself  to  the 
circumstances  round  about  one.  In  comparing  one  life  with  another 
people  often  forget  to  take  states  of  mind  into  consideration,  and  do  not 
realise  how  habit  and  natural  adaptability  often  make  a  sort  of  artificial 
happiness  when  none  other  might  seem  possible.  "  Leave  human  nature 
alone,"  said  a  French  lady  two  hundred  years  ago,  "  and  it  will  make 
some  happiness  for  itself  out  of  the  things  round  about  it."  In  many 
ways  I  like  the  monotonousness  of  my  existence,  my  early  walks,  my 
return  home.  I  have  friends  without  a  name  who  look  a  kindly  greet- 
ing ;  I  have  a  correspondent  to  whom  I  owe  many  a  happy  half-hour ; 
I  live  a  great  deal  outside  my  quiet  room  as  well  as  in  it.  My  landlady 
keeps  my  home  bright  for  me  and  in  good  order,  and  welcomes  me  back 
to  cheering  cups  of  unstinted  bohea.  In  the  morning,  when  I  set  off  on 
my  day's  peregrinations,  the  street  looks  pleasant  if  the  sun  shines,  and 


FINA'S  AUNT.  645 

friendly  even  in  the  mist.  It  is  not  one  of  your  dreary,  stucco,  suburban 
rows;  but  a  little,  old,  cheerful,  vulgar  street,  with  a  certain  stir  of 
humanity  and  life  about  it,  and  a  barber's  shop  at  the  corner. 

And  here  let  me  note  down  a  curious  little  discovery  I  have  made 
since  my  life  in  Old  Street  began.     There  is  nothing  in  reality  more 
regular  than  this  apparently  erratic  street  life  that  we  see  flowing  past  as 
though  without  method  or  reason ;  but  people  whose  business  takes  them 
at  certain  hours  in  certain  directions  know  how  the  same  figures  recur 
at  the  same  places  with  a  curious  order  and  persistence.     As  I  go  to  my 
lessons  in  the  early  morning  I  am  met  again  by  certain  faces  at  certain 
corners.     Some  of  them  seem  friends  almost  after  a  week  or  two  of 
silent  recognition.     I  know  the  trim  clerks  on  the  way  to  their  offices,  and 
three  organ  men  who  meet  under  the  same  tree  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
morning  after  morning,  to  settle  the  plan  of  their  day's  campaign.     I 
disliked  them  at  first,  but  by  degrees  became  quite  interested  in  their 
well-being.     A  pug  dog,  anxiously  followed  by  a  lady  and  gentleman, 
always  meets  me  at  a  certain  tree  along  the  path,  and  looks  up  in  my  face 
inquiringly.     At  the  gate  is  the  apple-woman,  sitting  at  her  stall.     All 
these  people  have  become  quite  habitual  and  component  parts  of  my  mind 
by  degrees.    We  meet  in  sunshine  ;  we  meet  in  rain.    Shall  I  ever  forget 
one  lovely  morning  when  some  miracle  had  been  worked  for  us,  and  the 
mists  had  descended  in  a  silver  vapour,  through  which  we  humdrum 
people   drifted,   silently  appearing,   vanishing,   transfigured    in  a  pale 
dazzling  cloud  of  light  1     Another  day  was  even  more  beautiful,  when 
the  whole  world  of  the  Gardens  suddenly  flashed  into  glittering,  diamond- 
like  hoarfrost,  every  blade  and  twig,  every  dead  leaf,  every  iron  railing 
touched  by  this  magic.     But  these  are  holidays.     Who  does  not  know 
London's  workaday  livery  of  heavy,  dull  grey,  the  laurel  bushes  and 
trees  of  changeless  hue,  the  dark,  straight  rows  of  smut  and  brick  1    The 
skies  seem  made  of  bricks,  the  houses  of  smut  and  mist.     The  world 
goes  out  suddenly ;  the  beautiful,  shining,  gay  world,  all  alight  and  alive, 
all  full  of  the  voices  of  children  and  the  hum  of  strollers,  seems  blown 
out  with  a  puff;  and  the  people  are  gone  too.    One  day  you  are  walking 
in  company  with  a  thousand  bustling  fellow-creatures,  in  windy,  sun- 
shiny places,  where  the  very  stones  at  your  feet  are  shining  and  full  of 
hope;  the  next,  you  are  plodding — no,  not  plodding,  it  is  too  hopeful  a 
word — you  are  standing  still  on  one  foot,  shuddering,  and  not  knowing 
where  to  step  next. 

The  weather  of  our  souls  is  not  altogether  unlike  this  outward  weather 
which  is  supposed  to  affect  our  bodies  more  especially.  People  say  that 
music  only  can  express  certain  moods  and  things.  Weather  seems  to 
me  to  have  a  language  of  its  own  which  everybody  understands,  even 
animals  and  even  growing  things  as  well  as  philosophers  and  idiots. 
Governesses  should  be  philosophers,  I  suppose,  but  I  am  afraid  my  poor 
little  pupils,  who  are  everything  but  idiots,  tell  which  wind  is  blowing 
not  from  personal  but  from  reflected  experience.  Clang  !  clang  !  clang ! 


646  TINA'S 

the  bell  shakes  in  the  east  wind,  and  jars  and  jars  the  unfortunates  who 
are  of  irritable  nerve  and  temper,  and  who  are  condemned  to  come  out 
in  it  while  the  grim  reverberations  smite  and  swing  and  strike  those  who 
are  already  stricken.  Happy,  and  comfortable,  and  thick-skinned  people 
do  not  feel  such  passing  sounds  and  influences  any  more  than  children 
do.  Alas  !  for  the  nervously  irritable,  there  is  a  whole  world  of  undis- 
covered misery,  of  chill  atmospheres,  of  impatient  annoyances,  into  which 
they  drift.  And  those  who  fall  victims  to  these  idiotic  demons,  mere 
soulless  worries  of  the  moment  without  meaning  or  tragedy  to  dignify 
their  pranks — demons  with  whom  battle  is  ignominious  and  victory 
almost  as  unworthy  as  defeat — may  well  grudge  the  precious  hours  of 
life  that  pass  struggling  with  minor  and  intolerable  worries. 

I  remember  meeting  Josephine  Ellis  in  the  east  wind  one  day  at  the 
street  corner,  and  being  quite  frightened  by  her  face,  it  looked  so  grey, 
so  set,  so  utterly  stony  and  miserable.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  didn't 
notice  me  and  hurried  on.  The  church  bells  were  clanging  overhead, 
and  the  clouds  tossing  up  into  the  high  blue  sky.  The  sky  always  looks 
highest  at  the  corner  just  by  the  steeple,  where  all  the  roads  meet,  where 
the  cabs  and  carts  cross  each  other's  track,  and  one  old  street  goes  wind- 
ing uphill  by  the  church,  while  the  other  meanders  off  into  the  country, 
past  the  suburban  gardens  and  villas,  past  Hammersmith  and  its  bridges 
and  stagnant  ditches,  into  the  open  fields.  Another  road,  joining  on  to 
this  one,  goes  back  to  the  very  heart  of  London,  with  a  steady  rumbling 
pulse  of  cabs,  carts,  carriages,  all  laden.  Besides  these,  there  was  the 
foot-stream,  into  which  I  saw  Josephine  engulfed. 

I  watched  her  tall,  quick  figure  sliding -through  the  crowd.  She  was 
dressed  all  in  black,  for  the  family  were  still  in  mourning  for  poor  Mrs. 
Arnheim,  the  second  daughter,  who  had  died  abroad  the  year  before. 
Josephine  in  her  flowing  robes  was  a  noble-looking  woman,  with  a  lovely 
mouth  and  a  hooked  nose,  not  a  snub  like  her  sister  Bessie's ;  nor  was 
her  hair  red,  but  black,  waving  and  frizzling  like  the  Greek  ladies'  hair 
on  the  coins.  Her  face  is  often  grey,  often  dull.  It  was  bright  enough 
when  I  knewjier  first,  seven  years  before  she  passed  me  in  the  east  wind 
that  day.  Long  afterwards  she  came  and  told  me  what  had  happened 
that  day,  and  my  heart  sank  for  her. 

She  has  an  odd  hard  plausible  way  of  relating  the  most  intimate 
things.  Her  manner  is  at  times  just  like  her  sister  Bessie's,  and  I  could 
shake  her  for  it,  but  her  looks  are  Mrs.  Arnheim's,  who  is  gone,  and  her 
heart  is  her  own  ;  faithful,  gentle,  diffident,  reserved,  unchanging.  Poor 
Josephine !  How  I  should  have  liked  to  see  her  happier !  She  said 
that,  as  she  hurried  along  on  that  bewildering  walk  through  the  crowd, 
the  sound  of  the  church  bells  seemed  to  be  her  own  story  proclaimed 
in  some  noisy,  obstreperous  fashion  :  "  Away  with  him  !  Away  with 
him  !  Go  !  Go  !  Go  !  Go  !  Go  !  Send  him  off !  "  the  bells  had  seemed 
to  say  while  she  pushed  quickly  forward,  not  letting  herself  dwell  on 
much  else  beyond  the  difficulty  of  passing  in  and  out  among  the  many 


PINA'S  AUNT.  647 

people,  who  were  crowding  the  narrow  pavement.  To  her  it  was  all  like 
a  dream  from  her  own  heart,  and  she  wondered  to  find  herself  quite 
alone  in  this  crowd,  elbowing,  shouldering,  pushing,  while  all  the  while 
the  incessant  bell  kept  up  its  maddening  clang  of  parting, 

III. 

Josephine  Ellis  at  thirty  might  have  been  a  handsome  happy  woman, 
with  a  home  and  more  to  do  than  she  could  find  time  for,  with  many  cares 
and  anxieties,  and  a  thousand  things  to  occupy  her,  with  a  child  or  two 
to  tend,  or  with  small  means  perhaps  to  eke  out  to  the  uttermost  (which 
is  in  itself  a  profession),  with  cheerful  noise  and  bustle  in  her  life,  and 
plenty  of  coming  and  going,  of  healthy  fatigue  and  peaceful  rest — all  this 
might  have  been  hers,  and  besides  and  beyond  it  all  a  blessing  of  faithful 
love  and  companionship ;  but,  unfortunately  for  herself,  she  was  of  good 
family,  well-connected,  accustomed  to  every  comfort,  devoted  to  her 
mother,  yielding  and  obedient  to  the  elder  sister,  who  had  ruled  the  house 
ever  since  Josephine  could  remember.  A  shabby  middle-aged  doctor  of 
humble  extraction,  without  any  practice  to  speak  of,  and  with  a  patched 
and  shabby  home  in  Pimlico,  was  not  to  be  welcomed  as  a  husband,  ex- 
cept in  defiance  of  every  law  which  she  had  been  brought  up  to  look  upon 
as  sacred.  She  had  been  little  more  than  a  child  at  the  time  of  her 
sister  Mary's  elopement,  but  she  could  remember  the  dismay  it  caused. 
Poverty  she  did  not  fear  (though  she  somewhat  exaggerated  its  terrors), 
but  remorse  she  feared,  and  renewed  anguish  for  her  mother ;  and  she 
dreaded  her  sister's  blame  and  her  friends'  shoulder-shrugs.  And  then 
he,  though  so  poor,  though  of  such  humble  origin,  ventured  to  reproach 
her ;  he  was  rude,  he  was  angry.  "  If  she  loved  him,  why  did  she  hesi- 
tate ]  "  he  asked  ;  "  if  she  did  not  love  him,  it  was  lie  who  would  wigh  to 
break  it  off.  She  must  face  it ;  she  must  be  perfectly  simple  and  honest 
about  it."  His  vehemence  filled  her  with  fears  of  what  he  might  demand 
from  her  in  the  future. 

It  is  not  one  of  the  smallest  difficulties  of  life,  that  of  being  perfectly  true 
and  tfingle-minded  in  the  midst  of  a  great  network  of  influences,  of  which 
the  ropee  and  strings  and  threads  pull  from  generations  and  generations 
back,  and  spread  out  in  every  direction.  When  Josephine  broke  off  her 
engagement,  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  hoped  things 
would  come  right.  She  said  one  thing,  she  meant  another,  she  did  what 
seemed  to  her  best,  but  her  heart  resisted.  Josephine  was  weak,  afraid  of 
the  Colonel  and  Bessie,  and  full  of  tender  solicitude  for  the  dear  old 
mother  who  loved  her  children,  but  whose  love  and  longing  for  their 
happiness  only  seemed  in  one  way  or  another  to  bring  so  much  trouble 
and  sorrow  upon  them.  "  He  "  said  she  did  not  love  him  enough.  It 
might  be  so.  She  had  seen  him  a  dozen  times,  perhaps,  but  it  seemed  to 
her  she  knew  every  look  and  line  in  his  face  as  well  as  she  did  her 
mother's  well-loved  seams.  When  he  was  angry  with  her,  she  felt  angry 
for  him,  angry  with  herself.  Ah  !  if  he  thought  she  did  not  love  him 


648  FINA'S  AUNT. 

enough,  it  was  better  for  him  to  be  free,  and  not  tied  to  a  half-hearted 
woman.  So  Josephine  said  "  Good-bye."  It  was  easily  done  ;  too  easily 
done,  she  thought.  She  wrote  to  her  lover  to  meet  her  in  Kensington 
Gardens  that  east-windy  autumn  day,  and  there,  by  the  pond,  among 
babies  and  nursemaids,  to  the  plash  of  the  dull  ripples,  and  to  the  sound 
of  the  children's  voices  and  the  greedy  gabble  of  the  waterfowl,  with  mists 
rising  blue  against  the  stems  of  the  trees,  she  let  his  warm  hand  drop  and 
turned  away  alone,  strangely  light  of  heart  as  people  are  who  have  made 
up  their  minds,  very  sad  as  a  woman  may  well  be,  who  is  turning  away 
from  life's  happiness,  from  its  cheer  and  interest,  to  a  chamber,  swept, 
indeed,  and  garnished,  and  empty. 

It  is  true  there  are  married  people  and  unmarried  ones  in  the  world, 
and  some  of  the  married  live  utterly  alone,  and  some  of  the  unmarried 
have  their  hearts  full  and  overflowing,  and  live  married  to  the  lives  and 
interests  of  others.  But  Josephine  Ellis  was  not  one  of  these.  She  bad 
not  energy  of  character  or  fores  of  will  enough  to  compel  circumstances. 
She  was  going  home  to  a  lonely  life  and  she  knew  it.  She  had  spared 
her  mother  a  cruel  pang  and  she  grudged  it.  She  had  sent  him  from  her, 
and  it  was  she  would  remember  and  he  who  would  forget  in  time.  This 
also  she  knew  and  accepted.  But  presently,  as  she  walked  along  and  the 
bells  began  to  clang  aloft  once  more,  every  note  seemed  to  her  like  a  crash 
of  pain  falling  on  her  heart, — every  stroke  seemed  to  buffet,  to  bewilder 
her.  She  could  have  cried  out  loud,  only  she  was  too  well  brought  up 
to  make  a  disturbance  in  the  street,  and  so  she  trudged  on,  crossing  the 
road  under  a  horse's  nose  and  heedless  of  the  driver's  cry.  As  she  was 
turning  the  corner  of  the  street  that  leads  to  her  home  in  Old  Palace 
Square,  she  saw  some  little  children  in  rags  with  fluttering  pinafores, 
dancing  hand  in  hand  to  the  tune  of  the  very  bells  that  sounded  to  her 
like  a  knell.  Then  she  reached  home  at  last.  There  was  the  house  with 
its  broad  front  and  usual  row  of  windows,  the  blinds  were  not  down, 
there  were  no  mutes  standing  at  the  door  to  show  to  others  that  a  second 
funeral  had  taken  place,  that  a  tender  friendship  was  dead  and  buried 
away  by  the  Round  Pond. 

A  long  time  of  waiting  followed,  while  she  hoped,  she  knew  not  what, 
and  nothing  came  of  her  hopes ;  and  then  she  began  to  be  afraid,  but 
nothing  happened.  Then  she  thought  she  hated  John  Adams  (that  was 
the  Doctor's  name),  until  one  day  by  chance  she  saw  him  in  the  distance, 
a  long  way  off,  at  the  end  of  a  street ;  and  then  she  felt  her  whole  heart 
melt  with  forgiveness.  But  he  did  not  see  her,  and  walked  on  his  way. 

Facts  cannot  be  changed,  but  in  time  we  can  change  ourselves,  with 
help  from  new  things  to  push  away  the  old  ones  ;  but  for  poor  Josephine, 
so  few  new  things  or  thoughts  or  events  came  to  make  a  difference,  that 
at  thirty  she  was  the  same  woman  she  had  been  at  twenty-five,  less  five 
years  of  hope,  and  youth,  and  confidence.  She  did  not  fall  ill,  but  she 
dimmed  as  people  do.  Her  brightness  faded,  and  her  hair  fell  out  of  its 
pretty  crisp  waves, 


FINA'S  AUNT.  649 

"  She  wants  change,"  said  Bessie  the  tyrant,  sharply,  when  she  saw 
her  mother  anxiously  watching  Josephine  with  soft  squirrel-like  eyes. 
"  Thomas  is  going  abroad.  Let  her  go  with  him."  But  Josephine 
protested  she  did  not  want  anything,  only  to  be  left  alone. 

Thomas  was  Josephine's  and  Bessie's  elder  brother.  He  had  retired 
from  the  army  with  a  colonelcy  when  he  married  the  second  time,  and 
had  settled  down  as  a  country  gentleman  in  Sussex.  On  the  present 
occasion  he  had  got  a  cough,  which  gave  him  and  his  good-natured  wife 
no  little  anxiety,  and  had  come  up  to  town  to  consult  a  doctor  about  it. 
The  starched  colonel  had  been  struck  with  the  change  in  Josephine,  and 
complained  of  her  dress  to  his  wife. 

"  Josephine  don't  make  anything  of  herself,"  he  said ;  "  she  was  a  pretty 
girl  not  long  ago,  but  now  she  is  a  perfect  scarecrow.  My  mother  looks 
the  youngest  of  the  two.  I  wish  you  would  give  her  a  hint  or  two,  Rosa." 

But,  notwithstanding  Rosa's  excellent  hints,  Josephine's  complexion 
did  not  improve. 

I  have  vagued  away  in  a  sort  of  circle  round  my  diaries  still  heaped 
on  the  floor,  and  Josephine  standing  between  me  and  the  lamp.  She 
was  perfectly  composed,  and  looked  as  if  she  had  never  done  anything 
but  tie  her  bonnet-strings.  The  window  was  open,  and  the  huge  still 
stars  were  glowing  over  the  opposite  house,  the  lighted  panes  of  which 
looked  like  lanterns. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  a  servant  to  fetch  me,"  said  Josephine.  "  Thomas 
and  Bessie  won't  let  me  stir  without  one,  and  it  isn't  worth  a  battle. 
One  thing  more,"  she  added,  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  I  have  had  a  letter 
from  Fina,  and  a  few  lines  from  her  father.  He  persists  in  refusing  to 
let  us  send  him  one  farthing  of  Mary's  money.  I  think  it  is  very  wrong. 
He  drags  this  child  from  place  to  place,  and  lives  in  a  strange,  miserable, 
hand-to-mouth  way,  when  he  might  have  enough,  and  welcome." 

"  My  dear,"  said  I,  "  don't  ask  me  what  I  think.  No  wonder 
Mr.  Arnheim  is  sore,  remembering  how  he  has  been  treated.  An  honest 
man  doesn't  like  to  be  so  treated.  Your  brother  once  called  him  '  ad- 
venturer '  to  his  face." 

"  He  calls  him  '  that  fiddler '  now,"  said  Josephine,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  He  seems  to  think  it  equally  disgraceful,  and  is  quite  furious 
because  Mr.  Arnheim  won't  take  the  money.  Ah  !  it  is  true  what  you 
say,  honest  men  can't  bear  such  mean  suspicions.  Do  you  know,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  sometimes  think,  if  it  had  not  been  for'Bessie  and  Thomas, 
who  always  agrees  with  her,  we  might  have  all  made  it  up  years  before 
our  poor  Mary  died.  I  sometimes  think  things  might  be  different, 
even  now.  But  oh  !  Mary  ought  not  to  have  left  us  as  she  did,"  the 
girl  continued  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  emotion.  "  It  half-killed 
mamma,  and  she  would  have  died,  I  know  she  would  have  died,  if  I  too 
had  deserted  my  post." 

I  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer  Josephine's  outburst.  She  stood 
trembling  for  an  instant,  and  then  all  the  moment's  emotion  seemed  to 

31—5 


650  FINA'S  AUNT. 

pass  away,  and  there  again  stood  the  set,  handsome,  fashionable  goddess 
I  was  used  to  see.  The  gods,  we  know,  are  forbidden  to  weep,  and 
perhaps  some  such  decree  had  been  issued  to  the  Ellis  household,  for 
Josephine  forced  back  her  tears. 

At  that  instant  an  interruption  came  in  the  shape  of  a  crash  outside 
the  door.  Mrs.  Taplow  looked  in  demurely. 

"  Miss  Ellis's  servant  has  come,  ma'am.  The  poor  boy  has  met  with 
an  accident  over  the  bannisters.  He  don't  seem  much  hurt,"  added 
Mrs.  Taplow  considerately,  for  fear  we  should  be  alarmed. 

IV. 

People  bestow  strange  gifts,  and  leave  odd  legacies  behind  them, 
which  are  not  mentioned  in  their  wills  nor  taxed  by  a  paternal  govern- 
ment. Besides  his  money  in  the  funds,  his  landed  estates,  his  handsome 
family  plate,  Mr.  Ellis  had  left  his  temper  to  his  two  eldest  children. 
The  two  younger  daughters,  Josephine  and  Mary,  took  after  their  mother. 
Josephine  succumbed  to  the  family  demon,  and  poor  Mary  had  fled  from 
it  with  Francis  Arnheim,  the  "  adventurer,"  as  Thomas  called  him. 
The  story  of  her  marriage  was  a  dreary  one  ;  but  it  contained  one  little 
episode,  which  has  been  told  elsewhere,  and  which  I  cannot  think  of  still 
without  some  emotion — a  meeting,  a  reconciliation,  when  mother  and 
daughter,  after  years  of  estrangement,  by  a  happy  chance,  ran  into  one  an- 
other's arms  dne  summer  evening.  Mary  was  forgiven,  but  that  was  all. 
Her  family  would  not  accept  her  husband,  and  she,  being  a  proud  woman 
and  true  wife,  went  away  with  him  once  more,  and  not  very  long  after- 
ward had  passed  beyond  all  estrangement  and  all  reproach.  She  died  at 
Munich,  tenderly  watched  and  cared  for  to  the  last.  The  poor  musician 
remained  abroad ;  he  could  not  face  the  people  who  had  made  his  wife 
unhappy  for  so  long ;  he  could  scarcely  forgive  her  mother.  Josephine, 
the  youngest  sister,  who  had  been  faithful  in  a  timid  way,  was  the  only 
one  of  the  family  he  ever  wrote  to.  He  would  touch  none  of  poor  Mary's 
money.  He  could  keep  the  child,  he  said;  the  interest  of  her  mother's 
fortune  might  accumulate.  Fina  would  some  day  appreciate  her  little 
fortune,  the  more  because  her  up-bringing  had  been  modest.  A  musi- 
cian's life  belongs  to  towns,  and  Arnheim  wandered  about  Europe  with 
his  violin  and  his  little  daughter,  from  one  city  to  another,  from  one 
concert  to  another,  carrying  his  loneliness  and  his  patient  music.  He 
was  not  a  great  musician.  He  was  a  conscientious  and  painstaking  man. 
"With  Mary  he  had  been  happy,  and  purposefull,  and  hard-working. 
Without  her  he  was  all  lost  and  at  sea. 

I  could  undeist  ind  what  had  occurred  at  the  time  of  Mary  Arnheim's 
marriage,  when  I  heard  the  Colonel  and  his  sister  talking  about  Jose- 
phine one  day.  I  had  gone  with  a  message  to  Old  Palace  Square.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  were  some  grim  rehearsal  going  on  of  what  had  happened 
there  before.  After  all,  events  are  only  combinations  out  of  people's  own 
characters,  thoughts,  and  wishes.  Again  and  again  we  watch  the  same 


FINA'S  AUNT.  651 

histories  repeating  themsslves,  and  one  day  we  discover,  to  our  surprise, 
how  large  a  share  we  have  had  ourselves  in  things  which  have  befallen 
us  apparently  from  without. 

When  I  called  on  that  occasion,  Josephine  had  gone  off  to  some  week- 
day service,  of  which  there  are  a  great  many  at  our  Parish  Cathedral. 
The  peaceful  old  lady  in  her  soft  Indian  shawls  sat,  owl-like,  in  her 
corner,  watching  us  sleepily.  The  Colonel  was  pacing  the  room  and 
announcing,  with  immense  decision,  that  he  was  going  to  the  Club. 
Bessie  was  finishing  her  notes  at  the  writing-table.  You  had  only  to 
look  at  her  back  as  she  sat  unflinchingly  dotting,  crossing,  and  despatching 
her  missives  to  see  what  a  fund  of  energy  was  strapped  in  with  her 
leather  belt  and  silver  chains.  The  Colonel's  wife,  who  had  been  an 
heiress  and  accustomed  to  her  comforts,  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  uttering 
the  most  placid  audacious  suggestions. 

"  But  after  all,  if  Josephine  wished  it,  why  didn't  she  have  him  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Colonel  to  her  mother-in-law. 

"As  it  happens,  she  didn't  wish  it,"  said  Bessie,  suddenly  joining  in, 
and  flinging  the  words  over  her  shoulder.  "  Josephine  never  wished  to 
leave  her  mother  ;  and  I  don't  know  why  Rosa  should  interfere." 

"  Interfere  !  "  said  Rosa,  who  had  a  sort  of  feather-bed  manner  when 
Bessie  attacked  her.  "  Interfere  ?  I  only  asked  a  question.  What  is 
he  like,  Bessie  dear  1  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  He  is  no  friend  of  mine.  Josephine  made  his 
acquaintance  at  the  hospital,  and  not  under  her  own  mother's  roof." 

"  It  don't  do ;  it  don't  do  !  "  the  Colonel  said,  stopping  short  in  his 
perambulations,  and  settling  himself  in  his  tight  coat.  "  Young  ladies 
shouldn't  meddle  with  hospitals  and  doctors.  They  are  all  very  well  in 
their  proper  place,  and  a  man  may  do  as  he  likes ;  but  a  lady  should 
always  have  some  one  with  her — a  servant,  if  nobody  else  can  go." 

This  sapient  remark  was  greatly  approved  by  Miss  Ellis,  who  em- 
phatically endorsed  it  with  "That  is  also  my  humble  opinion.  So  I 
have  always  said  from  the  first." 

"  A  servant !  That  might  be  very  awkward,"  said  Mrs.  Thomas, 
reflectively. 

As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened  and  the  red  head  of  Hoopers,  the  page 
boy,  who  had  been  specially  engaged  to  chaperone  Josephine,  appeared  in 
the  door.  "  If  you  please,  Miss,"  said  Hoopers  mysteriously,  "  there's 
a  gentleman  rung  at  the  bell.  He  ask  if  the  family  were  alone,  and  I 
told  him  as  how  Miss  Josephine  was  out.  So  he  said  as  how  Miss  Ellis 
will  do,  and  I  thought  as " 

';  What  is  all  this  1 "  says  Miss  Ellis,  wheeling  round.  "  Go  down 
directly,  Hoopers,  and  send  Burroughes  up." 

"  Plcasc'm,  Mr.  Burroughes,  he  have  a  friend  dropped  in — ho  says  as 
how  he  can't  be  rung  up  no  more." 

"  I  had  bettor  see  about  it,  Bessie,"  said  the  Colonel,  briskly  march- 
ing off,  delighted  at  having  something  io  do. 


652  FINA'S  AUNT. 

"  N"o,  Thomas,"  said  Miss  Ellis.  "  This  is  a  woman's  province.  I  will 
speak  to  Burroughes.  Show  the  gentleman  into  the  library,  Hoopers." 

Here  Hoopers,  who  was  certainly  a  very  vulgar  boy,  began  making 
signals  with  his  thumb  and  winks  and  signs  over  his  shoulder,  to  indi- 
cate that  the  stranger  was  close  behind  him,  and  the  Colonel,  who  had 
gone  to  the  door,  ran  up  against  a  tall  loose-jointed  man,  who  had  come 
up  and  now  confronted  the  Colonel  somewhat  cavalierly. 

I  could  guess  who  it  was.  A  man  about  forty,  rather  shabbily 
dressed,  with  hair  already  turning  grey,  and  a  brown  hatchet  face. 
When  he  spoke,  some  slight  north-country  tone  betrayed  him,  but  his 
voice  was  low  and  deep  and  his  words  measured.  He  did  not  seem  in 
the  least  disconcerted  by  the  phalanx  of  ladies  and  arm-chairs,  nor  by 
the  commanding  aspect  of  the  Colonel.  He  looked  round  quietly,  with 
bright,  shaggy  eyes. 

"  I  asked  for  Miss  Ellis,"  he  said.  "  I  was  told  Mrs.  Ellis  was  an 
invalid.  My  name  is  John  Adams.  You  may  have  heard  of  me 
from " 

"  From  my  sister  Josephine,"  the  Colonel  answered  haughtily.  "  It 
is  perhaps  just  as  well  she  is  out.  If  you  will  come  down  with  me, 
Mr. — Dr.  Adams — 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  in  private,"  said  the  shabby  man, 
looking  doubtfully  at  the  spruce  one.  "  I  wanted  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Ellis." 

"  My  mother,  as  you  know,  is  an  invalid,  and  must  be  spared  discus- 
sion," said  Miss  Ellis.  "'  Anything  you  may  wish  to  say  will  be  listened 
to  elsewhere." 

"  Why  not  here  ? "  said  the  old  lady,  seemingly  interested,  and  speak- 
ing very  vigorously,  while,  to  my  amusement,  Mrs.  Thomas  rose  from  the 
sofa,  came  forward,  and  said  in  her  most  languid  tones  :  "  Be  so  good  as 
to  come  a  little  nearer.  Mrs.  Ellis  is  rather  deaf." 

"  I  don't  know  why  my  coming  should  trouble  you,  ma'am,"  said  the 
Doctor,  striding  up  the  room,  and  utterly  ignoring  the  two  wardens  at 
the  door  (where,  by  the  way,  I  could  see  that  little  wretch  Hoopers 
grinning).  "  What  I  want  to  say  is  soon  said.  I  admire  your  daughter 
very  much,  and  I  asked  her  to  marry  me,  as  you  may  perhaps  have 
heard.  There  seemed  to  be  family  difficulties  which  at  the  time  I  did 
net  sufficiently  allow  for,  and  I  am  afraid  I  was  impatient  and  harsh. 
It  has  since  occurred  to  me  that,  perhaps,  as  you  did  not  know  me,  you 
imagined  I  was  behaving  in  an  underhand  way.  I  therefore  determined 
to  come  and  ask  you  for  her  hand  before  speaking  to  her  again ;  and 
now  I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  see  Josephine  when  she  comes  in." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old  lady  nervously,  and  greatly  startled. 
"  Pray  don't  do  anything  of  the  sort."  And  Miss  Bessie,  recovering 
herself,  came  quickly  to  the  rescue. 

"  You  are  very  much  in  error  if  you  imagine  any  representations  you 
can  now  make  will  influence  my  sister's  feelings.  She  has  assured  us  that 
her  mind  is  made  up,  and  that  she  has  plainly  and  positively  told  you  so," 


FINA'S  AUNT.  653 

"  Are  you  quite  s  are  her  mind  is  made  up  1 "  said  Rosa,  once  more 
reflective. 

"  Perfectly  certain/'  said  Miss  Ellis. 

"  And  you  must  allow  me  to  add,"  cried  the  Colonel  bursting  in, 
"  that  I  heartily  congratulate  her  on  her  good  sense.  It  is  a  most  un- 
suitable match  for  a  girl  of  her  position." 

"  There  is  no  matter  for  congratulation,  if  what  I  hear  be  true/'  said 
the  Doctor  haughtily.  "  I  have  no  doubt  we  should  not  suit  each  other 
in  the  least.  I  came  in  perfect  sincerity  to  you  and  yours,  and  I  have 
been  received  with  impertinence.  You  may  tell  her  I  shall  not  trouble 
you  or  her  with  any  more  advances.  If  she  changes  her  mind  she  can 
let  me  know."  And  he  turned  and  marched  out  of  the  room  without 
another  word. 

"  Well,  I  do  feel  small,"  said  Mrs.  Thomas. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  the  storm  broke.  Miss  Ellis  burst 
forth  in  her  fury  at  me,  at  her  sister-in-law,  at  the  unlucky  Burroughes, 
who  was  rung  up  and  rung  down.  When  Josephine  came  home  from 
church,  poor  Mrs.  Ellis  was  in  hysterical  tears ;  Mrs.  Thomas  had  locked 
herself  into  her  room ;  the  Colonel  was  fussing  and  fuming  like  the 
funnel  of  a  steam-engine. 

Her  mother  clung  to  Josephine.  "  Oh  take  me  to  my  room,  take 
me  to  my  room.  Don't  leave  us  alone.  Bessie  is  so  angry,  poor  dear. 
That  dreadful  man  was  here,  and  frightened  us  all,  my  child." 

"  What  did  he  say,  mamma  1 "  said  Josephine. 

"  He  called  us  impertinent.  He Oh,  my  Josephine,  do  not 

leave  me." 

"  Let  us  forget  him  altogether,"  cried  Miss  Ellis.  "  Never  let  me 
hear  liis  name  any  more." 

Miss  Ellis  might  say  what  she  liked,  but  we  all  remembered  our 
visitor,  and  not  without  a  certain  respect.  John  Adams  was  not  one  of 
those  men  who  are  forgotten  as  soon  as  their  backs  are  turned.  To  be 
remembered  is  a  gift  in  itself  of  vital  worth  to  those  whose  business  it 
is  to  lead  others.  John  Adams  had  a  great  reputation  as  a  lecturer,  and 
his  pupils  opened  their  eyes,  mouths,  ears,  at  what  he  said  that  week  in 
the  lecture-hall  in  the  great  London  Hospital  to  which  he  belonged. 
What  had  come  to  him  1  He  was  eloquent  enough,  but  sarcastic,  irate, 
intolerant.  They  hardly  recognised  him. 

I  saw  Josephine  again  after  this,  but  I  found  her  very  reserved  and 
evidently  disinclined  to  speak  of  what  had  happened.  When  I  ventured 
to  say  a  word,  she  stopped  me  at  once. 

"  Pray,  dear  Miss  Williamson,  do  not  speak  of  it  any  more.  I  should 
not  be  happy.  You  see  what  a  life  it  would  be  for  my  mother  without 
me.  He  will  forget  all  about  it  very  soon." 

Perhaps  she  was  right ;  and  yet,  at  John  Adams'  age,  time  is  short, 
and  new  impressions  ai-e  not  easily  made.  With  older  people  fidelity  is 
a  habit  as  well  as  a  quality. 


654  FINA'S   AUNT. 

Mrs.  Thomas  Ellis  came  to  see  me  one  Sunday,  on  her  way  from  church, 
in  most  gorgeous  array.  She  looked  like  a  sort  of  Catherine-wheel  of  satin, 
touched  up  with  gold  braid.  She  was  evidently  anxious  to  talk  it  all  over. 

"  I  don't  at  all  agree  with  the  Colonel.  Bessie  is  behaving  most 
ridiculously,"  said  the  lady.  "  What  do  they  expect?  Everybody  can't 
be  rich,  and  Josephine  might  do  a  great  deal  worse.  I  hope  Dr.  Adams 
will  come  and  pay  us  a  nice  long  visit  at  Cradlebury.  I  shall  get  the 
Colonel  to  persuade  him." 

"  The  Colonel !  "  said  I. 

"  Thomas  is  very  good  about  doing  what  one  wishes  when  he  is  left 
to  himself.  It  is  such  waste  for  dear  Bessie  to  take  so  much  trouble 
about  him.  But  what  has  become  of  Dr.  Adams  1  I  can't  hear  anything 
of  him.  I  believe  he  is  gone  away." 

The  Doctor  had  vanished,  but  he  re-appeared  before  long — oddly' 
enough,  in  Sophy  King's  correspondence. 

V. 

Sophy  King  was  a  great  favourite  of  mine,  and  her  letters  were 
always  welcome  when  they  arrived  with  their  odd-looking  stamps, 
whether  cross  keys  of  Eome  or  fierce  mustachios  of  Italy,  or  Liberty 
with  scales  and  outstretched  arms. 

Sophy  was  evidently  very  much  taken  with  the  Arnheims.  Her  letters 
were  full  of  them.  "  We  had  a  delightful  drive  from  Grindelwald,"  she 
wrote;  "  as  we  were  trotting  down  the  road  we  met  Fina  and  her  father, 
who  had  come  half-way  to  meet  us.  I  left  mamma  with  her  maid  in 
the  carriage,  and  walked  back  with  them  by  a  pretty  cross-road  Fina  had 
discovered.  She  looked  like  a  little  Proserpine  with  a  great  lapful  of 
flowers  which  she  had  been  gathering.  She  began  telling  me  where  each 
one  of  them  grew  and  how  she  had  found  it.  '  Don't  you  like  Euphrasia  1 ' 
she  said,  holding  up  a  tiny  flower ;  '  this  grows  in  the  open  Alps.  Do  you 
know  it  is  my  name  as  well  as  Josephine  ]  We  call  that  the  Shepherd's 
Staircase  just  below.'  The  Shepherd's  Staircase  consisted  of  a  few  rough 
steps  of  rock  and  stone,  over  which  a  soft  net- work  of  moss  and  creeping 
bilberry  had  quickly  spread.  The  girl  sprang  lightly  from  one  stone  to 
another,  but  Amheim  sat  down  to  rest  for  a  moment,  when  we  reached 
the  bottom.  '  Isn't  this  a  pretty  place  ? '  said  Fina.  '  Don't  you  wish 
we  always  lived  here,  papa,  or  that  there  were  mountains  in  the  streets  1 ' 
'  The  mountain-tops  of  cities  must  be  in  the  souls  of  the  men  who  live 
there,'  said  Arnheim,  looking  at  her  fondly.  '  Sit  down  and  rest,  Fina ; 
you  have  a  long  way  to  go  yet.'  '  But  why  do  we  always  live  in  towns  ?' 
persisted  Fina.  '  Because  I  make  my  living  by  music,'  said  her  father, 
'  and  musicians  must  live  in  cities  where  there  are  orchestras  and  audi- 
ences, and  where  the  mountains  are  mountains  of  men.  Music  unheard 
is  not  quite  born,  somehow,  like  something  hoped  for  but  unfulfilled.  I 
don't  think,'  he  added,  'that  anything  even  in  nature  is  much  more 
glorious  than  a  symphony  of  Beethoven's,  with  the  pulse  of  a  great 


TINA'S  AUNT.  655 

audience  to  beat  time  to  it.'  '  Listen,  there  is  music  for  you,  papa/  said 
Fina  laughing,  as  a  ludicrous  loo  loo  loo  reached  us,  sounding  from  a  little 
chalet  on  the  plateau  below,  whei'e  a  valiant  tourist  who  had  ordered 
some  gingerbeer  was  trumpeting  to  the  echos  and  the  scampering  goats. 

"  The  tourist  joined  our  party,  and  came  trudging  along  with  us  for 
company.  The  day  was  hot  and  sultry,  and  the  midges  were  buzzing 
about  the  feet  of  the  mountains.  When  we  reached  the  valley  every- 
thing was  cool  and  silent  overhead,  but  the  valleys  were  alive,  echoing, 
flowering,  fructifying,  and  steaming  with  July.  We  all  came  straggling 
along  a  lane  that  lay  between  two  wide  chalet-besprinkled  meadows  ; 
a  little  brook  bubbled  swiftly  along  with  them ;  its  spray  fell  upon  the 
grass  and  flowers.  The  afternoon  rays  were  dazzling  and  bewilder- 
ing, the  mists  of  heat  rose  with  dull  scents  from  the  fields,  fresher 
ether  came  streaming  down  from  the  torrents ;  we  were  in  a  state  of 
vague  worry  and  rapture  combined,  bitten  by  midges,  dazzled  by 
sudden  streams  of  light,  footsore,  and  splashing  among  the  sparkling 
pools  that  lay  in  their  track,  but  carried  on  by  the  sweet  and  irresistible 
spirit  of  this  Alpine  life.  Horses'  hoofs  were  stamped  in  the  road, 
delicate  flowers  were  starting  through  the  fences,  pretty,  dirty  little 
children,  whose  golden  crowns  of  curly  hair  were  sadly  in  want  of 
burnishing,  came  out  from  their  barn-like  homes,  like  little  living 
sheaves  of  Indian  corn,  carrying  flowers  and  smiling  innocently.  An 
old  shepherdess  in  spectacles  was  turning  over  the  hay  in  front  of  her 
wooden  house.  Girls  with  babies  in  their  arms  were  perched  here  and 
there  on  the  balconies  ;  cross  lights  showed  the  interiors  and  figures 
at  work  in  the  rooms  within.  The  goats  rang  their  tinkling  bells,  but 
the  cows  were  still  up  in  the  mountains. 

"  Mr.  Arnheim  and  I  were  tired  out  before  we  reached  home  ;  he 
walked  along  bent  and  heavy-footed,  but  Fina  seemed  quite  revived  by 
the  sight  of  the  village.  I  saw  more  than  one  person  look  kindly  at 
her  as  she  passed  up  the  busy  street,  walking  ahead  with  her  flowers, 
followed  by  us  two  weary  pedestrians.  She  walked  lightly  on,  carrying 
her  store,  stray  fragments  from  that  beautiful  earthly  rainbow  which 
springs  up  year  by  year,  as  much  the  offspring  of  the  sun  and  rain  as 
those  arcs  we  all  love  to  gaze  upon.  Fina  has,  too,  sprung  up  since  you 
saw  her  last.  She  has  a  crop  of  dark  curly  hair,  a  quaint  irregular  face 
with  a  very  sweet  expression  ;  as  for  her  eyes,  they  seem  to  sing  and  dance 
to  her  father's  violin,  they  flash  and  shine  with  marvellous  brightness. 
I  think  Fina's  great  charm  is  in  her  self-confidence,  or,  rather,  in  her 
confidence  in  others,  and  her  trust  in  their  sympathy.  It  is  a  curious 
quick  mind,  taking  in  half-a-dozen  things  at  once ;  she  listens  to  all  the 
talking  all  down  both  sides  the  table  ;  her  father  calls  her  little  pitcher ; 
she  can  spy  out  strawberries  far  away  twinkling  among  the  rocks,  and 
she  recognises  little  black  dots  on  the  mountain  side  as  human  beings 
and  friends  at  a  glance.  Her  father  told  me  that  she  had  such  bright  eyes 
as  a  baby  that  he  christened  her  Euphrasia  for  a  second  name. 


656  FINA'S  AUNT. 

"  When  Fina  appears  dressed  for  the  table-d'hote,  in  her  white  dress 
with  her  amber  necklace  clasped  round  her  throat,  and  stands  there 
crisp,  and  clean,  and  fresh,  she  looks  like  her  pretty  namesake  flower 
alive  and  chattering. 

"  We  are  glad  of  our  white  dresses,  for  it  is  very  hot  and  sultry  here 
in  the  valley.  As  I  write,  the  dinner  is  over,  the  fountain  and  some 
distant  piano  are  playing  a  duet ;  a  sort  of  sleepy  dream  touches  every- 
thing. The  fountain  should  be  boiling  after  the  long  day's  burning 
glare,  but  how  tranquil  the  water  sounds  to  parched  ears.  The  people 
of  the  place  don't  mind  the  heat :  they  go  by  dragging  their  children  in 
little  go-carts,  or  staggering  along  with  hay-fields  on  their  heads.  Then 
come  nmles  from  the  mountain,  then  a  travelling  carriage  jingles  up. 
Such  a  carriageful  came  up  to  the  door  just  now  ;  an  immense 
and  noisy  English  family  whose  heels  and  voices  reverberated  through 
the  hotel.  They  were  all  having  tea  while  some  of  the  company 
dined  at  the  table-d'hote ;  brothers,  sisters,  big  boys  and  little 
boys,  an  old  aunt  or  two,  nondescript  cousins  of  various  ages,  two 
giggling  girls,  and  a  huge  and  good-humoured  mother,  who  seemed  to 
take  noise  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  who,  so  long  as  her  plate  was  duly 
replenished  by  the  attention  of  her  children,  seemed  to  require  nothing 
else.  When  a  smaller  child  fell  under  the  table  with  a  crash,  she  made 
no  remark  beyond  looking  vaguely  at  one  of  the  daughters ;  when  one  of 
the  boys  gave  a  sudden  yelp  and  upset  the  coffee-pot,  this  mother  of  Israel 
paused  for  one  instant  and  went  on  with  her  bread  and  butter. 

"  '  Did  you  see  her,  papa  ? '  said  Fina,  laughing ;  '  what  a  lazy  mother  ! 
Why,  my  mother  always  was  thinking  of  your  things  and  my  things. 
Grandmamma  is  more  like  that  lady  :  I  could  imagine  her  letting  things 
go.  Was  mamma  very  unhappy  at  home  1 '  the  girl  asked  suddenly, 
looking  up  into  her  father's  face. 

"  '  No,  my  child,'  her  father  answered  gently  ;  'she  was  very  happy, 
and  always  contented,  and  you  must  be  like  her.  It  was  my  hasty 
temper  that  could  not  fit  itself  to  her  relations.  But  she  loved  them,  and 

for  that  reason  I  feel  in  charity  with  them  now Your  youngest 

aunt  is  something  like  her,  I  think.' 

" '  Not  Aunt  Bessie,'  said  Fina,  with  a  sparkle  in  her  dark  eyes. 

" '  Aunt  Bessie  is  the  devil,'  said  Arnheim  with  a  wry  face,  notwith- 
standing his  chaiity. 

VI. 

'  We  all  met  again  that  evening  at  the  etablissement.  Fina  came 
with  mamma  and  me.  Arnheim  was  at  his  post,  commanding  his  little 
army  of  violins  and  violoncellos.  The  musicians  sat  in  a  phalanx  on  a 
sort  of  inclosed  stage,  brilliantly  lighted  up.  The  dark  sky  overhead 
w  as  lighted  up  too,  but  in  a  different  fashion.  A  few  little  stars  of 
cigar  ends  and  cigarettes  had  fallen  into  the  parterre.  The  people  looked 
very  comfortably  established,  sitting  out  in  the  garden  drinking  their 


FINA'S  AUNT.  657 

coffee,  and  enjoying  the  music  and  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Our  noisy 
family  had  secured  a  couple  of  tahles  by  us,  the  mamma  was  installed 
with  a  special  footstool.  There  was  a  cheerful  drone  of  voices ;  children 
ran  here  and  there;  waiters  were  darting  in  and  out  among  the  crowd. 
They  are  certainly  swallows  among  human  beings,  as  they  skim  hither 
and  thither,  migrating  in  autumn  across  the  Alps,  vanishing  for  the 
winter,  and  reappearing  with  the  tourists.  One  of  them  came  flitting  up 
with  two  excellent  cups  of  chocolate  for  me  and  mamma  in  one  hand ;  in 
the  other  he  carried  a  huge  tray  full  of  cakes  and  ices  for  the  family 
party.  The  musicians  began  to  play  a  lovely  sort  of  dance  by  Schumann ; 
the  little  boys  went  on  kicking  their  heels  in  valiant  time  to  the  music ; 
mamma  and  I  sat  sipping  our  chocolate  to  the  very  sweetest  cadence ; 
Fina  was  too  much  excited  for  cups  of  any  sort. 

"  '  There,'  said  she  suddenly  ;  '  that  stupid  cornet  has  played  E  flat 
instead  of  C  sharp.  He  always  does  just  in  that  place.  Poor,  poor  papa  ! ' 

"  Arnheim  had  turned  in  warning  towards  the  unlucky  cornet,  who 
went  on  nervously  blundering. 

" '  It  is  enough  to  keep  my  father  awake  all  night,'  little  Fina  cried 
in  despair ;  '  you  don't  know  how  easily  he  is  made  ill — quite  ill.' 

"  After  the  Schumann  came  a  pause  ;  and  the  stars  twinkled  for  a  bit, 
— then  the  music  began  again  in  a  different  key.  I  do  not  know  why 
Arnheim  had  selected  one  of  Mendelssohn's  Songs  without  "Words — a 
solemn,  melancholy  march,  too  sad  for  the  occasion,  it  silenced  the  talk. 

"  '  I  should  say  that  was  the  tune  the  old  cow  died  of,'  cried  one  of 
the  young  men  at  the  table  next  ours. 

"  Fina  gave  him  one  look,  such  a  look  of  scornful,  contemptuous  in- 
dignation. The  youth  stared,  started,  got  up  uneasily  and  walked  away, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling,  and  in  his  confusion  ran  up 
against  a  gentleman  who  was  coming  through  the  crowd,  marching 
rather  at  haphazard,  stumbling  up  against  backs  of  chairs,  and  over  out- 
stretched legs  and  sticks. 

"  Fina,  seeing  the  stranger,  forgot  her  indignation  ;  she  too  jumped  up 
from  her  chair,  calling  out,  '  Mr.  Adams !  Mr.  Adams  !  were  you  look- 
ing for  me  1 ' 

"  Mr.  Adams  is  a  great  friend  of  the  Arnheims'.  He  is  a  doctor — in 
small  practice,  they  tell  me.  He  has  made  all  sorts  of  discoveries  in 
science;  but  he  has  never  had  time  to  earn  any  money.  He  has  a 
lectureship  at  one  of  the  great  London  universities.  He  cured  Arnheim 
once  from  a  dangerous  illness.  He  is  quite  simple ;  but  he  impresses 
one — I  can't  tell  you  why. 

"  '  We  must  wait  to  talk  till  your  father  has  finished  what  he  has  to 
say,'  this  doctor  said  to  Fina ;  and  he  stood  by  her  chair  while  Arnheim 
played  a  touching  cadence,  to  which  the  whole  orchestra  replied  with  a 
lovely  sweep  of  chords.  Then  came  chair-scraping ;  the  swallows  rushed 
about  collecting  their  halfpence,  and  the  concert  was  over. 

"  I  certainly  grow  more  and  more  interested  in  the  Arnheims  and  their 


658  FINA'S   AUNT. 

friends ;  even  mamma,  who  is  not  enthusiastic,  has  taken  to  them.  I 
don't  know  what  my  father  will  say  when  he  joins  us.  Church  and 
State  has  always  been  his  particular  sphere  hitherto,  and  he  is  very 
suspicious  of  anything  outside  it.  Art  and  science  seem  to  be  naturally 
opposed  to  Church  and  State,  don't  you  think  so  ?  and  as  for  all  these 
kind,  clever,  impulsive  people,  they  have  s«arcely  a  white  neckcloth 
among  them. 

"  The  concert  is  all  over  at  ten ;  and  the  gaslights  go  out,  and  the 
chairs  and  tables  turn  over  on  their  backs  and  go  to  sleep.  Arnheim 
came  up  looking  very  tired,  but  he  brightened  directly  at  the  sight  of 
his  friend. 

"  '  You  here  1 '  he  said.  '  I  imagined  you  in  London.  How  are  the 
lectures  getting  on  1 ' 

"  '  I  have  been  enjoying  your  lecture  very  much/  said  the  Doctor. 
'  I  saw  the  concerts  advertised  at  the  station  at  Basel,  and  so  I  came 
on  to  find  you.' 

"  The  people  scattered.  Some  went  home ;  some  turned  into  the  etab- 
lissement,  which  sits  up  later  than  the  garden.  Mamma,  strange  to  say, 
had  a  fancy  for  a  stroll.  We  walked  along  the  avenue,  and  crossed  the 
road,  and  the  piazza,  and  the  bridge,  and  got  out  into  the  open. 

"  High,  clear,  chill,  with  strange  unresponding  beauty,  the  moon 
shone  upon  the  wide  black  valley ;  the  waters  of  the  torrent  were 
brawling  and  circling  in  cool  eddies ;  some  pines  crowded  dark,  and 
whispered  mysteriously  fragrant.  What  was  that  flash  ?  Some  planet 
changing  from  rainbow  to  rainbow.  We  walked  a  little  way  by  the 
rushing  stream.  It  was  all  dim,  noisy,  bewildering,  and  sleepy  at  once. 
Weeds  floated  on  the  water ;  the  moon  floated  in  the  sky.  Across 
the  plain  rose  a  shadowy  presence — the  Jungfrau — which  seemed  to  face 
us  in  some  indifferent  mood  of  chilly  life.  The  dew  was  falling  heavily ; 
and  I  heard  Arnheim  sigh. 

" '  Come  back,'  said  the  Doctor— it  was  quite  a  relief  to  hear  his 
comfortable  voice.  '  It  is  too  dark  to  stay  out  any  longer.' 

"  Many  of  the  windows  of  the  hotel  were  lighted  up  still  when  we 
reached  it.  The  porters  and  waiters  were  closing  for  the  night.  On 
our  way  we  passed  a  ground-floor  window  through  which  we  could  see 
a  peaceful  interior  scene :  a  little  child  asleep  on  a  low  couch,  with  all 
its  hair  falling  upon  the  pillow  ;  the  night-light  was  shaded ;  a  woman 
bent  over  the  little  one,  and  then  came  to  the  window  and  carefully  drew 
down  the  blind. 

"  In  the  great  salle  the  gas  was  still  flaring.  Everybody  was  gone, 
and  the  red  velvet  sofas  were  empty.  One  lady  only  remained  in  the 
great  empty  room.  She  was  old,  painted,  and  wrinkled ;  she  had  a  frizz 
of  flaxen  tow,  cheeks  of  chalk,  eyebrows  of  black-lead.  She  was  dressed 
in  some  grand  satin  dress,  and,  as  we  came  in,  was  kneeling  on  one  of 
the  high  red  sofas  looking  at  herself  fixedly  in  the  glass.  I  don't  know 
what  made  Arnheim's  friend,  the  Doctor,  give  a  curious  sort  of  snort. 


FINA'S  AUNT.  659 

"'  To  think,'  he  said,  'of  some  women,  and  not  bad  women  either, 
deliberately  choosing  such  a  life  as  that,  and  giving  up  everything  in  the 
whole  world  for  it ! '  and  then  he  stalked  away. 

But,  dear  Miss  Williamson,  it  is  not  true.  Women  don't  deliberately 
choose  ;  their  lives  come  to  them,  and  they  can  but  take  them  as  they 
come." 

VII. 

I  went  to  show  this  letter  to  Josephine,  for  I  knew  it  would  interest 
her ;  but  she  had  gone  away  with  her  mother  for  a  few  weeks,  on  a  visit 
to  Mrs.  Thomas  at  Cradlebury,  and  I  did  not  send  it  after  her.     The 
Colonel  was  to  stay  on  with  Miss  Bessie  in  London.     He  had  business 
to  attend  to  before  he  went  abroad.     The  Colonel's  business  was  always 
looked  upon  with  great  respect  by  his  family.     There  was  not  much  of 
it ;  but  what  there  was  always  seemed  more  important  than  anybody 
else's.     I  believe  he  was  engrossed,  among  other  things,  in  negotiations 
for  the  exchange  of  the  old  silver  tea-urn  for  a  dozen  flat  candlesticks, 
the  want  of  which  at  Cradlebury  he  felt  keenly.     Mr.  Ellis,  the  father, 
had  been  a  collector  of  old  plate,  and  the  spoons  and  forks  in  Old  Palace 
Square  were  certainly  a  pleasure  to  contemplate.     Burroughes,  in  spite 
of  his  failings,  used  to  rub  up  his  silver  to  a  bright  perfection  in  those 
underground  regions  he  affectioned.     There  were  long  slim  spoons  and 
forks  with  the  handles  all  curled  the  wrong  way,  to  the  delight  of  the 
knowing ;  also  the  spoons  were  an  egg-shaped  and  rounded  oval,  not 
pointed  as  ours  are,  and  heavy  and  massive  to  wield.     Early  Georgian 
plate  had  certainly  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  powdered  and  deliberate 
company  for  whose  mouths  it  was  intended.     It  did  not  sprawl  into 
vulgar  ornamentations ;  it  did  not  beat  out  one  solid  fork  into  several 
flimsy  four-pronged  impossibilities  ;  it  contented  itself  with  three  hand- 
some prongs,  firmly   and  massively  set,  shining   and   sufficient.      But 
whether  it  is  better  that  one  man  should  have  a  handsome  fork  all  to 
himself,  or  that  two   men   should   enjoy   theirs   flimsy,  is  a   difficult 
question. 

A  comico-tragedy  was  enacted  at  Mrs.  Ellis's  concerning  this  very 

plate ;  for  when  it  came  to  be  counted  over,  a  certain  quantity  was  found 

to  be  missing.    What  there  Avas  left  was  in  a  beautiful  shining  condition. 

But  though  the  moth  and  rust  had  been  kept  at  bay,  not  so  the  thieves.  It 

was  not  that  which  was  used  every  day  that  was  gone,  but  a  certain  exti-a 

store,  which  had  been  fetched  from  the  bank  and  confided  to  Burroughes 

in  case  of  emergency,  was  found   to  be   deficient.      The  old  fellow's 

honesty  was  not  to  be  doubted ;  he  had  rubbed  these  spoons  for  twenty 

years,  and  his  life's  energy  was  to  be  seen  twinkling  in  manifest  activity 

on  their  handles.     He  himself  had  discovered  the  loss,  that  otherwise 

would  never  have  been  suspected,  and  had  staggered  in,  in  consternation, 

to  announce  it.     The  police  were  had  in,  and  their  opinion  was  no  doubt 

very  valuable,  but  did  not  lead  to  much.     The  silver  was  already  niflted 


660  FINA'S  AUNT. 

down,  said  they ;  without  doubt  it  had  been  stolen  by  somebody.  Miss 
Ellis  and  the  Colonel  were  much  perturbed  at  the  liberty  which  had  been 
taken.  "  Few  people  could  spare  so  much  plate  better  than  you,"  said  I, 
by  way  of  consolation  to  Miss  Ellis.  But  to  this  she  made  no  response. 
I  left  the  poor  lady,  little  thinking  what  a  miserable  experience  was 
still  in  store  for  her. 

Hoopers,  who  was  a  youth  of  an  excitable  and  romantic  disposition, 
seems  to  have  been  very  much  engrossed  by  this  event  in  the  family ; 
and,  moreover,  having  been  lately  thrilled  by  various  accounts  of 
robberies  in  the  paper  and  elsewhere,  which,  in  Mrs.  Ellis's  absence, 
he  had  time  to  ponder  on  thoroughly,  thought  this  a  good  opportunity 
for  exercising  his  ingenuity  and  venting  his  feeling  against  a  lady  to 
whom  he  had  taken  a  dislike.  Miss  Ellis,  it  seems,  was  peacefully 
asleep  in  her  bed  one  night,  when  she  was  awakened  by  an  alarming 
apparition  of  a  short  figure  swathed  in  a  tablecloth,  with  a  crape 
across  its  face,  which  exclaimed  in  a  crowing  voice — "  Ho,  ho,  I  am 
the  robber.  Your  money  or  your  life."  The  poor  lady  sprang  from 
her  bed  with  a  scream,  and  in  so  doing  fell  to  the  ground,  upsetting  the 
night-light  which  always  burnt  at  her  side.  The  wretched  boy,  who  had 
merely  intended  a  wild  practical  joke,  tried  to  rush  from  the  room,  but 
could  not  find  the  door.  The  maids  came  down,  the  Colonel  came  up 
from  his  bed-room  on  the  ground  floor  in  an  Indian  dressing-gown. 
Hoopers  was  caught  red-handed,  the  police  were  again  sent  for,  and  not 
only  the  police.  The  doctor  was  also  necessary,  for  Miss  Ellis  was  hurt. 
Her  ankle  was  badly  sprained,  and  for  many  weeks  she  was  confined  to 
the  sofa.  For  a  person  of  her  energetic  temper  this  was  no  small 
infliction. 

This  absurd  piece  of  news  was  all  I  had  to  send  to  Sophy  in  exchange 
for  her  faithful  long  letters.  I  think  she  was  as  glad  to  write  as  I  to 
read.  Her  mother  was  to  her  an  affection,  a  tender  solicitude,  but  no 
companion  to  the  girl.  Her  only  sister  was  married  and  away,  her 
father  had  little  sympathy  for  the  things  she  cared  about.  The  girl  was 
full  of  interest,  emotion,  kindness,  sympathy,  and  talkativeness;  she 
wanted  a  vent,  some  one  to  confide  in  ;  and  her  old  governess  on  her 
second  floor  was  only  too  glad  to  respond. 

One  more  letter  reached  me  from  Sophy,  still  engrossed  in  her  new 
friends. 

"  Alas  !  we  all  part  to-morrow.  Mamma  and  I  go  on  to  St.  Pierre. 
I  don't  like  saying  good-bye.  Oh,  Miss  Williamson,  why  must  one 
always  be  saying  good-bye  1  We  have  all  been  sitting  out  for  the  last 
time  in  front  of  the  hotel,  watching  an  odd  mixture  of  elements  upon  the 
terrace.  Russian  human  nature,  smoking  cigarettes,  male  and  female  ; 
English  human  nature,  simple  and  blousy,  sitting  on  the  benches,  looking 
at  the  sky  and  the  people  underneath  it  ;  French  human  nature, 
exchanging  good-natured,  cheerful  greetings,  talkings,  and  laughter. 
Then  the  piano  strikes  up,  and  some  of  them  go  in  and  begin  to  dance. 


FINA'S  AUNT.  661 

Dr.  Adams  sat  with  us  for  a  while.  He  was  saying  he  could  imagine 
a  passion  for  nature  coming  late  in  life  to  people  for  whom  all  other  pas- 
sion was  over,  especially  to  women,  and  that  a  need  for  absorbing  interest 
is  part  of  the  machinery  of  life,  and  does  not  end  with  youth.  He  talks 
as  if  he  were  an  old  man,  but  he  is  really  quite  young.  He  hates  sitting 
still,  and  soon  went  off  straggling  down  the  pathway.  Arnheim  looked 
after  him  and  said — 

" '  I  envy  him  his  energy ;  he  will  make  a  name  for  himself.  He  has 
a  wonderful  gift  for  discovering  work  for  himself,  and  for  helping  others 
with  theirs.' 

"  '  He  ought  to  be  a  clergyman,'  said  I. 

" '  Why  should  he  be  a  clergyman  ? '  said  Arnheim.  '  The  religion  of 
the  strong  helping  the  weak  is  the  natural  religion  all  the  world  over. 
There  need  be  no  paid  clergy  to  teach  such  a  simple  doctrine  as  that. 
You  must  not  forget  us  altogether,'  he  added,  when  he  said  good-night. 

"  '  There  is  no  fear  of  that.  It  has  been  a  real  happiness  to  me  to 
know  these  good  simple  people,  and  I  shall  always  feel  as  if  Fina  was  a 
little  niece  of  my  own.' 

"  Good-bye  from  your  ever  affectionate 

"  SOPHY." 

Alas !  the  time  came  only  too  quickly  for  Sophy  to  prove  the  reality 
of  her  good-will.  It  was  the  last  day  before  the  summer  holidays  began. 
I  had  had  a  long  day's  work  going  from  school  to  school,  from  pupil  to 
pupil.  I  had  been  thinking  of  my  own  arrangements  of  Margate  or 
Southend  as  a  convenient  change,  my  wildest  ambition  reached  no 
farther  than  Calais  or  Boulogne.  It  was  a  lovely  evening,  and  on  my 
way  home  I  sat  down  to  rest  on  one  of  the  benches  in  Kensington 
Gardens  and  watched  the  sun  setting  in  floods  of  red  behind  the  old 
Dutch  palace.  There  I  sat  feeling  a  little  alone  perhaps,  as  if  the 
shadows  were  creeping  from  afar,  and  might  engulf  me. 

My  friends  were  all  away,  being  amused  in  company ;  Miss  Ellis  had 
been  conveyed  to  Cradlebury  with  many  precautions ;  the  Colonel  was 
abroad  with  a  Captain,  a  friend  of  his ;  even  my  three  organ-grinders 
had  trudged  off  to  the  sea-side,  no  doubt;  and  I  went  homewards  dull 
and  out  of  spirits,  little  thinking  what  trouble  some  of  those  I  most 
cared  for  were  in. 

Mrs.  Taplow  was  standing  at  my  door.  "  There's  a  telegram  come 
for  you,"  she  said ;  "  a  foreign  telegram.  I  have  been  looking  out  for 
you." 

The  telegram  was  from  Sophy  King  at  St.  Pierre.  "  Arnheim  dan- 
gerously ill  at  Iiiterlaken.  Let  some  one  come  to  Fina." 

The  message  seemed  to  have  been  delayed,  for  the  date  was  two 
days  old. 


662 


No.  I. — COUNTRY  BOOKS. 

A  LOVE  of  the  country  is  taken,  I  know  not  why,  to  indicate  the  presence 
of  all  the  cardinal  virtues.  It  is  one  of  those  outlying  qualities  which 
are  not  exactly  meritorious,  but  which,  for  that  very  reason,  are  the 
more  provocative  of  a  pleasing  self-complacency.  People  pride  them- 
selves upon  it  as  upon  habits  of  early  rising,  or  of  answering  letters 
by  return  of  post.  We  recognise  the  virtuous  hero  of  a  novel  as 
soon  as  we  are  told  that  the  cat  instinctively  creeps  to  his  knee,  and 
that  the  little  child  clutches  his  hand  to  stay  its  tottering  steps.  To  say 
that  we  love  the  country  is  to  make  an  indirect  claim  to  a  similar  excel- 
lence. We  assert  a  taste  for  sweet  and  innocent  pleasures,  and  an  indif- 
ference to  the  feverish  excitements  of  artificial  society.  I,  too,  love  the 
country — if  such  a  statement  can  be  received  after  such  an  exordium  ;  but 
I  confess — to  be  duly  modest — that  I  love  it  best  in  books.  In  real  life  I 
have  remarked  that  it  is  frequently  damp  and  rheumatic,  and  most  hated 
by  those  who  know  it  best.  Not  long  ago,  I  heard  a  worthy  orator  at  a 
country  school-treat  declare  to  his  small  audience  that  honesty,  sobriety, 
and  industry,  in  their  station  in  life,  might  possibly  enable  them  to 
become  cabdrivers  in  London.  The  precise  form  of  the  reward  was  sug- 
gested, I  fancy,  by  some  edifying  history  of  an  ideal  cabman ;  but  the 
speaker  cleai'ly  knew  the  road  to  his  hearers'  hearts.  Perhaps  the 
realisation  of  this  high  destiny  might  dispel  their  illusions.  Like  poor 
Susan  at  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  they  would  see 

Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothlmry  glide, 
And  a  river  flow  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

The  Swiss,  who  at  home  regards  a  mountain  as  an  unmitigated 
nuisance,  is  (or  once  was)  capable  of  developing  sentimental  yearnings 
for  the  Alps  at  the  sound  of  a  ranz  des  vaches.  We  all  agree  with  Horace 
that  Home  is  most  attractive  at  Tibur,  and  vice  versA.  It  is  the  man 
who  has  been  "  long  in  populous  cities  pent,"  who,  according  to  Milton, 
enjoys 

The  smell  of  grain  or  tedded  grass  or  kine, 

Or  daisy,  each  rural  sight,  each  rural  sound  ; 

and  the  phrase  is  employed  to  illustrate  the  sentiments  of  a  being  whose 
enjoyment  of  paradise  was  certainly  enhanced  by  a  sufficiently  contrasted 
experience. 

I  do  not  wish  to  pursue  the  good  old  moral  saws  expounded  by  so 


RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  663 

many  preachers  and  poets.  I  am  only  suggesting  a  possible  ground  of 
apology  for  one  who  prefers  the  ideal  mode  of  rustication ;  who  can 
share  the  worthy  Johnson's  love  of  Charing  Cross,  and  sympathise  with 
his  pathetic  remark  when  enticed  into  the  Highlands  by  his  bear-leader 
that  it  is  easy  "  to  sit  at  home  and  conceive  rocks,  heaths,  and  water- 
falls." Some  slight  basis  of  experience  must  doubtless  be  provided  on 
which  to  rear  any  imaginary  fabric ;  and  the  mental  opiate,  which 
stimulates  the  sweetest  reverie,  is  found  in  chewing  the  cud  of  past 
recollections.  But  with  a  good  guide,  one  requires  small  external  aid. 
Though  a  cockney  in  grain,  I  love  to  lean  upon  the  farmyard  gate ;  to 
hear  Mrs.  Poyser  give  a  bit  of  her  mind  to  the  squire ;  to  be  lulled  into  a 
placid  doze  by  the  humming  of  Dorlecote  Mill;  to  sit  down  in  Dandie 
Dinmont's  parlour,  and  bestow  crumbs  from  his  groaning  table  upon 
three  generations  of  Peppers  and  Mustards;  or  to  drop  into  the 
kitchen  of  a  good  old  country  inn  and  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  Tom  Jones 
or  listen  to  the  simple-minded  philosophy  of  Parson  Adams.  When  I 
lift  my  eyes  to  realities,  I  can  dimly  descry  across  the  street  a  vision  of 
my  neighbour  behind  his  looking-glass  adjusting  the  parting  of  his  back 
hair,  and  achieving  triumphs  with  his  white  tie  calculated  to  excite  the 
envy  of  a  Brnmmell.  It  is  pleasant  to  take  down  one  of  the  magicians 
of  the  shelf,  to  annihilate  my  neighbour  and  his  evening  parties,  and  to 
wander  off  through  quiet  country  lanes  into  some  sleepy  hollow  of  the 
past. 

Who  are  the  most  potent  weavers  of  that  delightful  magic?  Clearly, 
in  the  first  place,  those  who  have  been  themselves  in  contact  with  rural 
sights  and  sounds.  The  echo  of  an  echo  loses  all  sharpness  of  definition  ; 
our  guide  may  save  us  the  trouble  of  stumbling  through  farmyards  and 
across  ploughed  fields,  but  he  must  have  gone  through  it  himself  till  his 
very  voice  has  a  twang  of  the  true  country  accent.  Milton,  as  Mr.  Pat- 
tison  has  lately  told  us,  "  saw  nature  through  books,"  and  is  therefore 
no  trustworthy  guide.  We  feel  that  he  has  got  a  Theocritus  in  his 
pocket ;  that  he  is  using  the  country  to  refresh  his  memories  of  Spenser 
or  Chaucer,  or  Virgil ;  and,  instead  of  forgetting  the  existence  of  books 
in  his  company,  we  shall  be  painfully  abashed  if  we  miss  some  obvious 
allusion  or  fail  to  identify  the  passages  upon  which  he  has  moulded  his 
own  descriptions.  And,  indeed,  to  put  it  broadly,  the  poets  are  hardly 
to  be  trusted  in  this  matter,  however  fresh  and  spontaneous  may  be 
their  song.  They  don't  want  to  offer  us  a  formal  sermon,  unless  "  they  " 
means  Wordsworth ;  but  they  have  not  the  less  got  their  little  moral  to 
insinuate.  Shelley's  skylark  and  Keats's  nightingale  are  equally  deter- 
mined that  we  shall  indulge  in  meditations  about  life  and  death  and 
the  mysterious  meaning  of  the  universe.  That  is  just  what,  on  these 
occasions,  we  want  to  forget ;  we  want  the  bird's  song,  not  the  emotions 
which  it  excites  in  our  abnormally  sensitive  natures.  I  can  never  read 
without  fresh  admiration  Mr.  Arnold's  Gipsy  Scholar,  but  in  this  sense 
that  delightful  person  is  a  typical  offender.  I  put  myself,  at  Mr.  Arnold's 


664  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

request,  in  the  corner  of  the  high  half-reaped  field ;  I  see  the  poppies 
peeping  through  the  green  roots  and  yellowing  stems  of  the  corn ;  I 
lazily  watch  the  scholar  with  "  his  hat  of  antique  shape,"  roaming  the 
country  side,  and  becoming  the  living  centre  of  one  bit  of  true  old- 
fashioned  rustic  scenery  after  another ;  and  I  feel  myself  half  persuaded 
to  be  a  gipsy.  But  then,  before  I  know  how  or  why,  I  find  that  I  am 
to  be  worrying  myself  about  the  strange  disease  of  modern  life ;  about 
"  our  brains  o'ertaxed  and  palsied  hearts,"  and  so  forth  ;  and  instead  of 
being  lulled  into  a  delicious  dream,  I  have  somehow  been  entrapped  into 
a  meditation  upon  my  incapacity  for  dreaming.  And  more  or  less,  this 
is  the  fashion  of  all  poets.  You  can  never  be  sure  that  they  will  let  you 
have  your  dream  out  quietly.  They  must  always  be  bothering  you  about 
the  state  of  their  souls ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  when  they  try  to  be  simply 
descriptive,  they  are  for  the  most  part  intolerably  dull. 

Your  poet,  of  course,  is  bound  to  be  an  interpreter  of  nature ;  and 
nature,  for  the  present  purpose,  must  be  regarded  as  simply  a  nuisance. 
The  poet,  by  his  own  account,  is  condescending  to  find  words  for  the 
inarticulate  voices  of  sea  and  sky  and  mountain.  In  reality,  nature  is 
nothing  but  the  sounding-board  which  is  to  give  effect  to  his  own 
valuable  observations.  It  is  a  general,  but  safe  rule  that  whenever  you 
come  across  the  phrase  "  laws  of  nature  "  in  an  article — especially  if  it  is 
by  a  profound  philosopher — you  may  expect  a  sophistry ;  and  it  is  still 
more  certain  that  when  you  come  across  nature  in  a  poem  you  should 
prepare  to  receive  a  sermon.  It  does  not  in  the  least  follow  that  it 
will  be  a  bad  one.  It  may  be  exquisite,  graceful,  edifying,  and  sub- 
lime; but,  as  a  sermon,  the  more  effective  the  less  favourable  to  the 
reverie  which  one  desires  to  cultivate.  Nor,  be  it  observed,  does  it 
matter  whether  the  prophet  be  more  or  less  openly  and  unblushingly 
didactic.  A  good  many  hard  things  have  been  said  about  poor  Words- 
worth for  his  delight  in  sermonising ;  and  though  I  love  Wordsworth 
with  all  my  heart,  I  certainly  cannot  deny  that  he  is  capable  of  be- 
coming a  portentous  weariness  to  the  flesh.  But,  for  this  purpose, 
Wordsworth  is  no  better  and  no  worse  than  Byron  or  Shelley,  or  Keats 
or  Rousseau,  or  any  of  the  dealers  in  praises  of  Weltschmerz,  or  mental 
dyspepsia.  Mr.  Ruskin  has  lately  told  us  that  in  his  opinion  ninety-nine 
things  out  of  a  hundred  are  not  what  they  should  be,  but  the  very  oppo- 
site of  what  they  should  be.  And  therefore  he  sympathises  less  with 
Wordsworth  than  with  Byron  and  Rousseau,  and  other  distinguished  repre- 
sentatives of  the  same  agreeable  creed.  From  the  present  point  of  view  the 
question  is  irrelevant.  I  wish  to  be  for  the  nonce  a  poet  of  nature,  not 
a  philosopher,  either  with  a  healthy  or  a  disturbed  liver,  delivering  a  judi- 
cial opinion  about  nature  as  a  whole  or  declaring  whether  I  regard  it  as 
representing  a  satisfactory  or  a  thoroughly  uncomfortable  .system.  I  con- 
demn neither  opinion  ;  I  will  not  pronounce  Wordsworth's  complacency 
to  be  simply  the  glow  thrown  from  his  comfoi'table  domestic  hearth  upon 
the  outside  darkness ;  or  Byron's  wrath  against  mankind  to  be  simply 


RAMBLES  AMONG-  BOOKS.  665 

the  crying  of  a  spoilt  child  with  a  digestion  ruined  by  sweetmeats.  I 
do  not  want  to  think  about  it.  Preaching,  good  or  bad,  from  the  angelic 
or  diabolical  point  of  view,  cunningly  hidden  away  in  delicate  artistic 
forms,  or  dashed  ostentatiously  in  one's  face  in  a  shower  of  moral  plati- 
tudes, is  equally  out  of  place.  And,  therefore,  for  the  time,  I  would 
choose  for  my  guide  to  the  Alps  some  gentle  enthusiast  in  Peaks  and 
Passes,  who  tells  me  in  his  admirably  matter-of-fact  spirit,  what  he  had 
for  lunch  and  how  many  steps  he  had  to  cut  in  the  mur  de  la  cote,  and 
catalogues  the  mountains  which  he  could  see  as  calmly  as  if  he  were 
repeating  a  schoolboy  lesson  in  geography.  I  eschew  the  meditations  of 
Obermann,  and  do  not  care  in  the  least  whether  he  got  into  a  more  or 
less  maudlin  frame  of  mind  about  things  in  general  as  contemplated  from 
the  Col  de  Janan.  I  shrink  even  from  the  admirable  descriptions  of 
Alpine  scenery  in  the  Modern  Painters,  lest  I  should  be  launched  un- 
awares into  ethical  or  sesthetical  speculation.  "  A  plague  of  both  your 
houses  !  "  I  wish  to  court  entire  absence  of  thought — not  even  to  talk  to 
a  graceful  gipsy  scholar,  troubled  with  aspirations  for  mysterious  know- 
ledge ;  but  rather  to  the  genuine  article,  such  as  the  excellent  Bamfield 
Moore  Carew,  who  took  to  be  a  gipsy  in  earnest,  and  was  content  to  be  a 
thorough  loafer,  not  even  a  Bohemian  in  conscious  revolt  against  society, 
but  simply  outside  of  the  whole  social  framework,  and  accepting  his 
position  with  as  little  reflection  as  some  wild  animal  in  a  congenial 
country. 

Some  kind  philosopher  professes  to  put  my  thoughts  into  correct 
phraseology  by  saying  that  for  such  a  purpose  I  require  thoroughly 
"  objective "  treatment.  I  must,  however,  reject  his  suggestions,  not 
only  because  "objective"  and  "  subjective  "  are  vile  phrases,  used  for  the 
most  part  to  cover  indolence  and  ambiguity  of  thought,  but  also  because, 
if  I  understand  the  word  rightly,  it  describes  what  I  do  not  desire.  The 
only  thoroughly  objective  works  with  which  I  am  acquainted  are  those 
of  which  Bradshaw's  Railway  Guide  is  an  accepted  type.  There  are 
occasions,  I  will  admit,  in  which  such  literature  is  the  best  help  to  the 
imagination.  When  I  read  in  prosaic  black  and  white  that  by  leaving 
Euston  Square  at  10  A.M.  I  shall  reach  Windermere  at  5.40  P.M.,  it  some- 
times helps  me  to  perform  an  imaginary  journey  to  the  lakes  even  better 
than  a  study  of  Wordsworth's  poems.  It  seems  to  give  a  fixed  point 
round  which  old  fancies  and  memories  can  crystallise ;  to  supply  a  useful 
guarantee  that  Grasmere  and  Rydal  do  in  sober  earnest  belong  to  the 
world  of  realities,  and  are  not  mere  parts  of  the  decaying  phantasmagoria 
of  memory.  And  I  was  much  pleased  the  other  day  to  find  a  compli- 
mentary reference  in  a  contemporary  essayist  to  a  lively  work  called,  I 
believe,  the  Shepherd's  Guide,  which  once  beguiled  a  leisure  hour  in  a 
lonely  inn,  and  which  simply  records  the  distinctive  marks  put  upon  the 
sheep  of  the  district.  The  sheep,  as  it  proved,  was  not  a  mere  poetical 
figment  in  an  idyll,  but  a  real  tangible  animal,  with  wool  capable  of 
being  tarred  and  ruddled,  and  eating  real  grass  in  real  fells  and  accessible 

VOL.  XLII. — NO.  252.  32. 


666  KAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

mountain  dales.  In  our  childhood,  when  any  old  broomstick  will  serve 
as  well  as  tho  wondrous  horse  of  brass 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride, 

in  the  days  when  a  cylinder  with  four  pegs  is  as  good  a  steed  as  the  finest 
animal  in  the  Elgin  marbles,  and  when  a  puddle  swarming  with  tadpoles 
or  a  streamlet  haunted  by  water-rats  is  as  full  of  romance  as  a  jungle 
full  of  tigers,  the  barest  catalogue  of  facts  is  the  most  eifective.  A  child 
is  deliciously  excited  by  Robinson  Crusoe  because  De  Foe  is  content  to 
give  the  naked  scaffolding  of  direct  narrative,  and  leaves  his  reader  to 
supply  the  sentiment  and  romance  at  pleasure.  Who  does  not  fear,  on 
returning  to  the  books  which  delighted  his  childhood,  that  all  the  fairy- 
gold  should  have  turned  to  dead  leaves  ?  I  remember  a  story  told  in 
some  forgotten  book  of  travels,  which  haunted  my  dreams,  and  still 
strikes  me  as  terribly  impressive.  I  see  a  traveller  benighted  by  some 
accident  in  a  nullah  where  a  tiger  has  already  supped  upon  his  companion, 
and  listening  to  mysterious  sounds,  as  of  fiendish  laughter,  which  he 
is  afterwards  cruel  enough  to  explain  away  by  some  rationalising  theory 
as  to  gases.  How  or  why  the  traveller  got  into  or  emerged  from  the 
scrape,  I  know  not ;  but  some  vague  association  of  ferocious  wild  beasts 
and  wood-demons  in  ghastly  and  harinted  solitudes,  has  ever  since  been 
excited  in  me  by  the  mention  of  a  nullah.  It  is  as  redolent  of  awful 
mysteries  as  the  chasm  in  Kubla  Khan.  And  it  is  painful  to  reflect 
that  a  nullah  may  be  a  commonplace  phenomenon  in  real  life ;  and  that 
the  anecdote  might  possibly  affect  me  no  more,  could  I  now  read  it  for 
the  first  time,  than  one  of  the  tremendous  adventures  recorded  by  Mr. 
Kingston  or  Captain  Mayne  Reid. 

As  we  become  less  capable  of  supplying  the  magic  for  ourselves,  we 
require  it  from  our  author.  He  must  have  the  art — the  less  conscious 
the  better — of  placing  us  at  his  own  point  of  view.  He  should,  if  pos- 
sible, be  something  of  a  "  humourist,"  in  the  old-fashioned  sense  of  the 
word ;  not  the  man  who  compounds  oddities,  but  the  man  who  is  an 
oddity ;  the  slave,  not  the  master,  of  his  own  eccentricities ;  one  abco- 
lutely  unconscious  that  the  strange  twist  in  his  mental  vision  is  not 
shared  by  mankind,  and  capable,  therefore,  of  presenting  the  fancies 
dictated  by  his  idiosyncrasy  as  if  they  corresponded  to  obvious  and  gene- 
rally recognised  realities ;  and  of  propounding  some  quaint  and  utterly 
preposterous  theoiy,  as  though  it  were  a  plain  deduction  from  undeniable 
truths.  The  modern  humourist  is  the  old  humourist  plus  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  eccentricity,  and  the  old  humourist  is  the  modern 
humourist  minus  that  consciousness.  The  order  of  his  ideas  should  not 
(as  philosophers  would  have  it)  be  identical  with  the  order  of  things,  but 
be  determined  by  odd  arbitrary  freaks  of  purely  personal  association. 

This  is  the  kind  of  originality  which  we  specially  demand  from  an 
efficient  guide  to  the  country ;  for  the  country  means  a  region  where 
men  have  not  been  ground  into  the  monotony  by  the  friction  of  our  social 


RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS,  667 

mill.  The  secret  of  his  charm  lies  in  the  clearness  with  which  he  brings 
before  us  some  quaint,  old-fashioned  type  of  existence.  He  must  know 
and  care  as  little  for  what  passes  in  the  great  world  of  cities  and  parlia- 
ments as  the  family  of  Tullivers  and  Dodsons.  His  horizon  should  be 
limited  by  the  nearest  country  town,  and  his  politics  confined  to  the 
disputes  between  the  parson  and  the  Dissenting  minister.  He  should 
have  thoroughly  absorbed  the  characteristic  prejudices  of  the  little  society 
in  which  he  lives,  till  he  is  unaware  that  it  could  ever  enter  into  any  one's 
head  to  doubt  their  absolute  truth.  He  should  have  a  share  of  the  pecu- 
liarity which  is  often  so  pathetic  in  children — the  unhesitating  conviction 
that  some  little  family  arrangement  is  a  part  of  the  eternal  and  immu- 
table system  of  things,  and  be  as  much  surprised  at  discovering  an 
irreverent  world  outside  as  the  child  at  the  discovery  that  there  are 
persons  who  do  not  consider  his  papa  to  be  omniscient.  That  is  the 
temper  of  mind  which  should  characterise  your  genuine  rustic.  As 
a  rule,  of  course,  it  condemns  him  to  silence.  He  has  no  more  reason 
for  supposing  that  some  quaint  peculiarity  of  his  little  circle  will 
be  interesting  to  the  outside  world  than  a  frog  for  imagining  that 
a  natural  philosopher  would  be  interested  by  the  statement  that  he 
was  once  a  tadpole.  He  takes  it  for  granted  that  we  have  all  been 
tadpoles.  In  the  queer,  outlying  corners  of  the  world  where  the 
father  goes  to  bed  and  is  nursed  upon  the  birth  of  a  child  (a  system 
which  has  its  attractive  side  to  some  persons  of  that  persuasion),  the 
singular  custom  is  so  much  a  matter  of  course  that  a  village  historian 
would  not  think  of  mentioning  it.  The  man  is  only  induced  to  exhibit 
his  humour  to  the  world  when,  by  some  happy  piece  of  fortune,  he  has 
started  a  hobby  not  sufficiently  appreciated  by  his  neighbours.  Then  it 
may  be  that  he  becomes  a  prophet,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  recommend  his 
own  pet  fancy,  unconsciously  illustrates  also  the  interesting  social  stratum 
in  which  it  sprung  to  life.  The  hobby,  indeed,  is  too  often  unattractive. 
When  a  self-taught  philosopher  airs  some  pet  crotchet,  and  proves,  for 
example,  that  the  legitimate  descendants  of  the  lost  tribes  are  to  be  found 
amongst  the  Ojibbeways,  he  doubtless  throws  a  singular  light  upon  the 
intellectual  peculiarities  of  his  district.  But  he  illustrates  chiefly  the 
melancholy  truth  that  a  half-taught  philosopher  may  be  as  dry  and  as 
barren  as  the  one  who  has  been  smoke-dried  according  to  all  the  rules  of 
art  in  the  most  learned  academy  of  Europe. 

There  are  a  few  familiar  books  in  which  a  happy  combination  of  circum- 
stances has  provided  us  with  a  true  country  idyll,  fresh  and  racy  from  the 
soil,  not  consciously  constructed  by  the  most  skilful  artistic  hand.  Two 
of  them  have  a  kind  of  acknowledged  pre-eminence  in  their  own  depart- 
ment. The  man  is  not  to  be  envied  who  has  not  in  his  boyhood  fallen 
in  love  with  Izaak  Walton  and  White  of  Selborne.  The  boy,  indeed t 
is  happily  untroubled  as  to  the  true  source  of  the  charm.  He  pores  over 
the  Compleat  Angler  with  the  impression  that  he  will  gain  some  hints  for 
beguiling,  if  not  the  wily  cai'p,  who  is  accounted  the  water-fox,  at  least 

32—2 


668  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

the  innocent  roach,  who  "  is  accounted  the  water-sheep  for  his  simplicity 
or  foolishness."  His  mouth  waters  as  he  reads  the  directions  for  con- 
verting the  pike — that  compound  of  mud  and  needles — into  "  a  dish  of 
meat  too  good  for  any  but  anglers  or  very  honest  men," — a  transforma- 
tion which,  if  authentic,  is  little  less  than  miraculous.  He  does  not  ask 
what  is  the  secret  of  the  charm  of  the  book  even  for  those  to  whom 
fishing  is  an  abomination— a  charm  which  induced  even  the  arch-cockney 

O 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  spite  of  his  famous  definition  of  angling,  to  prompt  the 
republication  of  this  angler's  bible.  It  is  only  as  he  grows  older,  and 
has  plodded  through  other  sporting  literature,  that  he  can  at  all  explain 
why  the  old  gentleman's  gossip  is  so  fascinating.  Walton;  undoubtedly, 
is  everywhere  charming  for  his  pure  simple  English,  and  the  unostenta- 
tious vein  of  natural  piety  which  everywhere  lies  just  beneath  the  surface 
of  his  writing.  Now  and  then,  however,  in  reading  the  Lives,  we  cannot 
quite  avoid  a  sense  that  this  excellent  tradesman  has  just  a  touch 
of  the  unctuous  about  him.  He  is  given — it  is  a  fault  from  which 
hagiographers  can  scarcely  be  free — to  using  the  rose-colour  a  little  too 
freely.  He  holds  towards  his  heroes  the  relation  of  a  sentimental 
churchwarden  to  a  revered  parish  parson.  "We  fancy  that  the  eyes  of 
the  preacher  would  turn  instinctively  to  Walton's  seat  when  he  wished 
to  catch  an  admiring  glance  from  an  upturned  face,  and  to  assure  him- 
self that  he  was  touching  the  "  sacred  fount  of  sympathetic  tears."  We 
imagine  Walton  lingering  near  the  porch  to  submit  a  deferential  compli- 
ment as  to  the  "  florid  and  seraphical "  discourse  to  which  he  has  been 
listening,  and  scarcely  raising  his  glance  above  the  clerical  shoe-buckles. 
A  portrait  taken  from  this  point  of  view  is  apt  to  be  rather  unsatisfac- 
tory. Yet,  in  describing  the  "  sweet  humility  "  of  a  George  Herbert  or  of 
the  saintly  Mr.  Farrer,  the  tone  is  at  least  in  keeping,  and  is  consistent 
even  with  an  occasional  gleam  of  humour,  as  in  the  account  of  poor 
Hooker,  tending  sheep  and  rocking  the  cradle  under  stringent  feminine 
supremacy.  It  is  less  satisfactory  when  we  ask  Walton  to  throw  some 
light  upon  the  curiously  enigmatic  character  of  Donne,  with  its  strange 
element  of  morbid  gloom,  and  masculine  passion,  and  subtle  and  intense 
intellect.  Donne  married  the  woman  he  loved  in  spite  of  her  father 
and  to  the  injury  of  his  own  fortunes.  "  His  marriage,"  however,  ob- 
serves the  biographer,  "  was  the  remarkable  error  of  his  life ;  an  error 
which,  though  he  had  a  wit  able  and  very  apt  to  maintain  paradoxes, 
yet  he  was  very  far  from  justifying  it."  From  our  point  of  view,  the 
only  error  was  in  the  desire  to  justify  an  action  of  which  he  should  have 
been  proud.  We  must  make  allowance  for  the  difference  in  Walton's 
views  of  domestic  authority;  but  we  feel  that  his  prejudice  disqualifies 
him  from  fairly  estimating  a  character  of  great  intrinsic  force.  A  por- 
trait of  Donne  cannot  be  adequately  brought  within  the  lines  accepted 
by  the  writer  of  orthodox  and  edifying  tracts. 

In  spite  of  this  little  failing,  this  rather  massive  subservience  to  the 
respectabilities,  the  Lives  form  a  delightful  book  ;  but  we  get  the  genuine 


EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  669 

Walton  at  full  length  in  his  Angler.  It  was  first  published  in  dark 
days ;  when  the  biographer  might  be  glad  that  his  pious  heroes  had  been 
taken  from  the  sight  of  the  coming  evil ;  when  the  scattered  survivors  of 
his  favourite  school  of  divines  and  poets  were  turned  out  of  their  well- 
beloved  colleges  and  parsonages,  hiding  in  dark  corners  or  plotting  with 
the  melancholy  band  of  exiles  in  France  and  Holland ;  when  Walton, 
instead  of  listening  to  the  sound  and  witty  discourses  of  Donne, 
would  find  the  pulpit  of  his  parish  church  profaned  by  some  fanatical 
Puritan,  expounding  the  Westminster  Confession  in  place  of  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles.  The  good  Walton  found  consolation  in  the  almost  reli- 
gious pursuit  of  his  hobby.  He  fortified  himself  with  the  authority  of 
such  admirable  and  orthodox  anglers  as  Sir  Henry  Wotton  and  Dr. 
Nowel,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's.  Dr.  Nowel  had,  "  like  an  honest  angler, 
made  that  good,  plain,  unperplexed  Catechism  which  is  printed  with  our 
good  old  service-book  :  "  for  an  angler,  it  seems,  is  most  likely  to  know 
that  the  road  to  heaven  is  not  through  "  hard  questions."  The  Dean 
died  at  the  age  of  ninety-five,  in  perfect  possession  of  his  faculties;  and 
"  'tis  said  that  angling  and  temperance  were  great  causes  of  those  bless- 
ings." Evidently  Walton  had  somehow  taken  for  granted  that  there  is 
an  inherent  harmony  between  angling  and  true  religion,  which  of  course 
for  him  implies  the  Anglican  religion.  He  does  not  trust  himself  in  the 
evil  times  to  grumble  openly,  or  to  indulge  in  more  than  an  occasional 
oblique  reference  to  the  dealers  in  hard  questions  and  metaphysical  dog- 
matism. He  takes  his  rod,  leaves  the  populous  city  behind  him,  and  makes 
a  day's  march  to  the  banks  of  the  quiet  Lea,  where  he  can  meet  a  like- 
minded  friend  or  two ;  sit  in  the  sanded  parlour  of  the  country  inn,  and 
listen  to  the  milkmaid  singing  that  "  smooth  song  made  by  Kit  Marlow, 
now  at  least  fifty  years  ago,"  before  English  fields  had  been  drenched 
with  the  blood  of  Roundheads  and  Cavaliers ;  or  lie  under  a  tree,  watch- 
ing his  float  till  the  shower  had  passed,  and  then  calling  to  mind  what 
"  holy  Mr.  Herbert  says  of  such  days  and  flowers  as  these."  Sweet  day, 
so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright ! — but  everybody  has  learnt  to  share  Walton's 
admiration,  and  the  quotation  would  now  be  superfluous.  It  is  nowhere 
so  effective  as  with  Walton's  illustrations.  We  need  not,  indeed,  re- 
member the  background  of  storm  to  enjoy  the  quiet  sunshine  and 
showers  on  the  soft  English  landscape,  which  Walton  painted  so 
lovingly.  The  fact  that  he  was  living  in  the  midst  of  a  turmoil,  in 
which  the  objects  of  his  special  idolatry  had  been  so  ruthlessly  crushed 
and  scattered,  may  help  to  explain  the  intense  relish  for  the  peaceful 
river-side  life.  His  rod  was  the  magic  wand  to  interpose  a  soft  idyllic 
mist  between  his  eyes  and  such  scenes  as  were  visible  at  times  from  the 
windows  of  Whitehall.  He  loved  his  paradise  the  better  because  it  was 
an  escape  from  a  pandemonium.  But  whatever  the  cause  of  his  enthu- 
siasm, its  sincerity  and  intensity  is  the  main  cause  of  his  attractiveness. 
Many  poets  of  Walton's  time  loved  the  country  as  well  as  he ;  and 
showed  it  in  some  of  the  delicate  lyrics  which  find  an  appropriate 


670  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

setting  in  his  pages.  But  we  have  to  infer  their  exquisite  appreciation 
of  country  sights  and  sounds  from  such  brief  utterances,  or  from  passing 
allusions  in  dramatic  scenes.  Nobody  can  doubt  that  Shakspeare  loved 
daffodils,  or  a  bank  of  wild  thyme,  or  violets,  as  keenly  as  Wordsworth. 
"When  he  happens  to  mention  them,  his  voice  trembles  with  fine  emo- 
tion. But  none  of  the  poets  of  the  time  dared  to  make  a  passion  for  the 
country  the  main  theme  of  their  more  pretentious  song.  They  thought  it 
necessary  to  idealise  and  transmute ;  to  substitute  an  indefinite  Ai'cadia 
for  plain  English  fields,  and  to  populate  it  with  piping  swains  and 
nymphs,  Corydons  and  Amorets  and  Phyllises.  Poor  Hodge  or  Cis  were 
only  allowed  to  appear  when  they  were  minded  to  indulge  in  a  little 
broad  comedy.  The  coarse  rustics  had  to  be  washed  and  combed  before 
they  could  present  themselves  before  an  aristocratic  audience ;  and 
plain  English  hills  and  rivers  to  be  provided  with  tutelary  gods  and 
goddesses,  fitted  for  the  gorgeous  pageantry  of  a  country  masque.  Far 
be  it  from  me — with  the  fear  of  aesthetic  critics  before  my  eyes — to  say 
that  very  beautiful  poems  might  not  be  produced  under  these  conditions. 
It  is  proper,  as  I  am  aware,  to  admire  Browne's  Britannia  s  Pastorals,  and 
to  speak  reverently  of  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess,  and  Ben  Jonson's 
Sad  Shepherd.  I  only  venture  to  suggest  here  that  such  work  is  caviare  to 
the  multitude  ;  that  it  requiras  a  fine  literary  sense,  a  happy  superiority 
to  dull  realistic  suggestion,  and  a  power  of  accepting  the  conventional 
conditions  which  the  artist  has  to  accept  for  his  guidance.  Possibly  I 
may  go  so  far  as  to  hint  without  offence  that  the  necessity  of  using  this 
artificial  apparatus  was  not  in  itself  an  advantage.  A  great  master  of 
harmony,  with  a  mind  overflowing  with  majestic  imagery,  might  achieve 
such  triumphs  as  Comus  and  Lycidas,  in  which  even  the  Arcadian  pipe 
is  made  to  utter  the  true  organ-tones.  We  forgive  any  incongruities  or 
artificialities  when  they  are  lest  in  such  a  blaze  of  poetry.  The  atmo- 
sphere of  Arcadia  was  not  as  yet  sickly  enough  to  asphyxiate  a  Milton ; 
but  it  was  ceasing  to  be  wholesome ;  and  the  weaker  singers  who  im- 
bibed it  suffered  xinder  distinct  attacks  of  drowsiness. 

Walton's  good  sense,  or  his  humility,  or  perhaps  the  simple  ardour  of 
his  devotion  to  his  hobby,  encouraged  him  to  deal  in  realities.  He  gave 
the  genuine  sentiment  which  his  contemporaries  would  only  give  indi- 
rectly, transfigured  and  bedizened  with  due  ornaments  of  classic  or 
romantic  pattern.  There  is  just  a  faint  touch  of  unreality — a  barely  per- 
ceptible flavour  of  the  sentimental  about  his  personages  ;  but  only  enough 
to  give  a  permissible  touch  of  pastoral  idealism.  Walton  is  painting 
directly  from  the  life.  The  "  honest  alehouse,"  where  he  finds  "  a  cleanly 
room,  lavender  in  the  windows,  and  twenty  ballads  stuck  about  the 
wal!,"  was  standing  then  on  the  banks  of  the  Lea,  as  in  quiet  country 
nooks,  here  and  there,  occasional  representatives  of  the  true  angler's  rest 
are  still  to  be  found,  not  entirely  corrupted  by  the  modern  tourist.  The 
good  man  is  far  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  aiming  at  literary  ornament ; 
lie  is  a  g-onuine  simple-minded  enthusiast,  revealing  his  kindly  nature  by 


RAMBLES  AMONG-  BOOKS.  671 

a  thousand  unconscious  touches.     The  common  objection  is  a  misunder- 
standing.   Everybody  quotes  the  phrase  about  using  the  frog  "  as  though 
you  loved  him ; "  and  it  is  the  more  piquant  as  following  one  of  his 
characteristically  pious  remarks.     The  frog's  mouth,  he  tells,  grows  up 
for  six  months,  and  he  lives  for  six  months  without  eating,  "  sustained, 
none  but  He  whose  name  is  Wonderful  knows  how."     He  reverently 
admires  the  care  taken  of  the  frog  by  Providence,  without  drawing  any 
more  inference  for  his  own  conduct  than  if  he  were  a  modern  physiolo- 
gist.    It  is  just  this  absolute  unconsciousness  which  makes  his  love  of 
the  sport  attractive.     He  has  never  looked  at  it  from  the  frog's  point  of 
view.       Your  modern  angler  has  to  excuse  himself  by  some  scientific 
hypothesis  as  to  fealing  in  the  lower  animals,  and  thereby  betrays  certain 
qualms  of  conscience  which  had  not  yet  come  to  light  in  "Walton's  day. 
He  is  no  more  cruel  than  a  schoolboy,  "  ere  he  grows  to  pity."     He  is 
simply  discharging  his  functions  as  a  part  of  nature,  like  the  pike  or  the 
frog ;    and  convinced,  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart,  that  the  angler 
repres?nts  the  most  eminent  type  of  enjoyment,  and  should  be  the  humble 
inheritor  of  the  virtues  of  the  fishers  of  Galilee.  The  gentlest  and  most 
pious  thoughts  come  naturally  into  his  mind  whilst  his  worm  is  wriggling 
on  his  hook  to  entice  the  luckless  trout.     It  is  particularly  pleasant  to 
notice  the  quotations,  which  give  a  certain  air  of  learning  to  his  book. 
We  see  that  the  love  of  angling  had  become  so  ingrained  in  his  mind  as  to 
direct  his  reading  as  well  as  to  provide  him  with  amusement.  We  fancy 
him  poring  on  winter  evenings  over  the  pages  of  Aldrovandus  and  Gesner 
and  Pliny  and  Topsell's  histories  of  serpents  and  four-footed  beasts,  and 
humbly  accepting  the  teaching  of  more  learned  men,  who  had  recorded  so 
many  strange  facts  unobserved  by  the  simple  angler.     He  produces  a 
couple  of  bishops,  Dubravius  and  Thurso,  as  eye-witnesses,  to  testify  to  a 
marvellous  anecdote  of  a  frog  jumping  upon  a  pike's  head  and  tearing 
out  his  eyes,  after  "  expressing  malice  or  anger  by  swollen  cheeks  and 
staring  eyes."     Even  Walton  cannot  forbear  a  quiet  smile  at  this  quaint 
narrative.     But  he  is  ready  to  believe,  in  all  seriousness,  that  eels,  "  like 
some  kinds  of  bees  and  wasps,"  are  bred  out  of  dew,  and  to  confirm  it 
by  the  parallel  case  of  young  goslings  bred  by  the  sun  "  from  the  rotten 
planks  of  an  old  ship  and  hatched  up  trees."      Science  was  not  a  dry 
museum  of  hard  facts,  but  a  quaint  storehouse  of  semi-mythical  curi- 
osities;    and   therefore  excellently  fitted  to  fill  spare  hours,  when  he 
could  not  meditatively  indulge  in  "  the  contemplative  man's  recreation." 
Walton  found  some  queer  texts  for  his  pious  meditations,  and  his  pursuit 
is  not  without  its  drawbacks.     But  his  quaintness  only  adds  a  zest  to 
our  enjoyment  of  his  book ;  and  we  are  content  to  fall  in  with  his 
humour,  and  to  believe  for  the  nonce  that  the  love  of  a  sport  which  so 
fascinates  this  simple,  kindly,  reverent  nature  must  be,  as  he  takes  for 
granted,  the  very  crowning  grace  of  a  character  moulded  on  the  prin- 
ciples of  sound  Christian   philosophy.     Angling  becomes  synonymous 
with  purity  of  mind  and  simplicity  of  character.  • 


672  KAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

Mr.  Lowell,  in  one  of  the  most  charming  essays  ever  written  about  a 
garden,  takes  his  text  from  White  of  Selborne,  and  admirably  explains 
the  charm  of  that  worthy  representative  of  the  Waltonian  spirit.  "  It 
is  good  for  us  now  and  then,"  says  Mr.  Lowell,  "  to  converse  in  a  world 
like  Mr.  White's,  where  man  is  the  least  important  of  animals ;  "  to  find 
one's  whole  world  in  a  garden,  beyond  the  reach  of  wars  and  rumours  of 
wars.  White  does  not  give  a  thought  to  the  little  troubles  which  were 
disturbing  the  souls  of  Burke  and  George  III.  The  "  natural  term  of  a 
hog's  life  has  more  interest  for  him  than  that  of  an  empire ;  "  he  does 
not  trouble  his  head  about  diplomatic  complications  whilst  he  is  dis- 
covering that  the  odd  tumbling  of  rooks  in  the  air  is  caused  by  their 
turning  over  to  scratch  themselves  with  one  claw.  The  great  events  of 
his  life  are  his  making  acquaintance  with  a  stilted  plover,  or  his  long — 
for  it  was  protracted  over  ten  years — and  finally  triumphant  passion  for 
"  an  old  family  tortoise."  White  of  Selborne  is  clearly  not  the  ideal 
parson  of  George  Herbert's  time;  nor  the  parson  of  our  own  day — a 
poor  atom  whirled  about  in  the  distracting  eddies  of  two  or  three  con- 
flicting movements.  He  is  merely  a  good,  kindly,  domestic  gentleman, 
on  friendly  terms  with  the  squire  and  the  gamekeeper,  and  ready  for  a 
chat  with  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet.  His  horizon,  natural  and 
unnatural,  is  bounded  by  the  soft  round  hills  and  the  rich  hangers  of  his 
beloved  Hampshire  country.  There  is  something  specially  characteristic 
in  his  taste  for  scenery.  Though  "  I  have  now  travelled  the  Sussex 
Downs  upwards  of  thirty  years,"  he  says,  "  I  still  investigate  that  chain 
of  majestic  mountains  with  fresh  admiration  year  by  year; "  and  he  calls 
"  Mr.  Ray  "  to  witness  that  there  is  nothing  finer  in  any  part  of  Europe. 
"  For  my  own  part,"  he  says,  "  I  think  there  is  somewhat  peculiarly 
sweet  and  amusing  in  the  shapely  figured  aspects  of  chalk  hills  in 
preference  to  those  of  stone,  which  are  rugged,  broken,  abrupt,  and 
shapeless."  I,  for  my  part,  agree  with  Mr.  White — so  long,  at  least,  as 
I  am  reading  his  book.  The  Downs  have  a  singular  charm  in  the 
exquisite  play  of  long,  gracefully  undulating  lines  which  bound  their 
gentle  edges.  If  not  a  "  majestic  range  of  mountains,"  as  judged  by  an 
Alpine  standard,  there  is  no  want  of  true  sublimity  in  their  springing 
curves,  especially  when  harmonised  by  the  lights  and  shadows  under 
cloud-masses  driving  before  a  broad  south-westerly  gale ;  and  when  you 
reach  the  edge  of  a  great  down,  and  suddenly  look  down  into  one  of 
the  little  hollows  where  a  village  with  a  grey  church  tower  and  a 
grove  of  noble  elms  nestles  amidst  the  fold  of  the  hills,  you  fancy 
that  in  such  places  of  refuge  there  must  still  be  relics  of  the  quiet 
domesticities  enjoyed  by  Gilbert  White.  Here,  one  fancies,  it  must  be 
good  to  live ;  to  discharge,  at  an  easy  rate,  all  the  demands  of  a  society 
which  is  but  a  large  family,  and  find  ample  excitement  in  studying  the 
rambles  of  a  tortoise,  forming  intimacies  with  moles,  crickets,  and  field- 
mice,  and  bats,  and  brown  owls,  and  watching  the  swifts  and  the  night- 


EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  673 

jars  wheeling  round  the  old  church  tower,  or  hunting  flies  at  the  edge  of 
the  wood  in  the  quiet  summer  evening. 

In  rambling  through  the  lanes  sacred  to  the  memory  of  White,  you  may 
(in  fancy,  at  least)  meet  another  figure  not  at  first  sight  quite  in  harmony 
with  the  clerical  Mr.  White.  He  is  a  stalwart,  broad-chested  man  in  the 
farmer's  dress,  even  ostentatiously  representing  the  old  British  yeoman 
brought  up  on  beer  and.  beef,  and  with  a  certain  touch  of  pugnacity 
suggestive  of  the  retired  prize-fighter.  He  stops  his  horse  to  chat  with 
a  labourer  breaking  stones  by  the  roadside,  and  informs  the  gaping  rustic 
that  wages  are  made  bad  and  food  dear  by  the  diabolical  machinations 
of  the  Tories,  and  the  fundholders,  and  the  boroughmongers,  who  are 
draining  away  all  the  fatness  of  the  land  to  nourish  the  portentous 
"wen"  called  London.  He  leaves  the  man  to  meditate  on  this  sugges- 
tion, and  jogs  off  to  the  nearest  country  town,  where  he  will  meet  the 
farmers  at  their  ordinary,  and  deliver  a  ranting  radical  address.  The 
squire  or  the  parson  who  recognises  William  Cobbett  in  this  sturdy 
traveller,  will  mutter  a  hearty  objurgation,  and  wish  that  the  disturber 
of  rustic  peace  could  make  a  closer  acquaintance  with  the  neighbouring 
horsepond.  Possibly  most  readers  who  hear  his  name  have  vaguely  set 
down  Cobbett  as  one  of  the  demagogues  of  the  anti-reforming  days,  and 
remember  little  more  than  the  fact  that  he  dabbled  in  some  rather 
questionable  squabbles,  and  brought  back  Tom  Paine's  bones  from 
America.  But  it  is  worth  while  to  read  Cobbett,  and  especially  the 
Rural  Rides,  not  only  to  enjoy  his  fine  homespun  English,  but  to  learn 
to  know  the  man  a  little  better.  Whatever  the  deserts  or  demerits  of 
Cobbett  as  a  political  agitator,  the  true  man  was  fully  as  much*  allied  to 
modern  Young  England  and  the  later  type  of  conservatism  as  to  the  modern 
radical.  He  hated  the  Scotch  "  feelosophers  "—as  he  calls  them — Parson 
Malthus,  the  political  communists,  the  Manchester  men,  the  men  who 
would  break  up  the  old  social  system  of  the  country,  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart ;  and,  whatever  might  be  his  superficial  alliances,  he  loved  the 
old  quiet  country  life  when.  Englishmen  were  burly,  independent  yeo- 
men, each  equal  to  three  frog-eating  Frenchmen.  He  remembered  the 
relics  of  the  system  in  the  days  of  his  youth ;  he  thought  that  it  had 
begun  to  decay  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  when  grasping  landlords 
and  unprincipled  statesmen  had  stolen  Church  property  on  pretence  of 
religion;  but  ever  since,  the  growth  of  manufactures,  and  corruption, 
and  stockjobbing  had  been  unpopulating  the  country  to  swell  the  towns, 
and  broken  up  the  old,  wholesome,  friendly,  English  life.  That  is  the 
text  on  which  he  is  always  dilating  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  and  the 
belief,  true  or  false,  gives  a  pleasant  flavour  to  his  intense  relish  for  true 
country  scenery. 

He  looks  at  things,  it  is  true,  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  farmer,  not 
of  a  landscape-painter  or  a  lover  of  the  picturesque.  He  raves  against 
that  "  accursed  hill  "  Hindhead  ;  he  swears  that  he  will  not  go  over  it ; 
and  he  tells  us  very  amusingly  how,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  found  himself 

32—5 


674  RAMBLES  AMONG  ,  BOOKS. 

on  the  very  "  tip  top  "  of  it,  in  a  pelting  rain,  owing  to  an  incompetent 
guide.  But  he  loves  the  woodlands  and  the  downs,  and  bm-sts  into 
vivid  enthusiasm  at  fine  points  of  view.  He  is  specially  ecstatic  in 
White's  country.  "  On  we  trotted,"  he  says,  ''  up  this  pretty  green  lane, 
and,  indeed,  we  had  been  coming  gently  and  gradually  up-hill  for  a  good 
while.  The  lane  was  between  high  banks,  and  pretty  high  stuff  growing 
on  the  banks,  so  that  we  could  see  no  distance  from  us,  and  could  receive 
not  the  smallest  hint  of  what  was  so  near  at  hand.  The  lane  had  a  little 
turn  towards  the  end.  so  that  we  came,  all  in  a  moment,  at  the  very  edge 
of  the  hanger ;  and  never  in  my  life  was  I  so  surprised  and  delighted  !  I 
pulled  up  my  horse,  and  sat  and  looked.  It  was  like  looking  from  the 
top  of  a  castle  down  into  the  sea,  except  that  the  valley  was  land  and 
not  water.  I  looked  at  my  servant  to  see  what  effect  this  unexpected 
sight  had  upon  him.  His  surprise  was  as  great  as  mine,  though  he  had 
been  bred  amongst  the  North  Hampshire  hills.  Those  who  have  so 
strenuously  dwelt  on  the  dirt  and  dangers  of  this  road  have  said  not  a 
word  about  the  beauties,  the  matchless  beauties,  of  the  scenery."  And 
Cobbett  goes  on  to  describe  the  charms  of  the  view  over  Selborne,  and 
to  fancy  what  it  will  be  "  when  trees,  and  hangers,  and  hedges  are  in 
leaf,  the  corn  waving,  the  meadows  bright,  and  the  hops  upon  the  poles," 
in  language  which  is  not  after  the  modern  style  of  word-painting,  but 
excites  a  contagious  enthusiasm  by  its  freshness  and  sincerity.  He  is 
equally  enthusiastic  soon  afterwards  at  the  sight  of  Avington  Park  and 
a  lake  swarming  with  wild  fowl ;  and  complains  of  the  folly  of  modern 
rapid  travelling.  "  In  any  sort  of  carriage  you  cannot  get  into  the  real 
country  'places.  To  travel  in  stage-coaches  is  to  be  hurried  along  by 
force  in  a  box  with  an  air-hole  in  it,  and  constantly  exposed  to  broken 
limbs,  the  danger  being  much  greater  than  that  of  shipboard,  and  the 
noise  much  more  disagreeable,  while  the  company  is  frequently  not  a 
great  deal  more  to  one's  liking."  What  would  Cobbett  have  said  to  a 
railway  ?  And  what  has  become  of  the  old  farmhouse  on  the  banks  of 
the  Mole,  once  the  home  of  "  plain  manners  and  plentiful  living,"  with 
"  oak  clothes-chests,  oak  bedsteads,  oak  chests  of  drawers,  and  oak  tables 
to  eat  on,  long,  strong,  and  well  supplied  with  joint  stools?  "  Now,  he 
sighs,  there  is  a  "parlour!  aye,  and  a  carpet  and  bell-pull,  too  !  and  a 
mahogany  table,  and  the  fine  chairs,  and  the  fine  glass,  and  all  as  bare- 
faced upstart  as  any  stock-jobber  in  the  kingdom  can  boast  of !  "  Pro- 
bably the  farmhouse  has  followed  the  furniture,  and,  meanwhile,  what 
has  become  of  the  fine  old  British  hospitality  when  the  farmer  and  his 
lads  and  lasses  dined  at  one  table,  and  a  solid  Englishman  did  not 
squeeze  money  out  of  his  men's  wages  to  surround  himself  with  trumpery 
finery  ? 

To  say  the  truth,  Cobbett's  fine  flow  of  invective  is  a  little  too 
exuberant,  and  overlays  too  deeply  the  picturesque  touches  of  scenery 
and  the  occasional  bits  of  autobiography  which  recall  his  boyish  ex- 
perience of  the  old  country  life,  It  would  be  idle  to  inquire  how  fay 


RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  675 

his  vision  of  the  old  English  country  had  any  foundation  in  fact.  Our 
hills  and  fields  may  be  as  lovely  as  ever;  and  there  is  still  ample  room 
for  the  lovers  of  "  nature  "  in  Scotch  moors  and  lochs,  or  even  amongst 
the  English  fells,  or  among  the  storm-beaten  cliffs  of  Devon  and  Corn- 
wall. But  nature,  as  I  have  said,  is  not  the  country.  We  are  not  in 
search  of  the  scenery  which  appears  now  as  it  appeared  in  the  remote 
days  when  painted  savages  managed  to  raise  a  granite  block  upon  its 
supports  for  the  amusement  of  future  antiquarians.  "We  want  the  country 
which  bears  the  impress  of  some  characteristic  social  growth  ;  which  has 
been  moulded  by  its  inhabitants  as  the  inhabitants  by  it,  till  one  is  as 
much  adapted  to  the  other  as  the  lichen  to  the  rock  on  which  it  grows. 
How  bleak  and  comfortless  a  really  natural  country  may  be  is  apparent 
to  the  readers  of  Thoreau.  He  had  all  the  will  to  become  a  part  of 
nature,  and  to  shake  himself  free  from  the  various  trammels  of  civilised 
life,  and  he  had  no  small  share  of  the  necessary  qualifications ;  but  one 
cannot  read  his  account  of  his  life  by  Walden  pond  without  a  shivering 
sense  of  discomfort.  He  is  not  really  acclimatised ;  so  far  from  being  a 
true  child  of  nature,  he  is  a  man  of  theories,  a  product  of  the  social  state 
against  which  he  tries  to  revolt.  He  does  not  so  much  relish  the  wilder- 
ness as  to  go  out  into  the  wilderness  in  or*der  to  rebuke  his  contemporaries. 
There  is  something  harsh  about  him  and  his  surroundings,  and  he  affords 
an  unconscious  proof  that  something  more  is  necessary  for  the  civilised 
man  who  would  become  a  true  man  of  the  woods  than  simply  to  strip 
off  his  clothes.  He  has  got  tolerably  free  from  tailors  ;  but  he  still  lives 
in  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  Cambridge  debating- rooms. 

To  find  a  life  really  in  harmony  with  a  rustic  environment,  we  must 
not  go  to  raw  settlements  where  man  is  still  fighting  with  the  outside 
world,  but  to  some  region  where  a  reconciliation  has  been  worked  out  by 
an  experience  of  centuries.  And  amidst  all  the  restlessness  of  modern 
improvers  we  may  still  find  a  few  regions  where  the  old  genius  has  not 
been  quite  exorcised.  Here  and  there,  in  country  lanes,  and  on  the  edge  of 
unenclosed  commons,  we  may  still  meet  the  gipsy — the  type  of  a  race 
adapted  to  live  in  the  interstices  of  civilisation,  having  something  of  the 
indefinable  grace  of  all  wild  animals,  and  yet  free  from  the  absolute 
savagery  of  the  genuine  wilderness.  To  mention  gipsies  is  to  think  of 
Mr.  Borrow ;  and  I  always  wonder  that  the  author  of  the  Bible  in 
Spain  and  Lavengro  is  not  more  popular.  Certainly,  I  have  found  no 
more  delightful  guide  to  the  charming  nooks  and  corners  of  rural 
England.  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  identify  that  remarkable  dingle 
in  which  he  met  so  singular  a  collection  of  characters.  Does  it  really 
exist,  I  wonder,  anywhere  on  this  island  1  or  did  it  ever  exist  ?  and,  if  so, 
has  it  become  a  railway-station,  and  what  has  become  of  Isopel  Berners 
and  "  Blazing  Bosville,  the  flaming  Tinman  ?  "  His  very  name  is  as 
good  as  a  poem,  and  the  battle  in  which  Mr.  Borrow  floored  the  Tinman 
by  that  happy  left-handed  blow  is,  to  my  mind,  more  delightful  than  the 
fight  in  Tom  Brown,  or  that  in  which  Dobbin  acted  as  the  champion  of 


676  RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

Osborne.  Mr.  Borrow  is  a  "  humourist "  of  the  first  water.  He  lives 
in  a  world  of  his  own — a  queer  world  with  laws  peculiar  to  itself,  and 
yet  one  which  has  all  manner  of  odd  and  unexpected  points  of  contact 
with  the  prosaic  world  of  daily  experience.  Mr.  Borrow's  Bohemianism 
is  no  revolt  against  the  established  order.  He  does  not  invoke  nature 
or  fly  to  the  hedges  because  society  is  corrupt  or  the  world  unsatisfying, 
or  because  he  has  some  kind  of  new  patent  theory  of  life  to  work  out. 
He  cares  nothing  for  such  fancies.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  a  staunch 
conservative,  full  of  good  old-fashioned  prejudices.  He  seems  to  be  a 
case  of  the  strange  re-appearance  of  an  ancestral  instinct  under  altered 
circumstances.  Some  of  his  forefathers  must  have  been  gipsies  by 
temperament  if  not  by  race ;  and  the  impulses  due  to  that  strain  have 
got  themselves  blended  with  the  characteristics  of  the  average  English- 
man. The  result  is  a  strange  and  yet,  in  a  way,  harmonious  and 
original  type,  which  made  the  Bible  in  Spain  a  puzzle  to  the  average 
reader.  The  name  suggested  a  work  of  the  edifying  class.  Here  was 
a  good  respectable  emissary  of  the  Bible  Society  going  to  convert  four 
papists  by  a  distribution  of  the  Scriptures.  He  has  returned  to  write 
a  long  tract  setting  forth  the  difficulties  of  his  enterprise,  and  the  stiff- 
neckedness  of  the  Spanish  peonje.  The  luckless  reader  who  took  up 
the  book  on  that  understanding  was  destined  to  a  strange  disappoint- 
ment. True,  Mr.  Borrow  appeared  to  take  his  enterprise  quite  seriously, 
indulges  in  the  proper  reflections,  and  gets  into  the  regulation  difficulty 
involving  an  appeal  to  the  British  minister.  But  it  soon  appears  that 
his  Protestant  zeal  is  somehow  mixed  up  with  a  passion  for  strange 
wanderings  in  the  queerest  of  company.  To  him  Spain  is  not  the  land  of 
staunch  Catholicism,  or  of  Cervantes,  or  of'  Velasquez,  and  still  less  a 
country  of  historic  or  political  interest.  Its  attraction  is  in  the  pictu- 
resque outcasts  who  find  ample  roaming-ground  in  its  wilder  regions. 
He  regards  them,  it  is  true,  as  occasional  subjects  for  a  little  pro- 
selytism.  He  tells  us  how  he  once  delivered  a  moving  address  to 
the  gipsies  in  their  own  language  to  his  most  promising  congregation. 
When  he  had  finished,  he  looked  up  and  found  himself  the  centre  of  all 
eyes,  each  pair  contorted  by  a  hideous  squint,  rivalling  each  other  in 
frightfulness ;  and  the  performance,  which  he  seems  to  have  thoroughly 
appreciated,  pretty  well  expressed  the  gipsy  view  of  his  missionary 
enterprise.  But  they  delighted  to  welcome  him  in  his  other  character 
as  one  of  themselves,  and  yet  as  dropping  amongst  them  from  the  hostile 
world  outside.  And,  certainly,  no  one  not  thoroughly  at  home  with 
gipsy  ways,  gipsy  modes  of  thought,  to  whom  it  comes  quito  naturally 
to  put  up  in  a  den  of  cutthroats,  or  to  enter  the  field  of  his  missionary 
enterprise  in  company  with  a  professional  brigand  travelling  on  business, 
could  have  given  us  so  singular  a  glimpse  of  the  most  picturesque 
elements  of  a  strange  country.  Your  respectable  compiler  of  handbooks 
might  travel  for  years  in  the  same  districts  all  unconscious  that  passing 
vagabonds  were  so  fertile  in  romance.  The  freemasonry  which  exists 


EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  677 

amongst  the  class  lying  outside  the  pale  of  respectability  enables  Mr. 
Borrow  to  fall  in  with  adventures  full  of  mysterious  fascination.  He 
passes  through  forests  at  night  and  his  horse  suddenly  stops  and  trembles, 
whilst  he  hears  heavy  footsteps  and  rustling  branches,  and  some  heavy 
body  is  apparently  dragged  across  the  road  by  panting  but  invisible 
bearers.  He  enters  a  shadowy  pass,  and  is  met  by  a  man  with  a  face 
streaming  with  blood,  who  implores  him  not  to  go  forwards  into  the 
hands  of  a  band  of  robbers ;  and  Mr.  Borrow  is  too  sleepy  and  indifferent 
to  stop,  and  jogs  on  in  safety  without  meeting  the  knife  which  he  half 
expected.  "  It  was  not  so  written,"  he  says,  with  the  genuine  fatalism 
of  your  hand-to-mouth  Bohemian.  He  crosses  a  wild  moor  with  a  half- 
witted guide,  who  suddenly  deserts  him  at  a  little  tavern.  After  a  wild 
gallop  on  a  pony,  apparently  half-witted  also,  he  at  last  rejoins  the  guide 
resting  by  a  fountain.  This  gentleman  condescends  to  explain  that  he  is 
in  the  habit  of  bolting  after  a  couple  of  glasses,  and  never  stops  till  he 
comes  to  running  water.  The  congenial  pair  lose  themselves  at  night- 
fall, and  the  guide  observes  that  if  they  should  meet  the  Estadea,  which 
are  spirits  of  the  dead  riding  with  candles  in  their  hands — a  phenomenon 
happily  rare  in  this  region — he  shall  "  run  and  run  till  he  drowns  him- 
self in  the  sea,  somewhere  near  Muros.'"  The  Estadea  do  not  appear, 
but  Mr.  Borrow  and  his  guide  come  near  being  hanged  as  Don  Carlos 
and  a  nephew,  escaping  only  by  the  help  of  a  sailor  who  knows  the 
English  words  knife  and  fork,  and  can  therefore  testify  to  Mr.  Barrow's 
nationality ;  and  is  finally  liberated  by  an  official  who  is  a  devoted 
student  of  Jeremy  Bentham.  The  queer  stumbling  upon  a  name  redolent 
of  every-day  British  life,  throws  the  surrounding  oddity  into  quaint 
relief.  But  Mr.  Borrow  encounters  more  mysterious  characters.  There 
is  the  wondrous  Abarbenelt,  whom  he  meets  riding  by  night,  and 
with  whom  he  soon  becomes  hand  and; glove.  Abarbenelt  is  a  huge 
figure  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  who  stares  at  him  in  the  moonlight  with 
deep  calm  eyes,  and  still  revisits  him  in  dreams.  He  has  two  wives  and 
a  hidden  treasure  of  old  coins,  and  when  the  gates  of  his  house  are 
locked,  and  the  big  dogs  loose  in  the  court,  he  dines  off  ancient  plate 
made  before  the  discovery  of  America.  There  are  many  of  his  race 
amongst  the  priesthood,  and  even  an  Archbishop,  who  died  in  great 
renown  for  sanctity,  had  come  by  night  to  kiss  his  father's  hand.  Nor 
can  any  reader  forget  the  singular  history  of  Benedict  Mol,  the 
wandering  Swiss,  who  turns  up  now  and  then  in  the  course  of  his 
search  for  the  hidden  treasure  at  Compostella.  Men  who  live  in  strange 
company  learn  the  advantage  of  not  asking  questions,  or  following  out 
delicate  inquiries ;  and  these  singular  figures  are  the  more  attractive 
because  they  come  and  go,  half-revealing  themselves  for  a  moment,  and 
then  vanishing  into  outside  mystery ;  as  the  narrator  himself  sometimes 
merges  into  the  regions  of  absolute  commonplace,  and  then  dives  down 
below  the  surface  into  the  remotest  recesses  of  the  social  labyrinth. 

In  Spain  there  may  be  room  for  such  wild  adventures.     In  the  trim, 


678  RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

orderly,  English  country  we  might  fancy  they  had  gone  out  with  the 
fames.     And  yet  Mr.  Borrow  meets  a  decayed  pedlar  in  Spain  who  seems 
to  echo  his  own  sentiments ;  and  tells  him  that  even  the  most  prosperous 
of  his  tribe  who  have  made  their  fortunes  in  America,  return  in  their 
dreams  to  the  green  English  lanes  and  farmyards.     "  There  they  are 
with  their  boxes  on  the  ground  displaying  their  goods  to  the  honest 
rustics  and  their  dames  and  their  daughters,  and  selling  away  and  chaffer- 
ing and  laughing  just  as  of  old.     And  there  they  are  again  at  nightfall 
in  the  hedge  alehouses,  eating  their  toasted  cheese  and  their  bread,  and 
drinking  the  Suffolk  ale,  and  listening  to  the  roaring  song  and  merry  jests 
of  the  labourers."     It  is  the  old  picturesque  country  life  which  fascinates 
Mr.  Borrow,  and  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  plunge  into  the  heart  of  it 
\yefore  it  had  been  frightened  away  by  the  railways.     Lavengro  is  a 
strange  medley,   which  is  nevertheless  charming  by  reason  of  the  odd 
idiosyncrasy  which  fits  the  author  to  interpret  this  fast  vanishing  phase 
of  life.     It  contains  queer  controversial   irrelevance — conversations  or 
stories  which  may  or  may  not  be  more  or  less  founded  on  fact,  tending 
to  illustrate  the  pernicious  propagandism  of  Popery,  the  evil  done  by  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels,  and  the  melancholy  results  of  the  decline  of  pugilism. 
And  then  we  have  satire  of  a  simple  kind  upon  literary  craftsmen,  and  ex- 
cursions into  philology  which  show  at  least  an  amusing  dash  of  innocent 
vanity.     But  the  oddity  of  these  quaint  utterances  of  a  humourist  who 
seeks  to  find  the  most  congenial  mental  food  in  the  Bible,  the  Newgate 
Calendar,  and  in  old  Welsh  literature,  is  in  thorough  keeping  with  the 
situation.     He  is  the  genuine  tramp  whose  experience  is  naturally  made 
up  of  miscellaneous  waifs  and  strays;  who  drifts  into  contact  with  the 
most   eccentric  beings,  and  parts  company  with  them  at  a  moment's 
notice,  or  catching  hold  of  some  stray  bit  of  out-of-the-way  knowledge  fol- 
lows it  up  as  long  as  it  amuses  him.     He  is  equally  at  home  compound- 
ing narratives  of  the  lives  of  eminent  criminals  for  London  booksellers, 
or  making  acquaintance  with  thimbleriggers,  or  pugilists,  or  Armenian 
merchants,  or  becoming  a  hermit  in  his  remote  dingle,  making  his  own  shoes 
and  discussing  theology  with  a  postboy,  a  feminine  tramp,  and  a  Jesuit  in 
disguise.     The  compound  is  too  quaint  for  fiction,  but  is  made  interesting 
by  the  quaint  vein  of  simplicity  and  the  touch  of  genius  which  brings  out 
the  picturesque  side  of  his  roving  existence,  and  yet  leaves  one  in  doubt 
how  far  the  author  appreciates  his  own  singularity.     One  old  gipsy  lady 
in  particular,  who  turns  up  at  intervals,  is  as  fascinating  as  Meg  Merri- 
lees,  and  at  once   made  life-like  and  more   mysterious.     "  My  name  is 
Herne,  and  I  comes  of  the  hairy  ones  !  "  are  the  remarkable  words  by 
which  she  introduces  herself.     She  bitterly  regrets  the  intrusion  of  a 
Gentile  into  the  secrets  of  the  Romanies,  and  relieves  her  feelings  by 
administering  poison  to  the  intruder,  and  then  trying  to  poke  out  his 
eye  as  he  is  lying  apparently  in  his  last  agonies.     But  she  seems  to  be 
highly  respected  by  her  victim  as  well  as  by  her  own  people,  and  to  be 
acting  in  accordance  with  the  moral  teaching  of  her  tribe.     Her  design 


RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS.  679 

is  frustrated  by  the  appearance  of  a  Welsh  Methodist  preacher,  who,  like 
every  other  strange  being,  is  at  once  compelled  to  unbosom  himself  to  this 
odd  confessor.  He  fancies  himself  to  have  committed  the  unpardonable 
sin  at  the  age  of  six,  and  is  at  once  comforted  by  Mr.  Borrow's  sensible 
observation  that  he  should  not  care  if  he  had  done  the  same  thing  twenty 
times  over  at  the  same  period.  The  grateful  preacher  induces  his  con- 
soler to  accompany  him  to  the  borders  of  Wales  ;  but  there  Mr.  Borrow 
suddenly  stops  on  the  ground  that  he  should  prefer  to  enter  Wales  in  a 
suit  .of  superfine  black,  mounted  on  a  powerful  steed  like  that  which  bore 
Greduv  to  the  fight  of  Catrath,  and  to  be  welcomed  at  a  dinner  of  the 
bards,  as  the  translator  of  the  odes  of  the  great  Ab  Gwilym.  And  Mr. 
Petulengro  opportunely  turns  up  at  the  instant,  and  Mr.  Borrow  rides 
back  with  him,  and  hears  that  Mrs.  Herne  has  hanged  herself,  and  cele- 
brates the  meeting  by'a  fight  without  gloves,  but  in  pure  friendliness,  and 
then  settles  down  to  the  life  of  a  blacksmith  in  his  secluded  dingle. 

Certainly  it  is  a  queer  topsy-turvy  world  to  which  we  are  introduced 
in  Lavengro.  It  gives  the  reader  the  sensation  of  a  strange  dream  in 
which  all  the  miscellaneous  population  of  caravans  and  wayside  tents 
make  their  exits  and  entrances  at  random,  mixed  with  such  eccentrics  as 
the  distinguished  author,  who  has  a  mysterious  propensity  for  touching 
odd  objects  as  a  charm  against  evil.  All  one's  ideas  are  dislocated  when 
the  centre  of  interest  is  no  longer  in  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  but  in  that 
curious  limbo  whither  drift  all  the  odd  personages  who  live  in  the 
interstices  without  being  caught  by  the  meshes  of  the  great  network  of 
ordinary  convention.  Perhaps  the  oddity  repels  many  readers  ;  but  to 
me  it  always  seems  that  Mr.  Borrow's  dingle  represents  a  little  oasis  of 
genuine  romance — a  kind  of  half- visionary  fragment  of  fairyland,  which 
reveals  itself  like  the  enchanted  castle  in  the  vale  of  St.  John,  and  then 
vanishes  after  tantalising  and  arousing  one's  curiosity.  It  will  never 
be  again  discovered  by  any  flesh- and-blood  traveller;  but  in  my  imagi- 
nary travels,  I  like  to  rusticate  there  for  a  time,  and  to  feel  as  if  the  gipsy 
was  the  true  possessor  of  the  secret  of  life,  and  we  who  travel  by  rail  and 
read  newspapers  and  consider  ourselves  to  be  sensible  men  of  business, 
were  but  vexatious  intruders  upon  this  sweet  dream.  There  must,  one 
supposes,  be  a  history  of  England  from  the  Petulengro  point  of  view,  in 
which  the  change  of  dynasties  recognised  by  Hume  and  Mr.  Freeman,  or 
the  oscillations  of  power  between  Lord  Beaconsfield  and  Mr.  Gladstone, 
appear  in  relative  insignificance  as  more  or  less  affecting  certain  police 
regulations  and  the  inclosure  of  commons.  It  is  pleasant  for  a  time  to 
feel  as  though  the  little  rivulet  were  the  main  stream,  and  the  social  outcast 
the  true  centre  of  society.  The  pure  flavour  of  the  country  life  is  only 
perceptible  when  one  has  annihilated  all  disturbing  influences ;  and  in 
that  little  dingle  with  its  solitary  forge  beneath  the  woods  haunted  by 
the  hairy  Hernes,  that  desirable  result  may  be  achieved  for  a  time,  even 
in  a  London  library. 


680 


rs. 


i. 

COLONEL  RANDOLPH  woke  up  one  sunny  spring  morning,  with  that 
vague  recollection  of  something  having  happened  to  him  the  night  before 
and  that  instinctive  impulse  to  go  to  sleep  again  quickly,  before  the 
memory  should  have  time  to  take  definite  shape,  which  are  among  the 
most  common  and  least  agreeable  of  human  experiences.  It  is  needless 
to  say  that  he  did  not  achieve  a  return  to  oblivion.  The  mere  fact  of 
having  to  make  an  effort  to  obtain  sleep  is  usually  quite  sufficient  to 
frighten  sleep  away,  and  Colonel  Randolph  succeeded  no  better  than  did 
his  fellow-mortals  in  the  surrounding  city,  many  of  whom  must  at  that 
same  moment  have  been  dismally  recalling  debts  incurred,  engagements 
entered  into,  high  words  exchanged,  or  other  seeds  of  trouble  foolishly 
sown  on  the  previous  evening,  and  repented  of  too  late.  The  Colonel's 
case,  however,  was  not  so  bad  as  any  of  these  ;  it  was  only  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love.  After  sitting  up  in  bed  for  a  few  minutes  and  rubbing 
his  eyes,  he  remembered  all  about  it,  and  muttered  a  word  or  two  under 
his  breath  with  the  deprecatory  smile  of  one  who  is  conscious  of  having 
perpetrated  an  act  of  folly,  and  expects  to  -be  laughed  at  for  it. 

What  he  said  to  himself  was,  "  It's  very  ridiculous — utterly  ridi- 
culous. Upon  my  word  it  is !  " 

And  yet,  upon  the  face  of  it,  there  was  no  reason  why  Colonel  Ran- 
dolph in  love  should  be  more  ridiculous  than  any  other  man  in  a  similar 
predicament.  It  is  true  that  he  was  nearer  fifty  than  forty ;  but  then 
he  neither  looked  nor  felt  his  age.  He  was  tall,  handsome  and  active, 
and  the  black  hairs  on  his  head  and  in  his  moustache  still  predominated 
over  the  grey  ;  moreover,  he  had  only  recently  resigned  the  command  of 
a  smart  hussar  regiment,  and  he  was  heir-presumptive  to  a  baronetcy 
and  an  estate  with  a  moderate  rent-roll  attached  to  it.  He  was  thus  on 
various  grounds  a  man  who  had  the  right  to  pay  his  addresses  in 
accordance  with  the  dictates  of  his  heart,  and  whose  marriage  might  be 
regarded  as  a  fitting  and  not  improbable  event.  And,  besides  all  this, 
he  was  no  novice  in  the  art  of  pleasing,  having  been  in  love  many  times 
during  the  course  of  his  military  career,  and  having  passed  through  the 
malady  without  incurring  any  of  the  ulterior  penalties  which  commonly 
attach  thereto. 

There  were,  however,  circumstances  connected  with  the  present 
crisis  which  caused  the  Colonel  to  feel  uneasy,  and  to  take  up  an  expos- 
tulatory  and  argumentative  tone  in  his  self-communings.  To  begin 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  681 

with,  he  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  he  was  harder  hit  this 
time  than  he  had  ever  been  before ;  and  certainly  he  had  never  on  any 
previous  occasion  succumbed  in  such  a  marvellously  short  space  of  time. 

"  Oh,  it's  simply  ridiculous,  you  know,"  the  Colonel  repeated, 
drawing  up  his  knees  and  resting  his  chin  upon  them.  "  I'm  like  the 
old  woman  in  the  nursery-rhyme,  by  Jove — '  this  is  none  of  I ! '  To 
think  that  yesterday  morning  I  hadn't  even  seen  her !  And  now  I 
don't  know  who  she  is,  or  where  she  comes  from,  or  a  single  blessed 
thing  about  the  woman,  except  that  she's  a  Yankee  and  that  her  name's 
Van  Steen,  and  that  she's  the  most  adorable  creature  in  the  whole 
world.  I  do  trust  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  downright  fool  of  myself. 
I've  a  great  mind  not  to  meet  her  again.  I  don't  think  I'll  go  to  that 
ball  to-night  after  all ;  what  the  deuce  should  I  go  to  balls  for  1  I've 
done  v«ith  dancing  and  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

At  this  juncture,  Colonel  Randolph's  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  his  servant,  who  proceeded  to  fill  the  bath  and  lay  out 
his  master's  clothes,  while  the  Colonel  flopped  down  on  his  back,  like  a 
guilty  thing  surprised,  and  for  some  reason  which  he  would  have  been 
puzzled  to  explain,  went  through  an  elaborate  feint  of  yawning  and 
stretching  himself. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  he  was  shaved  and  dressed,  and  was 
looking  over  the  geraniums  outside  his  window  into  the  sunny  thorough- 
fare below,  at  the  end  of  which  there  was  a  glimpse  of  St.  James's 
Street  and  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of  passing  vehicles  and  pedestrians,  he 
began  to  feel  more  comfortable,  and  the  common  sense  which,  as  he 
flattered  himself,  was  one  of  the  chief  ingredients  of  his  character, 
showed  signs  of  reasserting  its  sway.  "  No  ;  I'm  not  going  to  that  ball 
to-night ;  I'm  hanged  if  I  do  ! "  he  said,  decidedly.  "  It's  all  confounded 
humbug  and  nonsense."  And  with  that  he  took  his  way  downstairs, 
and  marched  off  to  the  Club  to  breakfast. 

Colonel  Randolph  belonged  to  two  clubs,  the  United  Service  and 
the  Army  and  Navy.  At  the  first  he  usually  breakfasted,  and,  when  he 
had  no  other  engagement,  dined ;  at  the  second  he  spent  nearly  all  the 
remainder  of  his  spare  time.  He  had  reached  a  period  of  life  at  which 
men  are  apt  to  fall  into  methodical  habits  ;  and  the  afternoon  rubber  of 
whist  to  which,  when  he  first  left  his  regiment,  he  had  resorted  only  as 
an  occasional  means  of  passing  time,  had  latterly  become  as  essential  a 
part  of  his  somewhat  monotonous  daily  life  as  eating,  drinking,  and 
sleeping.  To-day,  however,  he  was  absent  from  the  familiar  room  when 
the  clock  struck  five,  and  his  friends  caused  the  club  to  be  searched  for 
him  in  vain.  At  that  moment,  indeed,  he  was  ringing  the  door-bell  of 
a  certain  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  where  he  had  dined  the  night}before, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  he  was  shown  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Digby, 
whom  he  knew  to  be  as  dependent  upon  her  cup  of  afternoon  tea  as  some 
other  people  are  upon  a  game  of  whist.  Mrs.  Digby  was  a  good-natured, 
rather  silly  woman,  considerably  past  middle  age,  and  innocent  of  the 


682  MES.  VAN  STEEN. 

smallest  pretensions  to  beauty.  The  Colonel,  who  held  that  all  women 
ought  to  be  young  and  pretty,  had  no  special  affection  for  her ;  neverthe- 
less he  was  quite  honest  in  his  remark  that  he  had  called  at  five  o'clock, 
believing  that  to  be  his  best  chance  of  finding  her  at  home. 

"How  nice  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Digby.  "I  thought  you  always 
called  upon  people  when  you  thought  there  was  a  good  chance  of  finding 
them  out.  I'm  sure  most  men  do.  Now  let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  tea." 
But  the  Colonel  declined  this  refreshment,  alleging  that  his  nerves 
wouldn't  stand  it.  He  seated  himself  in  a  low  chair,  stretched  out  his 
long  legs,  and  began  to  talk  in  a  very  pleasant,  easy  manner  about 
Madame  Sembrich  and  the  evil  deeds  of  the  Liberal  Government,  and 
the  latest  scandals  which  were  agitating  society  at  the  time.  Not  that 
he  loved  scandal,  honest  man ;  nor  indeed  did  he  know  or  care  much 
about  the  doings  of  that  portion  of  society  which  has  taken  to  spelling 
itself  with  a  capital  S  ;  but  he  made  it  a  rule  to  suit  his  conversation,  so 
far  as  in  him  lay,  to  his  company,  and  upon  the  present  occasion  his 
customary  politeness  was  supplemented  by  certain  private  reasons  for 
wishing  to  make  himself  agreeable.  He  made  no  allusion  to  the  subject 
which  he  had  come  to  Grosvenor  Place  with  the  sole  purpose  of  dis- 
cussing :  for  he  preferred  that  it  should  be  introduced  by  his  hostess,  as 
he  felt  sure  that  it  would  be  before  long;  and  the  event  justified  his 
anticipation  and  rewarded  his  patience. 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  think  of  my  belle  Americaine  1  "  Mrs. 
Digby  asked,  after  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  which  her  visitor  had 
not  seen  fit  to  break.  "  Isn't  she  quite  charming  1  So  fresh  and 
original  and  unlike  everybody  else — and  so  .pretty;  don't  you  think  so?" 
"  Yes — oh  yes.  Very  good-looking  little  woman  ;  no  doubt  of  it," 
answered  the  Colonel  in  an  off-hand  sort  of  way ;  for  it  was  another  of 
his  rules  never  to  praise  a  lady's  beauty  in  the  presence  of  any  member 
of  her  own  sex.  Indeed  he  was  a  man  who,  in  all  his  dealings,  was 
much  governed  by  rules  ;  a  result,  possibly,  of  his  military  training. 

"  Good-looking  ! — what  an  expression  !  I  think  she  is  simply  beau- 
tiful. And  you  must  admit  that  she  is  original  and  amusing.  At  all 
events  you  seemed  to  find  her  so  last  night ;  for  I  noticed  that  you 
never  spoke  to  any  one  else  the  whole  evening.  I  confess  I  have  a  weak- 
ness for  Americans — nice  Americans,  I  mean,  of  course.  Haven't 
you?" 

"  Well,  really,  I  don't  know  much  about  them,"  the  Colonel  con- 
fessed. "  They  generally  talk  through  their  noses,  don't  they  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Van  Steen  doesn't  talk  through  her  nose;  and  even  if  she 
did,  one  might  forgive  her,  considering  what  a  pretty  little  nose  it  is. 
I  want  to  introduce  her  to  people  and  make  London  pleasant  for  her,  if 
I  can.  We  English  are  such  an  inhospitable  race ;  I  quite  blush  for  my 
country  sometimes.  When  foreign  royalties  come  here  we  give  them  a 
salute  of  twenty-one  guns,  furnish  them  with  a  special  train  to  London 
— Avbich  they  pay  for,  I  suppose — and  send  them  to  an  hotel ;  and  in 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  683 

private  life  most  people  think  they  have  done  all  that  is  required  of 
them  if  they  ask  a  stranger  who  brings  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
dinner  once.  In  America,  you  know,  it  is  so  very  different.  My  eldest 
boy  was  in  New  York  last  year,  and  you  can't  think  how  kind  every- 
body was  to  him." 

"  Did  he  make  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  acquaintance  there  I  " 
"  Oh  no  ;  I  met  her  at  Cannes  last  winter.  I  feel  that,  both  as  an 
Englishwoman  and  as  an  individual,  I  owe  the  United  States  some 
civility ;  so  I  look  upon  the  Americans  whom  I  meet  as  representing 
their  country,  and  upon  myself  as  representing  mine  so  far  as  they  are 
concerned  ;  don't  you  see  I  " 

The  Colonel  said  that  that  was  a  very  proper  view  to  take  of  inter- 
national obligations,  and  was  an  additional  unneeded  proof  of  Mrs. 
Digby's  personal  amiability.  "  But,"  he  added,  "  the  only  thing  is,  one 
might  get  rather  unpleasantly  let  in  in  that  way.  I  mean,  one  likes  to 
know  where  people  come  from,  and  who  they  are  when  they're  at  home, 
and  all  that." 

"  Oh,  I  think  one  can  always  tell,"  said  Mrs.  Digby ;  "  but  after  all, 
what  does  it  signify,  so  long  as  people  look  nice  and  know  how  to  behave 
themselves  1  It  isn't  as  if  one  were  going  to  marry  them,  or  live  near 
them  in  the  country,  or  anything  of  that  kind." 

"  No,  to  be  sure.     Has  this  Mrs.  Yan  Steen  been  long  a  widow  1 " 
"I  haven't  the  least  idea.     Oh  yes,  I  should  think  so;  she  is  out  of 
mourning,  you  see." 

"  Plenty  of  money,  I  suppose  1  " 

"  Heaps,"  answered  Mrs.  Digby,  confidently  :  "  all  these  Americans 
have.  I'm  s:>rryyou  don't  think  her  respectable,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Digby  ! — not  respectable  1  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  You  hinted  as  much ;  and  I  am  very  much  annoyed  with  you, 
because  I  particularly  wished  you  to  like  her.  Everybody  liked  her  at 
Cannes  ;  she  was  immensely  taken  up  there  ;  Lady  Polker  was  quite  as 
much  charmed  with  her  as  I  was.  By-the-bye,  are  you  going  to  Lady 
Polker 's  ball  to-night  t  " 

"  I  had  not  quite  made  up  my  mind,"  answered  Colonel  Randolph. 
"Perhaps  I  may  look  in  for  half-an-hour  or  so;  balls  are  not  much  in 
my  line  now-a  days." 

"Oh,  do  go — an:l  dance  with  Mrs.  Van  Steen.  Then  you  will  be 
able  to  ask  her  who  her  husband  was,  and  whether  she  mixes  in  the 
highest  circles  in  New  York,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  put  those  questions," 
said  the  Colonel,  laughing.  "  I  am  not  going  to  live  near  her  in  the 
country,  or  to  marry  her,  you  know." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  of  that;  who  knows  his  fate?  And  I  warn 
you  that  she  is  very  irresistible." 

"  I  am  too  old  to  dance,  and  too  old  to  marry,  Mrs.  Digby,"  says  the 


684  MKS.  VAN  STEEN. 

Colonel,  getting  up.     But  before  he  went  away  he  had  promised  to  put 
in  an  appearance  at  Lady  Polker's  ball. 

As  he  walked  down  Piccadilly,  he  told  himself  that  he  had  wasted  an 
afternoon,  and  had  failed  in  the  object  of  his  visit,  which  had  been  to 
gain  some  information  as  to  Mrs.  "Van  S  teen's  antecedents ;  but  it  is 
possible  that  he  may  have  had  another  unacknowledged  aim  in  view, 
and  that  he  was  glad  to  shift  on  to  Mrs.  Digby's  shoulders  the  responsi- 
bility of  having  caused  him  to  break  his  resolution  of  the  morning. 

II. 

It  was  close  upon  midnight  when  Colonel  _E,andolph,  looking  very 
trim  and  spruce  in  his  perfectly  fitting  evening  suit,  stepped  up  Lady 
Polker's  staircase.  He  had  said  to  himself  that,  as  he  was  not  going  to 
dance,  there  could  be  no  need  for  hurry ;  he  would  drop  in  at  the  most 
crowded  time,  just  take  a  look  round,  and  slip  away  again.  As  soon, 
therefore,  as  he  had  shaken  hatfcls  with  the  lady  of  the  house,  he  made 
his  way  into  the  dancing- room,  and  stood  for  awhile  in  the  doorway  with 
folded  arms,  surveying  the  scene,  which,  indeed,  was  a  sufficiently  pretty 
one.  There  was  a  crowd,  but  it  was  not  so  great  as  to  render  dancing  a 
mere  figure  of  speech ;  the  rooms  were  spacious  for  a  London  house,  and 
were  profusely  decorated  with  cut  flowers,  after  the  rather  extravagant 
modern  fashion  ;  huge  blocks  of  ice  placed  here  and  there,  and  artistically 
covered  with  sprays  of  creeping  plants,  kept  the  air  cool ;  the  lighting 
was  so  contrived  as  to  be  at  once  brilliant  and  soft.  It  is  doubtful,  how- 
ever, whether  the  Colonel's  wandering  eyes  noted  any  of  these  agreeable 
details.  It  was  not  of  inanimate  beauty  that  they  were  in  search,  and 
after  the  appearance  of  a  certain  couple  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
their  range  of  conscious  vision  became  narrowed  to  the  limits  of  a  very 
small  area.  The  Colonel's,  to  be  sure,  were  by  no  means  the  only  pair 
of  eyes  present  that  persistently  followed  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  graceful  move- 
ments. The  little  American  lady  had  caused  a  genuine  sensation,  and 
everybody  who  did  not  know  her  name  was  asking  everybody  else  who 
she  was.  Hers  was  a  beauty  of  that  delicate,  refined,  and  perfectly 
finished  order  which  is  more  common  among  her  countrywomen  than 
among  our  own,  and  which  is  popularly  supposed — by  way,  perhaps,  of 
compensation — to  be  of  a  specially  transient  kind.  Her  age  was  a  doubt- 
ful point.  She  looked  about  twenty ;  but  probabilities  seemed  to  point 
to  her  being  some  four  or  five  years  older.  She  had  small,  regular  fea- 
tures ;  her  abundant  brown  hair,  which  grew  with  a  slight  natural 
ripple,  was  taken  back  from  a  low,  broad  forehead ;  her  eyes  were  of  the 
darkest  blue ;  her  complexion  was  a  standing  evidence  of  the  futility  of 
artificial  appliances,  as  exhibited  upon  the  cheeks  of  more  than  one  lady 
in  the  room ;  and  when  she  laughed,  as  she  did  pretty  constantly,  a  glimpse 
was  discernible  of  the  whitest  and  most  even  little  teeth  in  the  world. 
Add  to  this  that  she  was  dressed  by  "Worth,  gloved  by  Jouvin,  and  wore 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  685 

pearls  and  diamonds  in  her  hair  and  about  her  neck,  and  it  will  be 
allowed  that  there  was  some  excuse  for  our  admiring  Colonel's  dazzled 
and  fascinated  gaze. 

Accidentally  or  purposely,  she  brought  her  partner  to  a  standstill 
close  to  the  doorway,  and  as  she  happened  immediately  afterwards  to 
glance  over  her  shoulder,  the  Colonel  seized  this  opportunity  of  making 
his  best  bow.  She  turned  round  at  once,  and  extended  her  hand,  ex 
claiming,  "  Why,  it's  Colonel  Randolph !  How  do  you  do,  Colonel 
Randolph  1 "  exactly  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life. 

There  was  something  about  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  bright,  frank  smile 
that  was  apt  to  produce  an  instantaneous  reflection  upon  the  face  of  any 
one  whom  she  might  be  addressing.  The  Colonel,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  her,  was  beaming  all  over,  and  knew  that  he  was  beaming,  and 
wished  he  wasn't.  He  was  a  prey,  that  evening,  to  a  morbid  self-con- 
sciousness quite  unusual  with  him,  and  he  had  an  uncomfortable  fancy  that 
Mrs.  Van  Steen's  partner,  a  certain  Captain  Gore,  with  whom  he  had  a 
slight  acquaintance,  was  surreptitiously  laughing  at  him.  The  young  man 
certainly  wore  a  faintly  amused  look. 

"  So  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  come,"  said  the  little  lady.  "  I 
am  so  glad.  I  had  given  up  all  hope  of  you." 

"  I  made  up  my  mind  the  moment  I  received  your  commands,  Mrs. 
Van  Steen,"  answered  the  Colonel,  with  pardonable  mendacity. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  the  Colonel  contemplated  his 
neighbour  with  eloquent  eyes. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last;  "aren't  you  going  to  ask  me  for  a 
dance  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  Colonel  murmured  in  some  confusion ;  "  I 
didn't  know  whether  I  might  be  honoured  so  far.  If  you  will  give  me 
the  next  lancers " 

She  nodded ;  and  then,  turning  to  her  partner,  "Come,  Captain 
Gore,"  she  said,  "  we  must  not  lose  the  rest  of  this  waltz."  And  so  was 
whirled  away. 

"  You  English  people  are  very  shy,  aren't  you,  Captain  Gore?  "  she 
asked,  as  soon  as  an  opportunity  for  conversation  presented  itself. 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  shy,"  said  Captain  Gore. 

"  Well,  no,"  she  answered,  surveying  him  consideringly ;  "  to  do  you 
justice,  I  don't  think  you  are.  But  Colonel  Randolph  is." 

"  Is  he  1  "  said  the  young  man,  with  a  laugh.  "  He  used  not  to  be 
shy  on  parade,  I  hear.  Regular  old  tartar,  by  Jove  !  They  say  he's  to 
have  the  command  of  our  depot  at  Canterbury ;  hope  it  isn't  true.  How 
do  you  make  him  feel  shy,  Mrs.  Van  Steen  1  Might  be  a  useful  thing  to 
know." 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  you  couldn't  adopt  quite  the  same  means.  I  only 
reminded  him  that  he  hadn't  asked  me  for  a  dance,  and  he  blushed  and 
stammered,  and  offered  me  the  next  lancers." 

"  I  should  think  so,  poor  old  boy  I     You  didn't  expect  him  to  do  a 


686  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

round  dance,  did  you?,  Come,  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  I  dare  say  you  can  manage 
most  things,  but  if  you  make  old  Randolph  waltz,  I'll  eat  him." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  ask  you  to  do  that,"  said  the  lady  demurely;  "  I  dare 
say  you  can  swallow  most  things,  Captain  Gore ;  but  I  doubt  whether 
you  could  quite  swallow  Colonel  Randolph.  I  will  bet  you  a  pair  of 
gloves  that  he  waltzes  with  me  before  the  evening  is  over,  though,  if  you 
like." 

The  subject  of  this  disrespectful  wager  came  up  before  very  long  to 
claim  the  promised  lancers,  and  Mrs.  Van  Steen  rose  and  placed  her 
little  hand  upon  his  proffered  arm. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something,"  she  said,  as  they  took  their 
places. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  tell  you  anything  that  I  know,  Mrs.  Van 
Steen." 

"  Then,  do  you  consider  it  vulgar  in  England  to  enjoy  yourselves  ?  " 
"  I  never  heard  that  it  was  considered  so.     We  have  a  character  for 
taking  our  pleasure  sadly,  of  course;  isn't  that  rather  a  threadbare 
accusation  1 " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  making  any  accusation.    I'm  only  a  poor  stranger,  you 
know — a  Transatlantic  barbarian  ;  I'm  obliged  to  ask  questions.    I  notice 
that  none  of  you  ever  do  appear  to  enjoy  yourselves,  and  I  wondered 
whether  it  was  affectation,  or  only  a  natui'al  deficiency." 
"  We  enjoy  ourselves  in  a  quiet  way,"  the  Colonel  said. 
"  Well,  now,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  did  eA'en  that,  to  look  at 
you.     What  do  you  individually  enjoy,  for  instance  1     Don't  say  you 
enjoy  talking  to  me  ;  we'll  take  that  for  granted." 

The  Colonel,  after  a  little  consideration,  said  he  enjoyed  hunting  and 
shooting  very  well ;  and  added,  with  becoming  modesty,  that  he  liked  a 
good  book,  if  the  subject  wasn't  too  deep  for  him. 
"  Anything  else  1 " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  may  say  that  I  enjoy  soldiering.  At  least  it  has 
been  the  chief  interest  of  my  life.  But  that's  all  over  and. done  with 
now,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Why  so  I "  Mrs.  Van  Steen  asked. 

This  seemed  to  call  for  an  explanation  of  the  compulsory  retirement 
scheme,  with  its  advantages  and  disadvantages;  the  latter  prepondera- 
ting, in  the  Colonel's  opinion,  over  the  former.  He  was  led  to  dwell 
at  somewhat  greater  length  upon  this  subject  than  he  might  otherwise 
have  done  by  the  kindly  interest  which  his  companion  displayed  in  the 
matter,  and  by  the  readiness  with  which  she  seized  upon  every  point  in 
his  exposition.  She  put  little  shrewd,  abrupt  questions  from  time  to 
time ;  her  voice  was  pleasant  and  soft,  and  free  from  any  suspicion  of  a 
twang ;  her  occasional  Americanisms  lent  an  odd  and  original  charm  to 
her  speech ;  she  did  not  appear  to  be  bored  by  the  details  of  army  reorga- 
nisation, and  evidently  appreciated  the  hardships  of  sweeping  reforms  as 
regarded  individual  cases.  Given  a  sufficiently  sympathetic  listener, 


MKS.  VAN  STEEN.  687 

there  are  few  people  who  can  resist  the  temptation  of  talking  about  them- 
selves ;  and  it  is  a  fact  that  in  less  than  half  an  hour  Colonel  Randolph, 
who  was  by  nature  neither  loquacious  nor  communicative,  had  told  Mrs. 
Van  Steen  more  of  his  grievances,  hopes,  prospects,  and  so-  forth,  than 
he  would  have  confided  to  one  of  his  older  friends  in  the  course  of  a  year. 
He  and  his  patient  hearer  had  left  the  ball-room,  and  had  been  sitting  for 
some  time  in  a  cool  and  dimly-lighted  library,  before  he  realised  that  he 
was  trespassing  somewhat  unduly  upon  the  lady's  good  nature.  He 
checked  himself,  with  a  rather  embarrassed  laugh,  at  last. 

"  I  really  ought  to  apologise,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  business 
I  have  to  inflict  all  this  upon  you.  My  only  excuse  is  that  your  kind- 
ness has  made  me  feel  as  if  you  could  be  interested  in  hearing  me  talk." 

"  That's  just  it.  I  am  interested,  immensely  interested.  All  Eng- 
lishmen interest  me.  You  are  more  or  less  new  to  me,  you  see,  and  I 
like  to  hear  all  about  you." 

"For  the  same  reason  I  should  very  much  like  to  hear  all  about  you," 
said  the  Colonel,  emboldened  by  this  candid  avowal. 

"  Well,  I  expect  that  wouldn't  entertain  you  much ;  all  that  there  is 
to  be  said  about  me  can  be  easily  told.  Where  would  you  like  to  com- 
mence ?  " 

The  Colonel  would  gladly  have  put  a  few  direct  questions,  but  he 
shrank  from  seeming  to  catechise  his  new  acquaintance,  and  something 
in  her  manner  made  him  fear  that  she  suspected  him  of  some  such  design  ; 
so  he  contented  himself  with  asking  her  whether  it  was  long  since  she 
had  left  America. 

"  Oh,  I'm  most  always  over  here,"  she  answered,  apparently  including 
all  Europe  in  that  comprehensive  phrase  ;  "  but  I  haven't  been  in  Eng- 
land before,  except  just  to  pass  through.  I'm  by  way  of  being  delicate, 
and  needing  a  warm  climate ;  so  I'm  in  Italy  or  the  south  of  France 
nearly  all  the  time.  The  year  after  I  was  married  I  went  down  south 
to  New  Orleans ;  but  that  didn't  suit  me,  and  now  I  don't  think  I'll 
ever  settle  down  in  America  again." 

She  paused,  and  the  Colonel  hoped  that  she  would  say  something 
about  the  late  Van  Steen,  of  whom  he  began  to  feel  an  imreasonable 
kind  of  retrospective  jealousy  ;  but  she  did  not  seem  disposed  to  pursue  the 
subject,  and  there  was  comfort  in  the  obvious  fact  that  she  was  not  a  very 
disconsolate  widow.  In  his  mind's  eye  the  Colonel  saw  the  deceased  as 
an  elderly,  stout,  New  York  merchant,  who  had  married  very  late  in 
life,  and  had  considerately  taken  himself  oft*  without  loss  of  time,  leaving 
his  widow  with  all  th3  world  before  her,  with  unlimited  dollars  to  pay 
her  way  through  it,  and  with  all  the  gifts  which  Nature  had  bestowed 
upon  her  still  in  their  first  freshness.  He  could  not  help  saying — 

"  You  must  be  very  happy.  You  have  all  that  a  woman  can  wish 
for,  I  should  think." 

"  In  what  way  do  you  mean  1 "  she  asked,  with  a  quick  glance  of 
inquiry. 


688  MES.  VAN  STEEN. 

"  Youth,  beauty,  and  liberty,"  answered  the  Colonel,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation.  He  was  not  quite  sure  how  Mrs.  Van  Steen  would  take 
such  plain  language,  but  she  did  not  appear  to  be  offended  by  it.  Her 
manner  had  a  mixture  of  the  innocence  of  a  child  and  the  assured  ease  of 
a  woman  of  the  world,  which  was  a  complete  novelty  to  the  Colonel,  and 
had  perhaps  done  more  than  even  her  beauty  towards  captivating  him. 

"  Yes,  that  is  so,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  I'm  as  happy  as  most 
people.  I  am  not  like  you ;  I  don't  enjoy  only  a  few  things,  and  those 
not  very  much;  I  enjoy  everything;  my  capacities  in  that  direction 
know  no  bounds.  And  do  you  know,  Colonel  Randolph,"  she  added 
gravely,  "  my  idea  of  enjoyment  at  a  ball  is  dancing." 

"  Is  that  a  hint  that  I  have  exhausted  your  patience  at  last  ? "  asked 
the  Colonel,  getting  up.  "  Let  me  hasten  to  make  the  only  reparation 
in  my  power,  and  take  you  back  to  the  ball-room." 

"  Well,  it's  a  hint,"  answered  Mrs.  Yan  Steen,  "  that  you  might  have 
asked  me  to  dance  the  waltz  that  is  almost  over  now." 

After  that,  what  could  the  Colonel  do  ?  Before  he  knew  where  he 
was,  his  arm  was  round  Mrs.  Yan  Steen's  waist,  and  he  was  fully  com- 
mitted to  what  he  could  not  help  regarding  as  a  somewhat  perilous  enter- 
prise. His  step  was  a  quick  deux-temps,  which  he  danced  with  a  straight 
knee,  shoulders  well  back,  and  chin  elevated.  He  had  abandoned  round 
dances  some  years  before,  on  his  return  from  foreign  service,  when  he 
found  that  nine  ladies  out  of  ten  regretted  that  they  "  couldn't  do  his 
step."  Mrs.  Yan  Steen,  however,  could  do  it — and  indeed,  as  he  after- 
wards discovered,  could  do  every  imaginable  step.  She  was  as  light  as 
a  feather ;  her  little  feet  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ground.  The 
Colonel,  who  was  thin  and  wiry  and  always  in  good  training,  flew  round 
with  increasing  velocity,  and  began  to  feel  a  trifle  elated  by  his  success. 
"  This  is  perfect !  "  he  cried.  "  I  could  dance  with  you  all  night."  And 
though  he  felt  that  his  partner  was  shaken  with  laughter,  he  set  that 
down  merely  to  high  spirits  and  the  delight  of  rapid  motion.  What, 
indeed,  could  there  be  to  laugh  at  when  they  were  getting  on  so  well  1 
But,  unfortunately  for  the  Colonel's  peace  of  mind,  a  fragment  of  an 
ejaculation  from  a  bystander  reached  him  presently  in  mid-career. 

"  Look,  look,  look  !  Look  at  old  Randolph  dancing  !  What  a !  " 

the  rest  of  the  exclamation  was  lost,  but  the  Colonel,  glancing  fiercely 
over  his  shoulder,  caught  sight  of  young  Gore's  face  convulsed  with 
merriment,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  filling  up  the  hiatus.  To  be  sure, 
Gore  might  only  have  said,  "  What  an  unusual  thing,"  or  "  What  a  good 
dancer  he  is,  after  all  " — but  somehow  the  Colonel  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  believe  that  the  sentence  was  ended  in  that  innocent  fashion,  and 
he  mentally  qualified  Captain  Gore  as  a  confounded  grinning  young 
puppy,  whom  he  should  like  to  keep  for  three  months  in  the  riding- 
school. 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  689 


III. 

When  Colonel  Randolph  woke  up  on  the  following  morning,  he  was 
astonished  and  a  little  frightened  at  the  change  which  a  day  and  a  night 
had  effected  in  his  mental,  condition.     Twenty-four  hours  earlier  he  had 
indeed  been  in  love  with  Mrs.  Yan  Steen,  and  had  confessed  as  much  to 
himself;  but  he  had  laughed  while  making  the  avowal,  and  had  felt 
tolerably  sure  that  things  had  not  yet  gone  so  far  with  him  but  that  he 
could  avoid  and  forget  the  fair  stranger,  should  deliberation  suggest  the 
expediency  of  such  a  course.      But  now  he  could  no  longer  flatter  him- 
self that  he  was  his  own  master.    He  might  be  very  absurd  in  imagining 
that  an  American  with  whom  he  was  barely  acquainted  was  essential  to 
his  future  happiness ;  he  might  be  very  absurd,  and  very  fatuous  also,  in 
thinking  that  she  regarded  him  favourably,  but  he  could  not  help  having  a 
decided  conviction  upon  both  of  these  points;  and  as  he  was  above  all  things 
a  straightforward  and  practical  man,  he  plainly  perceived  that  before  very 
long  a  day  would  dawn  on  which  his  hand  and  heart  would  be  placed  at 
Mrs.  Van  Steen's  disposal.     This  gave  him  ample  food  for  reflection,  and 
for  reflection  of  a  not  altogether  pleasurable  kind.     Mrs.  Van  Steen 
liked  him,  he  thought,  and  might,  with  increased  intimacy,  learn  to  like 
him  much  better ;  but  whether  she  would  ever  like  him  well  enough  to 
marry  him  was  another  question.     He  suspected  that  the  little  lady  fully 
appreciated  her  liberty,  and,  in  truth,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  would 
be  acting  foolishly  in  resigning  that  precious  possession.     But  although, 
as  was  quite  proper,  his  chief  anxiety  related  to  the  very  possible  failure 
of  his  suit,  he  did  not  disguise  from  himself  that  even  the  sweets  of 
success  would  be  mingled  with  a  perceptible  drop  of  bitterness.     Colonel 
Randolph  was  what  the  Royal  Regiment  of  Artillery  are  sometimes — 
justly  or  unjustly — said  to  be  :  "  poor,  proud,  and  prejudiced."    The  idea 
of  marrying  a  very  rich  woman  was  not  quite  agreeable  to  him ;  still 
less  was  he  inclined  to  ally  himself  with  an  American.     He  would  not 
have  given  utterance  to  so  illiberal  a  sentiment,  but  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  hardly  believed  that  Americans  could  be  ladies  or  gentlemen ; 
they  were  at  all  events  republicans,  nobody  could  deny  that.     Now  the 
Randolphs,  though  they  had  never  been  very  considerable  people  out  of 
their  own  county,  belonged  to  a  family  that  was  as  old  as  the  hills,  and 
perhaps  the  very  fact  that  their  social  importance  was  hardly  on  a  level 
with  their  antiquity  made  them  specially  |  tenacious  of  such  dignity  as 
they  could  rightfully  claim.     Sir  John  Randolph,  the  Colonel's  elder 
brother,  was  a  sour,  testy,  and  punctilious  old  gentleman,  who  considered 
himself  cruelly  used  in  that  Providence  had  denied  him  a  son,  who 
tyrannised  over  his  wife,  bullied  his  heir-presumptive,  and,  in  his  cha- 
racter of  head  of  the  family,  was  profoundly  reverenced  and  esteemed  by 
the  latter.     Now  nothing  could  be  more   certain  than  that  Sir  John 
wonld  disapprove  of  Mrs.  Van  Steen ;  and  when  Sir  John  disapproved 
VOL.  rui.— NO.  252.  33. 


690  MRS.  VAN   STEEN. 

of  anybody  or  anything,  he  spared  no  pains  to  render  his  disapproval 
open  and  unmistakable. 

Our  poor  Colonel  pondered  over  all  this  through  a  sufficiently  un- 
happy morning,  and  had  little  appetite  for  luncheon.  Turning  into  the 
Rag  at  his  accustomed  hour  in  the  afternoon,  the  first  person  whom  he 
saw  was  young  Gore,  who  had  just  come  up  from  Hounslow,  where  his 
regiment  was  quartered,  and  who  greeted  him  with  rather  more  famili- 
arity than  the  Colonel  quite  liked. 

"  Hullo,  Colonel !  None  the  worse  for  your  exercise  last  night,  I 
hope  ?  Jolly  little  woman,  Mrs.  Van  John." 

"  Van  Steen,"  said  the  Colonel  stiffly.  "  Yes ;  Mrs.  Van  Steen  is  a 
— a  very  pleasant  person.  When  do  you  go  to  Aldershot  ?  " 

"  Hanged  if  I  know.  Not  until  after  the  manoauvres,  I  should  hope. 
I  say,  Colonel,  do  you  know  anything  about  our  friend  Mrs.  Van  ]  They 
say  she's  got  a  pot  of  money." 

"  Very  likely,"  answered  the  Colonel  drily.  "  I  have  only  had  the 
honour  of  meeting  her  twice ;  so  I  have  not  yet  felt  that  I  knew  In- 
sufficiently well  to  ask  her  the  amount  of  her  income." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — no ;  one  can't  exactly  do  that ;  wish  one  could.  I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is,"  continued  Captain  Gore  confidentially  :  "  I  must  get 
hold  of  some  coin  somehow.  I  shall  have  to  marry  somebody,  or  murder 
somebody,  or  rob  a  jeweller's  shop,  or  something.  I've  a  great  mind  to 
go  in  for  Mrs.  Van." 

"  I  should  strongly  advise  your  doing  so,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  From 
all  that  I  have  seen  and  heard,  I  should  say  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  her  being  very  well  off,  and  of  course  you  have  only  to  throw  the 
handkerchief." 

"  You  think  so,  eh  ]  "Well,  but  look  here,  Colonel,  you  mustn't  cut 
me  out,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  really  suppose,"  retorted  Colonel  Randolph,  "  that  I  should 
have  the  vanity  to  set  myself  up  in  opposition  to  you  ?  "  And  with 
that  crushing  bit  of  sarcasm  he  left  his  young  friend,  and  went  into  the 
card-room. 

But  although  he  entered  the  card-room,  he  did  not  take  a  hand  that 
afternoon.  He  remained  for  about  half  an  hour,  looking  on,  and  then 
left  the  club  with  a  rather  guilty  and  stealthy  mien,  and  walked  quickly 
off  to  Dover  Street,  where  Mrs.  Van  Steen  had  taken  up  her  abode  at 
an  hotel  for  the  season.  She  had  frankly  asked  him.  to  call  upon  her, 
and  mere  courtesy  required  that  he  should  lose  no  time  in  taking  advan- 
tage of  her  permission. 

If  Mrs.  Van  Steen  had  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  her  window  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later,  she  would  have  witnessed  a  little  scene  which 
would  probably  have  made  her  laugh.  Two  gentlemen  were  approaching 
her  door  at  a  rapid  pace,  the  one  from  Grafton  Street,  the  other  from  Pic- 
cadilly. They  met  literally  upon  the  threshold,  and  each  started  back  as 
he  recognised  the  other.  The  younger  man  burst  out  laughing. 


MES.  VAN  STEEN.  691 

"  Come,  now,  I  say,  Colonel,  none  of  your  larks !  You  said  you 
weren't  going  to  try  and  cut  me  out." 

The  Colonel's  temper  began  to  give  way  a  little.  "  I  am  sure  you 
will  pardon  me,  Gore,"  he  said,  "  if  I  tell  you  (being  a  much  older  man 
than  yourself,  you  know),  that  jokes  of  that  kind  are  in  the  worst  possible 
taste.  When  a  lady,  who  is  a  stranger  and  unprotected,  honours  you  by 
allowing  yoit  to  call  upon  her,  she  has  at  least  a  right  to  expect  that  you 
should  not  speak  of  her  as  you  did  just  now  in  the  hall  of  a  club.  Now, 
if  you  have  come  here  to  see  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  we  may  as  well  go  in  to- 
gether." 

Captain  Gore  was  not  a  man  whom  it  was  easy  to  smib,  but  he  was 
really  a  trifle  abashed  by  this  dignified  rebuke,  and  followed  the  Colonel 
upstairs  without  another  word.  By  the  time  that  he  was  shown  into 
Mrs.  Van  Steen's  drawing-room,  he  had  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to 
make  several  eloquent  grimaces  at  his  companion's  back,  and  to  execute 
a  series  of  significant  shrugs  and  winks  designed  to  indicate  that  he  was 
in  no  way  to  blame  for  the  intrusion  of  this  wearisome  old  bore.  But 
if  Mrs.  Van  Steen  saw  these  artless  signals  it  pleased  her  to  ignore  them. 
She  got  up,  laying  aside  the  crewel- work  upon  which  she  had  been  en- 
gaged, and  welcomed  her  visitors  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  cordiality. 

"  Well,  now,  I  call  this  very  kind.  I  haven't  had  a  soul  to  speak  to 
the  whole  day,  and  I  was  just  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  to  a  solitary 
walk.  Which  of  you  gentlemen  persuaded  the  other  to  come  with  him,., 
and  cheer  up  a  solitary  foreigner  ?  Whichever  it  was,  I  am  heartily 
grateful  to  him." 

Colonel  Randolph,  who  was  a  little  slow  about  getting  his  pretty 
speeches  under  way,  was  beginning  something  about  gratitude  being  due 
from  quite  the  other  quarter,  but  Gore  cut  in  with — 

"  You're  thankful  for  small  mercies,  Mrs.  Van  Steen.  In  England 
we  say,  '  Two's  company,  three's  none/  but  perhaps  you  look  at  things 
differently  in  New  York." 

"  In  New  York,  Captain  Gore,"  answered  the  lady  demurely,  "  the 
more  friends  that  come  to  see  us  the  better  we  are  pleased  ;  but  if  you 
find  the  number  too  large  to  be  comfortable,  you  can  reduce  it  by  one  at 
any  moment,  can't  you  1 " 

At  this  the  Colonel  chuckled  :  and  the  young  man,  dropping  into  a 
chair,  made  a  gesture  as  though  he  would  heap  dust  upon  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know  why  everybody  is  so  awfully  down  upon  me  to-day," 
he  exclaimed  plaintively.  "  Colonel  Randolph  gave  me  such  a  lecture  as 
we  were  coming  in  that  he  almost  made  me  cry.  He  did  really  ;  didn't 
you,  Colonel  1 " 

"  I  dare  say  you  deserved  it,"  Mrs.  Van  Steen  remarked.  "  What 
had  you  been  doing  1 " 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  forget.     What  was  it,  Colonel  ?  " 

"  It  was  nothing.  I  didn't  lecture  him  at  all,"  said  the  Colonel,  look- 
ing rather  annoyed. 

33—2 


692  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

"  But  I  want  to  know.  You  have  roused  my  curiosity  now." 
"  It  isn't  a  bit  of  good  asking  him,  Mrs.  Yan  Steen,"  said  Gore. 
"  You'll  only  make  him  angry.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  after  he's  gone." 
When  the  Colonel  heard  this  impudent  promise,  he  resolved  that, 
come  what  might,  he  would  sit  his  young  friend  out ;  and  to  this  resolu- 
tion he  adhered  with  the  inflexibility  of  a  just  man  tenacious  of  his 
purpose  through  three-quarters  of  an  hour  of  small  talk,  utterly  disre- 
garding the  appealing  and  interrogative  glances  thrown  at  him  from  time 
to  time  by  his  rival.  At  length  the  latter  gave  up  the  game,  and  rising, 
with  a  last  look  of  mild  reproach  at  the  inexorable  Colonel,  prepared  to 
take  his  leave. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Yan  Steen,"  said  he,  "  you  are  going  to  be  relieved  of 
number  three  now.  I  must  be  off." 

"  You  remind  me  of  the  Italians,"  she  remarked,  laughing.  "  They 
have  a  pretty  way  of  saying,  '  I  will  remove  the  incumbrance,'  when  they 
mean  to  bring  their  visit  to  an  end." 

She  followed  him  to  the  door,  talking  as  she  went ;  and  the  Colonel's 
triumph  was  slightly  marred  by  a  few  half-whispered  words  from  Gore 
which  reached  his  ear.  "  You'll  be  in  the  Park  to-morrow,  then  !  And, 
I  say,  don't  forget  your  engagement  for  next  week." 

Mrs.  Yan  Steen  came  back  laughing,  and  seated  herself  opposite  to 
the  Colonel.  "  I  do  like  that  young  man  ?"  she  exclaimed;  "  he's  just 
as  impudent  as  he  can  bs ;  and  yet,  somehow,  he  isn't  in  the  smallest 
degree  offensive." 

The  Colonel,  not  altogether  sharing  in  this  view,  yet  reluctant  to 
speak  against  an  absent  man  and  a  rival,  gave  forth  an  uncertain  sound, 
which  might  have  been  taken  to  signify  either  assent  or  dissent. 

"  He  is  a  pure  British  type,"  Mrs.  Yan  Steen  went  on.  "  No  other 
country  produces  samples  of  that  class.  An  impudent  Frenchman  is 
simply  unbearable  ;  and,  between  you  and  me,  an  impudent  American  is 
not  a  very  pleasant  person." 

The  Colonel  said  he  didn't  like  impudence  anywhere. 

".I  won't  go  so  far  as  that ;  I  like  Captain  Gore.  Do  you  know,  I 
"begin  to  think  you  English  are  a  more  puzzling  people  than  you  look  at 
first  sight.  There's  room  for  a  great  deal  of  contradiction  among  you  : 
and  a  foreigner  doesn't  quite  know  how  to  set  about  forming  an  opinion 
of  you.  You  are  very  insular." 

"  Perhaps  we  are  none  the  worse  for  that,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  better  for  it  in  some  ways — not  in  all,  perhaps. 
Your  manners  are  certainly  peculiar  to  yourselves." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  they  are  bad  1 " 

"  No ;  not  bad — at  least  I  don't  think  them  so.  It  depends,  I  sup- 
pose, upon  the  standard  one  judges  by.  But  they  are  odd.  I  have  met 
Frenchmen,  Germans,  Italians,  Russians,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
other  nationalities.  I  make  my  little  mental  notes  as  I  go  along,  and  I 
find  that  there  is  a  common  social  ground  upon  which  all  these  people 


MES.  VAN  STEEN.  693 

meet.  They  adapt  themselves  to  one  another,  more  or  less ;  and  so  do 
we  Americans  when  we  travel.  But  you  English  are  not  adaptive.  Is 
there  such  a  word  ?  Never  mind ;  if  there  isn't  there  ought  to  be.  You 
have  ways  of  speaking  and  acting  that  belong  to  yourselves  and  to  no- 
body else.  You  have  made  yourselves  a  little  circle  out  of  the  general 
family  of  mankind,  and  it  isn't  easy  for  a  stranger  to  elbow  himself  into 
it.  You  don't  help  him  much,  anyway.  I  expect  one  would  have  to 
pass  a  lifetime  in  England  to  feel  at  home  there." 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  the  experiment,"  said  the  Colonel  gallantly. 

"  Thank  you :  but  I  fancy  your  east  winds  will  prevent  my  ever 
doing  that.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  you  puzzle  me.  There  is  a  self-confi- 
dence about  a  good  many  of  you — a  social  self-confidence,  I  mean — which 
doesn't  seem  to  fit  in  with  one's  ideas  of  your  national  temperament." 

"  They  say  a  good  conceit  of  oneself  is  the  best  receipt  for  success  in 
life." 

"  Then  Captain  Gore's  future  ought  to  be  safe ;  he  will  die  a  field- 
marshal.  As  for  you,  Colonel  Eandolph,  you  are  altogether  too  modest." 

"  Are  you  laughing  at  me?  "  asked  the  Colonel.  For  indeed  he  was 
not  conscious  of  any  special  diffidence  of  nature,  and  was  at  that  moment 
feeling  somewhat  doubtful  whether,  in  paying  so  protracted  a  first  visit, 
he  had  not  laid  himself  open  to  a  charge  of  "  odd  "  manners. 

"  Why  should  I  laugh  at  you  ?  I  am  trying  to  understand  you — 
you  and  Captain  Gore,  and  all  the  others.  I  call  you  very  modest.  You 
would  never  have  danced  with  me  last  night  if  I  had  not  asked  you  twice." 

The  Colonel  smiled.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said  pensively,  after  a  pause, 
"  as  a  nation  we  are  rather  proud  than  vain." 

At  this  Mrs.  Yan  Steen  looked  intensely  amused  for  an  instant,  and 
the  Colonel  wondered  why.  Could  it  be  that  this  sharp  little  woman 
saw  through  all  his  present  doubts  and  perplexities,  and  divined  the  in- 
evitable struggle  that  a  Randolph  must  face  before  allying  himself  with 
a  Van  Steen  ?  The  thought  made  him  blush  a  little. 

"  Don't  you  find  it  rather  lonely,  travelling  about  all  by  yourself  ? "  he 
asked,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"  Don't  you  find  it  lonely,  living  all  by  yourself? "  she  returned. 

"  Well,  I  do  find  it  a  little  so  sometimes.  But  I  am  accustomed  to 
being  alone." 

"  So  am  I ;  it's  second  nature  to  me  now,  and  there's  a  sort  of 
pleasure  in  being  quite  independent.  Besides,  I  am  not  altogether  un- 
protected. I  have  a  brother  loafing  about  Europe,  whom  I  could  tele- 
graph for  any  day,  if  I  should  find  myself  in  pressing  need  of  moral  or 
physical  support." 

"  And  do  you  expect  your  brother  to  join  you  in  London  ? " 

"  It's  quite  likely.  I  came  here  intending  to  stay  only  a  few  weeks ; 
but  now  I'm  having  such  a  lovely  time  that  I  believe  I'll  remain  on  for 
two  or  three  months." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Colonel,  referring,  of  course,  to 


694  MES.  VAN  STEEN. 

the  latter  announcement ;  but  he  was  not  sorry  that  there  should  be  a 
probability  of  this  captivating  lady's  brother  turning  tip  in  England. 
The  appearance  of  a  male  relative  would,  he  felt,  be  a  help  towards  the 
drawing  of  just  and  dispassionate  conclusions.  If,  for  instance,  the  new- 
comer should  wear  a  dirty  flannel  shirt,  carry  a  bowie-knife  in  his  waist- 
band, and  squirt  tobacco-juice  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  all  longings, 
however  strong,  to  convert  Mrs.  Van  Steen  into  Mrs.  Randolph  must  be 
sternly  smothered  :  but  if,  as  seemed  more  likely,  he  should  prove  to  be 
a  cultivated  and  agreeable  gentleman,  then  surely  his  (the  Colonel's) 
family  would  not  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  object  to  the  contemplated 
match. 

It  may  be  thought  that  a  man  of  independent  means  and  somewhat 
advanced  age  is  fairly  entitled  to  marry  for  his  own  pleasure,  and  not  for 
that  of  his  family ;  but  this,  as  it  happened,  was  not  Colonel  Randolph's 
view.  He  had  an  orderly  and  disciplined  nature  ;  and  as  he  had  never 
allowed  those  over  whom  he  was  set  in  authority  to  question  his  com- 
mands, so,  all  his  life  long,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  render  willing 
obedience  to  those  who  were,  or  whom  he  considered,  his  superiors.  The 
allegiance  which  he  had  paid  to  his  father  he  had  transferred  in  the 
natural  course  of  events  to  his  elder  brother ;  and  although  it  was  pos- 
sible that  under  very  urgent  circumstances  he  might  bring  himself  to 
act  in  opposition  to  the  latter,  it  was  certain  that  he  would  never  be  able 
to  do  so  without  great  unhappiness.  Therefore  it  was  that  he  was  much 
exercised  in  mind  as  he  walked  homewards,  and  felt  that  he  would 
willingly  have  sacrificed  a  year's  income  if,  by  so  doing,  he  could  have 
furnished  Mrs.  Yan  Steen  with  a  pedigree.  He  went  into  the  club 
library  that  night,  and  sought  out  a  history  of  the  State  of  New  York, 
in  which  he  for  the  first  time  made  acquaintance  with  Hendrik  Hudson, 
and  with  the  fact  that  that  territory  had  been  originally  colonised  by 
the  Dutch.  This  discovery  gave  him  no  little  relief.  If,  as  their  name 
seemed  to  suggest,  the  Van  Steens  could  trace  back  for  a  matter  'of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  that  would  at  all  events  be  something.  But 
then  he  remembered  that  the  respectability  of  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  first 
husband  was  hardly  the  point  required  to  be  established ;  and  this  made 
him  all  the  more  anxious  for  the  arrival  of  her  wandering  brother. ', 


IV. 

It  so  chanced  that  nearly  a  week  elapsed  before  Colonel  Randolph 
again  encountered  the  lady  who  had  so  profoundly  disturbed  his  peace. 
He  was  not  provided  with  an  excuse  for  calling  upon  her  again,  nor  did 
he  seek  her  in  any  of  those  places  where  there  seemed  to  be  a  probability 
of  her  being  found.  This  abstention  was  due  in  part  to  a  cei'tain  diffi- 
dence, but  no  doubt  also  in  part  to  a  final  struggle  between  the  Colonel's 
heart  and  his  reason,  and  to  a  desire  to  try  the  effect  of  absence  upon  an 
infatuation  which,  as  he  had  perceived  from  the  outset,  must  lead  to 


MES.  VAN  STEEN.  695 

troubles  and  complications  from  which  a  middle-aged  gentleman  would 
fain  be  free.  But  London — or  at  least  that  portion  of  it  which  Colonel 
Randolph  and  Mrs.  Van  Steen  inhabited — is  not  a  very  large  place, 
after  all,  and  it  was  perhaps  scarcely  so  surprising  an  instance  of  the 
force  of  destiny  as  the  Colonel  imagined  it  to  be  that  they  should  have 
happened  to  visit  the  same  theatre  on  the  same  evening. 

The  Colonel  came  in  late — towards  the  end  of  the  second  act — and 
was  at  once  seen  by  his  American  friend,  who  occupied  a  stall  in  the 
row  immediately  in  front  of  his.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder  and 
nodded  in  a  friendly  way,  but  did  not  speak,  as  an  interesting  dialogue 
was  going  on  on  the  stage.  The  Colonel,  highly  delighted  at  so  unex- 
pected a  stroke  of  fortune,  paid  no  attention  to  the  play,  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  admiring  contemplation  of  the  back  of  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  little 
head.  Soon,  however,  he  became  aware  of  another  head  in  close  prox- 
imity to  hers — a  close-cropped  black  head,  which  was  presently  turned 
round,  as  its  owner  bent  forward  to  whisper  a  remark  to  his  neighbour, 
and  which  thus  revealed  a  becoming  aspect  of  Captain  Gore's  classical 
profile.  This  was  bad ;  but  what  was  a  great  deal  worse  was  the  con- 
viction that  slowly  forced  itself  upon  the  Colonel  that  these  two  persons 
were  unaccompanied  by  any  one  in  the  shape  of  a  chaperon.  On  the 
lady's  left  hand  were  two  vacuous-looking  youths,  who  evidently  did  not 
belong  to  her  ;  on  Gore's  right  hand  was  a  frowsy  old  woman  in  a  flaxen 
wig,  who  just  as  evidently  did  not  belong  to  him.  The  Colonel  was 
thunderstruck.  In  his  first  moment  of  surprise  and  indignation  his 
impulse  was  to  jump  up,  leave  the  theatre,  and  there  and  then  renounce 
all  pretension  to  the  hand  of  a  lady  whose  notions  of  propriety  were  so 
loose  as  those  of  Mrs.  Van  Steen  appeared  to  be ;  but  upon  second 
thoughts  he  inclined  to  take  a  more  merciful  view  of  her  share  in  this 
heinous  offence.  Customs  might  prevail  in  the  United  States  which  did 
not  obtain  in  this  country  ;  clearly  there  might  be  excuses  for  Mrs.  Van 
Steen.  But  there  could  be  none  whatever  for  young  Gore,  who  could 
not  plead  ignorance  of  the  habits  of  English  society,  and  who — so 
Colonel  Randolph  said  to  himself  in  his  wrath — had  deliberately  chosen 
to  place  a  lady  in  a  false  position.  The  Colonel  was  furious.  He  sat 
brooding  over  it  all  till  the  indiscretion  assumed  gigantic  proportions  in 
his  eyes,  and  he  could  hardly  constrain  himself  to  return  Gore's  familiar 
nod.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that,  if  the  practice  of  duelling 
had  not,  happily,  been  obsolete,  that  thoughtless  young  gentleman  would 
have  received  a  message  before  the  morning.  No  such  direct  method  of 
manifesting  his  displeasure  being  open  to  him,  the  Colonel  was  fain  to 
content  himself  with  ignoring  the  friendly  observations  with  which  his 
rival  was  so  good  as  to  favour  him  from  time  to  time,  and  with  ad- 
dressing his  own  remarks  exclusively  to  the  lady.  Even  to  her  he 
could  not  manage  to  be  quite  as  polite  and  agreeable  as  he  wished  to  be. 
Despite  all  his  efforts  at  self-command,  he  was  unable  to  keep  a  certain 
stern  and  peremptory  ring  out  of  his  voice ;  and  Mrs.  Steen  would  have 


696  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

been  much  less  quick-sighted  than  she  was  if  she  had  not  noticed  iht 
additional  stiffness  of  his  backbone  and  the  deepening  of  the  two  per- 
pendicular lines  which  time  bad  traced  between  his  eyebrows. 

That  she  did  detect  these  signs  of  something  being  amiss  was  evident. 
At  first  she  adopted  a  kindly  and  conciliatory  tone;  but,  when  this 
proved  of  no  avail,  her  manner  grew  colder.  She  raised  her  eyebrows- 
once  or  twice,  with  a  half-interrogative,  half-offended  air ;  and,  finally, 
turned  her  back  upon  her  elderly  admirer,  and  divided  her  attention 
between  Captain  Gore  and  the  stage.  Long  before  the  play  was  at  an 
end,  the  Colonel  had  left  the  theatre,  and  was  striding  homewards,  angry 
and  wretched.  He  was  vexed  with  himself  for  having  shown  temper ; 
but  not  the  less  was  he  convinced  that  his  indignation  was  righteous, 
and  that  it  would  be  no  more  than  his  duty  to  warn  Mrs.  Van  Steen. 
against  compromising  herself  in  such  a  manner  a  second  time.  Doxibt- 
less  there  was  a  strong  spice  of  jealousy  at  the  bottom  of  this  determina- 
tion ;  but  the  Colonel  was  so  sure  of  being  an  honest  man  that  he  seldom 
troubled  himself  with  a  minute  analysis  of  the  causes  of  his  actions. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  an  opportunity  of  disburdening  his  mind. 
Before  he  left  his  club  on  the  following  morning,  a  note,  written  in  a 
firm,  flowing  hand,  was  delivered  to  him,  requesting  him  to  call  in  Dover 
Street  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  "  I  particularly  wish  to  see  you," 
wrote  Mrs.  Van  Steen ;  "  so,  if  you  should  be  engaged  to-day,  I  shall  be 
much  obliged  if  you  will  name  some  other  time  when  it  will  be  convenient 
to  you  that  I  should  receive  you." 

The  obvious  resentment  of  the  writer  was  not  a  little  soothing  to  the 
Colonel's  wounded  feelings.  She  must  value  his  good  opinion,  he  thought, 
or  she  would  hardly  have  been  so  precipitate  in  demanding  an  interview. 
More  than  once,  in  the  course  of  an  unusually  wakeful  night,  he  had  told 
himself  that,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  just  as  well  for  all  parties 
concerned  if  she  should  prove  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  that  young  puppy 
Gore ;  but  now  he  put  all  such  unworthy  thoughts  away  from  him.  He- 
went  to  Dover  Street  prepared  to  forgive  and  forget ;  prepared  to  declare 
himself  to  some  extent  in  the  wrong ;  prepared  even,  should  the  occasion- 
appear  propitious,  to  make  another  and  a  more  momentous  declaration. 
When  he  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  he  advanced,  holding  out 
his  hand,  with  a  bright  and  tender  smile. 

But  Mrs.  Van  Steen  did  not  seem  to  notice  either  the  smile  or  the 
hand.  She  was  standing  by  the  window,  arranging  some  flowers  in  a 
vase,  and  looking  charmingly  young  and  pretty  in  a  cotton  dress  of 
elaborate  simplicity.  She  neither  asked  her  visitor  to  be  seated  nor  eat 
down  herself,  but  proceeded,  without  preface,  to  the  business  in  hand. 

"  Now,  Colonel  Randolph,  we've  got  to  have  an  explanation.  Why 
were  you  so  rude  to  me  last  night  ?  " 

"  Surely  I  was  not  rude,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  If  I  was,  I  can  only 
assure  you  that  my  rudeness  was  unintentional,  and  apologise  for  it  with 
all  my  heart." 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  697 

"  That  is  all  very  well ;  but  when  my  friends  scowl  at  me,  and  con- 
tradict me,  and  then  go  away  without  bidding  me  good-night,  I  generally 
conclude  that  they  mean  to  be  rude.  I  treat  you  as  a  friend,  you  see. 
Come,  let  us  have  it  out !  How  have  I  sinned  1 " 

"  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  you  make  me  feel  very  much  ashamed  of  myself," 
the  Colonel  protested.  "  There  has  been  no  sin — at  least,  none  for  which 
you  are  responsible ;  and  if  there  had  been,  I  confess  that  I  should  have 
had  no  right  whatever  to  notice  it.  But,  since  you  are  so  very  kind  as 
to  call  me  a  friend  of  yours,  I  will  venture  to  answer  you  candidly,  as 
one  friend  may  answer  another.  It  distressed  me  to  see  you  at  the 
theatre  last  night  with  no  other  escort  than  young  Gore." 

"  Oh  !  that  was  it." 

"  It  was  all  Gore's  fault,"  the  Colonel  cried  eagerly.  "  Of  course  you 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  that  that  sort  of  thing  is  not  thought 
proper  in  this  country." 

"  I  did  not,  indeed,"  answered  Mrs.  Van  Steen.  "  I  confess,  to  my 
shame,  that  I  had  no  sort  of  notion  that  I  was  improper.  Well,  one 
lives  and  learns.  I  suppose  it  can't  be  any  way  proper  for  me  to  be 
receiving  you  like  this,  for  instance  1 " 

"  That,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  is  quite  another  thing.  It  isn't  a  parallel 
case  at  all." 

"  No  1  I  should  have  thought  it  was  more  proper  to  be  in  a  public 
theatre  with  a  gentleman  than  in  a  private  room  with  him ;  but,  as  you 
say,  of  course  I  can't  be  expected  to  know.  I  am  afraid  it  would  never 
be  any  use  in  the  world  for  me  to  try  and  be  like  a  well-bred  English- 
woman ;  and  perhaps  you  will  excuse  my  saying  that  my  ambition  does 
not  set  very  strongly  that  way.  I  don't  like  your  people  so  well  as  I  did 
at  first." 

The  Colonel  said  he  was  sorry  for  that. 

"  Upon  closer  acquaintance  you  don't  improve.  I  think  you  are 
rather  an  ill-natured  people,  and  I  suspect  you  of  being  immoral  into  the 
bargain." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  that." 

"  Well,  it  looks  like  it.  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  there 
must  be  some  harm  in  a  gentleman  and  lady  being  together ;  the  only 
important  point  is  that  they  should  not  be  seen  together.  If  they  are  in 
a  theatre,  everybody  can  stare  at  them  :  so  it's  wrong.  If  they  are  in  a 
private  room,  nobody  need  know  :  so  it's  of  no  consequence.  We  don't 
look  at  things  that  way  in  our  country." 

"  I  dare  say  yours  is  the  better  system,"  the  Colonel  said.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  set  myself  up  as  the  champion  of  British  institutions.  But 
when  one  is  in  Rome,  isn't  it  best  to  do  as  the  Romans  do  1  In  France, 
you  know,  you  would  not  be  able  to  sit  in  the  stalls  of  a  theatre  at  all." 

"  Oh  !  I'm  ready  to  conform  to  your  customs.  I  told  you  the  other 
day  that  we  Americans  were  adaptive,  and  I'll  endeavour  to  adapt 
myself.  But  I  will  say  that  your  customs  are  inconvenient  and  irra- 


698  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

tional.  "What  is  a  poor  lone  woman  to  do  ?  It  isn't  my  fault  that  I 
have  no  mother  or  aunt  to  travel  around  with  me.  Don't  you  allow  any 
more  freedom  to  married  women  than  to  girls  over  here  ?  " 

"If  by  married  women  you  mean  women  with  husbands,  I  suppose 
they  may  do  anything  that  their  husbands  don't  object  to.  They  have 
a  natural  protector,  you  see." 

"  And  my  natural  protector  being  wanting,  you  are  inclined  to  under- 
take his  functions.  I'm  greatly  indebted  to  you,  Colonel  Randolph." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  so  presumptuous  as  you  make  me  out,"  the 
Colonel  protested,  colouring  a  little.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have 
ventured  to  say  all  this  if  you  had  not  asked  me ;  and,  in  any  case,  I 
assure  you  that  nothing  has  been  further  from  my  intentions  than  im- 
pertinence." 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  have  asked  you  to  come  here  to-day  if  I  had 
not  felt  sure  of  that  ? "  she  returned,  laughing,  and  offering  him  her 
hand  at  last.  "  Sit  down,  and  let  us  be  friends  again.  I  think  you  are 
very  kind  to  take  an  interest  in  me  at  all,  and  I  shall  be  much  obliged  if 
you  will  let  me  know  when  I  outrage  propriety  again.  In  the  meantime, 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  a  natural  protector  has  appeared  upon  the 
scene  to  take  care  of  me.  My  brother  arrived  unexpectedly  from  Paris 
this  morning." 

The  Colonel  was  much  gratified  by  this  intelligence.  Now  he  would 
find  out  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  maiden  name,  and  have  an  opportunity  of 
judging  of  the  stock  from  which  she  came. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  make  your  brother's  acquaintance  before  long,"  he 
said,  politely. 

"  Aaron  will  be  very  pleased,"  answered  Mrs.  Van  Steen. 

"  Is  Aaron  your  brother's  name  ? "  asked  the  Colonel,  with  a  look  of 
such  irrepressible  dismay  that  Mrs.  Van  Steen  laughed  outright. 

"  Yes  ;  his  name  is  Aaron ;  I  hope  that  is  not  improper.  Scriptural 
names  are  not  uncommon  with  us,  as  perhaps  you  are  aware." 

The  Colonel  murmured  that  he  had  understood  as  much  ;  but  he  was 
depressed  and  absent  during  the  remainder  of  the  interview.  His  imagi- 
nation could  not  rise  to  the  conception  of  a  gentleman  named  Aaron. 
He  took  his  departure  before  very  long,  leaving  a  card  for  the  absent 
brother,  who,  it  appeared,  had  gone  out  to  inspect  Westminster  Abbey 
and  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

On  the  following  afternoon  Colonel  Randolph,  hurrying  in  rather  late 
to  dress  for  dinner,  found  lying  upon  his  table  a  card,  which,  on  being 
held  up  to  the  light,  exhibited  the  name  of  Aaron  P.  Muggericlge.  When 
the  Colonel  read  this  appalling  inscription,  he  literally  staggered  back  as 
if  he  had  received  a  blow,  and  subsided  into  the  nearest  arm-chair,  where 
he  remained  motionless  for  some  minutes,  holding  the  dreadful  card 
at  arm's  length  before  him.  It  was,  indeed,  a  dreadful  card  ! — dreadful 
not  only  on  account  of  the  name  which  it  bore,  but  also  by  reason  of  its 
size  and  glaziness,  and  of  the  flourishes  which  surrounded  its  Italian  cha- 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  699 

racters.  Mr.  Muggeridge  no  doubt  had  had  dealings  with  a  Parisian 
stationer,  as  an  American  residing  in  the  capital  of  the  gay  world  might 
very  naturally  do ;  but  the  Colonel  knew  little  more  of  Parisians  and  their 
usages  than  he  did  of  New  Yorkers,  and  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  that 
any  human  being  of  even  moderate  refinement  or  sense  of  decency  could 
make  use  of  such  a  preposterous  bit  of  pasteboard.  He  cast  it  away  from 
him,  at  length,  with  a  tragic  groan.  "  My  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Aaron 
P.  Muggeridge !  "  Oh,  horrible,  horrible  thought  ! 

The  lady  who  sat  next  to  Colonel  Randolph  at  dinner  that  night  set 
her  neighbour  down  as  an  incipient  lunatic.  He  met  her  attempts  at 
conversation  with  totally  irrelevant  rejoinders ;  he  lapsed  into  long  in- 
tervals of  gloomy  silence ;  and  the  only  spontaneous  observation  that  he 
volunteered  was  towards  the  end  of  the  evening,  when  he  turned  upon 
her  suddenly,  and  asked  with  great  earnestness,  "  If  ycur  name  were 
Muggeridge,  what  should  you  do  ] " 

"  I  should  change  it  as  soon  as  possible,"  she  answered,  promptly. 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  but  you  are  a  woman ;  you  could  marry  and  get  rid  of  it 
in  that  way.  For  a  man  it  is  not  so  easy.  He  must  bear  it,  I  suppose." 

"  But  you  don't  bear  the  name  of  Muggeridge,"  said  the  lady,  in  some 
surprise. 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  the  Colonel  in  a  low,  sad  voice ;  "  but  I  know  a 
man  who  does." 

Our  poor  hero,  like  many  other  excellent  men,  had  his  little  weak- 
nesses. He  did  not  share  Juliet's  opinion  as  to  the  unimportance  of 
names,  and  was  by  no  means  sure  that  what  we  call  a  rose  would  smell 
as  sweet  if  known  as  an  onion.  Mr.  Aaron  P.  Muggeridge  might  be 
a  polished,  cultured  and  fascinating  member  of  society  ;  but  not  the  less, 
according  to  the  Colonel's  lights,  did  he  start  heavily  handicapped  in  the 
race  of  life.  One  thing  was  certain ;  the  matter  must  be  looked  into, 
and  the  unlucky  individual  inspected  without  loss  of  time.  At  the 
earliest  opportunity,  therefore,  Colonel  Randolph  betook  himself  to  Dover 
Street,  making  his  visit  in  the  forenoon,  so  as  to  be  the  more  sure  of 
finding  the  object  of  his  search  at  home.  "  I  will  know  the  worst,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  decision. 

Alas  !  "  the  worst "  did  not  seem  too  strong  a  term  to  apply  to  Mrs. 
Van  Steen's  brother.  He  was  a  tall,  rather  stout  man  of  about  thirty ; 
he  wore  a  heavy  moustache  with  waxed  tips,  and  an  imperial,  also 
waxed ;  his  trousers  were  of  French  cut  and  brilliant  in  pattern ;  his 
shoes  had  very  square  toes ;  beneath  his  chin  was  an  enormous  blue  bow, 
the  ends  of  which  floated  over  his  coat;  a  diamond  ring  adorned  his 
little  finger ;  and,  that  nothing  might  be  wanting  to  complete  the  atro- 
city of  his  appearance,  he  had  stuck  a  pince-nez  upon  the  bridge  of  his 
nose,  and  was  contemplating  his  sister's  English  friend  through  it  with 
a  mixture  of  languid  curiosity  and  affability. 

"  A  positive  caricature,  by  George  !  "  was  the  Colonel's  inward  com- 
ment upon  the  stranger,  who  was  now  being  introduced  to  him  by  Mrs. 


700  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

* 

Van  Steen,  and  who  shook  hands  with  him,  saying,  in  drawling  and 
rather  patronising  accents,  "  How  do  you  do,  Colonel  Randolph  \  I  am 
glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir." 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  desperate  effort  to  conceal  his  feel- 
ings, "  that  you  mean  to  make  some  stay  in  London." 

"  "Well,"  answered  Mr.  Muggeridge,  "  it's  uncertain.  I  shall  have  to 
be  guided  by  circum-stances.  I  have  come  here  to  attend  to  a  matter  of 
business." 

He  spoke  in  a  sing-song  nasal  voice,  ending  each  of  his  sentences  on 
a  high  note.  To  think  that  a  brother  and  sister  could  differ  so  sadly  ! 

"  I  suppose  that,  like  all  Americans,  you  are  engaged  in  business  of 
some  kind,"  the  Colonel  observed. 

Mr.  Muggeridge  nodded.  "  "We  don't  have  so  many  idle  men  in  our 
country  as  you  have  here,"  he  was  obliging  enough  to  explain. 

"  And  do  you  often  manage  to  get  away  for  a  holiday  ] "  asked  the 
Colonel.  He  was  thinking  to  himself,  "  I  hope  to  the  Lord  you  don't ! 
If  the  Atlantic  were  between  us  I  might  perhaps  contrive  to  forget  your 
existence  sometimes." 

"  Aaron  has  a  partner."  put  in  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  in  her  soft,  quiet 
voice.  "  When  one  of  them  is  in  America  the  other  can  amuse  himself 
in  Europe." 

' '  Yes,  yes  ;  I  see.  A  very  convenient  arrangement,"  murmured  the 
Colonel.  In  truth  he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying,  and  was  chiefly 
anxious  to  escape  without  having  let  Mrs.  Van  Steen  perceive  the  im- 
pression that  her  brother  had  made  upon  him.  But  it  is  probable  that, 
with  all  his  exertions,  he  did  not  quite  succeed  in  that  laudable  en- 
deavour. 

Conversation  was  sustained  after  a  constrained  and  desultory  fashion 
for  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  time  the  Colonel 
took  up  his  hat. 

"  If  you  are  going  towards  the  city,  Colonel  Randolph,  I'll  walk  with 
you,"  said  Mr.  Muggeridge. 

The  Colonel  replied  that  he  was  not  going  further  than  Pall  Mall ; 
and  Mr.  Muggeridge  remarked  that  he  guessed  that  woiild  not  be  much 
out  of  his  way ;  so  the  two  men  left  the  house  together. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  taking  a  hansom  ]  "  the  Colonel  asked, 
on  the  doorstep. 

"  It's  immaterial,"  answered  the  other.  "  I'd  as  soon  walk,  if  yon 
say  so." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Colonel,  feeling  a  little  ashamed  of  the  impulse 
which  had  prompted  his  suggestion.  After  all,  if  the  man  was  to  be  his 
brother-in-law,  it  would  not  do  to  begin  by  shirking  a  walk  in  the  streets 
with  him. 

Acting  upon  this  conviction,  the  Colonel  resisted  a  temptation  to 
reach  Pall  Mall  by  the  least  frequented  route,  and,  crossing  Piccadilly, 
shaped  his  course  boldly  down  St.  James's  Street.  On  his  way  he  was 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  701 

stopped  by  several  acquaintances,  who  stared  at  Mr.  Aaron  P.  Mugge- 
ridge  in  undisguised  astonishment,  the  latter,  for  his  part,  returning  their 
scrutiny  with  perfect  imperturbability.  When  they  had  passed  on,  Mr. 
Muggeridge  communicated  his  impressions  of  them  to  the  Colonel,  and 
was  more  candid  than  flattering  in  his  criticisms.  He  even  had  the  im- 
pertinence to  laugh  at  the  mode  of  pronunciation  adopted  by  these 
gentlemen,  and  to  indulge  in  an  exaggerated  and  absurd  mimicry  of  it. 
He  further  opined  that  London  was  a  great  commercial  city,  but  that  in 
point  of  attractiveness  New  York  was  a  hundred  miles  ahead  of  it,  while 
Paris  was  a  hundred  milas  ahead  of  New  York.  His  tone  seemed  to 
imply  that  he  held  the  Colonel  responsible  for  all  the  shortcomings  of 
the  mother-country  and  its  inhabitants.  The  season  was  the  end  of 
May,  and  a  bleak,  dry  east  wind  was  driving  clouds  of  dust  along  the 
streets.  "  Do  you  always  have  it  like  this  over  here  ? "  Mr.  Muggeridge 
asked,  in  his  drawling  voice. 

"  Yes,  always,"  answered  the  Colonel,  very  snappishly  ;  and  his  com- 
panion gave  him  a  side-look  of  mingled  irony  and  pity. 

At  length  the  United  Service  Club  was  reached ;  and  the  Colonel, 
with  the  brightening  countenance  of  one  who  sees  the  walls  of  a  city  of 
refuge  before  him,  bade  Mr.  Muggeridge  farewell,  regretting  that  the 
laws  of  the  establishment  did  not  permit  of  his  asking  a  friend  in  to 
luncheon. 

"  Sing'lar  club,"  was  Mr.  Muggeridge's  brief  comment  upon  this 
announcement.  "  Well,  Colonel,  I'll  wish  you  good  day  and  good  appe- 
tite. Whenever  you  feel  like  paying  us  a  visit  in  Dover  Street,  I  hope 
you'll  come,  and  bring  any  of  your  friends  along." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  Colonel,  stiffly  ;  "  Mrs.  Van  Steen  was 
kind  enough  to  give  me  permission  to  call  \ipon  her  some  time  since." 

Mr.  Muggeridge  nodded,  and  strolled  away,  with  a  faint,  tolerant 
sort  of  smile  upon  his  face,  which  he  had  worn,  more  or  less,  all  the 
morning,  and  which  the  Colonel,  for  some  reason  or  other,  found  pecu- 
liarly exasperating. 

Our  tried  and  perplexed  hero  spent  a  large  part  of  the  afternoon  in 
smoking,  and  in  pretending  to  read  the  papers,  while  in  reality  he  was 
meditating  over  the  new  complications  with  which  his  matrimonial 
prospects  were  threatened.  At  five  o'clock  he  walked  across  to  his 
other  club,  and  there  encountered  Captain  Gore,  who  at  once  detached 
himself  from  a  group  of  young  men  with  whom  he  had  been  conversing, 
and  caught  his  elderly  rival  by  the  arm. 

"  I  say,  Colonel,  have  you  seen  Aaron  P.  Muggeridge  1 " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Colonel  gloomily  ;  "  I've  seen  him." 

"  Queer-looking  specimen,  isn't  he  1  But  not  half  a  bad  sort  of  chap, 
if  you  take  him  the  right  way.  I  mean  to  be  a  real  good  friend  to  Aaron 
— for  his  sister's  sake,  you  understand." 

"  You  have  lost  no  time  in  introducing  yourself  to  him,  at  any  rate," 
the  Colonel  remarked  drily. 


702  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

"  Nor  have  you,  it  seems ;  so  we're  even.  What  do  you  think  of 
him?" 

All  Colonel  Randolph's  suppressed  irritation  bubbled  up,  and  com- 
pletely overmastered  him  for  the  moment.  "  I  think,"  said  he,  "  that 
he  is  the  most  abominable  cad  that  I  ever  met,  at  any  time  or  in  any 
country  !  " 

Then  he  walked  away,  repenting  of  his  hasty  speech  as  soon  as  it 
was  uttered,  and  vexed  by  the  pursuing  echoes  of  Gore's  laughter.  Gore 
didn't  care  a  bit  for  the  vulgarity  of  Aaron  P.  Muggeridge ;  Gore — 
confound  him! — cared  for  nothing  but  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  money-bags, 
and  would  have  married  her  if  she  had  had  ten  Aarons  for  brethren, 
aye,  and  a  father  and  mother  of  the  same  type  to  boot !  Well,  perhaps 
the  fellow  was  wise  in  his  generation.  He  was  right  not  to  let  himself 
be  turned  aside  from  his  object  by  incidental  obstacles.  "  He  knows  his 
own  mind  better  than  I  do  mine,"  thought  the  Colonel,  sighing  that 
greed  should  be  proved  a  more  powerful  factor  in  human  resolutions 
than  love.  Not  that  he  really  thought  of  giving  up  Mi's.  Van  Steen ; 
he  felt  sure  that  he  had  never  contemplated  the  advisability,  or  even  the 
possibility,  of  so  extreme  a  step  as  that.  The  prospect  of  having  Aaron 
for  a  near  relative  was  a  bitter  pill,  no  doubt ;  but  it  must  be  gulped 
down,  and  had  better  be  done  with  a  good  grace.  He  determined  that 
he,  too,  would  be  a  "  real  good  friend  "  to  Aaron — that  is,  that  he  would 
do  his  best  to  be  courteous  and  amiable  to  him — "  for  his  sister's  sake." 
"  Not  for  the  sake  of  her  money,"  thought  the  Colonel ;  "  I  only  wish 
she  hadn't  any  money  at  all." 

Animated  by  such  unexceptionable  motives,  our  hero  surely  deserved 
to  be  rewarded  by  success ;  but,  unfortunately,  we  live  in  a  world  where 
the  just  and  the  unjust  have  an  equal  share  in  the  sunshine  and  the  rain ; 
and  it  is  a  fact  that  this  poor  gentleman  obtained  little  recompense  for  a 
ten  days'  martyrdom  save  such  as  an  approving  conscience  may  have 
afforded  him.  He  carried  out  to  the  letter  the  promise  that  he  had 
made  to  himself.  He  not  only  tolerated  Aaron,  but  took  no  little  pains 
to  show  him  civility.  Day  after  day  he  sought  the  stranger  out  in 
Dover  Street ;  day  after  day  he  bore  him  company  in  his  visits  to  the 
few  lions  of  which  London  can  boast.  He  went  with  him  to  the  Tower ; 
he  walked  with  him  in  the  Park — a  terrible  ordeal ;  he  took  him  to  a 
meet  of  the  Coaching  Club ;  he  bore  with  his  disparaging  remarks,  with 
his  bland  familiarity,  with  his  obstinate  determination  to  admire  nothing 
and  be  surprised  at  nothing.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Van  Steen  accompanied 
the  sight  -seers ;  but,  alas  !  on  these  occasions  Captain  Gore  was  generally 
also  of  the  party,  and  somehow  it  always  happened  that  the  younger 
man  paired  off  with  the  lady,  while  the  elder  was  fain  to  bring  up  the 
rear  with  her  brother. 

All  this  was  a  severe  test  of  constancy  ;  but  the  longest  lane  has  a 
turning ;  and  one  morning,  to  Colonel  Randolph's  unspeakable  joy,  Mr. 
Aaron  P.  Muggeridge  announced  that  he  had  received  letters  which 


MRS.  VAN   STEEN.  703 

would  necessitate  his  speedy  return  to  America.  This  good  news  was 
the  more  welcome  to  our  hero  from  its  arriving  at  a  moment  when  he 
was  more  than  usually  depressed  in  spirits.  It  was  the  morning  of  the 
Thursday  in  Ascot  week,  and  he  was  just  about  to  start  for  the  races 
with  Mr.  Muggeridge,  Mrs.  Van  Steen  having  excused  herself  at  the 
eleventh  hour  on  the  plea  of  a  headache.  The  prospect  of  being  saddled 
for  an  entire  day  with  his  "  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,"  as  he  sometimes  in- 
wardly dubbed  the  unconscious  Aaron,  had,  for  several  reasons,  been 
particularly  distasteful  to  the  Colonel ;  but  now  this  seemed  a  com- 
paratively small  matter.  Yet  another  week,  and  he  would  have  said 
farewell  to  Aaron,  it  might  be  for  years,  or  it  might — as  he  fondly  and 
devoutly  hoped — be  for  ever.  Under  the  circumstances,  it  would  have 
been  an  unworthy  thing  to  murmur  at  one  day  of  misery.  The  Colonel, 
therefore,  went  off  in  high  good-humour  ;-  and,  in  the  train,  was  quite 
facetious  with  his  companion  upon  the  subject  of  a  brand-new  suit  of 
clothes  in  which  the  latter  had  arrayed  himself.  Aaron's  first  care,  on 
arriving  in  London,  had  been  to  visit  one  of  the  most  fashionable  tailors, 
and  the  upshot  of  his  interview  was  his  appearance  in  the  light  grey 
frock-coat,  and  trousers  to  match,  which  had  attracted  the  Colonel's 
attention.  He  had  likewise  invested  in  a  white  hat,  and  in  a  pair  of 
field-glasses,  which  last  were  slung  across  his  shoulder  by  a  strap.  Thus 
attired,  he  did  not,  it  is  true,  resemble  an  Englishman  much  more  than 
he  had  resembled  a  Parisian  in  his  discarded  garb ;  but  he  looked,  the 
Colonel  thought,  a  little  less  unlike  other  people  than  usual,  and  there 
seemed  reasonable  ground  for  hope  that,  if  he  would  only  keep  quiet  and 
behave  himself,  the  day  might  be  got  through  without  the  occurrence  of 
any  untoward  episode. 

Aaron,  however,  was  not  disposed  to  behave  himself — or,  at  all 
events,  was  not  disposed  to  keep  quiet.  He  entered  into  affable  conver- 
sation with  strangers  on  the  course;  he  showed  an  inclination  to  be 
argumentative  with  the  bookmakers  ;  despite  the  Colonel's  protestations, 
he  persisted  in  betting  with  an  unmistakable  welsher  for  the  sake  of  an 
additional  point  of  odds,  and  made  a  great  noise  and  disturbance  when  the 
usual  result  ensued;  between  the  races  he  strolled  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  boxes,  and  subjected  their  occupants  to  a  searching  scrutiny.  He 
made  himself  conspicuous,  in  short,  and  was  a  good  deal  noticed.  Just 
after  the  principal  race  of  the  day  had  been  run,  Colonel  Randolph  felt  a 
light  tap  on  his  shoulder,  and,  wheeling  round,  met  the  eyes  of  a  tall, 
thin  and  rather  sour-visaged  old  gentleman,  who  nodded  and  said. 
"  Well,  Robert." 

This  was  precisely  the  untoward  episode  which  the  Colonel  had  hoped 
might  be  averted.  He  knew  that  his  brother  would  be  at  Ascot ;  but 
he  had  trusted  to  the  crowd  to  preserve  him  from  an  encounter  which  he 
foresaw  would  be  an  unpleasant  one.  Even  now  he  made  a  feeble  effort  to 
escape,  after  a  few  hurried  words  of  greeting.  But  it  was  too  late.  Sir 
John's  eye  was  upon  Mr.  Muggeridge,  and  what  was  worse,  Mr.  Mug- 


704  MES.  VAN   STEEN. 

geridge's  eye  was  upon  Sir  John.  Partly  from  a  despairing  feeling  that  it 
would  be  as  well  to  get  the  worst  over  at  once,  partly  from  an  intuitive  cer- 
tainty that  Aaron  was  about  to  request  an  introduction,  the  Colonel  took 
the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  made  the  two  men  known  to  one  another.  Sir 
John  raised  his  hat  slightly;  but  Aaron  extended  a  generous  hand 
with  his  customary  formula,  "  How  do  you  do,  Sir  John  Randolph  1  I 
am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir." 

The  Englishman  took  the  proffered  hand,  or  rather  allowed  his  own 
to  be  taken  by  it.  "  You  are  an  American,  I  presume,"  said  he ;  not, 
however,  thinking  it  necessary  to  state  any  reason  for  the  presumption. 
"  All  this  must  be  more  or  less  of  a  novelty  to  you." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Muggeridge,  "  they  don't  run  horses  much  with 
us ;  but  I  expect  you  haven't  an  animal  in  this  country  that  could  begin 
to  compare  with  one  of  our  trotters." 

"  Very  likely  not,"  Sir  John  answered,  courteously  enough.  "  You 
beat  us  in  a  good  many  things ;  but  not  in  everything — perhaps  not 
quite  in  everything." 

"  Give  us  time,  sir,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  shall  beat  you  at 
horse-racing." 

Sir  John  inclined  his  head  and  dropped  his  eyelids  with  the  air  of 
one  who  declines  to  be  drawn  into  a  discussion  of  any  kind  with  his  in- 
feriors, and  remarked  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  doubted  the  desirability 
of  international  contests,  though  to  be  sure  they  were  always  popular 
things.  He  well  remembered  the  excitement  that  prevailed  throughout 
the  country  at  the  time  of  Tom  Sayers's  encounter  with  Heenan. 

"  Was  you  present  at  the  fight,  sir  1 "  inquired  Aaron,  with  some 
.show  of  interest. 

"  No  ;  being  a  magistrate,  I  felt  bound  to  deny  myself  that  pleasure. 
By  all  accounts,  however,  I  believe  that  we  were  j  ustified  in  claiming  the 
victory  upon  that  occasion." 

Mr.  Muggeridge  would  doubtless  have  disputed  the  accuracy  of  Sir 
John's  assertion  if  he  had  not,  fortunately,  remembered  at  that  moment 
that  money  was  owing  to  him  over  the  last  race  by  persons  from  whom 
it  was  advisable  to  recover  it  without  delay. 

"  Excuse  me  a  few  minutes,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  be  with  you  again  im- 
mediately." And  with  this  cheering  promise  he  hurried  away  towards 
the  ring. 

As  soon  as  the  American  was  out  of  earshot,  Sir  John  turned  to  his 
brother,  and  said  quietly  :  "  I  wish  to  God,  Robert,  you  wouldn't  intro- 
duce all  the  tag  rag  and  bobtail  of  your  acquaintance  to  me." 

"  I  didn't  see  my  way  to  avoiding  it,"  the  Colonel  answered  meekly. 
-'  And  after  all,  John,  you  can't  expect  Americans  to  be  exactly  like 
Englishmen." 

"  I  expect  a  man  to  be  a  gentleman.  I  suppose  there  are  gentle- 
men in  America,  as  there  are  elsewhere ;  but  your  friend  is  an  arrant 
snob." 


MRS.    VAN   STEEN.  705 

"  He  is  not  generally  considered  so.  People  know  him  in  London — 
Mrs.  Digby,  and  Lady  Polker,  and  lots  of  people.  I  don't  think  he  is  so 
very  bad,  John ;  I  don't,  upon  my  word,"  pleaded  the  poor  Colonel. 

"  Not  bad  ?  My  good  fellow,  did  you  look  at  his  clothes  1  And  did 
you  hear  him  talk  1  '  Was  you  present,  sir  1 '  Ugh  !  " 

"  Our  grandfathers  used  the  expression,"  the  Colonel  remarked.  "  Do 
you  know,  John,  I  suspect  that  many  words  and  phrases  which  the 
Americans  use,  and  which  we  set  down  as  vulgarisms,  are  merely  sur- 
vivals of  our  old  English  speech.  If  you  come  to  look  into  it,  what  con- 
stitutes vulgarity  1  Surely  it  can't  be  only  ways  of  dress  and  of  talking 
that  happen  to  differ  from  our  own." 

Sir  John  gave  a  short,  disagreeable  laugh.  "Perhaps  I  may  as  well 
tell  you,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  heard  it  rumoured  that  you  intend  to 
marry  the  sister  of  this  pleasing  young  gentleman." 

The  Colonel  reddened.  "  I  am  not  answerable  for  all  the  silly  gossip 
that  you  may  have  heard  about  me,"  he  replied;  "  but  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  am  not  going  to  be  married  to  anybody,  as  far  as  I  know.  At  the 
same  time,  supposing  I  did  contemplate  such  a  step,  I  take  it  that,  at 
my  age " 

"  Oh  certainly ;  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  I  only  thought  I 
had  better  warn  you  that,  in  the  event  of  your  making  such  a  misalliance, 
I  should  assuredly  not  allow  my  wife  to  call  upon  the  lady." 

The  menace  was  probably  a  more  terrible  one  to  the  Colonel  than  it 
would  have  been  to  nine  men  out  of  any  ten ;  but,  in  spite  of  all  his 
revei-ence  for  the  head  of  the  family,  he  was  the  last  person  in  the  world 
to  allow  himself  to  be  deterred  from  his  pui'pose  by  a  threat. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  John,"  he  said  gravely  ;  "  because  the  choice  of  a 
wife  is  a  matter  upon  which  I  should  not  accept  dictation  even  from  you." 

"  I  dare  say  not,"  said  Sir  John.  "  Possibly,  from  your  point  of  view, 
you  may  be  right;  but  I  must  be  allowed  to  retain  the  privilege  of  say- 
ing who  shall  or  shall  not  enter  my  house,  so  long  as  it  remains  mine. 
I  thought  I  would  just  mention  it.  Well,  good-bye,  Robert.  See  you 
again  soon,  I  dare  say." 

The  Colonel  walked  away  sadly,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground.  His  brother  had  pronounced  a  sentence  of 
contingent  banishment  upon  him — of  banishment  from  the  old  home 
which  he  loved' with  the  love  of  a  younger  son,  unalloyed  by  any  of  those 
misgivings  as  to  the  over-costly  nature  of  his  possessions  which,  in  these 
days,  are  apt  to  trouble  the  actual  owner  of  the  soil.  The  Colonel's 
associations  with  his  home  were  all  pleasant  ones.  In  the  surrounding 
county  dwelt  his  oldest  and  dearest  friends.  He  conscientiously  be- 
lieved that  county  to  be  the  most  delightful  county,  and  his  paternal 
estate  to  be  the  most  delightful  estate,  in  all  England.  Every  room  in 
the  house  brought  back  to  him  memories  of  a  happy  childhood  and  boy- 
hood. Except  during  one  period  of  service  in  India,  he  had  never  failed 
to  spend  two  or  three  months  there  in  the  shooting  season.  It  was 

VOL.  SLII. — KO.  252.  34 


706  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

almost  a  question  whether  even  the  lifelong  companionship  of  Mrs.  Van 
Steen  could  make  up  to  him  for  the  loss  of  this  annual  holiday.  That  the 
place  must,  in  the  course  of  nature,  become  his  own  property  eventually, 
was  a  thought  which  seldom  entered  his  mind,  and  was  probably  never 
altogether  absent  from  that  of  his  brother.  He  did  not  know  that  the  child- 
less Sir  John  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  thwart  him  in  all  his  projects, 
and  would  have  been  as  likely  as  not  to  object  to  his  proposed  bride,  had 
she  been  an  Englishwoman  of  irreproachable  birth  ;  but  he  did  know  his 
brother's  obstinacy  and  tenacity  of  his  word,  nor  did  he  build  any  hopes 
upon  the  basis  of  Mrs.  "Van  Steen's  personal  attractiveness. 

Thus  it  was  that  our  unfortunate  lover  returned  to  London  very 
silent  and  gloomy,  revolving  many  things  in  a  perturbed  mind.  He 
drove  to  Dover  Street  with  Mr.  Muggeridge  ;  and  it  did  not  put  him  in 
better  spirits  to  find  Captain  Gore  sitting  with  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  whose 
indisposition  appeared  to  have  entirely  vanished.  However,  the  sight  of 
his  young  rival  was  so  far  of  service  to  him  that  it  enabled  him  to  con- 
quer any  wavering  tendencies  that  he  might  have  harboured  while  in  the 
train.  What !  should  he  retreat  like  a  coward  before  the  first  breath  of 
opposition,  and  leave  that  mercenary  puppy  to  bear  away  the  prize  1 
Never  !  The  Colonel  said  to  himself  that  he  had  done  with  hesitation, 
and  that  he  would  know  his  fate  that  very  evening. 

Gore  went  away  in  a  short  time,  and  almost  immediately  afterwards 
Mr.  Muggeridge  also  left  the  room.  Then,  before  the  Colonel  could 
frame  his  opening  sentence,  Mrs.  Van  Steen  turned  a  smiling  face  upon 
him,  and  said — "  Confess,  now,  Colonel  Randolph  ;  your're  very  angry 
with  me,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Angry  with  you,  Mrs.  Van  Steen  ?  No,  indeed ;  why  should  I  be 
angry  with  you  ?  " 

"  You  looked  angry  when  you  saw  Captain  Gore  here.  You  thought 
my  headache  was  all  a  sham,  didn't  you  1  " 

"  I  assure  you," —  began  the  Colcnel. 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Van  Steen  coolly,  "  you  would  have  been 
•qmte  right  if  you  had  thought  so.  It  was  all  a  sham.  I  thought  I 
would  make  an  experiment.  I  wanted  to  find  out  whether  you  would  be 
good-natured  enough  to  go  to  Ascot  with  Aaron.  I  know  you  don't  like 
being  seen  about  with  Aaron ;  he  isn't  what  you  call  a  gentleman.  No, 
don't  protest ;  I  understand  it  all.  Perhaps  if  I  were  to  talk  long  enough 
I  could  convince  you  that  you  are  mistaken  in  some  of  your  impressions ; 
but  then  again,  perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while.  I  have  carried  out 
my  experiment,  and  I  am  satisfied.  I  asked  Captain  Gore  if  he  would 
t?.ke  Aaron  down  to  Ascot,  and  he  said  '  No,'  right  out ;  but  I  suppose 
there  is  a  difference  between  you  and  Captain  Gore.  Whatever  Aaron 
may  be,  you  are  what  I  call  a  gentleman,  Colonel  Randolph — I  won't 
say  us  much  for  all  the  Englishmen  whom  I  have  met — and  you  arc  ;i 
good  friend.  Some  day  I  hope  you  will  have  a  good  wife,  and  then  you 
will  have  to  write  and  tell  me  all  about  her,  and  maybe  I'll  come  and  see 


MRS.  VAN  STEEN.  707 

you  if  I  am  in  London  again.     I'm  getting  near  the  end  of  this  visit  now* 
It  has  been  a  very  pleasant  one,  thanks  chiefly  to  you." 

"  Mrs.  Van  Steen  " The  Colonel's  eloquence  failed  him  a  little. 

He  was  sitting  opposite  to  his  fair  hostess,  and  at  this  point  he  drew  his 
chair  a  little  closer  to  hers,  and  somehow  gained  possession  of  her  hand. 

The  effect  of  this  movement  was  by  no  means  what  her  previous  words 
might  have  led  him  to  anticipate.  She  drew  back  her  hacd,  jumped  up, 
and  moved  away  a  few  paces,  exclaiming  indignantly,  "  Colonel  Ran- 
dolph !  "  And  before  anything  more  could  be  said  the  door  opened,  and 
in  walked  the  inevitable  Aaron. 

The  Colonel's  chance  was  evidently  lost  for  that  evening,  and  it  only 
remained  for  him  to  effect  his  retreat,  which  he  did  presently  in  some 
embarrassment.  But  at  the  earliest  permissible  hour  the  next  morning 
he  was  in  Dover  Street  once  more,  resolved  this  time  that  he  would  have 
half  an  hour  alone  with  Mrs.  Van  Steen,  even  should  it  prove  necessary, 
in  order  to  secure  privacy,  that  Mr.  Muggertdge  should  be  requested  in 
so  many  words  to  leave  the  room. 

As  he  turned  in  at  the  familiar  doorway,  he  was  almost  knocked 
down  by  Captain  Gore,  who  dashed  out  head  first,  his  hat  brushed  the 
wrong  way,  and  his  whole  appearance  that  of  a  man  who  has  sustained 
some  severe  nervous  shock. 

"  Bless  me,  Gore,"  cried  the  Colonel,  "  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter 
with  you  ] " 

The  young  man  stared  at  his  questioner  rather  wildly.  "  Oh,  it's  you, 
is  it  ?  "  said  he.  "  Your  turn  now.  Oh,  damn  the  whole  business  !  "  And 
with  that  he  hailed  a  passing  hansom,  plunged  into  it,  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

The  Colonel  walked  upstairs,  smiling  to  himself.  He  could  not 
reasonably  be  expected  to  feel  much  pity  for  his  evidently  rejected  rival. 
Mrs.  Yan  Steen  was  not  in  the  drawing-room  when  he  entered  ;  but  Mr. 
Aaron  P.  Muggeridge,  who  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  trimming  his 
nails  with  a  pen-knife,  rose  and  welcomed  the  new-comer. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Colonel  Randolph  :  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  I  was  wishing 
for  an  opportunity  of  saying  a  few  words  to  you  about  a  matter " 

"  Some  other  time,  my  dear  Muggeridge — any  other  time,  in  fact. 
The  truth  is  that  I  wish  rather  particularly  to  say  a  few  words  to  Mrs. 
Yan  Steen  just  now." 

Aaron  shook  his  head,  continuing  to  pare  his  nails  carefully.  "  My 
sister  doesn't  feel  like  receiving  visitors  this  morning,  Colonel  Randolph. 
Your  friend  Captain  Gore  has  just  left  us,  after  making  quite  an  un- 
plea.sant  scene.  There  has  been  a  little  misconception." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  think  I  can  understand,"  interrupted  the  Colonel ;  "  but 
need  that  prevent  her  seeing  me  1  I  don't  wish,  of  course,  to  force  myself 
upon  her;  but  would  you  mind  just  letting  her  know  that  I  am  here  ? " 

"  Why,  yes,"  answered  Mr.  Muggeridge  deliberately ;  "I  am  afraid  I 
must  decline  to  let  her  know.  I  feel  very  baclly  about  speaking  so  to  you 
after  all  your  kindness  to  us ;  but  there  are  occasions  upon  which  a  man 


708  MRS.  VAN  STEEN. 

finds  it  his  duty  to  speak  plainly  to  his  best  friends ;  and  it  seems  to 
come  within  my  duty  to  tell  you  this  morning,  Colonel,  that  you  have 
been  fooling  around  here  entirely  too  much  of  late." 

The  Colonel  grew  rather  rigid  about  the  back ;  he  did  not  much 
relish  the  expression.  But  he  swallowed  down  his  disgust.  "Let  us  by 
all  means  speak  plainly,"  he  returned.  "  No  doubt  it  will  simplify 
matters  if  I  tell  you  that  I  have  come  here  now  to  ask  your  sister  to 
honour  me  and  make  me  happy  by  becoming  my  wife." 

True  to  his  general  rule  of  conduct,  Mr.  Muggeridge  exhibited  no 
astonishment.  He  went  on  with  his  occupation,  merely  remarking  in 
his  drawling,  conversational  voice,  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Colonel.  We 
are  flattered  by  your  kind  offer,  but  we  can't  accept  it.  We  shall  have 
to  get  you  to  excuse  us." 

"  May  I  ask,"  inquired  the  Colonel  rather  hoarsely,  "  whether  you 
say  this  upon  your  own  authority  1 " 

"  Well,"  answered  Aaron,  who  had  now  finished  with  his  left  hand, 
and  was  examining  it  critically  at  arm's  length,  "  we  will  put  it  at  that. 
I  conclude  I  am  justified  in  speaking  upon  my  own  authority  in  the  ab- 
sence of  my  partner  and  brother-in-law  Mr.  Van  Steen." 

"  Good  God  !  "  the  Colonel  ejaculated,  "  is  it  Mrs.  Van  Steen's  hus- 
band that  you  mean  ?  Isn't  the  man  dead  ? " 

Aaron  drew  a  telegram  from  his  pocket,  and  unfolded  it  slowly. 
"He  was  not  dead  at  8.20  A.M.  to-day  any  way,"  he  observed.  "He 
advises  me  by  cable  that  he  sails  from  New  York  at  noon  per  Cunard 
steamer  Scythia.  You'll  allow  that's  pretty  good  presumptive  evidence 
of  a  man's  existence." 

The  Colonel  never  knew  how  he  got  out  of  the  house.  There  is  every 
reason  to  hope  that  the  habit  of  self-control  was  strong  enough  in  him  to 
enable  him  to  withdraw  without  uttering  any  of  the  uncomplimentary 
phrases  which  rose  to  his  lips.  For  some  days  he  was  very  angry  indeed, 
and  was  inclined  to  believe,  as  Captain  Gore  did,  that  he  had  been  shame- 
fully deceived  and  befooled  by  an  unscrupulous  little  flirt;  but  time 
and  reflection  modified  the  harshness  of  this  first  view  of  the  case  ;  and 
he  soon  acquitted  Mrs.  Van  Steen  of  intentional  duplicity.  She  might, 
to  be  sure,  have  told  him  that  she  had  a  husband  alive ;  but  she  was  not 
bound  to  answer  a  question  that  had  never  been  put  to  her ;  and  how 
was  she  to  know  that  foolish  Mrs.  Digby  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
she  was  a  widow,  and  had  proclaimed  her  as  such  to  all  and  sundry  whom 
it  might  concern  ? 

Captain  Gore  made  a  prodigious  outcry  over  his  disappointment ;  but 
the  Colonel,  who  perhaps  suffered  more  deeply,  was  wiser,  and  held  his 
peace.  He  is  too  sensible  a  person  to  break  his  heart  over  the  inevitable. 
Moreover,  he  has  lived  long  enough  to  have  learnt  that,  as  there  is  little 
happiness  in  this  world  without  alloy,  so  there  are  few  disappointments  but 
have  their  accompanying  consolations,  if  a  man  will  but  look  for  them. 


709 


Sglinttr  0f  |)  drifted  Jjisiorir. 


IN  the  very  deepest  bend  of  the  great  West  Bay  which  sweeps  round 
in  a  wide  arc  from  the  grey  Bill  of  Portland  to  the  red  coast  of  Devon- 
shire near  Torquay,  nestles  the  little  forgotten  borough  of  Lyme  Regis. 
A  quiet  wee  town  is  Lyme,  set  at  the  bottom  of  a  tiny  valley,  where  a 
miniature  river  cuts  its  way  through  soft  lias  cliffs  into  the  sleepy  sea. 
On  the  three  landward  sides  the  hills  shut  in  the  town,  so  that  every 
road  Avhich  leaves  it  in  any  direction  mounts  at  once  a  few  hundred  feet 
or  so  to  the  level  of  the  downs  above.  These  downs  consist  of  three 
different  rocks,  a  soft  blue  lias  below,  a  yellow  sandstone  belonging  to 
the  greensand  formation  midway,  and  a  greyish  white  chalk  on  top  of 
all.  Once  upon  a  time  (as  fairy  tales  and  men  of  science  say)  the  downs 
stretched  all  along  the  coast  for  many  miles  at  a  uniform  height  of  some 
six  hundred  feet,  and  showed  on  their  seaward  escarpment  all  three 
layers  of  blue  mud,  yellow  sandstone,  and  white  chalk.  Gradually, 
however,  the  water  has  worn  a  channel  for  the  little  river  Lym  through 
the  two  upper  strata,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  small  amphitheatre  thus 
formed  stands  the  existing  town  of  Lyme.  Similar  channels  have  been 
worn  further  to  the  east  by  the  rivers  Char  and  Brit,  and  at  their  seaward 
extremities  are  built  the  towns  of  Charmouth  and  Bridport.  Lesser 
valleys,  again,  break  the  line  of  cliff  in  between  these  three  main 
openings.  So  now,  if  you  stand  on  Lyme  Cobb — as  we  call  the  old 
stone  pier — the  view  to  eastward  embraces  an  undulating  coast,  which 
dips  down  into  frequent  hollows  and  rises  again  into  bold  hills,  till  at 
last  the  whole  country-side  falls  away  slowly  toward  the  Chesil  Bank, 
while  on  the  dim  horizon  the  white  rock  of  Portland  stands  like  a  huge 
wedge  of  limestone  against  the  faint  skyline.  The  thick  end  of  the 
wedge  turns  toward  the  land,  and  rises  some  five  hundred  feet  in  sheer 
height ;  the  thin  end  tapers  off  to  sea  level  in  the  direction  of  the  open 
•channel,  and  prolongs  itself  under  the  waves  for  many  miles  in  the 
dangerous  Race  of  Portland — a  rocky  ledge  better  known  than  loved  by 
homeward-bound  ships.  The  cliffs  in  this  direction  have  all  lost  their 
top  layer  of  chalk  by  the  wearing  action  of  water,  and  only  show  the 
lower  tiers  of  sandstone  covering  the  lias — an  arrangement  which  Luis 
secured  for  the  tallest  among  them  the  name  of  Golden  Cap.  But  to 
the  west  the  white  chalk  still  peeps  out  picturesquely  above  the  whole 
mass,  through  green  trees  and  broken  undercliff,  though  its  advanced 


710         LYME  REGIS;   A  SPLINTER   OF   PETRIFIED   HISTORY.   - 

shoulders  hide  the  view  along  the  shore  towards  Seaton,  and  it  is  only 
in  clear  weather  that  we  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  Devonshire 
coast,  including  the  long  promontory  of  Berry  Head  and  the  dim  but 
bold  outline  of  the  Start. 

Here  at  Lyme  the  present  writer  generally  poses  as  an  idyllic  Meli- 
bceus  through  the  summer  months,  accompanied  of  course  by  Phyllis 
and  all  the  little  Delias  or  Damons.  It  is  indeed  a  strictly  bucolic 
place,  almost  six  miles  from  the  nearest  railway,  and  as  yet  unassailed 
by  school-boards  or  women-suffrage  associations.  And  as  I — the  Meli- 
boeus  in  question — depend  largely  upon  the  neighbouring  walks  for  my 
mental  stimulation,  I  have  naturally  learnt  to  love  every  field,  path,  and 
village  for  ten  miles  around.  Moreover,  being  (amongst  other  things) 
of  an  antiquarian  turn  of  mind,  I  take  an  interest  everywhere  in  the 
local  names  and  the  history  which  they  contain.  For  every  local  name 
has  of  course  a  meaning,  and  it  was  first  given  for  a  definite  reason. 
Thus  we  may  regard  names  in  some  sort  as  a  kind  of  philological  fossils, 
and  we  shall  find  that  to  hunt  out  their  derivation  and  origin  is  not 
less  interesting  to  the  mind  (and  far  less  rough  on  the  clothes)  than  to 
hunt  for  ammonites  and  saurian  bones  in  the  lias  cliffs  around  us.  I 
propose,  therefore,  to  take  you  all,  my  kindly  readers,  for  a  few  walks 
in  the  country  about  Lyme,  examining  as  we  go  the  names  of  the  various 
points  we  traverse :  and  I  hope  to  show  you  that  these  splinters  of 
petrified  history  are  far  more  interesting,  even  to  the  casual  observer, 
than  you  would  be  at  all  likely  to  suspect  at  first  sight.  I  choose  Lyme 
merely  because  I  happen  to  know  the  country  well;  but  if  I  once  set 
you  upon  the  right  track,  you  will  be  able  easily  to  look  Tip  the  local 
names  of  your  own  neighbourhood  in  the  same  manner,  and  you  will 
find  the  occupation,  I  trust,  both  amusing  and  instructive. 

First  of  all,  a  word  as  to  the  name  of  Lyme  Regis  itself.  The  little 
river  which  has  scooped  out  the  whole  combe  or  valley  bears  the  name 
of  Lym.  This  name,  like  those  of  almost  all  our  rivers,  is  not  English 
but  Keltic  or  Welsh.  When  the  English  conquerors — the  "  Anglo- 
Saxons,"  as  old-fashioned  history-books  foolishly  call  them — first  carne  to 
Britain,  they  found  the  country  in  the  possession  of  the  Romanised 
Welsh,  whom  the  same  history-books  call  "  the  Ancient  Britons." 
Naturally,  they  learned  the  names  of  all  the  physical  features,  such  as 
rivers,  hills,  and  mountains,  from  those  among  the  Welsh  whom  they 
subdued  in  war  and  kept  as  slaves.  Many  even  of  the  towns  still  bear 
their  Romanised  or  Welsh  titles,  more  or  less  disguised,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  great  colonies  London,  Lincoln,  and  Chester ;  but  rivers  invariably 
retain  their  old  Keltic  forms.  This  particular  word,  Lym,  means  in 
Keltic  a  torrent,  and  might  be  aptly  applied  to  the  little  hill-fed  stream 
before  the  modern  cuts,  and  weirs,  and  mill-dams  obstructed  its  im- 
petuous course.  When  the  advanced  outposts  of  the  English  reached 
this  utmost  corner  of  Dorsetshire,  they  would  naturally  ask  the  Welsh, 
by  signs  or  interpreter,  what  was  the  name  of  the  little  stream,  and 


LYME  REGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY.        711 

receive  as  an  answer  that  it  was  called  Lym.     And  Lym  it  has  accord- 
ingly been  ever  since.* 

Amongst  the  records  of  Glastonbury  Abbey  is  a  charter  of  King 
^Ethelstan,  which  grants  to  his  namesake,  ^Ethelstan  the  thegn,  six 
manses  "  set  Lyme," — that  is  to  say,  at  the  Lym.  From,  this  usage  grew 
up  the  modern  name  Lyme,  just  as  Pfyn  has  grown  from  the  Latin 
phrase  ad  Fines,  or  Pontefract  from  ad  Pontem  Fractum.  All  through 
the  west  country,  names  of  towns  are  very  apt  to  hang  upon  those  of 
rivers;  such,  for  example,  are  Axminster  and  Axmouth  on  the  Axe, 
Exeter  and  Exmouth  on  the  Exe,  Bridport  on  the  Brit,  Collumpton  and 
Culmstock  on  the  Culm,  and  Tavistock  on  the  Tavy.  In  each  of  these 
cases  the  river  name  is  Keltic,  while  the  termination  is  mostly  English. 
But  it  is  not  often  that  the  river  name  alone  (in  an  oblique  case)  forms 
the  whole  title  of  the  town,  as  at  Lyme.  "We  have,  however,  a  cor- 
responding instance  in  the  first  recorded  cognomen  borne  by  the  neigh- 
bouring village  of  Charmouth,  which  figures  in  the  English  Chronicle 
under  the  form  "  set  Carrum,"  that  is  to  say,  at  the  Char. 

As  to  the  second  half  of  the  title,  Regis,  it  is  of  course  ecclesiastical 
or  legal  Latin,  and  signifies  that  Lyme  was  a  royal  manor  from  the 
days  of  Edward  I.  We  get  the  same  termination  in  Bere  Regis  and 
Melcomb  Regis ;  while  the  translated  form  occurs  in  King's  Lynn — a 
Norfolk  town  often  confounded  with  the  little  Dorsetshire  borough. 

The  deeply-cleft  valley  of  the  Lym  contains  one  other  village,  besides 
Lyme  Regis  itself — a  picturesque  group  of  houses  higher  up  the  stream  f 
nestling  below  a  pretty  grey  church  on  the  hillock,  and  known  as 
Uplyme.  In  modern  English  we  generally  speak  of  higher  and  lower 
towns,  but  in  the  old  type  of  the  language  many  other  forms  were  pre- 
valent. Such  are  High  Wycombe,  Over  Darwen,  Under  Marston,  and 
Nether  Compton.  A  Netherbury  occurs  in  this  very  district,  near  Bea- 
minster.  But  one  of  the  commonest  West-country  modes  of  expressing 
comparative  height  is  that  made  by  simply  prefixing  the  word  up. 
Thus,  along  the  river  Otter,  above  Ottery,  we  meet  with  the  village  of 
Up-Ottery ;  while  on  the  Wey,  above  Weymouth,  stands  Upwey.  So, 
too,  on  the  Lym,  above  Lyme,  comes  Up-lime ;  while  the  main  town 
itself  is  sometimes  described  in  old  charters  as  Nether-Lym-super-Mare. 
To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  this  distinctively  West-country  mode  of 
comparison  by  means  of  up  does  not  extend  to  any  of  the  counties  east 
of  Wiltshire. 

If  we  start  from  the  wee  parade  at  Lyme  on  a  bright  summer's  day 
we  may  walk  across  to  Charrnouth  by  the  cliffs  and  find  it  a  delightful 
excursion.  The  pleasantest  plan  is  to  avoid  the  highway  and  take  a 
leafy  cartroad  up  the  hill,  which  still  bears  the  name  of  Colway  Lane. 

*  I  owe  acknowledgments  for  the  general  method  pursued  to  Mr.  Isaac  Taylor's 
Words  and  Places,  and  for  some  special  local  facts  to  Roberta's  History  of  Lyme,  and 
Pulman's  'Book  of  the  Axe.  But  in  many  cases  I  have  endeavoured  to  correct  what  I 
believe  to  be  their  errors. 


712         LYME  REGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY. 

Perhaps,  if  you  are  a  town-bred  man,  you  will  be  astonished  to  learn 
that  not  only  every  lane  and  every  farm,  but  even  every  field  in  England, 
has  its  own  name,  and  that  most  of  these  go  back  in  time  far  beyond 
the  date  when  Domesday  Book  was  compiled.  This  farm  on  the  left 
here,  for  example,  is  Haye ;  that  is  to  say,  the  hedged  enclosure — a 
common  termination  throughout  Devonshire,  as  in  Northernhay,  near 
Exeter.  Its  various  fields  are  known  as  Bustart,  Middle-mill,  Black 
Dog  Mead,  and  Four-acre.  So,  too,  this  Colway  Lane,  which  was  once 
part  of  a  great  Roman  road,  still  preserves  the  last  relics  of  its 
original  title  ;  for  the  first  half  is  a  fragment  of  the  Latin  Colonia,  as  in 
Lincoln  and  Colchester;  while  the  second  half  is  the  common  English 
word  way.  It  runs  straight  up  the  steep  hillside  with  true  Roman 
directness,  disclaiming  to  twist  and  zigzag  weakly,  like  the  modern  road. 
By  it  we  can  soon  cross  the  mouldering  cliff  known  as  Black  Venn,  from 
its  dark  lias  escarpment,  and  descend  into  the  valley  of  the  Char  at 
Charmouth. 

The  word  Charmouth  is  transparency  itself;  and  yet  there  are  some 
wild  philologists  who  wish  to  derive  it  from  the  name  of  Cerdic,  the 
first  king  of  Wessex,  descendant  of  Woden,  and  ancestor  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria. For  my  own  part,  when  I  see  Wearmouth  on  the  "Wear,  and 
Weymouth  on  the  Wey,  and  Plymouth  on  the  Plym,  I  cannot  hesitate 
to  decide  that  Charmouth  is  so  called  simply  from  its  position  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Char,  a  little  river  with  a  good  old  undeciphered  name, 
almost  as  certainly  Keltic  as  any  in  the  land.  The  view  from  Black 
Venn,  looking  down  upon  Charmouth  and  the  hills  beyond,  is  one  of 
the  finest  you  will  see  in  Dorsetshire.  Besides  the  sea  and  the  river 
valley,  you  have  a  splendid  prospect  over,  a  great  green  ridge,  locally 
known  as  Hatton  Hill,  but  more  correctly  called  Hardown,  up  which 
the  Bridport  road  winds  its  way  in  a  long  white  line,  which  seems  to 
hang  upon  its  sloping  sides.  The  first  group  of  houses  on  its  flank  is 
Stanbarrow,  that  is  to  say,  the  Stone  Barrow,  so  called  from  some  ancient 
tumulus  covering  the  body  of  an  old  Euskarian  chief,  and  spared  for 
ages  by  Kelt,  Roman,  and  West-Saxon,  but  long  since  swept  away 
by  the  ruthless  hand  of  a  modern  British  squire.  The  other  village 
near  the  top  bears  the  quaint  name  of  Morcomblake.  This  word  used 
for  a  long  time  to  puzzle  me  ;  Morcornb,  I  knew,  means  the  seaward  gap 
or  valley ;  but  where  was  the  Lake  1  At  last  I  learnt  from  labouring 
men  that  Lake  in  the  Dorsetshire  dialect  means  a  small  stream,  and 
that  such  a  stream  actually  flows  through  the  village ;  while  another 
little  rivulet  in  the  Isle  of  Purbeck  bears  the  name  of  Luckford  Lake. 
The  nearer  ridge  to  the  left,  dividing  the  valley  of  the  Char  into  two 
parts,  is  known  as  Wotton  or  Wootton  Hill.  Wootton  is  a  common 
corruption  of  Wood-town,  the  village  among  the  trees  ;  and  two  such 
villages  are  actually  to  be  descried  on  its  summit,  half-hidden  in  the 
foliage — Wootton  Abbots,  a  dependency  of  Ford  Abbey  ;  and  Wootton 
Fitzpaine,  so  called  from  the  Norman  family  who  owned  the  manor.  It 


LYME  REGIS;   A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY.        713 

is  interesting  to  note  that  some  such  place  gave  origin  to  the  two 
common  surnames  of  Wootton  and  Wotton.  Moreover,  as  the  local 
West-country  pronunciation  is  always  Hootton,!  am  inclined  to  suppose 
that  we  get  our  Huttons  also  from  the  same  source  ;  just  as  our  Hoods 
are  probably  mere  Dorsetshire  and  Devonshire  varieties  of  our  Woods. 

Looking  northward,  three  or  four  larger  hills  block  the  view  inland. 
To  the  right,  Pillesdon  and  Lewesdon,  the  two  highest  points  in  Dorset- 
shire, nearly  1,000  feet  above  sea  level,  stand  out  boldly  against  the  sky. 
Sailors,  who  know  the  twin  hills  well  as  a  landmark,  or  rather  a  sea- 
mark, call  them  the  Cow  and  Calf.  I  don't  think  I  can  make  much  of 
their  names,  and  so  I  may  as  well  make  a  clear  breast  of  it.  The  last 
part  of  course  means  hill,  and  it  is  possible  that  Pillesdon  is  equivalent 
to  Beacon  Hill ;  but  of  this  interpretation  cautious  etymologists  cannot 
feel  certain.  It  is  still  surmounted,  however,  by  an  ancient  earthwork, 
one  of  a  great  ring  which  girdles  the  left  bank  of  the  Axe,  and  is  an- 
swered by  another  ring  on  the  principal  heights  of  the  right  side.  These 
earthworks  mark  the  boundary  line  between  the  Durotriges,  the  Keltic 
inhabitants  of  Dorsetshire,  and  the  Damnonii,  or  men  of  Devon.  Both 
tribes  have  left  a  memory  of  their  names  in  those  of  the  modern  shires. 
Such  early  fortifications  still  bear  locally  the  title  of  castles.  These  two 
nearer  heights,  for  example,  between  Wootton  Hill  and  Pillesdon,  are 
known  as  Lambert's  Castle  and  Coney  Castle.  An  old  prehistoric  earth- 
work still  crowns  either  summit,  and  once  formed  a  place  of  refuge  and 
defence  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  lowlands  in  time  of  raids,  when  the  men 
of  Devon  came  on  the  war-trail  against  the  homes  and  the  cattle  of  the 
Dorset  folk.  The  first  of  these  two  hills  is  known  to  all  the  country 
people  as  Lammas  Castle,  and  I  have  no  doubt  this  is  really  the  cor- 
rect name,  while  the  purely  hypothetical  recognised  form  has  probably 
been  invented  by  overfine  speakers,  who  thought  the  common  pronuncia- 
tion too  vulgar  for  their  refined  lips,  and  so  evolved  an  imaginary  Lam- 
bert out  of  their  own  consciousness.  Fairs  have  long  been  held  on  this 
summit  during  the  summer  ;  and  though  since  the  days  of  Queen  Anne 
they  have  taken  place  on  June  15,  or  thereabouts,  there  is  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  in  earlier  times  they  fell  upon  the  first  of  August,  or  Lammas 
day,  like  the  many  well-known  Lammas  fairs  throughout  England 
generally.  An  exactly  analogous  case  occurs  at  Whit  Down  near  Chard, 
KO  called  from  an  annual  fair  on  Whit- Monday.  As  to  the  second  hill, 
Coney  Castle,  its  name  goes  still  further  back  in  antiquity,  for  it  is  de- 
vived  from  the  early  English  word  Cyning,  or  King,  and  so  signifies  the 
Royal  Camp.  The  form  Conig  Castle  is  still  in  occasional  use.  In  833, 
when  the  northern  pirates  first  began  their  attacks,  the  English  Chronicle 
tells  us  that  King  Ecgberht  "  fought  against  the  men  of  thii-ty-five  ships  at 
Charmouth,  and  there  was  mickle  slaughter  done,  and  the  Danes  took 
the  day."  Perhaps,  as  has  been  plausibly  conjectured,  the  name  of  this 
lonely  down  still  bears  record  to  the  "  royal  visit "  of  the  ninth  century. 

Memorials  of  these  early  warlike  days  are  generally  to  be  found  on 


714          LYME  EEGIS;   A  SPLINTEK  OF  PETKIFIED  HISTORY. 

the  hill-tops.  The  valleys  remind  us  of  more  peaceful  times,  and  of  the 
agricultural  energy  of  the  monastic  orders.  Standing  here  on  the  old 
Charmouth  road,  and  looking  down  at  the  smiling  cultivated  dales  be- 
neath, we  can  see  them  threaded  in  a  silver  line  by  two  branches  or 
forks  of  the  river  Char,  each  possessing  its  own  little  plain,  and  each  re- 
calling to  our  minds  this  useful  work  of  the  old  clergy.  On  this  side  of 
Lambert's  Castle,  the  long  range  which  includes  Coney  Castle  and 
Wootton  Hill,  and  forms  the  dividing  ridge  between  the  two  forks  with 
their  respective  basins,  lies  the  village  of  Monktonwyld,  or  Monkton- 
weald,  still  largely  surrounded  by  woodland,  but  seated  for  the  most  part 
in  the  midst  of  a  fruitful  champaign  country.  Its  name  shows  that  com- 
paratively late  in  the  Middle  Ages  the  neighbouring  fields  were  still 
covered  by  a  weald  or  forest,  like  the  old  Weald  of  Kent.  Of  this  forest 
the  modern  copses  and  pine  groves  are  the  last  surviving  relics.  Into 
the  rich  but  unoccupied  woodland,  a  good  body  of  monks  came  from  the 
neighbouring  Ford  Abbey,  to  make  the  first  settlement  in  the  desolate 
vale.  They  built  their  little  cell,  and  the  village  which  grew  up  around 
that  nucleus  naturally  received  and  still  retains  the  name  of  Monkton- 
in-the- Weald,  or  Monktonwyld.  Doubtless  the  low-lying  plain  was  then 
a  marshy  and  ill-drained  bottom,  with  a  wide  central  expanse  of  boggy 
land  ;  and  the  scattered  farms  of  Grubhay,  Champernhay,  and  Thricehay, 
upon  its  outskirts,  seem  to  indicate  by  their  common  termination  that 
they  were  originally  mere  isolated  "  clearings  "  in  the  bush,  each  one  girt 
round  with  its  own  hedge  or  stockade,  and  not  unlike  the  modern  clear- 
ings of  American  or  Australian  backwoodsmen.  They  almost  carry  us 
back  in  memory  to  the  days  when  Ida,  first  king  of  Northumbria, 
settling  down  in  the  wild  Yorkshire  wolds  (the  word  is  the  same  as  weald 
and  the  German  wald),  in  the  nai've  language  of  the  English  Chronicle. 
"  timbered  Bamborough  and  betyned  it  with  a  hedge."  Uphay  and 
Netherhay,  two  common  names  of  Dorsetshire  farms,  thus  mean  the 
higher  and  lower  clearing  or  enclosure  respectively. 

The  valley  which  girds  round  the  further  and  more  important  branch 
of  the  Char  is  known  as  the  Yale  of  Marsh  wood,  and  now  contains  some 
of  the  finest  agricultural  grazing  land  in  Dorsetshire.  But  the  compara- 
tively modern  form  of  the  name  in  itself  shows  that  this  rich  dale,  upon 
whose  wide  meadowlands  you  can  look  down  in  a  splendid  sweep  from 
the  top  of  Pillesdon,  remained  untilled  and  unoccupied  till  a  very  late 
date.  Even  in  the  days  of  old  Coker,  the  Dorsetshire  historian,  it  still 
consisted  of  unbroken  forest ;  for  he  speaks  of  "  the  Mershe-wood  "  in  the 
same  way  as  we  might  now  speak  of  Glen-Tanar  or  Rothiemurchus. 
Nay,  at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  a  local  poet  describes  it  as  dank 
and  pathless.  But  in  the  lower  part  of  this  damp  and  wild  level — for 
such  we  must  picture  it  to  have  been — the  monks  again  have  left  a  last- 
ing memorial  of  their  presence.  "  Wood  and  water "  were  the  two 
great  needs  of  the  clergy.  Secure  from  the  ruthless  hands  of  invaders, 
they  did  not  perch  themselves,  like  the  feudal  barons,  on  the  top  of  de- 


LYME  REGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY.        715 

fensible  hills  or  steeply  scarped  crags,  but  placed  their  home  in  the  plea- 
sant meadows  and  possible  orchard  lands  by  the  river-sides.  While  the 
castle  always  crowns  the  height,  the  abbey  nestles  snugly  in  the  valley 
beneath.  That  grey  tower  which  you  see  near  the  slope  of  Hardown  is 
the  belfry  of  Whitchurch  Canonicorum.  It  was  the  seat  of  a  religious 
community  long  before  the  Norman  Conquest  (though,  of  course,  the 
existing  building  is  of  far  later  date) ,  for  we  find  it  entered  as  Witcerce 
in  Domesday  Book.  The  patroness  of  the  village  is  a  certain  Saint  Hwit 
or  St.  Candida,  whose  holy  well  still  exists  on  a  neighbouring  hillside. 
In  Plantagenet  times  the  name  was  Latinised  into  Album  Monasterium  ; 
and  a  white  church  it  must  indeed  have  been  when  its  freestone  came 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  mason.  As  to  the  suffix  Canonicorum,  we 
owe  that  title  to  its  dependence  on  the  canons  of  Wells  and  Salisbury. 

Ecclesiastical  names  are,  indeed,  very  common  in  Dorsetshire  and 
the  neighbouring  bit  of  Devon.  To  mention  only  the  larger  towns  or  vil- 
lages, we  have  Axminster,  Sturminster,  Beaminster,  Wimborne  Minster, 
Lytchet  Minster,  and  Yetminster  ;  Cerne  Abbas,  Milton  Abbas,  Stoke 
Abbot,  and  Abbotsbury ;  Ford  Abbey,  and  Sherborne  Abbey  ;  beside  a 
whole  host  of  more  or  less  obvious  cases,  such  as  Whitchurch  Canonicorum, 
Hawkchurch,  Holt  Chapel,  Toller  Fratrum,  and  Stanton  St.  Gabriel,  not 
to  mention  the  well-known  instance  of  St.  Alban's — or,  as  it  ought  to 
be,  St.  Aldhelrn's — Head.  The  minsters,  of  course,  date  from  very  early 
times  :  the  churches  often  from  the  Plantagenet  period.  And  while  we 
are  talking  of  matters  ecclesiastical,  just  let  me  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  little  village  right  beyond  Whitchurch  is  called  Ryle,  and 
most  probably  gave  origin  to  the  ancestors  of  the  Bishop  of  Liverpool. 
You  will  find,  if  you  inquire  into  it,  that  an  immense  proportion  of  our 
surnames  come  originally  from  local  names,  and,  for  the  most  part,  from 
those  of  the  smaller  towns  or  villages.  The  ancestor's  of  our  great  epic 
poet  migrated  to  London  from  some  one  of  the  many  Miltons — sometimes 
Mill-towns  and  sometimes  Middle-towns — which  are  scattered  all  over 
England.  People  who  keep  a  look-out  upon  the  signboards  over  shops 
soon  learn  that  in  every  town  many  families  bear  the  names  of  neigh- 
bouring villages.  Very  often  even  the  most  unlikely  cases  turn  up  if 
you  wait  long  enough  for  them.  I  was  once  talking  over  this  very  sub- 
ject at  Ford  Abbey,  near  Chard,  with  a  friend,  and  I  pointed  out  to  him 
from  inscriptions  on  the  building  that  the  last  Abbot  of  that  house  before 
the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries  had  been  a  certain  Dr.  Thomas  Chard. 
"  There  is  a  surname,"  said  he,  "  which  has  not  survived  at  any  rate." 
Only  a  few  weeks  later,  the  news  of  Rorke's  Drift  arrived  in  England, 
and  Major  Chard's  name  became  at  once  familiar  in  our  ears  as  household 
words.  If  you  will  keep  a  look-out  in  your  own  town  or  summer 
quarters  you  will  find  abundant  instances  of  the  same  sort,  throwing 
light  on  surnames  which  at  a  first  glance  seem  wholly  inexplicable. 

The  places  we  have  hitherto  considered  lie  almost  all  in  the  county 
of  Dorset.  But  Lyme  stands  close  to  the  Devonshire  border,  so  that 


716          LYME  REGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY. 

Uplyme  itself,  which  is  practically  a  suburb  of  the  old  borough,  belongs 
administratively  to  a  different  shire.  A  short  excursion  in  this  direction 
will  reveal  to  us  facts  of  equal  interest.  The  main  road  to  the  usual 
railway  station  conducts  us  to  Axminster,  more  famed  for  the  memory  of 
its  extinct  carpet  factories  than  for  any  modern  reality.  It  stands,  of 
course,  on  the  river  Axe,  whose  name  is  also  Keltic,  and  reappears  in  the 
Esk,  TJsk,  Exe,  and  many  like  streams.  The  word,  I  need  hardly  say, 
is  old  Welsh  for  water,  as  Avon  is  for  river.  As  to  the  Minster,  it  is  an 
early  English  foundation,  dating  from  before  the  Conquest,  and  mention 
is  made  of  the  town  under  its  present  name  in  the  Chronicle  under  the 
year  784,  when  Cynehard  the  Atheling  was  buried  here.  The  existing 
church  actually  contains  fragments  of  architecture  which  may  possibly 
go  back  to  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Confessor.  In  local  pronunciation 
the  town  is  always  Axmister ;  and  Leland,  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII., 
so  spells  it.  Such  a  contraction  is  very  common  in  the  West  Country. 
Thus  Beaminster — originally,  as  we  know  from  charters,  Bega-minster, 
that  is  to  say,  the  church  of  St.  Bega  or  St.  Bee — has  become  shortened 
in  the  Dorset  mouth  to  Bemmister.  Hence  we  may  conclude  that  the 
neighbouring  village  of  Misterton  is  really  the  Minster  town.  So,  too, 
the  old  English  Exanceaster,  the  castrum,  or  fortified  town,  on  the  Exe, 
has  been  clipped  into  Exeter  by  western  lips,  while  similar  forms  retain 
their  hard  sound  elsewhere.  Indeed,  as  we  go  southward  and  westward 
we  find  a  constant  deterioration  in  the  spelling  and  pronunciation  of  these 
words,  from  Lancaster  in  the  north,  through  Manchester,  Leicester, 
Worcester,  and  Gloucester,  among  the  midlands,  to  Exeter  in  the  extreme 
south-west. 

A  pleasant  round  may  be  taken  from  Axminster  by  Seaton  and  the 
mouth  of  the  Axe  home  to  Lyme.  Soon  after  leaving  the  town,  we 
reach  the  little  river  Yart,  which  we  cross  by  Yarty  Bridge.  Like  all  the 
other  river  names,  Yart  is  good  Keltic ;  and  in  the  upper  part  of  its 
course  stands  a  village  with  the  doubly  Keltic  name  of  Yarcombe,  that 
is  Yart  Valley ;  for  combe  is  the  Welsh  word  cwm  (an  enclosed  dell) 
familiar  to  all  Snowdon  climbers,  and  reappearing  again  throughout 
England  even  among  the  thoroughly  Teutonic  South  Downs  near 
Brighton.  But  in  the  second  part  of  the  word  Yarty  we  have  a  real 
English  root.  Yarty  means  the  island  on  the  Yart.  Now,  almost  all 
the  islands  round  the  English  coast  end  in  y  or  ey,  as,  for  example, 
Sheppey,  Walney,  Anglesey,  Lundy,  and  Bardsey.  In  many  inland 
places,  not  now  insulated,  but  once  cut  off  by  rivers  or  marshes,  we  meet 
with  the  same  termination,  as  in  Ely,  Athelney,  and  Oseney.  Often  it 
occurs  in  a  corrupt  form  :  thus  the  largest  island  in  Poole  Harbour  is 
called  Branksea  (that  is,  Brank's  island) ;  while  Chelsea  and  Battersea 
were  once  eyots  in  the  Thames.  Anglesey  is  now  commonly  written 
Anglesea.  In  all  these  cases  we  have  to  deal  with  the  old  English  word 
•lg,  an  island,  the  latter  term  itself  being  a  corruption  of  igland,  and  the 
false  spelling  being  due  to  a  confusion  with  the  Norman  French  isle,  a 


LYME  REGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY.        717 

derivative  of  the  Latin  insula  (Italian,  isola  ;  old  French,  isle  ;  modem 
French,  lie.)  So  Yarty  really  bears  witness  to  the  former  existence  of  a 
marshy  island  dividing  the  stream  at  this  spot,  a  circumstance  which 
caused  the  place  to  be  adopted  first  for  the  ford  and  later  on  for  the  more 
civilised  bridge.  Similarly,  Ottery  is  the  island  on  the  Otter,  and  derives 
its  second  title  of  St.  Mary's  from  the  saint  to  whom  its  beautiful  church 
is  dedicated. 

The  next  village  which  we  meet  is  Kilmington.  This  name  belongs 
to  a  type  very  common  throughout  eastern  and  thoroughly  Teutonic 
England,  but  extremely  rare  in  the  highly  Keltic  West- Welsh  counties. 
The  early  English  colonists  consisted  of  separate  clans,  each  of  which 
bore  a  patronymic  derived  from  a  real  or  mythical  ancestor.  Thus  the 
sons  of  Aella  would  be  Aelings,  and  settled  at  Allington ;  those  of  Boc 
were  Boeings,  and  dwelt,  at  Buckingham  ;  those  of  Peada  were  Peadings, 
and  they  have  left  their  mark  at  Paddington.  Wallingford,  Wellington, 
Birmingham,  Kensington,  Basingstoke,  and  Wellingborough,  are  other 
well-known  examples  of  like  forms.  In  purely  English  Kent  and  Essex, 
where  the  conquering  "  Anglo-Saxons  "  settled  in  hordes,  names  of  this 
type  may  be  collected  on  a  county  map  by  the  dozen.  But  here  in 
West  Wales  the  English  only  came  as  wealthy  lords  of  the  soil,  not  as 
real  working  settlers  and  cultivators ;  so  that  in  the  Lyme  district,  for 
ten  miles  or  so  in  every  direction,  I  know  of  only  two  cases  where 
English  clans  have  left  their  token  on  the  local  nomenclature.  The  one 
is  Cheddington,  near  Crewkerne,  which  keeps  alive  the  memory  of  the 
Ceadings  or  sons  of  Ceada;  the  other  is  this  very  spot,  Kilmington,  which 
bears  witness  to  an  early  settlement  of  the  Culmings.  Local  lips  still 
preserve  the  true  vocal  pronunciation  in  the  common  form  Cullmiton. 
Gillingham  and  Osmington.  are  the  only  two  noteworthy  villages  of  this 
Teutonic  clan  type  in  all  Dorsetshire. 

Our  next  point  must  be  Colyford,  where  the  direct  road  from  Lyme 
to  Sidmouth  crosses  the  Coly,  once,  as  the  name  tells  us,  by  a  ford,  but 
now  by  a  commodious  bridge.  This  road  is  the  old  Roman  one  from 
Dorchester  to  Exeter.  It  traverses  the  Axe  a  little  before  reaching 
Colyford  at  a  place  called  Axbridge.  A  little  lower  down  lies  the  village 
of  Axmouth,  which,  like  the  other  river  names,  is  too  transparent  to 
need  interpretation.  Opposite  it  stands  our  present  goal,  the  modern 
watering-place  of  Seaton.  This  name,  again,  tells  its  own  tale  too  well 
to  require  much  comment,  yet  we  may  say  a  word  or  two  about  its  form. 
There  is  a  place  called  Seatown  at  the  foot  of  Golden  Cap,  which  show& 
by  its  modern  spelling  that  it  only  dates  from  the  time  when  the  word 
town  had  acquired  its  existing  orthography.  But  our  present  Seaton  is 
a  more  ancient  place,  and  contains  the  older  English  (or  so-called  Anglo- 
Saxon)  form  of  ton  or  tun,  which  signified  a  farmhouse  or  enclosure, 
rather  than  a  town  in  the  modern  sense.  Hence  it  is  that  single  isolated 
homesteads  in  the  country  often  bear  names  ending  in  ton,  like  the  well- 
known  houses  at  Freshwater,  East  and  West  Afton,  familiar  to  most 


718        LYME  REGIS;   A   SPLINTER   OF  PETRIFIED   HISTORY. 

tourists  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Such  a  solitary  farm  was  doubtless  the 
ori°in  of  our  gay  little  Seaton,  in  days  when  Axmouth  was  a  respectable 
burgh  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  river.  At  present,  Axmouth 
has  dwindled  to  an  insignificant  hamlet,  while  Seaton,  thanks  to  the 
railway  and  its  fine  cliffs  of  white  chalk  and  red  marl,  has  become  a 
fashionable  litt}e  summer  resort  of  a  quiet  kind. 

A  short  and  pleasant  walk  over  these  pretty  red  and  white  cliffs 
(whose  contrasts  of  colour  are  sometimes  almost  startling)  will  bring  us 
to  the  tiny  fishing  village  of  Beer.  There  are  only  three  points  in  Beer 
which  could  possibly  interest  the  most  curious  mind.  The  first  is  that 
they  catch  excellent  lobsters ;  the  second  is,  that  till  very  lately  Beer 
could  boast  of  probably  the  meanest  and  most  insignificant  parish  church 
in  Great  Britain ;  and  the  third  is,  that  its  name  is  almost  certainly 
Scandinavian.  This  last  fact  is  undeniably  a  strange  and  unexpected 
one.  To  be  sure  the  Danish  pirates  were  in  the  habit  of  settling  every- 
where round  the  coast  of  Britain,  on  islands,  peninsulas,  and  other  like 
suitable  spots;  and  the  "West- Welsh  often  allied  themselves  with  the 
marauders  in  early  times  against  their  Wessex  overlords.  But  there 
are  comparatively  few  Danish  settlements  on  the  south  coast,  and  I 
was  long  unwilling  to  believe  that  Beer  was  a  genuine  instance  of  a 
Scandinavian  colony.  Many  considerations,  however,  have  at  last 
decided  me  to  accept  the  theory  as  true.  Beer  is  just  such  an  isolated 
seaward  nook  as  the  Scandinavians  loved — a  tiny  valley  or  combe, 
surrounded  by  hills,  and  opening  upon  a  little  cove  of  its  own,  shut  in 
on  every  side  by  lofty  cliffs.  Local  tradition  universally  speaks  of  a 
great  battle  fought  between  a  host  of  Danes  and  the  English  fyrd  near 
Axminster ;  and  many  antiquaries  have  tried  (though  not  quite  success- 
fully) to  identify  the  traditional  encounter  with  the  famous  fight  at 
Brunanburh,  made  familiar  to  us  all  by  the  grand  old  English  battle- 
song.  The  traditions  about  this  Danish  invasion  are  so  numerous,  and 
relate  to  so  many  local  names,  such  as  Warlake  (that  is,  the  stream  or 
brook  of  battle),  Brunedown,  and  Musbury,  that  we  can  hardly  doubt 
their  substantial  correctness.  Bisdon  says,  as  acknowledged  matter  of 
fact,  that  the  Danes  "  landed  in  Seaton  in  937  ;"  and  whether  Axminster 
was  Brunanburh  or  not,  it  was  almost  certainly  the  site  of  a  great  battle 
with  some  invading  northern  host.  Of  course  it  would  be  impossible  to 
enter  into  questions  of  detail  here ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  notice  that 
many  other  apparently  Danish  names  occur  in  the  neighbourhood.  Thus 
a  little  way  jip  the  Yart  we  find  a  down  known  as  Danes'  Hill,  at  whose 
foot  lies  the  village  of  Dalwoocl — the  wood  in  the  dale — while  the  crossing 
over  the  little  stream  is  called  Beckford  Bridge,  replacing  the  old  ford 
over  the  beck,  as  the  Scandinavians  call  a  brook.  Beckford,  by  the  way, 
gives  rise  to  another  familiar  surname,  which  all  of  us  know  through  the 
brilliant  author  of  Vatliek,  and  owner  of  Fonthill  Abbey.  In  Domesday, 
a  manor  adjoining  Axminster  is  called  Deneord ;  that  is  to  say,  Danes' 
land. 


LYME  EEGIS;  A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY.        719 

From  Beer  and  Seaton  we  may  return  to  Lyme  by  the  high-road, 
over  Axbridge  and  close  to  Combe  Pyne — the  first  half  of  which  is  our 
old  friend  combe,  a  valley,  while  the  second  half  belongs  to  the  ancient 
lords  of  the  manor,  the  famous  Devonshire  family  of  the  Pynes.  At  a 
still  earlier  date,  Combe  was  the  property  of  the  Coffins,  another  great 
Devonshire  house,  and  then  bore  the  name  of  Combe-Coffin.  Later  on, 
the  two  families  coalesced,  and  so  gave  origin  to  the  ludicrous  modern 
surname  of  Pyne-Coffin,  borne  by  the  branch  of  the  old  stock  now  settled 
at  Alwington  House  near  Clovelly.  Combe  Pyne,  as  its  name  suggests, 
is  a  pleasant  little  vale,  where  a  tributary  of  the  Axe  has  cut  through 
the  layer  of  chalk  and  reached  the  greensand  below.  Owing  to  this  fact, 
the  course  of  the  brook  is  bordered  by  a  fringe  of  trees,  rare  in  the  dis- 
trict between  Axe  and  Lym,  as  they  invariably  are  on  chalk  downs.  You 
can  always  spot  the  places  where  the  water  has  worn  down  the  level 
to  the  greensand  by  observing  the  presence  of  trees.  If  we  prefer  it, 
indeed,  we  may  make  our  way  home  through  this  bare  chalky  country 
near  the  cliffs,  instead  of  by  the  high-road ;  and  in  that  case  we  shall  pass 
the  famous  landslip  at  Bindon,  the  largest  ever  known  to  have  occurred 
in  England  at  a  single  slip,  and  much  finer  than  its  tangled  rival  at 
Ventnor,  in  the  Isle  of  "Wight.  Close  by  stands  the  headland  known  as 
Culverhole  Point — a  name  which  reminds  us  of  the  Culver  Cliffs  on 
Sandown  Bay.  Culver  is  the  old  English  name  for  a  wood-pigeon,  and 
in  the  honeycombed  face  of  such  chalk  cliffs  the  wild  doves  used  long 
ago  to  make  their  nests.  A  little  further  on  we  pass  the  village  of 
Rousdon,  or  Ralph's  down,  so  called  from  an  early  lord  of  the  manor. 
Next  comes  Whitlands,  which  obviously  takes  its  name  from  the  self- 
same chalk,  and  whose  lands,  turning  up  white  under  the  plough,  are 
the  first  of  the  sort  which  you  meet  on  your  way  out  from  Lyme. 
Lastly,  a  stroll  through  the  beautiful  cliffs  of  Pinney — properly  Pinhay — 
leads  us  home  again  to  our  starting-point  by  one  of  the  prettiest  paths 
which  you  can  find  even  in  the  lovely  West  Country.  And  so  ends  for 
the  day  our  etymological  excursion  from  Lyme. 

A  word  or  two,  before  I  conclude,  as  to  the  general  method  which 
must  be  employed  in  hunting  up  the  meaning  of  local  names.  You  will 
find  every  town  and  village  in  your  own  pet  country  haunts  has  just  as 
curious  a  history  as  those  about  Lyme  Regis ;  but  it  will  not  do  merely 
to  take  the  name  in  its  current  modern  form,  and  hazard  a  random  guess 
at  its  meaning  anyhow.  You  must  track  it  back  to  its  earliest  known 
shape  in  ancient  records,  and,  if  possible,  find  out  the  exact  historical 
circumstances  which  attended  its  origin.  For  this  purpose  you  will  find 
Domesday  Book  quite  invaluable,  as  it  preserves  for  us  the  names  of 
almost  every  parish  or  hamlet  in  England  at  the  time  of  William  the 
Conqueror's  great  survey.  Even  Domesday,  however,  priceless  as  it  is, 
often  fails  to  give  us  a  trustworthy  form,  as  William's  Xorman  commis- 
sioners sometimes  Latinised  native  English  names,  local  or  personal,  under 
the  most  astoundingly  garbled  disguises.  Accordingly,  the  safest  guides 


720        LYME  REGIS;   A  SPLINTER  OF  PETRIFIED  HISTORY. 

of  all  are  the  genuine  Early  English,  or  so-called  Anglo-Saxon  documents, 
the  Chronicle,  and  the  great  collections  of  Charters  published  by  Kemble 
and  Thorpe.  If  you  are  lucky  enough  to  hit  upon  your  local  names  in 
any  of  these — they  are  to  be  found  in  every  good  reference  library — yow 
will  seldom  have  any  difficulty  in  discovering  their  real  origin. 

And  now  for  an  example  or  two  of  the  necessity  for  finding  historical 
evidence  as  to  the  primitive  form  of  names.  Take  first  Glastonbury. 
In  its  present  shape  the  name  is  meaningless.  An  amateur  might  guess 
it  to  be  Glass-town-bury ;  but  the  English  Chronicle  calls  it  Glaestinga- 
byrig,  and  we  then  know  at  once  that  it  is  really  the  bury  or  borough 
of  the  Glsestingas  or  Glastings,  an  early  English  clan.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  might  be  tempted,  like  Mr.  Isaac  Taylor,  to  suppose  that 
Abingdon  was  similarly  the  dune  or  hill  of  the  things',  a  real  clan ; 
but  the  earlier  form  in  the  Chronicle  is  Abbandun,  and  we  learn  from 
the  records  of  Abingdon  monastery  that  the  great  Abbey  was  actually 
founded  by  one  Abba,  an  Irish  monk,  from  whom  the  place  derives  its  title. 
There  is  a  strong  tendency  for  names  of  this  sort  to  undergo  an  assimila- 
tion to  the  numerous  class  which  are  formed  from  the  clan  patronymics  ; 
for  Huntandun  has  similarly  become  Huntingdon,  just  as  Captain 
nowadays  becomes  Capting.  Again,  our  old  friend  Kilmington  has  been 
explained  by  local  etymologists  as  the  Keltic  Kil-maen-dun  (Stone-ceD- 
hill).  When  anybody  tries  to  impose  upon  you  with  a  Keltic  jaw- 
breaker of  that  sort,  you  may  promptly  distrust  him,  and  stick  patrioti- 
cally instead  to  your  own  native  English.  The  old  English  form, 
Culmingatune,  gives  you  at  once  the  true  story.  Once  more,  Warwick- 
shire antiquaries  used  formerly  to  assert  that  Birmingham  was  a  mere 
corruption  of  the  vulgar  word  Brummagem,  that  is,  Bromwychham;  West 
Bromwich  and  Castle  Bromwich  being  two  other  places  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood.  This  is  no  doubt  the  true  derivation  of  Brummagem, 
which  is  in  fact  not  a  corruption  of  Birmingham,  but  an  independent 
collateral  name.  However,  the  Domesday  form,  Beormingham,  shows  us 
that  the  recognised  legal  title  of  the  borough  really  means  the  ham  or 
home  of  the  Beormings,  another  of  the  old  Teutonic  clans. 

These  cases  will  be  enough  to  impress  upon  you  the  lesson  that  yon 
must  proceed  with  due  caution,  and  must  not  give  way  to  mere  blind 
guesses.  But  if  you  have  access  to  a  good  library,  and  take  moderate 
care,  and  especially  if  you  are  fortunate  enough  to  possess  a  slight  know- 
ledge of  the  old  English  tongue,  which  we  foolishly  call  Anglo-Saxon, 
you  will  have  little  difficulty  in  doing  for  other  places  what  I  have  tried 
to  do  here  in  a  rapid  sketch  for  Lyme.  The  new  study  will  add  a  fresh 
and  unexpected  interest  to  even  the  dullest  and  most  unpictnresque 
hamlets  that  you  happen  to  meet  with  in  your  daily  walks. 


721 


attfr  §ubbjnsm  in 


JUDGING  from  externals,  Buddhism  is  far  from  being  the  religion  which 
one  would  expect  to  find  adopted  by  the  Burmese.  They  are  a  jovial, 
laughing,  joking  race,  brimfull  of  fun  and  delight,  in  the  simple  act  of 
living.  Strange  it  is  to  find  such  a  people  adopting  the  cold,  stern, 
materialistic  philosophy  of  Buddha.  Almost  all  forms  of  heathen  religion 
teach  men  to  seek  for  some  sort  of  happiness  here.  Christian  forms  of 
belief  call  this  folly,  and  bid  all  live  such  a  holy  and  self  denying  life  on 
earth  that  they  may  find  perfect  happiness  hereafter  in  a  better  world 
beyond.  The  Buddhist  comes  between  and  exclaims,  "  Cease  this  foolish 
petty  longing  for  personal  happiness.  The  one  life  is  as  hollow  as  the 
other.  Aneitsa,  Dokkha,  Anatta — all  is  transitory,  sad,  xinreal."  Such 
a  faith  one  might  think  suitable  for  the  sullen,  truculent  Malay,  but  we 
cannot  understand  the  Burman  holding  such  a  purely  ethical  religion 
and  still  retaining  his  constant  bonhomie.  Buddhism  denies  the  exist- 
ence of  a  Creator  or  of  anything  created.  "  There  is  nothing  eternal ; 
the  very  universe  itself  is  passing  away ;  nothing  is,  everything  becomes  ; 
and  all  that  you  see  or  feel,  bodily  or  mentally,  of  yourself,  will  pass 
away  like  everything  else  ;  there  will  only  remain  the  accumulated  result 
of  all  your  actions,  words,  and  thoughts.  The  consciousness  of  self  is  a 
delusion  ;  the  organised  being,  sentient  existence,  since  it  is  not  infinite, 
is  bound  up  inextricably  with  ignorance,  and  therefore  with  sin,  and 
therefore  with  sorrow."  And  so  the  true  Buddhist  saint  does  not  mar 
the  purity  of  his  self  denial  by  lusting  after  a  positive  happiness,  which 
he  himself  shall  enjoy  here  or  hereafter.  Here  it  comes  of  ignorance,  and 
leads  to  sin,  which  leads  to  sorrow  ;  and  there  the  conditions  of  existence 
are  the  same,  and  each  new  birth  will  leave  you  ignorant  and  finite 
still.  All  that  is  to  be  hoped  for  is  the  joy  and  rest  of  Nirvana,  Neik- 
ban,  the  Buddhist  summum  bonum,  a  blissful  holy  existence,  a  moral 
condition,  a  sinless,  calm  state  of  mind,  practically  the  extinction  of  our 
being.  Unutterably  sad  one  would  say  for  despairing  and  earnest  hearts, 
and  more  than  enough  to  arouse  the  pity  of  every  man,  not  to  say  of 
every  Christian  man.  Yet  this  is  the  faith  of  the  light-hearted  Burmans, 
one  of  the  most  loveable  of  races  on  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  the  devoted 
labours  of  Anglican,  Roman,  and  Baptist  missionaries  for  a  couple  of 
decades  have  been  almost  resultless,  even  in  persuading  the  Burman  of 
the  hopelessness  of  his  creed.  The  gaily-dressed,  laughing  crowd  of 
Burmese  young  men  and  maidens  go  not  the  less  merrily  along  the 
streets.  Four  times  in  each  lunar  month  the  Pagoda  steps  are  thronged 
by  old  and  young  alike.  They  make  offerings  of  fruits  and  flowers  to 
VOL.  XLII. — NO.  252.  35 


722  BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BUEMA. 

they  hardly  know  what ;  they  offer  up  prayers  as  to  a  supreme  Deity, 
and  deny  that  there  is  such  a  being ;  they  prostrate  themselves  before 
images  of  Gaudama,  and  declare  that  they  do  not  worship  them  as  idols. 
The  young  sing  and  make  merry.  The  old  calmly  meet  death,  with  their 
rosaries  in  their  hands,  patiently  telling  their  beads.  Yet  they  tell  you 
their  faith  is  summed  up  in  the  words,  Aneitsa,  Dokkha,  Anatta — tran- 
sitoriness,  misery,  unreality — words  of  hopelessness  and  despair.  If  we 
look  below  the  surface  we  can  hardly  say  that  this  merry  heartiness  of 
the  young,  and  this  tranquil  resignation  of  the  old,  is  due  in  the  one  case 
to  simple  thoughtlessness  and  carelessness,  and  in  the  other  to  blind  resig- 
nation and  blank  ignorance  of  what  their  future  state  shall  be.  Let  us 
rather  turn  to  the  habits  of  the  people  and  their  system  of  education  for 
an  explanation. 

It  is  in  the  monastic  schools  that  the  strength  of  Buddhism  lies,  and 
it  is  by  means  of  them  that  the  faith  is  kept  active  in  the  country.  The 
whole  land  is  overspread  with  these  Kyoungs,  or  monasteries,  and  through 
them  passes,  with  hardly  a  single  exception,  the  entire  male  population 
of  the  country.  Outside  every  village,  no  matter  how  small,  stands  one 
of  these  Kyoungs.  Away  from  the  noise  of  the  people,  with  great, 
well-foliaged  trees  to  shield  them  from  the  heat,  and  cocoa-nut  and  areca 
palms,  mangoes,  and  jacks,  and  other  fruit  trees  to  supply  them  with 
occasional  luxuries,  the  monk's  position  seems  well  calculated  to  rouse  the 
envy  of  those  who  are  tired  of  nineteenth-century  theological  and  pole- 
mical discussions,  and  do  not  care  to  have  it  clearly  demonstrated  to 
them  that  Tiberius  and  Catiline  are  much  maligned  individuals,  and 
that  Judas  Iscariot  has  been  greatly  wronged  by  the  consensus  of  cen- 
turies in  regarding  him  as  the  type  of  baseness  and  hideous  guilt.  There 
the  hpongyees  pass  their  time  without  a  care  to  ruffle  the  tranquil  surface 
of  their  lives.  They  have  no  trouble  for  their  food,  for  a  pious  and 
kindly  population  supplies  them  far  beyond  their  requirements.  They 
are  monks,  not  priests,  and  have  no  duties  to  perform  for  the  laity  in 
return  for  this  support.  Their  minds  are  never  racked  by  the  excogita- 
tion of  that  too  frequently  excruciating  formality  of  the  Christian 
Church,  a  sermon.  Their  natural  rest  is  never  broken  in  upon  by  calls 
to  minister  consolation  and  comfort  to  the  sick  and  the  dying.  Even  their 
leisure  is  never  interrupted  to  execute  the  last  rites  for  the  dead.  They 
are  not  ministers  of  religion,  they  are  monks,  and  all  they  have  to  do  is 
to  work  out  their  own  deliverance  and  salvation  without  regard  to  any 
one  else.  Latterly,  some  of  them  have,  indeed,  assumed  something  of 
the  priestly  character  in  performing  ceremonies  which  are  supposed  to 
confer  merit  on  those  in  whose  names  they  are  accomplished  ;  and  certain 
duties  which  most  of  them  assume,  such  as  reading  the  sacred  books  to 
the  people,  and  instructing  youth,  are  of  a  pastoral  nature.  All  that  is 
compulsory  on  them  is  the  observation  of  continence,  poverty,  and  humi- 
lity ;  with  abstraction  from  the  world,  tenderness  to  all  living  things, 
and  the  obligation  of  certain  moral  precepts,  and  numerous  ritual  obser- 


BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BURMA.  723 

'vances.  As  members  of  the  holy  Sangha,  one  of  the  precious  triad,  the 
hpongyees  are  approached  with  tokens  of  worship  by  the  laity,  in  recog- 
nition of  their  ascetic  life.  The  members  of  the  Order  lay  claim,  often 
with  very  little  ground,  to  superior  wisdom  and  sanctity,  but  not  to  any 
spiritual  powers.  Indeed,  in  a  religious  system  which  acknowledges  no  su- 
preme God,  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  become  an  intercessor  between  a 
creator  whose  existence  is  denied,  and  man  who  can  only  attain  to  a  higher 
state  by  his  own  personal  exertions  and  earnest  self-denial.  Where  there 
are  no  gods,  no  one  is  required  to  avert  their  anger  or  sue  for  their  pity 
by  fervent  prayer.  Consequently  not  even  Gaudama  himself  could  attain 
to  the  position  of  Peter,  and  claim  to  hold  the  Keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 
The  doors  of  the  Kyoung  are  always  open  as  well  to  those  who  wish  to 
enter,  as  to  those  who  wish  to  leave  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  almost  every 
Burrnan — certainly  every  respectable  Burman — at  some  period  of  his  life, 
dons,  for  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  the  yellow  robe  of  the  monk. 

There  is  but  one  order,  but  there  are  grades  in  sanctity  and  approxi- 
mation to  the  final  release.  Most  of  the  (scholars,  who  enter  these 
Talapoinic  houses,  put  on  the  yellow  robe  ;  thus  at  the  same  time  learn- 
ing to  read  and  write,  and  acquiring  kutho,  or  merits  for  future  exist- 
ences. Some,  especially  nowadays  in  British  Burma,  never  do  so,  or 
only  for  a  few  days ;  not  a  few  for  no  longer  than  twenty -four  days.  In 
Upper  Burma,  however,  the  desire  for  merit  seems  much  greater,  or 
perhaps  we  may  say,  the  knowledge  of  the  value  of  time  is  altogether 
wanting,  as  it  certainly  exists  only  in  very  modified  fashion  in  our  pro- 
vinces. At  any  rate,  in  Independent  Burma  the  adoption  of  the  yellow 
monkish  garments  for  a  season  is  almost  universal.  These  disciples 
or  novices  are  called  SHINS  or  KOYINS.  His  entry  into  the  monastic 
orders  is  perhaps  the  most  important  event  in  the  life  of  the  Burman. 
Only  under  the  robe  of  the  recluse,  and  through  the  abandonment  of  the 
world,  can  he  completely  fulfil  the  law,  and  hope  to  find  the  way  to 
eventual  deliverance  from  the  misery  of  ever-recurring  existences.  The 
common  time  for  the  ceremony  is  just  before  the  Wa,  or  Buddhist  Lent, 
lasting  from  July  to  October,  roughly  speaking.  During  Lent  no  cere- 
mony or  feast  is  lawful,  and  most  of  the  more  respectable  Burmans  send 
their  sons  into  the  Kyoung  for  these  three  months.  The  boy's  admis- 
sion is  made  the  occasion  of  a  great  feast.  A  baydin  tsaya,  or  wise 
woman,  is  consulted,  and  as  soon  as  she  has  named  a  day  that  is  likely  to 
be  fortunate,  preparations  are  begun.  Three  or  four  girls,  the  intending 
moung  shin's  sisters,  or  friends  of  the  family,  dress  themselves  up  in 
their  best  silks  and  jewels — usually  borrowing  a  large  quantity  of  the 
latter — and  go  the  round  of  the  town,  announcing  to  all  relatives, 
friends,  and  neighbours  when  the  induction  is  to  take  place,  and  where 
it  will  be.  At  each  house  they  leave  a  little  morsel  of  LET-PET,  pickled 
tea  (the  triturated  leaves  of  the  ElcKodendron  orientale),  rolled  up  in  a 
palm  leaf,  as  a  kind  of  invitation  card.  Every  one  sends  some  little 
present,  to  help  towards  making  the  feast  as  grand  as  possible;  and 

35—2 


724  BUDDHISTS   AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BURMA. 

very  often  some  one  else,  whose  son  is  also  going  to  be  inducted,  suggests 
that  the  two  should  join  forces.  Not  unfrequently  half-a-dozen  unite  in 
this  way.  On  the  appointed  day  the  young  neophyte  dresses  himself  in 
his  best  clothes,  and  loads  himself  with  all  the  family  jewels.  He 
mounts  a  pony,  or  ascends  a  gaily-decorated  car.  A  gilt  umbrella  is 
held  over  his  head ;  a  band  of  music  goes  before,  and  all  his  friends  and 
relatives  gather  round  him  in  their  best ;  the  young  man  dancing  and 
capering  and  singing,  the  girls  gorgeous  with  brocaded  TAMEINS  and 
powdered  faces,  and  so  the  party  sets  out.  They  go  the  round  of  all  the 
boy's  friends  and  acquaintances,  he  bidding  each  of  them  farewell,  and 
they  giving  something  towards  the  expenses  or  solace  of  the  band  and 
the  supernumeraries.  All  this  tumasha,  this  jovial  march  round,  is 
meant  to  represent  the  moung  shin's  abandonment  of  the  follies  of  this 
world,  and  intended  to  recall  Gaudama's  triumphal  entry  into  Kapila- 
vastre,  amidst  a  crowd  of  rejoicing  clansmen,  on  the  birth  of  his  child, 
and  just  previous  to  his  abandonment  of  family  and  home  to  become  a 
houseless  mendicant  ascetic  and  embryo  Buddha. 

When  the  round  of  visits  has  been  paid,  the  procession  turns  towards 
the  monastery  ;  the  presents  for  the  monks  are  brought  to  the  front,  and 
all  enter  reverently,  and,  of  course,  shoeless.  The  youth's  head  is 
shaved,  his  parents  standing  by  to  receive  the  hair  as  it  falls.  He 
throws  off  all  his  fine  clothes  and  jewellery,  bathes,  and  puts  on  the  dull 
yellow  robe  of  the  recluse.  Nothing  now  remains  but  to  present  him  to 
the  kyoung-pogo,  the  head  of  the  society.  This  is  done  by  the  postulant's 
father.  The  abbot  asks  the  boy's  name,  and  motions  him  to  take  his 
place  among  the  other  probationers.  Everything  is  then  over,  the 
friends  return  home,  and  probably  finish  up  the  day  at  a  pwai,  or  dra- 
matic performance,  given  by  the  lad's  family  in  honour  of  the  day.  The 
KOYIN  remains  behind  in  the  Kyoung,  subject — whether  his  stay  be  for  a 
few  days,  or  months,  or  for  years — to  all  the  strict  discipline  of  the 
place.  In  addition  to  the  five  great  commandments  enjoined  by 
Gaudama  on  all  Buddhists,  there  are  other  five  precepts,  obligatory  on 
all  dwelling  in  the  monastery.  The  five  universal  commandments  are  : — 

1.  Thou  shalt  not  kill. 

2.  Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

3.  Thou  shalt  not  indulge  in  unlawful  passions. 

4.  Thou  shalt  not  lie. 

5.  Thou  shalt  not  drink  intoxicating  liquor. 
The  five  now  imposed  upon  our  KOYIN  are  : — • 

1 .  Not  to  eat  after  noon. 

2.  Not  to  sing,  or  dance,  or  play  any  musical  instrument. 

3.  Not  to  use  cosmetics. 

4.  Not  to  stand  on  platforms  or  high  places. 

5.  Not  to  touch  gold  or  silver. 

His  duties  are  to  attend  on  the  elders  of  the  Kyoung,  and  minister  to 


BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BURMA.  725 

their  wants,  bringing  and  laying  before  them,  at  stated  times,  the  betel 
box,  &c.,  and  following  the  hpongyee  as  bearer  of  his  umbrella  or  fan. 
The  latter  is  shaped  like  the  letter  S,  whence  the  name  Talapoins  given  to 
the  monks  by  some  writers.  Most  of  the  shins  in  Lower  Burma  leave 
almost  immediately,  in  order  to  enter  or  re-enter  into  the  English  school. 
In  Upper  Burma  they  stay  for  some  years,  to  complete  their  education, 
and  then  leave  and  return  to  a  secular  life.  Some  grow  fond  of  the 
ways  of  the  monastery,  and  remain  to  study  and  qualify  to  become 
monks  themselves,  When  they  have  acquired  sufficient  knowledge, 
and  attained  the  age  of  twenty,  they  are  solemnly  admitted  among 
the  professed  members  of  the  brotherhood,  under  the  name  of  PATZIN 
or  OOPATZIN.  A  few  conditions  are  imposed.  The  applicant  must 
state  that  he  is  free  from  contagious  disease,  consumption,  and  fits; 
that  he  is  neither  a  slave,  nor  a  debtor,  nor  a  soldier,  and  that  he  has 
obtained  the  consent  of  his  parents.  For  those  who  have  not  grown  up 
in  the  Kyoung,  and  whose  attainments  are  therefore  unknown,  a  public 
examination,  conducted  in  a  thain,  or  open,  triple-roofed  building,  near 
the  Kyoung,  or  the  pagoda,  is  necessary.  The  candidate  is  asked  a  few 
simple  questions,  in  the  presence  of  any  one  who  likes  to  come,  by  the 
elders  of  the  house.  Any  one  so  inclined  may  further  catechise  him ;  but 
a  rejection  on  the  ground  of  ignorance  or  insufficient  preparation  is 
almost  unknown.  In  the  early  days  of  Buddhism,  the  aspirant  was 
admitted  without  any  ceremony  ;  merely  having  his  head  shaved,  putting 
on  the  yellow  robes  of  the  YAHAN,  and  thenceforth  leading  an  ascetic  life. 
Later  somewhat  of  an  ordination  ceremonial  grew  up.  On  the  appointed 
day,  chosen — like  that  of  first  entrance  into  the  Kyoung — as  being  a  pro- 
pitious one,  a  chapter  of  monks  meet  together.  This  chapter  must  con- 
sist of  not  less  than  ten  monks,  and  the  president  must  be  a  YAHAN  of  at 
least  ten  years'  standing.  Mats  are  laid  down  for  them  in  the  chief 
room  of  the  monastery,  and  they  seat  themselves  in  two  rows  facing 
towards  one  another.  The  president  places  himself  at  the  head  of  one 
row.  The  sponsor  of  the  postulant  then  brings  him  forward.  The 
sponsor  is  invariably  a  monk.  The  candidate  comes  up  in  lay  dress,  but 
bearing  with  him  the  three  garments  of  the  hpongyee.  Halting  at  a 
respectful  distance,  he  SHEKHOS,  does  obeisance  to  the  president  and 
deposits  a  small  present,  necessary  as  a  sign  of  respect.  Bowing  his 
forehead  three  times  to  the  ground,  he  thrice  begs  for  admittance  to  the 
order  : — "  Pity,  Lord ;  have  pity  on  me  :  graciously  take  these  gar- 
ments, and  grant  me  admittance  to  the  order,  that  I  may  escape  from  sin 
and  misery,  and  enter  on  the  path  to  NEIKBAN."  The  head  of  the  chapter 
then  bends  forward,  and  taking  up  the  robes,  throws  them  over  the  can- 
didate's shoulders,  and  repeats  a  Pali  rubric,  to  the  effect  that  the  robes 
are  only  worn  out  of  modesty,  and  because  the  flesh  is  too  weak  without 
them  to  endure  the  extremes  of  heat  and  cold ;  winding  up  with  a 
formtila  on  the  transitoriness  and  misery  of  all  human  things.  The  pos- 
tulant then  retires  to  put  on  the  monkish  vestments,  and  reappears 


726  BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BUKMA. 

before  the  chapter,  again  reverently  shekhoing.  The  president  then 
repeats  "  the  triple  consolation,"  the  novice  reciting  it  three  times  after 
him  : — "  My  trust  is  in  the  Lord,  the  law,  the  assembly,  the  three  pre- 
cious things."  HPAYAH,  TAYA,  THING  A,  YAYDANA,  THONBA.  Then  the 

"  ten  precepts,"  mentioned  above,  are  similarly  intoned.  Three  times, 
once  more  saluting  the  head  of  the  chapter,  the  mendicant  humbly  begs 
him  to  become  his  superior.  This  request  being  granted,  the  begging- 
bowl  is  hung  round  the  ascetic's  neck,  and  he  again  falls  on  his  knees 
and  addresses  the  whole  chapter  : — "  Mendicants,  I  seek  for  admittance 
into  your  order ;  have  mercy  on  me  and  grant  my  prayer."  The  mem- 
bers then  question  him  formally  as  to  his  age,  his  freedom  from  disease, 
his  name,  and  that  of  his  intended  abbot ;  whether  he  has  obtained  the 
consent  of  his  parents,  and  is  sui  juris.  Then  three  times  a  monk  asks 
whether  any  one  knows  just  cause  or  impediment  why  he  should  not  be 
admitted.  No  objection  being  entered,  the  whole  body  of  examiners 
bend  down  before  the  president,  and  say,  "  The  candidate  has  been 
admitted  into  the  Order,  A.  being  his  superior.  The  questions  have 
been  asked,  and  none  have  objected ;  so  we  all  agree." 

A  monk  then  stands  up  and  reads  a  selection  from  the  full  rule  of 
the  order,  which  contains  227  precepts.     This  done,  the  ordination  cere- 
monial is  over,  and  the  chapter  disperses,  the  newly  admitted  hpongyee 
falling  into  the  train  of  the   head  of  his   monastery.      The   state   of 
OOPATZIN  is,  properly  speaking,  that  of  hpongyee.     Every  other  step  or 
promotion  in  the  sacred  hierarchy  is  purely  honorific.     Nevertheless  the 
new  member  must  reside,  for  some  time  at  least,  in  the  same  monastery 
as  his  superior.     He  acts  as  the  abbot's  secretary  and  personal  attendant, 
and  treats  him  with  all  the  respect  that  a  son  would  a  father,  while  the 
superior,  in  his  turn,  instructs  him  and  directs  his  studies.     In  time, 
however,  he  moves  away  to  some  other  monastery,  possibly  led  to  do  so 
by  its   superior  collection  of  commentaries,  or   its  proximity  to  some 
sacred  shrine.     Or  perhaps  some  pious  layman  who  has  made  his  fortune 
and  desires  to    acquire  merit,  selects   our  oopatzin  as   his  teacher  and 
spiritual  master,   and  builds  a  Kyoung  for  him,  dedicated  with  great 
ceremony   and  much  feasting.     Then  the  simple  hpongyee  becomes  a 
KYOUNG-POGO,  or  abbot,  and  gathers  round  him  a  following  of  his  own. 
He  has  now  attained  the  full  rank  of  his  order,  but  he  still  remains 
dependent  on  charity   for  his  daily  food.     He  is  still  a  hpongyee.     He 
has  no  new  obligations  imposed  upon  him,  but  neither  does  he  escape 
from  any  of  the  former  duties.     He  simply  has  power  of  jurisdiction  over 
all  the  brethren  in  his  Kyoung.     The  founder  of  the  Kyoung  gains  far 
more  earthly  distinction.     He  is  regarded  as  a  LOOGYEE,  an  elder,  and 
acquires  the  title  of  KYOUNS-TAGA,  founder  of  a  monastery,  by  which  name 
he  is  thereafter  always  addressed,  and  which  he  prefixes  to  his  signature 
in  all  documents.     He  rests  comfortable  in  the  assurance  that  in  a  future 
existence  he  will  certainly  not  be  a  woman,  and  possibly  not  a  man ; 
will  at  any  rate  be  some  estimable  animal,  such  as  a  pig  or  an  elephant, 


BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BUEMA.  727 

and  not  an  objectionable  creature  like  a  snake  or  a  louse.  Our  hpongyee 
probably  remains  in  this  position  of  KYOUNG-POGO  or  TSAYA  for  a  long 
time,  unless  he  develops  a  character  for  superior  saintliness  or  learning. 
In  process  of  years,  he  becomes  a  "  head  of  assembly,"  a  GINE-OKE  or 
TSADAU.  A  TSAYA  is  a  teacher ;  a  TSADAU,  a  royal,  or  lord  teacher.  He 
now  has  under  his  management  a  cluster  of  Kyoungs,  exercising  power 
over  their  inmates  as  well  as  their  heads.  He  gives  his  advice  in  all 
the  little  affairs  of  these  communities,  enforces  the  rules  against  malcon- 
tents and  corrects  the  abuses.  Still,  however,  unless  very  old,  he  is  a 
mendicant,  and  must  go  out  every  morning  with  his  begging-bowl.  His 
dress  is  the  same  as  the  most  recently  admitted  KOYIN,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  he  is  only  a  little  farther  on  in  the  path  to  NEIKBAN.  When 
very  aged  and  decrepit  he  is  excused  from  the  daily  begging  tour,  but  has 
to  go  round  every  now  and  again  to  preserve  the  letter  of  the  law  and 
show  a  proper  example  of  humility. 

In  Lower  Burma  there  is  no  head  of  the  hierarchy.  Under  native 
rule  there  was  a  "  pope  "  whose  authority  on  all  matters  of  religion  was 
recognised  throughout  the  country.  This  was  the  THA  THANA  BEIN  TSA- 
DAU GYEE.  With  the  conquest  of  Pegu,  however,  he  has  lost  all  his 
authority,  and  the  last  incumbent  exercised  control  only  over  the  monas- 
teries in  the  circle  of  Mandalay?  At  present  the  post  is,  as  far  as  I 
know,  unfilled.  The  THA  THANA  BEIN  has  usually  been  the  preceptor  of 
"  the  Lord  of  the  Umbrella-bearing  chiefs,  and  Great  King  of  Righteous- 
ness ;  "  Golden  Foot,  in  that  august  potentate's  youthful  days.  MINDONE 
MIN'S  (the  late  King)  teacher,  however,  is  dead,  and  the  present  young 
ruffian  has  but  scant  reverence  for  the  monks.  After  leaving  the  S.P.G. 
Royal  School,  in  Mandalay,  Theebau  went  into  a  monastery  and 
remained  there  almost  constantly  until  his  accession  to  the  throne.  He 
passed  as  PATAMA  BYAN  in  the  theological  examination,  for  ordination  as 
OOPATZIN  with  great  eclat,  to  th)  enthusiastic  delight  of  his  pious  old 
father  MINDONE  MIN,  "the  Fifth  Founder  of  Religion."  The  old  gentle- 
man could  talk  of  nothing  else  for  a  while,  and  gave  the  cocks  and  hens 
on  Mandalay  Hill  double  rations  in  honour  of  the  event.  The  Mandalay 
Theological  Tripos  is  supposed  to  be  M  much  stiffer  business  than  the  ex- 
amination is  elsewhere,  and  the  competitors  are  placed  in  classes,  young 
Theebau  figuring  in  the  first  division.  His  researches  into  the  three 
BEET AGH ATS  do  not  seem  to  have  done  him  much  good  however.  Ugly 
stories  went  round  about  the  ongoings  of  Theebau  and  sundry  other  young 
princes  in  the  KYOUNG-DAU  GYEE,  the  royal  monastery.  Probably  the 
venerable  KYOUNG-POGO  found  it  necessary  to  rate  the  raffish  KOYIN,  pos- 
sibly even  to  set  him  to  water  the  sacred  BO-tree,  or  sweep  out  the  rooms, 
as  a  punishment  for  his  peccadilloes.  However  that  may  be,  it  is 
certain  that  Theebau,  as  soon  as  he  had  ascended  to  the  throne,  packed  off 
his  old  superior,  along  with  a  couple  of  thousand  other  hpongyees,  to 
Lower  Burma.  Thus  it  comes  that  there  is  at  present,  not  even  in 
Upper  Burma,  a  head  of  Burman  Buddhism. 


728  BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BUEMA. 

The  account  of  a  day  spent  in  one  of  the  monastic  communities  may  be 
interesting,  as  showing  how  far  a  little  method  will  go  towards  making  the 
day  pass,  with  the  least  possible  amount  of  work  and  the  least  chance  of 
ennui.  At  half-past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  all  rise  and  perform  their 
ablutions.  The  proper  time,  according  to  the  DINA  CHARIYAWA,  is  before 
daylight,  which  in  these  low  latitudes  never  comes  in  much  before  six. 
After  washing,  they  all  arrange  themselves  before  the  image  of  Buddha, 
the  abbot  at  their  head,  the  rest  of  the  community,  monks,  novices,  and 
pupils,  according  to  their  order.  All  together  intone  their  morning 
prayers.  This  done  they  each  in  their  ranks  present  themselves  before 
the  KYOUNG-POGO,  and  pledge  themselves  to  observe  during  the  day 
the  vows  or  precepts  incumbent  upon  them.  They  then  separate  for 
a  short  time,  the  pupils  to  sweep  the  floor  of  the  KYOUNG  and  bring 
the  drinking-water  for  the  day,  filter  it,  and  place  it  ready  for  use ;  the 
novices  and  others  of  full  rank  to  sweep  round  the  sacred  BO-tree  and 
water  it ;  the  elders  to  meditate  in  solitude  on  the  regulations  of  the 
Order.  Some  also  offer  flowers  before  the  pagoda,  thinking  the  while  of 
the  great  virtues  of  the  Teacher  and  of  their  own  short-comings.  Then 
comes  the  first  meal  of  the  day,  after  which  the  whole  community 
betakes  itself  to  study  for  an  hour.  Afterwards,  about  eight  o'clock,  or 
a  little  later,  they  set  forth  in  an  orderly  procession  with  the  abbot  at 
their  head,  to  beg  their  food.  Slowly  they  wend  their  way  through  the 
chief  street  of  the  town  or  village,  halting  when  any  one  comes  out  to 
pour,  his  contribution  into  the  big  soup-tureen-like  alms-bowl,  but  never 
saying  a  word.  It  is  they  who  confer  the  favour,  not  the  givers.  Were 
it  not  for  the  passing  of  the  mendicants,  the  charitable  would  not  have 
the  opportunity  of  gaining  for  themselves  merit.  Not  even  a  look 
rewards  the  most  bounteous  donation.  With  downcast  eyes  and  hands 
clasped  beneath  the  begging-bowl  they  pass  on  solemnly,  meditating  on 
their  unworthiness  and  the  vileness  of  all  human  things.  Of  course 
there  are  certain  places  where  they  receive  a  daily  dole ;  but  should  the 
open-handed  goodwife  have  been  delayed  at  the  market  chatting  with 
the  gossips,  or  the  pious  old  head  of  the  house  be  away  from  home,  the 
recluses  would  rather  go  without  breakfast  than  halt  for  a  second,  as  if 
implying  that  they  remembered  the  house  as  an  ordinary  place  of  call. 
It  is  a  furlong  on  the  noble  path  lost  to  the  absentees,  and  the  double 
ration  of  the  following  day  is  noted  without  a  phantom  of  acknowledg- 
ment. So  they  pass  round,  circling  back  to  the  monastery  after  a  per- 
ambulation lasting  perhaps  an  hour  or  an  hour  and  a  half.  A  portion 
of  all  the  alms  received  on  the  tour  is  solemnly  offered  to  Buddha,  and  then 
all  take  their  breakfasts.  In  former  days  this  used  to  consist  solely  of  what 
had  been  received  during  the  morning;  but  the  majority  of  monasteries 
have,  sad  to  say,  fallen  away  from  the  strictness  of  the  old  rule.  Only  a 
few  of  the  more  austere  abbots  enforce  the  observance  of  the  earlier  as- 
ceticism. Most  communities  fare  much  better  than  would  be  possible  if 
they  ate  the  miscellaneous  conglomerate  which  is  turned  out  of  the  alms- 


BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BUEMA.  729 

bowls.  That  indiscriminate  mixture  of  rice,  cooked  and  raw  ;  pease  boiled 
and  parched;  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  curried  and  plain;  GNAPEE  (a  con- 
diment made  of  decayed  fish,  smelling  horribly  and  tasting  like  anchovy 
sauce  gone  bad,  but  nevertheless  wonderfully  esteemed  by  the  Burmans), 
and  LET-HPET  (pickled  tea),  is  but  seldom  consumed  by  the  ascetics  of  the 
present  day.  It  is  handed  over  to  the  little  boys,  the  scholars  of  the 
community,  who  eat  as  much  of  it  as  they  can  and  give  the  rest  to  the 
crows  and  the  pariah  dogs.  The  HPONGYEES  and  POYINS  find  a  breakfast 
ready  prepared  for  them  when  they  return  from  their  morning's  walk, 
and  are  ready  to  set  to  with  healthy  appetites.  Breakfast  done,  they 
wash  out  the  begging-bowls  and  chant  a  few  prayers  before  the  image 
of  Buddha,  meditating  for  a  short  time  on  kindness  and  affection. 
During  the  succeeding  hour  the  scholars  are  allowed  to  play  about,  but 
must  not  make  a  noise ;  the  monks  pass  the  time  in  leisurely  con- 
versing ;  the  abbot  usually  has  visits  from  old  people,  or  the  KYOUNG- 
TAGA,  the  patron  of  his  benefice,  who  comes  to  consult  with  him  on 
variqus  matters,  or  to  converse  about  religion.  About  half-past  eleven 
there  is  a  light  refection  of  fruits,  and  then  their  work  begins  again.  If 
no  one  of  his  own  choice  cares  to  teach  the  lay  scholars,  some  one  is 
selected  by  the  abbot.  The  monks  and  novices  take  up  their  commen- 
taries, or  perhaps  copy  one  out,  asking  the  abbot  or  one  of  the  YAHANS 
about  passages  which  they  do  not  understand.  This  goes  on  till  three 
o'clock,  when  the  SHINS  and  scholars  perform  any  domestic  duties  which 
may  be  required  about  the  monastery.  The  scholars  are  then  at  liberty 
to  run  home  and  get  some  dinner,  as  nothing  solid  is  eaten  in  the 
monastery  after  noontide.  They  return  at  six  o'clock,  or  sunset,  recalled 
by  the  unmelodious  sounds  of  a  big  wooden  bell  struck  with  a  heavy 
mallet.  This  serves  also  as  a  summons  for  the  regular  members  of  the 
Order,  who  have  probably  been  out  for  a  stroll  to  some  neighbours,  or 
to  visit  the  pagoda.  From  nightfall  till  half-past  eight  scholars  and 
novices  stand  before  the  abbot  and  some  of  the  YAHANS  and  recite  all 
that  they  have  learned,  the  whole  sum  of  their  literary  knowledge,  from 
the  letters  in  the  THEM-BON-GYEE,  the  A,  B,  C,  up  to  the  book  which 
was  last  committed  to  memory.  The  Pali  rituals  are  chanted  with  sur- 
prising energy,  abundance  of  sound  supplying  the  place  of  a  knowledge 
of  the  sense. 

Few  even  of  the  YAHANS  have  any  but  the  most  superficial  knowledge 
of  the  sacred  language.  Afterwards,  if  there  is  time,  or  if  the  KYOUNG- 
POGO  is  an  enthusiast,  that  dignitary  delivers  a  homily,  or  an  exposition 
of  some  commentary.  The  evening  closes  up  with  devotions  in  the 
presence  of  Buddha's  image ;  and  when  the  last  sounds  of  the  mournful 
chant  have  died  away,  a  monk  stands  up,  and  with  a  loud  voice 
proclaims  the  day  of  the  week,  the  day  of  the  month,  and  the  number  of 
the  year.  Then  all  SHE-KHO  before  Buddha  thrice,  and  thrice  before  the 
abbot,  and  retire  to  rest.  The  same  routine  gone  through  day  after  clay 
may  become  monotonous,  and  lose  some  of  its  effectiveness ;  but  such  a 

35—6 


730  BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BURMA. 

school,  presided  over  by  an  abbot  of  intelligence,  and  held  in  reverence 
by  the  people,  cannot  fail  to  have  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  minds  of  an 
impulsive  people  like  the  Burmese ;  and  when  we  remember  that  the 
entire  male  population  of  the  country  'passes  through  such  schools,  we 
can  well  understand  how  the  mere  teaching  of  Western  secular  know- 
ledge has  but  little  results  in  shaking  the  power  of  Buddhism  among 
the  people.  Their  manners  may  be  softened  and  civilised ;  but  they 
remain  as  firm  as  ever  in  their  ancient  faith,  and  more  and  more 
convinced  that  no  other  creed  would  suit  them  so  well.  The  great 
number  of  the  monasteries  in  all  parts  of  the  country  render  it  perfectly 
easy  for  every  one  to  obtain  entrance  for  his  children,  and  the  poorest 
need  have  no  fear  that  he  will  be  refused  admission.  Every  one,  too, 
must  learn.  The  discipline  is  exceedingly  strict.  If  a  boy  is  obstinate, 
or  stupid,  his  hands  are  tied  to  a  post  above  his  head,  and  a  stalwart 
mendicant  lays  on  to  him  with  a  rattan  till  the  weals  stand  out  like 
ropes,  and  the  blood  trickles  down  the  victim's  back.  Many  a  grown- 
up man  can  show  you  the  scars  he  got  in  the  HPONGYEE  KYOUNG,  because 
his  head  was  too  dense,  or  his  memory  too  feeble,  to  get  hold  of  the  Pali 
formulas,  which  had,  and  have,  not  any  comprehensible  meaning  to  him. 
Nevertheless,  he  bears  no  malice;  on  the  contrary  he  is  rather  proud  of  it, 
as  being  likely  to  stand  greatly  to  his  credit  in  some  future  existence,  or  at 
any  rate  as  atoning  for  the  obfuscated  brains  with  which  he  has  been 
endowed  in  this  existence.  A  Turanian  plagosus  Orbilius  is  therefore 
regarded  with  especial  favour,  and  a  Dotheboys  Hall  would  be  extensively 
patronised  in  Burma,  as  considerably  shortening  the  way  towards  NEIKBAN. 
The  life  of  the  HPONGYEE  KYOUNG  is  about  as  lazy  a  round  of 
existence  as  is  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the  world.  A  few  of  the  monks, 
seized  by  a  sudden  desire  to  do  something,  occasionally  enter  one  of  the 
ZAYATS,  the  rest  houses  round  the  pagodas,  on  a  feast  day,  when  there 
are  a  number  of  people  gathered  together,  and  read  and  expound 
passages  of  the  law  to  such  as  care  to  come  and  hear  them.  Occasion- 
ally, too,  devout  laymen  will  go  to  the  monastery  to  talk  over  points  of 
theology,  or  to  ask  for  elucidation  of  some  passage  in  a  commentary  • 
but  there  are  only  a  few  who  are  troubled  in  this  way,  and  unless  the 
monk  is  an  enthusiast,  he  need  never  be  troubled  with  doing  anything. 
They  learn  long  passages  of  Pali  ritual  and  dogma  when  they  are 
preparing  for  admission  to  the  Order,  and  can  always  rattle  it  over  with 
surprising  glibness  when  occasion  requires.  I  have  never  yet,  however, 
met  with  one  who  had  more  than  a  parrot-like  knowledge  of  the  sacred 
language.  There  are  a  few  TSADAUS  in  Mandalay  who  are  said  to  have 
a  just  comprehension  of  the  sacred  books,  and  certainly  have  most 
valuable  collections  of  them,  but  they  do  not  make  much  use  of  the 
learning  claimed  for  them.  They  spend  their  time  mostly  in  multiply- 
ing copies  of  Cinghalese  commentaries,  occasionally  adding  a  note  or  two 
of  their  own,  more  or  less  puerile  or  superstitious,  for  they  never 
venture  to  hint  at  modifications  of  doctrines.  As  an  almost  invariable 


BUDDHISTS  AND  BUDDHISM  IN  BURMA.  731 

rule,  the  monk  is  densely  ignorant  and  far  below  the  most  ordinary 
layman  in  knowledge  of  every  kind.     Prompted  by  the  establishment  of 
Government  vernacular  schools,  a  few  monks  in  Lower  Burma  have 
been  induced,  by  the  fear  of  losing  their  power  over  the  youth  of  the 
country,  to  learn  and  commence  teaching  in  their  KYOUKGS  a  small  amount 
of  secular   learning,  and  occasionally  a  little  arithmetic.     The  latter 
accomplishment,  however,  is  regarded  with  great   suspicion   as   being 
cabalistic,  and  therefore  opposed  to  the  regulations  of  the  WINI.     It  is 
therefore  only  in  the  KYOUNGS,  in  and  near  our  large  towns,  where  the 
competition  is  great,  that  cyphering  enters  into  the  monastic  curriculum. 
Nevertheless,  though  teaching  is  all  the  HPONGYEES  do  for  the  people, 
and  many  of  them  do  not  even  do  that,  there  are  no  signs  that  they  are 
losing  their  power  over  the  Burmese.     The  public  feeling  against  a  want 
of  rectitude  in  life  in  a  monk  is  certainly  very  strong.     A  mendicant 
who  committed  any  one  of  the  four  cardinal  sins,  would  be  forced  to 
leave  the  Order  by  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  people,  supposing  his  abbot 
did  not  unfrock  bim — deprive  him  of  the  TSIWAYAX,  the  yellow  monkish 
robe.     As  long,  however,  as  he  lives  an  orderly  life,  no  matter  how 
little  he  does,  the  veriest  drone  may  be  assured  that  the  people  will  not 
withhold  their  alms  or  respect.     From  the  time  when  he  first  ties  the 
PATTA,  the  begging-bowl,  round  his  neck,  till  the  end,  when  his  body  is 
embalmed  and  burned  on  a  funeral  pyre  erected  at  the  public  expense, 
he  meets  with  the  utmost  veneration.     The  people  make  way  for  him 
when  he  walks  abroad.     The  oldest  layman  assumes  the  title  of  disciple 
to  the  last  inducted  KOYIN  and  with  clasped  hands  addresses  him  as 
HPAYAH,  the  highest  title  the  language  can  afford.   The  monk's  commonest 
actions — walking,  sleeping,  eating — are  referred  to  in  language  different 
from  that  which  would  be  used  of  a  layman,  or  even  of  the  king,  perform- 
ing the  same  thing.     The  highest  officials  bow  before  them,  and  impose 
upon  themselves  the  greatest  sacrifices,  both  of  time  and  money,  to  build 
KYOUNGS  for  them  and  minister  to  their  wants.     Finally  the  monk's 
person  is  sacred  and  inviolable.     There  are  but  two  motives  for  this 
high  veneration.     First,  the  admiration   entertained   for   their   austere 
manners  and  purely  religious  mode  of  life;  secondly,  the   merit  and 
rewards  they  hope  to  derive,  in  a  future  existence,  from  the  plentiful 
alms   they   bestow.     Nevertheless    to   an    unprejudiced    stranger    the 
HPONGYEES  appear  the  least  deserving  of  mortals.     They   spend   the 
entire  day  sitting  cross-legged  chewing  betel,  or  lying  at  full  length 
endeavouring  to  fall  asleep ;  when  they  go  abroad  during  the  day,  it  is 
because  they  are  utterly  ennuyes  with  sitting  at  home  doing  nothing  and 
cannot  find  sufficient  relief  in  merely  standing  up  and  yawning.     But  in 
their  incomparable  idleness,  they  are  only  an  apotheosis  of  their  country- 
men, and  perhaps  not  a  little  of  the  respect  paid  them  is  due  to  a  secret 
admiration  for  their  supreme  objection  to  doing  anything  at^all. 

SHWAY  YOE. 


732 


$o{fimjj. 


CHAPTER     V. 

HAD  a  long  time  to  wait 
before  Mrs.  Harwood 
came.  The  morning  sun 
was  shining  into  the 
room,  making  everything 
more  dingy.  No  doubt 
it  had  been  dusted  that 
morning  as  well  as  the 
little  maid  could  dust  it ; 
but  nothing  looked  pure 
or  fresh  in  the  brightness 
of  the  light,  which  was 
full  of  motes,  and  seemed 
to  find  out  dust  in  every 
corner.  The  dingy  cover 
on  the  table,  the  old- 
fashioned  Books  of 
Beauty,  the  black  horse- 
hair chairs,  stood  out  re- 
morselessly shabby  in  the 
sunshine.  1  wondered  what  kind  of  house  Ellen  would  have  when  she 
furnished  one  for  herself.  Would  John  and  she  show  any  "  taste  "  be- 
tween them — would  they  "  pick  up  "  pretty  things  at  sales  and  old  furni- 
ture shops,  or  would  they  buy  a  drawing-room  suite  for  twenty -five  pounds, 
such  as  the  cheap  upholsterers  offer  to  the  unwary  1  This  question  amused 
me  while  I  waited,  and  I  was  sorry  to  think  that  the  new  household  was 
to  be  planted  in  the  Levant,  and  we  should  not  see  how  it  settled  itself. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  commotion  going  on  overhead,  but  I  did  not 
pay  any  attention  to  it.  I  pleased  myself  arranging  a  little  home  for 
the  new  pair— making  it  pretty  for  them.  Of  her  own  self  Ellen  would 
never,  I  felt  sure,  choose  the  drawing-room  suite  in  walnut  and  blue  rep 
— not  now,  at  least,  after  she  had  been  so  much  with  us.  As  for  John, 
he  would  probably  think  any  curtain  tolerable  so  long  as  she  sate  under 
its  shadow.  I  had  been  somewhat  afraid  of  confronting  the  mother,  and 
possibly  the  father ;  but  these  thoughts  put  my  panic  out  of  my  head. 
These  horsehair  chairs  !  was  there  ever  such  an  invention  of  the  evil 
one  1  Ellen  could  not  like  them ;  it  was  impossible.  When  I  had  come 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  733 

this  length  my  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by  the  sounds  upstairs ; 
for  there  came  upon  the  floor  over  my  head  the  sound  of  a  foot 
stamped  violently  in  apparent  fury.  There  were  voices  too ;  but  I  could 
not  make  out  what  they  said.  As  to  this  sound,  however,  it  was  easy 
enough  to  make  out  what  it  meant :  nothing  could  be  more  suggestive.  I 
trembled  and  listened,  my  thoughts  taking  an  entirely  new  direction ; 
a  stamp  of  anger,  of  rage,  and  partially  of  impotence  too.  Then  there 
was  a  woman's  voice  rising  loud  in  remonstrance.  The  man  seemed  to 
exclaim  and  denounce  violently;  the  woman  protested,  growing  also 
louder  and  louder.  I  listened  with  all  my  might.  It  was  not  eaves- 
dropping ;  for  she,  at  least,  knew  that  I  was  there ;  but,  listen  as  I 
might,  I  could  not  -make  out  what  they  said.  After  a  while  there  was 
silence,  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Harwood's  step  coming  down  the  stairs.  She 
paused  to  do  something,  perhaps  to  her  cap  or  her  eyes,  before  she  opened 
the  door.  She  was  in  a  flutter  of  agitation,  the  flowers  in  her  black  cap 
quivering  through  all  their  wires,  her  eyes  moist,  though  looking  at  me 
with  a  suspicious  gaze.  She  was  very  much  on  her  guard,  very  well 
aware  of  my  motive,  determined  to  give  me  no  encouragement.  All  this 
I  read  in  her  vigilant  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Harwood,  I  came  to  speak  to  you — I  promised  to  come  and 
speak  to  you — about  Mr.  Ridgway,  who  is  a  great  friend  of  mine,  as 
perhaps  you  know." 

The  poor  woman  was  in  great  agitation  and  trouble;  but  this  only 
quickened  her  wits.  "  I  see  John  Eidgway  every  day  of  my  life,"  she 
said,  not  without  a  little  dignity.  "  He  might  say  whatever  he  pleased 
to  me  without  asking  anybody  to  speak  for  him." 

"  Won't  you  give  your  consent  to  this  marriage  ? "  I  asked.  It  seemed 
wisest  to  plunge  into  it  at  once.  "  It  is  my  own  anxiety  that  makes  me 
speak.  I  have  always  been  anxious  about  it,  almost  before  I  knew  them." 

"  There  are  other  things  in  the  world  besides  marriages,"  she  said. 
"  In  this  house  we  have  a  great  deal  to  think  of.  My  husband — no 
doubt  you  heard  his  voice  just  now — he  is  a  great  sufferer.  For  years 
he  has  been  confined  to  that  little  room  upstairs.  That  is  not  a  very 
cheerful  life." 

Here  she  made  a  pause,  which  I  did  not  attempt  to  interrupt ;  for 
she  had  disarmed  me  by  this  half-appeal  to  my  sympathy.  Then  sud- 
denly, with  her  voice  a  little  shaken  and  unsteady,  she  burst  forth. 
"  The  only  company  he  has  is  Ellen.  What  can  I  do  to  amuse  him — to 
lead  his  thoughts  off  himself  ?  I  have  as  much  need  of  comfort  as  he 
has.  The  only  bright  thing  in  the  house  is  Ellen.  What  would 
become  of  us  if  we  were  left  only  the  two  together  all  these  long  days  ? 
They  are  long  enough  as  it  is.  He  has  not  a  very  good  temper,  and  he 
is  weary  with  trouble — who  wouldn't  be  in  his  case  ?  John  Ridgway  is 
a  young  man  with  all  the  world  before  him.  Why  can't  he  wait  ?  Why 
should  he  want  to  take  our  only  comfort  away  from  us  1 " 

Her  voice  grew  shrill  and  broken ;  she  began  to  cry.     Poor  soul ! 


734  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

I  believe  she  had  been  arguing  with  her  husband  on  the  other  side ;  but 
it  was  a  little  comfort  to  her  to  pour  out  her  own  grievances,  her  alarm 
and  distress,  to  me.  I  was  silenced.  How  true  it  had  been  what 
John  Ridgway  said  :  How  could  he,  so  gentle  a  man,  assert  himself  in 
the  face  of  this,  and  claim  Ellen  as  of  chief  importance  to  him  ?  Had 
not  they  a  prior  claim? — was  not  her  duty  first  to  her  father  and 
mother  ?  I  was  put  to  silence  myself.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  The  only  thing  is,"  I  said  timidly  at  last,  "  that  I  should  think  it 
would  be  a  comfort  to  you  to  feel  that  Ellen  was  settled,  that  she  had  a 
home  of  her  own,  and  a  good  husband  who  would  take  care  of  her  when 
— she  ought  to  outlive  us  all,"  I  added,  not  knowing  how  to  put  it. 
"  And  if  it  were  to  be  always  as  you  say,"  I  went  on,  getting  a  little 
courage,  "  there  would  be  no  marriages,  no  new  homes.  We  have  all 
had  fathers  and  mothers  who  had  claims  upon  us.  What  can  it  be  but 
a  heartbreak  to  bring  up  a  girl  for  twenty  years  and  more,  and  think 
everything  of  her,  and  then  see  her  go  away  and  give  her  whole  heart  to 
some  one  else,  and  leave  us  with  a  smile  on  her  face  ? "  The  idea  carried 
me  away — it  filled  my  own  heart  with  a  sort  of  sweet  bitterness ;  for 
was  not  my  own  girl  just  come  to  that  age  and  crisis  ?  "  Oh  !  I  under- 
stand you ;  I  feel  with  you ;  I  am  not  unsympathetic.  But  when  one 
thinks — they  must  live  longer  than  we ;  they  must  have  children  too, 
and  love  as  we  have  loved.  You  would  not  like,  neither  you  nor  I,  if 
no  one  cared — if  our  girls  were  left  out  when  all  the  others  are  loved  and 
courted.  You  like  this  good  John  to  be  fond  of  her — to  ask  you  for  her. 
You  would  not  have  been  pleased  if  Ellen  had  just  lived  on  and  on  here, 
your  daughter  and  nothing  more." 

This  argument  had  some  weight  upon  her.  She  felt  the  truth  of 
what  I  said.  However  hard  the  after  consequences  may  be,  we  still 
must  have  our  "  bairn  respectit  like  the  lave."  But  on  this  point  Mrs. 
Harwood  maintained  her  position  on  a  height  of  superiority  which  few 
ordinary  mortals,  even  when  the  mothers  of  attractive  girls,  can  attain. 
"  I  have  never  made  any  objection,"  she  said,  "  to  his  coming  in  the 
evening.  Sometimes  it  is  rather  inconvenient ;  but  I  do  not  oppose  his 
being  here  every  night." 

"  And  you  expect  him  to  be  content  with  this  all  his  life  1 " 

"  It  would  be  better  to  say  all  my  life,"  she  replied  severely ;  "  no, 
not  even  that.  As  for  me,  it  does  not  matter  much.  I  am  not  one  to 
put  myself  in  anybody's  way ;  but  all  her  father's  life — which  can't  be 
very  long  now,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  gush  of  tears.  They  were  so 
near  the  surface  that  they  flowed  at  the  slightest  touch,  and  besides, 
they  were  a  great  help  to  her  argument.  "  I  don't  think  it  is  too  much," 
she  cried,  "  that  she  should  see  her  poor  father  out  first.  She  has  been 
the  only  one  that  has  cheered  him  up.  She  is  company  to  him,  which  1 
am  not.  All  his  troubles  are  mine,  you  see.  I  feel  it  when  his  rheu- 
matism is  bad ;  but  Ellen  is  outside  :  she  can  talk  and  be  bright. 
What  should  I  do  without  her !  What  should  I  do  without  her !  I 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  735 

should  be  nothing  better  than  a  slave.  I  am  afraid  to  think  of  it ;  and 
her  father — her  poor  father — it  would  break  his  heart ;  it  would  kill  him. 
I  know  that  it  would  kill  him,"  she  said. 

Here  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  was  very  wicked.  I  could  not  but 
think  in  my  heart,  that  it  would  not  be  at  all  a  bad  thing  if  Ellen's 
marriage  did  kill  this  unseen  father  of  hers  who  had  tired  their  patience 
so  long,  and  who  stamped  his  foot  with  rage  at  the  idea  that  the  poor 
girl  might  get  out  of  his  clutches.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  he  was  a 
great  sufferer.  "Why  should  he  be  so  anxious  to  live  1  And  if  a  sacri- 
fice was  necessary,  old  Mr.  Harwood  might  just  as  well  be  the  one  to 
make  it  as  those  two  good  young  people  from  whom  he  was  willing  to 
take  all  the  pleasure  of  their  lives.  But  this  of  course  was  a  sentiment 
to  which  I  dared  not  give  utterance.  We  stood  and  looked  at  each  other 
while  these  thoughts  were  going  through  my  mind.  She  felt  that  she  had 
produced  an  impression,  and  was  too  wise  to  say  anything  more  to  dimi- 
nish it — while  I,  for  my  part,  was  silenced,  and  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  Then  they  must  give  in  again,"  I  said  at  last.  "  They  must  part ; 
and  if  she  has  to  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  giving  music  lessons,  and 
he  go  away  to  lose  heart  and  forget  her,  and  be  married  by  any  one  who 
will  have  him  in  his  despair  and  loneliness — I  hope  you  will  think  that 
a  satisfactory  conclusion — but  I  do  not.  I  do  not !  " 

Mrs.  Harwood  trembled  as  she  looked  at  me.  Was  I  hard  upon 
her?  She  shrank  aside  as  if  I  had  given  her  a  blow.  "It  is  not  me 
that  will  part  them,"  she  said.  "  I  have  never  objected.  Often  it  is 
very  inconvenient — you  would  not  like  it  yourself  if  every  evening, 
good  or  bad,  there  was  a  strange  man  in  your  house.  But  I  never  made 
any  objection.  He  is  welcome  to  come  as  long  as  he  likes.  It  is  not 
me  that  says  a  word 

"  Do  you  want  him  to  throw  up  his  appointment  ? "  I  cried,  "  his 
means  of  life." 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  face  set.  I  might  have  noticed,  had  I 
chosen,  that  all  the  flowers  in  her  cap  were  shaking  and  quivering  in  the 
shadow  cast  upon  the  further  wall  by  the  sunshine,  but  did  not  care  to 
remark,  being  angry,  this  sign  of  emotion.  "  If  he  is  so  fond  of  Ellen, 
he  will  not  mind  giving  up  a  chance,"  she  said ;  "  if  some  one  must  give 
in,  why  should  it  be  Harwood  and  me  ? " 

After  this  I  left  Pleasant  Place  hurriedly,  with  a  great  deal  of  indig- 
nation in  my  mind.  Even  then  I  was  not  quite  sure  of  my  right  to  be 
indignant ;  but  I  was  so.  "  If  some  one  must  give  in,  why  should  it  be 
Harwood  and  me  ?  "  I  said  to  myself  that  John  had  known  what  he 
would  encounter,  that  he  had  been  right  in  distrusting  himself;  but  he 
had  not  been  right  in  trusting  me.  I  had  made  no  stand  against  the 
other  side.  When  you  come  to  haggle  about  it,  and  to  be  uncertain 
which  should  give  in,  how  painful  the  complications  of  life  become  !  To 
be  perfect,  renunciation  must  be  without  a  word ;  it  must  be  done  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  The  moment  it  is  discussed 


736  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

and  shifted  from  one  to  another,  it  becomes  vulgar,  like  most  things  in 
this  universe.  This  was  what  I  said  to  myself  as  I  came  out  into  the 
fresh  air  and  sunshine,  out  of  the  little  stuffy  house.  I  began  to  hate  it 
with  its  dingy  carpets  and  curtains,  its  horsehair  chairs,  that  shabby, 
shabby  little  parlour — how  could  anybody  think  of  it  as  home  ?  I  can 
understand  a  bright  little  kitchen,  with  white  hearth  and  floor,  with  the 
firelight  shining  in  all  the  pans  and  dishes.  But  this  dusty  place  with 

its  antimacassars !     These  thoughts  were  in  my  mind  when,  turning 

the  corner,  I  met  Ellen  full  in  the  face,  and  felt  like  a  traitor,  as  if  I  had 
been  speaking  ill  of  her.  She  looked  at  me,  too,  with  some  surprise.  To 
see  me  there,  coming  out  of  Pleasant  Place,  startled  her.  She  did  not  ask 
me,  Where  have  you  been  ?  but  her  eyes  did,  with  a  bewildered  gleam. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  been  to  see  your  mother,"  I  said  ;  "  you  are  quite 
right,  Ellen.  And  why  1  Because  I  am  so  much  interested ;  and  I 
wanted  to  see  what  mind  she  was  in  about  your  marriage." 

"  My — marriage  :  there  never  was  any  question  of  that,"  she  said 
quickly,  with  a  sudden  flush. 

"  You  are  just  as  bad  as  the  others,"  said  I,  moved  by  this  new 
contradiction.  "What!  after  taking  that  poor  young  man's  devotion 
for  so  long,  you  will  let  him  go  away — go  alone,  break  oif  everything." 

Ellen  had  grown  pale  as  suddenly  as  she  had  blushed.  "  Is  that 
necessary  ? "  she  said,  alarmed.  "  Break  off  everything  1  I  never  thought 
of  that.  But,  indeed,  I  think  it  is  a  mistake.  If  he  goes,  we  shall  have 
to  part,  but  only — only  for  a  time." 

"  How  can  you  tell,"  I  cried,  being  highly  excited,  "  how  long  he 
may  be  there  1  He  may  linger  out  his  life  there,  always  thinking  about 
you,  and  longing  for  you — unless  he  gets  weary  and  disgusted,  and  asks 
himself  what  is  the  use,  at  the  last.  Such  things  have  been  ;  and  you 
on  your  side  will  linger  here,  running  out  and  in  to  your  lessons  with  no 
longer  any  heart  for  them  ;  unable  to  keep  yourself  from  thinking  that 
everybody  is  cruel,  that  life  itself  is  cruel — all  because  you  have  not  the 
courage,  the  spirit " 

She  put  her  hand  on  mine  and  squeezed  it  suddenly,  so  that  she  hurt 
me.  "  Don't !  "  she  cried ;  "  you  don't  know ;  there  is  nothing,  not  a 
word  to  be  said.  It  is  you  who  are  cruel — you  who  are  so  kind ;  so 
much  as  to  speak  of  it,  when  it  cannot  be !  It  cannot  be — that  is  the 
whole  matter.  It  is  out  of  the  question.  Supposing  even  that  I  get  to 
think  life  cruel,  and  supposing  he  should  get  weary  and  disgusted.  Oh  ! 
it  was  you  that  said  it,  you  that  are  so  kind.  Supposing  all  that,  yet 
it  is  impossible;  it  cannot  be;  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

"  You  will  see  him  go  away  calmly,  notwithstanding  all." 

"  Calmly,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  calmly — yes,  I  suppose  that 
is  the  word.  I  will  see  him  go  calmly.  I  shall  not  make  any  fuss  if 
that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  Ellen,  I  do  not  understand.   I  never  heard  you  speak  like  this  before." 

"  You  never  saw  me  like  this  before,"  she  said  with  a  gasp.    She  was 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  737 

breathless  with  a  restrained  excitement  which  looked  like  despair.  But 
when  I  spoke  further,  when  I  would  have  discussed  the  matter,  she  put  up 
her  hand  and  stopped  me.  There  was  something  in  her  face,  in  its  fixed  ex- 
pression, which  was  like  the  countenance  with  which  her  mother  had  replied 
to  me.  It  was  a  startling  thought  to  me  that  Ellen's  soft  fresh  face, 
with  its  pretty  bloom,  could  ever  be  like  that  other  face  surmounted  by 
the  black  cap  and  crown  of  shabby  flowers.  She  turned  and  walked 
with  me  along  the  road  to  my  own  door,  but  nothing  further  was  said. 
We  went  along  side  by  side  silent,  till  we  reached  my  house,  when  she  put 
out  her  hand  and  touched  mine  suddenly,  and  said  that  she  was  in  a  hurry 
and  must  run  away.  I  went  in  more  disturbed  than  I  can  say.  She 
had  always  been  so  ready  to  yield,  so  cheerful,  so  soft,  independent  in- 
deed, but  never  harsh  in  her  independence.  "What  did  this  change 
mean  ?  I  felt  as  if  some  one  to  whom  I  had  turned  in  kindness  had  met 
me  with  a  blow.  But  by-and-by,  when  I  thought  better  of  it,  I  began 
to  understand  Ellen.  Had  not  I  said  to  myself,  a  few  minutes  before, 
that  self-renunciation  when  it  had  to  be,  must  be  done  silently  without 
a  word  ?  better  perhaps  that  it  should  be  done  angrily  than  with  self- 
demonstration,  self-assertion.  Ellen  had  comprehended  this ;  she  had 
perceived  that  it  must  riot  be  asked  or  speculated  upon,  which  was  to 
yield.  She  had  chosen  her  part,  and  she  would  not  have  it  discussed 
or  even  remarked.  I  sat  in  my  window  pondering  while  the  bright 
afternoon  went  by,  looking  out  upon  the  distant  depths  of  the  blue 
spring  atmosphere,  just  touched  by  haze,  as  the  air,  however  bright, 
always  is  in  London,  seeing  the  people  go  by  in  an  endless  stream  with- 
out noticing  them,  without  thinking  of  them.  How  rare  it  is  in  human 
affairs  that  there  is  not  some  one  who  must  give  up  to  the  others,  some 
one  who  must  sacrifice  himself  or  be  sacrificed  !  And  the  one  to 
whom  this  lot  falls  is  always  the  one  who  will  do  it ;  that  is  the  rule 
so  far  as  my  observation  goes.  There  are  some  whom  nature  moves  that 
way,  who  cannot  stand  upon  their  rights,  who  are  touched  by  the  claims 
of  others  and  can  make  no  stand  against  them.  The  tools  to  those  that 
can  handle  them,  as  our  philosopher  says ;  and  likewise  the  sacrifices  of 
life  to  him  who  will  bear  them.  Refuse  them,  that  is  the  only  way ;  but  if 
it  is  not  in  your  nature  to  refuse  them,  what  can  you  do?  Alas  !  for  sacri- 
fice is  seldom  blessed.  I  am  saying  something  which  will  sound  almost 
impious  to  many.  Human  life  is  built  upon  it,  and  social  order ;  yet  per- 
sonally in  itself  it  is  seldom  blessed  ;  it  debases  those  who  accept  it ;  it 
harms  even  those  who,  without  wilfully  accepting  it,  have  a  dim  percep- 
tion that  something  is  being  done  for  them  which  has  no  right  to  be 
done.  It  may,  perhaps — I  cannot  tell — bear  fruit  of  happiness  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  practise  it.  I  cannot  tell.  Sacrifices  are  as  often 
mistaken  as  other  things.  Their  divineness  does  not  make  them  wise. 
Sometimes,  looking  back,  even  the  celebrant  will  perceive  that  his  offer- 
ing had  better  not  have  been  made. 

AH  this  was  going  sadly  through  my  mind  when  I  perceived  that 


738  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

some  one  was  passing  slowly,  endeavouring  to  attract  my  attention.  By 
this  time  it  was  getting  towards  evening — and  as  soon  as  I  was  fully 
roused  I  saw  that  it  was  John  Ridgway.  If  I  could  have  avoided  him 
I  should  have  done  so,  but  now  it  was  not  possible ;  I  made  him  a  sign 
to  come  upstairs.  He  came  into  the  drawing-room  slowly,  with  none  of 
the  eagerness  that  there  had  been  in  his  air  on  the  previous  day,  and  it 
may  easily  be  believed  that  on  my  side  I  was  not  eager  to  see  him  to 
tell  him  my  story.  He  came  and  sat  down  by  me,  swinging  his  stick  in 
his  usual  absent  way,  and  for  a  minute  neither  of  us  spoke. 

"  You  do  not  ask  me  if  I  have  any  new  s  for  you ;  you  have  seen  Ellen ! " 

"  No ;  it  is  only  because  I  have  news  on  my  side.  I  am  not  going 
after  all." 

"  You  are  not  going  ! " 

"  You  are  disappointed,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  with  a  face  which 
was  full  of  interest  and  sympathy.  These  are  the  only  words  I  can  use. 
The  disappointment  was  his,  not  mine;  yet  he  was  more  sympathetic  with 
my  feeling  about  it  than  impressed  by  his  own.  "  As  for  me,  I  don't  seem, 
to  care.  It  is  better  in  one  way,  if  it  is  worse  in  another.  It  stops  any 
rise  in  life ;  but  what  do  I  care  for  a  rise  in  life  1  they  would  never  have 
let  me  take  Ellen.  I  knew  that  even  before  I  saw  it  in  your  eyes." 

"  Ellen  ought  to  judge  for  herself,"  I  said,  "  and  you  ought  to  judge 
for  yourself ;  you  are  of  full  age ;  you  are  not  boy  and  girl.  No  parents 
have  a  right  to  separate  you  now.  And  that  old  man  may  go  on  just 
the  same  for  the  next  dozen  years." 

"  Did  you  see  him  1 "  John  asked.  He  had  a  languid,  wearied  look, 
scarcely  lifting  his  eyes. 

"  I  saw  only  her ;  but  I  know  perfectly  well  what  kind  of  man  he  is. 
He  may  live  for  the  next  twenty  years.  There  is  no  end  to  these  tyran- 
nical, ill-tempered  people ;  they  live  for  ever.  You  ought  to  judge  for 
yourselves.  If  they  had  their  daughter  settled  near,  coming  to  them 
from  her  own  pleasant  little  home,  they  would  be  a  great  deal  happier. 
You  may  believe,  me  or  not,  but  I  know  it.  Her  visits  would  be  events ; 
they  would  be  proud  of  her,  and  tell  everybody  about  her  family,  and 
what  a  good  husband  she  had  got,  and  how  he  gave  her  everything  she 
could  desire." 

"  Please  God,"  said  John,  devoutly ;  his  countenance  had  brightened 
in  spite  of  himself.  But  then  he  shook  his  head.  "  If  we  had  but  got 
as  far  as  that,"  he  said. 

"  You  ought  to  take  it  into  your  own  hands,"  cried  I.  in  all  the  fervour 
of  a  revolutionary.  "  If  you  sacrifice  your  happiness  to  them,  it  will  not 
do  them  any  good  ;  it  will  rather  do  them  harm.  Are  you  going  now  to 
tell  your  news " 

He  had  got  up  on  his  feet,  and  stood  vaguely  hovering  over  me  with 
a  faint  smile  upon  his  face.  "  She  will  be  pleased,"  he  said  ;  "  no  ad- 
vancement, but  no  separation.  I  have  not  much  ambition ;  I  think  I 
am  happy  too." 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  739 

"  Then,  if  you  are  all  pleased,"  I  cried,  with  annoyance  which  I  could 
not  restrain,  "  why  did  you  send  me  on  such  an  errand  ?  I  am  the  only 
one  that  seems  to  be  impatient  of  the  present  state  of  affairs,  and  it  is 
none  of  my  business.  Another  time  you  need  not  say  anything  about  it 
to  me." 

"  There  will  never  be  a  time  when  we  shall  not  be  grateful  to  you," 
said  John  ;  but  even  his  mild  look  of  appealing  reproach  did  not  move 
me.  It  is  hard  to  interest  yourself  in  people  and  find  after  all  that  they 
like  their  own  way  best. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

HE  was  quite  right  in  thinking  Ellen  would  be  pleased.  And  yet,  after 
it  was  all  over,  she  was  a  little  wounded  and  disappointed,  which  was 
very  natural.  She  did  not  want  him  to  go  away,  but  she  wanted  him  to 
get  the  advancement  all  the  same.  This  was  foolish,  but  still  it  was 
natural,  and  just  what  a  woman  would  feel.  She  took  great  pains  to 
explain  to  us  that  it  was  not  hesitation  about  John,  nor  even  any  hesita- 
tion on  the  part  of  John  in  going — for  Ellen  had  a  quick  sense  of  what 
was  desirable  and  heroic,  and  would  not  have  wished  her  lover  to  appear 
indifferent  about  his  own  advancement,  even  though  she  was  very 
thankful  and  happy  that  in  reality  he  was  so.  The  reason  of  the  failure 
was  that  the  firm  had  sent  out  a  nephew,  who  was  in  the  office,  and  had 
a  prior  claim.  "  Of  course  he  had  the  first  chance,"  Ellen  said,  with  a 
countenance  of  great  seriousness;  "what  would  be  the  good  of  being  a 
relation  if  he  did  not  have  the  first  chance  ?  "  And  I  assented  with  all 
the  gravity  in  the  world.  But  she  was  disappointed,  though  she  was  so 
glad.  There  ought  not  to  have  been  any  one  in  the  world  who  had  the 
preference  over  John  !  She  carried  herself  with  great  dignity  for  some 
time  afterwards,  and  with  the  air  of  a  person  superior  to  the  foolish  and 
partial  judgments  of  the  world ;  and  yet  in  her  heart  how  thankful  she 
was !  from  what  an  abyss  of  blank  loneliness  and  weary  exertion  was  her 
life  saved  !  For  now  that  I  knew  it  a  little  better  I  could  see  how  little 
that  was  happy  was  in  her  home.  Her  mother  insisted  that  she  should 
have  that  hour's  leisure  in  the  evening.  That  was  all  that  any  one 
thought  of  doing  for  her.  It  was  enough  to  keep  her  happy,  to  keep  her 
hopeful.  But  without  that,  how  long  would  Ellen's  brave  spirit  have 
kept  up  ?  Perhaps  had  she  never  known  John,  and  that  life  of  infinite 
tender  communion,  her  natural  happy  temperament  would  have  struggled 
on  for  a  long  time  against  all  the  depressing  effects  of  circumstance,  un- 
aided. But  to  lose  is  worse  than  never  to  have  had.  If  it  is 

Better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all, 

yet  it  is  at  the  same  time  harder  to  lose  that  bloom  of  existence  out  of 
your  lot,  than  to  have  struggled  on  by  mere  help  of  nature  without  it. 


740  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

She  had  been  so  happy — making  so  little  go  such  a  long  way ! — that  the 
loss  of  her  little  happiness  would  have  been  appalling  to  her.  And  yet 
she  was  dissatisfied  that  this  heartbreak  did  not  come.  She  had  strung 
herself  up  to  it.  It  would  have  been  advancement,  progress,  all  that  a 
woman  desires  for  those  belonging  to  her,  for  John.  Sacrificing  him  for 
the  others,  she  was  half  angry  not  to  have  it  in  her  power  to  sacrifice 
herself  to  his  "  rise  in  life."  I  think  I  understood  her,  though  we  never 
talked  on  the  subject.  She  was  dissatisfied,  although  she  was  relieved. 
We  have  all  known  these  mingled  feelings. 

This  happened  at  the  beginning  of  summer ;  but  all  its  agitations 
were  over  before  the  long,  sweet  days  and  endless  twilights  of  the  happy 
season  had  fully  expanded  upon  us.  It  seems  to  me  as  I  grow  older 
that  a  great  deal  of  the  comfort  of  our  lives  depends  upon  summer — 
upon  the  weather,  let  us  say,  taking  it  in  its  most  prosaic  form.  Some- 
times, indeed,  to  the  sorrowful  the  brightness  is  oppressive ;  but  to  all  the 
masses  of  ordinary  mortals  who  are  neither  glad  nor  sad,  it  is  a  wonderful 
matter  not  to  be  chilled  to  the  bone ;  to  be  able  to  do  their  work  without 
thinking  of  a  fire ;  without  having  a  sensation  of  cold  always  in  their 
lives  never  to  be  got  rid  of.  Ellen  and  her  lover  enjoyed  that  summer 
as  people  who  have  been  under  sentence  of  banishment  enjoy  their  native 
country  and  their  home. 

You  may  think  there  is  not  much  beauty  in  a  London  suburb  to  tempt 
any  one  :  and  there  is  not  for  those  who  can  retire  to  the  beautiful  fresh 
country  when  they  will,  and  surround  themselves  with  waving  woods 
and  green  lawns,  or  taste  the  freshness  of  the  mountains  or  the  salt- 
ness  of  the  sea.  We,  who  go  away  every  year  in  July,  pined  and  longed 
for  the  moment  of  our  removal ;  and  my  neighbour  in  the  great  house  which 
shut  out  the  air  from  Pleasant  Place,  panted  in  her  great  garden  (which 
she  was  proud  to  think  was  almost  unparalleled  for  growth  and  shade  in 
London),  and  declared  herself  incapable  of  breathing  any  longer  in  such 
a  close  and  shut-up  locality.  But  the  dwellers  in  Pleasant  Place  were 
less  exacting.  They  thought  the  long  suburban  road  very  pleasant. 
Where  it  streamed  off  into  little  dusty  houses  covered  with  brown  ivy 
and  dismal  trellis  work,  and  where  every  unfortunate  flower  was  thick 
with  dust,  they  gazed  with  a  touch  of  envy  at  the  "  gardens,"  and  felt  it 
to  be  rural.  When  my  pair  of  lovers  went  out  for  their  walk  they  had 
not  time  to  go  further  than  to  the  "  Green  Man,"  a  little  tavern  upon  the 
roadside,  where  one  big  old  elm  tree,  which  had  braved  the  dust  and  the 
frost  for  more  years  than  any  one  could  recollect,  stood  out  at  a  corner  at 
the  junction  of  two  roads,  with  a  bench  round  it,  where  the  passing  carters 
and  cabmen  drank  their  beer,  and  a  trough  for  the  horses,  which  made 
it  look  "  quite  in  the  country "  to  all  the  inhabitants  of  our  district. 
Generally  they  got  as  far  as  that,  passing  the  dusty  cottages  and  the  little 
terrace  of  new  houses.  A  great  and  prolonged  and  most  entertaining  con- 
troversy went  on  between  them  as  they  walked,  as  to  the  kind  of  house 
in  which  they  should  eventually  settle  down.  Ellen,  who  was  not  without 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  741 

a  bit  of  romance  in  her,  of  the  only  kind  practicable  with  her  upbringing, 
entertained  a  longing  for  one  of  the  dusty  little  cottages.  She  thought, 
like  all  inexperienced  persons,  that  in  her  hands  it  would  not  be  dusty. 
She  would  find  means  of  keeping  the  ivy  green.  She  would  see  that  the 
flowers  grew  sweet  and  clean,  and  set  blacks  and  dust  alike  at  defiance. 
John,  for  his  part,  whose  lodging  was  in  one  of  those  little  houses, 
preferred  the  new  ten-ace.  It  was  very  new — very  like  a  row  of  ginger- 
bread houses — but  it  was  very  clean,  and  for  the  moment  bright,  not  as 
yet  penetrated  by  the  dust.  Sometimes  I  was  made  the  confidante  of 
.these  interminable,  always  renewed,  always  delightful  discussions. 
"  They  are  not  dusty  yet,"  Ellen  would  say,  "  but  how  long  will  it  be 
before  they  are  dusty  ?  whereas  with,  the  villas"  (they  had  a  great  variety 
of  names — Montpellier  Villas,  Funchal  Villas,  Mentone  Mansions — 
for  the  district  was  supposed  to  be  very  mild)  "  one  knows  what  one  has 
to  expect ;  and  if  one  could  not  keep  the  dust  and  the  blacks  out  with,  the 
help  of  brushes  and  dusters,  what  would  be  the  good  of  one  ?  I  should 
sow  mignonette  and  Virginia  stock,"  she  cried,  with  a  firm  faith ;  "  low- 
growing  flowers  would  be  sure  to  thrive.  It  is  only  roses  (poor  roses  !) 
and  tall  plants  that  come  to  harm."  John,  for  his  part,  dwelt  much 
upon  the  fact  that  in  the  little  front  parlours  of  the  terrace  houses  there 
were  shelves  for  books  fitted  into  a  recess.  This  weighed  quite  as  much 
with  him  as  the  cleanness  of  the  new  places.  "  The  villas  are  too  dingy 
for  her,"  he  said,  looking  admiringly  at  her  fresh  face.  "  She  could  never 
endure  the  little  grey,  grimy  rooms."  That  was  his  romance,  to  think 
that  everything  should  be  shining  and  bright  about  her.  He  was  un- 
conscious of  the  dinginess  of  the  parlour  in  Ellen's  home.  It  was  all  irra- 
diated with  her  presence  to  him.  These  discussions,  however,  all  ended 
in  a  sigh  and  a  laugh  from  Ellen  herself.  "  It  is  all  very  fine  talking," 
she  would  say. 

And  so  the  summer  went  on.  Alas !  and  other  summers  after  it. 
My  eldest  girl  married.  My  boys  went  out  into  the  world.  Many 
changes  came  upon  our  house.  The  children  began  to  think  it  a  very 
undesirable  locality.  Even  Chatty,  always  the  sweetest,  sighed  for  South 
Kensington,  if  not  for  a  house  in  the  country  and  a  month  in  London  in 
the  season,  which  was  what  the  other  girls  wished  for.  This  common 
suburban  road,  far  from  fashion,  far  from  society — what  but  their  mother's 
inveterate  old-fashionedness  and  indifference  to  appearances  could  have 
kept  them  there  so  long  ?  The  great  house  opposite  with  the  garden  had 
ceased  to  be.  The  high  wall  was  gone  from  Pleasant  Place,  and  instead 
of  it  stood  a  fresh  row  of  little  villakins  like  the  Terrace  which  had  once 
been  John  Ridgway's  admiration.  Alas !  Ellen's  forebodings  had  been 
fully  realised,  and  the  terrace  was  as  dingy  as  Montpellier  Villas  by  this 
time.  The  whole  neighbourhood  was  changing.  Half  the  good  houses 
in  the  road — the  houses,  so  to  speak,  of  the  aristocracy,  which  to  name 
was  to  command  respect  from  all  the  neighbourhood — had  been  built  out 
and  adorned  with  large  fronts  of  plate  glass  and  made  into  shops.  Omni- 


742  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

buses  now  rolled  along  the  dusty  way.  The  station  where  they  used  to 
stop  had  been  pushed  out  beyond  the  "  Green  Man,"  which  once  we  had  felt 
to  be  "  quite  in  the  country."  Everything  was  changing  ;  but  my  pair 
of  lovers  did  not  change.  Ellen  got  other  pupils  instead  of  Chatty  and  her 
contemporaries  who  were  growing  up  and  beyond  her  skill,  and  came  out 
at  ten  o'clock  every  morning  with  as  fresh  a  face  as  ever,  and  her  little  roll 
of  music  always  in  her  hand.  And  every  evening,  though  now  he  was  set 
down  at  his  lodgings  from  the  omnibus,  and  no  longer  passed  my  window 
on  his  way  home,  John  made  his  pilgrimage  of  love  to  Pleasant  Place.  She 
k'ept  her  youth — the  sweet  complexion,  the  dew  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
bloom  upon  her  cheek — in  a  way  I  could  not  understand.  The  long 
waiting  did  not  seem  to  try  her.  She  had  always  his  evening  visit  to 
look  for,  and  her  days  were  full  of  occupation.  But  John,  who  had 
naturally  a  worn  look,  did  not  bear  the  probation  so  well  as  Ellen.  He 
grew  bald ;  a  general  rustiness  came  over  him.  He  had  looked  older 
than  he  was  to  begin  with  ;  his  light  locks,  his  colourless  countenance, 
faded  into  a  look  of  age.  He  was  very  patient — almost  more  patient  than 
Ellen,  who,  being  of  a  more  vivacious  temper,  had  occasional  little 
outbursts  of  petulant  despair,  of  which  she  was  greatly  ashamed  after- 
wards ;  but  at  the  same  time  this  prolonged  and  hopeless  waiting  had 
more  effect  upon  him  than  upon  her.  Sometimes  he  would  come  to  see 
me  by  himself  for  the  mere  pleasure,  it  seemed  to  me,  though  we  rarely 
spoke  on  the  subject,  of  being  understood. 

"  Is  this  to  go  on  for  ever  ? "  I  said.  "  Is  it  never  to  come  to  an  end  1 " 

"It  looks  like  it,"  said  John,  somewhat  drearily.  "We  always  talk 
about  our  little  house.  I  have  got  three  rises  since  then.  I  doubt  if  I 

shall  ever  have  any  more ;  but  we  don't  seem  a  bit  nearer "  and  he 

ended  with  a  sigh — not  of  impatience,  like  those  quick  sighs  mixed  up 
with  indignant,  abrupt  little  laughs  in  which  Ellen  often  gave  vent  to  her 
feelings — but  of  weariness  and  despondency  much  more  hard  to  bear. 

"  And  the  father,"  I  said,  "  seems  not  a  day  nearer  the  end  of  his 
trouble.  Poor  man,  I  don't  wish  him  any  harm." 

This,  I  fear,  was  a  hypocritical  speech,  for  in  my  heart  I  should  not 
have  been  at  all  sorry  to  hear  that  his  "  trouble  "  was  coming  to  an  end. 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  faint  gleam  of  humour  lighted  in  John's  eye. 
"  I  am  beginning  to  suspect  that  he  is — better,"  he  said  ;  "  stronger  at 
least.  I  am  pretty  sure  he  has  no  thought  of  coming  to  an  end." 

"  All  the  better,"  I  said  ;  "  if  he  gets  well,  Ellen  will  be  free." 

"  He  will  never  get  well,''  said  John,  falling  back  into  his  dejection, 
"  and  he  will  never  die." 

"  Then  it  will  never  come  to  anything.  Can  you  consent  to  that  ? " 
I  said. 

He  made  me  no  reply.  He  shook  his  head ;  whether  in  dismal  accept- 
ance of  the  situation,  whether  in  protest  against  it,  I  cannot  tell.  This 
interview  filled  me  with  dismay.  I  spent  hours  pondering  whether,  and 
how,  I  could  interfere.  My  interference  had  not  been  of  much  use  before. 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  743 

And  my  children  began  to  laugh,  when  this  lingering  commonplace  little 
romance  was  talked  of.  "  My  mother's  lovers,"  the  boys  called  them — 
"  My  mother's  turtle-doves." 

The  time  had  almost  run  on  to  the  length  of  Jacob's  wooing  when 
one  day  Ellen  came  to  me,  not  running  in,  eager  and  troubled  with  her 
secret  as  of  old,  but  so  much  more  quietly  than  usual,  with  such  a  still 
and  fixed  composure  about  her,  that  I  knew  something  serious  had 
happened.  I  sent  away  as  quickly  as  I  could  the  other  people  who  were 
in  the  room,  for  I  need  not  say  that  to  find  me  alone  was  all  but  an  im- 
possibility. I  gave  Chatty,  now  a  fine,  tall  girl  of  twenty,  a  look,  which 
was  enough  for  her ;  she  always  understood  better  than  any  one.  And 
when  at  last  we  were  free  I  turned  to  my  visitor  anxiously.  "  What  is 
it?"  I  said.  It  did  not  excite  her  so  much  as  it  did  me. 

She  gave  a  little  abstracted  smile.  "  You  always  see  through  me," 
she  said.  "  I  thought  there  was  no  meaning  in  my  face.  It  has  come  at 
last.  He  is  really  going  this  time,  directly,  to  the  Levant.  Oh,  what  a 
little  thing  Chatty  was  when  I  asked  her  to  look  in  the  atlas  for  the 
Levant ;  and  now  she  is  going  to  be  married !  "  What  will  you  do,"  she 
asked  abruptly,  stopping  short  to  look  at  me,  "  when  they  are  all  married 
and  you  are  left  alone  ? " 

I  had  asked  myself  this  question  sometimes,  and  it  was  not  one  I 
liked.  "  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  I  said  ;  "  the  two 
little  ones  of  all  have  not  so  much  as  thought  of  marrying  yet." 

Ellen  answered  me  with  a  sigh,  a  quickly  drawn  impatient  breath. 
"  He  is  to  sail  in  a  fortnight,"  she  said.  "  Things  have  gone  wrong 
with  the  nephew.  I  knew  he  never  could  be  so  good  as  John  ;  and  now 
John  must  go  in  a  hurry  to  set  things  right.  What  a  good  thing  that  it 
is  all  in  a  hurry !  We  shall  not  have  time  to  think." 

"  You  must  go  with  him — you  must  go  with  him,  Ellen  !  "  I  cried. 

She  turned  upon  me  almost  with  severity  in  her  tone.  "  I  thought 
you  knew  better.  I — go  with  him  !  Look  here,"  she  cried  very 
hurriedly,  "don't  think  I  don't  face  the  full  consequences — the  whole 
matter.  He  is  tired,  tired  to  death.  He  will  be  glad  to  go — and  after 
— after  !  If  he  should  find  some  one  else  there,  I  shall  never  be  the  one 
to  blame  him." 

"  Ellen !  you  ought  to  ask  his  pardon  on  your  knees — he  find  some 
one  else  !  What  wrong  you  do  to  the  faithfullest — the  truest — 

"  He  is  the  faithfullest,"  she  said ;  then  after  a  moment,  "  but  I  will 
never  blame  him.  I  tell  you  beforehand.  He  has  been  more  patient 
than  ever  man  was." 

Did  she  believe  what  she  was  saying  ?  It  waa  very  hard  to  know. 
The  fortnight  flew  by  like  a  day.  The  days  had  been  very  long  before 
in  their  monotony,  but  now  these  two  weeks  were  like  two  hours.  I 
never  quite  knew  what  passed.  John  had  taken  his  courage  in  both 
hands,  and  had  bearded  the  father  himself  in  his  den ;  but,  so  far  as  I 
could  make  out,  it  was  not  the  father  but  the  mother  with  her  tears  who 


744  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

vanquished  him.  "  When  I  saw  what  her  life  was,"  he  said  to  me  when 
he  took  leave  of  me,  "  such  a  life  !  my  mouth  was  closed.  Who  am  I 
that  I  should  take  away  her  only  comfort  from  her  ?  We  love  each 
other  very  dearly,  it  is  our  happiness,  it  is  the  one  thing  which  makes 
everything  else  sweet :  but  perhaps,  as  Ellen  says,  there  is  no  duty  in 
it.  It  is  all  enjoyment.  Her  duty  is  to  them ;  it  is  her  pleasure,  she 
says,  her  happiness  to  be  with  me." 

"  But — but  you  have  been  engaged  for  years.  No  doubt  it  is  your 
happiness — but  surely  there  is  duty  too." 

"  She  says  not.  My  mind  is  rather  confused.  I  don't  seem  to  know. 
Duty,  you  know,  duty  is  a  thing  that  it  is  rather  hard  to  do  ;  something 
one  has  to  raise  one's  self  up  to,  and  carry  through  with,  whether  we  like 
it  or  whether  we  don't  like  it.  That's  her  definition ;  and  it  seeins 
right — don't  you  think  it  is  right?  But  to  say  that  of  us  would  be 
absurd.  It  is  all  pleasure — all  delight,"  his  tired  eyelids  rose  a  little  to 
show  a  gleam  of  emotion,  then  dropped  again  with  a  sigh  ;  "  that  is  her 
argument ;  I  suppose  it  is  true." 

"  Then,  do  you  mean  to  say "  I  cried,  and  stopped  short  in  sheer 

bewilderment  of  mind,  not  knowing  what  words  to  use. 

"  I  don't  think  I  mean  to  say  anything.  My  head  is  all  confused. 
I  don't  seem  to  know.  Our  feeling  is  all  one  wish  to  be  together ;  only 
to  see  one  another  makes  us  happy.  Can  there  be  duty  in  that  ?  she  says. 
It  seems  right,  yet  sometimes  I  think  it  is  wrong,  though  I  can't  tell  how." 

I  was  confused  too — I  was  silenced.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
"  It  depends,"  I  said,  faltering,  "  it  depends  upon  what  you  consider  the 
object  of  life." 

"  Some  people  say  happiness  ;  but  that  would  not  suit  Ellen's 
theory,"  he  said.  "  Duty — I  had  an  idea  myself  that  duty  was  easily 
denned  ;  but  it  seems  it  is  as  difficult  as  everything  is,  So  far  as  I  can 
make  out,"  he  added,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  I  have  got  no  duties  at  all." 

"  To  be  faithful  to  her,"  I  said,  recollecting  the  strange  speech  she 
had  made  to  me. 

He  almost  laughed  outright.  "  Faithful !  that  is  no  duty ;  it  is  my 
existence.  Do  you  think  I  could  be  unfaithful  if  I  were  to  try  ? " 

These  were  almost  the  last  words  he  said  to  me.  I  suppose  he  satis- 
fied himself  that  his  duty  to  his  employer  required  him  to  go  away. 
And  Ellen  had  a  feverish  desire  that  he  should  go  away,  now  that  the 
matter  had  been  broached  a  second  time.  I  am  not  sure  that  when  the 
possibility  of  sacrifice  on  his  part  dawned  upon  her,  the  chance  that  he 
might  relinquish  for  her  this  renewed  chance  of  rising  in  the  world, 
there  did  not  arise  in  her  mind  a  hasty  impatient  wish  that  he  might 
be  TTnfaithful,  and  give  her  iip  altogether.  Sometimes  the  impatience  of 
a  tired  spirit  will  take  this  form.  Ellen  was  very  proud ;  by  dint  of 
having  made  sacrifices  all  her  life,  she  had  an  impetuous  terror  of  being 
in  her  turn  the  object  for  which  sacrifices  should  be  made.  To  accept 
them  was  bitterness  to  her.  She  was  eager  to  hurry  all  his  preparations, 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  745 

to  get  him  despatched,  if  possible,  a  little  earlier  than  the  necessary 
time.  She  kept  a  cheerful  face,  making  little  jokes  about  the  Levant 
and  the  people  he  would  meet  there,  which  surprised  everybody.  "  Is 
she  glad  that  he  is  going  1 "  Chatty  asked  me,  with  eyes  like  two  round 
lamps  of  alarmed  surprise.  The  last  night  of  all  they  spent  with  us — and 
it  seemed  a  relief  to  Ellen  that  it  should  be  thus  spent,  and  not  tete-ct-tete 
as  so  many  other  evenings  had  been.  It  was  the  very  height  and  flush 
of  summer,  an  evening  which  would  not  sink  into  darkness  and  night 
as  other  evenings  do.  The  moon  was  up  long  before  the  sun  had  gone 
reluctantly  away.  "We  sat  without  the  lamp  in  the  soft  twilight,  with 
the  stream  of  wayfarers  going  past  the  windows,  and  all  the  familiar 
sounds,  which  were  not  vulgar  to  us,  we  were  so  used  to  them.  They 
were  both  glad  of  the  half  light.  When  I  told  Ellen  to  go  and  sing  to 
us,  she  refused  at  first  with  a  look  of  reproach ;  then,  with  a  little  shake 
of  her  head,  as  if  to  throw  off  all  weakness,  changed  her  mind  and  went' 
to  the  piano.  It  was  Chatty  who  insisted  upon  Mr.  Bidgway's  favourite 
song,  perhaps  out  of  heedlessness,  perhaps  with  that  curious  propensity 
the  young  often  have  to  probe  wounds,  and  investigate  how  deep  a  senti- 
ment may  go.  We  sat  in  the  larger  room,  John  and  myself,  while 
behind,  in  the  dim  evening,  in  the  distance,  scarcely  visible,  Ellen  sat  at 
the  piano  and  sang.  What  the  effort  cost  her  I  would  not  venture  to 
inquire.  As  for  him,  he  sat  with  a  melancholy  composure  listening  to 
every  tone  of  her  voice.  She  had  a  very  sweet  refined  voice — not  power- 
ful, but  tender,  what  people  call  sympathetic.  I  could  not  distinguish 
his  face,  but  I  saw  his  hand  beat  the  measure  accompanying  every  line, 
and  when  she  came  to  the  burden  of  the  song,  he  said  it  over  softly  to 
himself.  Broken  by  all  the  babble  outside,  and  by  the  music  in  the 
background,  I  yet  heard  him,  all  tuneless  and  low,  murmuring  this  to 
himself — "  I  will  come  again,  I  will  come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonnie." 
Whether  his  eyes  were  dry  I  cannot  tell,  but  mine  were  wet.  He  said 
them  with  no  excitement,  as  if  they  were  the  words  most  simple,  most 
natural — the  very  breathing  of  his  heart.  How  often,  I  wonder,  would 
he  think  of  that  dim  room,  the  half-seen  companions,  the  sweet  and 
tender  voice  rising  out  of  the  twilight  1  I  said  to  myself,  "  Whoever 
may  mistrust  you,  I  will  never  mistrust  you,"  with  fervour.  But  just 
as  the  words  passed  through  my  mind,  as  if  Ellen  had  heard  them,  her 
song  broke  off  all  in  a  moment,  died  away  in  the  last  line,  "  I  will  come 

a "     There  was  a  sudden  break,  a  jar  on  the  piano — and  she  sprang 

up  and  came  towards  us,  stumbling,  with  her  hands  put  out,  as  if  she 
could  not  see.  The  next  sound  I  heard  was  an  unsteady  little  laugh,  as 
she  threw  herself  down  on  a  sofa  in  the  corner  where  Chatty  was 
sitting.  "  I  wonder  why  you  ai-e  all  so  fond  of  that  old-fashioned 
nonsense,"  she  said. 

And  next  day  the  last  farewells  were  said,  and  John  went  away. 


VOL.  XLII.— NO.  252.  36 


746  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WE  left  town  directly  after  this  for  the  autumn  holidays.  The  holidays 
had  not  very  much  meaning  now  that  all  the  boys  had  left  school,  and  we 
might  have  gone  away  when  we  pleased.  But  the  two  youngest  girls 
were  still  in  the  remorseless  hands  of  Fraulein  Stimme,  and  the  habit  of 
emancipation  in  the  regular  holiday  season  had  clung  to  me.  I  tried 
very  hard  to  get  Ellen  to  go  with  us,  for  at  least  a  day  or  two,  but  she 
resisted  with  a  kind  of  passion.  Her  mother,  I  am  sure,  would  have 
been  glad  had  she  gone  ;  but  Ellen  would  not.  There  was  in  her  face  a 
secret  protestation,  of  which  she  was  perhaps  not  even  herself  aware,  that 
if  her  duty  bound  life  itself  from  all  expansion,  it  must  also  bind  her  in 
every  day  of  her  life.  She  would  not  accept  the  small  alleviation, 
having,  with  her  eyes  open  and  with  a  full  sense  of  what  she  was  about, 
resigned  everything  else.  She  would  have  been  more  perfect,  and  her 
sacrifice  more  sweet,  had  she  taken  sweetly  the  little  consolations  of  every 
day ;  but  nobody  is  perfect,  and  Ellen  would  not  come.  I  had  gone  to 
Pleasant  Place  to  ask  her,  and  the  scene  was  a  curious  one.  The  mother 
and  daughter  both  came  to  the  parlour  to  receive  me,  and  I  saw  them 
together  for  the  first  time.  It  was  about  a  fortnight  after  John  went 
away.  Ellen  had  not  been  ill,  though  I  had  feared  she  would ;  biit  she 
was  pale,  with  dark  lines  under  her  eyes,  and  a  worn  and  nervous  look. 
She  was  bearing  her  burden  very  bravely,  but  it  was  all  the  harder 
upon  her  that  she  was  evidently  determined  not  to  complain.  When  I 
told  my  errand,  Mrs.  Harwood  replied  eagerly,  "  You  must  go,  Ellen.  Oh, 
yes  !  I  can  do ;  I  can  do  very  well.  It  will  only  be  for  a  week,  and  it 
will  do  you  so  much  good ;  you  must  go."  Ellen  took  scarcely  any  notice 
of  this  address.  She  thanked  me  with  her  usual  smile.  "It  is  very, 
very  good  of  you — you  are  always  good — but  it  is  impossible."  "  Why 
impossible,  why  impossible  ?  "  cried  her  mother.  "  When  I  tell  you  I 
can  do  very  well — I  can  manage.  Your  father  will  not  mind,  when  it  is 
to  do  you  good."  I  saw  that  Ellen  required  a  moment's  interval  of  pre- 
paration before  she  looked  round. 

"  Dear  mother,"  she  said,  "  we  have  not  any  make-believes  between 
us,  have  we?  How  is  it  possible  that  I  can  go?  every  moment  is 
mapped  out.  No,  no ;  I  cannot  do  it.  Thank  you  all  the  same.  My 
mother  wants  to  give  me  a  pleasure,  but  it  cannot  be.  Go  away  for  a 
week  !  I  have  never  done  that  in  all  my  life." 

"  But  you  think  she  can,  you  think  she  ought,"  I  said,  turning  to  her 
mother.  The  poor  woman  looked  at  her  child  with  a  piteous  look.  I 
think  it  dawned  upon  her,  then  and  there,  for  the  first  time,  that  perhaps 
she  had  made  a  mistake  about  Ellen.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  that 
there  had  been  any  selfishness  in  her  tearful  sense  of  the  impossibility  of 
parting  with  her  daughter.  All  at  once,  in  a  moment,  with  a  sudden 
gleam  of  that  enlightenment  which  so  often  comes  too  late,  she  saw  it. 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY,  747 

She  saw  it,  and  it  went  through  her  like  an  arrow.  She  turned  to  me 
with  another  piteous  glance.  What  have  I  done,  what  have  I  done  ? 
her  look  seemed  to  say. 

"  Two  or  three  days,"  the  poor  woman  said,  with  a  melancholy 
attempt  at  playfulness.  "  Nothing  can  happen  to  us  in  that  time.  Her 
father  is  ill,"  she  said,  turning  to  me  a.s  if  I  knew  nothing,  "  and  we  are 
always  anxious.  She  thinks  it  will  be  too  much  for  me,  by  myself. 
But  what  does  it  matter  for  a  few  days  ?  If  I  am  overdone,  I  can  rest 
when  she  comes  back." 

Was  it  possible  she  could  suppose  that  this  was  all  I  knew?  I 
was  afraid  to  catch  Ellen's  eye.  I  did  not  know  what  might  come 
after  such  a  speech.  She  might  break  forth  with  some  sudden  revelation 
of  all  that  I  felt  sure  must  be  in  her  heart.  I  closed  my  eyes  instinc- 
tively, sick  with  terror.  That  moment  I  heard  Ellen's  clear,  agreeable 
voice. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  overdone,  mother.  What  is  the  use  of  all 
that  is  past  and  gone,  if  I  am  to  take  holidays  and  run  away  when  I  like 
for  two  or  three  days  ?  No,  no ;  my  place  is  here,  and  here  I  must  stay. 
I  don't  want  you  to  be  overdone." 

And  looking  at  her,  I  saw  that  she  smiled.  But  her  mother's  face 
was  full  of  trouble.  She  looked  from  Ellen  to  me,  and  from  me  to 
Ellen.  For  everything  there  is  a  beginning.  Did  she  only  then  for  the 
first  time  perceive  what  had  been  done  ? 

However,  after  this  there  was  nothing  more  to  say.  We  did  not  see 
Ellen  again  till  the  days  were  short,  and  the  brilliant  weather  over.  She 
changed  very  much  during  that  winter.  Her  youth,  .which  had  bloomed 
on  so  long  unaltered,  seemed  to  leave  her  in  a  day.  When  we  came 
back,  from  looking  twenty  she  suddenly  looked  thirty-five.  The  bloom 
went  from  her  cheeks.  She  was  as  trim  as  ever,  and  as  lightfooted,  going 
out  alert  and  bright  every  morning  to  her  lessons;  but  her  pretty  little 
figure  had  shrunk,  and  her  very  step  on  the  pavement  sounded  different. 
Life  and  all  its  hopes  and  anticipations  seemed  to  have  ebbed  away  from 
her.  I  don't  doubt  that  many  of  her  neighbours  had  been  going  on  in 
their  dull  routine  of  life  without  knowing  any  of  those  hopes  or  prospects, 
all  this  time  by  Ellen's  side,  and  fulfilled  their  round  of  duties  without 
any  such  diversions.  Oh,  the  mystery  of  these  myriads  of  humble  lives, 
which  are  never  enlivened  even  by  a  romance  wwmque,  a  story  that  might 
have  been ;  that  steal  away  from  dull  youth  to  dull  age,  never  knowing 
anything  but  the  day's  work,  never  coming  to  anything  !  But  Ellen  had 
known  a  something  different,  a  life  that  was  her  own ;  and  now  she  had 
lost  it.  The  effect  was  great;  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  She  lost 
herself  altogether  for  a  little  while,  and  when  she  came  to  again,  as  all 
worthy  souls  must  come,  she  was  another  Ellen ;  older  than  her  age  as  the 
other  had  been  younger,  and  prepared  for  everything.  No  longer  trying 
to  evade  suffering  ;  rather  desirous,  if  that  might  be,  to  forestall  it,  to  dis- 
count it — if  I  may  use  the  word — before  it  Avas  due,  and  know  the 


748  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

worst.  She  never  told  me  this  in  words,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  so.  It 
is  not  only  in  a  shipwreck  that  the  tmfortunate  on  the  verge  of  death 
plunge  in  to  get  it  over  a  few  hours,  a  few  minutes,  sooner.  In  life  there 
are  many  shipwrecks  which  we  would  forestall,  if  we  could,  in  the  same 
way,  by  a  plunge — by  a  voluntary  putting  on  of  the  decisive  moment. 
Some,  I  suppose,  will  put  it  off  by  every  expedient  that  despair  can 
suggest;  but  there  are  also  those  who  can  bear  anything  but  to  wait 
until  slowly,  surely,  the  catastrophe  comes.  Ellen  wanted  to  make  the 
plunge,  to  get  it  over,  partly  for  John's  sake,  whose  infidelity  she  began 
to  calculate  upon — to  (she  believed)  wish  for.  "  He  will  never  be  able 
to  live  without  a  home  to  go  to,  without  a  woman  to  speak  to,  now,"  she 
said  once,  in  a  moment  of  incaution — for  she  was  very  guarded,  very 
reticent,  about  all  this  part  of  her  mind,  and  rarely  betrayed  herself.  It 
is  curious  how  little  faith  women  in  general,  even  the  most  tender,  have 
in  a  man's  constancy.  Either  it  is  because  of  an  inherent  want  of  trust 
in  their  own  power  to  secure  affection,  which  might  be  called  humility ; 
or  else  it  is  quite  the  reverse — a  pride  of  sex  too  subtle  to  show,  in  any 
conscious  way,  overweening  confidence  in.  the  power  over  a  man  of  any 
other  woman  who  happens  to  be  near  him,  and  want  of  confidence  in 
any  power  on  his  part  to  resist  these  fascinations.  Ellen  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  her  lover  when  he  was  absent  from  her  would  be,  as  she 
would  have  said,  "  like  all  the  rest."  Perhaps,  in  a  kind  of  wild  gene- 
rosity, she  wished  it,  feeling  that  she  herself  never  might  be  free  to  make 
him  happy  ;  but,  anyhow,  she  was  persuaded  tliat  this  was  how  it  would 
be.  She  looked  out  for  signs  of  it  in  his  very  first  letter.  She  wanted 
to  have  it  over — to  cut  off  remorselessly  out  of  her  altered  being  all  the 
agitations  of  hope. 

But  I  need  not  say  that  John's  letters  were  everything  a  lover's  or 
rather  a  husband's  letters  should  be.  They  were  more  like  a  husband's 
letters,  with  very  few  protestations  in  them,  but  a  gentle  continued 
reference  to  her,  and  to  their  past  life  together,  which  was  more  touching 
than  any  rhapsodies.  She  brought  them  to  me  often,  folding  down,  with 
a  blush  which  made  her  look  like  the  blooming  Ellen  of  old,  some  corner 
of  especial  tenderness,  something  that  was  too  sacred  for  a  stranger's 
eye,  but  always  putting  them  back  in  her  pocket  with  a  word  which 
sounded  almost  like  a  grudge,  as  who  should  say,  "  For  this  once  all  is 
well,  but  next  time  you  shall  see."  Thus  she  held  on  to  her  happiness 
as  by  a  strained  thread,  expecting  every  moment  when  it  would  snap, 
and  defying  it  to  do  so,  y<et  throbbing  all  the  time  with  a  passion  of 
anxiety,  as  day  after  day  it  held  out,  proving  her  foreboding  vain.  That 
winter,  though  I  constantly  saw  her,  my  mind  was  taken  up  by  other 
things  than  Ellen.  It  was  then  that  the  children  finally  prevailed  upon 
me  to  leave  the  Road.  A  row  of  cheap  advertising  shops  had  sprung  up 
facing  us  where  had  been  the  great  garden  I  have  so  often  mentioned, 
and  the  noise  and  flaring  lights  were  more  than  I  could  put  up  with, 
after  all  my  resistance  to  their  wishes.  So  that  at  last,  to  my  great 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  749 

regret,  but  the  exultation  of  the  young  ones,  it  was  decided  that  -we 
must  go  away. 

The  removal,  and  the  bustle  there  was,  the  change  of  furniture, — 
for  our  old  things  would  not  do  for  the  new  house  and  Chatty, 
Heaven  save  us  !  had  grown  artistic,  and  even  the  little  ones  and 
Fraulein  Stimme  knew  a  great  deal  better  than  I  did — occupied  my 
mjnd  and  my  time ;  and  it  took  a  still  longer  time  to  settle  down 
than  it  did  to  tear  up  our  old  roots.  So  that  there  was  a  long  in- 
terval during  which  we  saw  little  of  Ellen ;  and  though  we  never  forgot 
her,  or  ceased  to  take  an  interest  in  everything  that  concerned  her,  the 
distance  of  itself  threw  us  apart.  Now  and  then  she  paid  ITS  a  visit, 
always  with  John's  letter  in  her  pocket,  but  her  time  was  so  limited 
that  she  never  could  stay  long.  And  sometimes  I,  and  sometimes 
Chatty,  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  old  district  to  see  her.  But  we  never 
could  have  an  uninterrupted  long  talk  in  Pleasant  Place.  Either  Ellen 
was  called  away,  or  Mrs.  Harwood  would  come  in  and  sit  down  with  her 
work,  always  anxiously  watching  her  daughter.  This  separation  from 
the  only  people  to  whom  she  could  talk  of  her  own  private  and  intimate 
concerns  was  a  further  narrowing  and  limitation  of  poor  Ellen's  life. 
But  what  could  I  do  1  I  could  not  vex  my  children  for  her  sake.  She 
told  us  that  she  went  and  looked  at  the  old  house  almost  every  day, 
and  at  the  square  window  in  which  I  used  to  sit  and  see  John  pass. 
John  passed  no  longer,  nor  was  I  there  to  see.  But  Ellen  remained 
bound  in  the  same  spot,  seeing  everything  desert  her — love,  and  friend- 
ship, and  sympathy,  and  all  her  youth  and  her  hope.  Can  you  not 
fancy  with  what  thoughts  this  poor  girl  (though  she  was  a  girl  no 
longer)  would  pause,  as  she  passed,  to  look  at  the  abandoned  place  so 
woven  in  with  the  brightest  episode  of  her  life,  feeling  herself  stranded 
there,  impotent,  unable  to  make  a  step — her  breast  still  heaving  with 
all  the  vigour  of  existence,  yet  her  life  bound  down  in  the  narrowest 
contracted  circle  ?  Her  mother,  who  had  got  to  watch  her  narrowly, 
told  me  afterwards  that  she  always  knew  when  Ellen  had  passed  No.  16  ; 
and  indeed  I  myself  was  rather  glad  to  hear  that  at  length  No.  16  had 
shared  the  general  fate,  that  my  window  existed  no  longer,  and  that  a 
great  shop  with  plate-glass  windows  was  bulging  out  where  our  house 
had  been.  Better  when  a  place  is  desecrated  that  it  should  be  dese- 
crated wholly,  and  have  no  vestige  of  its  old  self  at  all. 

Thus  more  than  a  year  glided  away,  spring  and  winter,  summer  and 
autumn,  and  then  winter  again.  Chatty  came  in  one  November  morn- 
ing, when  London  was  half  invisible,  wrapped  in  mist  and  fog,  with  a 
very  grave  face,  to  tell  me  that  she  had  met  Ellen,  and  Ellen  had  told 
her  there  was  bad  news  from  John.  "  I  can't  understand  her,"  Chatty 
said.  "I  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was;  that  business  had  been  bad, 
and  things  had  gone  wrong ;  and  then  something  with  a  sort  of  laugh 
that  he  had  got  other  thoughts  in  his  mind  at  last,  as  she  knew  all  along 
he  would,  and  that  she  was  glad.  What  could  she  mean  1 "  I  did  not  know 


750  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

what  she  could  mean,  hut  I  resolved  to  go  and  see  Ellen  to  ascertain  what 
the  change  was.  It  is  easier,  however,  to  say  than  to  do  when  one  is  full  of 
one's  own  affairs,  and  so  it  happened  that  for  a  full  week,  though  intend- 
ing to  go  every  day,  I  never  did  so.  It  was  partly  my  fault.  The  family 
affairs  were  many,  and  the  family  interests  engrossing.  It  was  not  that 
I  cared  for  Ellen  less,  but  my  own  claimed  me  on  every  hand.  When 
one  afternoon,  about  a  fortnight  after,  I  was  told  that  Miss  Harwood 
was  in  the  drawing-room  and  wished  to  speak  to  me,  my  heart  up- 
braided me  with  my  neglect.  I  hurried  to  her  and  led  her  away  from 
that  public  place  where  everybody  came  and  went,  to  my  own  little 
sitting-room,  where  we  might  be  alone.  Ellen  was  very  pale ;  her  eyes 
looked  very  dry  and  bright,  not  dewy  and  soft  as  they  used  to  be.  There 
was  a  feverish  look  of  unrest  and  excitement  about  her.  "  There  is 
something  wrong,"  I  cried.  "  What  is  it  ?  Chatty  told  me — something 
about  John." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  anything  wrong,"  she  said.  The  smile  that 
had  frightened  Chatty  came  over  her  face — a  smile  that  made  one  un- 
happy, the  lip  drawn  tightly  over  the  teeth  in  the  most  ghastly  mockery 
of  amusement.  "  No ;  I  don't  know  that  it  is  anything  wrong.  You 
know  I  always  expected — always,  from  the  moment  he  went  away — that 
between  him  and  me  things  would  soon  be  at  an  end.  Oh,  yes,  I 
expected  it,  and  I  did  not  wish  it  otherwise ;  for  what  good  is  it  to  me 
that  a  man  should  be  engaged  to  me,  and  waste  his  life  for  me,  when  I 
never  could  do  anything  for  him  ? " 

Here  she  made  a  little  breathless  pause,  and  laughed.  "  Oh,  don't, 
Ellen,  don't ! "  I  cried.  I  could  not  bear  the  laugh ;  the  smile  was  bad 
enough. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  little  defiance ;  "  would  you  have  me 
cry  ?  I  expected  it  long  ago.  The  wonder  is  that  it  should  have  been 
so  long  of  coming.  That  is,"  sle  cried  suddenly  after  a  pause,  "that 
is  if  this  is  really  what  it  means.  I  took  it  for  granted  at  first ;  but 
I  cannot  be  certain.  I  cannot  be  certain !  Read  it,  you  who  know 
him,  and  tell  me,  tell  me  !  Oh,  I  can  bear  it  quite  well.  I  should  be 
rather  glad  if  this  is  what  it  means." 

She  thrust  a  letter  into  my  hand,  and,  going  away  with  a  rapid  step  to 
the  window,  stood  there  with  her  back  to  me,  looking  out.  I  saw  her 
standing  against  the  light,  playing  restlessly  with  the  tassel  of  the  blind. 
In  her  desire  to  seem  composed,  or  else  in  the  mere  excitement  which 
boiled  in  her  veins,  she  began  to  hum  a  tune.  I  don't  think  she  knew 
herself  what  it  was. 

The  letter  which  she  professed  to  have  taken  so  easily  was  worn  with 
much  reading,  and  it  had  been  carried  about,  folded  and  refolded  a  hun- 
dred times.  There  was  no  sign  of  indifference  in  all  that — and  this  is 
what  it  said  : — 

"I  got  your  last  letter,  dear  Ellen,  on  Tuesday.  I  think  you  must 
have  written  in  low  spirits.  Perhaps  you  had  a  feeling,  such  as  we  used 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  751 

to  talk  about,  of  what  was  happening  here.  As  for  me,  nobody  could 
be  in  lower  spirits  than  this  leaves  me.  I  have  lost  heart  altogether. 
Everything  has  gone  wrong ;  the  business  is  at  an  end  :  I  shut  up  the 
office  to-day.  If  it  is  in  any  way  my  fault,  God  forgive  me !  But 
the  conflict  in  my  heart  has  been  so  great  that  I  sometimes  fear  it  must 
be  my  fault.  I  had  been  low  enough  before,  thinking  and  thinking  how 
the  end  was  to  come  between  you  and  me.  Everything  has  gone  wrong 
inside  and  out.  I  had  such  confidence,  and  now  it  is  all  going.  What 
I  had  most  faith  in  has  deceived  me.  I  thought  I  never  was  the  man  to 
change  or  to  fail,  and  that  I  could  have  trusted  myself  in  any  circum- 
stances ;  but  it  does  not  seem  so.  And  why  should  I  keep  you  hanging 
on  when  all's  wrong  with  me  ?  I  always  thought  I  could  redeem  it ;  but 
It  hasn't  proved  so.  You  must  just  give  me  up,  Ellen,  as  a  bad  job. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  you  wished  it.  Where  I  am  to  drift  to,  I 
can't  tell ;  but  there's  no  prospect  of  drifting  back,  or,  what  I  hoped  for, 
sailing  back  in  prosperity  to  you.  You  have  seen  it  coming,  I  can  see 
by  your  letters,  and  I  think,  perhaps,  though  it  seems  strange  to  say  so, 
that  you  won't  mind.  I  shall  not  stay  here ;  but  I  have  not  made  up 
my  mind  where  to  go.  Forget  a  poor  fellow  that  was  never  worthy  to 
be  yours. — JOHN  EJDGWAY." 

My  hands  dropped  with  the  letter  in  them.  The  rustle  it  made  was 
the  only  sign  she  could  have  had  that  I  had  read  it,  or  else  instinct  or 
inward  vision.  That  instant  she  turned  upon  me  from  the  window  with 
a  cry  of  wild  suspense  :  "  Well  ? " 

"  I  am  confounded.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  Ellen,  it  looks 
more  like  guilt  to  the  office  than  falsehood  to  you." 

"  Guilt — to  the  office  ! "  Her  face  blazed  up  at  once  in  scorching 
colour.  She  looked  at  me  in  fierce  resentment  and  excitement,  stamping 
her  foot.  "  Guilt — to  the  office !  How  dare  you  1  How  dare  you?  "  she 
cried  like  a  fury.  She  clenched  her  hands  at  me,  and  looked  as  if  she 
could  have  torn  me  in  pieces.  "Whatever  he  has  done,"  she  cried,  "he 
has  done  nothing  he  had  not  a  right  to  do.  Do  you  know  who  you  are 
speaking  of?  John  !  You  might  as  well  tell  me  I  had  broken  into  your 
house  at  night  and  robbed  you.  He  have  anything  to  blame  himself  for 
with  the  office  ? — never  !  nor  with  any  one.  What  he  has  done  is  what 
he  had  a  right  to  do — I  am  the  first  to  say  so.  He  has  been  wearied 
out.  You  said  it  once  yourself,  long,  long  before  my  eyes  were  opened ; 
and  at  last  he  has  done  it — and  he  had  a  good  right !  "  She  stood  for 
one  moment  before  me  in  the  fervour  of  this  fiery  address ;  then,  sud- 
denly, she  sank  and  dropped  on  her  knees  by  my  side.  "  You  think  it 
means  that  1  You  see  it  1 — don't  you  see  it  ?  He  has  grown  weary,  as 
was  so  natural.  He  thought  he  could  trust  himself  ;  but  it  proved 
different ;  and  then  he  thought  he  could  redeem  it.  What  can  that 
mean  but  one  thing? — he  has  got  some  one  else  to  care  for  him.  There 
is  nothing  wrong  in  that.  It  is  not  I  that  will  ever  blame  him.  The 
only  thing  was  that  a  horrible  doubt  came  over  me  this  morning — if  it 


752  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

should  not  mean  what  I  thought  it  did !  That  is  folly,  I  know ;  but 
you,  who  know  him,  put  away  all  that  nonsense  about  wrong  to  the 
office,  which  is  out  of  the  question,  and  you  will  see  it  cannot  be  any- 
thing but  one  thing." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  I  said. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  kneeling  by  my  side.  "  You  always  took  his 
part,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  will  not  see  it."  Why  did  she 
tremble  so  ?  Did  she  want  to  believe  it,  or  not  to  believe  it  1  I  could 
not  understand  Ellen.  Just  then,  from  the  room  below,  there  came  a 
voice  singing.  It  was  Chatty's  voice,  the  child  whom  she  had  taught, 
who  had  been  the  witness  of  their  wooing.  She  knew  nothing  about  all 
this ;  she  did  not  even  know  that  Ellen  was  in  the  house.  What  so 
natural  as  that  she  should  sing  the  song  her  mistress  had  taught  her  ?  It 
was  that  which  Ellen  herself  had  been  humming  as  she  stood  at  the 
window. 

"  Listen  !  "  I  said,  "  You  are  answered  in  his  own  words — '  I  will 
come  again.' " 

This  was  more  than  Ellen  could  bear.  She  made  one  effort  to  rise  to 
her  feet,  to  regain  her  composure ;  but  the  music  was  too  much.  At 
that  moment  I  myself  felt  it  too  much.  She  fell  down  at  my  feet  in  a 
passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

Afterwards  I  knew  the  meaning  of  Ellen's  passionate  determination 
to  admit  no  meaning  but  one  to  the  letter.  She  had  taken  him  at  his 
word.  In  her  certainty  that  this  was  to  happen,  she  had  seen  no  other 
interpretation  to  it,  until  it  was  too  late.  She  had  never  sent  any  reply ; 
and  he  had  not  written  again.  It  was  now  a  month  since  the  letter  had 
been  received,  and  this  sudden  breaking  off-  of  the  correspondence  had 
been  so  far  final  on  both  sides.  To  satisfy  myself,  I  sent  to  inquire  at 
the  office,  and  found  that  no  blame  was  attached  to  John ;  but  that  he 
had  been  much  depressed,  unduly  depressed,  by  his  failure  to  remedy  the 
faults  of  his  predecessor,  and  had  left  as  soon  as  his  accounts  were  for- 
warded and  all  the  business  details  carefully  wound  up,  and  had  not 
been  heard  of  more.  I  compelled,  I  may  say,  Ellen  to  write,  now  that 
it  was  too  late  ;  but  her  letter  was  returned  to  her  some  time  after.  He 
had  left  the  place,  and  nothing  of  him  was  known. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THIS  little  tragedy,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  made  a  great  impression  on  my 
mind.  It  did  not  make  me  ill ;  that  would  have  been  absurd.  But  still 
it  helped,  I  suppose,  to  depress  me  generally  and  enhance  the  effect  of  the 
cold  that  had  hung  about  me  so  long,  and  for  which  the  elder  ones,  taking 
counsel  together,  decided  that  the  desire  of  the  younger  ones  should  be 
gratified,  and  I  should  be  made  to  go  to  Italy  for  the  spring.  The  girls 
were  wild  to  go,  and  my  long-continued  lingering  cold  was  such  a  good 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  753 

excuse.  For  my  own  part,  I  was  quite  unwilling ;  but  what  can  one 
woman,  especially  when  she  is  their  mother,  do  against  so  many  ?  I  had 
to  give  in  and  go.  I  went  to  see  Ellen  before  we  started,  and  it  was  a 
very  painful  visit.  She  was  still  keeping  up  with  a  certain  defiance  of 
everybody.  But  in  the  last  two  months  she  had  changed  wonderfully. 
•  For  one  thing,  she  had  shrunk  into  half  her  size.  She  was  never  any- 
thing but  a  little  woman ;  but  now  she  seemed  to  me  no  bigger  than  a 
child.  And  those  cheerful,  happy  brown  eyes,  which  had  so  triumphed 
over  and  smiled  at  all  the  privations  of  life,  looked  out  from  two  hollow 
caverns,  twice  as  large  as  they  had  ever  been  before,  and  with  a  woeful 
look  that  broke  one's  heart.  It  was  not  always  that  they  had  this  woeful 
look.  When  she  was  conscious  of  inspection  she  played  them  about  with 
an  artificial  activity  as  if  they  had  been  lanterns,  forcing  a  smile  into  them 
which  sometimes  looked  almost  like  a  sneer ;  but  when  she  forgot  that 
any  one  was  looking  at  her,  then  both  smile  and  light  went  out,  and  there 
was  in  them  a  woeful  doubt  and  question  which  nothing  could  solve. 
Had  she  been  wrong  ?  Had  she  misjudged  him  whom  her  heart  could 
not  forget  or  relinquish  1  Was  it  likely  that  she  could  give  him  up 
lightly  even  had  he  been  proved  unworthy  1  And,  oh,  Heaven  !  was  he 
proved  unworthy,  or  had  she  done  him  wrong  1  This  was  what  Ellen 
was  asking  herself,  without  intermission,  for  ever  and  ever;  and  her 
mother,  on  her  side,  watched  Ellen  piteously  with  much  the  same  ques- 
tion in  her  eyes.  Had  she,  too,  made  a  mistake  1  Was  it  possible  that 
she  had  exacted  a  sacrifice  which  she  had  no  right  to  exact,  and  in  mere 
cowardice,  and  fear  of  loneliness,  and  desire  for  love  and  succour  on  her 
own  part,  spoiled  two  lives?  This  question,  which  was  almost  iden- 
tical in  both,  made  the  mother  and  daughter  singularly  like  each  other; 
except  that  Ellen  kept  asking  her  question  of  the  air,  which  is  so  full  of 
human  sighs,  and  the  sky,  whither  so  many  ungranted  wishes  go  up, 
and  the  darkness  of  space,  in  which  is  no  reply — and  the  mother  asked 
hers  of  Ellen,  interrogating  her  mutely  all  day  long,  and  of  every  friend 
of  Ellen's  who  could  throw  any  light  upon  the  question.  She  stole  into 
the  room  when  Ellen  left  me  for  a  moment,  and  whispered,  coming  close 
to  me,  lest  the  very  walls  should  hear — 

"  How  do  you  think  she  is  looking  ?  She  will  not  say  a  word  to  me 
about  him — not  a  word.  Don't  you  think  she  has  been  too  hasty  1  Oh ! 
I  would  give  everything  I  have  if  she  would  only  go  with  you  and  look 
for  John,  and  make  it  up  with  him  again." 

"  I  thought  you  could  not  spare  her,"  I  said,  with  perhaps  some 
cruelty  in  my  intention.  She  wrung  her  hands,  and  looked  piteously 
in  my  face. 

"  You  think  it  is  all  my  fault !  I  never  thought  it  would  come  to 
this ;  I  never  thought  he  would  go  away.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  let  them 
marry  at  first !  I  often  think  if  she  had  been  happy  in  her  own  house, 
coming  to  see  her  father  every  day,  it  would  have  been  more  of  a  change 
for  him,  more  company  than  having  her  always.  Oh  !  if  one  could  only 


754  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

tell  what  is  going  to  happen.  She  might  have  had  a  nice  family  by  this 
time,  and  the  eldest  little  girl  big  enough  to  run  in  and  play  at  his  feet 
and  amuse  her  grandpa.  He  always  was  fond  of  children.  But  we'll 
never  see  Ellen's  children  now !  "  cried  the  poor  woman.  "  And  you 
think  it  is  my  fault !  " 

I  could  not  reproach  her ;  her  black  cap  with  the  flowers,  her  little 
woollen  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  grew  tragic  as  she  poured  forth  her 
trouble.  It  was  not  so  dignified  as  the  poet's  picture,  but  yet,  like  him,  she 

Saw  the  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never  lighted  fire; 

and  with  a  groan  of  misery  felt  herself  the  slayer  of  those  innocents  that 
had  never  been.  The  tragic  and  the  comic  mingled  in  the  vision  of 
that  "  eldest  little  girl,"  the  child  who  would  have  amused  her  grandpa 
had  she  been  permitted  to  come  into  being ;  but  it  was  all  tragic  to 
poor  Mrs.  Harwood.  She  saw  no  laugh,  no  smile,  in  the  situation 
anywhere. 

We  went  to  Mentone,  and  stayed  there   till  the  bitterness   of  the 
winter  was   over,  then   moved   along   that  delightful  coast,  and   were 
in  Genoa  in  April.     To  speak  of  that  stately  city  as  a  commercial  town 
seems   insulting   nowadays — and   yet   so   it   is.     I   recognised  at  once 
the  type  I  had  known  in  other  days  when  I  sat  at  the  window  of  the 
hotel  and  watched  the  people  coming  and  going.     It  reminded  me  of 
my  window  in  the  Road,  where,  looking  out,  I  saw  the  respectable  City 
people — clerks  like   John   Ridgway,   and   merchants  of  the   same   cut 
though  of  more  substantial  comfort — wending  their  way  to  their  business 
in  the  morning,  and  to  their  suburban  homes  in  the  evening.     I  do  not 
know  that  I  love  the  commercial  world  ;  but  I  like  to  see  that  natural 
order  of  life,  the  man  "  going  out  to  his  work  and  labour  till  the  even- 
ing."    The  fashion  of  it  is  different  in  a  foreign  town,  but  still  the  life  is 
the  same.    "We  changed  our  quarters,  however,  after  we  had  been  for  some 
time  in  that  city,  so-called  of  palaces,  and  were  lodged  in  a  suite  of  rooms 
very  hard  to  get  up  to  (though  the  staircase  was  marble),  but  very  de- 
lightful when  one  was  there  ;  rooms  which  overlooked  the  high  terrace 
which  runs  round  a  portion  of  the  bay  between  the  inns  and  the  quays. 
I  forget  what  it  is  called.     It  is  a  beautiful  promenade,  commanding  the 
loveliest  view  of  that  most  beautiful  bay  and  all  that  is  going  on  in  it. 
At  night,  with  all  its  twinkling  semicircle  of  lights,  it  was  a  continual  en- 
chantment to  me ;  but  this  or  any  of  my  private  admirations  are  not  much 
to  the  purpose  of  my  story.    Sitting  at  the  window,  always  my  favourite 
post,  I  became  acquainted  with  various  individual  figures  among  those 
who  haunted  this  terrace.     Old  gentlemen  going  out  to  sun  themselves 
in  the  morning  before  the  heat  was  too  great ;  children  and  nursemaids, 
Genoese  women  with  their  pretty  veils,  invalids  who  had  got  up  the 
stairs,  I  cannot  tell  how,  and  sat  panting  on  the  benches,  enjoying  the  sea 
air  and  the  sunshine.     There  was  one,  however,  among  this  panorama  of 
passing  figures,  which  gave  me  a  startled  sense  of  familiarity.     It  was 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY,  755 

too  far  off  to  see  the  man's  face.  He  was  not  an  invalid ;  but  he  was 
bent,  either  with  past  sickness  or  with  present  care,  and  walked  with  a 
drooping  head  and  a  languid  step.  After  watching  him  for  a  time,  I 
concluded  (having  always  a  great  weakness  for  making  out  other  people's 
lives,  how  they  flow)  that  he  had  some  occupation  in  the  town  from 
which  he  escaped,  whenever  he  had  leisure,  to  rest  a  little  and  refresh 
himself  upon  the  terrace.  He  came  very  regularly,  j\ist  at  the  time  when 
Italian  shops  and  offices  have  a  way  of  shutting  up,  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  very  regularly,  always,  or  almost  always,  at  the  same  hour.  He 
came  up  the  steps  slowly  and  languidly,  stopped  a  little  to  take  breath, 
and  then  walked  half  way  round  the  terrace  to  a  certain  bench  upon 
which  he  always  seated  himself.  Sometimes  he  brought  his  luncheon 
with  him  and  ate  it  there.  At  other  times,  having  once  gained  that 
place,  he  sat  quite  still  in  a  corner  of  it,  not  reading,  nor  taking  any 
notice  of  the  other  passers-by.  No  one  was  with  him,  no  one  ever  spoke 
to  him.  When  I  noticed  him  first  he  startled  me.  Who  was  he  like  1 
His  bent  figure,  his  languid  step,  was  like  no  one  I  could  think  of;  but 
yet  I  said  to  myself,  He  is  like  somebody.  I  established  a  little  friendship 
with  him,  though  it  was  a  friendship  without  any  return ;  for  though  I 
could  see  him  he  could  not  see  me,  nor  could  I  distinguish  his  face ;  and 
we  never  saw  him  anywhere  else,  neither  at  church,  nor  in  the  streets, 
not  even  on  the  festas  when  everybody  was  about ;  but  always  just 
there  on  that  one  spot.  I  looked  for  him  as  regularly  as  the  day  came. 
"  My  mother's  old  gentleman,"  Chatty  called  him.  Everybody  is  old 
who  is  not  young  to  these  children ;  but  though  he  was  not  young  he  did 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  old.  And  he  puzzled  as  much  as  he  interested 
me.  Who  was  he  like?  I  never  even  asked  myself,  Who  was  he? 
He  was  nobody  I  had  any  way  of  knowing.  Some  poor  employe  in 
a  Genoa  office ;  how  should  I  know  him  ?  I  could  not  feel  at  all  sure, 
when  I  was  cross-examined  on  the  subject,  whether  I  really  remem- 
bered any  one  whom  he  was  like ;  but  yet  he  had  startled  me  more  than 
I  can  say. 

Genoa,  where  we  had  friends  and  family  reasons  for  staying,  became 
very  hot  as  the  spring  advanced  into  early  summer,  and  we  removed  to 
one  of  the  lovely  little  towns  on  the  coast  at  a  little  distance,  Santa 
Margherita.  When  we  had  been  settled  there  for  a  few  days,  Chatty 
came  in  to  me  one  evening  with  a  pale  face.  "  I  have  just  seen  your 
old  gentleman,"  she  said.  "  I  think  he  must  live  out  here ;  "  but  I  saw 
by  the  expression  of  her  eyes  that  there  was  more  to  say.  She  added 
after  a  moment,  "  And  I  know  who  he  is  like." 

"  Ah  !  you  have  seen  his  face,"  I  said ;  and  then,  before  she  had 
spoken,  it  suddenly  flashed  on  myself  in  a  moment,  "  John  Kidgway  !  "  I 
cried. 

"  Mother,"  said  Chatty,  quite  pale,  "  I  think  it  is  his  ghost." 

I  went  out  with  her  instantly  to  where  she  had  seen  him,  and  we 
made  some  inquiries,  but  with  no  success.  When  I  began  to  think  it 


756  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

over,  he  was  not  like  John  Ridgway.  He  was  bent  and  stooping, 
whereas  John  was  erect ;  his  head  drooped,  whereas  how  well  I  recol- 
lected poor  John's  head  thrown  back  a  little,  his  hat  upon  the  back  of 
it,  his  visionary  outlook  rather  to  the  skies  than  to  the  ground.  No, 
no,  not  like  him  a  bit ;  but  yet  it  might  be  his  ghost,  as  Chatty  said.  We 
made  a  great  many  inquiries,  but  for  the  moment  with  no  success,  and 
you  may  suppose  that  1  watched  the  passers-by  from  my  window  with 
more  devotion  than  ever.  One  evening  in  the  sudden  nightfall  of  the 
Italian  skies,  when  darkness  comes  all  at  once,  I  was  seated  in  my  usual 
place,  scarcely  seeing,  however,  the  moving  figures  outside,  though  all  the 
population  of  the  place  seemed  to  be  out,  sitting  round  the  doors,  and 
strolling  leisurely  along  enjoying  the  heavenly  coolness  and  the  breeze 
from  the  sea.  At  the  further  end  of  the  room  Chatty  was  at  the  piano, 
playing  to  me  softly  in  the  dark  as  she  knows  I  like  to  be  played  to, 
and  now  and  then  striking  into  some  old  song  such  as  I  love.  She  was 
sure  to  arrive  sooner  or  later  at  that  one  with  which  we  now  had  so  many 
associations ;  but  I  was  not  thinking  of  that,  nor  for  the  moment  of 
Ellen  or  her  faithful  (as  I  was  sure  he  was  still)  lover  at  all.  A  woman 
with  so  many  children  has  always  plenty  to  think  of.  My  mind  was 
busy  with  my  own  affairs.  The  windows  were  open,  and  the  babble  of 
the  voices  outside — high-pitched,  resounding  Italian  voices,  not  like  the 
murmur  of  English — came  in  to  us  as  the  music  floated  out.  All  at 
once,  I  suddenly  woke  up  from  my  thinking  and  my  family  concerns.  In 
the  dusk  one  figure  detached  itself  from  among  the  others  with  a  start, 
and  came  forward  slowly  with  bent  head  and  languid  step.  Had  he 
never  heard  that  song  since  he  heard  Ellen  break  off,  choked  with  tears 
unshed,  and  a  despair  which  had  never  been  revealed  1  He  came  quite 
close  under  the  window  where  I  could  see  him  no  longer.  I  could  not 
see  him  at  all ;  it  was  too  dark.  I  divined  him.  Who  could  it  be  but 
he  ?  Not  like  John  Ridgway,  and  yet  John ;  his  ghost,  as  Chatty  had 
said. 

I  did  not  stop  to  think  what  I  was  to  do,  but  rose  up  in  the  dark 
room  where  the  child  was  singing,  only  a  voice,  herself  invisible  in  the 
gloom.  I  don't  know  whether  Chatty  saw  me  go ;  but,  if  so,  she  was 
inspired  unawares  by  the  occasion,  and  went  on  with  her  song.  I  ran 
downstairs  and  went  out  softly  to  the  open  door  of  the  inn,  where  there 
were  other  people  standing  about.  Then  I  saw  him  quite  plainly  by  the 
light  from  a  lower  window.  His  head  was  slightly  raised  towards  the 
place  from  which  the  song  came.  He  was  very  pale  in  that  pale  doubt- 
ful light,  worn  and  old  and  sad ;  but,  as  he  looked  up,  a  strange  illumi- 
nation was  on  his  face.  His  hand  beat  the  air  softly,  keeping  time.  As 
she  came  to  the  refrain  his  lips  began  to  move  as  if  he  were  repeating 
after  his  old  habit  those  words,  "  I  will  come  again."  Then  a  sudden 
cloud  of  pain  seemed  to  come  over  his  face — he  shook  his  head  faintly, 
then  bowed  it  upon  his  breast. 

In  a  moment  I  had  him  by  the  arm.     "  John,"  I  said,  in  my  excite- 


MY  FAITHFUL   JOHNNY.  757 

ment;  "John  Ridgvvay!  we  have  found  you."  For  the  moment,  I 
believe,  he  thought  it  was  Ellen  who  had  touched  him ;  his  white  face 
seemed  to  leap  into  light ;  then  paled  again.  He  took  off  his  hat  with 
his  old  formal  somewhat  shy  politeness — "  I  thought  it  must  be  you, 
madame,"  he  said.  He  said  "  madame "  instead  of  the  old  English 
ma'am,  which  he  had  always  used — this  little  concession  to  the  changed 
scene  was  all  the  difference.  He  made  no  mystery  about  himself,  and 
showed  no  reluctance  to  come  in  with  me,  to  talk  as  of  old.  He  told 
me  he  had  a  situation  in  an  office  in  Genoa,  and  that  his  health  was 
bad.  "After  that  fiasco  in  the  Levant,  I  had  not  much  heart  for 
anything.  I  took  the  first  thing  that. was  offered,"  he  said,  with  his  old 
vague  smile ;  "  for  a  man  must  live — till  he  dies."  "  There  must  be  no 
question  of  dying — at  your  age,"  I  cried.  This  time  his  smile  almost 
came  the  length  of  a  momentary  laugh.  He  shook  his  head,  but  he  did 
not  continue  the  subject.  He  was  very  silent  for  some  time  after. 
Indeed,  he  said  nothing,  except  in  reply  to  my  questions,  till  Chatty  left 
the  room,  and  we  were  alone.  Then  all  at  once,  in  the  middle  of  some- 
thing I  was  saying — "  Is  she — married  again?"  he  said. 

"  Married — again ! " 

"  It  is  a  foolish  question.  She  was  not  married  to  me ;  but  it  felt 
much  the  same  ;  we  had  been  as  one  for  so  long.  There  must  have  been 
some — strong  inducement — to  make  her  cast  me  off  so  at  the  end." 

This  he  said  in  a  musing  tone,  as  if  the  fact  were  so  certain,  and  had 
been  turned  over  in  his  mind  so  often  that  all  excitement  was  gone 
from  it.  But  after  it  was  said,  a  gleam  of  anxiety  came  into  his  half- 
veiled  eyes.  He  raised  his  heavy,  tired  eyelids  and  looked  at  me. 
Though  he  seemed  to  know  all  about  it,  and  to  be  resigned  to  it  when  he 
began  to  speak,  yet  it  seemed  to  flash  across  him,  before  he  ended,  that 
there  was  an  uncertainty — an  answer  to  come  from  me  which  would 
settle  it,  after  all.  Then  he  leaned  forward  a  little,  in  this  sudden  sense 
of  suspense,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  ear  as  if  he  had  been  deaf,  and  said 
"  What]  "  in  an  altered  tone. 

"  There  is  some  terrible  mistake,"  I  said.  "  I  have  felt  there  was  a 
mistake  all  along.  She  has  lost  her  hold  on  life  altogether  because  she 
believes  you  to  be  changed." 

"  Changed  !  "  His  voice  was  quite  sharp  and  keen,  and  had  lost  its 
languid  tone.  "In  what  way — in  what  way?  how  could  I  be  changed?" 

"  In  the  only  way  that  could  matter  between  her  and  you.  She 
thought,  before  you  left  the  Levant,  that  you  had  got  to  care  for  some 
one  else — that  you  had  ceased  to  care  for  her.  Your  letter,"  I  said, 
"  your  letter  !  " — half  frightened  by  the  way  in  which  he  rose,  and  his 
threatening,  angry  aspect — "  would  bear  that  interpretation." 

"  My  letter  !  "  He  stood  before  me  for  a  moment  with  a  sort  of 
feverish,  fierce  energy ;  then  he  began  to  laugh,  low  and  bitterly,  and 
walk  about  as  if  unable  to  keep  still.  "  My  letter  !  "  The  room  was 
scarcely  lighted — one  lamp  upon  the  table,  and  no  more ;  and  the  half- 


758  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

darkness,  as  he  paced  about,  made  his  appearance  more  threatening  still. 
Then  he  suddenly  came  and  stood  before  me  as  if  it  had  been  I  that  had 
wronged  him.  "  I  am  a  likely  man  to  be  a  gay  Lothario,"  he  cried, 
with  that  laugh  of  mingled  mockery  and  despair  which  was  far  more 
tragical  than  weeping.  It  was  the  only  expression  that  such  an  extreme 
of  feeling  could  find.  He  might  have  cried  out  to  heaven  and  earth,  and 
groaned  and  wept ;  but  it  would  not  have  expressed  to  me  the  wild  con- 
fusion, the  overturn  of  every  thing,  the  despair  of  being  so  misunderstood, 
the  miserable  sum  of  suffering  endured  and  life  wasted  for  nothing,  like 
this  laugh.  Then  he  dropped  again  into  the  chair  opposite  me,  as  if  with 
the  consciousness  that  even  this  excitement  was  vain. 

"  What  can  I  say  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  Has  she  never  known  me  all 
along  1 — Ellen  !  "  He  had  not  named  her  till  now.  Was  it  a  renewal  of 
life  in  his  heart  that  made  him  capable  of  uttering  her  name  ? 

"  Do  not  blame  her,"  I  cried.  "  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
nothing  could  ever  come  of  it,  and  that  you  ought  to  be  set  free.  She 
thought  of  nothing  else  but  this ;  that  for  her  all  change  was  hopeless — 
that  she  was  bound  for  life ;  and  that  you  should  be  free.  It  became  a 
fixed  idea  with  her ;  and  when  your  letter  came,  which  was  capable  of 
being  misread " 

"  Then  the  wish  was  father  to  the  thought,"  he  said,  still  bitterly, 
"  Did  she  show  it  to  you  ?  did  you  misread  it  also  ?  Poor  cheat  of  a 
letter  !  My  heart  had  failed  me  altogether.  Between  my  failure  and  her 

slavery .  But  I  never  thought  she  would  take  me  at  my  word,"  he 

went  on  piteously,  "  never  !  I  wrote,  don't  you  know,  as  one  writes 
longing  to  be  comforted,  to  be  told  it  did  not  matter  so  long  as  we  loved 
each  other,  to  be  bidden  come  home.  And  there  never  came  a  word — 
not  a  word." 

"  She  wrote  afterwards,  but  you  were  gone  ;  "and  her  letter  was 
returned  to  her." 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  desolate  assent.  "  Ah !  was  it  so  ?  then 
that  was  how  it  had  to  be,  I  suppose ;  things  were  so  settled  before  ever 
we  met  each  other.  Can  you  understand  that  1 — all  settled  that  it  was  to 
end  just  so  in  misery,  and  confusion,  and  folly,  before  even  we  met." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  I  cried.  "  There  is  no  need  that  it  should  end 
so,  even  now ;  if — if  you  are  unchanged  still." 

"  I — changed  1"  He  laughed  at  this  once  more,  but  not  so  tragically, 
with  sham  ridicule  of  the  foolishness  of  the  doubt.  And  then  all  of  a 
sudden  he  began  to  sing — oh,  it  was  not  a  beautiful  performance  !  he 
had  no  voice,  and  not  much  ear ;  but  never  has  the  loveliest  of  music 
moved  me  more — "  I  will  come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonnie ;  I  will 

come "  Here  he  broke  down  as  Ellen  had  done,  and  said,  with  a 

hysterical  sob,  "  I'm  ill ;  I  think  I'm  dying.  How  am  I,  a  broken  man, 
without  a  penny,  to  come  again  ?  " 

Chatty  and  I  walked  with  him  to  his  room  through  the  soft  darkness 
of  the  Italian  night.  I  found  he  had  fever — the  wasting,  exhausting 


MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY.  759 

ague  fever — which  haunts  the  most  beautiful  coasts  in  the  world.  I  did 
my  best  to  reassure  him,  telling  him  that  it  was  not  deadly,  and  that  at 
home  he  would  soon  be  well ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  felt  so  cheerfully 
v&s  I  spoke,  and  all  that  John  did  was  to  shake  his  head.  As  we  turned 
home  again  through  all  the  groups  of  cheerful  people,  Chatty  with  her 
arm  looped  in  mine,  we  talked,  it  is  needless  to  say,  of  nothing  else.  But 
not  even  to  my  child  did  I  say  what  I  meant  to  do.  I  am  not  rich,  but 
still  I  can  afford  myself  a  luxury  now  and  then.  When  the  children 
were  in  bed  I  wrote  a  short  letter,  and  put  a  cheque  in  it  for  twenty 
pounds.  This  was  what  I  said.  I  was  too  much  excited  to  write  just 
in  the  ordinary  way  : — 

"  Ellen,  I  have  found  John,  ill,  heartbroken,  but  as  faithful  and  un- 
changed as  I  always  knew  he  was.  If  you  have  the  heart  of  a  mouse 
in  you  come  out  instantly — don't  lose  a  day — and  save  him.  It  may  be 
time  yet.  If  he  can  be  got  home  to  English  air  and  to  happiness  it  will 
still  be  time. 

"  I  have  written  to  your  mother.  She  will  not  oppose  you,  or  I  am 
much  mistaken.  Take  my  word  for  all  the  details.  I  will  expect  you 
by  the  earliest  possibility.  Don't  write,  but  come." 

In  less  than  a  week  after  I  went  to  Genoa,  and  met  in  the  steamboat 
from  Marseilles,  which  was  the  qxiickest  way  of  travelling  then,  a 
trembling,  large-eyed,  worn-out  creature,  not  knowing  if  she  were  dead 
or.  alive,  confused  with  the  strangeness  of  everything,  and  the  wonderful 
change  in  her  own  life.  It  was  one  of  John's  bad  days,  and  nobody  who 
was  not  -acquainted  with  the  disease  would  have  believed  him  other  than 
dying.  He  was  lying  in  a  kind  of  half-conscious  state  when  I  took  Ellen 
into  his  room.  She  stood  behind  me  clinging  to  me,  undistinguishable  in 
the  darkened  place.  The  flush  of  the  fever  was  going  off;  the  paleness 
as  of  death  and  utter  exhaustion  stealing  over  him.  His  feeble  fingers 
were  moving  faintly  upon  the  white  covering  of  his  bed ;  his  eyelids  half 
shut,  with  the  veins  showing  blue  in  them  and  under  his  eyes.  But 
there  was  a  faint  smile  on  his  face.  Wherever  he  was  wandering  in 
those  confused  fever  dreams,  he  was  not  unhappy.  Ellen  held  by  my  arm 
to  keep  herself  from  falling.  "Hope!  yo\i  said  there  was  hope,"  she 
moaned  in  my  ear,  with  a  reproach  that  was  heartrending.  Then  he 
began  to  murmur  with  his  almost  colourless  yet  smiling  lips,  "  I  will 
come  again,  my  sweet  and  bonnie ;  I  will  come — again."  And  then  the 
fingers  faintly  beating  time  were  still. 

But  no,  no !  Do  not  take  up  a  mistaken  idea.  He  was  not  dead  ; 
and  he  did  not  die.  We  got  him  home  after  a  while.  In  Switzerland, 
on  our  way  to  England,  I  had  them  married  safe  and  fast  under  my  own 
eye.  I  would  allow  no  more  shilly-shally.  And,  indeed,  it  appeared 
that  Mrs.  Harwood,  frightened  by  all  the  results  of  her  totally  uncon- 
scious domestic  despotism,  was  eager  in  hurrying  Ellen  off,  and  anxious 
that  John  should  come  home.  He  never  quite  regained  his  former  health, 
but  he  got  sufficiently  well  to  take  another  situation,  his  former  em- 


760  MY  FAITHFUL  JOHNNY. 

ployers,  anxiously,  aiding  him  to  recover  his  lost  ground.  And  they  took 
Montpelier  Villa  after  all,  to  be  near  Pleasant  Place,  where  Ellen  goes 
every  day,  and  is,  Mrs.  Harwood  allows,  far  better  company  for  her 
father,  and  a  greater  relief  to  the  tedium  of  his  life,  than  when  she  was 
more  constantly  his  nurse  and  attendant.  I  am  obliged  to  say,  however, 
that  the  mother  has  had  a  price  to  pay  for  the  emancipation  of  the 
daughter.  There  is  nothing  to  be  got  for  nought  in  this  life.  And 
sometimes  Ellen  has  a  compunction,  and  sometimes  there  is  an  unspoken 
reproach  in  the  poor  old  lady's  tired  eyes.  I  hope  for  my  own  part  that 
when  that  eldest  little  girl  is  a  little  older  Mrs.  Harwood's  life  will  be 
greatly  sweetened  and  brightened.  But  yet  it  is  she  that  has  to  pay 
the  price ;  for  no  argument,  not  even  the  last  severe  winter,  and  many 
renewed  "  attacks,"  will  persuade  that  old  tyrant,  invisible  in  his  upper 
chamber,  to  die. 

I  know  it  is  a  vulgar  weakness  to  seek  a  story  where  one  ought  to  be 
satisfied  with  pure  art.  Picture  and  song,  have  they  not  a  far  loftier 
attraction  in  their  own  beauty  than  any  your  vulgar  narrative  can  give 
them,  rny  young  friends  ask  me  ?  Dear  young  friends  !  But  we  were 
not  all  born  yesterday.  We  did  not  all  have  your  training  or  your 
delicate  perceptions.  And  is  not  suggestion,  even  of  a  story  (though  I 
allow  that  is  a  poor  thing  enough),  one  of  the  graces  of  art  1 


LOXDOS  :    PRIXTED    BY 

BPOTTISWOODE    AND    CO.,    XEW-STHEET    6QUAEB 
ASD    PAELJAilEXT    STBEET 


AP       The  Cornhill  magazine 

4 

C76 

v.42 


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